when your stupid ex boyfriend kicks you out of the flat, he forgets to give you your cat back. you find the meanest looking guy in the bar to help you get her back.
type: one-shot (3.4k), ao3
cw: mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of violence, smut, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral, simon is not a good or nice person (except to reader), reader also maybe isn't a good person who knows, reader has hair long enough to hold, curvy/plus-sized!reader, size difference, size kink, military inaccuracies, 18+
There is a special place in hell for men like Michael.
You can see her through the window by the door. Her big eyes are looking at where you are, paws against the glass. Her mouth opens, and she scratches at the window, and your bottom lip trembles as you set your hand down where she touches.
You could care less about the things you left inside. Your clothes, your bags, your shoes, even your fucking computer can stay behind, but not her. Your tabby cat is inside, sitting by the window, and Michael changed the fucking locks.
You bang on the door for an hour. You leave, come back, keep banging, but no one ever answers. You've never felt this desperate or uneasy, but every time you come back and see her by the window, you nearly lose all of your composure. It isn't fair. She doesn't belong to him. He can take years from you, take your money, take your sanity, but he won't take her. You'll come back every single day. You'll become a nuisance. You'll never let him relax. Until he gives her back to you, he will never know peace.
A single day passes before you decide it's time to take drastic measures.
The nearest military base is situated a good distance away, but not so far that you won't drive to its neighboring city. There's a small main road with a few local shops, including a few restaurants, a bookstore, a coffee shop, and the crown jewel—a pub.
It's just after supper time when you ring the bell above the door walking inside. On a Friday evening, it's lively, packed close with warmth and tall pints and plastic baskets full of chips and greasy fingerfoods.
There's a lot of military around here. You can tell by their haircuts and the way they chug their glasses; but you aren't looking for baby-faced rookies with too much pent-up aggression. You're looking for the meanest guy in the room, and that means someone with scars and someone who goes cloudy behind the eyes when you ask him how he's gotten back from where he's been.
That man is sitting at the far booth with his back to the wall. A place where he can have an eye on the rest of the room at all times. Big, gloved hand wrapped around a sweating glass, gaze focused on the foam of his beer as he pretends to listen to whatever the red-cheeked man across from him is laughing about.
You ask the bartender what they're drinking and order another round, picking up each glass and making your way towards their table. You'd be nervous if you weren't so determined. You stand awkwardly beside the table before his friend notices you there.
"Tha' fer us, bonnie?"
He juts his chin out at the drinks you're holding, and you set them down with a nervous smile.
"Yeah," you look between them. You fixate on the big guy, who barely squints at you over his drink, and you bite your lip. "I was hoping you had room for one more."
His friend cackles, "aye. Always fer a pretty face."
"Cute," you swallow. "But…I wasn't really talking to you."
The bigger one sits up at that. He leans back in the booth, rolling out his shoulders, and you hop up onto the seat next to him. His friend seems to get the message, picking up his new drink and tipping it towards you before taking a long drink of it and going to find a warm spot at the bar.
"Lookin' for advice or a fuck?"
"Neither," you say softly. "You're big, yeah? Are people…generally afraid of you?"
He laughs, and when he wipes at his masked face, you see a glimpse of a tattoo sleeve that adorns his massive left arm.
"Suppose."
"Great. How much for you to be my bodyguard for a few hours?"
He kisses his teeth under the mask, and then he turns his head to look down at you. His eyes are half-lidded, the skin looking a little greasy under the eye-black smudged there, but he's so calm and collected and amused. You've amused him; you're entertaining him. It's the most interesting thing that's happened to him all week, and you hope you're keeping his attention.
"Wot's tha' include?"
"It's gonna be illegal," you mumble, biting your bottom lip. "Just a little bit."
"Tha's my specialty, love."
"Not murder," you clarify, and he just shrugs. "Just…a little breaking and entering. Maybe some intimidation."
"'s Friday night, swee'eart, at least offer me somethin' fun."
"This isn't funny," you suck in a shaky breath. "It's…" You look down at the sticky pub table, swallowing again. You dig your nails into your own legs to keep your composure. "I need to get something back. Something that belongs to me. So it's not really…it's not really stealing."
A pregnant silence falls between you. You fail to keep the tears at your lash line back, and you quickly use the back of your hand to wipe your face gently. You think about your cat scratching for you on the other side of the window. You think about her sweet face; you think about Michael forgetting to feed her in the mornings as he usually did, and how he never changed the water filter in time even when you asked him to.
"'m Simon."
