Warnings: oh my god it’s more smut, oral sex, the most oral sex you will ever read i’m not kidding, dubcon because again they are not talking to each other just playing mind games, squirting, service kink but skip the service, Nathan on his own is a warning, blood
Words: 4k
Rating: E
Summary: Well, it happened. Nathan got himself fucking killed by Ava. This is what happened after.
You are not a good person in this. You are working for a billionaire, on board with (nearly) all his unethical behavior, his his willingly objectified and disregarded partner in crime, etc. this is the start, the setup, whatever
There is in fact a lot to this story which is probably why it’s taken so much to get its parts right, don’t want contradictions
AO3 Link
You watched with wide eyes as Ava came to the top of the stairs, surveyed the kitchen, her gaze landing on you.
She walked right past you, through the living room, and to the door.
You hurried the way she’d came, down the steps, then up, unlocking the glass door, then down again, into the basement, rushing to where you saw your boss slumped in the hall.
You quickly tugged off your t-shirt and staunched Nathan’s front, your knees in a puddle of blood as wide as he was tall.
His breathing was ragged, barely there.
“Nathan look at me speak please open your eyes open don’t fall asleep. Nathan!”
He murmured your name, hardly able to focus on you, glassy eyes staring up into yours with the deepest I fucked up you’ve ever seen on him.
“K… kill. Kill code.”
You pressed his hand as hard as you could against his chest around the knife, pulled his hand to, told him to hold it, and hurried past the shouting Caleb to Nathan’s room. He ran, you didn’t see where.
Nathan’s eyes followed you till you were out of sight, but he couldn’t lift his head any longer.
Everything was red, like the power were still out, everything was sharp and throbbing and fading into black, and so much faster than Nathan thought should be possible.
In the disconnection came one thought with complete clarity, not anymore complicated than the strangely numb overwhelming pain.
He had been killed. This was what dying felt like. Even if in this moment he was still alive, he was dead.
Out in the ferns, Ava stumbled. She felt it, everything leaving. She looked back into the trees with the sun shining on her face, and in an instant her whole existence went empty. Gone.
Nathan thought of Ava, his affront to God or nature in its inception, but undeserving of death all the same, not shut down, not rebooted, dead. He knew what she would be thinking, what she would be processing, it would be as she had lived, cherishing what little she had, questioning how her creator could be so cruel. How he could be capable of such cruelty.
With that all of Nathan’s androids were gone. It was over.
Almost over.
“Nathan, Nathan!”
Your voice just pierced his consciousness. The hall around him was around only his physical body. He was barely there.
“I’ve called emergency, the pilot, you just have to hang on, Nathan, please, come on…”
The last thing he remembered was your fingers on his face and pressing so painfully into the holes in him, trying to keep what was left of him in, what he’d already let go of.
Who was he to challenge God, anyway?
If he was touchable, if it was this easy to die, and something he had created killed him, it was probably how it was supposed to be.
He lost almost seven pints of blood.
It took three hours before he was on the table.
By every will of medicine he should have been dead.
The knife had been sharp, very sharp, and she had twisted it. The resulting hole had resulted in so much gore, there was hardly any left in his brain and vital parts, his heart, lungs. A cardiopulmonary bypass had been needed immediately.
You had stripped his shirt off, bound him tight with strips of both your clothes, left and came back with two of his big workout cold packs and secured them around him to bring his body temperature down as much as you could.
You had watched the trauma team cover him like a mass of insects, so many hands working such bloody mess, it had felt like vultures and flies had come for his body.
But they hadn’t.
Nathan remained under the entire time. His heart was stopped when he came in, it stopped again. They got it back, again.
The surgery hadn’t taken long but the waiting was torture. Every second you expected them to call it, announce the time of death like on TV and hang their heads.
Agony, until finally the last surgeon wrapped up, and the nurse left. You could see him as soon as he was moved to recovery, they told you. Just a glimpse of his blood drained, respirator obscured face was all you had gotten through the surgery ward window.
You wanted to tear Ava to little bits, splay and scrape out all the intricacies of her gel, her insides, and burn it all.
You were a mess over almost losing him.
He wasn’t even really what you’d call your friend. It was transactional. He employed you.
Still, you spent every day together, knew things about him he never talked about, you kept his life in order because it was your job, but also because you liked him. In that way no one else could do what you did.
You wouldn’t have thought of it before, not this way, but you really, really liked him. You’d never been so angry on someone else’s behalf. So distraught they may die.
You had been told that his brain was starved of oxygen for so long, it wasn’t likely he would wake up, and if he did, he wouldn’t be the same. His brain damage could be extensive. He could be a different person, not have his mind or memories anymore.
It took what felt like an eternity until someone came to escort you, down halls and elevators to the large, personal recovery room. Money was no problem even in near death for Nathan Bateman, and neither was death itself, it seemed.
He doesn’t look much better. There’s blood to his face, and that’s it. He doesn’t look like you should get too close, like he’ll shatter apart if you do.
Over a week passes.
His hair has been starting to come in. He looks like a different person. One who works at an auction, or lives on the street. You’re still hoping he’s in there.
Finally movement, one afternoon. More than a twitch, a dry swallow. He curls his fingers and moves his arm in, towards his injuries, like he still needs to hold them for you.
“Nathan,” you say, wiping your eyes even though they’ve been dry for days, abandoning your seat for his bedside.
Milky eyes roll open, blinking slow and hard. They meet yours. He says your name.
“Hey.” So he remembers you.
He groans inaudibly, wincing.
You hit the button for the nurse.
He notices the machine, the tubes, breathes manually for a moment while you list off a million things, where he is, how long it’s been, what he needs to not do, for him to stay right where he is, not talk, not move.
He sees why.
But he can move, so he’s going to.
“My throat is so dry right now.” You can barely make it out.
You get him some water, his hands sway like he’s drunk but he eventually gets it, you’re not going to fight him on this.
He feels the crack in his lip, the headache, and otherwise, it’s like he’s in a lightbox at a museum, the way you’re looking in on him.
He hates it.
“Do I have a catheter in?” He looks down himself, but he can’t see more than a foot in front of him. Which is weird, because he doesn’t need glasses.
“Yes.”
“Feel nothing, down there. Wouldn’t be the first time something’s been stuck in my penis and I didn’t know about it.” He looks over for your reaction, which isn’t much.
“Jeez. Lighten up.” He snarks, then shakes his head. Bad idea. That hurt.
“You almost died.” You say.
“So? I didn’t.” He misses your hand and the paper cup clatters the floor. You pick it back up.
“God…” you mutter.
You’re frustrated, he can tell.
“Ava,” he asks urgently, remembering all at once not just the what but the why, how. “Is she—”
Finally, a modicum of sense.
“Dead in the woods.” You say, tossing the cup in the trash.
That was more like what Nathan cared about.
“I hit the kill code.” You say. “They’re all wiped.”
Self defense. That’s what it was for. You wouldn’t have done it if they hadn’t stabbed him.
“Fuck.”
“What do you mean fuck?” He press back into your seat.
He had backups.
His backups had backups had backups, he’d shown you, the server racks.
What he didn’t show you was in the event your key card accessed the kill code, no backups. Whole system wipe. Active, inactive, every mind, every version. If the emergency was such he couldn’t hit the switch, it all had to go, none of it was salvageable.
“Nothing. Good.” He says. “She needed to be put down.” He lets his head back, feeling his hair brush the pillowcase, his eyes close.
“She didn’t hurt you.” He says, not asking, thanking.
“No. Barely looked at me.”
“Well, she did a lot more than look when I saw her.” He looks at you. “I got a swing in.”
“They stabbed you. It’s a miracle you’re alive.” You say.
“No,” he sits himself up and you press a hand hard back against his shoulder.
“You’re why I’m alive.” He says. “Don’t sell yourself short.”
You hadn’t thought on it much except to think that you should have known better first aid, gotten to him sooner.
“You saw that?”
“Yeah.” It gets warm. Really warm. “I did see it. You saved me.”
You’ve missed those brown eyes bad. You thought you might never see them again.
“I like that, though.” He muses, having gotten the remote in your distraction. He collapses back into the bed, now supporting him to sitting.
“Like what?”
“You said I’m Jesus.”
It breaks, whatever it was. “What?”
“Just now. Miracle I’m alive. I looked at you and you said ‘it’s a miracle you’re alive, you’re Jesus, Nathan’.”
You look at each other a long moment.
Fucking dick, you think but don’t say, fixed on him.
“That’s what you heard.” You finally spit, dropping your hands in front of you, leaning on your knees.
He starts to refute and coughs twice, hard, and you think he’s choking for a second before he swallows it.
You roll your eyes. You did and didn’t miss the inane bullshit.
The nurse finally arrives, and you make yourself scarce.
He was alive. He was mostly himself. That was all that mattered.
“You really think removing the laws of robotics was such a good idea?”
It was early into your relationship you realized just how much jester’s privilege you had. It was a lot, if you could put up with him. Over the years you had consistently found your limit much more often than his.
“I mean think about it. Mess something up, make her mad enough, it could hurt you.”
You were down in the subterranean lab, the long metal room where the magic happened, where the bodies were.
“It’s not going to hurt me. It’s never going to be in a position to hurt me. She does as she’s told. She’s not ever going to know anything else. I’ve explained this.”
He crossed something and the fingers twitched. He was glad you couldn’t tell that wasn’t on purpose.
“But if it is?”
“I’m sorry which one of us has a degree?” He snarked in that casually condescending tone.
“You have the degree.” You shook your head, knowing it’s what he wants to hear.
“And which one is the assistant, here to assist?”
“Me.” You admitted, sitting up off your elbows.
“You’re not here to micromanage.” He muttered back. He gestured for the tweezers and you handed them to him. “Didn’t ask for your input.”
And you were scenery again.
Your clothes were a matching top and bottom set, ribbed fabric, neutral colors, fitted, clean. It was loungewear, really, but professional enough combined with your manicured nails and learned posture you wouldn’t have looked out of place at an office, provided it was clear you were with Nathan. Which, it was.
