Cregan Stark loves his spoiled, pampered, heavily pregnant wife
cregan stark x wife!reader
cw: (mdni+18), fluff fluff fluff, pregnancy, lactation, banter, crack, cregan is obsessed with his wife, fondling, breast play, slight dirty talk, (2.5kw).
“I curse you.”
Cregan didn’t even lift his head at the words, the only tell that he had heard his wife being the slight twitch at the corner of his lips as he continued to glide ink on paper.
He could hear you waddling, huffing, and puffing up a storm as you closed the door to his solar, making as much noise as possible to draw him to pay attention to you, no matter how much work he had to do.
And who was Cregan Stark if not a mere supplicant to all and any of his wife’s whims?
“Curse me?” He spoke, lifting his eyes towards you, the curl of his lips deepening into amusement as he observed how endearing you looked, heavily pregnant and shooting daggers his way. “To what possible end, my love? You had but seen me for the first time today.” Cregan said, arching one bushy brow, leaning back in his mahogany chair to get a better view of his beloved treasure of the North. “What have I done to earn such a harsh punishment?”
You scowled, stepping closer, your gait more akin to a mother duck than anything else, making warmth bloom in Cregan’s chest, letting his eyes sweep over you from the soles of your feet to the top of your head, taking you in, gorging on the sight of his pretty wife, all plump and heavy with his babe. He will never cease to pray to all the Northern Gods for this blessing, dropping to his knees in front of the weirwood tree, forehead pressed to the cold ground as he thanked them profusely for letting him cast his gaze upon such divinity.
“You have done plenty,” you scoffed, scrunching your nose in his direction. The closer you got to his desk, the more the resemblance between you and a disgruntled kitten became more and more apparent, making him hum. “My feet ache, my belly is too big, I’ve eaten a dozen lemon cakes in one sitting, and I can barely walk.”
Cregan pressed his lips together to suppress a splitting grin, way too amused and enamored with his crimes that he had apparently had a hand in, unbeknownst to him. How can a man like him even dare to stand there and not be swiftly punished for such wrongdoings? Other men were beheaded for less.
“Are all those ailments my doing?” He asked, feigning innocence as he waited for you to approach, letting you decide whether you wanted him near or not right now. “How could I have been such a cruel husband, hm?” Cregan continued, fingers twitching with the need to touch, to pull, to hold, but he relented, knowing the wrong move could earn him an even grumpier wife, and that is not what he wished for at the moment.
“Utterly cruel,” you affirmed, lip curling, baring your teeth at him as you stopped next to his chair, your pregnant belly brushing his arm, making his breath hitch, the wonder of such a miracle never quite ceasing. “You brought this upon me.” Your lips pursed into a pout, indignant and fussy as you continued. “If you weren’t so relentless in giving me your seed, I would’ve never resembled a thousand-pound duckling right now.”
Thousand-pound duckling.
Cregan couldn’t stop the huff of amusement that slipped past his lips even if he tried.
Smack.
“You dare laugh?” You gasped, affronted and utterly offended that your husband was finding your grievances even remotely entertaining, hand making contact with his broad shoulder again and again.
It truly only served to heighten his grin even more, eyes crinkling at the edges for a few moments as he let you hit him to your heart’s content, the slaps no more than a kitten batting its paws at a great wolf, Cregan cataloguing them more as pets than anything that could bring any harm.
“I laugh,” he started, tone woven with amusement, but achingly fond now as he watched you, lifting one hand to clasp yours, bringing it to his mouth to press a soft kiss onto the back of it, halting your fussing. “Because my wife is being ridiculous,” and he could already sense the protest on your tongue at his words, so he was quick to preempt that by continuing, turning your palm to press his lips to the inside of it now. “And she does not look like a thousand-pound duckling, but the most beautiful woman I, and the Seven Kingdoms have ever seen.”
You huffed, your scowl lessening.
Watching you melt gradually from his words was always one of Cregan’s joys in life, chest puffing with pride in being able to will his irritable wife into mellowness, that pretty face of yours warming whenever he “had the nerve,” as you often say, to be tender to you.
“You’re only saying that to appease me,” you protested, but moved closer, nudging him with your knee, indicating that you wished to be closer, to be tended to. A silent demand that your husband knew as well as breathing.
Cregan’s chair screeched quietly onto the hard floor as he made space for you in front of him, broad thighs parting to coax you near. He patted one meaty leg with his palm, head tilting as he watched you, lips softening at the corners, amusement bleeding into fondness. “Come here, to your husband, sweetling.”
“Are you certain you can hold the weight of me, husband?” You challenged, even as you stepped into his space. “Perhaps I am too hefty, even for you.”
Utter nonsense, Cregan thought. He knew you knew how strong he was. How easy it would be for him to hold you and not break a sweat while doing so. As if he doesn’t train and work himself to the bone whenever he is allowed a moment from the droning of courtiers to hone the muscles you secretly favour. Cregan could carry you in his arms through Winterfell’s walls for a handful of hours, he wagers, before the need to stop and take a breather would catch up to him.
“Hm, you reckon?” He rumbled, his hands finding purchase on your hips, smoothing over the flowy material of your dress. Gods, he loved the garments you’ve been adorning as of late—warm colors, soft fabrics, all cascading in rivulets down your soft, lush body. He had given word for more of such dresses to the seamstresses, without your knowledge. You didn’t have to know of his plans yet. Nor were you aware of how he made sure the hearths were lit periodically in every room you frequented, so the need for more than a cloak over your soft silks, satins, and linens was not necessary. It would’ve obstructed his view of you.
You squirmed just a bit, just enough to show resistance, even when he could feel you melting like honey in his grasp as he slowly turned you around, your back to his chest, seating you right onto his lap with a pleased, content groan. The solid weight of you, of the babe you were carrying, leaning back against him, trusting him to hold it all, made something pleased and animal bloom into his chest. If he were any more wolf in anything but sigil and tradition, he was sure he would’ve purred like a content beast right now.
“There you go,” Cregan said, broad palms using their grip onto your soft hips to hike you up higher until you were flush against him from hips to shoulders. “My pretty wife,” he murmured, leaning in to nose at your throat with a satisfied sigh, inhaling the scent of your bath oils, milk and you. “Smelling like a treat here on my lap.”
Cregan knows you would taste even better, but the time for that is not now. He loves to savour you most later in the night, when he has you all pliant and drowsy next to him, bundled up in the furs and pelts from his latest hunts, huffing and whining about all the pains and aches that plague you. And it is your husband’s duty to mend them with his tongue, hands and cock, in any way his lovely wife sees fit.
“I do not feel like a treat,” comes your response, leaning your head back against his shoulder as you grumble. “And it is your doing.”
Ah, of course. Anything that ails you is always Cregan’s demerit, be it truth or fib.
“Apologies, sweet wife,” he whispers against the warm skin of your neck, nuzzling there as a hound would its owner for clemency after being scolded. “How shall I repent for my wrongs at present, pray tell? I am yours to command, as always.”
Truth be told, Cregan could provoke you, could throw your whining and complaining back at you, as he often did, but he had found himself powerless to do such a thing in the moons since you have been with child. How could he muster even a modicum of bravado against the woman who now carried their babe? His heir. His little pup, as Cregan often called them, to your dismay, even tho he knew you did not mind the moniker in the slightest, especially when he was kissing all over the taut skin of your belly in the soft light of mornings, whispering sweet nothings to your stomach, as if the babe could hear him.
"Let me, my love." His broad palms smooth up from your hips, just enough to cradle the bottom of your pregnant, heavy belly and lift, supporting some of the weight himself, holding steady and firm. “There you go.”
The relief is instant.
You melt back into him with a soft sigh, as if a great burden has been taken from you, being gifted a moment of relaxation, where your husband was bearing the heavy load of your unborn babe. He had done this countless times since the nearing of your term, only more than a moon away until you were to be surrounded by midwives and maesters.
“It is a boulder,” you fuss, but your eyes flutter in delight, the ache in your back easing the more Cregan bears the brunt of your belly. “One I shall never have to haul around again, Gods be good.”
He hums at your words, knowing them not to be entirely founded, for he knows you are quite fond of the idea of having more than one set of little legs running around Winterfell in the years to come, but he keeps the quip to himself, mindful of your repose.
“I cannot abide by having to change my garments every few hours because I’m dripping milk like cattle.”
Dripping milk.
Cregan freezes for a moment before tipping his chin onto your shoulder to peer down your chest, and truth be told, there they were, your words sounding truthful.
Pebbled nipples peeking through damp material, where milk had stained the fabric, your heavy breasts full of milk, ready to nurture the future babe.
Your husband’s breath caught at the sight, tongue unconsciously poking out to wet his lips, as if wanting to taste the patches of wet silk and suck them into his mouth so he could relish the flavour of your nourishment.
“My poor, sweet wife,” Cregan crooned, one palm still supporting your pregnant belly, while the other slowly travelled upwards, caressing the soft fabric of your dress, until he could cup one full breast, making you huff. “So full of milk already,” he continued, thumb brushing over the damp peak of your nipple through the silk, eliciting a breathier sound this time, which made him hum. “Ready to feed our babe.”
He expected you to squirm, to fuss again at him, but you arched into his touch, limbs melting onto his lap, as if his touches were the flame to melt wax onto paper, willing you pliant and malleable.
“They ache,” you complained, pushing your chest into his palm, urging him to aid you in your grievance, as any husband should. “They’re too full.”
“Too full?” came your husband’s voice, lower, more gruff, as if your words had affected him more than he wished to admit. “And no one to suckle on these pretty tits yet, isn’t it?” He said, palm shifting, covering your breast fully, fingers dimpling the clothes’ softness as he squeezed gently, fondling the lushness slowly.
Again and again and again.
You didn’t mind the rhythmic press of his palm; on the contrary, you relished it, each one accompanied by one of those sweet sighs of content that Cregan drank in like the finest Arbour gold.
With each squeeze, the material of your dress dampened, your husband drawing out more and more milk, wetting both your dress and his palm. He groaned at the feeling, fingers dimpling the flesh harder, but never enough to hurt. “Gods, sweetling, you’re leaking everywhere,” he rumbled, pupils blown wide as he watched the way the silk darkened as more and more sweetness dripped from your pebbled nipples. “Makin’ me want to suckle at it like a babe.”
You gasped, one of your hands lifting to swat at the one he had around your breast, which only made him squeeze more. “Don’t be dissolute!” You reprimanded, but did nothing else to stop his fondling, weaving your fingers through his against your heaving tit, aiding him as you continued. “Just keep going.”
Cregan groaned, tilting his head to the side to nuzzle into the crook of your neck, the scent of sweet, warm milk already permeating the air around you, making him dizzy with the need to dip his head low and mouth at you until you couldn’t resist any more. “You’re a cruel woman,” he rasped, mouth parting, tongue poking out, as if tasting the air would suffice, as if that would even come close to having your milk on his palate. “All lush and ripe like a summer peach, sitting on my lap, dripping all over me,” he growled, feeling his palm dampen more with each squeeze. “And not letting me put my mouth on you.”