The low timbered voice breaks you out of your inner spiral. You look up at him again, and when you meet his eyes, you're finally able to let out a breath of relief. You don't know why, but there's something extremely soothing about sitting next to him. About being in his vicinity. He's so large and takes up so much space, but it's warm there, and he's not as mean as his outer layer might suggest. He's calm, and the way he presents himself tells you that it is not by luck that he's still sitting beside you.
You tell him your name, and his gloved hand touches under your chin.
"Olright, love. Lead the way."
Every time you have ever come back to this apartment, you have met the closed door with dread. A little fear. You feel none of that; not with the apparition at your back. You knock on the window beside the door, and like always, she appears. She meows on the other side, her eyes wet as she scratches and sniffs. You look over your shoulder at Simon who tilts his head to the side.
"This wot he stole?"
You look back at her on the other side of the window, shrugging.
"No," you say softly. "But it's all that matters."
The jiggling of metal brings your attention back to him. Simon is at the door, a multi-tool in one hand, and he's focused intently on working the doorknob until you hear the sound of a lock turn and then the door opens. The chain on the door jangles just as Simon opens it slightly, and you watch with rapt attention as he sticks his arm inside for just a few seconds, and then he swings the door open wide.
You push past him, reaching for the cat. She meows loudly, coming right to you, and you coo as you bend and pick her up from the floor. Loud purrs and sweet chirps follow as you hug her to your chest. You pet her little head, turning towards the living room. You used to keep her carrier behind the couch, and you find it as you go searching for it, exactly where you left it. You slip her inside and zip it up.
"What the fuck is this?"
You freeze, standing up straight and turning. You're caught, definitely—you knew he must have been home by the fact that the chain was latched, but you tried the nice way. You weren't going to get your cat back by being patient, not anymore.
"I'm just getting her, I'll…I was just leaving."
"Fuck no, you broke into my flat."
"Our flat," you snap back, putting the straps of the carrier over your shoulder. "And I'm leaving."
Michael looks like he's going to take a step towards you, but then he notices the dark shape in the corner of the room. He frowns a little, squinting.
"Who the bloody hell is that?"
You turn just in time to see Simon take a small step forward. The sudden movement seems to terrify Michael; he scrambles backwards into the kitchen counter, making the plates behind him fall off the counter and shatter onto the ground. He nearly trips over himself trying to get distance, and Simon seems to think it's very funny. He laughs, chest heaving, and he looks down at you as he gets closer.
"Flopping like a fuckin' fish, he is, in'he?"
Michael looks around frantically before he finds a pair of prongs. His hand shakes as he holds the pointy end towards Simon, spitting at him.
"Get the fuck out of my flat! T-The both of you!"
Simon's reaction tells you that maybe he has a few wires crossed in his head. He steps forward instead of away, laughing still, and you watch warily as he tilts his head to the side and nods his head towards Michael.
"Go on, then, mate," Simon taunts. "Try it."
Like a fool, Michael obliges. You flinch when Michael swings, but Simon tilts his body at just the right moment to dodge. He smacks Michael's arm, but he tries again—and like playing footie with a child, the weapon is now in Simon's hand, and then oh—
Michael's screaming as it pierces through his open palm.
He bleeds a lot less than you thought he might. Sadly, also, his blood is as red as yours. You thought he might be a little less pathetic at a moment like this. It is a gift, however, to see him bursting into tears as Simon grips the collar of his shirt and leans over him.
"Lot like you like to take things that aren't yers, tha' right?" Simon spits. "Like to punish and intimidate and fuckin' take, even if ya aren't owed."
"Please—please just get out, take her, fuckin' please!"
"Oi, wot's all this?" Simon snorts. "Now yer pissin' where you stand cause it got too real, eh? Got wot was comin' ta you? Reckon it's not like you thought. Reckon you thought she'd come hat in hand, beggin' for wot she deserves, but you wouldn't know good cunt even if it sat on yer face, yeah?"
"Please…"
"Simon—" You try, but he tsks, shaking his head.
"Nah, love, he's gonna learn," Simon murmurs. "Have you learned?"
"Yes," Michael squeaks, and you're not longer staring at the blood dripping on the hardwood, you're oogling at the giant man standing in what once was your kitchen that's starting to look more delicious by the second.
"Good," Simon breathes. "I know where ya lay yer head, mate. Know where ta come back if things aren't quiet on her end. You'd do well to remember tha'."
He releases Michael with a shove; Michael sinks to the floor, hands trembling, and Simon makes his way towards you to put a hand to your back and turn you around towards the front door.
"Need anythin' else?" Simon asks. You're too speechless to say anything, so all you do is shake your head. You clutch the carrier closer; she meows from inside the bag, and Simon nods his head towards outside so that you start moving. The door shuts behind you both, and then you're being led to his truck, ushered into the passenger seat, precious cargo on your lap as you breathe a huge sigh of relief.