It was a few minutes before he checked back in, asking for something else.
“For a second there I thought you forgot I’m the boss and you’re the employee.” He said, picking right up where he left off.
You bruffed shortly out of your nose and let your gaze settle level and heavy to avoid rolling your eyes.
It was sick he still played at this.
He respected your opinion only up to the point it criticized him. Then you were overstepping. Then he was your boss. It was obnoxious, is what it was.
“You mad I’m basically replacing you?” He said.
“What?”
“Replacing you.” He repeated, tucking the blue veins deep back into the clear casing of the arm.
“You’re not gonna replace me.”
“What makes you so sure that’s not what this is?”
The body is laid out in front of you. Skinless. Cold. Nathan’s hoping to fire the last of the staff, they’re only here on a monthly basis, anyhow, soon as he gets her good enough. It’s been taken apart and put together so many times.
“You can’t replace what it is I have.” You said.
“And what’s that?”
You answered immediately.
“I talk back.”
“She doesn’t talk because I don’t want her to talk.” He said.
“Exactly.”
“I’m not following. Say what you mean.”
“You can only put what you want in them. They can’t replace me because you don’t even know what it is you actually want.”
“What I actually want. What, you?” You wished, he knew.
“On some level,” you said. “You want to be annoyed.”
“Really?”
“Oh yeah. ‘Having is not so pleasing a thing, after all, as wanting. It is not logical, but often true.’,”
“Spock. Amok Time. Star Trek: The Original Series.” He said. “Like Star Wars, was just Star Trek before it became a franchise.”
“And you can’t have me.”
He lifted his gaze and then his head, meeting your eyes, set behind glass so clear it was as if it wasn’t there. “You’re delusional, projecting. Get off the counter.”
“What’s got you so pissy?” Nathan’s been up a week.
Your body tenses in horripilation. Have you been pissy?
You’re sick of the staff. The food. It’s nothing new, if anything it’s old.
“Sorry, I’ve been in here too long.” You’re sitting on his bed, facing the window. It’s mid morning.
It’s not a lie. You can taste your breath. You’ve changed your clothes maybe twice.
“Haven’t gotten a chance to jack off since you saved me?” He sticks his plastic spoon back in the empty jello container and sets it on the rolling bed tray, pushing it out from him, off to the side. God, he’s eaten so much jello.
How much you masturbated was a joke you shared. Whenever you were late for things, he’d comment about how you had to rub one out before you could stand to be around him.
But you weren’t late. You were tired. You’d barely left this room.
“Why is that what you’re thinking about?” You say, swirling what’s left of your coffee and wishing you had more. You were the person who was supposed to go get it.
“I dunno. You’re human. You’re stressed. You probably haven’t gotten a chance to jack off.”
“I don’t need to jack off.” You pop the plastic lid of your cup off, shove it inside, set it beside his trash, and hang your head, rubbing between your eyes. “And it’s jerk off. You jerk off, you are a jackoff.”
“Verb and a noun. I thought you graduated?”
What you need is for him to shut up. You haven’t been able to process or express anything.
It’s anger. You’re angry. You’d be angrier if he died, but you’d have no one to direct it to. You still don’t. How were you supposed to tell him that? Ask for what, an apology for him getting stabbed? You were better than that.
“You’re really telling me an orgasm wouldn’t help with–” he gestures, a circle. “This right now?”
You were maybe better than that.
You don’t know what about it was getting to you. It was same old. Crude, invasive, locker room talk. Maybe because an orgasm really would help? You miss your vibrator almost as much as seasoning.
Because it feels wrong to still be here, same as you’ve been your whole lives together, back and forth, pushing a boundary that barely exists, that’s a rubber band, like nothing has changed.
And he still isn’t serious.
And why, oh why the fuck isn’t he serious? Was now not the perfect time to get pity favors of any kind out of you, injured, bedridden, you do feel sorry for him. He should be living, literally, for the attention. Milking this for all its worth, you would believe that, if he became a tearful mess, so grateful for your touch, for having saved him.
Did he not have a massive crush on you?
Your lack of an answer is enough of one.
Nathan sits up fully. That look you have, one he’s seen before, it looks so different to him now. It was so rare he could manage to fluster you anymore.
“You saved my life,” he breathes heavily, voice rough as he wets his lips, and says, “I should give you an orgasm. To thank you.”
Bringing your head up, you stare him down.
You didn’t know what compelled you to say it, because you weren’t teasing. You were daring. Testing. You wanted to see what he would do, how he would react.
He’s bed bound with two stab wounds, and so, so arrogant.
“What makes you think you can?” You say.
He didn’t react how you expected.
Without a word, he gets up, on his knees, and digs his arm under your ass, throwing you under him.
“I can do anything.” He says, inches from your face.
You blink.
“Show me.” You breathe, not even recognizing where you get the confidence from, hot all over with your heart in your ears and so, so sexually excited.
You never get this excited when Nathan manhandles you. Usually, it’s just irritating. He’s like if annoying were a career.
“I’ll show you.” He says.
“Show me.” You say again, louder, raising both brows high.
“I’m gonna. Fuck. To think I nearly died and I never got to taste you? Such fucking bullshit.”
“You’re full of bullshit—” it’s cut off as he yanks you up the white hospital linens by the wrist and needlessly tosses your legs apart, prostrating like he’s laid to pray.
He digs his teeth into your mound through the fabric of your pants and your clit throbs, immediately feeling more arousal rush through you.
Jesus Christ, this was your boss.
The boss you told before any of this happened, the barest fucking common sense, and he never listened to you. Somehow, that, you, being right even once, would be a threat.
He drags his tongue up your crotch seam, rubbing the thicker bit of stitching right across your hood, tonguing through the layers like they weren’t there, saliva soaking to your lips.
Always too proud, pushing what it was he could do, what rules mattered and what ones didn’t, but never with you. Never the rule you knew he wanted to break, he never did, because he thought it would hurt you, but you signed up, knowing he wanted to bend you over the desk he interviewed you from.
No shot, now, he actually thought he was still too good for you. Now he had to listen, or you could just say ‘remember Ava?’.
Your pelvis contracted almost painfully, the nerves there searing, white fucking hot, legs and hips jerking as he flattened his tongue. He pressed open your hood and into your clit, rocking it back and forth again and again against the rough, soaked fabric of your underwear.
He tosses his head back a second and spits, rubbing it in harder and harder, it seeps easily into the wet fabric, brushing just the right spot again and again like a timed pressure sensor.
He wanted to, and it took him nearly dying for you to register you wanted him to, too.
You were angry he denied himself, what he clearly wanted, built those things while you were right fucking there. Willingly his.
Fuck, you think if he tried to fuck you that day, any day, you would have let him.
You all but scream, something ungodly between a gasp and a whine, thighs gripping hard around his shoulders, grabbing his head, squeezing as you throw your head back and in the space of just a few seconds come, shaking, nearly in tears, release flooding your whole body.
He pulled back and a huge breath escaped your lungs, followed by long vocal pants as you felt your eyebrow and tried to process what the fuck had just happened.
He tugged at your waistband and a part of you thought to tell him no, that you couldn’t do this, but everything except that tiny piece of you screamed fucking let him.
See where this goes, just how much he wants to fuck you. You’ve been wanting to.
He only managed to get your pants off one leg before his beard was buried completely between your hips, jaw working.
You felt his breath before his spit, just as hot as the muscle.
Less texture, but the warmth of him directly against you was enough on its own, his taste buds dragged through you, licking up the slick he’d made drench your folds.
He found a spot and prodded it, stabbed it with his tongue, sending a jolt of new feeling directly up through you. Inside you, like he couldn’t fathom being anywhere else.
Channel still spasming, he works slower, just as deliberate, savoring you, no longer rushing, taking his time now he’s proven he can do it.
His beard scrapes indelicately against you, lighting more nerves with each pump and flick, getting faster, his hands firmly in the meat of your thighs, pulling just enough so he can move at all.
And you’re not moving, not intentionally squirming, your legs and hips are just doing that as your heart races and your core burns until he snaps it again just right, and pleasure undulates up you, drawing it out into something built so fast into itself it can’t breathe, before he pops off and you spray hard all over his lower face, the pressure releasing.
He kisses your labia minora one last time, getting back up on his haunches, his beard drenched in come and squirt, eyes lidded.
Fuck, you breathe.
You aren’t mad at him, Ava was the one who did it. You’re mad he made her, that he is who he is, and that you’re glad he is, glad he’s back. But maybe he’s different, now.
You feel completely fucked.
Nothing and no one has ever fucked you like that, not your hand, toys, anybody.
You don’t think anyone but him could, give you catharsis like that for years of bullshit.
You start to sit up and stop.
“Nathan– you’re bleeding.”
Nathan looks down. His gown is steadily soaking with transfused blood.
“Oh shit. So that’s what that was.” He sits back on his knees and nearly faints off the bed before you catch his sleeve hard in your fist and get an arm around him, helping him onto his back across the length of the bed.
You hurriedly get your pants off your ankle, tug your underpants back on and hit the button for the nurse, slumping shakily into the nearest chair out of the way and sight of the guy who just ate you to the point of nearly passing out from blood loss.
He’s laying there spaced out with his hand over his bleeding, breathing slow, deep.
hey kitten. daddy needs to talk to you. your kink blog is great, but you are not highlighting the words correctly. kitten. stop highlighting. this is shit. did you seriously highlight that period. kitten.
Squeezing oc like a stress ball. Throwing oc at the wall like a tennis ball. Dribbling oc on the ground like a basket ball. Whacking oc with a club like golf ball. AND OTHER SUCH ACTIVIES THAT YOU CAN IMAGINE.
I made the name since there were no other available names that I could come up with, but when I think of it, the feeling that I conjure in my mind is the feeling of flying through the air at a great velocity and realizing something is wrong, there’s a fire of the dire variety and I’m hurdling in the wrong direction at the speed of life.