It was torture to sit there and not take what he wanted, but he knew that you’d give in soon. Only a matter of time until Cregan would crawl over you, tugging down at your neckline to slobber and mouth at your milk-heavy tits until he was drunk on the taste and you were pliant and lax under him, mewling and squirming.
And probably offering him your other breast to suckle at as well, if you were in good spirits, and he prayed dutifully to the Gods that day.
it was risky, you knew, but something about him just enthralled you. sitting at the other end of the bar on a saturday night, you spotted a big brute of a man dwarfing a glass of amber liquid. with a mask pulled up onto his crooked nose, it exposed the scarred skin of his chin and jaw, and chapped, rough lips. something about the way his dark eyes scanned the room made your thighs quiver and your belly ache.
simon didn't look your way to know your eyes were on him, burning into the skin of his lower face and thick neck that bobbed with every sip of alcohol. you were a curious little bunny that couldn't help but be captivated by his wolfish appearance, and it was going to get you bitten.
you were sad when the man didn't look your way. he appeared alone and refused to pay mind to anyone except the bartender. you wondered how long he'd linger as the bar started emptying old customers and flooding with new ones. the population never staggered, and in fact, only increased with happy hour. how long was the man going to sit in that very seat?
it was hard for him not to look your way, the knowledge that your attention kept returning to him gnawing at his brain until he couldn't help a glance when he was sure your gaze was fixed elsewhere. god, you were so pretty and completely oblivious to the fact he'd been shadowing you for months, but he'd caught your attention now. how long was it going to take for you to bite?
you weren't sure how much time had passed, but the man downed his drink, left a large bill on the bar, got up and left without a word. this was your charge. mirroring his actions with your own, smaller bill, you left with a fleeting glance to the patrons around you. you didn't dare risk losing sight of your newfound interest, but he wasn't hard to lose.
simon heard you stumble out the door behind him. you were clumsy, didn't bother hiding the loud clacks of your heels against the pavement, but he didn't give away that he knew. he played along, had to make sure his prey felt in control when in reality, he was the one twisting you like the puppet you were. he tugged on his helmet, flung a leg over his sports bike and turned it on. the question was, did he want to lose you, or give you what you wanted?
seeing him wrap his thick thighs around the gas tank only caused the throb in your pussy to intensify, his sharp, dark eyes that lured you in hidden behind the visor. you went to your own car, turning it on in time just as he pulled out of the parking lot. naturally, you followed, keeping what you thought was a non suspicious amount of distance between him and you.
but simon noticed. he had a keen eye when it came to you, and he laughed underneath his helmet that his little rabbit was the one chasing him, not the other way around. regardless, he led you through winding streets and back roads until he can to a stop in front of an isolated cabin. if his bunny had any brain, you'd have realized he led you to the middle of nowhere.
but when you were tunnel visioned on the object of your desire, you lost sight of everything else. you wanted him, or at least to watch him to see what he got up to. an interesting looking man had to have a life that reflected that, right? you parked your car just down the street when you noticed he took a turn into a driveway far between others.
he swiftly turned off the bike, leaving his helmet on for protection—thats what he told himself, but little old you couldn't harm him if you tried. you were a little bunny compared to him. he hid around the side of his house, near one of the big windows that would tempt you to look inside. he was grateful he had remote control lights.
you crept with what felt like light feet, noticing the lights had been switched on. now where was he? you snuck up to that same window he knew you would peer into, standing on your tiptoes and hands curling around the windowsill for one peek.
but a scream fell silent on your lips when a hand tugged your waist into a hard, warm chest with another on your mouth. heavy breaths moved against your back with a shocking hardness pressed to your ass.
simon riley who quits smoking for you without a second thought
it was a nasty habit he's had since his teens, his way of dying a little bit with each lit cigarette. he never expected to last this long, with all the packs he goes through, bullets dodged, and the battles he's barely survived. he never thought to quit, always itching for a stick between his fingers to ease his anxiety and shaky hands.
before he met you, he never had a reason to. now that he has you, tucked into his side and leeching off his warmth, he knew he had to change. the little looks of disappointment every time he went for a smoke gutted him, or when you'd grimace every time you had to swallow his cum made him grit his teeth. or simply the idea that his smoking could kill your pretty lungs.
he quit cold turkey, like an idiot. it was the hardest thing he's been through, even if he wouldn't admit it, and he's been shot, stabbed and many other questionable things.
but it'd be easy in comparison if it meant keeping you healthy, giving you the live you deserved with him.
sure, he was as grumpy as ever and itched to put his lighter to good use, his hands shaking at his sides with restraint. he needed something to do, something to take his mind off the bad thing he craves.
and there's nothing more he craves than you. lips wrapped around your clit as he feasts on your puddy. tongue laving over the swollen flesh with half lidded eyes, murmuring excuses of, "jus' need m'lips 'n 'ands busy, luv." plunging thick fingers into your plushy cunt, slick and soaked with arousal as you let him. you're so proud of him for quitting, letting him overstimulate your pussy if it meant he never picked up another pack.
so instead of smoking ten a day, he'd eat you out ten times more instead.
Ghost who starts dating you and almost immediately stops showing up to pub nights- a sacred ritual for the 141, and causes raised eyebrows by the third time he grunts “can’t” over the phone.
Soap corners him after the fifth time he cancelled, all crooked grin and too bright eyes, leaning into Ghost’s space. “Ye’re skippin’ again, LT. What’s the matter? Bird got ye on a curfew?”
Ghost doesn’t answer at first. Just shoulders his bag higher and keeps walking. But Soap follows, wheedling in that relentless way of his. “C’mon, Simon. Ye’ve not bought a round in weeks. Ye skint? Need a loan? Or is it her? Ye spendin’ all yer money on that pretty thing ye’ve been seein’?”
Ghost stops, turns just enough for Soap to see the flat line of his mouth beneath the mask. “Money’s tight.”
“Tight?” Soap barks a laugh, but it dies quick when he clocks the look in Ghost’s eyes. “You? The fuck’re ye spendin’ it on, then?”
Ghost doesn’t elaborate, just walks away. Soap watches him go, brow furrowed, and later- when it’s just the three of them and a half empty bottle- he tells the others what little he got.
“She’s drainin’ him,” Soap says. “He’s cuttin’ back on everythin’ else. Won’t even split a pizza. Says he’s savin’.”
Price swirls what’s left in his glass. “Seen it before. Good men go soft for the right pair of legs and a sweet smile. Ghost’s got discipline, aye, but he’s still a man. And men like that… they’ve got bank. No one to spend it on before. Makes ‘em easy marks.”
“Gold digger,” Gaz mutters, not quite under his breath, shaking his head at another brother lost. “Better men’ve fallen for less.”
They keep this to themselves, where Ghost can’t hear them. Wouldn’t matter if they did. He’s already gone- head, heart, and wallet- in a way none of them have ever seen. They think he’s blind to it. That he’s being played.
What they don’t see is the way Ghost’s cock twitches, thickening in the grey confines of his pants, every time he pushes his tongue past the sticky-sweet barrier of your sixty dollar lipstick until it smears, thumb dragging across your lower lip, deliberate, spreading the color onto your chin.
Doesn’t see how hard he gets until he’s dizzy with it, one fist buried tight in your blown out hair, gripping at the roots and ruining the careful- expensive- work the stylist did until damp strands stick to your skin.
Blunt head already drooling a thick pool of pre, balls aching as he watches the mascara run down your flushed cheeks, lashes clumping, while he feeds his cock into your perfect warm mouth until the flared head gags the back of your throat.
And maybe he is just a man- a weak, greedy, obsessed man- as he swipes his card on yet another several-hundred-dollar clothing purchase despite your soft protests, already half hard at the thought of how he’s going to rip those pretty new things off your body the second the door closes behind you both, bullying his cock into your cunt around the remains of yet another tattered pair of fifty dollar lacy panties.
You always say something about the cost, about how he can’t keep doing this, but Ghost just shakes his head once, sharp and final. “Can. Will. Shut up an’ let me see what I bought.”
The lads can think what they want. Let them whisper about gold diggers and better men falling. They don’t see how turned on Ghost gets spoiling you rotten, just so he can see you all soft and wrecked, expensive clothes twisted and stained, hair a mess, face streaked with him after he fucks you stupid.
trailer park. dubcon/noncon. creepy socially inept simon. kitchen sex. predatory behavior. tattoo sleeves simon is canon. thumb sucking. breeding kink-ish. pulling the panties to the side is hotter than taking it off. all characters are 18+. DDNE.
You're pretty sure the dad you babysit for is a creep. Alternatively, he hates your guts, wearing a perpetual, nasty scowl as his eyes drop to your skirt's hem, replying only in wordless grunts. Of course, you're a self-respecting girl. You don't stand for any disrespect. You stick your nose up a little and keep away from him unless absolutely necessary, because the pay is good and Simon can't fire you because you're good at your job. At least, that's why you think Mr Riley hasn't fired you yet.
He owns a caravan on the edge of town, totally off-the-grid. Military guy sensibilities. Simon does what he does to keep his daughter safe, and you don't ask questions. It's a nice enough unit and bigger than the whole world when you're a 3ft tall three-year-old.
Your friends urge you to find another job the more they hear about this burly brute with tattoo sleeves you work for in the middle of nowhere, but at the end of another moping phone call, you find a 40% bonus tucked into the envelope with your pay and your fate is sealed.
The thought of him overhearing your qualms—and worse, compensating you for it—makes you feel bad, so you start to work extra hard. Leaving a plate for him from the meals you make for Beth, accompanied by sticky notes; seeing him out the door, etc... all in hopes you'll get tipped. Okay, maybe a conscience isn't the only reason for your good behavior—the financial incentives are great too. The tips keep coming, and your doe eyes only get sweeter. To you, it's good customer service, no flirtations involved. You're a professional, after all.
Simon, famously, is bad with social cues and sees more than there is in your hard work. Doesn't register that the extra sweet 'Good morning, Mr Riley,' and happy-faces drawn in honey on his pancakes only come with payments, not for his mean mug. It starts with casual touches: a hand on your shoulder while you chop Beth's veggies into bite-sized pieces, on your waist in passing. I mean, you're practically a hired wife at this point, so what's the trouble, right? You'd be the perfect mother for Beth.
“Beth's been calling you her Mummy,” he says it one day, all casual-like, hands busy with unlacing his boots. The lights are off save for a small lamp in the kitchen while you pack your laptop and charger into a slouchy shoulder-bag, the air humming with Beth's absence. You fuss with the zipper, the mechanism staggering. Simon pretends not to notice.
“I keep telling her not to--” A breathy laugh slips past your lips—a nervous sounding thing. Your face burns up against all reason and you can't place your finger on what it is about that remark that makes you feel defensive. Surely you wouldn't think twice if somebody else said it, but a strange implication seeps in through the cracks of his noncommittal demeanor. There's always something just slightly off, slightly off-kilter when it comes to him. This is wrong, you think, before anything has happened.