The drive is quiet, but a comfortable quiet. You don't realize until a few streets over that you're smiling; a big, sparkling grin that's taking over your face, and when Simon rolls his truck to a stop at a red light, you lean over the center console and give his masked cheek a big, wet kiss of gratitude.
"Got a death wish or somethin'?" Simon turns to look at you, glaring from under the mask. It's so hard to be scared of him. He just put the fear of God into your terrible ex-boyfriend so you could get your precious cat back; he scared him shitless—literally—and he did it looking this good.
"Is that what a kiss gets me?" You ask. You slide your hand down his bicep, swallowing the drool when you feel just how solid and beefy he is under that hoodie. He fills it out too well. He must be so fucking handsome under that mask; there's no way he wears it for anonymity, he must be so hot, he wears it so he doesn't have to swat away all the boys and girls when they usually buzz around him like moths to light—
Maybe death is really this sweet. This good. Your cat is snoozing, safe and sound, in your bedroom with a full belly. The lights are on low; soft orange glows from well-placed lamps, giving the entire living room a warm feeling. There's a man on your couch with his belt unbuckled, mask halfway up his face as he pants because his cock is in your mouth, and he tastes like sweet, sweet victory.
"Ahh—fuck."
You nuzzle your nose up the length. He's so hard; you don't think a man has ever been this hard for you. He's leaking so pretty, dribbles down the length that you catch with the tip of your tongue, forcing him to hiss and spit and bite his knuckles. He keeps his hips still, but his hand around your hip squeezes the flesh there nice and tight, borderline bruising when you suck his tip a little too softly. You lick a stripe around the head before leaning back up towards him, and his hand around your hip curls against the back of your neck as you share a messy, wet kiss.
You twist your wrist, pumping his cock with a gentle glide of your palm, and he grits his teeth between kisses, touching his forehead to yours.
"Oll tha' for a cat, yeah?"
It is true. You did do it for her. But you did it for you, too.
"Not just the cat," you whisper, smoothing your thumb along the tip. He kisses you again, slower this time, and you groan into his mouth as you squeeze your thighs together. "Look at you…"
"Fuck—" Simon grunts, and his other hand finds the base of his cock, squeezing hard, and you giggle as he scrunches his nose. "Don't say shit like tha'."
You can't with his mouth on your cunt. He's laying flat on his back on the couch, legs too long to fit. Boots against your blanket, you'll whine to him about it later, but now both thighs are on either side of his head, and he's slurping with a hot tongue. You cup both sides of his head, dragging your hips, and while normally you'd think twice about dropping your weight on someone like this, the ease at which he hoisted you up his chest tells you Simon's a big, big boy—and he can handle whatever you give him.
"Gonna let me handle things from now on," Simon murmurs. He kisses the inside of your thigh, and you yelp when he smacks one side of your ass. He's waiting for an answer, and you took too long to give one.
"Y-Yeah," you breathe, leaning your head back. You feel yourself dripping between the legs, flooding his mouth, but he curls his tongue all the same. Uses two thumbs now as he hooks his arms around your thighs to pull the wet, sensitive skin back so he can drink what he's owed. He said he takes payment like this, getting his fill; he says he's never really satisfied until there's cum in his mouth and some in your cunt, and he's not gonna leave your flat before becoming familiar with those two, mutually non-exclusive events.
"Yeah, y'r pretty, olright," Simon laughs, but there's no more humor when he bounces you on his cock. Oh, he hurts a little. He told you he might, but then you're really there, knees on either side of him as you clutch onto the meat of his shoulders and hope to God he doesn't let you go. "Told you tha' you'd feel it, didn't I?"
"Yeah," you whisper, cupping that face of his, half-revealed to you, and you rub your thumbs down his scarred cheeks. Gorgeous, even with eyes that dead inside. "'s big."
"Don't—" He snarls, holding down your hips, shaking his head. "Wot did I say about sayin' shit like tha', eh?"
Life has spoiled you. Life is too good. Life is your pet curled up between your pillows and warm beneath the blankets, and life is fucking the sanity out of big, pudgy military men with blood under their fingernails and their breath stuck in their throat. You've rendered Simon to nothing but grunts and sputters. He's focused on keep the rhythm, arms clasped around your middle as he fucks up into you and pants into your neck. You reach for the back of the couch, digging your nails in, and all you can do is cry and take it as he keeps bringing you back down again and again and again.
The kiss you share is starved. You're so hungry, your hand slipping under the mask to cup the back of his head, and he draws your hips down and holds you there as he licks into your mouth and relishes in the pulsing of your cunt. This is what he fights for, maybe.
