I really like the idea of simon waking up for the first time and being scared and confused, and thinking the first voice he hears is the Light Anomaly coming to take him back. he would not be fond of this. let me be clear.
full color drawing coming soon, I'll post it at the same time I post the first part of the AU im writing (where the scene is from) on ao3!
also the line is a lyric from 'doors' by noah kahan
[main text: HAVE YOU EVER STARED DIRECTLY AT THE SUN?
small text, in order: 'can you hear me?', 'please don't panic...', 'you'll be safe here, I promise.', 'can you tell me your name?', 'I can tell you mine first-- I'm Grace.']
Tags: reader is referred to with Mrs. and is called Eva’s “wife”, Fluff, Minor Drinking, Established Relationship, lmk if I missed a tag because I can’t think of anything else
Summary: You deal with a lot of things you never thought you’d ever have to while being Eva Stratt’s second in command. You really didn’t think you’d need to be proving your marriage with Eva Stratt, though.
WC: 3.2k | Read on Ao3
A/N: Requested by Anon on Tumblr. I really hope this lives up to their expectations. Excuse the hastily made summary and title. The ao3 curse unfortunately has me in its clutches bc I might have rabies (hence the rush to get this posted).
---
It was nothing short of odd to have been recruited by your wife to be her second in command. The topic was broached at dinner, too causally for the commitment she was throwing upon you—not to mention herself.
You thought it was a normal dinner. She seemed tense, sure, but how else was she meant to be with the impending doom of humanity looming over your heads? Eva was distraught; you knew this. You didn't think anything further when she was thrown back into her reticent state, nor did you force conversation onto her.
Eva held her fork in her right hand, looking down at her food but never once touching it. "I've been asked to lead a task force."
You looked up at her. "What?"
She placed her fork down on the table, and tucked her hand under the table, on her lap. Before she did that, you saw the slightest tremble in her hands. She had a distant look. "For the Petrova line—they want to assemble a task force to fix it, and they want me to lead it."
Your brows furrowed. "They? Who's they?"
"The United Nations."
Your eyes widened. "That 'work trip' was a meeting with the UN?"
She nodded.
"What are they asking of you?"
"To fix it. They want me to do whatever it takes to fix it."
"And, what, you have no guidance? They just want you to navigate this alone? That's impossible, and very, very stupid. You don't just place that in one person's hands, Eva. You cant accept that burden, it's not—"
"No, no," she cut you off. "They're letting me choose whoever I see fit to help."
The anger in your chest hasn't subsided, and that didn't assuage your worries one bit. "And who could possibly help you take that on?"
Her eyes met yours. "You. Be my second in command."
You took a deep breath. If you were a stronger person, you would have mulled it over. You would have saw the warning signs, and steered very clear. But you aren't. You're her wife, and you love her in a way that common sense can't override.
"Yes. I'll be your second in command."
And it wasn't the worst choice you've ever made. You're by Eva's side, and that's all you can really ask for. Despite the duties that have been placed onto you, you couldn't imagine a world where you were home while your wife was out in an aircraft carrier in the middle of the ocean.
But sometimes your patience is tested, especially when people come to you with their mistakes, thinking you'll be nicer on them than Stratt— well, you are, but it doesn't mean you don't get irritated (it's not like you don't relay their idiocy to Eva every night). And it's for that reason exactly that you're contacting a scientific glass blower to replace a very rare piece of equipment.
Eva comes up behind you, her hands resting on your shoulders as she peers at your computer. "What did we lose?"
"Fuck, if I know," you sigh. The irritation slowly dissipates with each kiss Eva places upon your neck. Your head lolls to the side, allowing her all the room in the world to work with. Stupid emails can wait.
Her kisses trail up to your jaw. "Why haven't I heard about this? Will this set progress back in its absence?"
"Mm-mm," you hum in disagreement. "We have another, but we need the spare. This won't be a setback. Their stupidity, however, may be."
She laughs warmly against you, soft puffs of air falling onto your cheek. It leaves the warmth of one thousand suns in your face, a warmth that quickly metastasizes throughout your body. Her gentle affections leave as quick as they came; suddenly she is no longer draped over the back of your chair. Your lips turn down. It's a cruel fate to befall, but one that must be endured.
