Pairing: Dave York x F!Reader (no physical description, however it is implied she hasn’t lost her baby weight)
Rating: Explicit 18+ (By proceeding to read beyond this warning, you are agreeing that you are 18 years or older)
Content: Lactation kink, smut, frottage, mention of abandonment, body insecurity, pet names and name calling (slut is used once), Dave York is his own warning
Word Count: 2K
Summary: After a hectic morning and barely making it to work on time, you realize you forgot your breast pump at home. You haven’t nursed or pumped in 16 hours and worry you won’t make it through your important afternoon meeting. Luckily for you, a certain handsome DIA agent knows just what to do and offers his assistance.
(This takes place before the events in The Equalizer 2 and Dave is divorced in my au.)
A/N: A huge thank you to @toomanystoriessolittletime for posting this idea on Discord and for not minding that I took and ran with it (this is all their fault really). Thank you to @ozarkthedog and @firstofficerwiggles for reading this over for me, offering their kind words, and telling me to go for it and post this. Also, special thanks to my fellow Dave York Nasties for their encouragement. I love you guys!
This is the first fic I've ever written, and I'm nervous. Please be kind. 💝
REBLOGS WOULD BE LOVED AND APPRECIATED
No, no, no, no, no…
This can’t be happening.
For the fifth time, you look underneath your jacket in your office.
It’s not there.
Your breast pump bag is not there.
You think back to your crazy morning. Somehow you managed to turn the volume down on your phone alarm. You never heard it and slept in.
Your son, bless his heart, had just started sleeping through the night a couple of days ago.
After throwing on your blouse and favorite flowy skirt, hastily brushing your hair and teeth, you flew to your son’s room.
He was still sleeping as you rushed into his nursery to get him dressed for the day. He greeted you with the biggest smile, kicking his legs and reaching for you.
It was times like this that made the challenge of raising him on your own worth it. His father had skipped out on you a month ago after informing you he no longer felt attracted to you.
No, none of that, you told yourself. You did not have time for self-pity right now.
Once you finished changing your little bean’s diaper and dressing him, you tried to feed him, but he fussed and refused to latch on.
Most likely, he could sense how stressed you were.
Not a problem, you told yourself. Your mom had extra bottles and an ample supply of your breast milk in her freezer. Everything would be okay.
After dropping your baby off at your mom’s house, you drove to work and made it there at 9 am.
You threw your jacket and purse on the extra chair in your office and barely had time to unlock your computer when the HR supervisor knocked on your door.
“Brian called off. I’m going to need you to give the morning and afternoon presentations,” she briskly informed you and quickly walked away.
Great, just great, you grumbled to yourself. You had one hour to prepare for the staff meeting to review the new health care benefits package the DIA was changing to at the start of the new year.
You bolted for the conference room and managed to be ready in one hour when your coworkers started filing in.
The meeting went well, and you answered everyone’s questions and addressed their concerns efficiently and cheerfully.
Which was shocking because, at this point, your breasts were hurting, really hurting. It had been almost 16 hours since you last fed your son before you put him down for the night.
Thank goodness it was your lunch hour, and you could close your office door and get some much-needed relief pumping.
This brings you to the present, frantically looking all over your office for your breast pump that’s nowhere to be found.
Maybe you left it in your car?
You grabbed your keys and took off. Not watching where you were going, you bumped right into him.
Dave York.
Of all the people to run into, it had to be him. You’ve been secretly obsessing over him since your first day of work at the DIA.
He was gorgeous. You couldn’t help but notice his large hands, the way his dress shirts seemed to strain to cover his large shoulders. Goodness, he was deliciously broad. One day in the lunchroom, Dave had his sleeves rolled up and caught you staring at the veins in his forearms. He looked at you with piercing brown eyes and knowingly smirked at you, the bastard.
You offered a hasty, “I’m sorry, Mr. York!” and sprinted for the parking lot.
Unfortunately, today was not your day. Your breast pump bag was not in your car either.
You were practically in tears by the time you made it back to your office.
You struggled for a solution to your predicament. Maybe you could soak some paper towels in warm water to ease the pain. Women hand-expressed in the past before breast pumps were invented. Surely that would work, right?
It had to. There was no way you could give the afternoon presentation in your condition. You don’t remember your breasts ever being this sore and full before. You were amazed you hadn’t started leaking through your nursing bra and blouse.
Having that happen during your next session was out of the question. You would be humiliated.
A gentle knock on your door brought you out of your thoughts.
It was Dave again.
“Are you alright?,” he asked with genuine concern.
“It’s nothing,” you replied. “I’m just having an awful day.”
Dave responded, “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No, not unless you have a breast pump in your office,” you answered with a little more attitude than you meant to.
“Hmmmm,” he hummed as he slowly walked towards you.
“You may be surprised to learn I know little about what you are going through right now. Your son’s about three months old now, isn’t he? He probably just started sleeping through the night. I remember when my ex-wife, Carol, was nursing. She was relieved when the girls started sleeping through the night, but not so much when her milk production didn’t slow down right away.”
Your eyes widened. “Wait, how do you know this? How do you even know how old my son is? I’ve never even talked to you except to say hello in passing.”
“I notice everything about you,” he admitted as he touched your cheek.
“Let me offer you my… assistance,” Dave said as he held your gaze.
“There was something I always wanted to do with Carol,” he continued, “but she never wanted to try.”
“I think you’re different, though. I think you know what I can do to help ease your pain,” he whispered in your ear. “And you want it, don’t you?”
Goosebumps erupted on your skin as arousal spread through your body. You clenched around nothing and fought to keep yourself from moaning.
Was this really happening?
“Shut your door and lock it,” Dave ordered darkly.
You never moved so fast in your life.
By the time you turned around, he had already moved your purse and jacket to your desk and was sitting on the extra chair in your office.
“Now be a good girl for me and let me take care of you,” Dave said as he held his hand out to you.
You walked to him and took his hand as your heart pounded in your chest.
“What do I...” you began.
“Sit on my lap,” he commanded softly.
Feeling self-conscious, you quickly argued, “But I’m too..”
“Don’t,” he interrupted. “Don’t you dare say what I think you’re going to say. You are beautiful. Don’t let anyone tell you differently. Now, sit.”
You straddled him, your legs on the outside of his, facing him.
Eyes blown with lust, Dave stared at you like a man starved.
You couldn’t believe you were doing this. You worked in HR for goodness sake. It would be the end of your career if someone walked in on the two of you.
But you couldn’t bring yourself to care, not when Dave looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered. You would do anything to please him at this point.
“That’s my good girl,” he breathed. “Now unbutton your blouse.”
Powerless to resist, you undid your buttons and exposed yourself.
“Fuck,” he growled out. “I knew your tits would be spectacular.”
He slowly unclasped the right side of your nursing bra and glanced down.
You knew what he saw. Your breast was engorged and started to leak almost immediately.
Dave gently massaged you and gave your nipple an experimental lick, causing your milk to start squirting from your breast.
He quickly opened his mouth to catch the flow. You could hear your milk landing and pooling in his mouth.
Dave groaned and latched on. You could feel the familiar pull and sighed with long-awaited relief.
Dave continued to massage your breast while he gulped down your milk enthusiastically.
It took a tremendous effort to keep quiet. The reality of what was happening right now made you dizzy with desire.
Once Dave felt he had taken enough from the right side, he stopped and turned his attention back to you.
“That ex-boyfriend of yours is an idiot if you don’t mind me saying,” he told you candidly.
“You are a goddess. If you were mine, I’d make sure you were told that daily.”
Before you could think of something clever to reply, Dave had already uncovered your left breast and latched on.
At this point, you were incredibly turned on. You could feel your arousal leaking through your panties, and you desperately wanted to rub your thighs together for relief.
Sensing your struggle, Dave grabbed your hips and pushed you down until your core rubbed against the now rather large bulge in his trousers.
Mortified, you heard yourself moan out loud.
Dave put his hand over your mouth and hushed you.
"I know, I know. That feels good, doesn't it," he taunted. "But you need to keep quiet otherwise your co-workers will discover what a filthy little slut you are."
“Now take what you need, gorgeous girl,” he instructed as he returned to your breast.
With his help, you started to rub your core over his clothed erection. Need coursed through your body, and you lost yourself to your pleasure.