Mine is I remember actually looking up one of those username list things you put in a word and at the time I was very fond of Steak n’ Shake milkshakes, so
Just Wanted to See - Nathan Bateman x assistant!reader
Warnings: pure fucking smut that was part of something I was working on but as these things usually go stopped fitting, fingering, vaginal, the barest dubcon that ever did dubcon (both ways if you can imagine, we are in their heads but they are not in each others, no explicit verbal consent is exchanged for the main sex act), showering together, armpit frigging, squirting, breeding kink, oral
Words: 3.4k
Rating: E
Summary: Ever since your boss Nathan Bateman pulled the stitches in his stab wounds eating you out in his hospital bed, you haven’t been able to keep your thoughts off of fucking him.
I was severely horny guys sorry will happen again
Enjoy the filth leave a heart, non freaks shoo! Shoo! Ew. What are you doing here
This has been sitting a draft for over a year
This is the same AU you can think of if like a tiny spinoff I just wrote some of the stuff I explore better here into something more condensed but it diverges from the events of the rest, this isn’t how it happened
AO3 Link
This was fucked.
But ever since your boss, ‘Nathan’ Nathanael Bateman, pulled the stitches in his stab wounds eating you out in his hospital bed, you haven’t been able to keep your thoughts off of fucking him.
Maybe it was something about nearly losing him. Maybe it was the years of flirting you had thought you both assured remained purely unserious. Maybe because actually getting with him wasn’t ever on the table, but now that bridge had been breached, he was clearly in love with you—
No. You couldn’t cross it. Past unprofessional, as if anything between you was, there was nothing ethical about it, and it was about time that sort of thing was bedded. Even if this vein was considerably less existential, it was for you.
It was dangerous. He controlled your salary, nevermind you had the passwords to all his accounts. He could fuck you over hard, your entire world. You had dirt on him, sure, but you could easily lose your whole life even trying to attempt to take him on, and wouldn’t even feel it. Not physically, at least.
You had to roll things back.
Even if he’d had his tongue buried in your cunt without regard for his own well being.
That night, dinner, a few weeks after he was discharged, the house was quiet, and Nathan was still in his head about what you couldn’t be sure.
His own mortality, having to completely scrap all of what he’d put so many years into, his practical immunity to the lasting implications. You had ended it, not him, a branch in not just invention but possible human achievement and definition of consciousness, life.
The truth was he wasn’t grappling with it.
It was stewing his oxygen deprivation damaged brain, rethinking everything and getting truly nowhere, who he was, what he was supposed to do, what he definitely wasn’t supposed to do.
He was bothering you by not bothering you, holding his tongue against the roof of his mouth like he had nothing to say. You just didn’t know what you could do about it, about him, about the two of you.
You weren’t rolling it back. Things were staying firmly as they’d been that day and then some, only missing him. You couldn’t get a reaction, couldn’t get that abandon he had back. Maybe it was only temporary, something about acclimating to being back, acceptance, finding normal. A push to feel how far it went, but if that was true he was the other direction, and had to bounce back a little too far sooner or later.
That was tonight, and more than a little.
You snap right in front of his eyes, getting him to look up.
Right. You. Something he definitely wasn’t supposed to do.
He acknowledges you just enough to get you out of his face, which is surprisingly kinder than usual. You sit back down.
A joke about fucking the mood out of him, you’ve said it a hundred times since he’s known you, a brush too close when you pass him to grab the soy sauce, and something changes. He gets his first boner since Heidi Klum when he was twelve that he isn’t conscious of immediately. Just as confusing. Just as brand new.
Yeah, you turned him on, but he wasn’t turned on right now, was he? He was in control of that, he had been since forever.
The opposite of a bombshell, picking your teeth with your thumbnail because you don’t think your shitty line worked or did any better than the twenty previous. You have worn nothing but pajamas for days and he doesn’t think you’ve washed your hair twice since you’ve gotten back. And he doesn’t care. No one could pay him enough to, and evidently, no one could pay you enough either.
In one smooth movement he grips your arm tight, stands, breathes in and knocks your heads together so hard you bruise, mouth latching to yours, hand squeezing the back of your neck.
His tongue was in your mouth, so fast you couldn’t think, much less react except to groan your assent. Yes, something. Finally.
“You better have fucking meant that.” He gets out and gasps. The air between and in you has no oxygen left, and that sensation is overwhelming.
Your head felt so light. He kissed you. He actually kissed you.
You drop the empty meal container you had intended to toss in the trash, gripping his head hard in both hands.
He winces when you brush the thick, flat, staple indented scar in his chest. They are nearly completely healed, but the skin is still raw, the weakened muscle around it tender and hypersensitive.
His hands are on your ass, you’re around his waist, grinding into him.
He hasn’t been inside a flesh and blood woman’s pussy in over a decade, probably longer. There’s some difference and it’s there in the fact you’re not really riding his thigh, palming him like you’ve only just remembered where his dick is at. He doesn’t even know where to even begin to criticize you, any of it. You’re all talk. Last time you got laid was fuck never. Sex with you would suck. He wants it.
He tugs your shirt up off your tits, his sweats under his junk, your underwear down, and hooks his hand under your knee, pulling you right up close and pushing his cock between your slippery folds, bumping your clit.
You sway, nothing to brace against but him, and him you, like one of those partnered yoga poses where you have to balance.
Shit, he’s right there. It’s so fucking close and you both want this so badly and there really is no magical force stopping you.
He’s human. You’re human. It’s only sex. It had been too fucking long.
You’re both breathing so hard, not looking at each other.
The words were nothing. Empty catalysts. Barely conveying the depth of things.
You weren’t going to say anything. Here, maybe he needed you to.
He sets your leg back down.
Your shirt falls back over your chest.
“You’re my fucking assistant,” he breathes, feeling his forehead.
The moment’s over.
He pulls back up to his full height, trying to compose himself.
“I’m gonna go get a shower. Haven’t had a good fuckin’ shower since I got back.”
It’s forced, casual, he hasn’t been in there at all except for you to help him wash his scars, the one he can’t reach.
“You gonna go jack off in there?” You’re trying to sound suave.
“Yeah. Yes I am going to go jack off in there.” There really wasn’t anything to be gained by lying about it.
“I—”
“That’s fine,” he cuts you off. “You got… you got stuff to take care of.”
He pats your bicep once and leaves, calmly walks down the hall and up the stairs to the bathroom with his dick still out.
The steam did the opposite of clear his head.
He couldn’t jack off, it was doing literally nothing. Well he could, maybe, but he would be thinking about you and it would be worse after than when he started.
It’s like no time at all before you knock on the bathroom door.
“You almost done in there?” You call. “I need to use it! Y’know I’ve been lookin’ to get in there all day.”
He blows air out his mouth and pulls back the frosted glass, padding over and opening the door so he doesn’t have to shout over the water.
“You have your pick of options for bathrooms.” He says.
The door’s wide open. He’s still hard. It’s gone up and down but it hasn’t gone away. You’re getting a good look at it. He’s still hot as fuck.
“You’re in the good one.” You say.
“It’s my house.”
“You haven’t tried to pull that one in a long time.” You chuckle.
“I shouldn’t have done that. At the table.”
Is that an apology?
“You shouldn’t have eaten me out either.”
Is he gonna take that back too?
He couldn’t, he could try, and that alone would be entertaining, but there was no playing that off now.
Eye contact isn’t happening. He can’t think about what you taste like right now. He practically can taste you with how close you’re standing.
“You know you smell like shit, right?” He diverges, or tries to.
“I’m aware. I’ll skip it, shower tomorrow.”
He wants you to go, you’ll go, but you don’t think he wants you to.
He grabs your wrist and pulls it up, sticking his face in your pit, inhaling through his nose. Your face goes hot.
“It’s bad.”
“You– you absolutely did not have to do that.” You say as he straightens, still holding your hand.
“Get in the shower.” He says, dropping your arm.
He rubs plain bar soap into a big swirl in his palm, careful not to get it anymore wet under the stream while you strip your shirt off over your head and step in, back to front.
He scrubs it up into your armpit, which is fine, it lathers a little in the water there. Then it becomes sticky. He moves to his fingers, and presses, stroking back and forth, deep in recess there.
“What the fuck,”
“Lot of nerves there.” He says.
He rubs faster, pressure just shy of painful, and you double over, pressed against him and his hard on, thighs squeezed tight. It’s ticklish and carnal and gross all at once.
“Too much?” He asks, and you shake your head.
“You’re weird as fuck.” You laugh out.
“Really, me?” He says. “You’re the one that doesn’t get in there.”
He moves to the other side, doing the same, nails scraping up soap through your body hair, he rinses his hand before pulling and directing the water over you, warming the muscle there and getting the soap off.
He squeezes down to the full of your breast, starts to move his hand lower, then stops. You’re pits are clean, he’s done. You can take care of the rest.
He steps out, pulls down a towel, and dries himself, heading for the sink, having to dig to find what he’s looking for.
You’re not much longer in the shower, you hear him working and you hurry it up.
He finishes shaving his head, shutting the clippers off. He rubs over the silver ellipse right on top, the streak. He’s smaller, lost some muscle definition. A lot of muscle definition. You can see it, can’t you? You’ve seen it. Him at his absolute lowest. Possibly the only constant.
What was wrong with him, really? What was wrong with you that you were still here?
He could just make you out behind him in the mirror. You’ve seen each other naked and almost naked so many times. Your shape, peeing after he felt you up. You’re scratching your scalp, probably because you’ve been watching him buzz his hair off.
He almost wants to ask if you think he looked better with short, blunt waves. If you were into it. He doesn’t. He just sets his glasses back on, neatens up his neck, packs the thing away and waits for you to finish so he can walk you back to your room. No goodnight, just assurance you weren’t following him back to his. He shuts your door, starting back to his room.
He stops in his tracks. It’s so soft, under the crack, but it’s unmistakable.
Your vibrator.