You hear the telltale tapping that indicates her return to whatever work she was doing on her tablet. "Why wasn't I notified earlier?" she repeats.
You sign off on the email, then promptly send it. The laptop shuts with a click, and you round the bed to sit beside Eva. She's wrapped up in your hoodie and some old plaid pajama pants. She gets awfully cold at night on this ship.
Her eyes flick up to yours, brows raised in question.
"You're a scary woman when you're not in your cute, little pajamas." You grin at her eye roll, pressing a kiss to her cheek regardless of her displeasure. She still leans into it when you let your lips linger. "Don't take it to heart. You're just German."
She mutters something under her breath in her native language. If you could understand, you're sure it would be an insult, or a rude observation about Americans. Either way, you still press your face into the crook of her neck and enjoy the way the noise vibrates throughout her throat. You press your lips into the column of her throat, mirroring the affection she placed on your moments earlier. She's not nearly as receptive as you, but you still spot the slightest color on her cheeks.
You take her hand, impeding her work. Your fingers press into her palm, rubbing softly. "It's so late."
"I have things I need to finish and review."
"It can wait until the morning, can't it?"
Her tablet clicks off. You might as well have won a gold medal. It's always nice when Eva goes to bed with you. You press a final kiss to her lips into gratitude, and then you lay down on the bed. She's joins you soon after, situating herself under the blanket. You're on her like a barnacle again, slotting yourself into every crevice you can find. If you could tuck yourself under her ribs, you'd be there (Eva would protest, but she's gotten used to this years ago. Besides, you can hear the way her heart races then slows when you're on her).
Her arms wrap around you. Her lips press into your hairline, the scent of her shampoo surrounds you, and, suddenly, everything stops. There's no stress over finding someone to make equipment, no world crisis looming over your head, no worries about the competence of your crew. It's all just bliss. Sharing this burden isn't so bad together.
Your breathing slows, as does hers. You begin to drift off together.
— —
Mornings aren't usually an endeavor you tackle together. Eva slips out of your all-consuming embrace without waking you most days, others she falls victim to you enticing her back to bed for another few minutes. This is a morning where she successfully escaped you and got an early start to her work. Your eyes fall on her, fingers scrubbing at them. You let out a small yawn.
"Good morning." She doesn't look up from her work. "Coffee is on the nightstand. It might be cold."
You look your left and spot the coffee. You take it with an appreciative hum. Your first sip tells your it's lukewarm. If you wanted it warm, you should have woken up earlier. At least you have coffee at all. You get out of bed and get ready for the day. Once you're done, you grab your half empty mug and bid Eva farewell. She likes to soak up her alone time to work in the mornings. She gets things done much faster when neither you or any of her crew are there is interrupt her. You work more with people than she does, so you can't afford the same luxury. You're typically running around, managing all the scientists, arranging meetings, and recruiting the necessary people. Sometimes, you two do switch, but that's how it typically goes.
People find Eva a little hard-headed and off putting. While you are just as unrelenting, people tend to prefer your demeanor and kind disposition. Doesn't mean you don't stress them out a little when you're watching them from the other side of the glass. It makes you feel a little silly, watching scientists work like they're fish in a fish tank. They work very well together. You feel on the outside of it as literally as you do figuratively. You don't mesh well with them.
The tap of footsteps knocks you out of your thoughts. You look to your right to see Eva. Some people perk up, eyes flocking to the motion. You see them, too, your gaze performing a similar task. It's funny to think above how primitive it is. Watching the herd tense at the possible threat, then relax.
Eva stops beside you. "You need to arrange the break room for the viewing of the launch." She shakes her head at absurdity of the idea: an unnecessary break room being made only to watch the launching of some modules for Project Hail Mary instead of actually working on the project. If you were anywhere else, you'd poke a little fun at her distaste. Unfortunately, you're being watched.
"I'll get that done. Anything else?"
She shakes her head, this time in candid denial. "That'll be all."
You glance back at the scientists. Some hurriedly avert their eyes when you meet them, but most are focused on their respective tasks. "Everything is going well. You can stay and observe if you'd like, but there's no reason to." You look back to Eva. "I'm going to go talk to someone about that break room now."
She hums in agreement, and she takes your station at the window while you go off.