With every second, you become acutely aware of how much of your slick was dripping from your cunt, soaking through your panties and making a total mess of his lap.
Dave did not care in the least and only encouraged you.
“That’s my good girl. Just like that,” he moaned and quickly resumed gulping your milk like a man dying of thirst.
Faster and faster, you moved against him, whimpering while you felt your crest quickly build.
Dave released your nipple with a pop.
He held your chin and forced you to look into his eyes.
“Come for me,” he demanded, his voice dark as sin. “Be a good girl and come for me...now.”
That was all it took to push you over the edge. You came with a silent scream. Not taking any chances, Dave kissed you to make sure he would swallow any of your noises that might escape.
You could taste yourself on his tongue, and it was the most erotic thing you had ever experienced.
When you slowly came down from your high, you opened your eyes to see Dave gazing at you fondly.
“You look so beautiful right now,” Dave said reverently. “You did such a good job for me.”
You shyly replied, “Thank you, Mr. York,” and tried to look away.
Dave was having none of that.
“Don’t look away,” he said, forcing you to meet his eyes again. “We’re both consenting adults. You needed help, and I was happy to offer my assistance.”
Before you could respond, Dave reminded you of the time and your upcoming afternoon meeting.
You slowly and reluctantly removed yourself from Dave’s lap and tried to look presentable again. You smoothed out your skirt, closed up your nursing bra, and started to button up your blouse.
Anxiety crept into your mind. Did anyone hear what the both of you were doing?
Dave quickly took over buttoning your blouse.
“Don’t worry, pretty girl. No one heard a thing,” he promised sincerely.
You met his eyes and knew he would never lie to you.
“Next time, you’ll have to come to my office," he offered. "I have a couch in there. You’ll be much more comfortable sitting on my cock while I drink from your gorgeous tits.”
You must have had a shocked expression on your face because you heard Dave chuckle softly.
"Does that sound good to you?" he teased.
You shook your head yes immediately.
You didn't know what you had gotten yourself into with Dave York, but you were excited to see where this was going.
You left him in your office to sort himself out. Thinking about his promise of a "next time," you walked to the conference room smiling softly.
Summary: You get surprised by your heat and even more surprised by your husband taking care of you.
Pairing: alpha!clan leader!Paz Vizsla x omega!fem!Reader
Wordcount: 4.5k | Rating: E (18+ only!)
Warnings: A/B/O dynamics, marriage of convenience, enemies to lovers vibes (but really it is just idiots to lovers), scenting, heat, vaginal fingering (thought not necessarily sexual, if that makes sense?), mostly just fluff and angst, discussion of sexual boundaries
It is way too hot to even gather a real thought. So without further ado: Here is something etl!Paz related because I have been obsessed with this AU lately and have been thinking about at least 3 other ideas I can write for them. I hope you like it – please let me know what you think!!
masterlist | crossposted on AO3
You knew you had gone too far when you snapped at Chiantis.
To be fair, the children had tested your patience all morning, being rowdier than usual, the volume of voices increasing as the sun rose. Still, it was no reason to react as you did. Which you noticed the moment your voice raised and her eyes widened.
“I am sorry,” you apologised immediately, keeping your voice calm, “That was not very nice of me, Chiantis."
“You always say we don’t yell,” she pouted, “I don’t like you yelling.”
“I don’t like her yelling either.”
Your eyes closed and you tried to keep them from rolling as you took a deep breath. Maybe it wasn’t just the children testing your patience today. Maybe it was the entire universe.
There was no mistaking the voice, especially when you got to watch Chiantis’ eyes double in size at the newcomer. You stood up, coming face to face with your husband. Paz Vizsla was leaning against the doorway, arms crossed in front of his chest. He just came from combat practice, you realised, because his scent was particularly strong today and he wasn’t wearing a shirt beneath his cape.
You shifted, trying to showcase that you were not at all affected by his sight. That you were not thinking about running your fingers over his chest, over his belly, down the hairy trail that ended at the buttons of his pants and –
“She is grumpy today,” Chiantis announced with all the severity of a four-year-old.
“Is that so?” he sounded more amused than anything, one eyebrow quirking up as he looked at you, “Well, what a surprise it is to hear that.”
“Oh, shut up,” you muttered, your headache getting worse, “You’re even more insufferable than usual.”
As soon as the words left your mouth, you regretted them. He wasn’t really being insufferable. Maybe just a little annoying but that was not unusual. In fact, you had been under the impression that he had been getting less annoying in the recent months. Or maybe his teasing had grown on you.
But Paz just laughed, clearly unfazed by your bitter words.
“I know what’s going on,” he revealed but Chiantis’ attention was already lost as she joined her friends to play. Your attention, however, was pinned on him.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, let me see,” he counted on his hand, “My wife is irritated, runs hot, has a headache she is trying to hide and tossed and turned all night? You’re getting your heat, omega.”
The suggestion was so foreign to you, you did not know how to react. You? Getting your heat? How could he suggest something like this?
“Stop talking about things you have no knowledge of,” you hissed, “I would know if I were to get my heat.”
“Sure thing, sweetheart,” Paz lifted his hands as if in surrender. But that annoying grin was still on his lips as he backed out of the room, “But don’t let me tell you I told you so.”
*
Hours later, the door smashed against the stone and you would have snapped your head up if you weren’t in so much pain. Instead, you were kneeling, doubled over in the very far corner of your bedroom. Or at least the one that you used to sleep in.
His scent washed over you immediately and you whimpered, staring at the tear drops on your dress.
“What in the world are you doing here?” his voice thundered through the space and you flinched.
“Paz –“
“Kroks told me you couldn’t attend because you feel unwell but stars your pain is all over the covert and –“
“Please stop,” you whimpered out, clutching your stomach as another wave of nausea hit you, “You’re scaring me, alpha.”
He froze immediately. You could hear his heavy breaths and between the pulsing between your legs and the sweaty sensation on the back of your neck, you realised that he seemed scared too.
Paz was scared. But of what?
“I am sorry,” his voice was quieter, closer now, “I – I was worried when he said you seemed off and when I came closer all I could smell was your …”
“Heat,” you finished the sentence for him in defeat, “I am getting my heat. You were right.”
He didn’t answer and you tilted your head back, resting it against the stone wall. It was cold, which was nice, but the angle made your nausea flare up and you squeezed your eyes shut.
“I don’t know what to do,” you admitted into the quiet, “Everything hurts and I wasn’t prepared and I don’t know what to do and –“ tears threatened to spill over and you sniffled. “I didn’t want to steal your bed and so I came back here because I used to sleep here and it should be fine but it’s not.” You took a trembling breath, “It’s not fine and I’m scared and what if it all goes wrong? I … I am not prepared for this. I can’t do this.”
“Oh, sweet wife,” he murmured and before you knew it, he was crouching in front of you. He smelled like the woods and you took a deep breath. “That’s right, breathe with me,” he encouraged you. He inhaled loudly and exhaled just as loudly and you tried to mimic his rhythm. Soon enough, you could feel your mind begin to clear. Your heartbeat still felt too strong against your chest but it no longer raced out of control.
As soon as you opened your eyes, you met his gaze. He looked firm and in control, a warm shiver ran down your back as he smiled at you reassuringly. If Paz wasn’t freaking out, maybe you didn’t have to either?
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Paz started, his voice gentle, leaving no room for questions, “You will move your things back to our bed because it is our bed ever since you spent your first night there. You will build your nest there and if you need help, you will tell me, okay?” You nodded, still clinging to his eyes. “I will go to the market, is there anything you want? Any food, any drink you crave?”
“Berries,” you whispered, “I – I really like berries. And that bread the kitchen makes for the council sessions.”
“Then I will get some of that too,” he nodded, his hand rubbing over your arm, “I will inform Maudii you will be absent for a while, for as long as it takes, okay?”
“Okay.”
“I will send for a bath, too. Help you cool down a little. Is that okay for you? Do you want some herbs added?”
“No, it's fine,” you whispered, closing your eyes as you tried to focus on his questions and giving him answers, “There is still that petal mix in the refresher that I like to use.”
“Good, I will put them out for the servant to sprinkle in the water.