The handle doesn’t turn fast enough.
It’s exactly what it sounds like.
“What the fuck are you doing?” He says.
You click it off.
“I thought you were some kind of genius—”
“No, fucking stop this. Whatever this is, just stop.”
Your room is a mess. Food containers, you’ve been clearing out the freezer, clothes, bandages. Doesn’t smell any worse than you did, at least.
“Okay.” You put your hands up and lay flat on your back, then fold them over your stomach.
He starts to close your door, then stops.
“You’re gonna use it.” He says. He feels out of it. It’s so obvious.
“Waiting for you to get to your room.”
Stalemate.
He leaves, you get off on your own. He stays, you fuck and he can’t take that the fuck back.
“Why do you need this so bad?” He says. “I know I ate you out good but you can get yourself off, why do you need me?”
You sit up. “You came into my room. My vibrator. Why do you think this is about you?”
“You’re thinking about me while you mash that thing against your bean! You want me to hear it. You need me so fuckin’ bad you won’t leave me alone.”
You smile, big and wide. Him being even half as frustrated as you is so satisfying.
“I don’t need you, Nathan; I want you.”
That’s what you’ve been about, all evening.
He doesn’t shut the door behind him, there’s no need to, it is literally only you two in the entire world right here, right now.
No one, real, mechanical, artificial, can hear, see, anything.
He doesn’t know if that makes it better or worse.
He pulls his shirt off, then his pants, leaving them right where they land and walking up to you.
He gets on his knees astride your hips on your bed, pressing you back by the shoulders, maneuvering you, up, you don’t even have to move, he puts you right into position, one leg out, over his hip, then the other.
You can’t keep your hands off him, his head, his back, he brings his mouth to your throat and sucks down your collar and you wrap a leg around his ass.
He looks you in the eye as he notches his cock to the whitish mucus smeared lips of your opening, rubbing his head through it before he catches, bumps past the slight resistance, then slides deep into you.
It was a stretch, a fit, manageable, especially since you had toys up there recently, but it’s still tight. Really tight. You groan through it.
Not thinking, because you want to be lost in this, in him, inside you.
You gasp, because as soon as he bottoms out and pulls back, he is— and there is no other word for it— pounding into you. Shoving your whole body upwards again and again, making sparks of pleasure and your slick explode from your sopping cunt with each thrust, rendering you open mouthed and completely speechless, not even breathing, just holding on for dear life, clinging to him, shoulder and waist, between your grip and his girth.
Your hand flies up and hits the headboard and he didn’t let up, the sound of bare wet skin colliding, splattering, the bed legs scraping, his hips punching harsh breaths out of your chest.
You were only breathing with his thrusts, and it was driving you wild that he’s so easily reduced you to this, unable to move, talk, breathe, just clench and grip and press your shoulders back to raise your hips as much as you can.
Your whole body feels irradiated, red hot, lightheaded, your g-spot like his new button of yours he wants to press till it breaks. Till you pop. His fingers rub up your folds till he finds your clit and with mind numbing contrast gives it slow, deep flicks.
Harmonizing, physically and vocally, he works fast and smooth into your with scary precision.
It comes on heavier with every second until you fizzle, abdominal muscles spasming, and your sex goes from tightening in bursts to clenching hard.
You squirt, trembling, soaking his thighs and the sheets, pulsing around him, viced. Your fingers definitely dig in too hard.
He grunts, pace wavering just a little before slowing, pushing up on his hands and knees, savoring you sucking him in, teetering on the edge of climax.
The ebb heats your extremities, along every muscle, a heavy molten metal spread through you like a cast, completely full.
“N-Nathan?” You rasp, finally able to get something rational out of your head.
“Yeah?” He grunts back, laser focused.
“I’m not on the pill.”
Five words cut deeper than any kitchen knife ever could.
He slams into you, hard, letting out a strangled cry through his teeth, grinding the base of his cock against your pelvic bone, twitching with the release of years and years of pent up tensions, glances and jokes and little gestures and escalations that stayed in his head, in all of him, culminating in one simple statement. Fuck.
He traces his hand from your hood out your lip, up the back of your thigh to your kneepit and calf and finally to your ankle, which he presses to his jaw, up on his knees with his other hand on your hip to deepen this because he doesn’t think it could ever be enough.
He stutters breathless shouts, like he’s begging, you hear a slurred something somewhere in strings and strings and spend seeping out around the seal of his dick.
He felt all of it and swore it was the hardest he ever came in his life, he could barely hold it, he was falling back like you were hot the moment the last rope left him.
He collapses beside you panting, still throbbing. You can feel him leaking down your ass.
He adjusts his glasses, somehow still on his face, pulling himself up onto his elbows.
“You’re not on birth control?” He says, far too evenly for how much of a desperate, primally driven mess he had just been.
His system is flooded, all the best hormones, so the sex didn’t suck.
He shakes his head from side to side, hand up, spread. “Since when?”
He knew everything you ate and bought and before Ava, he would see you get ready over the cameras daily. It had to have been since he got back.
“I forgot.” It was a formality. Deniability, as if it existed here. You had forgotten, at the hospital, but you were back home now, has access to it, and you had just barebacked your boss in your own bed.
Did he seduce you? Since the hospital, through all of this. You never would have gotten this far if you were both in your right heads, he was sure of it. There was a trust, there, always, that anything like this was too far.
This was really fucked.
“I stopped after you came back.” You say. “Wanted to know how I would feel. What you would do.”
You stopped taking it because of him. His heart pumps faster.
“What I would do?” You had been doing.
You shrug. “Just wanted to see.”
He can’t stop thinking about it. Knowing your hormones have been changing and your body has been what? Becoming fertile? For how long? A week, two weeks, since he was discharged? He hasn’t been present, it could have been this whole time he was twiddling his thumbs, brooding when he could have been fucking breeding you senseless.
You were different, your mood. It was like you were brighter, smoother, the highs and lows weren’t as blended flat or spikes. They were a wave. You were bolder, too. Physically. You’d say anything to him but now you’ll push him, really push him. It’s been driving him nuts, now he knows why. The closest thing humans had to pheromones. He loves it like nobody’s fucking business.
Before you can ask what he’s doing he has grabbed your legs and is swiping his tongue up your crack and deep into your cunt, closing his lips over your it and sucking, eating his and your come out of you. His beard drags through your slit with each work of his jaw, and you bite back a whimper, swollen and sensitive, sore from how thoroughly he’s fucked you.
He stares at your gaped pussy, your legs spread completely limp, wide, at the smear of his come he can’t see but knows is there too deep for him to reach. He plunges two of his fingers in to feel it, still so warm.
“I think I have a new project I want to start with you.” He says, a smile you haven’t seen in months brightening his features.
It looks so good on him.
“Yeah?” You ask.
He pulls his fingers from you, and sticks them in his mouth.
Warnings: pregnancy, fluff, erotic but non-explicit oral and vaginal sex, medieval gender norms and childbirth
Words: 5.3k
Rating: M
Summary: Wine mulled to remove all alcohol can be drunk during pregnancy, though it is not good for it to be drunken hot or spiced, as everything the mother ingests and experiences, so does the baby.
I like this idea that the two of you are just finding your footing in your relationship and slowly starting falling for each other meanwhile to the outside all the servants and public you can’t stand to be apart from each other and are the most in love duchess and duke any of them have ever seen
Once again I am not into Dune, though this time I have watched the first and second films and not fallen asleep, so hopefully that puts Leto in character. You guys like dilfs, right? Come get your dilfeed *clang clang clang*
This is a departure from the first piece, both in length and theme, it was requested a long time ago now that I continue Warm, but in my mind that is complete, so this is almost something else. I don’t think you need to read the original to read this one, but it is referenced, and they do align somewhat
AO3 Link
The young Duke Leto Atreides stepped outside the meeting he was attending.
He unfastened and refastened his collar, taking long, slow breaths.
It was so. He was to be married.
Of all the many of suitable blood, it was not one he had met.
He did not want to marry you. He could not pretend that he did. It almost angered him, that he could not have been informed sooner. It seemed everyone knew but him.
He continued to walk, down the halls, he would loop back. He would return and he would accept the information properly. No practiced nod and excusing himself. He would accept it graciously.
He angled to check his reflection in the widow. He looked fine. It was mostly inside.
He could— would marry you, and you would have his children.
As he turned around the bend, a door to the hall opened, and you stepped out. He recognized the dress, your house’s colors, before he recognized your face.
Your eyes met.
You didn’t recognize him at all.
“I believe we’re to be married.” Leto said, his voice echoing in the hall.
That was the duke?
You blinked, stepped back and bowed to one knee.
He was shorter in person.
“Your Grace.” You addressed in reverence.
You were not well behaved. You knew it was why your father had hastened to marry you off. If the duke was displeased with you, if he informed his court, and they changed their mind after him seeing you like this, your father would be far worse than unhappy.
“Please.” He replied, holding up his hand.
You stood.
“What are you doing here?”
“My accommodations were left unattended, and I was tired of waiting for water. I did not intend to wander.” It had been the better part of an hour.
“I will let them know immediately.” Leto said. “That is not acceptable in my house.”
He looked down the hall first one way, then the other. He called out, to no response.
It was a hot day. The house appeared empty.
“Would you come with me, please.” He offered you his arm and you took it, matching gait with him down the halls till you came to a scullery.
He took a large clear pitcher and poured you a glass, holding it up.
Light shone through the window above the sink. He was not handing it to you. He was holding it for you to drink.
You have had drinks held for you, but not since you were a child on the lap of your wet nurse.
Leaning forward, you took a long sip, and then another.
It became difficult to drink at a respectable pace when you were so parched you were nearly lightheaded, but you were in front of the duke, and you acted as such.
It was in that moment you saw his nerves. His hands. The tremor was completely imperceptible from any further away. He blended it into his movement. The slight dip, half as often as a heartbeat at rest.
Something so simple, so tiny, but it salved your worries and embarrassment deeply. He was as anxious as you, in the same way.