“Nowt to worry about.” He shakes his head dismissively and you fancy that he's almost good at pretending to be a normal person. A real person as opposed to a ghost. The leathery couch squeaks under him as he hauls his weight off, unfolding to his full height.
The zipper finally gives when Simon stops in front of you. Your lips part to say something—announce your departure, maybe—before his long fingers tilt your chin up slightly. “You'd be a great mother,” Simon says, evenly, like he's measuring the words—or rather, you. It's the first solid piece of praise he's given you thus far, and it disarms you just a bit after all the stonewalling you've been subject to.
As if sensing the casual shift in the air, Simon capitalizes with an off handed question: “Ever thought about it?”
“About what? Having my own? Erm, no.” You wave your hands like the notion is ridiculous, laughing awkwardly. You're living on a babysitter's wages and busy getting your degree, a child has no part in the equation.
The way Simon eyes you says he has a different idea entirely. It feels wrong, knowing you have your whole life ahead of you, but he can vividly picture you barefoot and pregnant under that same sundress.
“I love working with kids, but I don't think I'll have a baby any time soon,” you ramble, sounding distracted as you back up against the counter. You know it's unreasonable, but a part of you would rather people-please than be downright rude, a smile tugging at your lips as you watch his hands warily.
You ignore the red alerts, telling yourself maybe—just maybe—you're wrong, and Simon is simply a well-meaning, harmless dad. But that's how you ended up here in the first place; you never let yourself truly read into the way he looked at you, never let it dissuade you from working hard, until now. You even stopped complaining to your friends weeks ago.
“Huh.” Simon nods in consideration, pretending to think for a moment. Your feet remain rooted to the spot as Simon's hands find the hem of your dress, teasing it upwards slightly.
“Stop-” Your hand shoots to his wrist as the air hits your thighs, neither pulling nor pushing. Your soft fingers look insignificant next to his arm, pearly manicure to tattoo ink.
“Calm yer tits.” A wry laugh stirs the top of your hair, his shoulders crowding you against the countertop. “Beth's fast asleep.”
You can think up a few other reasons why this is bad business, though you have a feeling they won't hold up well.
Your hand goes slack against his as he reaches up your dress, a shiver rippling up your spine. “We shouldn't-” You stumble against his chest as Simon languidly cups your ass, the heady scent soaked into his shirt flooding your senses until it blurs with the shameful pounding of your heart. “I don't...” Want this.
“You're a little bird, ain't ya?” You meet his heavy-lidded gaze with bated breath as his fingers hook under your chin again, his thumb creeping to the edge of your mouth. The absence of warmth when his hand slips from beneath your dress leaves you almost wondering, before he cups your tits through the flimsy fabric in spite of your shock. “Spook easy.”
“Can feel your heart goin' like mad, y'know?”
For the first time, he speaks more than he listens. Grabs more than he hears your stubborn whines, his fingers stuffing your mouth, before his hands soon find other work. Insistent and cajoling. His meaty palms roam wherever they land—thumbs dragging over the hardened peaks of your nipples through your dress, one hand sliding down to hitch your leg around his waist. The dull throb behind his fly is a demanding ache, a gnawing hunger that makes Simon feel impossibly patient after months of watching you frolic around his home without ever tasting you.
Simon lets out a guttural rasp over you as your writhing body presses against his hard-on, teasing him through rough denim. “Bloody hell.” He turns you by the waist and presses you against the countertop with a finality that draws a startled squeak from your throat. The noise dies at once. His daughter is asleep down the hall; the last thing you need is to make a scene. You swallow whatever words rise to your tongue, acutely aware of every sound in the trailer, jaw tightening as the counter edge nudges uncomfortably against your hipbones.
You blanch at the thick, hard bulge poking your backside, teething at your thumb nail skittishly. A sickening shudder rolls through you as his hips press forwards with a groan above you, lazily rocking you against the countertop.
“Don't make a sound.”
He'd been more action than words for the better part of the last couple minutes, but his voice seems enough to raise the fine hairs on your nape.
“Yessir...” The words slur together as you slip your thumb between your lips, pink-cheeked. The little bob of your head is all Simon needs before he's freeing his cock from the zipper of his jeans.
The ascent of the thin cotton fabric feels impossibly heavy as he lifts the dress up your hips and settles it around your waist. The pad of his thumb traces your slit through the gusset of your panties, moisture darkening the fabric, before he hooks his fingers through the leg holes and bares your cunt to his eyes.
He clicks his tongue to himself meaningfully and tilts his head as if sizing you up while you suckle on your thumb under him, legs dangling over the edge of the kitchen counter. A sight for sore eyes deserves appreciation, and Simon has only ever known one way to show it—one that'd leave you sore come morning.
“Not so flighty now, eh?” Heat skims the edge of your ear as he speaks in a low drawl, and you almost miss the hitch in his breath when he pushes inch-by-inch into the heat of your cunt. “Who's a good girl?”
Your brows bunch together with exertion at the tight stretch as you peek back at him, all hapless with your lips puckered around your own thumb. You hesitantly slip your thumb from your mouth to speak, the words feeling dumb and embarrassing. “I-I am,” you mumble between soft whimpers sheepishly.
“Yeah. You are.” Humiliation curdles low in your stomach at the sound of his amusement, a slick string of arousal dripping down your center. “Little bird stops complainin' soon as she feels this big dick. You love it, don't you? Just need a paci to shut you up.”
Simon's fingers knead into your flesh with an ease that feels strangely intrusive, as though they have no business being so familiar with you. His calloused palm cracks against the swell of your ass before he bottoms out, your toes curling into the cool tiles as he fills you up. The counter's edge bites into your hips as he pulls back, almost all the way out, before slamming home without any give. Your palms scrabble against the laminate, searching for purchase as he sets a punishing rhythm, each thrust knocking the breath from your lungs in short, punched-out gasps.
He's effectively everywhere. One hand splays across your lower back, pinning you down, while the other finds your hair, gathering it at the nape of your neck in a secure grip, enough to keep you exactly where he wants you.
“That's it,” he rasps, the words carried over the slap of skin on skin echoing through the kitchen's shadows. “Take it.”
Your knees wobble under you, but his grip on your hip tightens like a vice, holding you up, holding you open. The wet sound of him fucking into you fills the kitchen—obscene and rhythmic, drowning out your own muffled whimpers.
He leans over you, chest hot against your back, mouth brushing your ear.
“Thought you could get away from me, little bird. Where you gonna go now?”
— wah wah y/n in a sundress ... y/n with manicured nails ... yes IK i've seen every tumblr post making fun of the cliches but this is what you get when the author (me) likes those things!! crucify me 🙄 at least she's independent and educated!!
NOT PROOFREAD! i hatee the super rushed ending. also oops i realized i accidentally described reader as pink-cheeked in this, i usually avoid appearance descriptions but icba to edit it anymore. >_<
ghost found you the way he assumes you found your collection of stray cats, soaked to the bone from a sudden storm and crouched behind a dumpster to hide from someone who wouldn't think twice about hurting you.
it must be that soft spot that soap keeps insisting he has that makes him stop with his cigarette half lit and stare at you shivering in the cold, well past the hour when pretty things should be home or in someone else's bed, your mascara running rivers down your cheeks and your lipstick smeared, a nice bruise blooming on your cheek where someone hit you (probably the same person that smeared your lipstick). you look up at him with wet eyes and a pitiful expression and he can't stop himself from offering you the cigarette, eager to taste your lipstick stain when you hand it back to him with shaking fingers. it feels like the beginning of the end to invite you upstairs to the little attic flat he's renting.
he doesnt pretend to be a gentleman when he offers you a towel and tells you to warm up in the showrr, doesnt turn around or avoid staring at you when you hesitantly strip. just as well when you pilfer one of his shirts and curl up on the mattress he's shoved in the corner, your lips still trembling as you hold your arms out to him.
its a bad move, mixing business with pleasure, but ghost hates the city and he can't say he feels bad turning his back on it to bury his face between your soft thighs. the same way he doesnt feel bad exchanging numbers in the morning when you set off to wherever home is with a pep in your step. the sex is meaningless, its a time killer for an otherwise boring mission
so then why does he feel his stomach clench when you tell him you'll miss him? why does he recognize your strays with the same familiarity as spotting gaz at the pub? why does he keep a budget line running for that shitty little attic flat that he said he was never coming back to?
and why the fuck do you keep texting him like you were something more than a convenient hole for him? (and why is he starting to think there might not be anything convenient about you?)
dancin' in acid rain alone it's new, but i don't wanna do it anymore; i guess i'll sing alone (modern!ormund hightower x fem!reader).
synopsis: weeks after you and ormund have called it quits, your car breaks down, your cellphone battery dies, and you're stranded on the side of the road under a pouring rain. and somehow, in an act you have yet to decide is either a blessing or a curse, you're thrown back into the dangerous spiral that comes with the very last person you wanted to see.
cw: smut (18+, MDNI!), angst. modern!au, canon divergence. age difference (ormund is implied to be in his early 40s and reader in her mid 20s). oral (male!receiving), masturbation (female!receiving), objectification, praise as dirty talk. power imbalance, toxic dynamics. reader is aegon’s ex, mentions of cheating, ormund is manipulative and a jerk! | 1.4k words
ORMUND lets out a breath, swipes his tongue over his bottom lip, and the thin silver chain that adorns his neck sways like a pendulum with every thrust of his hips.
“you’ll touch yourself to this when you go back home, won’t you?” he whispers, and his words burn through your skin until they’re scorched on your bones. “finger that pretty pussy thinking of me?”
you're in his kitchen, and your knees feel tight against the cold wooden floor, and you're bobbing your head up and down, up and down, up and down, along the length of his cock.
you're in his kitchen, and your shirt lies discarded by your side, pretty tits jiggling with every move, and he does not part his eyes from the sight.
excuses materialize inside your head like wisps of smoke.
you are on a break. yours and aegon's relationship was broken before you officially called it quits, either way. and you are on a break. he's probably doing the same thing, anyways, and he was barely loyal to you when you were actually dating. and you are on a break.
you stop yourself before you can conjure any more.
in this moment, none of them matter.
none of them make up for the fact that he, the man whose cock is far down your throat, is almost twice your age. none of them make up for his steady hands and careful sounds. none of them make up for the fact that he, the man whose cock is far down your throat, has already broken your heart.
it does not matter, not when you swallow around his length and he lets out a quiet groan.
“you look so beautiful like this,” ORMUND hisses through clenched teeth, and a cigarette dangles from the corner of his mouth. “it's easy to see why aegon was so besotted by you. hard not to be when you look this pretty on your knees.”
a moan breaks past your lips.
you’re certain that his words will come back to haunt you later, when you’re back home and start dissecting the evening by its seconds, but at the moment, you close your eyes and do your best to tuck them away.
you run your tongue down the side of his cock, tracing a vein, and your hands travel down between your legs.
and it’s the stretch, and it’s the heat, and it’s the way he’s holding back from thrusting inside your mouth, and your mind is spinning with how good it feels.