— —
Making a break room was easy enough. You're sure whoever convinced Eva of even considering the notion of making one worked for harder than you did. It's not exactly nice; it's a small room in the corner of the hangar deck, actually. Still, you got it decently furnished, stocked with a few drinks, and got a TV for the viewing. There are worse places to spend an afternoon on Stratt's Vat.
The TV feed of the launch was just beginning as the crew came in—well, half. Only Ilyukhina and Yáo walk in. Ilyukhina spots the beverage table immediately. She flocks to it and goes for whatever the strongest alcohol there is out there, which is some nice vodka you splurged on just for her, you believe. Conversely, Yáo opts for a glass of water. They chat for a minute, but Ilyukhina quickly spots you and tries to rope you into her alcoholism.
"Oh, come on, you can't take one shot?" Ilyukhina looks at you with imploring eyes.
"No. I have things to be doing after this."
"Maybe Stratt will drink with me. She needs to relax."
You huff out a laugh. Eva indulging in celebrations? You barely got her to come to her own wedding. "Stratt won't be coming."
Ilyukhina tilts her head in confusion. "Why would Deputy Director be here and not Director? You come in a pair, yes?" She looks at Yáo, expecting him to share the sentiment.
He simply shrugs. "I respect the work ethic."
Ilyukhina shakes her head. "No, she's too uptight. Boy-toy, Grace, is not helping enough."
You tense, eyes widening. You don't know if it's more appropriate to laugh or vehemently deny it. Ilyukhina and Yáo, on the other hand, and completely indifferent. Do they discuss this often? Does everyone think this?
"Don't look like that. She spends so much time with him. He slept up ranks—that's why he is lead scientist," Ilyukhina explains.
You look to Yáo again. His facial expressions have never betrayed many of his thoughts. He maintains stoicism more often than not, but Ilyukhina draws out a more relaxed side out when she's forced some alcohol down his throat. He is far from drunk, though, and he doesn't say a word.
"Everyone thinks this?" you ask incredulously.
"Is known fact," she replies. "They are unnaturally close."
"God, I'd hope not, considering we've been married for a decade."
"Grace has a wife?"
"I don't really do 'boy-toys,'" you reply, grimacing. "Me and Eva have been married for a decade—a little over, actually. It'll be twelve years in a few months." Your face visibly softens when you talk of your marriage. You're far past the honeymoon phase, having settled into something much more domestic, but you do get those same newly-wed heart eyes sometimes.
When you look to Yáo, you find him half turned away. He must've checked out around the time Ilyukhina mentioned "boy-toys" (you would've preferred to do that, too). Some other person has stolen his attention—probably someone more mellow and to his liking. He meets your eyes once you glance at him, though, and you see a modicum of the softness that you have. He has his own family he's in this for. You think you've reached an understanding with him.
Ilyukhina, on the other hand, bursts out laughing. If you didn't spend so much time with her and her odd reactions, you'd be offended. She claps you on the back, raising her glass in cheers. "Good job. She's very pretty lady. Surely you drink to this? One shot? It is big milestone."
"Sure." You pour out a shot and raise it up. "To Eva." Throwing the shot back, you hear the beginning of the broadcast. The bitter liquid slides down your throat as you nod your head over to the TV. "Let's go watch."
The rest of the crew, sans Yáo, who is wrapping up his conversation, is on the couch by the time you go there. You end up against the back of it, standing next to Dr. Grace. He raises his drink in acknowledgment. It's a soda of some kind. Shapiro and DuBois are lot beside each other, tucked into the corner. They're closer than coworkers should be, but they're an acceptable distance apart. They don't care about PDA anyways, so you wouldn't be shocked to see them closer together.
"Ah, the scientists!" Ilyukhina greets the group before promptly plopping herself down on the other end of the couch. "You know this is Mrs. Stratt?"
You hyphenated, which she'd know if she cared to ask.
"How did Stratt find the time to get married?" Grace asks. "I didn't even know she had friends."
You laugh, half at his misrepresentation of your wife, half at the fact that you think Grace might be her only friend on this ship. "You'd be surprised. She was… different in college."
Grace gawks at you. "Wait—you're married to Stratt?"
"Yes, I say 'this is Mrs. Stratt,' and this is Mrs. Stratt." Ilyukhina makes a gesture at you with her hands.