And he did. He gently helped you up and got you situated in the chair by the cold fireplace. “Stay here, sweet omega, kay? I will be back as soon as I can, I promise.”
And although he was the one person you had been taught not to trust, you knew his words were true.
*
Kroks looked like a lost puppy, pacing the hallway before the rooms, when Paz stormed out.
He didn’t know what he had expected when he first heard you were unwell. But it wasn’t to find you crying from pain, curled up in the guest room because you were too afraid to build a nest in the bed that he thought of as ours.
It made his heart skip beats in a way that did not feel healthy and he had to fight off his instinct to fight. Because there was no threat, no physical one, at least, and he needed to keep a cool head for you.
“Everything all right?” the young warrior asked him as soon as he spotted him.
“No,” Paz bit out, “I need you to arrange something for me and I need to listen closely.”
The dark-haired man nodded.
Paz’s patience was running thin; he could feel it already. The sound of your whimpers was still in his ears, the scent of your pain made his jaw clench. Something about knowing that you were unwell and that he was not with you made his thoughts blur.
How was he supposed to think when all he wanted was to be with you?
“I will need a basket of the council bread, a cool bath and please inform the foundling care that my wife will be absent for a few days.”
“Got it,” Kroks nodded, “Ask the kitchen for the council bread, inform Maudii of your wife’s absence and arrange for a cold bath.”
“Cool, not cold,” he corrected the man immediately, “I want to offer her some relief, not trembling from the cold.”
“Cool, got it,” he nodded eagerly, “And, uh, are you … leaving? Or, um, like, coming back?”
He had to remind himself that this was not an accusation. That Kroks was posing a legitimate question and the insinuation that he would leave you here was only in his head and not enough reason to rip his head off. Still, it was hard to keep his cool.
“I will not leave her,” he clarified, “I need to go to the market and then I will return. Make sure that it’s omegas or betas bringing in the tub. I don’t want any alphas disturbing her, you hear me?”
“Loud and clear, boss,” the young man grinned from ear to ear, “Loud and clear.”
*
“I always forget how my entire body aches,” you murmured, your fingers drifting through the cool water, “How do I keep forgetting?”
“Maybe it’s the only thing that makes it bearable?” Paz suggested from behind you, “Forgetting how bad it can get.”
You hummed, a little smile on your lips, “Maybe.”
You didn’t know how you had gotten into this position but you truly did not mind. The tub had been brought in just as Paz had returned and you had watched as he had hung up gauzy fabric all around your bedroom, effectively creating an even smaller space in your large room.
(“What are you doing?” you had asked with an amused grin. “I heard that a nest is most effective when the given space is already cosy,” he had answered, a strip of fabric resting around his broad shoulders, “Our room is too big.”)
And then he had gotten the dried petals you liked so much and added them to the water.
And then, somehow, you had both ended up here. Completely bare. Paz resting against the end of the tub and you leaning against his chest, revelling in the cool water and the heat of his body.
A part of you was sure that the only reason you allowed yourself to be in this position was because the heat compromised you to a point where you could not form any proper thoughts. Another part relished in the fact that your secret wish of being closer to your husband finally came true, even if it was under less than ideal circumstances.
“What aches, then?” Paz murmured, his lips moving against the shell of your ear. His strong thighs were caging you in and your fingers trailed over the water and onto his knee, brushing over a long scar there.
“My chest,” you admitted in a whisper, shifting in the water, “The water helps but they just feel so heavy.”
“Would you like me to hold them?” your husband suggested. You kept waiting for him to make a joke out of it but it never came. And the thought
All you could do was nod before letting your head fall back against his shoulder. If you turned your face just so, you could brush your nose across his scent gland, picking it up over the smell of the roses. It gave you almost as much relief as the feeling when his large hands cupped your breasts.
Somehow, for a man this big, you had never expected him to be capable of gentleness. But it was the only way to describe how he held you now: gently. The weight disappeared from your body and it was suddenly the best feeling in the world, feeling his thick fingers and calluses on your sensitive skin.
“If we can stay just like this, then it’ll all be fine,” you whispered. Your cheek pressed against his chest and you arched your back into his hands.
“And what if it inevitably gets worse?” Paz asked right back and though his tone was casual, you knew the implications were not. What if you inevitably got worse?
“Would you like me to leave?” he continued gently, “Would you want me to stay? Do – Do you need any tools to get through this? Toys? Is there anything that – that would make this easier for you?”
“I came here with nothing but the dress I was wearing,” you reminded him, thinking back to the hike through the dark woods as you had fled your clan for his, “I didn’t think to bring any of the … tools I usually use. Oh stars, I really am not prepared at all, am I?”
“To be fair, neither of us was,” he murmured, his thumbs carefully brushing over your nipples, “I remember one time my mother got her heat. They usually must’ve planned it well in advance, I was always on trips or with my grandparents. But I remember … I remember how protective my father got suddenly, snapping even at his closest friends. I didn’t notice how in pain he was, how vulnerable. But when I think about it now,” his lips brushed over your shoulder, “I understand how hard he must’ve tried not to kill anyone who annoyed her.”
“You are being very patient, I’m sure,” you teased him,
“I’m not sure Kroks would agree with you,” Paz chuckled, his hand gliding through the water. “It’s getting warmer now, do you want to get out?”
Forgoing an answer, you simply stood up, letting the water run down your body until you felt Paz right behind you. The pulsing in your core grew stronger and you swallowed down the desire to ask him for something you were not ready to give.
“Will you stay?” you asked, “Here with me, I mean.”
Paz stepped onto the cool stone floor, his large hand holding you steady as you followed him. “Of course,” he replied, “Anything.”
The nest you had created consisted mostly of bedding that you had found around the rooms. But the very inner layer was constructed just out of Paz’s clothes, which he thankfully did not comment on. You were not even sure if he had noticed it until you both crawled into your bed and instead of reaching for a blanket, he gave you one of his capes with a twinkle in his eyes.
He was so gentle to you, it made you want to cry.
With his cape covering you, you laid down on your side, facing him in the dim candlelight. “Will you promise me something?”
He turned to look at you, his face void of any lines. He looked so peaceful, you wondered if maybe he needed the rest more than you did.
The next wave of heat and cramps made you rethink that statement.
“Anything.”
The words stuck in your throat, your heart racing as you thought about what you were about to ask of him. “Please don’t knot me,” you finally said, “I – I don’t want my first time taking a knot when I’m not clear-headed. I know that we’re married and … and that it’s supposed to be normal. But it’s also supposed to be special and I want it to be special and I’m scared that – that I will regret it if it happens like this.”
Your outburst cost you more energy than you expected and you still could not relax because the adrenaline made you jittery and Paz still hadn’t said anything and –
“I won’t, I promise,” he kissed your temple, “I won’t knot you and I won’t fuck you, no matter how much you beg. I will not touch it if you do not wish it. You are right, it’s …. It’ll be special.”
The certainty with which he spoke made you shiver. You wanted this with him; there was no denying it. But you also knew you didn’t want to wake from your heat and regret what happened.
“I’ve never even seen one.” You didn’t know what made you reveal your secret like this but once the words were out, there was no going back. “A knot, I mean. You always tease me about it, I know, and I get so embarrassed because I want to see one but – I just …. It’s against everything I’ve ever been taught and how do you even find a place and person safe enough to try it all?”
Paz shuffled closer to you, his arm landing over your waist, his face close enough that your noses touched.
“When all this is over,” he murmured, “I can show you mine. No requirements, no expectations. If you want to … explore, I can help you do so if you wish.”
You hummed. It had occurred to you before, of course, that your husband would be a candidate to explore things with. Especially after your encounter in the throne room. But there was something about him suggesting it to you that made your heart feel lighter.
“Now tell me,” he rolled onto his back, taking you with him so you were tucked against his side, “How did you pass your heats usually? Is there any way that you want me to help?”
“Usually with my fingers,” you shrugged, “And then I’d try to find a scent that helps me through it.”
“Well, you can have my scent anytime you want,” he winked, “And my fingers, too, if you like.”
Your cheeks burned at the implication but you could not help your smile. “I – I’d actually like that, I think.”
“It’s settled then,” your husband stated, “You won’t get my cock today, ‘mega, but my fingers, if you ask for them.”