Not the glory. Not for the good of others. Not for Price and his self-guided moral compass, not for Laswell and her targets, not for revenge, not for blood, not to save the world. It's so he can come back here onto home soil and fuck a gorgeous girl without ever being interrupted by the sound of anything but her.
Her. You. Whatever she is, what you are, what you will eventually be—it manifests itself in the very room he's in, and he's got it between his teeth, and he won't be letting go for anything.
Nothing at all.
He's smoking a cigarette by the open window as she makes tea. He smiles, just barely, with teeth a little yellow when he sees you burn your hand a little as you pour the water into a misshapen mug.
"Olright?" He asks. The mugs shake a little as you bring them back into the room, precarious as you overfilled the mugs. He takes one from you and takes a long sip, flicking the cigarette out as he watches you get settled. You set your mug down on the coffee table, leaning forward to give him that same sweet, wet kiss on his cheek.
"Never better."
Belly full. Eyes bright. You are nothing like the woman that propositioned him just a few hours ago. A monotone, piss-drink evening, and then a scared, desperate girl asking him if he was willing to do something a little off the books.
Fucking finally. The world was just starting to get a little too dull.
It's the middle of the night when he hears the creak of a door. The sound of a little bell. You're laid out on your side, having just fallen asleep. The movie on the telly still plays, but Simon has turned the volume down. The light flickering from the screen is enough that he sees the cat trot into the room, eyes searching for you and seeing the two of you settled there.
She comes over slowly, sniffing the toes of Simon's boots, and then she closes her eyes as she rubs her face against his leg. Low purring, headbutts, and then she's putting a paw to his boot and looking up at him with the same big, wet eyes her mother has. Simon reaches down, scratching under her chin, and then she's curling up on his lap, little head next to yours as he leans back and takes it in. The sight for sore eyes. The thing that makes his medals and his stripes and all the money in the world look worthless—cheap.
"Yeah," Simon takes another sip of his tea. "This'll do."
thinking about ex-husband!gaz who's so clearly still in love with you.
(smut, mild angst, fluff)
cw: fem!reader, mom!reader, angsty sex, hopeful ending, i think that's it ?, word count: 976
Ex-husband!Kyle, who’s so amazing during the entire divorce process. You don’t have to beg to split the house– he insists it’s yours. It doesn’t matter that you haven’t worked in years; he demands that his lawyer do a 50/50 split of all bank accounts. In his vows, he said he’d always take care of you, and he meant it.
Ex-husband!Kyle is the perfect co-parent. He’s always perfectly on time and always sends you plenty of pictures of what your son gets up to while away– you both know it’s just an excuse to text you.
Ex-husband!Kyle still proudly attends every school event, baseball game, and PTA meeting with you. He pretends not to notice the way all the single moms flock to him, hands grabbing his bicep as they laugh at something that wasn’t even funny– and you pretend not to be jealous.
Ex-husband!Kyle not only agrees to but insists on family therapy. He freely admits his faults– working too much, being too distant– and actually listens to the advice and suggestions given.
Ex-husband!Kyle’s ring still hangs from the necklace around his neck. He wears it as a reminder to do better– to be better for you, for your son, for his family.
Ex-husband!Kyle, who encourages you to go out on dates, even agrees to watch your son overnight. You offer to return the favor, but he just shakes his head, telling you it’s not necessary. He fails to mention he hasn’t so much as glanced at another person romantically since you handed him that stack of papers.
Ex-husband!Kyle still insists on having family movie night once a week. You and your son show up at his new flat and spend the evening watching a boring cartoon movie. Your son falls asleep halfway through, but neither of you notices– too focused on the heavy feeling in the air.
Ex-husband!Kyle puts your son to sleep in the spare room. He offers to take the couch when it’s too late for you to drive home. He asks a dozen times if you’re sure when you say you can just share the bed. It ends with him fucking you so hard you momentarily forget that you’re even divorced.
Your arms are wrapped tight around his neck as he presses open-mouthed kisses along your neck. The tip of his cock is lined up with your entrance, and a soft gasp leaves your mouth as he slowly pushes into you.
“Fuck, forgot how warm she is,” he mumbles against your skin before pulling away. He stares down at you, eyes trailing over every inch of your naked body.
His hand grabs your face as your eyes flutter shut, softly forcing you to keep them open. He looks at you like he’s worried it may be the last time– like he’s trying his hardest to memorize it this time.
“Mm, Kyle,” you moan, gripping his shoulders tight when you feel his tip brush against the deepest part of you.
“Tell me, love, did that other bloke even make you feel good? Did he fuck you like this?”