“no, pretty girl,” he says, words falling out of his mouth in a purr. you decide you hate how soft it sounds. you cannot help but want to hear it again. “eyes open. come on, keep looking at me.”
you obey. you look up at him through your lashes, and he twitches inside your mouth. one of your hands slips under the hem of your shorts and starts to circle your clit over your panties, your own body trying to match his pace.
it’s not enough.
you press your digits harder against your throbbing pearl, try to circle them faster, but you’re dripping down your thighs, warm and sticky, and as you struggle to take his cock deeper inside your mouth, you cannot help but think of how it feels when it is splitting your cunt open instead.
you can still feel his hands on you. you can still feel his lips on your skin.
it’s been months since the last time you laid with him—the night he said it would be best if you stayed clear of each other for the sake of your relationship with aegon, speaking against your embrace as he held you after fucking you—and you can still feel his hands on you: his soft skin and long fingers, his thick knuckles and strong hold.
it all remains, like the ghost of a touch over your skin, sending shivers down your spine at the memory it evokes.
you wonder if it will ever leave you.
“look at you, pretty girl, making such a mess for me,” his hips thrust against your face again, cock pushing down against your throat. he takes a drag from his cigarette, inhaling deep, and you swear you can feel it in your lungs. “is this turning you on? mhm, are you getting off on the taste of my cock, pretty?”
a nod. you whimper around his length, and he hisses. he removes his right hand from the back of your head and curls his fingers around his base, pulling his cock out of your mouth as your pleasure begins to take form at the bottom of your stomach. a ribbon of spit bridges the empty space between his tip, reddened and leaking, and your lips, swollen and glistening.
ORMUND smirks, angling your face upwards, and runs the head of his cock over your lips.
you open your mouth and stick your tongue out, moaning as your orgasm ripples through you with a force that makes you realize that you have bitten more than you can chew; because this kind of bliss is the kind that has teeth, and is the kind of bliss that bites back.
it’s the kind of bliss that leaves its mark.
“by the seven, look at that,” he mumbles, and a clump of ash falls to the floor. his words are messy and slurred as he strokes his cock faster, and faster, and faster, chasing the same pleasure you have just surrendered yourself to. “you’re beautiful. seven above, you’re beautiful.”
and he comes undone.
a hoarse, broken moan leaves his mouth when he lowers his guard. he continues jerking his cock as he cums, balls drawing tight as he streaks your waiting mouth with ribbons of white. they fall all over your lips, down your chin, along the expanse of your cheeks.
he drinks up the sight, pupils growing wide to take it all in, and his euphoria, unlike yours, is the kind that has wings.
you swallow, and the moment he closes his eyes to take a breath in, you wipe at the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand. you lower your head to put on your top, and miss the way in which his eyes search for yours.
the lightning fixture shines over your head, golden and gentle like a low-hanging moon, bathing the kitchen in a faint amber glow. light bleeds over every surface as the day leaves little by little, and, for a moment, there is silence: silence as he gathers his thoughts and silence as you comb through yours.
he feels himself isolated from the world and is only standing in a quiet kitchen; glowing warmly under an artificial moon, and is sure that this is all there is, with his gaze set on the horizon and his anchor dropping on a bed of sand. silence, and the smell of grapefruit dish soap.
then, an exhale.
the world is the world again.
“this cannot happen again,” he whispers, voice soft as silk, words set in stone. they sting, hot and painful, running like acid down your spine. you can still taste his cum on your tongue. “we don’t work, you and i. not really. you know that, don’t you? and he loves you still, i know he does. he wants to try again. and you two—he's a better fit for you.”
your words die on your throat, and you answer what you can. “i know.”
ORMUND nods, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths, and tucks his softening cock back inside his pants. he squares his shoulders, picking up the boulder, shouldering the weight.
“you should stay the night,” he adds, after a moment. he leans over your form and leaves the bunt of cigarette on the counter. “there’s pasta, if you want something to eat.”
the daze is over as quickly as it began. your knees, raw and reddened, sting when you stand, and you're left with his words, quiet and regretful, as the bitterness of bile rises up your throat.
18+ | your captain takes advantage of you while you assemble his gun. Blindfolded
The blindfold was tight. Darkness swallowed everything except the sound of his voice and the cool metal parts scattered around the desk.
“Start with the recoil spring, love” Captain Price said, guiding her hand to the parts. “Feel for it.”
Your fingers trembled as you reached out blindly, fingers trembling as he keeps running lazy strokes. He slides your panties down with a hook of his thumb. Every piece you get right, he praises you in that low, devastating voice.
“Good girl… that’s it. Just like that…” he rewards you by pressing the head of his cock firmer against your clit, grinding in small circles. When you fumble the barrel, trying to line it up while the pressure fogs your brain, he pulls back and gives another light smack on your ass, warm and stinging.
“Tch, pay attention, darling. You’re smarter than this. Focus for me.”
Possessive!Gaz who either, one: ends up dating such a soft and sweet girl or the independent girl who he helps learn to be soft on the inside.
He’s the type of man who will blow up your phone if your location is off till you pick up, and when you decide to pick up he’s still very calm and collected, “My love?”
“Talk to me.”
And you can hear the turn signal on, bad sliding at the car he’s in moves, “I just noticed you turned off your location… are you okay? You at home?”
You bite, “‘M perfect actually, exactly where I’m supposed to be. just minding my business… are you?”
Your boyfriend lets out a laugh you just can hear doesn’t reach his eyes, “You are a funny girl sweetheart, my business is your business though. ‘Nd that includes your location, please joke with someone else, yeah?”
“Sheesh Garrick, you’re no fun.”
“Not about this, ‘m not. Let’s chat when I get home, hm?”
Possessive!Gaz doesn’t like miscommunication, it’s no running off or avoiding conversation for long. He’s always sat next to you, with your hands in his, doesn’t even like the idea of going to bed angry.
How devious can possessive!Gaz be, can be the perfect man in the room, all smiles and jokes, long as he can keep a hand on you, a mere touch, his eyes on you, behind him, beside him, in front of him (preferably). Doesn’t mind faking a smile or two, maybe three, and then drilling his cock into you from the back.
One hand on the curve of your arched back, the other gripping your curls, as you sob his name again, making you fuck yourself again this veiny cock that wast stretching you out. Every slow clap! of your ass smacking against his pelvis while you ease yourself down his length over and over, jaw slack every time you feel his cockhead smooch you’re sticky sweet spot.
“Come on baby,” he lets out a low grunt, curved length pounding i into you that has you mewling so loud your neighbors can hear, taking his time making sure you feel every inch. Hearing every squelch, “Show me how much I belong to you, grippin me so tight.”
Your nails claw at the back of his thighs, bouncing down on his cock hard you feel a snap pull in your stomach, your pussy spasming around his girth.
You head lulls to the side, pushing at his thighs to let up but the man only grinds deep inside you, gloves of your ass pancakes against him, you practically squeal his name “Kyleee.”
“Not gonna be enough with just that lovie, gotta make mess on it.”
He fucks into you rough, arm snacked around your waist now, plucking your hair a little harder, louder moans irrupting from your mouth. His balls smacking against your slippery cunt with every thrust, Kyle lets out a raspy drawl, “Hah- had me- fuck mm- me ‘f all people smilin as they talked to you. Tried t’ get close to you like they- thaaaats it sweet girl- they know you like I do. Was on my best behavior for you wasn’t I?”
Kyle fics your ass a harsh smack that makes you jolt, “[+]?”
“Yes!” You yelp out, almost toppling over till he drags his cock out, till his weeping tip it in, “Need my reward darlin, tell me [+].”
“‘S mine,” you bite your lip to hold in another aggressive moan, hips swiveling down, his hard on massaging your walls just right, “Fuck it’s all mine Kyle, mine!”
You can feel his smirk against your ear, rutting his cock back into you fast, you’re creaming around him, he fucks you through it, till his cock is nuzzled deep inside you, spurts of his cum filling your tummy, “That’s my greedy girl, my gooood girl.”
Lately, you’ve been thinking about having a baby.
Or: the fertility clinic au
Part 2
masterlist
You walk around town like it’s written on your forehead that you’re about to let some strange man get you pregnant.
It might as well be a scarlet letter pinned to your breast. A sign taped to the back of your shirt. Kick me. I’m letting some guy knock me up. Or better yet, I’m with stupid, with the arrow pointed up at you.
Obviously that’s not true. You’ve done a good job at keeping this under wraps for the most part, not even your closest friends hearing about the man that propositioned you in the fertility clinic waiting room. You might've had half a mind to call one of them about it on the drive home, but by then you’d already filed it away as future gossip material, imagining bringing it up at drinks to the shock and delight of your friends.
Then night falls, and you grow weak.
You wake up with post-text message clarity the next morning, but there’s little you can do to backtrack now. You gave the man your name and number. You spoke to him on the phone about it, albeit briefly. Sure you could call John again and tell him that you thought it over a little more and decided against it, but then—
“It’s gonna cost four thousand dollars.”
Your coworker lets out a hissed breath, wincing. “That’s not cheap.”
It’s a pea-soupy summer morning, all hot and humid with the sky tinted a yellowish colour from forest fires up in the country, the hazy light seeping in through the windows in the office kitchen. Not a cloud in sight. You wouldn't call it a particularly pleasant morning, with the weather as overcast as your mood, but it could always be worse.
She’s the first person outside of a few close friends that you’ve told about going to the clinic at all, but she reacts exactly as you thought she would. It’s both affirming and annoying; it’s not so bad hearing from someone else that four thousand dollars is a bit pricey for a single person, but part of you wishes she’d try to convince you to go through with it. You need someone to push you in a direction—in any direction.
You nod, mouth screwed into a grimace. “And that’s only for a single try. I think she said it would be closer to, like, twelve thousand dollars altogether.”
“So are you gonna do it? Or are you gonna keep looking around?”
“I have another appointment next week,” you half-answer, getting cagey all of a sudden.
The truth is, that appointment isn’t the only thing you’ve got on the books. There’s another dot in your calendar for a few days before, one that seems to glow ominously when you stare at the date as it slowly approaches, lumbering forward one ground-shaking step at a time.
You wonder how long you can go without telling anyone. Theoretically, you could keep up this ruse for the rest of your life, pretend you always went through with the treatment. Lie through your teeth when your friends ask you if you know anything about the donor. No, they didn’t tell me anything, I just picked a profile with a good medical record and family history.
Don’t think about how you live in the same city. Don’t think about the likelihood of running into him around town with the baby in tow.
You shake your head. Those are concerns that you can foist off onto a future version of you. All the current you needs to worry about is making this all a reality.
You don’t know what to wear out to dinner with him. It’s both a date and not, more of a prelude to the later events of the night. Part of you wonders if you should just text him your address and tell him to skip the preamble and come on over.
The only reason you don’t is because a little voice at the back of your mind insists that you at least do your due diligence and screen him a little more over dinner. You can always back out at the last minute if a few too many red flags pop up.