*
It was the middle of the night when he got woken by a hand wrapped around his leaking cock.
His first instincts, led by desire and sleep, were to push his hips further into your grip, a low groan leaving his throat as he could feel you guiding him to your entrance. Your hot, wet entrance, just waiting for him to fill you up.
The feeling was heavenly but it took all of 2 seconds for him to regain complete consciousness.
“I will not knot you, ‘mega,” he murmured, shuffling away far enough so he could pull on some pants. It was difficult when he was hard as a rock and still lying down, but not impossible. “Not like this. Not when you are out of your mind.”
The sight of you broke his heart. Tears were running down your cheeks, glittering in the candlelight and your hands were in a frenzy as you tried to get close to him again. You were in pain, he could smell it, and there was nothing he could do about it.
“Not even with my heat?” More tears spilt down your cheeks, “Paz, please.”
“I can’t,” he murmured, “Stars know how much I want to every time I see you but I can’t. I can’t take this from you. You can have my fingers, though. Remember, we talked about this?”
You sniffled, “We did?”
He nodded. Kissing your shoulder, he could feel your body burning up, your skin burning his mouth. Your scent was sharp in his nose, too. Stars help him, you smelled delicious. “We did. Do you want my fingers, ‘mega?”
“Please,” you nodded eagerly, backing your ass into his groin. He clenched his teeth, suppressing the groan that built up in his throat. He was hard as a rock; the temptation was right there and yet all he could think about was that you were in pain. You were in pain and you needed him.
Running his hand down your belly, he felt you tremble. “Is this okay?”
You hummed, your legs widening. He pulled your back flush against his chest and you immediately hooked your knee over his hip, opening yourself up to him. The moment his fingertips drifted down to your thighs, they connected with your juices.
He pressed his mouth to your neck and ran his tongue over your scent gland. You smelled so delicious and for a moment, he allowed himself to drag his teeth over the exact spot he would mark you if he were to mate you.
Your gasped “Paz!” was music in his ears.
Carefully, he fed one finger inside you. You were tight and wet and hot, your walls immediately clenching around him. With the way your scent changed and your body melted into his, the relief you must have felt was instant.
“More?” you asked in a quiet voice. You turned your face, looking at him over your shoulder and your dazed eyes were so full of want and tenderness, it made his heart clench with the knowledge this might be the only time you would ever look at him like this.
“Anything for you,” he slipped a second finger in, his thumb finding your clit and circling it gently. He knew that heats could differ between each omega and each time they got their heat. But he hadn’t expected you to be so quiet though. There was pleasure in your scent, yes, but he also realised it was pain relief more than anything else.
His heart hurt for you.
“One day, you’ll be able to take my knot,” he promised you, “And you won’t have to suffer like this. I swear.”
“Oh, Paz,” a tremor ran through you, his fingers squeezed to death as your orgasm made you grip his forearm.
When your pussy relaxed around him, he snuck a third finger in, stretching you carefully. He had suspected you were tight but now all he could think about was how you deserved to feel pleasure, not pain, how he would take his time – all the time – to stretch you and prepare if you wanted him to. How he could show you that all he ever wanted to give you was this – peace and pleasure.
He kept his mouth pressed against your shoulder, feeling your body tremble with orgasms again and again as your body worked through the immense mix of pain and pleasure. “Stay like this,” you whispered when he was half asleep, his fingers still inside you, “stay with me, please.”
“Anything for you, little wife.”
*
Paz hadn’t expected the person to burst his bubble to be Kroks. But to be fair to Kroks, it didn’t seem like he had been expecting it either.
“Milord,” the young man poked his head in the door. Paz watched in satisfaction as his apprentice took in the room, clearly scared of interrupting anything. There was no way the room wasn’t covered in your combined scent and Paz could not bring himself to care. He liked knowing that people would realise you were his.
Even if you would never admit it.
The young man took three steps into the room, closer to the gauzy sheets that separated your nest from the rest of your living space. Paz sat up, prepared to tell him off if he dared to come any closer to your dozing form.
Stars knew the last few days had been hard on you and you had finally reached the stage where your body slowly cooled down, dozing through the night and day. Technically, this meant he could rest now, too, no longer too worried to let you leave his sight (even if it was just to catch a bit of sleep). But something about your peaceful face, your cheek resting against his chest, made him want to commit this sight into his memory.
“Sir, the council meeting is starting soon,” Kroks announced, “And they wanted me to let you know they’d appreciate your presence.”
He barely needed to look down at your face nestled against his chest before his answer was clear. “Tell them I will not be attending. They can go ahead without me.”
The answer clearly wasn’t what Kroks had been briefed for and he looked at him like a deer facing a blaster. “Uh, are you sure, milord?”
Taking a deep breath against the ache in his chest at the thought of leaving you was supposed to help. Instead, all it did was fuel the rage in him that the council apparently thought it correct to demand his presence just after you had been in pain for days on end.
“Alpha,” his gaze snapped to you.
You looked groggy, your eyes blinking open, but it didn’t take long until you looked wide awake. And yet, you didn’t move an inch from your place in his arms and that made his heart race. “I feel much better now, you could –“
“No,” he shook his head, “You’ve been barely conscious for the past few days, love, I will spend until you feel much better.”
You would protest. He was sure of it. You would scrunch your nose and insist that he fulfil his role as leader of the clan. That you didn’t need him and would be perfectly fine to take care of yourself. He was readying himself to argue his points but your protest never came. There was a soft look in your eyes and an even softer smile on your lips.
“Okay,” you agreed, “I – I’d like that.”
“You heard her,” he rumbled to Kroks without taking his eyes off you, “Send Dieko in my stead. Have him report to me after. Other than that, I want no disturbances today.”
“But –“
You sat up, clutching the sheet to your naked chest. Paz almost leapt from the bed, wanting Kroks to avoid his eyes. But the young man already knew what he needed to do, hurriedly turning around.
“Kroks,” your voice was gentle but there was no missing the underlying exhaustion, “I understand you just are the messenger here. But I’ve spent the last days with a heat that seriously messed with me. I,” you glanced at him, “I think the council will understand that I want my husband with me, surely.”
“Of course, milady,” the man said, “I – I will leave now.”
And he did, hurrying out of the room and closing the door with a quiet click.
Paz heard you exhale before you leant back right into his chest, “I am so tired,” you whispered, your eyes already closing again, “Stars, I can’t remember the last time I’ve been this tired.”
“You’ve been very busy these past few days,” he joked, his heart racing at the smile on your lips. “You need your sleep.”
“Will you stay, though?” you asked with a yawn, curling up on your side, turning towards him, “I want you to stay, alpha.”
He curled his body around yours, pressing his front against your back, his nose pressed to the back of your neck. “Yes, sweet omega, I’ll be here when you wake up.”
Still thinking about Retired John Price and his personal sub pet project.
John's military training and consequent service has always been straightforward. There's the mission, and then there's distractions. If there's an obstacle, you move through it or you remove it. He's learned that nothing is ever given for free, that rewards are earned, not offered, and that to achieve his goal requires focus, movement, drive.
As much as John would love to walk into your cozy little corner shop and declare himself as your new caretaker, he knows it would only frighten you off- skittish thing that you are.
Besides, isn't there a joy to be said in hunting for your food?
So he tightens the leash gradually, slipping a silver collar over your throat without you noticing. He comes into the store on the regular, mentions how you take care of the store practically by yourself and is just being a good neighbor by checking on you. Asks after your health and gives you that stern look of disappointment when you answer no, you haven't had breakfast. No, you haven't had water recently.
Your protest dies in your throat when he brings you food and water, tilting his head down and giving you that stern, unyielding look and telling you to sit in the back room while he watches the counter. When you give a little nod and dutifully finish every crumb, John watches the way you shiver as he murmurs: "Good girl."
He's just worried about you, you work yourself so hard. Not taking care of yourself, it isn't right. It's not that hard to let him do some things around the shop to take some weight off your shoulders. Why stress yourself? Pretty young thing like you is going to start going gray like him if you keep this up.
He watches you fold under his sweet assurances, preen under his praise, and at night John strokes his cock to the breathy agreements you whisper in response to his insisted aid.