You gasp as his fingers roughly pinch your nipple, other hand trails down to grab your hip. “No! Couldn’t even make me cum,” you admit, watching as pity clouds his eyes.
“Should’ve called me.” His words leave you breathless. You’d never admit out loud, but you’d considered it that night– too many glasses of wine deep, alone and half naked on your bedroom floor, your fingers had hovered over his contact but never hit send.
You whimper when the rough pad of his thumb begins to trace soft circles on your clit. His mouth captures yours in a kiss, breathing in every pretty noise that falls from your lips.
Even after all the time apart, he knows your body well enough to have you already on the brink of falling apart. “Close, ‘m so close,” you whine, back arching, pressing your chests together.
“Tell me you’re mine?” It should be sexy, possessive even, but instead it comes out as a question– a plea.
Your mind’s gone, unable to focus on anything other than his skin on yours and how full your cunt feels. “Yours, all yours, your wife, please–”
The second the words leave your mouth, he’s spilling deep inside you– that’s all it takes to bring you to your own orgasm. Your thighs shake, a choked sob leaving your mouth as you fall apart, clenching tight around him
He curls up beside you, his now soft cock still buried inside you. “We can’t do this again,” you mumble breathlessly, making no effort to put any distance between the two of you.
His fingers trailing down your side feels right– like your body’s slowly remembering who it belongs to. “Why not?”
You can’t help but laugh at the question. “Maybe because we’re divorced?” He gives a non-comital hum, pressing a gentle kiss to your shoulder.
“We don’t have to be, though.”
You think about it– really think about it. “Kyle,” you softly sigh, heart beating fast when he just smiles at you as if he knows your answer before you do.
“It’s okay, petal.” You can’t help but feel flushed when the pet name falls from his lips– only partially intentional. “We’ll talk about it in the morning, yeah? For now, just let me hold you.” The ‘how I used to’ goes unsaid, but you both feel it in your chest.
Your brain tries to think of a reason– any reason– as to why it’s a horrible idea.
You look at him to find he’s already staring at you, eyes filled with nothing but love. The second you nod, he’s pulling you into his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck.
For the first time in over half a year, you fall asleep smiling.
thinking about gaz, who likes to have control in the bedroom...
18+ mdni !!! (smut, sprinkle of fluff)
cw: sub!fem!reader, dom!kyle, bondage, dom/sub dynamics, use of 'sir', ment. of control issues & controlling behavior, i think that's it ?, word count: 1.3k
To put it quite frankly, your boyfriend Kyle is what most people would call a control freak. It’s not from a place of malicious intent; if anything, it’s the opposite.
Most people assume the worst, that he’s reading every text you send and demanding you never speak to someone again. In reality, it looks more like having each other’s location, ordering your meals for you, picking out your outfits, and smaller, more subtle things.
It may seem like a lot to others, but you don’t mind it at all. His line of work is a lot, it leaves a toll. Out in the field, he can’t plan for every single variable– he can’t keep everyone safe– but at home, with you, he can have complete control.
In some ways, it transfers over to your sex life, too. You’ve always been more submissive, but it didn’t really become a thing until the first time the two of you slept together. Yet, you can tell there’s more that he wants– craving something he can’t quite name. He tries to be subtle about it, but you watch him too closely not to notice it.
It’s obvious in the way his hands always grab your wrists when he’s on top of you, pinning them high above your head. You see it when he’s got you kneeling in between his legs, always wanting your hands resting behind your back.
You’re the one to bring it up first. Sitting in his lap, waiting for the movie to be dull enough that he’s open to chatter. “I’ve been thinking about something,” you start, hands loose around his shoulders.
“Should I be worried?” He says, doing that thing where he tries– and fails– to sound like he’s joking.
You softly shake your head with a smile before continuing. “How do you feel about bondage?”
You can feel his body freeze underneath you. “Bondage? What, tying you up like a hostage?" He says, getting defensive without even meaning to.
“Not like a hostage. More like typing me up like I’m yours to do whatever you want with– yours to control.”
He swallows, and you can feel him slowly getting harder underneath you. “You’d be okay with that? With… me doing that?”
“I trust you,” you say as if it’s just that simple– that easy to let go.
It took several days for the ropes he’d picked out to arrive– soft and silky in a beautiful light pink color. Your hands are tied tight to the bed frame, something he’d called a bowline knot, and you can see the medical shears sitting out on the bedside table.
His hands roam your naked body, gently caressing your skin. “So gorgeous, love, can’t believe you’re lettin’ me do this,” he whispers, placing a soft kiss against your chest.
His lips trail further down your body until he’s eye level with your bare cunt. He doesn’t touch you– not like you want him to– he just hovers. You can feel his breath near your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.