(You tell yourself that as if a strange man offering to knock you up within five minutes of meeting weren’t a big enough red flag on its own.)
John meets you at the restaurant looking every bit as handsome as the day you met him, once again nearly taking your breath away. A little more buttoned up this time though, actually quite dashing in a proper dress shirt and suit jacket, even his shoes polished.
You have a second to think about calling it off. A second to consider turning tail and getting as far away as possible. Maybe, with enough time, you could scrape together the money for IUI. You could wait a year, or take out a loan with your bank, or pray for a decent enough raise to manage it on your own.
But then, as the time before, he turns his head and locks eyes with you.
It would probably be a good idea to take a picture of him, maybe even a picture of his ID, and send it over to one or two of your friends, on the off chance that he turns out to be a dangerous man, but you don’t need to be inundated by a barrage of text messages and phone calls from your friends trying to talk you out of it. You’ve made up your mind.
Walnut and burgundy furnishings decorate the large room, and the amber glow of candlelight and antique wall sconces saturates the restaurant in a dark, sensual bloom. A server guides John and you to a table right in the middle of the room, a better table than you might’ve hoped to get on your own. You eye him sideways when he pulls your chair out for you.
His demeanour is so relaxed that if you didn’t already know the purpose of this dinner, you could be forgiven for assuming that you were out on a real date. John certainly acts the part.
“You know, we didn’t have to do this,” you start awkwardly, eyes gliding over the room to look at all the other well-dressed patrons, some presumably out on actual dates.
“Call me old-fashioned, but I was taught that dinner comes before the rest of the evening.”
“I just mean you didn’t have to. I would’ve been fine just…” getting right down to business, you leave unsaid, hoping that he doesn’t make you spell it out.
“We’re two civilized adults. I thought we might get to know each other first.”
“Well, what do you want to know about me?”
“This is as much for me as it is for you—don’t you want to know anything about the father of your children?”
You wish he’d keep his voice down. He isn’t wrong though; it would be a good idea for you to take his candidature more seriously, actually ask him questions about himself and his parentage. He already emailed you a recent STI panel and bloodwork results, both done through the fertility clinic back when he was still keen on donating, but it wouldn’t hurt to learn a little more about him.
“Alright. How old are you?”
“Forty-six.”
You nod, pleased with yourself for guessing it right. “What do you do for work?”
“Just some work for the government,” he says, brushing the question off. “What else?”
That piques your interest though. “Oh, come on. What are you, M16 or something?”
“No, nothing like that,” John laughs, genuinely amused enough for you to believe him.
You roll your eyes when he doesn’t elaborate any further though. “Fine, leave me in the dark. Anything else you want to know about me?”
“Where are you in your cycle?” he asks, blunt as a hammer.
A classic spit take moment. It’s a good thing you haven’t ordered a drink yet.
“I think it’s, uh…it’s coming soon actually. Um. Next week or so.”
He chews on that for a second, mulling over the timing. “That’s fine. We should still be able to make it work.”
There he goes again, making comments that leave you fish-mouthed and stunned, jaw slack with disbelief. Never able to conjure up a good enough retort.
When the server comes by to take your drink orders, both of you still deliberating over your food, John orders a beer for himself and a mocktail for you, not even bothering to consult you about it.
“No alcohol,” he reminds you before you have a chance to ask.
To be fair, the spicy blackberry-basil concoction that the server comes back with a few minutes later is a refreshing burst of fruit and fresh herbs, but that doesn’t excuse the overstep. You ignore it only because you know there’s no use getting worked up when you’ve already made your mind up. It’s a peccadillo in the grand scheme of things considering what he’s doing for you.
Conversation flows surprisingly well over dinner, but at the back of your mind, you can’t stop thinking about how at the end of the night, he’s going to take you home and fuck you. It creeps back in whenever you let your guard down for a split second.
So, do you have any hobbies? (In three hours, this man is going to strip you naked and have sex with you)
Do you have any siblings? Any twins running in the family? (In two hours, this man is going to climb on top of you and fuck you until he puts a baby in you)
It’s a lot to keep in your head at the same time.
“How long have you been thinking about doing this?” John asks apropos of nothing, the earlier thread of your conversation evaporating on the spot.
“I mean, I’ve wanted to have kids for a long time, but actually planning to have them…maybe a couple months?”
“Why now? Why not wait a little longer? Wait for someone to start a family with?”
You’re not sure why he’d ask you that, why it would matter. It’s none of his business, quite frankly. You almost want to tell him that, let yourself get righteous, get angry, but you find you can’t fully commit to the anger. It wouldn’t change anything. You aren’t being forced to answer him.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“I’m not much of a family man myself. ‘Least not when I was younger, when it counted. Never had the time nor the inclination. Work took me all over—it just wouldn’t have been fair if I had a wife or kids waiting around for me. But since it didn’t seem like having a family was in the cards for me, I thought it would be a waste of good genetics.”
“Oh.” It’s arrogant, but it’s as good an answer as any.
He waits a beat then lifts an eyebrow when you don’t reciprocate. “So? Why didn’t you wait?”
“I did try, but there wasn’t much out there, and I wanted a baby more than I wanted to be with someone, so…”
Leave him to fill in the blanks. He met you at the culmination of that longing after all, even changed the course of it, disrupted your plans to place himself at the centre of them.
At the centre for a time, you remind yourself. Not forever.
After that, he keeps the conversation light, only delving into superficial topics to help pass the time. You excuse yourself after finishing your meal to go to the bathroom, and come back to two coffees laid out on the table with sugar and cream in pretty porcelain cups laid out between them. John must have ordered for you again in your absence. Good thing you like coffee.
The bill is also there, discretely tucked under John’s napkin, and that makes your stomach flip, realizing that only a coffee now sits between you and the end of this night.
Then, at a certain point, when all that’s left in your cup is the dregs, sugar spoon bone dry on your plate, John gives you a look from across the table that says it’s time for you both to go.
Well, here we go, you think a little hysterically as you push back your chair to stand, nearly jumping out of your skin when his hand comes down on your back.
At your car, you sway back and forth on your heels. “You can, uh…follow behind me, if that works.”
“Why don’t you give me your address and I’ll meet you there?”
You bite your lip, pretending to deliberate, then acquiesce.
Let him think he’s pulling one on you. You’re bringing him home instead of the other way around because you don’t want to have any memory of a man’s bed when you think about your pregnancy journey. If it’s going to be you alone, then it should be about you alone. Your decision to go out and pick a man to father your baby.
His participation will be a short blip in your life. A minor footnote. You’ll remember it in bursts throughout the rest of your life: staring at a carton of cream in the dairy aisle of the local grocery store; garden spade buried hilt-deep in a plot of soil, blue bigleaf hydrangea in a pot beside you, sweat dripping down the bow of your lips; your baby’s face, for the rest of your natural life.
In your foyer, his hands glide around your hips, pulling you into his chest, and you realize abruptly that ‘short’ might not have been the most accurate interpretation of what’s about to happen.
(Honey, you’ve got a storm coming)
“This off first,” John rasps, pulling the bottom of your shirt up and over your head, blinding you for a split second before he yanks it over your arms.
“Getting right to it, huh?” you joke nervously.
“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he asks, staring down at you assessingly, as if staring into your soul. That cuts the humour from the moment. Vacuums it from the room, leaving behind only the crackling, blistering heat of his gaze and his intentions.
“Yes,” you whisper. Neither of you mention the tremble in your voice and how unsure you sound.
It doesn’t stop him from undressing you though. Bra pulled down under your breasts, pushing your tits up into his face like an invitation, one he accepts without question, pulling your nipples into his mouth one by one, hands on your hips to hold you in place when you try to squirm away. Not that it’s bad—it’s amazingly good after all, toe-curlingly good to have a man run his tongue over your areolas and suck each sensitive nipple to a stiff peak, until you’re on the verge of coming—but it’s a lot, a lot that you have to wrap your head around, your bra pinched off shortly after that and underwear next.
Your touch is hesitant at first, fingers barely gliding down his arms and fisting in the fabric of his shirt to jerk it up, but he makes it easy for you to get lost in it, your nerves fizzling out in the heat and fervor.
You don’t even notice that John has walked you backwards into the bedroom until he pushes you down onto the bed, the mattress bouncing under you. “One second, love—need to get all of this off myself.”
You watch transfixed as the suit jacket comes off first, shrugged off and discarded. He undoes only a few buttons before wrenching it over his head, eyes on you the whole time, his stare never breaking. Scalding hot.
That’s how you know that despite all his lofty words, this isn’t some favour he’s doing you. He wants this just as badly—wants it with a vigour that you don’t even know if you’ll be able to handle, aware that you are just flesh and blood. There’s a prickle at the back of your mind, a whisper reminding you that nobody knows that he’s here, that he’s a hot-blooded man about to slake his lust with your body.
Then he slides the elastic waistband of his boxers down his thighs and your mind goes blank when you see the flushed, heavy shaft droop between his legs.
The two of you work together to shove a pillow under your hips, John fetching it from the top of the bed and you lifting your hips to give him easier access. You don’t have to ask why.
Nestled between your thighs, John looks up at you with heavy-lidded eyes and says, “Let’s get you all softened up to start, alright, love?”
The first touch of his lips to your sex sends a lightning bolt up your spine, and then it’s practically an open mouth kiss. Tongue running up the seam of your lips, pushing into the clenched hole at the centre, the bristles of his beard scraping up the insides of your thighs and the thin skin of your labia.
It’s good, but it’s taking too long and your heart is a rabbiting mess and you can barely think or see straight, so you tangle your fingers in his hair and try to push his head away. “That’s okay, John, I just wanna—oh fuck, can you please just put it in?”
“No, baby, it’s good if you come first,” he murmurs. “Helps it take.”
That floods your system with a frenetic, crazed exhilaration. Baby fever bubbling and boiling, frothing spilling over the top like a pot left on the stovetop for too long.
You gasp when he tucks a couple fingers into your hole to stretch you out, a perfunctory, almost clinical motion. Just enough to loosen you up for him, unmindful of the way you squirm and whine, rolling your hips to get him to go faster. He does not.
It doesn’t take much effort on his part after that to get you to come, too worked up and wound up, core squeezing his fingers like a vice until he gives your clit a suck and you squeal, oh, too much, breath ripping through your chest.
They’re wet when he pulls them out, and he dries them off by rubbing them on your belly.
The shadow of his body draws over yours as he climbs on top of you. It’s as physical as it is visual though, John’s hands always on some part of your body, dragging up your legs and over your arms, fingers spreading over your belly before he runs a hand up between your breasts and over your throat, lingering there just long enough to close around your throat and hold for a second, then skating up to cup your jaw.
And then he’s all big body on top of you, coaxing your legs around his hips, one hand squishing your cheeks when he bends down to kiss you. You can taste yourself on his lips, the tongue pushing into your mouth musky with the flavour of your cum. You’d protest if you could, but you can’t, his mouth slanted over yours and demanding.