John mentions the recent string of break-ins in the neighborhood and insists on walking you to your car after you lock up. Tells you foot traffic would be better if you put a table and some chairs near the front step, only to sit there all day himself in case anyone else dares to even breathe on what he already considers his.
It startles you at first, but eventually you relax under his honey dripping promises of just looking out for you, never fails to mention all the mean, nasty people in this world that mean you harm.
Hell, he might even ask Simon to swing by and rattle the back door one night just to frighten you further into his waiting arms. You, sweet, naive thing that you are, look to him with wide eyes and nod, teething to plush bed of your bottom lip nervously as you listen to a man older and wiser than you tell you that a sweet thing like you wouldn't know how terrible the world can be.
Even after all these years, John's still excellent at picking his targets.
He moves goal posts in his mind, mapping out your future. The next thing to do is to talk you into giving him a key to your cottage under the guise of some home repairs, and then slowly pushing the boundaries further. Moving his things first into the garage with his tools, his shower things into the bath, and his shirts into the top drawer of your dresser.
He can already imagine the pride swelling in his chest when he thinks about your quiet, bashful agreement to him insisting on cooking you dinner, watching the realization dawn in your eyes that this is what you need- that he is what you need. Someone to keep you safe, to protect you, to take care of you the way you don't seem to take care of yourself.
Someday you'll ask what you're supposed to do, what with John minding the store and taking care of you and giving you more time than you know what to do with. and the answer is simple: Be a good girl. Take your meds, eat your meals, mind the house, make sure there's food for you both when he gets home from the shop. But most importantly, bend over for him when he asks, take his cock like the perfect sweet girl you are, and let him hear the decadent reward of your moans falling out from your chest as he fucks you like you need.
and after? Always remember to say 'Thank you, daddy.' for all he's ever done for you.
Oh my…I stumbled upon this gem this morning and have not been the same since. I must have reread it three times, completely giving myself over to this delicious fantasy. I’m too old to call him daddy, but I’ll dutifully kneel before Price any day and look at him with teary doe eyes while he tells me what a good girl I am for pleasing him like he taught me. 🤤
you never planned on becoming a late-night gym rat. it just …happened. like most things in your life, it started with good intentions and spiraled into something you weren’t entirely in control of.
you’d made a new year’s resolution to get in shape— because health, discipline, all that crap— and, in a moment of overzealous optimism, you splurged on a gym membership. a pricey one, to add. the kind that made your bank account cry, which meant quitting wasn’t an option.
there was only one problem. you were busy. between classes, assignments, and the absolute joke that was your sleep schedule, the only time you could consistently work out was well past normal human hours.
at first, the idea of hitting the gym at midnight felt… weird. like stepping into a parallel universe where only insomniacs and questionable life choices existed. but then you considered the alternative— going during peak hours and getting judged for your piss-poor form, or worse, waiting in line for machines behind a dude who was live-streaming his workout.
midnight schedule it was.
it grew on you eventually. the routine became second nature. drag yourself in after class, half-asleep, toss your bag into a locker, and start on the treadmill to wake yourself up. a slow warm-up, music blasting through your headphones, then a mostly half-hearted attempt at strength training.
the people who showed up at this hour were predictable. a few other students— dead-eyed, running on caffeine fumes. a handful of older folks, the dedicated ones who treated the gym like a sacred temple.
and then there was him.
tall. broad. built like something out of a military recruitment ad.
the first time you noticed him, you’d nearly tripped on the treadmill. one second, you were zoning out, staring at the clock, and the next— there he was. buzz cut barely visible beneath the hood of his sweatshirt, arms thick with muscle, veins running down his forearms in stark lines. tattoos peeked from under his sleeves, black ink tracing the ridges of his skin.
(the combat boots were what threw you off. who the hell wore combat boots to the gym?)
he moved through his workout with terrifying
efficiency. no wasted movements, no unnecessary pauses. heavyweights. circuits. the kind of training that looked more like preparation for war than casual fitness. he never looked winded either. no gasping for breath, no pausing to rest, just relentless, controlled effort.
you developed a— not a crush— an appreciation for him. admiration. respect. that was it. not the way his hoodie stretched across his shoulders when he adjusted his grip on the barbell. not the way his jaw clenched in concentration. not the way his fingers wrapped around the weights with an ease that made you feel woefully inadequate.
“it’s a crush,” your friend announced one evening, stabbing a straw into his juice box.
you scoffed, flipping through your notes. “it’s not.”
“it is. i’m fit too, but i don’t see you staring at me like you wanna lick salt off my abs.”
you made a disgusted noise. “jesus, shut up.”
he grinned, tipping his juice box back dramatically. “i’m just saying. the fact that you haven’t even talked to him and yet know his entire workout routine is very-"
“i do not know his entire workout routine.”
your friend raised a brow.
you sighed. “…he does back and legs on tuesdays.”
his brow lifted higher.
“…and arms on thursdays.”
silence.
“right.”
“shut up.”
you’d considered talking to him. maybe asking for tips or making some awkward joke about his frankly ridiculous choice of gym footwear. but he didn’t exactly radiate approachable.
the man looked like he’d rather be waterboarded than engage in small talk.
and you? you weren’t some plucky rom-com protagonist who could charm the brooding loner into friendship with a dazzling smile and sheer force of personality. so, you kept your distance. which was fine. totally fine.
What the hell would you even say? “hey, nice pecs, can I bury my face between them?” he’d call the police on you.
so, you stayed quiet..
until the night you made the monumentally stupid decision to start lifting weights.
in your defense, it wasn’t entirely your idea. you were perfectly content with your usual treadmill-and-machines routine. but then your friend had to go and mock you.
“you’re paying for a full gym membership,” he said, flicking a fry at your forehead, “and you’re not even using the weight room?”
“i use it,” you protested.
“you walk through it.”
okay, fine. he had a point. which was how you ended up here, standing in front of a barbell, mentally preparing yourself to lift it like you were about to perform brain surgery.
you’d done your research— watched some youtube tutorials, read some articles. you knew the basics. foot placement. core engagement. not arching your back like a possessed demon.
you took a deep breath, squared your stance, wrapped your hands around the bar, and— nothing.
the bar didn’t budge.
you frowned, adjusted your grip. another deep breath. still nothing.
okay. you could do this. just, more force. maybe a little momentum. you planted your feet, sucked in a breath, and heaved—
"y’need a spotter?"
you startle so hard you nearly fall backward, breath catching as you whip around. close— he’s close, and jesus, he’s even bigger up close. broad shoulders, thick arms crossed over his chest, pale eyes flicking between you and the barbell like he’s already making peace with witnessing an injury. his hoodie is pulled up like always, shadows cutting sharp over the edges of his jaw, but there’s something vaguely unimpressed about his expression. braced for disaster.
you swallow. "uh."
his brow lifts, expectant, as if this is some kind of trick question. "that a yes or a no?"
"i-" your brain short-circuits. every ounce of confidence you had a second ago shrivels up and dies. "i totally got this."
he exhales sharply, something between a scoff and a sigh. he shifts his weight, one foot bracing slightly forward. "sure you do.
your face heats. you turn back to the barbell, fingers tightening around the metal, and pull. it lifts— barely. your arms burn, hands already sweating, but you’re stubborn. you have it. almost.
"you’re about to smash your fucking face in," he mutters.
you falter— just for a second— but that’s all it takes. your grip slips, the weight tilting. shit, shit, shit!
he moves fast. faster than you expect. before you can even panic properly, his hands brace yours, steadying the bar with zero effort. he’s strong, fingers wrapping over yours for a brief moment before smoothly guiding the weight back onto the rack like it weighs nothing. you stumble back, arms trembling from the strain, but he doesn’t step away yet, just watches you catch your breath.
"right," he says after a beat, stepping back. "now that you’ve definitely got it, mind if i give you some actual pointers?"
you blink up at him, still processing the fact that you almost died, and this guy just saved your life like it was nothing. "you train people?"