He knows what he’s doing, knows that any other time you’d have your hand on the back of his neck– it makes you instinctively strain against the ropes. “What’s wrong, darling?” he coos, his eyes never leaving your dripping cunt.
“Need you to touch me, please, sir!” you beg, your hole clenching around nothing.
His hands grip your thighs, spreading them even further apart. “Like this?” You whine, shaking your head when he chuckles low at you. “Gotta be specific, love.”
Heat creeps down your body before settling in your lower stomach. You close your eyes, knowing you won’t be able to say it if you’re looking at him. “I need you to touch my pussy, please, sir, need your thick fingers inside me.”
A sharp gasp falls from your lips when you finally feel his fingers glide between your folds. The second, the digits are slick enough, he’s gently pushing them past your entrance, watching as your cunt stretches to accommodate them.
Your mind doesn’t know what to focus on: the feeling of silk knots on your wrists, the tiniest ache from the position you're in, or his fingers knuckle deep inside you, scissoring you open– preparing you for his cock.
His tongue starts to lap at your clit, tracing varying directions and shapes up against the bud. A string of spit falls on the corner of his lips as he pulls away from your pussy.
A tiny cry leaves your lips, a sudden empty feeling taking over your cunt. “It’s okay, love, got somethin’ better for you,” he promises, slowly lining the head of his heavy cock with your entrance.
He pushes into you agonizingly slowly, and you want nothing more than to sink yourself onto him. “Sir, please, faster.” You regret your choice in words the second he smiles up at you.
“Okay.” It should be an agreement, but it feels more like a threat.
He pulls out of you almost entirely, slamming roughly back into you before you can even process the loss of contact. His pace is fast and harsh; every thrust screams a sarcastic ‘Is this what you wanted?’.
Your body’s limp, arms above your head as you lie there and take what he gives you. Your mouth’s wide open, broken moans falling from your lips each time his hips slam against you.
“You said, fuck,” He cuts himself off with a grunt. “You begged me to go faster– should’ve been more specific,” he teases before crashing his lips into yours.
Every breathy sound you make gets swallowed by his mouth. His hips never once falter, and as he twitches inside of your throbbing cunt you can feel how close he is– how close you both are.
He pulls away, lips swollen and pupils blown wide. “Not gonna last, love, gotta tell me where you want me to cum.”
It’s an unfair request, you both know it, your minds melted, and you’re barely capable of saying anything other than broken pleas.
“Mm, want, hng–” you try to vocalize it, but the only sounds that leave your mouth are pathetic cries of pleasure.
He smirks at you, clearly proud of himself. “I’d tell you to point but, well, I don’t think that’d be fair, would it?” If you were able to, you'd scoff at him– instead, you just whine and struggle against the restraints.
“Guess I’ll have to ask her then.” His hand covers your mouth, eyes trailing down to your cunt.
The noises filling the room are nothing short of wet and obscene. “Hmm, think she’s telling me to cum inside her, yeah?” He glances up at you, his hips faltering the second you nod up at him, teary-eyed.
All it takes is him finally touching your clit again to make you fall apart on his cock. A shiver wracks your body, your wrists tugging at the ropes, as you let go.
His hips snap against you one final time before he twitches inside you, spilling his cum deep in your cunt with a low groan.
You wince as he pulls out of you, a sticky mess of fluids dripping down your thighs.
One of his hands rests on your upper back, the other gently unties the ropes before tossing them to the side. He carefully grabs your wrists, inspecting you for any sign of bruising or soreness.
“I’m okay, Kyle, I promise,” you whisper, a shy smile on your lips when he presses gentle kisses where the ropes once sat on your skin.
He pulls you on top of him, the two of you softly falling against the mattress with a giggle. “Thank you, love,” he mumbles, arms wrapped loosely around your waist.
You hum in response, eyes fluttering as that tired feeling threatens to take over your body. “Love you,” you mumble against his chest.
“Love you too, petal,” he says, glancing down to find you fast asleep against his chest.
Hear me out on single mother Reader x obsessed+in love at first sight butcher Simon
You don't know him, you think, not really.
You've seen him a couple times behind the counter - large man in an apron, blond hair buzzed too short to his skull, surgical mask on his face and in the cool air of the butchery, it almost feels like you are the meat on his counter.
Stupid thought, really, probably because you haven't been resting much lately and maybe, because running from your child's father across the country is draining you of energy, money and hours of sleep.
'What can I get you?' He asks, voice vibrating through the space between the two of you invisible strings getting stroked because you have to crane your neck to look up at him, because his eyes don't blink at you as he stares, because you don't know how to ask for what you want and what do you even need-
You shake your head, stepping to the side, pretending you are still looking at the display, letting the impatient man behind you step forward so that the line can finally get moving and butcher's head tilts to the side.