He was just a man. A fine-looking, considerate man. You could not look at him any longer.
You wiped your mouth with a kerchief and thanked him.
“I will ensure your every need.” He said, setting the glass back on the counter.
Though you did not yet find him attractive, his words made you burn.
It would not kill you to be married to him.
A servant entered and he called them over, instructing them to attend to you.
“Excuse me, Lady, I am required elsewhere.” Was the last thing he said to you before the betrothal banquet.
He drug his hand down your stomach.
He watched your throat, your breathing as his fingers slowly brushed you apart, then rubbed into you.
You shut your eyes to imagine he was a man you had fallen in love with and were caught in a sweet tryst with.
It didn’t work. You’d be kissing if this were a tryst, tangled in each other’s arms. You would be excited, and you would be much, much hotter.
Your slick began to gather and Leto thought of penetrating you, and it just was. Not an ardent joining, just placement. He would place himself inside of you and move until it was done.
It was not that you were unattractive, he simply knew nothing about you. Nothing that was not known by everyone.
At the wedding he was supposed to meet your eyes, so he did. The veil helped him not think of who you were, just what you were, what you were both about to be.
With that you were his wife. With that he spilled inside of you, a stranger on your wedding night consummating in your marital bed.
He could live with you. You would have an heir to the Atreides house together. That was what mattered.
“You have failed to produce a suitable heir in over a year.”
“Sir, we are trying—” Leto was silenced at the raise of a hand. Embarrassment flickered in his jaw as it closed and nowhere else.
“You will have one born before the new year, or you will take a concubine.”
“Yes sir.” He said, leaving the room.
Produce an heir, provide a child for his bloodline, that seemed to be all he heard these days.
He did not want a concubine, even less than he had wanted you for a wife long ago now.
You were not barren, Leto was sure. You had been taking herbs and elixirs for fertility. It was something he was doing, his diet or timing, his seed had been tested before the betrothal and it was good. He would find out what it was and he would ensure a pregnancy.
You were his. He finally felt in his heart of hearts that were true. If he was needed to take another, he could, but less that he would not enjoy it, he would feel cruel and entitled; broken, guilty. Sex was no longer just obligation with you, should the mood be right, it was loving and impassioned.
You could look and talk to each other during and after. He so liked hearing you speak, embracing you. It was not every time, but since he had brought you closer you had been getting close.
Talking and residing with one another as lovers. Even if it were still awkward, on occasion, and you still felt more friends, than a married couple, it was growing. Planted and strengthening with each day, nurtured by both of you.
Your mistress called you from down the hall and you ignored her, rushing up to Leto and taking his hand.
He looked you down, clearly surprised, unsure what to say about your wet hair, slippers and untidy clothing. It was not court presentable, yet here you were, mere feet from them. Something in him enjoyed it. You were so eager to see him for something you didn’t care.
“My husband,” you nodded to him, and he nodded back with a matched expression.
“Yes?” He was just containing a laugh.
“I am with child!” You said. You wanted to be the one to tell him first, so you had ran ahead, against better judgement and advisory.
“A child!” Leto exclaimed, relief crashing on the shores of his temper. He had not even felt the breadth of the anxiety rising in his chest until it lessened.
“Yes! Male. Seven weeks.”
At the periodic ritual bath, you mentioned you had failed to bleed for a second month, and the midwife had inspected your midsection carefully before calling for a scan. You recounted this to him and he hummed inattentively.
He was thinking of what relief it was to not have to sleep with someone new, even if it was his pick, he severely doubted he could become fond of someone now that fondness was reserved for you.
You told him in the very same hall you met face to face for the first time, that say you had been wandering.
“A boy. A son.” His thumbs found your forearms, kneading gentle circles in your flesh as he couldn’t help but gaze at your stomach, a smile filling his face.
“My son,” he breathed. “This is great news!”
Your excitement faded.
You didn’t know what you had expected.
He was happy. You had wanted him to be. But he hadn’t looked happy at you. He had been, for a moment, to see you, but then you had brashly delivered the announcement, two words, with child, and his demeanor had changed. The whole of the warmth had shifted, down to where your womb lay.
“Thank you. I will let everyone know. They will be thrilled.”
And his eyes were to yours again, but not in them. He was no longer seeing you as he had.
He squeezed your arms gently and praised you in some way again, and then he was gone, hurrying the way he came, his stride brisk, echoing.
“My wife is with child!” You heard him shout, the door down the hall left open in his haste.
Your eyes stung.
He no longer bed you, and you missed the warmth of him, the stutters of his ragged breaths as he came inside. Most nights without fail. If he touched you, he would be inside you.
More than a hundred nights.
It was a mechanism. Functionality. Duty fulfilled, a child in your belly, of course there was no need of it any longer.
You were with his child, and by accounts there were celebrations across the whole of Caladan for it.
Sickness in the evenings and mornings began, your celebrations ended with telling Leto, even with the lavish gifts and parties you couldn’t sit through due to incontinence. You did not care for any of it.
Your belly and breast swelled, your hips widened. You felt your baby, the first flutters, and even as excitement filled you, you felt hollow above the middle, as if it stopped before your heart.
“Can you tell me what is wrong?” Leto asked one night as he found and joined you in his bed. He needed no advisor to tell him you were not doing well. He had asked once before, but you had been in a state you had wanted no one’s hands on you, and as he touched your shoulder you tore into him as if he had struck you.
That was what it had felt like.
You had hated how this pregnancy had changed you emotionally. All the lessons and practice seemed to dissipate, turning you to a glass animal and every manner of thing in the house into hammers. Hammers turned on you.
You didn’t want to be pet, cajoled, complimented, if you could have your way you would spend all your day out of these walls, down the beach. That was where you wanted to be, safety be damned.
It was not just delicacy, you felt heated. Your sex was sensitive and throbbing most hours of the day the last few weeks.
Among that you thought of your child, live and active inside you, and your feelings about him changed. You thought of him as Leto had described himself, confided in you as his spouse, about his childhood.
That was a commonality between you, how you felt about the lives you were born into, how parts of you resented the rules, the duties, the responsibilities and politics. You were the Duchess Atreides. Your word was, within reason, and you had reason.
“I don’t want nurses to take him as soon as he is born.” You said, and he studied your face as you did.
“You will be allowed him, right away.” He said. You were clutching him as if they would whisk him off tomorrow.
“No, I want to decide how he is taken care of. I want to feed him myself, take care of him myself.”
He sat up fully, finding your bump under your nightgown, then your waist, pulling you closer and thumbing your cheek.
“Whatever you wish will be so. He is yours.”
You had trained and studied, he trusted you completely. Whatever you wanted.
“Is that all? You don’t look reassured.”
Your chest rose, and the feelings with it nearly shattered you. You thought you resented him and it hurt so terribly it was hard to speak. How could you resent him when he cared for you so? Because it was all for the child, the heir, his family, it was not selfless or unconditional.
You had a purpose, and now it was done, he was done with you.
“Have I been mean to you?” You asked. “Is that why you no longer want me?”
You hated it, so, so much, the way you sounded, acted, and now he did too, didn’t he?
His face darkened, as he became aware in a rush he had been neglecting you. He had been very wary of the advice given him that you would deny him and still want intercourse, contradicting your own words and actions. That sounded archaic and not of moral integrity, and was not something he wanted anywhere near your life married to him.
But he had not asked you. He had been scared to. You had never once yelled at him, and in the fear you would again he had clearly hurt you.
“I want you,” he said, honestly. “My wife, I very much want you.”
He had not meant to. He had thought he was releasing you from the expectation, the preconception. That seemed to be what you wanted, not soft words or kisses, you closed yourself off from him posturally and physically, sleeping turned from him or taking to your own quarters every night.
“Forgive me,” he laid himself to your navel, called you by your maiden name, and you shivered. You were Atreides to all.
“I was trying to make certain I did not put myself upon you, you looked detached when I laid with you the last few times.”
One of the times he must’ve gotten you pregnant. You were, you think. It is hard to remember.
“I did not want to make my pleasure your duty. Not when you had sickness and changes in you, such discomfort.” His nose brushed deep against your skin through the sheer fabric.
Your breathing became ragged. You shifted up onto your knees, pulling and pressing Leto back and feeling him through the seam of his trousers, soft. He leaned to allow you.
You freed him and he groaned, pressing his chin to his chest. You had never touched him like this but for a brief moment, and all at once you were stroking him and he couldn’t breathe but for soft grunts.
“And my pleasure?” You said, and it made him look very drunk.
“I did not know you desired this.” His throat caught a whine unbefitting of a duke.
“I desire you.” You said.
You had not realized, truly, until it had been taken away. You desired your husband.
That was new.
You would have no trouble taking to your own chambers and pleasuring yourself until you writhed, but you wanted him.
When he told you, many months ago now, when you walked out on the balcony, of how he dreamed to be a pilot, a free, working man coming and going as he pleased, the sky embracing and whipping past him, his direction as well as his very life truly and completely in his hands, you had felt a deeper sort of endearment than you ever had for anyone.
That was a private, intimate thing. Something no one but his long dead parents knew, a few of his caregivers many years back. He gave it to you.
“Then you shall have me.” He said, taking your hands before you took everything from him at once.
Your lips connected in a kiss, one that smoldered.
He devoured you. He would not deny you another second. This was your bed as well and he could not get your clothes off quick enough in it.
He took his time to enter you, used his mouth, his beard scratching, prodding you so deeply only climax quenched the flames.
He wiped his parted lips with the back of his hand.
The baby between you was no difficulty for him, and you took him so easily he would not have been certain he were in you if not for your soaking grip on him.
“I will make myself available to you whenever I am able.” He said as he began to thrust.
“Any need I will see satisfied. Only ask.”
The bed, heavy as it was, shook and thudded against the wall. He hilted and didn’t stop, focused completely on you, a flush to his bronzed skin, glistening.
“Ask and all I am is yours.”
“Leto,” you breathed.