"no. just rather not watch someone crush their skull in." which is… fair, you suppose.
you wipe your sweaty palms on your leggings, trying not to look as embarrassed as you feel. "okay. please. teach me."
you and simon— you learn his name by the third day!— slowly fall into a routine, much to his chagrin. he hadn’t expected offering to help you not splatter brain matter across the gym floor would lead to... this. a persistent presence. a shadow in his periphery.
he doesn’t know how it happened, how you managed to wedge yourself into the one place he thought was untouchable, but somehow, you did. and now, you’re there. always. not in an overbearing way. you don’t talk his ear off or force yourself on him. if anything, you’re surprisingly easy to be around. and worse— comfortable. which is fucking dangerous.
a routine starts forming. he hadn’t expected that offering to help you not crush your own skull under a barbell would lead to… this. hadn’t expected that you’d still be here, three days later, four, a week, waving at him when he walks in, bright-eyed and warm despite the ungodly hour. he tries to keep you at arm’s length, really, he does.
but you’re not loud. you don’t force yourself on him. you don’t pry or try to push past his walls— you just exist, alongside him, like it’s a natural thing in the world. you ask him questions, ease him into conversations so seamlessly that sometimes he doesn’t even notice he’s talking until he’s already halfway into answering.
"you ever listen to anything in those headphones?"
he glances at you, then down at his battered over-ear set, blinking like he’d forgotten they were even on. "sometimes."
you hum, stepping up to adjust your weights. "what kinda music?
he hesitates. "depends."
"on?"
"the day."
you narrow your eyes. "that’s not an answer."
"sure it is."
you mutter something under your breath about how “everyone in this gym is allergic to giving a straight answer,” but drop it— he notices that about you. you ask, but you never push. never press. you’re content with whatever he gives, and somehow that makes him want to give you more.
it’s little things at first. small details. he learns that you hate most protein juices but drink it anyway, that you run cold so you always wear a hoodie even when you’re sweating through it, that you hate country music and give him a long, horrified look when you learn that he doesn’t. ("not all of it," he defends, rolling his eyes. "some of it’s alright." you just shake your head at him like he’s beyond saving.)
you learn things too. that his tattoos are actually a full sleeve ("when’d you get these?" "over time." "wow, thanks, that clears so much up."), that he has an endless supply of grey hoodies and sweatpants that he refuses to explain.
"you ever heard of color?" you ask, plucking at his sleeve, and he swats your hand away. "practical," he grunts. "s’not a fuckin’ fashion show."
and then— of course— you fixate on the boots. the combat boots. “okay, but why?” you prod, nudging the toe of his boot with yours. “you know you can wear actual gym shoes, right?”
he gives you a flat look, expression unreadable under the shadow of his hood. “they’re my only pair.”
you freeze. your face twists, and there’s this flicker of genuine horror in your eyes that throws him completely off guard. “simon... are you... homeless?” your voice drops to a whisper, hesitant, like you’re afraid to even ask. his brain short-circuits. he smacks you lightly over the head, more shocked than anything.
"what the fuck- no, i'm not homeless, jesus."
you rub the spot with a pout, still eyeing him like you're not completely convinced. “well, i don’t know,” you mumble.
“you wear the same thing every day, never see you with a bag or a wallet or-”
“drop it.”
“-you don’t even buy pre-workout, simon, who does that-”
“drop it.”
some days, he comes into the gym in a mood. the kind where his head is full of static, his skin prickling with the restless need to exhaust himself into oblivion. those are the days he doesn’t want to talk. doesn’t want to be seen. and you— you notice. you don’t come up to him, don’t pester him or try to joke around like normal. instead, you just stand off to the side, watching him with this soft, wide-eyed expression like some kind of kicked puppy.
it’s unbearable.
like an itch under his skin that won’t go away. it eats at him, gnaws at the edges of his concentration, and before he can help it, he’s groaning and gesturing you over with a sharp flick of his fingers. “for fuck’s sake, just get over here already.”
you grin like you’ve won something, practically bouncing on the balls of your feet as you jog over, and he regrets it immediately.
you bring him coffee sometimes. at first, he doesn’t know how to react. he just stares at it when you shove the cup into his hands, blinking down at the little scribbled name on the side like it’s some kind of foreign object. he doesn’t even like sugary coffee, but he drinks it anyway.
the next day, guilt eats at him, so he shoves a protein shake into your hands, unwilling to meet your eyes. "s’only fair."
you squint at it, shake the bottle, listening to the liquid inside slosh around. “what’s in it?”
he scoffs. "fuckin’ cyanide."
you take an exaggerated sniff before grinning. “smells like peanut butter.”
his eye twitches. “just drink it.”
and then, somehow, that becomes a thing, too. a habit. every other day, one of you brings the other something— coffee, protein shakes, the occasional energy drink when you can tell he’s running on fumes.
one night, the gym is nearly empty. just the hum of air conditioning, the occasional clink of metal, the low buzz of some forgotten playlist over the speakers. the late hour has driven most people out, leaving only you and simon.
you’re exhausted, arms shaking, muscles burning with that deep, satisfying ache, but you’re pushing for one more rep. just one.
simon stands behind you, watching through the mirror. arms crossed, weight shifted slightly forward. tracking every movement, every shift in your stance, the way your hands tighten around the bar.
"you're on fumes," he mutters, but steps closer anyway, close enough that the heat of him presses against your back.
you roll your shoulders, shake out your wrists. “i got it.”
he exhales sharp through his nose, scoff and sigh rolled into one, but he doesn’t argue. just moves in, bracketing your sides, his presence steadying.
"alright," he murmurs, watching as you adjust your grip.
you brace yourself, pull, and the weight barely moves. your arms burn immediately, tendons screaming under the strain. your grip shifts, fingers trembling, slipping—
his hands are there. firm and certain, sliding just beneath yours, adjusting your hold without taking over. his chest nearly against your back, his breath warm against the top of your head.
"fix that grip, sweetheart."
you do, fingers locking down harder, shoulders bracing. he doesn’t let go, not fully, his palms ghosting over your forearms, steadying you just enough.
"lock it out," he says, quiet but insistent. his hands shift, one flattening against your stomach, the other hovering at your ribs, like he can feel where the tension is pulling wrong, where you need to engage. "push through. i’ve got you."
your breath stutters, something curling low in your stomach, and you force everything into that last pull, dragging the bar up, arms shaking, until you finally lock it out.
his fingers press in, just briefly, a quick squeeze at your ribs. "good."
you hold it for a second before guiding the weight back down, slow and controlled. the second it racks, your body gives, arms dead, shoulders screaming.
you stumble, just a little, and his hands are already there, catching at your waist. warm. solid. fingers pressing in just enough to steady you. they linger, just a second too long.
and then— "good girl."
barely above a murmur, just breath and heat against your skin, but it slams through you all the same.
your stomach tightens. your pulse jumps. you freeze.
you turn, still breathless, muscles trembling from exertion.
and he’s right there. solid. massive. crowding you. broad chest rising and falling, sweat clinging to the fabric stretched over muscle. too close, heat rolling off him, sinking into your skin, and making your stomach twist. up close, he’s all sharp lines and thick muscle, biceps flexing slightly as he rolls his shoulders back, tilting his head down to look at you.
"don’t-" your voice breaks. you swallow hard. "don’t do that."
simon’s brow lifts, lazy. "don’t do what, sweetheart?"
your fingers twitch at your sides. you gesture vaguely, heat curling up your spine. "that. the- the praise."
his mouth quirks, amusement flickering at the edges. "what, telling you you’re doing good?"
"yes."
he makes a sound low in his throat. "why? thought you liked it."
you try to start a defense, but he steps closer, and fuck, there’s nowhere to go.
"you did so good," he murmurs. his hand lifts, brushing over the curve of your waist. "pushed yourself real hard. took every single rep like a good girl."
your breath catches and oh, does he catch on to that.
"you like hearing that, don’t you?" his fingers curl, pressing into your hip. "knowing i’m right there, watching you, making sure you finish strong."
low, warm, approving—
"bet that’s why you pushed so hard," he continues, like he’s musing to himself. "just to hear me say it. just to make me proud."
simon’s eyes flicker to the vein in your neck. his other hand lifts, brushing a damp strand of hair away from your face, slow, almost tender.
"say it, sweetheart," he murmurs. "let me take care of you.”