Not even surprised, for some reason.
Your pride and joy sleeps on your shoulder, arms wrapped around your neck - little boy with your eyes and your nose, his hair tickling your nose when you turn your head to breathe him in, trying to calm down.
His gp has already told you that he needs to eat more meat, but apple never falls far away from the tree - a picky eater has another picky eater, because your chid positively despises red meat, refuses any duck or lamb, spits out ground meat, whining about texture and doesn't take to fish kindly either.
And money's tight this month, you chew on your lower lip, fingers wooden with anxiety coarsing through your body like electrical current.
Buzzes in your arms, already aching because your 3-year old is a growing boy, and maybe you aren't getting stronger to hold him up for hours like before when he was an infant and you could pretend you can still carry him under your heart. Keeping him safe.
"What can I get you, luv?" The low voice slithers through your stupor, so you'd look up from the display and see that the large man from before is bracing his arms on the counter, leaning forward. "Been starin' for a while. What's the plan for dinner?" He asks, and you don't know how to push down the animal's urge to back off from him immediately.
The butcher's eyes are dark and round, almost soft when his gazse is anything but.
'Cow's eyes', you think, swallowing a smile because you don't need no trouble and don't want to smile at another man to give him some bloody reason to get closer. 'If cow was a butcher, that is.'
"I'm not...sure." You say quietly, keeping your voice low and he hums, apparently not planning to pull back. "He uh...doesn't like meat much. But I need him to eat a little of it, something...just- just don't know what to try." Your lower lip wobbles and fuck, this is humiliating. But the month have been so rough and so long and you are so so tired.
"Okay." The man nods slowly, tilting his head to the right shoulder, eyes the bottomless well that you cannot get out of, thick stone of it muffling any screams. "Lad eat anythin' from meat or nothin' at all?" He clarifies, keeping his voice quiet and gratitude blooms in your chest for this small consideration.
"Uh, yeah, he..." you nod quickly, wiping tears on your shoulder hastily. "Likes chicken nuggets sometimes. In the shape of dinosaurs." You explain and the man makes a sound only adjacent to chuckle.
"Got decent chicken fillet this mornin'. Fresh." He proposes, nodding at the neatly arranged pale pink of chicken on your left. "Can coat breadcrumbs and bake 'em in the oven till golden. Should taste like nuggets."
It is so simple, so bloody easy but you have no energy to feel embarassed that you did not think of it yourself.
"I'll take two." You swallow the small shudder, because you cannot allow it while your boy's asleep. Can't risk waking him up.
"Four quid." The man nods, starting to move immediately, picking out the meat to wrap up for you and you fumble for your wallet, trying to get it out of the pocket without needing to set your child down.
The butcher huffs out air, but when you glance up at him, he is looking down on the meat he is packing for you. The only give away of his mood - eyes crinkled in the corners.
Is he smiling?
"Here you go, luv." He takes the money from you and passes you the wrapped up meat. "Let me know how it goes with the chicken." The butcher adds, not requesting but telling and you nod automatically, too glad to get it over with.
He is weird, you think. Weird, but he was nice and that's much more than you were getting in the last couple months.
Only back at your apartment when you get dinner ready, you realise something. The butcher didn't pack you two fillets. He packed four.
When you step into his shop few days later, your toddler, holding onto the bag of groceries you have in hand. "Helpin', mum" as he said to you, determined to do just that.
The bell dings above your head and the butcher emerges out of the backroom, his whole massive frame moving too quietly for someone of his size.
When he sees you and your boy, something changes in his eyes, almost eager. Anticipatory of something, when he gives you a short nod and circles the counter, leaning on it again, this time by the register, so he can see you proper.
So there is no glass between you two.
You open your mouth to greet him, only to pause realising that you don't know his name. Bloody hell, you didn't even ask it last time.
"Simon." He chimes in helpfully, eyes crinkling when you quickly nod. He is definitely smiling.
"Thank you for the last time, Simon." You smile, wide and relieved, reaching for your wallet. "But you've given us more accidentally. How much do I owe you for the extra two fillets we got last time?"
He makes a low humming sound, something satisfied passing through his eyes when he turns his head from side to side, slowly shaking it.
"Not accidental. On the house, luv." He says, glancing down at your toddler, tilting his head to the other shoulder when your son just stares up at him back. "Y'like the chicken?" Simon asks, casual and curious, not moving any closer but your baby quickly nods. Stands on his tippy toes to reach for the counter.
Breathes out 'thank u', a little shy in the face of a new person met and when you glance at Simon, his heavy shoulders sag down, dark eyes warm in a way you didn't expect.