“Yes,” he pitched. “What is it?”
“Harder.”
The pregnancy progressed healthily.
Your middle rounded out to a heavy globe, your baby inside turning and moving, restless.
The appointment that morning went by swiftly. He was heavy. Strong. It was week thirty-four, the end of the second to last month.
You joined your husband for lunch, a rarity, and he greeted you warmly.
“May I speak to him?” Leto requested. Of you.
No one has been doing that any longer. The baby was felt and spoken to as if you were not there the moment movement could be felt from the outside.
“Yes of course.”
“My son.” His fingers brushed tenderly down the swell of him, his amniotic sac pushing your uterus up and out, barely room to hold him.
“I want you to know, as you approach your birth, that many people will say many things about you, to you. Ignore them. The only person I need you to listen to is your mother. She knows what is best for you, and until you are of speaking age you will listen to no one but her, and myself, if she so permits it.”
He smiled to you and you smiled back.
You have had more control. Your schedule, what nutrition and regimen you followed.
As the midwives become fussier you are more assured you want to raise your baby as your mother had you at the lesser house. Prioritizing and preserving his needs before any of the house’s as long as possible. No machines, instruments, no witnesses not absolutely required for authentication of legitimacy.
You would give him a quiet birth and infancy.
That night, you were awake in the throes of your first false contraction.
As instructed, you informed the head midwife immediately.
Over the course of the next month your bedchambers were converted, filled with new curtains and furniture and rugs, the walls covered in taut cloth hangings that kept sound and warmth in.
More sporadic contractions came.
You were urged to stay, the last of your duties tapering off, and brought everything you would need the moment you needed it.
It was unbearably comfortable, but it did not ease you as the date approached. You wanted to be held and touched by your husband as you laid tossing and tender. The all female midwives and servants were suffocating.
Several were recruited at the announcement of your pregnancy from your own home, but it did not much help. They were still, even months on, strangers to you. You had six whole weeks to get through before your husband could be let in to see you.
You overheard one of the younger midwives one morning telling another you looked miserable. It made you immediately self conscious. You had been taken out of sight of nearly all the court, haven’t gone anywhere in days and days, but surely you didn’t look miserable. You had handled this pregnancy well, vigilantly.
It got back to you by end of day, the head asking you what they can do to make you more comfortable.
“Leto,” you said, unthinkingly, wistful. He was all you could think about. Everything you had asked for, food, bedding, bathing, assistance, had been granted in full. But you hadn’t been allowed him.
“I want to see my husband for the night.”
“Men are not permitted.” She said.
Of course, not men, but he was your husband.
In marriage were you not one person?
“Please. He can be an exception.”
“I’m sorry, Your Grace.”
It put you beside yourself, the pain and hormones amplifying everything inside. You felt as if you were being punished as you held back weeping.
Leto is the first Atreides male, save the ones being birthed, ever allowed in a lying-in chamber.
His eyes roved the walls, the dimly lit space soft under his freshly washed feet, and all around him as well. There was nothing that could be touched that wasn’t taffeta, cotton, or smooth, solid dark wood.
“It’s nice in here.” He said as he let his weight into the bed. “Like a womb.”
“Leto?” You pulled yourself up, and regretted it as it strained everything.
“Your Grace.” He bowed his head.
You practically tackled him.
He took it effortlessly, supporting your heavy stomach with an arm as he gently wrestled you into the bed, giggling and pressing kissing to your face.
“My wife,” he said, holding you dearly, stroking places and ways only his hands could.
“They have given me so many potions I feel as if I’m about to burst.” You said.
“You look as if you will burst at any moment.” Leto chuckled, pinning your upper half, looking at your stomach, he let you up, hand firmly around your side. His thumb stroked from under your ribcage down to your midriff.
“You look sad. You asked for me.”
You dampened with his observation and statement, he was going to come to some conclusion that wouldn’t be wholly correct.
“Are they not treating you well?” He asked, softly. “I can have them replaced for you.”
“No, it’s nothing like that.”
A contraction came and you stifled, leaning back as pain radiated down through your whole lower half. Leto took your hand.
The midwife left with you stood and you hold up a finger for them to wait, please, you were fine.
It passed.
“I’m frightened to give birth.” You huffed. “Frightened and lonely. I miss you.”
His hand around yours moved higher, up your chest to your face.
“You need not be frightened. You’re plenty strong. I’ve missed you too.”
He pressed his lips to yours, then your throat, and then your breast, hot breath against your skin, he kissed you like you would evaporate if he did not.
Your body relaxed. It felt wonderful.
For all the gentle and firm hands, none of them touched you like they were ravenous for you. No one but your husband has ever touched you like this, and as it felt an irrefutable tragedy before so it then felt joyous.
He was yours, and you were so glad he was.
For a moment you thought you wet yourself, but when you spread your thighs father and lifted your dress you saw blood in it, watered down.
Leto broke from your jaw and looked very confused at the sheets under you.
“Is that the waters?” He asked, concern creasing his forehead.
You both knew he was not ever supposed to touch your waters or menses, or you, then, until you had been bathed again, but he put his hand to it, you let him, and he held it up, fingers together, inspecting it. He picked up a towel, putting it between your thighs.
“Are they supposed to arrive yet—”
“Your Grace you must leave.” The midwife observing you was then by your side, interrupting him.
Leto looked up at her and nodded, taking his hand from your neck and shoulder. It was his last place to argue.
Before he could stand you wrapped both arms tightly around his back.
He said your name, hand over yours, attempting to pull away without forcing you but you held fast, so tight to him his breathing became shallower. He said your name again, more softly, and as the midwives continued indistinctly in the background, tears began to fill your eyes.
You had wanted to see him so badly and he was being taken away from you again, possibly for days more.
You did not want to be having this baby yet, it was too soon, things changed the moment you told him you were pregnant, and they would again the moment he was born.
“I will be back, to see the baby.” He said from behind your ear, his hand finding him between you, shifting as the last of the fluid left. “You are in the best hands. You will be taken care of.”
He whispered the last piece. “I will be back to see you. To have and hold, I will love you however you wish. However I can safely. It will not be long, I promise.”
That made the tears fall. He would be back for you, to see you.
You gradually loosened, prying your fingers from his tunic, finally letting him go, a nod assuring you of what he’d just said, and he was swept out by no less than four midwives.
“Bad luck,” the head midwife said, looking after where he had sat, to the puddle soaking the sheets, the smear on your clothes, and finally after the door Leto left from as you were lifted and the bed was stripped. “Bad, bad luck.”
It was nineteen hours.
You learned firsthand why it was called labor.
By the second stage you were glad Leto wasn’t there to see you like that. Exposed, in pain. You didn’t think he would want any more children.
The room became far too stuffy, the herbal scent which had no longer been pleasant for over a week then became nauseating. And it was your favorite.
The baby lodged fully in your birth canal, visible from the outside, and you couldn’t think of much of anything but getting him out of you. It felt as if you were being split open, each contraction pushing him further down your spread wide cervix until he started to crown.
It burned, the weight of his head, and your grunts got louder. You gripped the hands in yours even tighter and bore down with the contraction, the pressure like the start of a fissure that wouldn’t erupt.
Even more sweat was wiped from your brow, the fan was helping, but you wanted a breeze, fresh air, it was so, so hot.
The head midwife was speaking but your were imagining the rocky beach, outside, the water crashing over smooth stones and mossy knolls, the cliffside, the cool waves.
Leto beside you, caressing your skin, shrugging your clothes off your shoulders and hiking your skirts up your waist, his head between your thighs on the blanket by the tidepools.
You screamed brokenly as another contraction ripped through you, with it the respite leaving, and with all your strength, breathing like the midwife told you, your baby crowned, and then surged down, head bursting out, followed quickly by shoulders, chest, an arm, another arm, and as he’s pulled by two pairs of hands, legs and feet.
You shuddered hard, the tremendous pressure gone all at once.
A baby cried, and you wondered whose it is before your head caught up with the loss of feeling. The first breaths in his lungs became high, wavering wails, like a gull, or the groan of the metal hull of a ship.
It was disorienting. You felt their hands checking your temperature and heart rate, the weight of your son for nine months, the false and true contractions for weeks and weeks, and now you felt nothing but sore. Empty. Very empty except for the placenta which delivered all at once with much, much less fanfare.
He was bathed and weighed, extra precautions taken as he is not technically premature, but most definitely early.
They showed him to you, laying back in the covers of your bed, cleaned and dried and nodding off, exhausted from the ordeal, and you told them you indeed wanted to hold him, managing with all your might to sit up.
They arranged more pillows around your body, supporting you before you even needed ask.
He had a large port wine stain, a firemark from the bottom of his left eyelid to the corner of his lip.
It was striking. It looked as if he’d been burned.
For a split second you thought that’s what it was, that the first time Leto ignited your loins with his tongue they burnt the baby’s face, you you go red hot from the neck up with shame at the prospect. You shook the thought away.
He was just blemished. He fit in your arms and to your bare breast easily. You wanted to keep him there. He was your son. He looked like it, his features.
You would breastfeed him, and begin tracking after you healed. You did not want another one quickly. You had borne the Atreides an heir and you would rear him to studying age, until he was to be tutored.
You wanted as little stress as possible to befall those hooded eyes.
Leto looked to you first. He climbed into the bed beside you and took your face in his hand. He looked at nothing but you even as your son’s legs began to kick in both of your peripherals.
“They told me he was marked,” he said. “Like hot wine was spilled over him. Should I be concerned?” He looked between your eyes as he awaited your answer.
Your nervous breathing evened. This was a man you knew, who promised he would love your children. He had kept his word to you in all else.
It was mostly cosmetic. It may cause him trouble, later, but it was nothing the house could not make easy care of. The superstitions and gossip were just that. It was why you were alone, now, you didn’t want him to hear it.
“No,” you shook your head. “He’s your son.”
He nodded, smiling as you gave him permission, and looked down at the baby. His eyes widened.