“please.”
the rest of the gym is a blur. you don’t even register leaving, don’t remember how you end up outside, only that simon’s hand is wrapped tight around your wrist, dragging you through the parking lot with a single-minded purpose. the concrete expanse is empty except for simon’s truck parked just underneath a street lamp.
simon hauls you into the backseat, the door slamming shut behind him. the truck rocks with the force of it, windows already fogging, the stale scent of leather and the last remnants of his cologne in the air. the streetlights outside cast a dim glow that cuts through the darkness in thin streaks, glinting off the sweat at his temples.
his hands are on you before you can think. rough, impatient. he grabs your hips, yanks you into his lap, drags you down until you crash against him. the heat of him burns through every layer between you.
his hips roll up.
you jolt, hands flying to his shoulders, gripping tight as the thick shape of him grinds against your clit. even through the fabric, you feel everything— the ridges, the weight, the solid pressure slotting perfectly against you.
he does it again.
your breath catches, legs tensing where they straddle his thighs. you try to move, to adjust, but his hands flex, fingers digging in, keeping you pinned where he wants you.
"shh," simon hushes, arm against your skin, grip tightening as he forces you down harder, thighs flexing beneath you. "let me feel you."
his hips drag against you and you react before your brain can catch up, instinct driving you forward, grinding down, chasing the pressure.
his breath stutters, shoulders tensing as he watches you move. the friction grows slicker, hotter, the damp fabric sticking between you.
you glance down— and then you see it. his sweats, darkened, soaked where you grind against him, your arousal leaking through, making a mess of him.
"fuck-"
he exhales sharply, hands shifting, one palm smoothing down your thigh before gripping, pulling you into him.
"that’s it." he’s almost slurring his words now, his hips rolling up to meet yours. "so fuckin’ wet..."
your nails bite into his arms, your body working without thought, hips rolling, pressing down harder. the truck shifts with every movement, the worn leather seat creaking beneath you.
"fuck, baby." his lips brush your jaw. "so messy. feel that?"
you nod frantically and his cock jumps at your eagerness.
his patience snaps.
one moment you’re grinding down against him, chasing the delicious friction, and the next you're scrambling for purchase as he lifts you.
simon shoves his sweats down, and his cock springs free, slapping up against his stomach. it's thick. throbbing. the flushed tip leaking pre, smearing along the ridges of his abs, catching in the dim of the streetlights.
he’s big. not just in length— though fuck, he’s long enough to make your stomach clench— but thick, too. veins run along the shaft, disappearing beneath the flushed, ruddy skin. the head is a deep, aching red, fat and swollen, leaking so much it dribbles down, streaking along his cock, mixing with the slick mess you’ve already made on him.
the weight of him makes his cock hang low even as it twitches, pulsing with the rush of blood. it looks almost angry, the veins along the base throbbing, his whole cock flexing with each slow pump of his fist as he strokes himself, spreading the mess of precum along his length.
simon watches your expression shift, pleased. "knew you’d like that.”
he's teasing but you barely hear it. your eyes stay locked on him, pulse hammering as you take in the sheer size, the stretch you’re about to take—
he shifts his grip, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other around his cock. your hips twitch, instinct making you reach for him, trying to press forward, but he holds you back, squeezes to get your attention.
"look at that..” simon presses the head of his cock against your stomach, dragging it up, smearing wet along your skin. "gonna take all this, yeah? let me stretch that little cunt open?"
"yes- yes, please-"
"fuck." his breath shudders, his hold on you tightening. "greedy thing."
he yanks you forward, spreads your legs wider, fits himself between your thighs, grinds his cock through your slit.
the first press makes you jolt, your whole body twitching, a choked sound slipping from your throat. he groans, gripping your waist, shoving you down, rubbing your swollen clit against the head, dragging himself through your slick over and over again.
"desperate," he muses, almost cruel. "thought you could take me just like that?"
you try to answer, try to say something, but your brain doesn't work, body too busy chasing relief, hips jerking, cunt aching, a mess of whimpers spilling from your lips.
his cock is heavy against your stomach, his tip leaving a damp streak along your skin as he drags it upward. the grip he has on your waist is firm, fingers pressing deep into your flesh, keeping you still, making sure you see exactly how much of him is about to disappear inside you.
“look at that,” he murmurs, lilted by something dark and pleased. “gonna fit all this inside, yeah? stretch that little cunt open real nice for me?”
your breath shudders in your throat. the weight of him, the sheer size, sends a pulse of heat through you, thighs trembling where he holds them apart. he presses his cock higher, smearing himself over your navel, dragging slow just to watch the way your stomach flexes beneath him.
simon's fingers tighten at your hips, anchoring you in place. his eyes flick up, locking onto yours. “still want it?”
you can’t nod fast enough, hands fisting in the hard muscle of his shoulders, your pulse drumming against your ribs. “yes-”
he huffs a quiet laugh before shaking his head. then he moves, his hands shifting to your waistband. simon doesn’t take his time, doesn’t tease— just yanks your shorts down in one rough motion, shoving them past your thighs, tossing them aside like they’re nothing.
your panties are soaked through, the thin fabric clinging to your skin, darker where arousal has seeped into it. his gaze drops, and he groans, fingers flexing against your thighs.
his eyes practically shine as he reaches down, hooking two fingers into the waistband, pulling the fabric to the side instead of taking it off completely. “how long have you been sittin’ here all wet for me, huh?”
then, without warning, he lifts his cock and slaps it against your cunt. the obscene sound echoes between you.
you jolt, a sharp gasp catching in your throat. the weight of him presses down, drags over your swollen folds, smearing your slick along the length of him, leaving him just as messy as you.
simon's breath hitches, jaw going tight for a moment before he grins. “feel that?” he rocks his hips, slow and deliberate, the ridge of his head catching against your clit with every motion. “soaked for me. filthy girl.”
he keeps at it, rutting through your folds, dragging his cock against you in long, teasing glides. every lazy roll of his hips spreads more wetness between you, slick growing messier, needier, your arousal coating every inch of him.
his voice drops lower, almost awed. “you always this wet?”
you shake your head. you're not even sure why you're this wet. it’s obscene, every slow slide of him making a sticky, wet sound, the kind that makes your face burn with embarrassment.
his grip on your thighs tightens. he presses against you harder, lets his cock drag through the mess, smearing it everywhere, making it worse.
“just for me then?” he asks, watching the way his cock glistens, slick with everything you’ve given him. “i kind of like that.”
he lines himself up, pressing the thick, leaking tip against your aching entrance. he lets it catch there for a second, teasing, before dragging it up one last time, rubbing against your clit, watching you twitch beneath him.
then he settles back down, pressing again, the heavy weight of him poised to sink inside.
his eyes flick back to yours. “gonna let me in now, yeah?”
the first push is a mistake. he realizes it the second you tense up, sucking in a sharp breath, thighs trembling where they’re spread over his lap. his cock barely breaches you— just the tip, barely an inch— and your body locks up, refusing to take more.
simon grits his teeth, hands firm on your waist, trying to ease you down, but you’re too tight, squeezing around him like you’re trying to push him out. the head of his cock throbs where it’s barely inside you, thick and unyielding, stretching you too much, too fast.
he exhales through his nose, slow and measured, and tries again. rocks his hips, nudging deeper, letting you feel the weight of him pressing in. but you whimper, body trembling, nails biting into his skin. your walls clench down hard, resisting, and—
he stops. groans, and drops his head back against the seat.
"jesus christ." his palm drags over his face. "knew you were tight, but- fuck. you’re not gonna take me like this."
your face burns. your throat aches. frustration coils hot in your chest. "i’m sorry-"
"oh, sweetheart." simon's hands slide up your back, rough palms smoothing over your skin before he leans back, head tilting, eyes flicking over you. half amused, half exasperated. "you apologizing for having a cunt this tight?"
you sniffle, shifting in his lap, arousal sticky between your thighs. "but i wanted to-"
"you will." his voice is steady, calm, but his grip on your hips tightens. "just gotta take my time, yeah? don’t want you cryin’ when i finally get this cock in you."
you sniff again, blinking up at him, vision blurred, lips parted. "too late."
he huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "fuckin’ hell."
then his hands are moving again, trailing lower, fingers slipping between your slick folds, pressing in slow.
you jolt at the touch, a sharp, wrecked little sound catching in your throat. simon groans, watching the way you twitch in his lap.