“C’mere,” he mumbles against your lips when he draws you in for another kiss, sawing his cock up and down between your folds, coating his length with your juices, until it’s there suddenly, breaching you.
You have to grab him, loop your arms around his shoulders and squeeze to ground yourself. It’s a lot to take in. He’s a lot to take in.
“I know, love, I know,” John murmurs soothingly. “Deep breaths, okay?”
You listen to him, letting a shaky breath out. It helps you relax. Barely, but enough to ease the strain a bit.
He nuzzles his nose into your temple, his breath fanning out against your ear. “A little more, love, alright? You gonna be brave for me?”
“Oh—just get on with it,” you gasp when he eases in another inch, and John laughs in your ear.
It feels genuinely romantic like this. Your arms wrapped around his neck and his hips slowly rocking into you, whispering sweet nothings like, there we go, you’ve got it, that feel good, love? When he fits his hand around the back of your neck and lifts your head up for a kiss, you swear you see stars.
The kiss is too much. Too intimate. You wish you would’ve set that boundary ahead of time. It feels pointless now, trapped under the heavy weight of his body and impaled on his member, sucked into it, lips slotting and melting over each other, his tongue running over yours. He’s a good kisser at least, practiced from a lifetime of it. No awkward schoolboy tonguing.
Too good. You wonder distantly how many other women he’s slept with (probably more than you have any business knowing). If he’s ever gotten anyone else pregnant. Your nails dig into his back instinctively at the thought and he gasps a wet and guttural sound, hips bucking harder.
He gets rough enough to loosen a bolt of fear in your chest. All of a sudden, it becomes bright and clear in your mind. There’s a grunting, sweating man over you, all two hundred plus pounds of him laid out on top of you, with no protection between you. Raw cock plunging into your pussy. You can barely get a full breath in.
“Fuck, I’m close,” John grunts, and your eyes flick down instinctively, trying to see past the dense mass of hair on his chest towards the length of his cock sliding into you. He’s pressed too close though. When he catches you looking away from him, he clamps his hand around your face again, forcing your gaze back up. “No, none of that. Eyes on me.”
You think you must gasp. Some horrified sound must escape you because you can feel the aftereffect of it, the big hollow where it used to be.
His other arm wedges under your back to pull you closer to him, thighs spreading to brace his weight against the mattress before driving into you harder, deeper, the big, concentrated energy of him inescapable.
You can sense it the second before he’s about to come, his eyebrows digging in and his jaw going tight, the vein in his forehead prominent.
“Christ, you’re gonna take it, aren’t you?” he snarls. “All this fucking cum.”
On the next stroke in, you dig an ankle into the muscle of his ass and squeeze your inner muscles around his length, grinning hazily to yourself when that makes him shout.
And then, oh, he surges in and you feel it, hear it, sense it all around you, his fingers from the hand wedged under your back digging hard into the side of your breast. Hips forcefully pumping into you and pushing his cum in deep, your own orgasm lost somewhere in there, a small, forgettable part of it all.
Eventually, he stops moving over you, letting his cock slip out of you on the next stroke out. You hiss when he does, clenching up involuntarily. With nothing plugging it inside though, his cum leaks out, dripping down the crack of your ass and onto the pillow under your hips.
John’s hot breath fans over your face as he pants, slowly winding down as well, the red flush in his cheeks still stark, though gradually fading. It’s only in the cooldown that you realize how claustrophobic it is being trapped under him, the sheer weight and heat of his body flush with yours becoming more and more uncomfortable, almost unbearably so.
When he slumps off to one side, you can finally breathe again, the air rushing into your lungs. There’s sweat in your skin and tears in the corners of your eyes, everything tacky and humid, the frantic beat of your heart only beginning to slow down. The stiffness in your shoulders only dawns on you after a few minutes like that, and you push yourself up onto your elbows just to try to work some of it out.
“No, don’t get up, love. We’re just gonna lie here for a bit,” he instructs, pushing your shoulder back down. “Better chance of my boys getting the job done if we keep it all in you.”
Of course he just wants to make sure that it takes. That way, you don’t have to do this again. “Oh yeah. I, uh, I didn’t think about that.”
He doesn’t just mean lie there, of course, though your body would like nothing more than to sink into the plush embrace of sleep. Instead he means keeping your hips propped up on the pillow now saturated with cum, and curling you into his side, separating your thighs again to palm your cunt, sliding his fingers through the wet.
It’s a goopy, sticky mess that John plunges his fingers into, pushing it back up inside of you and shushing you when you whimper, a little gaped from his cock but sore to the touch.
For much longer than you anticipated, he lies there on his side beside you and keeps two fingers pushed up inside you, blocking any cum from leaking out.
“How long do we have to do this for?” you ask, voice all high and tight in your throat.
John hums, unconcerned. “Ten, fifteen minutes.”
True to his word, he keeps you there for the full fifteen minutes. Only the sound of your breathing fills the room, quiet otherwise aside from the enormously large weight of his presence, too familiar now with the private corners of your world.
He doesn’t warn you before idly circling your clit with thumb. You jerk, nearly biting through your lip. “John!”
“Relax, honey, I’m just making you come again.”
“I know that, John—ah, ah, ah—”
A leg hooks over yours, his thigh heavy enough to keep you pinned without even much strength behind it. His fingers don’t so much as twitch inside of you, buried to the fattest knuckle while his thumb circles the tight bud of your clit over and over again until you—
You haven’t finished the thought by the time he draws his fingers out, pearlescent strings of cum webbed between them. He hums approvingly when he sees that, pulling your thighs further apart to admire his work. “Gorgeous. That ought to do it for now.”
Your heart skips a beat and you stare up at him, exhausted, the sweat on the back of your neck now cold.
johnny and simon both eat like dogs. like you could actually feed their meals to a dog. sweet potato, ground beef, and whatever veg was about to turn rotten. and no seasoning. time can’t be wasted on seasoning in their household.
dinner is a fleeting affair. both of them hunched over their bowls and inhaling. you’re staring at them in shock as they devour their flavorless, meaningless slop.
then to the couch for tv time. you feel a bit like a zookeeper that’s just thrown a limb of mean into a lions enclosure. the beasts fed, and now they lick their paws and relax.
they don’t even like the two teams playing on the television right now.
“why don’t you two come to my place tomorrow for a change?”
“wot? something wrong with our flat, dove?”
“no, no! of course not!”
they may look like lions but they frighten easily. the last thing you mean to do is scare them off.
“course not, just thought a change of pace might be nice?”
they share a weary look. change isn’t their favorite thing, not after years of strict military routine. they agree nonetheless. and they show up right on time, no surprise there.
they share another weary look when you ask them to take off their shoes before coming in.
“i made dinner. just something light,” you smile despite knowing dinner was far more effort than you care to let on.
johnny barrels towards the kitchen. “what’s the occasion, lass? you did all this for us?” and you shrug.
“just thought i’d thank the two of you, y’know. you’re always around to lend a hand.”
they just gape at you like there’s no brain activity happening within their thick skulls.
“well, have a seat then.” you gesture towards the set table with proper cutlery and a vase of flowers in the center.
you bring them both their plates of food, no ground beef, or sweet potatoes, or cottage cheese. and they hunch themselves over, ready to inhale as per usual.
“hasn’t anyone taught you how two to take your time?”
they stare at you again. just as stupidly as they did moments ago. this time they’ve gone silent because both of them are half hard beneath the table.
“going slowly makes it better, you know. not everything is a race.”
and that’s how you end up with simon between your thighs and your back pressed against johnny’s chest as he rubs your shoulders.
“slow, right? that makes it all better?”
simon is rolling his hips agonizingly slowly, dragging his cock against your warm walls.
“simon, faster please,” you beg him. he’s been going at this for the better part of an hour.
he tuts at you. “none of that. you wanted slow, you’re getting slow.
“that’s not—not what i meant,” you pant. you roll your head back to look at johnny, hoping he might help you out. he just brushes your hair from your sticky face instead.
“dinner was nice, sweetheart. now enjoy your dessert.”
﹙ ¹⁸⁺ ﹚ ₊ ❜୧ A QUICKIE WITH YOUR HUSBAND SIMON.
you're sorting through what feels like the millionth tiny sock when simon comes up behind you, large hands settling on your hips. "kids are occupied," he murmurs against your neck, and you can hear the suggestion in his voice.
"si, i have to get this done," you protest weakly, but you're already leaning back into him. wash day waits for no one with three kids, and you're drowning in tiny clothes. "and they won't stay distracted for long."
"exactly why we should be quick about it." his hands slide around to your stomach, pulling you flush against him. you can feel he's already hard, and your resolve wavers. "been thinking about you all morning, luv. watching you bend over sortin’ laundry..."
"you're terrible," you breathe, but you're already turning in his arms. seven years of marriage and three kids later, and he still looks at you like he wants to devour you. "we have maybe ten minutes before someone needs something."
"can work with that." he's already lifting you onto the washing machine, hands pushing up his sweatshirt that you wore around the house. "fuck, no panties? you trying t’kill me?"
"it's wash day, baby," you remind him, wrapping your legs around his waist. "everything's in the dirty hamper." but your explanation dissolves into a moan as his fingers find you already wet.
"fuckin' convenient," he growls, working you open with practiced efficiency. there's no time for slow and sweet; not with three kids in the house. "always ready for me, aren't you, swee'eart?"
you bite your lip to keep quiet as he replaces his fingers with his cock, pushing in with one smooth thrust. "simon," you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt. "fuck—w-we have to be quiet."
"then you'd better keep that pretty mouth o’yours shut," he says, setting a punishing pace immediately. the washing machine rocks with the force of it, and you have to brace yourself against the wall. "can't have the little ones hearing what daddy does to mummy."
the filthy words in his rough accent make you clench around him. he notices, of course he does, and smirks against your neck. "like that, do you? knowing i'm fuckin’ you while our babies play down the hall?"
before you can respond, there's a loud bang on the door. "mommy! mommy, open!" your five-year-old's voice cuts through your haze of pleasure. "need you!"
simon doesn't stop, if anything going harder. "mummy's busy, swee'eart," he calls out, voice impressively steady for someone currently railing you against major appliances. "go play with yer sister."
"but mommy!" another bang. "daisy took my doll!"
you try to answer but simon chooses that moment to hit that perfect spongy spot inside you, and all that comes out is a strangled sound. he covers your mouth with his hand, eyes dark with amusement and lust.
"mummy's folding clothes," he lies smoothly. "she'll be out in a minute, go tell daisy t'share."
"don't want to!" your daughter whines, and you can hear her stomping her little feet. "want mommy now!"
"ella." simon's voice drops into what you call his lieutenant voice — gentle but brooking no argument. "go play. we'll be out soon."
there's a moment of silence, then you hear her stomp away muttering about simon being unfair. the second she's gone, simon removes his hand from your mouth.
"such a good girl," he praises, but you're not sure if he means you or ella. "keeping quiet while i fuck you senseless. though i bet y’wanted to scream, didn't you?"