"I assumed she was engaged in sexual congress with Dr. Grace. They're together far more often," Dubois cuts in. And, well, that is fair to assume, but you can't say you're happy that so many people share that sentiment.
You open your mouth to retort, but Grace buts in before you can.
"You'd thought we were what? We've never—what? I've never done that with her!"
The conversation devolves into a discussion of the obvious signs that people were picking up on. You, personally, didn't really want to hear about their analysis of their behaviors, nor their imagination of the things they could've done. Subtly, you edged out of the room, successfully leaving without anyone really noticing. It doesn't matter anyways. Technically, you should be working, not watching the launch. No rest for the wicked.
You pass by Eva's office. Your pace slows, then halts. Her lights are on, as always. That office might as well be her second home. You gaze at the door a moment, considering if you should really work, or go bother your wife. And… the answer is obvious. You approach and knock on the door. She replies with a soft "come in."
You press down the handle and push open the door. It softly clicks shut when you nudge it closed behind you. Eva is sat at her desk with a pen in hand and a soft smile on her face. You're sure she needs a reprieve from all her working, but you know she won't welcome your distractions for very long. It's an art form knowing when she'll let you push for her to take a break and knowing when you'd need drastic measures to get her to put that damn tablet down.
"You're not watching the launch?" she asks.
You shake your head. "No. The crew speculates a lot, you know? They thought you were sleeping with Grace."
"I know."
You pause. "You didn't tell me they all thought that?"
"It doesn't matter. I'm not sleeping with Dr. Grace."
"Don't say his name in your sexy accent. It's not helping." You take a seat across from her. "Do you know they think we're practically strangers?"
"I assumed so." She says it all in a very matter of fact way. For Eva, her own personal knowledge of the love you share is enough. For you, you're only content with the kind of love you shout from the rooftops. You've both adapted a bit, little by little. Eva is more comfortable with your subtle public affections, and you're content with keeping your private life a bit more private. Still, sometimes, she throws you for a loop. You never believed you could be pragmatic and in love. You've never been short of insane when you truly love someone. You still don't understand the notion, but you know Eva manages to be in her own way.
"You're okay with that?"
"I still wear our ring, don't I?"
You suppress a smile (unsuccessfully) at its mention. "It's on your right hand though." German tradition, you were told. You wear it the same way.
She shrugs. "There's many people of different backgrounds. They can tell I'm married."
"Touché." You glance down at the wedding band on her right ring finger, then flick your eyes back up to hers. "I told them anyways. They thought Grace slept his way up the ladder."
She looks amused. "I've heard."
"That poor man wishes he wasn't so high up." You shake your head fondly. "I'll let you get back to work."
"Come here."
You round the desk and come to her side. She takes your hand and tugs you down to her level, and then she places a kiss on your cheek.
"Scandalous, Director Stratt. We're on the clock."
"Stay. Work in here." Her voice is low and warm. You take pride in the knowledge that it's just for you. No commands, no exasperation, no anger, just pure affection. Stupidly, it makes you feel warm in fuzzy. Her voice reverberates through your whole body.
"Getting me in a room alone… who knows what may happen? I think we need a seminar on interpersonal relationships between employees."
She rolls her eyes. "Go get your things."
She's no fun.
You straighten up and salute. "Yes, ma'am."
And as you're walking down the hall, you realize that crew really doesn't know you. Eva is woven into every fiber of your being. Your love for her emanates from you constantly. You'd really do anything for that woman. You'd cross seas, live on a aircraft carrier, and go to jail for her.
So, really, you can't understand how no one sees it.
You think it's as obvious as the lipstick on your cheek.
---
A/N: Hope you guys enjoyed this!! I don’t really know if I did the prompt justice I fear, but oh, well. I need to go get the vaccines now lol. If I don't post, the rabies got me /j.(And to that other anon that requested a Mary fic, I’m working on it. Let’s just pray I’m alive to finish it lol).
protect short sentence stacking as a stylistic choice.
protect fanfic writers—who are kind enough to share their works with people to read for free—from ai witch hunts, speculations and accusations.