"fuck, baby. so sensitive. all worked up and nowhere to put it, huh?"
you nod, heat crawling up your neck, hips jerking as he rubs slow, lazy circles over your clit. his fingers are thick, rough, dragging through the mess between your thighs, teasing, pressing just enough to make your breath stutter.
"s’not fair," you mumble.
"life’s not fair, sweetheart." his fingers press in again, pushing deeper. one first, stretching you open, curling inside. then another. then a third. his other hand stays on your thigh, keeping you spread, holding you open so he can watch the way you take him.
"gotta get you nice and open." his voice low and warm. "don’t want you breakin’ on me just yet."
you whimper, rocking into his hand, clenching down around his fingers. your clit throbs under his thumb, swollen and aching, every slow grind of his palm sending another shudder through you.
"shh. just let me do this for you, yeah?"
you do. trembling, gasping, grinding down, taking everything he gives until you’re loose, slick, ready.
when he pulls his fingers out, you whine, walls fluttering around nothing.
then his cock is back, pressing against your entrance, thick and hot, teasing for only a moment before he pushes in—
you take him.
the stretch is unbearable. every inch forces you open, slow and deliberate, the thick drag of him pressing deeper than anything ever has. your breath stutters, body shaking, thighs trembling where they rest over his.
"fuck, sweetheart," he groans, voice tight, hands gripping your hips, keeping you still, keeping you from pulling away. "you feel that? squeezing me so fuckin’ tight."
you do. every ridge, every vein, the slow, impossible push of him splitting you open, inch by inch, pressing deep— then he stops.
breath stuttering, you blink at him, dazed, confused, still so empty. "w-why-"
"baby," his voice is almost pained. "m’pressing right up against your cervix. can’t go any deeper."
but it’s not enough. you whimper, hips twitching, shifting to take more, to sink lower. "but i still feel empty, si.."
his jaw clenches, fingers digging into your thighs, trying to keep you still, stopping you from punching a fucking hole through your guts. "jesus, sweetheart. you don’t know what you’re askin."
"please," you breathe, eyes glassy, desperate. "si, please, want all of you-"
he groans, head dropping back against the seat, restraint hanging by a thread. "fuck."
then his grip tightens, and before you can say another word, he forces you down the rest of the way.
"oh-oh my god-" your whole body shakes, a strangled moan ripping from your throat as the thick head of his cock breaches your cervix, slipping into your womb, stuffing you full.
simon grunts, the squeeze of you making his vision blur for a second. "jesus fuckin’ christ."
the moment he bottoms out, your walls clamp down, fluttering, pulsing around him— the pleasure snaps without warning, white-hot, rolling through you all at once.
"fuck- fuck, baby." he curses, the squeeze of your cunt almost painful. his half-lidded eyes are trained on where the two of you connect, the way you gush around him, soaking his cock. "just from takin’ me all the way? filthy fuckin’ thing-"
he huffs a rough laugh, fingers flexing against your hips, appreciating the extra slick easing the way. "makes it easier, at least," he mutters, then starts to move.
it’s slow at first— just enough to let you feel it, to make you ache through the thick drag of him pulling back, just enough to let you whimper at the sheer pressure of his cock pressing against every swollen, overstimulated inch of your cunt.
but you’re already gone.
your lashes flutter, your lips part around soft, wrecked little sounds, your hips twitching even though he’s holding you down, even though you’re already stuffed so fucking full.
"look at you," he murmurs, dragging a palm up your belly, pressing down right where he’s so deep, groaning when he feels the outline of himself inside you. "fuckin’ cock-drunk already, sweetheart?"
you sob, thighs squeezing around his waist, hands grasping at him, trying to find something to hold onto as your hips jerk, rolling forward mindlessly, instinct driving you to take more, take everything.
he groans, gripping your jaw, tilting your face up so he can see all of it.
"can’t even talk, can you? too fuckin’ dumb to think straight."
"s-simon-"
"what, love? too far gone already?"
his smirk is wicked, his grip tight as he presses his hips up, spearing you open all over again.
you scream, body jerking, back arching, thighs trembling around him. "ohh- oh fuck-"
"there we go." his voice is full of praise, full of something dark and indulgent. "there’s my good girl."
he sets a slow rhythm, dragging his cock out until only the thick head is inside you before slamming all the way back in, spearing you open, making sure you feel it, making sure you take every inch.
"bloody hell," he mutterd, feeling the way your walls squeeze him, the way you shudder, the way you drip around him, slick gushing, soaking his cock, ruining his seats.
"listen to that, sweetheart," he groans, shifting his grip, spreading his knees just a little wider to pin you in place. "fuckin’ mess you’re makin."
he glances down, eyes nearly rolling at the sight— your cunt stretched wide around him, slick dripping down to his balls, pooling beneath you.
"christ, love." he has to gasp for breath. "fuckin’ leaking all over me- ruinin’ my fuckin’ truck-"
"s-simon-" you lose your train of thought, babbling incomprehensible strings of words.
"can't think?" simon's grin sharpens. "good. don’t need you thinkin."
For all those who complain about explicit “smutty” books or smut in fic in general:
Just be aware that a bill has been introduced in Oklahoma’s state senate (SB 593) that would make writing/publishing/owning an explicit romance book a felony.
So, when you come on here to espouse your “anti pro-ship” nonsense, or moan about how hard it is to find fics/art/books that aren’t “smutty” — know that this is the effect. You are being used as mouthpieces to help feed and perpetuate censorship. There is no room for censorship in fiction because it will never stop at what you deem morally “right”. It is about control and the restriction of speech. Your discomfort with sex in media does not make it wrong, and it certainly doesn’t mean you get to advocate for its restriction.
Do not be pawns in the far-right’s game. Do not call yourselves allys of any kind if you are willingly feeding into a pillar of far right extremism. It will not stop where you think it “should.”
i posted a boba fett trans pride/ally drawing on my instagram yesterday and got so much goddam backlash from angry fanboys who tried telling me that boba fett doesn't support trans/nb people or they/them pronouns. obviously they don't know SHIT about boba fett so i drew this petty ass comic as a response. goodnight bitches.
if anyone ever wants to cite the expanded universe at fanboys who make such arguments, i am pleased to inform you that there is actually evidence there that boba knows about and accepts non-binary genders!
in the novel boba fett: crossfire, shortly after jango is killed, boba is found and dumped on a republic orphanage ship where he's befriended by another orphan, named garr, who happens to be non-binary. boba eventually asks garr if they're a boy or a girl and readily accepts it when they answer that their gender is still "up in the air." garr goes on to tell him that they wish more people were as accepting and that "they want to treat you one way if you're a boy, and another way if you're a girl, and there's no in-between." boba's one-word evaluation on such a mindset? "stupid."
less explicitly, there's also a bit in the short story boba fett: the last one standing where a now-adult boba is listening to a recording of a symphony that includes an unknown singer, leading boba to consider that there are "a dozen" genders the singer might belong to—with the obvious authorial intent to imply that the singer might be an alien rather than human, but still disproves the notion that boba fett doesn't know or accept what a non-binary gender is.
one could also point out that one of the few people in boba's life growing up was zam wesell, a shapeshifter who professed to only being female "sometimes."
basically: there is no evidence that boba fett shares the outrage or confusion over non-binary genders that the aforementioned fanboys insist on and, in fact, the only response he's ever shown having to non-binary people and genders in the expanded universe is immediate and instinctive acceptance.
GET. AI. OUT. OF. FANDOM. Stop making headcanons with it, stop making fanfic with it, stop making fanart with it. If I see one more "asking chatgpt *blank* about *character/characters in a fandom* I'm going to lose my goddamn mind. Use your own fucking brain, stop asking AI to do everything. You could even ask other real people what they think. Just. Stop. Using. AI. In. Creative. Spaces.
Honestly if you live in the US and still use one of these apps, delete your account and the app immediately. Buy a wall calendar and use that instead. None of these apps can be trusted anymore. Do it while you still have time.
I know we all make jokes and memes about it, like ‘lol, Trump said we are the gender we were at conception, we’re all female now. 🤪’
but like
that doesn’t…scare you?
This is your administration. This is the knowledge that your government has….and they get high-school biology wrong.
This law had to have been cross-read by several people before it was passed.
This is your government.
A bunch of rich fascists who don’t know basic science.
You Could Be My Armor Then @adancedivasmom - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