"simon, fuck, please," you gasp, feeling your orgasm building embarrassingly fast. the combination of his cock and the thrill of almost getting caught has you on edge. "i'm gonna-"
"i know, luv. she's fuckin’ squeezin’ me." his thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight circles. "c'mon then. cum all over my cock before another one starts bangin’ on the door."
as if on cue, you hear your two-year-old calling from somewhere in the house. "mama?"
the use of your married name plus the perfect pressure on your clit sends you over. you bite his shoulder to muffle your cry as you cum all over his cock, whole body shaking with the force of it. he follows right after, groaning low in your ear as he fills you.
"mama!" your toddler's voice is getting closer.
"shit," simon pants, pulling out and quickly fixing his clothes. he helps you down, steadying you when your legs wobble. "y’good?"
"just peachy," you breathe, smoothing down his sweatshirt. you can feel his cum starting to leak and clench your thighs together.
"though i'm going to need to shower before i finish this laundry."
SHOW US SQUIRT!!! (pls quench pornstar!simon’s thirst)
cw: 18+ mdni, pornstar!simon, water!sports go sports!.
The man will have your legs shaking, forcing your hips back and forth against your face, your pulsing clit rubbing against his hooked nose.
Your eyes are squeezed shut, hands piling through his blonde locks as trying to pull away but he’s eating your pussy so sloppy, tongue flat and slurping up your juices. “Simon, I can’t- mmhck- can’t-“ you sob out, overstimulated and words mushing together. But you’re so gorgeous, tear stained on your face, all sweaty and hot over top of him, plush thighs around his head and gushy heat on his mouth. “No-“ he mumbles, taking a heavy breath in and out, “Can take it f’me. ‘S okay.” He coos. He gives it a filthy kiss that has your squirming, big and rough hands gripping your hips back and forth against his face. You can feel the vibrations of every filthy groan and main Simon is letting out against your pussy, you gobble forward into the pillows, keening ever so loudly the neighbors might hear you.
“Fuck- anngh! So- fuck!” Stars are in your eyes, shaking uncontrollably and water fucking streaming out of your pussy and into his mouth.
Simon grunts, gulping and sucking down whatever you’re giving him, cleaning you dry, “There you go gorgeous, bloody perfect.”
It takes you a minute to come to, flipped on your back and a stain in the sheets. Tears well up in your eyes, small adorable hiccups filling Simons ears that make him perk up. Immediately going to hold you.
“Why did you do that?” You sniffle, wiping your eyes, “‘S gross hck- ‘s bad.”
The man is all delirious, pouting at your own words, “not gross if ‘s yours.” And he plants a supple kiss against your puffy cunt, your thighs that’s all damp, lapping up whatever wetness is there. “Don’t talk about ‘er like tha dovie.”
HUGE YES to Wesker fucking you on the sparring mat
You don’t think anything of it when Wesker offers you some extra training after hours, assuming your captain just wants to see you improve. Boy are you wrong!
He’s way rougher than he should be on a rookie, immediately sweeping your legs out from under you and pinning you down to the mat with his much larger frame. His knees keep your legs down, one hand pinning both your wrists to the small of your back, and his other around your throat. Go on, try screaming. See what happens.
Ahh, I love it so much.
Wesker with his favourite rookie. The one who clearly needs more work on hand-to-hand combat, the one lacking experience and could really do with some more one-on-one practice.
He’s your Captain, almost like a mentor to you. It’s expected for him to train you since you’re so inexperienced. He really needs you to understand the standards here, and he’d be the best at demonstrating them.
You’re so winded and out of breath. Perspiration shines on your forehead, and your legs tremble from overworking the muscle. Your back aches, and you’ve spent more time on your arse than you have on your feet.
“Try and get out of this position. Remember what I taught you, rookie.” He chips in.
You’re on your stomach, his knees push into the backs of yours, pinning you down. You can feel the heavy weight of him on top of you, it’s all crushing and tiring, and your arms plead with you for a break. God, it’s all agonising. But, you’re so determined to prove yourself that you persist. He has one hand pinning your smaller wrists to the small of your back while the other finds itself grabbing you by the scruff of your neck, forcing your cheeks to smoosh against the mat, which is marked with the sweat of both of you.
You push up, your hips first, You twist and turn, although to Wesker you’re merely shaking. Your ass meets his front, ignorant to the fact that you’re rubbing the imprint of his hardening length with your sore rear. You continue to push back, all while shoving him off of your neck. You’re trying to get yourself off of your stomach, and onto your side, but you’re merely rubbing Wesker’s boner back and forth with the softness and plumpness of your backside that Wesker’s coming in his boxers at the sensation.
You’re too distracted by the pain and the need to prove yourself that when his hand slips from the back of your neck to the front of your trousers, unbuttoning and unzipping them, you don’t bat an eye.
But, now Wesker can’t let you go that easy. Not knowing how good it feels to orgasm to the feeling of your body.
cw: 18+. DO NOT LEAVE SPOILERS IN THE COMMENTS. I WILL DELETE AND/OR BLOCK. also not really edited at all.
navigate to: part 1 | part 2
part 3 (final)
You open a canned cocktail and then last all of two hours. Validation-seeking-ass bitch.
» Hey, thanks again for fixing my tires. I really appreciate it. Sorry for making you do extra work after you just finished working, especially in this heat.
» I would've hated It would've been I don't want you to think I was serious about the drink offer, btw. If you don't drink, it can be something else. Please let me know when you're free
You turn the phone face-down and go pace around your bathroom, reorganizing your serums and SPF and cleansers and vitamin C and retinol and then you hear the phone vibrate from your bedside table and you're striding back.
» don't need to be sorry
» Well, then, thanks. better?
» better
» trust you got home ok then
» I did. Even took the highway
» good to hear
» you should ask security to walk you to your car any time past 5
» they'll do it no questions asked
» Oh I finish before 5. you just caught me in two extenuating circumstances lol
» made me look that word up
» lol sorry
» what'd i say bout that
You set the phone down. Lie flat on your back on your bed and breathe out a giant shrill exhale. Drag your hands over your face in multiple repetitions. Shake your head over and over. Processing. Processing.
» are you about to say it again
» 100%
» cute
» finish at 7 tomorrow. let's grab something after
» ok sounds good. have a good night
» cheers
—
Sasha debriefs you; she'd felt bad about revealing your secrets, so with John and Kyle, she'd pivoted to some question about integrated webcams instead while you were hiding in the washrooms. "Secret's safe with me," she'd smiled and apologized.
You debrief Sasha. She slaps your shoulders and upper arms until you push her away laughing to defend yourself.
She grabs a piece of paper and pen.
what we know
name G_02
sees you maybe daily or weekly - passes you or vice versa
seen your cubicle
knows your full name or enough to message you
has access to company chat
possibly G for ghost
possibly G for garrick (??)
possibly others
Sasha taps the pen against her lips. "Easy enough. Let's strike out a few of these." Opening the chat app, she uses the search user feature to eventually find Kyle Garrick.
"Hm, his username is just KG though."
"Okay, look for Simon."
"He has an account. They must assign them to everyone. Username SR."
"Fuck me. This person managed to make their name slightly different than the usual nomenclature. An IT person perhaps?"
A few hours later, you're on your own, wandering through the floor to find an HR officer for a pay question on your file. Your eyes eliminating pods of cubicles as you go. "Oh! Hey."
Kyle squinting and tabbing between a set of two monitors, a pair of 1950s style glasses propped on the edge of his nose. At your voice, he glances up in surprise. A big smile curling up. "Heya! How's it?" He leans back in his chair and pushes the glasses up over his hair. "You need some help?"
"No, no, I was just on my way to grab someone from HR, and wandered through. Still getting used to the maze."
He stands, adjusting his relaxed summery pants, grabbing at his glasses and laying them on the desk. "Let me join ya. Today's doin' my head in. Need a break anyway."
"Oh, sure," you smile. "Do you know Una? That's who I'm looking for. I thought they were around here…"
He laughs easily and surprising you, sets his long fingers at the tops of your shoulders and spins you around so you're facing the opposite direction. "Thatta way. Hate to break it to ya, you're not even close."
He shoves his hands in his pockets and stays beside you, close, his elbow brushing the bare skin of yours when he needs to pinch in to make room for someone else passing. "You know, you were pretty noncommittal the other night, about the next cinq à sept." His elbow brushes yours again even though there's no reason.
"I'm not a big drinker," you deflect.
"Don't need to be. Just come out and have some fun with us. Easy, yeah?" Your eyes slide over to his and he's looking down at you, a warm smile on his face and a little wink in his eye.
You reach the area with clear Human Resources signage. "Well, here y'are. Now y'owe me a drink," he winks again and lopes off, cool as a cucumber always.
—
You decide to work late today and just wait at the office for 7; feels unfair to go home and get ready before drinks when he'll be getting off and still in his uniform.
You're fiddling with your phone in the lobby when you hear a ding. You've been trying not to glance up, but your eyes won't listen, and then you see black boots thud out of one of the freight elevators tucked off from the bank of regular elevators. Simon in his uniform, long thick legs striding out calmly, a plastic water bottle crinkling in his big hand.
"Hey," you say brightly, and all of a sudden, this feels very much like a date.
Simon gives you a small smile, chucks the water bottle in the nearby garbage (not recycling, just one bin over), and says, "Y'alrigh'?"
"Yeah, good, thanks. You?" You shiver as he ushers you out the main door. You give a small goodbye and nod to the front desk security guard. Simon calls them by name and gives a more personal goodbye.
Outside, the air is humid but there's a breeze pushing your dress against your legs, keeping the worst of it at bay. "Do you wanna walk somewhere? Or we can take my car, or—?"
"Too hot to walk," he says calmly. "Take my truck an' keep yours here f' now."
"Okay." You walk quietly around the back of the building to his lot. He opens the truck door for you, which has your stomach twisting like crazy, and all you can do is give him a tiny smile and a thanks before climbing in.
You have a few seconds of unwitnessed time to glance around the cab of his truck without him in here. Surprisingly tidy. Not clean, either. Smells warm and sweaty, trapped heat over a long July day, and a faint smokiness. You watch as he comes around the front of the truck and hauls himself in, a slight something on his face.
"You have a sore back?"
He lets out a laugh-adjacent huff. "Years of sore back. Old injury never properly healed, an' heat makes it flare up."
"Ouch."
He flicks on the air conditioning and fiddles with the vents, leaning over a little more into your space to adjust yours. "That good?"
The air is cold and instantly soothing on your hot cheeks and neck. "Yeah. Yeah, perfect, thanks."
"Don't start apologizin' again."
You laugh self-consciously and play with the strap of your bag in your lap, crossing your legs. "No promises."
He makes a small humming sound.
Very quickly, he's pulling into a parking lot of an Irish pub. You go to open your door and he makes a soft noise, so you leave it hanging so he can come round and open it fully. You laugh at him for how silly it is, and he doesn't say a thing. You get ushered into the pub, and sat right away at a booth by the window.
It's dark, quiet, and very, very air-conditioned.