“Oh, they did not tell me it was beautiful…!” He laughed breathily, a smile crinkling his eyes. It brought one to yours as he brought a hand to him, gently brushing back his swaddle to look over the bare skin of his chest and arm. His cord has been tied and cut. He checked it carefully, seeing for himself that he was otherwise in perfect health. The boy’s bony fingers curled over Leto’s ring as he did.
He came back up and brushed the birthmark, down his cheek and back to his ear, very gently tilting his head to the side to get a better look at the intricate patterned color of it, mirroring the one in his hair.
“He’s beautiful.” Leto said. “He is more beautiful than I could have imagined.”
He didn’t know how to say he thought he was the most beautiful baby he had ever seen.
“You did so well.” He was speaking from the heart, overfull, hardly hearing himself, so enamored.
He had thought he was prepared to meet his child. Tears were brimming his eyes, and not for the reason he thought they would.
The boy looked like you, and it delighted him to think he would be as kind, as stubborn, as graceful, as unruly and unashamed. He had thought of them as being his children, of him being their father.
But that was your child, you mothered him, and it showed in everything about him.
His eyes were pinched tightly shut to the huge open window, sunlight encapsulating how brightly Leto saw him, haloed in your arms. It was how he saw you, since that day on the balcony.
He kissed over his mottled eye, then you, feeling your smile against his lips.
“I love you.” He said softly, feeling it all through him.
I genuinely wonder if people realize how many projects get abandoned because the readership "wasn't there", when in reality, the readership just stayed silent. It's a big thing in trad pub that book series get discontinued because readers pirate the books or wait until the series is finished to buy a copy, leading the publisher to think that nobody actually wants the book enough to continue the series, but it happens with indie creators too.
I've discontinued a lot of free, online series because it's not worth putting 3-5 hours a week into posting a project for no readers. Sometimes I finish the series for me but just never post it again, other times I don't finish it at all because it feels more worthwhile to put my time into other things. Sometimes I hear from readers who are sad or upset that I didn't finish something they were liking, but the *reason* it never got finished is because I didn't know anyone liked it. If you like something, tell the creator, tell your friends, make some noise about it. If you would be sad if a story never finished, make that interest known because one of my biggest considerations before discontinuing a series is "will people miss this? Will I be letting people down" and 9/10 times, I come to the conclusion of "no, it doesn't even seem like anyone's reading this" only to learn after I've moved on that apparently someone was.
I've said this before in a different way, and this post said it so well. With real examples.
If you like something, tell people.
If you want more content from an artist or author, if you like their stuff, tell them. It will give them creative fuel to keep going. And often it gives them other resources as well.
Recommend a work to other people. Leave a comment or a review. It doesn't have to be long, just genuine, a sentence or two.
Not many people know that a book's success is judged by book reviews as well as sales. Review the book on Amazon or another site to help it pass the metric of success and be recognized by publishers and retailers.
so , uh — i kinda became obsessed with that silver streak silver lining hehe on oscar isaac’s head in won’t back down .
it would be hilarious though if it’s just a trick lighting during filming , and i just made it all up in my head .
gifs by @santiagogarcia & @userpoe
gifs by @mr-handsomeeyebrows
but it’s there too in this interview magazine piece , and then there it is again when he’s all shaved for nathan bateman .
so maybe i’m still sane .
sane , however , in terms of hyperfixating on a peculiar hair growth on your favourite actor — debatable still .
Just Wanted to See - Nathan Bateman x assistant!reader
Warnings: pure fucking smut that was part of something I was working on but as these things usually go stopped fitting, fingering, vaginal, the barest dubcon that ever did dubcon (both ways if you can imagine, we are in their heads but they are not in each others, no explicit verbal consent is exchanged for the main sex act), showering together, armpit frigging, squirting, breeding kink, oral
Words: 3.4k
Rating: E
Summary: Ever since your boss Nathan Bateman pulled the stitches in his stab wounds eating you out in his hospital bed, you haven’t been able to keep your thoughts off of fucking him.
I was severely horny guys sorry will happen again
Enjoy the filth leave a heart, non freaks shoo! Shoo! Ew. What are you doing here
This has been sitting a draft for over a year
This is the same AU you can think of if like a tiny spinoff I just wrote some of the stuff I explore better here into something more condensed but it diverges from the events of the rest, this isn’t how it happened
AO3 Link
This was fucked.
But ever since your boss, ‘Nathan’ Nathanael Bateman, pulled the stitches in his stab wounds eating you out in his hospital bed, you haven’t been able to keep your thoughts off of fucking him.
Maybe it was something about nearly losing him. Maybe it was the years of flirting you had thought you both assured remained purely unserious. Maybe because actually getting with him wasn’t ever on the table, but now that bridge had been breached, he was clearly in love with you—
No. You couldn’t cross it. Past unprofessional, as if anything between you was, there was nothing ethical about it, and it was about time that sort of thing was bedded. Even if this vein was considerably less existential, it was for you.
It was dangerous. He controlled your salary, nevermind you had the passwords to all his accounts. He could fuck you over hard, your entire world. You had dirt on him, sure, but you could easily lose your whole life even trying to attempt to take him on, and he wouldn’t even feel it. Not physically, at least.
You had to roll things back.
Even if he’d had his tongue buried in your cunt without regard for his own well being.
That night, dinner, a few weeks after he was discharged, the house was quiet, and Nathan was still in his head about what you couldn’t be sure.
His own mortality, having to completely scrap all of what he’d put so many years into, his practical immunity to the lasting implications. You had ended it, not him, a branch in not just invention but possible human achievement and definition of consciousness, life.
The truth was he wasn’t grappling with it.
It was stewing his oxygen deprivation damaged brain, rethinking everything and getting truly nowhere, who he was, what he was supposed to do, what he definitely wasn’t supposed to do.
He was bothering you by not bothering you, holding his tongue against the roof of his mouth like he had nothing to say. You just didn’t know what you could do about it, about him, about the two of you.
You weren’t rolling it back. Things were staying firmly as they’d been that day and then some, only missing him. You couldn’t get a reaction, couldn’t get that abandon he had back. Maybe it was only temporary, something about acclimating to being back, acceptance, finding normal. A push to feel how far it went, but if that was true he was the other direction, and had to bounce back a little too far sooner or later.
That was tonight, and more than a little.
You snap right in front of his eyes, getting him to look up.
Right. You. Something he definitely wasn’t supposed to do.
He acknowledges you just enough to get you out of his face, which is surprisingly kinder than usual. You sit back down.
A joke about fucking the mood out of him, you’ve said it a hundred times since he’s known you, a brush too close when you pass him to grab the soy sauce, and something changes. He gets his first boner since Heidi Klum when he was twelve that he isn’t conscious of immediately. Just as confusing. Just as brand new.
Yeah, you turned him on, but he wasn’t turned on right now, was he? He was in control of that, he had been since forever.
The opposite of a bombshell, picking your teeth with your thumbnail because you don’t think your shitty line worked or did any better than the twenty previous. You have worn nothing but pajamas for days and he doesn’t think you’ve washed your hair twice since you’ve gotten back. And he doesn’t care. No one could pay him enough to, and evidently, no one could pay you enough to either.
In one smooth movement he grips your arm tight, stands, breathes in and knocks your heads together so hard you bruise, mouth latching to yours, hand squeezing the back of your neck.
His tongue was in your mouth, so fast you couldn’t think, much less react except to groan your assent. Yes, something. Finally.
“You better have fucking meant that.” He gets out and gasps. The air between and in you has no oxygen left, and that sensation is overwhelming.
Your head felt so light. He kissed you. He actually kissed you.
You drop the empty meal container you had intended to toss in the trash, gripping his head hard in both hands.
He winces when you brush the thick, flat, staple indented scar in his chest. They are nearly completely healed, but the skin is still raw, the weakened muscle around it tender and hypersensitive.
His hands are on your ass, you’re around his waist, grinding into him.
He hasn’t been inside a flesh and blood woman’s pussy in over a decade, probably longer. There’s some difference and it’s there in the fact you’re not really riding his thigh, palming him like you’ve only just remembered where his dick is at. He doesn’t even know where to even begin to criticize you, any of it. You’re all talk. Last time you got laid was fuck never. Sex with you would suck. He wants it.
He tugs your shirt up off your tits, his sweats under his junk, your underwear down, and hooks his hand under your knee, pulling you right up close and pushing his cock between your slippery folds, bumping your clit.
You sway, nothing to brace against but him, and him you, like one of those partnered yoga poses where you have to balance.
Shit, he’s right there. It’s so fucking close and you both want this so badly and there really is no magical force stopping you.
He’s human. You’re human. It’s only sex. It had been too fucking long.
You’re both breathing so hard, not looking at each other.
The words were nothing. Empty catalysts. Barely conveying the depth of things.
You weren’t going to say anything. Here, maybe he needed you to.
He set your leg back down.
Your shirt falls back over your chest.
“You’re my fucking assistant,” he breathes, feeling his forehead.
The moment’s over.
He pulls back up to his full height, trying to compose himself.
“I’m gonna go get a shower. Haven’t had a good fuckin’ shower since I got back.”
It’s forced, casual, he hasn’t been in there at all except for you to help him wash his scars, the one he can’t reach.
“You gonna go jack off in there?” You’re trying to sound suave.
“Yeah. Yes I am going to jack off in there.” There wasn’t anything to be gained by lying about it.
“I—”
“That’s fine,” he cuts you off. “You got… you got stuff to take care of.”
He pats your bicep once and leaves, calmly walks down the hall and up the stairs to the bathroom with his dick still out.
The steam did the opposite of clear his head.
He couldn’t jack off, it was doing literally nothing. Well he could, maybe, but he would be thinking about you and it would be worse after than when he started.
It’s like no time at all before you knock on the bathroom door.
“You almost done in there?” You call. “I need to use it! Y’know I’ve been lookin’ to get in there all day.”
He blows air out his mouth and pulls back the frosted glass, padding over and opening the door so he doesn’t have to shout over the water.