“don’t like don’t read” also applies to any fic that is ai-generated and any fic you think is ai-generated by the way. if you don’t like what you’re reading for any reason, you can always stop reading and exit the fic at any point. but harassment is never ever justified. no matter if you think you’ve found a noble excuse to do it. and also…
witch hunts, speculations and accusations harm the writing community as much as ai does. if not more. I don’t want to see another innocent writer get driven away from the community because someone decides to harass and accuse them for using ai just because their fic happens to have “ai telltales” — the same telltales ai got from having been trained on millions of human-made works to mimic how real humans actually write.
tags: graphic depictions of violence, smut, MDNI pleaseee, oral (fem! receiving), coming untouched, car sex, can you tell i love gloves, reader is conflicted, very very conflicted
disclaimer: i genuinely haven't written fanfic in like two year forgive me if im rusty. the ghost of ryan gosling possessed me to write this it isn't my fault okay
The quiet mechanical sounds of the elevator seem impossibly loud, abrasive almost. It's like you can hear every gear straining and struggling to hold the weight of the three bodies in its carriage. His lips feel dry against yours, like he had been panting heavily just moments before.
The kiss feels too intense under the yellow fluorescent lighting of the elevator, and even worse, uncomfortably public in the presence of the complete stranger standing next to you.
You feel the driver's hand pull you in at the waist, gripping harshly for only a moment before coming up for air.
“Hey-” is the only word you manage to force out before the man's gaze abruptly snaps to the left, making eye contact with the stranger. The moments after seem to move in a comedic slow motion, like film buffering and skipping as he violently charges at him, slamming his head against the wall next to the sliding door.
Your hand moves to cover your mouth in horror, your body still and unable to move despite every instinct screaming at you to run, or hide, or do anything at all. The heartbeat you feel in your head is almost deafening, only overpowered by the nauseating sound of the driver stomping his foot into the stranger's skull. Over, and over, and over.
A few moments pass, the elevator dings, and the cramped space seems to brighten. The driver still hasn't stopped his assault, the repetitive squelch of his boot against what remained of his face now accompanied by a grotesque splatter of blood across the faded interior of the elevator.
You feel like you can't breathe as the stranger's left hand gives one last pathetic twitch, and his body falls limp against the corner. As the doos slide open he turns to look at you, hands visibly shaking as he seems to realise what he had done.
And somehow, the only thing you can think about is getting his lips back on yours.
The driver's demeanor starkly contrasts his behaviour mere seconds before. Beneath his blank expression, you see fear fill the sea of his piercing blue eyes.
Fear of what? Your reaction? A man, who had just taken another's life in the most brutal way you could possibly imagine, was terrified of what you were about to do next.
Cry and scream. That sounded like a plausible reaction to what you had just witnessed, natural even. But you couldn't bring yourself to do anything, not moving a single muscle as you held eye contact with the man standing across from you.
His clothes were bloody, that white leather jacket he wore like a uniform stained with red. Stained with what he had done.
You open your mouth to speak and close it just as quickly. Your brain has so many questions that your lips can't stand to pose, frozen in place as time warps itself around the two of you. Anybody could walk by, have him arrested and locked up for life. You'd never see him again.
Like a woman possessed, you lunge forward toward the driver and to his right, shoulder checking him on your way into the garage of your apartment building. You heart batters against your ribcage, and you aren't even sure he's following you. Why should he? Where are you even going?
Footsteps patter on the always damp concrete, out of sync, his heavier than yours. You feel the side of your tight jeans, the ridges of your car key rough against your fingers even through the fabric.
You can barely breathe, the stench of gasoline and blood permeating your nose. Looking back feels like an option for a fraction of a second, but you don't dare to.
Images of what just happened flash in front of your eyes. Blood, hair, the dirt of his boots not even getting a chance to rub off on the face of the stranger as he crushes it with them. Suddenly, you feel an urge to run, to hide and get as far as possible.
You arrive at the car before being able to act on that urge.
The driver stops several paces behind you, his blank expression now unreadable. Reaching into your pocket, you take out the keys to your beat up Toyota and chuck them at him, probably harder than you should have. He flinches, and you almost feel bad. He just murdered someone in front of you and you feel bad. Fuck.
Your fingers on the door, the shuffle of feet across the pavement. A hand on the steering wheel that isn't yours. Neither of you had said anything yet. Speaking feels impossible, but then again, the idea that he was capable of killing someone felt impossible just minutes before. So you do.
“Drive.” you mutter, toes curling in your sneakers as the driver's shaking hand pushes the key into the ignition, the roar of the engine coming alive and redirecting your eyes forward.