You order a whiskey ginger and he gets a coffee. "Oh, are you…sorry, I shouldn't have assumed we were drinking."
He makes a pinched face at your sorry. "I'll join you shortly. Just don't wanna be too tired."
"We could have rescheduled…"
His eyebrows dart down like he doesn't follow. "Why would we do that?"
"If you're tired."
He chuckles softly. "'m always tired. Nothin' that coffee can't fix. 'sides, wouldn't cancel on you."
Heat pulls through you, snaking and slippery. "Well, let's just hope there aren't any more emergencies that you need to babysit me for."
Another confused face. "Babysit you? What'd'ya mean?"
You watch as his mouth forms over the ceramic lip of the coffee mug and takes his first sip. You mirror with your sweating glass of whiskey and ginger ale, with extra ice.
You laugh. "Do I need to explain it?"
"Nah, I know where you're drivin' but s'not it. Bit of shit luck, is all. You weren't losin' the plot or nothin'."
The drink is sweet and sour and you take a much deeper sip. Preparing yourself. "I can't tell if you're annoyed by me."
His eyebrows raise high. "Y'havin' a laugh?"
"No."
He folds his hands, tattooed down to his knuckles, around his coffee mug and stares at your drink. Not you. Your drink. "Think I'd hang 'round if I didn't want to?"
You've misstepped. Might as well make it a fuckin' dance. "Well, the last two times were against your will."
"You think so?"
"Well…courtesy, at least."
"'What're you doin'." It's spat out plain.
"What?" You take a desperate drink.
"All this. Feels like you're tryin' to tell me the ways I shouldn't'a helped you."
This tête-à-tête has you all circled up around, tangled in your own dumbass thoughts. You sigh heavily and pick at your thumb polish. "I dunno anymore. I'll just be transparent then. I've been getting weird messages at work. I can't figure out who it is. They hint that they know me, see me. Their, uh, initial. Is the letter G."
You lead him to the trough to drink, but can't say the words aloud that someone called you G and I think or thought it might be you so you just watch as he processes the information slowly, like a meal, until he gets there.
"Ah. S'bit weird." He sips at his coffee. "Someone doin' all that."
"Yeah. I thought so, too."
"D'ya need me to say it?"
"Ah," you laugh, cheeks inflamed. "I don't think so."
There's amusement lurking in his honey-brown eyes. "S'not me. Not my style."
What is your style? How would you show a woman you like her? How would you seduce her? What does it look like when you like someone?
"Well, thanks." You smile into your drink, playing with the edge of your serviette. You feel his boots all of a sudden under the booth, legs spread wide, a toe touching the edge of your sandal. You don't move your legs and you don't look at him.
He finishes his coffee quickly. Orders a Newcastle brown. You both order fish and chips — he assures you it's good here — and you ask how long he's worked for the company, when he moved here, until he nudges you back to the hot seat.
"Got any suspects in mind for G?"
You tap the fork against your mouth, a little loosened by your drink. "Not really. It was you or another guy, but honestly, it could be anyone. Could just be someone's idea of a weird prank."
"Who's the other guy?" He doesn't make eye contact, just breaks apart the fish fillet with his fork, head down.
"A guy in IT, Kyle. I met him yesterday for the first time. Last name starts with a G," you explain.
"I know him. Cool bloke. Think you want it to be him?" A long drink from his tall glass of dark ale. Eyes flickering over you, not touching down anywhere solid. Too casual.
"I don't know how to feel about any of it," you demur.
He nods.
When the bills come, he pays for you, ignoring your soft protest, and gets you to package up your leftovers to bring home. You hold it in your lap on the ride back to the parking lot; your car, alone once more. He leaves the truck running, cold air streaming out across your rippled skin, letting his big hands rest on his bigger thighs. He picks off a fleck of something.
"Simon."
"Yeah."
Your eyes slip from his thighs up to his face, his profile in the dusky light, the blue interior lights of the dashboard. "You promise it's not you?"
Quickly, his eyes meet yours. "Yeah, promise."
"Okay."
You set your container up on the passenger dashboard, tucked under the windshield, the corner squeaking. You unclick your seatbelt. You slide off your bag to the floor. You turn to him squarely, eyes mapping his face, and when you see the wary hunger in his eyes, you lean over and kiss him on the mouth.
His mouth is slow to move, his hands suspended off his thighs, nowhere to set them down. You wonder when he was last kissed.
You pull your lips off his with the tiniest smile, and lean down to grab your bag. Container in other hand. You open the passenger door before he can react, before his body can shift to anticipate your move.
He meets you in the space between your parked vehicles. You're about to make a pithy teasing joke, but then, in silence, he's grabbing your container and setting it on the roof of your car, bag with it. He doesn't look at your face long, can't hold your gaze, but his hands are tunneling into your hair and scooping your face up, tilting you so he can drive his mouth down on yours. This time, his tongue meets yours hungrily, no longer dazed, like you've awoken something dormant. His mouth is soft and flavoured strong with yeast and malt and coffee, and it tastes right to you. When he string a moan out of you, it spurs his own sounds; big silent man keeping them all to himself.
He presses you up against your car, molding your back over the sun-hot glass and metal until you hiss, and you both laugh a little, so he switches your back to the truck instead. His hands move desperately across your shoulders, collarbone, down your arms and elbows to your hands, which are roving over him, then down to your hips. When you wriggle and moan, his hands scoop further down until he's cupping your ass cheeks and hauling you up against him, the press of canvas and hard muscle underneath scratching against your soft skin and thin summer dress.
"Fuck me," he mutters into your damp throat. "S'not fair."
"What?" You wind your arms around his shoulders and neck, carding your fingernails over his buzzed head. Breathless, kissed stupid, kissed right.
"Not fair to be this fuckin' soft."
You couldn't say what comes over you except standing on the precipice of summer-soaked lust, but you knot your legs around his waist so he doesn't need to use his hands to hold you. You grind desperately against him, any part you can feel, a deep groan winding out of you as his arms band tight around your sweat-damp back. "Oh my god," you pant.
"What?"
"You're so…" and you got nothin', so you just mold your mouth against his again, hoping your tongue against his teeth will tell him what you can't put into words. "I wanna get in your truck."
It takes maneuvering. Big guy. You. Seat reclined, steering wheel pushed back in, water bottle tossed into the backseat. You unbuckle his dirty notched belt and he gasps when your fingers graze over his fly.
"You sure?" His voice has a funny tone. "Been workin' all day. Probably smell rank."
You smile down at him. "I don't think I'll mind." You shove his pants down with his help, and then pull his achingly hot cock out of his precum-damp briefs.
Both of you inhale sharp when you finally get your hands on it, so silky and darkened with rushing blood. Already, the air smells ripe with him and you could siphon it into your bloodstream and get drunk on it.
"God, you're so fuckin' hot," you breathe out without meaning to, laughing incredulously. You catch the look on his face at the last second, eyes almost too focused on his lower half. "You don't believe me?"
He doesn't nod, doesn't shake his head, and his eyes finally fix on yours for the first time. Needing to figure you out.
You flutter your dress hem up, reach down and pull your underwear to the side, and align yourself over the head of him. "You don't believe me?" You stroke down, sheathing him in inches, a slow descent designed to make him gasp and buck. You're successful. "I wanted you to be G. But — oh, shit — I didn't want you to be that type of guy. Fuck. I don't like games. I don't want—" a sharp gasp ripping out of you as he bottoms out "—someone who treats me like that."
His big arms band around you again, pulsing you right in place over his cock, his eyes shuddering closed tight, an almost pained expression over his face. Despite the cold air of the truck cab, you're both sweating now.
"And I don't want Kyle," you moan raggedly, staring down at him, angling to get friction against your clit as his cock slides hotly. "Not my type."
"No?" Not doubtful anymore. Awed.
You shake your head, and his cock strokes just right and you let out a squeak, your fingers clamping over his neck. "No. No. Not him. Not him at all."
"Tell me."
"I like you."
A thumb jagging over your clit under your crooked dress. "Yeah?"
"Yes." A cry. Moan. Warning sign.
He groans. "Like you."
"You like me?"
"Thought it was obvious. Fuck, Jesus Christ, oh m—"
A disgustingly wet, desperately-held-together kiss that seals you both as his orgasm overtakes him, washing him away, his hips slamming up into yours sloppy and fast, but his thumb still rubbing hard and right until yours has you clenching him so tight that he lets out a loud mangled noise that sounds almost anguished.
Cum pools hot. Flesh squelches wet and sticky. Sweaty skin needs to be peeled away from sweaty skin carefully. Both of you, destroyed and sweating and panting.
His hands then: roaming up your open thighs and bent waist and hanging breasts until he's bringing your face down to his for a deep, surprisingly tender kiss. When you finally pull away, his eyes are liquid-soft.
—
You skip the next cinq à sept.
Sasha finally pesters you into coming to the first one in August. It's the same-ish crowd as last time; you now require far less introductions, finding it easier to chat with most folks now. No longer clinging to Sasha as your party guide.
A spicy margarita in your hand, you wander around a bit more freely, and end up spotting the IT guys. You wave as you pass, and Kyle makes a gesture to grab you for a moment.
"Hey," you smile.
"Y'alright?"
"Yeah, great. Busy with the new slate of projects, but good. I think I've got my sea legs now," you laugh easily.
"Aw, that's great news." He drinks lazily from a bottle of beer. "No IT issues lately?"
You shrug. "Uh, nope? Not that I can think of. Nothing that wasn't resolved ASAP, anyway. Your team's good at that."
A strange expression sours that beauty. "No messages?"
Sinking. Sweat, immediately, and the sinking feeling in your stomach. "What do you mean?" Sasha told you she'd never revealed your situation.
He winks, those baby brown eyes lined with long gorgeous eyelashes. "G_02's been pretty quiet these days then."
Your mouth drops open.
He laughs breezily. "Sorry about all that. Bit of a silly idea that grew into somethin' else after drinks with Johnny one night. Just wanted to impress the new cute girl."
"Uhhh…"
The outdoor patio's crowded and you look around the clusters of people. Sasha's nowhere in sight.
"Didn't mean to freak y'out, love. Just some funny games, y'know?" The smile slips every so infinitesimally.
"Got your drink?" Coarse and quiet and steady, coming through the crowd. Simon in his uniform, joining you now that he's done for the night. Sidling up next to you, back looking extra stiff this evening, glass of beer in his hand. "Alrigh'?"
"Yeah," you smile up at him, wrapping your arm loosely around his waist, tucking your thumb under his belt. Ignoring that in your peripheral vision, you can see Kyle's expression registering and rearranging itself into something different.
You give Kyle the brush-off smile, the precursor to saying goodbye. "Yeah, I'm not big into games." Could be about poker. Trivia night. A video game he's trying to explain. "Terrible at 'em."
Simon's arm around your shoulder, his large hand massaging the knot out of your joint nicely.
You'll return the favour tonight when you get home, get him stretched out on your living room floor and fuck with his back until he's groaning sweetly and wanting you to straddle him while he's on his back instead.
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