“You have your pick of options for bathrooms.” He says.
The door’s wide open. He’s still hard. It’s gone up and down but it hasn’t gone away. You’re getting a good look at it. He’s still hot as fuck.
“You’re in the good one.” You say.
“It’s my house.”
“You haven’t tried to pull that one in a long time.” You chuckle.
“I shouldn’t have done that. At the table.”
Is that an apology?
“You shouldn’t have eaten me out either.”
Is he gonna take that back too?
He couldn’t, he could try, and that alone would be entertaining, but there was no playing that off now.
Eye contact isn’t happening. He can’t think about what you taste like right now. He practically can taste you with how close you’re standing.
“You know you smell like shit, right?” He diverges, or tries to.
“I’m aware. I’ll skip it, shower tomorrow.”
He wants you to go, you’ll go, but you don’t think he wants you to.
He grabs your wrist and pulls it up, sticking his face in your pit, inhaling through his nose. Your face goes hot.
“It’s bad.”
“You– you absolutely did not have to do that.” You say as he straightens, still holding your hand.
“Get in the shower.” He says, dropping your arm.
He rubs plain bar soap into a big swirl in his palm, careful not to get it anymore wet under the stream while you strip your shirt off over your head and step in, back to front.
He scrubs it up into your armpit, which is fine, it lathers a little in the water there. Then it becomes sticky. He moves to his fingers, and presses, stroking back and forth, deep in the recess there.
“What the fuck,”
“Lot of nerves there.” He says.
He rubs faster, pressure just shy of painful, and you double over, pressed against him and his hard on, thighs squeezed tight. It’s ticklish and carnal and gross all at once.
“Too much?” He asks, and you shake your head.
“You’re weird as fuck.” You laugh out.
“Really, me?” He says. “You’re the one that doesn’t get in there.”
He moves to the other side, doing the same, nails scraping up soap through your body hair, he rinses his hand before pulling and directing the water over you, warming your muscles and getting the soap off.
He squeezes down to the full of your breast, starts to move his hand lower, then stops. You’re pits are clean, he’s done. You can take care of the rest.
He steps out, pulls down a towel, and dries himself, heading for the sink, having to dig to find what he’s looking for.
You’re not much longer in the shower, you hear him working and hurry it up.
He finishes shaving his head, shutting the clippers off. He rubs over the silver ellipse right on top, the streak. He’s smaller, lost some muscle definition. A lot of muscle definition. You can see it, can’t you? You’ve seen it. Him at his absolute lowest. Possibly the only constant.
What was wrong with him, really? What was wrong with you that you were still here?
He could just make you out behind him in the mirror. You’ve seen each other naked and almost naked so many times. Your shape, peeing after he felt you up. You’re scratching your scalp, probably because you’ve been watching him buzz his hair off.
He almost wants to ask if you think he looked better with short, blunt waves. If you were into it. He doesn’t. He just sets his glasses back on, neatens up his neck, packs the thing away and waits for you to finish so he can walk you back to your room. No goodnight, just assurance you weren’t following him back to his. He shuts your door, starting back to his room.
He stops in his tracks. It’s so soft, under the crack, but it’s unmistakable.
Your vibrator.
The handle doesn’t turn fast enough.
It’s exactly what it sounds like.
“What the fuck are you doing?” He says.
You click it off.
“I thought you were some kind of genius—”
“No, fucking stop this. Whatever this is, just stop.”
Your room is a mess. Food containers, you’ve been clearing out the freezer, clothes, bandages. Doesn’t smell any worse than you did, at least.
“Okay.” You put your hands up and lay flat on your back, then fold them over your stomach.
He starts to close your door, then stops.
“You’re gonna use it.” He says. He feels out of it. It’s so obvious.
“Waiting for you to get to your room.”
Stalemate.
He leaves, you get off on your own. He stays, you fuck and he can’t take that the fuck back.
“Why do you need this so bad?” He says. “I know I ate you out good but you can get yourself off, why do you need me?”
You sit up. “You came into my room. My vibrator. Why do you think this is about you?”
“You’re thinking about me while you mash that thing against your bean! You want me to hear it. You need me so fuckin’ bad you won’t leave me alone.”
You smile, big and wide. Him being even half as frustrated as you is so satisfying.
“I don’t need you, Nathan; I want you.”
That’s what you’ve been about, all evening.
He doesn’t shut the door behind him, there’s no need to, it is literally only you two in the entire world right here, right now.
No one, real, mechanical, artificial, can hear, see, anything.
He doesn’t know if that makes it better or worse.
He pulls his shirt off, then his pants, leaving them right where they land and walking up to you.
He gets on his knees astride your hips on your bed, pressing you back by the shoulders, maneuvering you, up, you don’t even have to move, he puts you right into position, one leg out, over his hip, then the other.
You can’t keep your hands off him, his freshly shaved head, his back, he brings his mouth to your throat and sucks down your collar as you wrap a leg around his ass.
He looks you in the eye as he notches his cock to the whitish mucus smeared lips of your opening, rubbing his head through it before he catches, bumps past the slight resistance, then slides deep into you.
It was a stretch, a fit, manageable, especially since you had toys up there recently, but it’s still tight. Really tight. You groan through it.
Not thinking, because you want to be lost in this, in him, inside you.
You gasp, because as soon as he bottoms out and pulls back, he is— and there is no other word for it— pounding into you. Shoving your whole body upwards again and again, making sparks of pleasure and your slick explode from your sopping cunt with each thrust, rendering you open mouthed and completely speechless, not even breathing, just holding on for dear life, clinging to him, shoulder and waist, between your grip and his girth.
Your hand flies up and hits the headboard and he didn’t let up, the sound of bare wet skin colliding, splattering, the bed legs scraping, his hips punching harsh breaths out of your chest.
You were only breathing with his thrusts, and it was driving you wild that he’s so easily reduced you to this, unable to move, talk, breathe, just clench and grip and press your shoulders back to raise your hips as much as you can.
Your whole body feels irradiated, red hot, lightheaded, your g-spot like his new button of yours he wants to press till it breaks. Till you pop. His fingers rub up your folds till he finds your clit and with mind numbing contrast gives it slow, deep flicks.
Harmonizing, physically and vocally, he works fast and smooth into your with scary precision.
It comes on heavier with every second until you fizzle, abdominal muscles spasming, and your sex goes from tightening in bursts to clenching hard.
You squirt, trembling, soaking his thighs and the sheets, pulsing around him, viced. Your fingers definitely dig in too hard.
He grunts, pace wavering just a little before slowing, pushing up on his hands and knees, savoring you sucking him in, teetering on the edge of climax.
The ebb heats your extremities, along every muscle, a heavy molten metal spread through you like a cast, completely full.
“N-Nathan?” You rasp, finally able to get something rational out of your head.
“Yeah?” He grunts back, laser focused.
“I’m not on the pill.”
Five words cut deeper than any kitchen knife ever could.
He slams into you, hard, letting out a strangled cry through his teeth, grinding the base of his cock against your pelvic bone, twitching with the release of years and years of pent up tensions, glances and jokes and little gestures and escalations that stayed in his head, in all of him, culminating in one simple statement. Fuck.
He traces his hand from your hood out your lip, up the back of your thigh to your kneepit and calf and finally to your ankle, which he presses to his jaw, up on his knees with his other hand on your hip to deepen this because he doesn’t think it could ever be enough.
He stutters breathless shouts, like he’s begging, you hear a slurred something somewhere in strings and strings and spend seeping out around the seal of his dick.
He felt all of it and swore it was the hardest he ever came in his life, he could barely hold it, he was falling back like you were hot the moment the last rope left him.
He collapses beside you panting, still throbbing. You can feel him leaking down your ass.
He adjusts his glasses, somehow still on his face, pulling himself up onto his elbows.
“You’re not on birth control?” He says, far too evenly for how much of a desperate, primally driven mess he had just been.
His system is flooded, all the best hormones, so the sex didn’t suck.
He shakes his head from side to side, hand up, spread. “Since when?”
He knew everything you ate and bought and before Ava, he would see you get ready over the cameras daily. It had to have been since he got back.
“I forgot.” It was a formality. Deniability, as if it existed here. You had forgotten, at the hospital, but you were back home now, has access to it, and you had just barebacked your boss in your own bed.
Did he seduce you? Since the hospital, through all of this. You never would have gotten this far if you were both in your right heads, he was sure of it. There was a trust, there, always, that anything like this was too far.
This was really fucked.
“I stopped after you came back.” You say. “Wanted to know how I would feel. What you would do.”
You stopped taking it because of him. His heart pumps faster.
“What I would do?” You had been doing.
You shrug. “Just wanted to see.”
He can’t stop thinking about it. Knowing your hormones have been changing and your body has been what? Becoming fertile? For how long? A week, two weeks, since he was discharged? He hasn’t been present, it could have been this whole time he was twiddling his thumbs, brooding when he could have been fucking breeding you senseless.
You were different, your mood. It was like you were brighter, smoother, the highs and lows weren’t as blended flat or spikes. They were a wave. You were bolder, too. Physically. You’d say anything to him but now you’ll push him, really push him. It’s been driving him nuts, now he knows why. The closest thing humans had to pheromones. He loves it like nobody’s fucking business.
Before you can ask what he’s doing he has grabbed your legs and is swiping his tongue up your crack and deep into your cunt, closing his lips over it and sucking, eating his and your come out of you. His beard drags through your slit with each work of his jaw, and you bite back a whimper, swollen and sensitive, sore from how thoroughly he’s fucked you.
He stares at your gaped pussy, your legs spread completely limp, wide, at the smear of his come he can’t see but knows is there too deep for him to reach. He plunges two of his fingers in to feel it, still so warm.
“I think I have a new project I want to start with you.” He says, a smile you haven’t seen in months brightening his features.
It looks so good on him.
“Yeah?” You ask.
He pulls his fingers from you, and sticks them in his mouth.