The street lanterns blur as tears pool in your eyes, everything hitting you at once. You watch his hands on the steering wheel, adjusting and readjusting more times than necessary. The moment your eyes flicker downward, you regret the action instantly. Blood cakes the drivers boots, some spots dry while others glisten in the faint light coming from outside. You feel sick.
Your environment sharpens as he pulls into a desolate parking lot, somewhere far away from anything. Blinking back tears, you muster up enough courage to look at him. His eyes are unmoving, focussed in front of him. You barely register the rough scrape of his voice against the silence of the night.
“He had a gun.” he states. “He was going to kill you.”
Your mouth is dry, your hands clammy and cold as the driver peers over at you. “How did you know?” you ask him. “I saw it in his suit jacket, his holster-”
Your mind strains as you try to think back.
You were between the both of them, how had you not seen it? Why? How? You should've ran away screaming, terrified for your life. But you didn't, and now you're in your car. Nobody knows where you are.
“Will you hurt me?” you ask, the realization of what he was capable of hitting you all at once. The blood splatter on the walls of the elevator rushes back into your memory, and you flinch into yourself. No one knows you're here and you’re a fucking witness. Shit.
The driver's breath hitches as he turns to face you fully, a gloved hand moving to rest on the console between you. You swear you can see a tear in his eye, threatening to roll down his face as his voice shakes. “Never, no. I could never.”
You don't know if you should believe him. What's stopping him from tying up loose ends? You're just a liability, you could rat him out the first chance you get. How is he so sure you won't do just that? Taking a proper look at the man across from you once more, you realize he’s crying.
Tears fall freely as his eyes hold yours captive, his stoic gaze faltering. The driver opens and closes his fist against the leather it rests in the center console, trying to soothe himself.
“I had to.” he forces out.
You barely have time to register what was happening as he crashes his lips against yours, the salty taste of his tears accompanying the warm feel of his mouth. Your eyes widen, and you ignore your instinct to push away.
Pushing him away feels impossible as his gloved hand snakes its way into your hair, trying to get as close as possible within the confines of the seats separating the two of you.
A car honks in the distance, and you hear the faint wail of sirens speed down the highway in the direction you came from. Dread fills you as you piece together where they're heading.
You break away from the kiss for a brief moment, trying to string together coherent words.
“Is this what you do? Kill people?” you try to ask calmly, your voice betraying you.
The driver's tears had dried up by that point, replaced by a rosy flush across his cheeks from the close proximity. You can tell the question had caught him off guard, and to be honest, you hadn't really meant to ask it in the first place. But if he owes you anything, it's this.
“No.” he spits out, “I drive.”
A beat of silence passes. You deem his answer good enough.
Hands paw at your neck and back, and more police cars pass by. His breath is hot on your skin as his lips find their way down your jaw, leaving damp kisses in their wake. You can feel the bloom of a hickey ron the base of your neck. Latching on to his hair to ground yourself, you unintentionally tug, eliciting a rough groan from the blonde. The leather of his gloves feels cold against the skin of your back, his hands snaking up your shirt to fumble at the clasp of your bra. One, two tries before he manages to undo it, letting it fall into your lap as he feels you up underneath your loose t-shirt.
The console separating the two of you starts to get uncomfortable after a while and you can feel your back starting to ache. The driver silently agrees, pausing only to reach beneath your seat to let it reel back almost completely flat. You didn't know it could do that. Then again, his experience with cars far outperforms your own.
Pushing that thought to the very back of your mind, you watch as he struggles to maneuver his tall frame over the center of the car and on top of you, settling with both legs on either side of yours.
It doesn't even take a fraction of a second before his hands are back on your body, grabbing and touching and scratching at your skin. The delicious mix of pain and pleasure makes you twitch underneath him. You don't even realise your shirt is gone until his tongue makes contact with one of your nipples. Your entire body feels as if it's on fire, the cool air of the garage long forgotten as the heat of his body envelops your own.
The driver's voice cuts through the silence.
“Can I..?” he trails off, and you realise that he's made his way down into the legroom of the passenger seat, kneeling in front of you with his fingers ghosting over the fly of your jeans. His eyes seem to pierce through your soul as he gazes up at you like a beaten down dog. The heat in your stomach travels up your spine as you nod, watching him slowly unbutton your pants.
The evening's previous happenings are pushed far back into the crevices of your mind the moment his lips touch the seam of your dark blue panties, the driver's hot exhale over your cunt making you throw your head back in exhilaration.
This was fucked up, truly. He had just murdered someone in cold blood. You should be terrified, disturbed, something. Yet you can't bring yourself to push him away, no matter how hard you fight yourself.
A tap on your hip makes you realise he's going to need your help, and you lift your hips as he peels your underwear off of you along with your jeans, discarding them somewhere in the back seat. The faint light of the parking lot illuminates his face as he stares at your bare cunt and you realise you're soaked. A wave of embarrassment washes over you, and somehow he seems to notice.
“It’s okay, I'm here.” he whispers, pressing soft kisses to the inside of your thigh, slowly trailing up until his chapped lips finally find their way onto your clit. You gasp, one hand threading itself into his hair while the other clamps over your mouth, trying to keep quiet.
The man makes quick work of getting your legs wrapped around this head, squeezing with all your strength to keep him right there as he laps at your clit, licking and sucking you like a man starved., You can hardly believe what's happening, it feels like you're in heaven. Through the pleasure clouding your mind you can make out the uneven rut of his hips against the edge of the seat you're laying on.
“A-are you-?” you stutter, your words abruptly cut off by him shoving his tongue into you, making you cry out in pleasure, writhing against his firm grip on your thighs.
The thought of him getting off to doing this just gets you even more hot and bothered, both of your hands now tugging in the blonde hair as you feel yourself teetering near the edge of pure bliss.
With an expert flick of the driver's tongue, pleasure shoots up your spine like a live wire. Sweat drips down your forehead, and somehow the only thing you can focus on is that this man is humping the fucking seat like a dog.
A soft whimper escapes the driver's lips as the seam of his pants rubs deliciously against his leaking cock, and it only makes you want more.
“Cmon baby-” you preen, brushing his hair back and out of his face as he eats you like a man starved. The petname makes the man visibly shudder. “Give me something, you're so quiet down there.”
The driver stills for a moment, contemplating before looking up and meeting your gaze. Your heart nearly jumps out of your chest at the sight of his teary eyes, mouth wet with your slick as he nods slowly, his fingernails digging even further into the fat of your thighs. He dives back in, hips frantically grinding against the seat as wanton groans escape him. They sound almost involuntary now, and fuck, does that get you hot.
The more you speak, the more he seems to give you. Through waves of ecstasy you attempt to encourage him, your own broken moans rudely interrupting you.
“Fuck- yeah, there you go.” you whine, feeling your orgasm fast approaching as he laps at you, panting and whimpering into your cunt. The driver's face is flushed a deep shade of red, and you can tell he's starting to get sloppy. His tongue misses your clit more than once, but what he lacks in technique he immediately makes up in eagerness, and you know you won't be able to hold out much longer.
Your thighs clamp around his head harder than ever before as your orgasm washes over you in intense waves, your hips reaching forward to get as close as possible to the blonde's mouth. Your vision whites out as you throw your hand back against the seat, gasping for air.
Simultaneously, you can hear the driver beneath you, gasping for air as he grinds himself to his own release, choked groans escaping his lips as your legs finally let up, giving him space to breathe.
“Fuck.” you hear him mutter, his eyes trained on his own lap as he attempts to catch his breath. The windows are fogged up, and you can't hear the sirens anymore. Your mind is foggy, and you feel a sudden urge to cover yourself.
Noticing, the driver attempts to slip off his jacket to give to you, but struggles in the cramped space he had somehow gotten himself into not half an hour earlier. You lay a hand on him, signaling that it was alright. The silence between the two of you is incredibly loud as neither of you break eye contact.
You feel his fingers wrap around yours as he lays his head in your lap, ignoring the sensation of his own legs going numb beneath him.
Rain patters softly against the window next to you, and you look to the side to see droplets racing across the pane.
“All you do is drive?” you ask tentatively, curling a strand of your hair between your fingers.
The driver only nods, closing his eyes in an attempt to wish away the image of what he had done. He knows he won't ever be able to.
The two of you decide to stay for a while. The driver knows you have questions. Questions he isn't quite ready to answer yet.
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