"No problem." He says back to your son and glances back at you. "Same today, luv?"
"Uh...yeah, yeah, please." You snap out of your daze quickly and he nods, pushing himself up, suddenly towering over you. "Seems like we hit out jackpot with oven-baked chicken."
Fuck, you did not realise he will be even bigger up close.
"Breast's better today." Simon announces casually, not even looking up at you as he packs it for you just as quickly as the last time. "Same price as last time."
You are pretty sure that it should not be the same, but the big butcher sends you one glance and you promtly shut your jaws closed.
You will still be paying for the meat, so maybe it's okay if he wants to be kind to someone.
"Thank you, Simon." You tilt your head, mirroring his usual gesture without even realising when you take chicken from him. "Love, tell Simon 'bye-bye', we are leaving." You glance down at your child, currently watching Simon with rapt attention, clearly not planning to leave.
Simon huffs out 'g'bye', very obviously amused and says that he will see you later.
You don't question it. Not until you run into him in the grocery store. Then at the bakery.
Simon tilts his big head to the shoulder every time, large and tall, thick thighs wrapped in jeans that should be bursting at the seams by the looks of it.
Simon huffs 'hey, lad' at your son and breathes out 'mornin', love.", purrs 'evenin', luv' and practically savours the surprise on your face when you run into him in your apartment building when he tilts his head at you in the elevator and hold it so you can get in.
Smiles behind his surgical mask when you glance up at him and your throat bobs.
Not good for you and your kid to be all on your own. He could fix it for you, you know.
Simon nods goodbyes to you, says 'see you soon' instead of simple 'bye' and has the pleasure to watch the jump of your pulse at the base of your neck, breathing hitching.
Yeah, perhaps he should. Simon checked, there is no one with you and the laddie you haul on your hip everywhere.
You could use a hand and won't you look at that, Simon had two.
Aerion Targaryen x wife!reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
Summary: Aerion's lady wife keeps sneaking out of their bedchamber at night. Aerion is determined to find out why. Can be read as a oneshot. Can be read as a chapter in Growing Strong series. Set after Growing Familiar but before Deep in the Meadow.
Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, unprotected sex, obsessive behavior, breeding kink, power imbalance, talks about killing, Aerion has insane ideas. Dual pov?
The first months of your marriage to Aerion Targaryen, he bedded you every night without fail. It did not matter if you were tired from a day of riding or bored from hours of needlework or still irritated from some sharp word he had thrown at you over dinner. It did not matter if you drifted off before he even finished unlacing his breeches. Aerion Targaryen took what he wanted, and what he wanted, night after night, was you.
The first time you fell asleep before he came to bed, exhausted from a long day of travel, your body aching from the saddle, you woke to the feeling of his hands on your thighs, pushing your nightdress up to your waist. The room was dark, lit only by the dying embers in the hearth, and his silver hair gleamed like moonlight as he knelt between your legs.
"Aerion," you mumbled, still half-asleep. "What are you..."
"Hush." His fingers found your center, stroking with practiced patience. "Go back to sleep if you like. I will be quick."
You did not go back to sleep. You could not. His touch was too skilled, too knowing, drawing moisture from your body despite your exhaustion. When he finally pushed inside you, your back arched off bed and a broken moan escaped your lips.
"Shh," he breathed, his hips rocking in a slow, steady rhythm. "There you are. My sweet wife. My soft, warm, perfect wife. Just let me take what I need. You do not have to do anything."
And you did not. You lay there, drowsy and pliant, while he chased his pleasure in your body. His hands gripped your hips, tilting you to the angle he preferred, and his violet eyes were fixed on your face, watching every flicker of expression that crossed your features. When he finished, spilling inside you with a low groan, he pulled out slowly and pressed a kiss to your belly.
"A son," he murmured against your skin. "Give me a son, my sweet rose."
Then he gathered you against his chest, pulled the furs over you both, and fell asleep with his face buried in your hair.
This became your routine. Every night, without fail, Aerion took his pleasure from your body. And every night, you fell asleep immediately afterward, your body spent and satisfied, sleeping through until morning like a babe in a cradle.
He had to wake you each day by smacking your arse. A sharp, stinging slap that jolted you from sleep with a yelp and a flurry of tangled limbs.
"Aerion!" you protested, rubbing the smarting flesh. "That is not a proper way to wake one's wife."
"You do not wake to gentle words," he pointed out, already dressed and immaculate, his silver hair pulled back from his face. "I have tried. I have whispered endearments. I have kissed your brow. I have called your name a dozen times. You sleep like the dead, wife. Only pain rouses you."
"It is not pain. It is...surprise. And indecency."
"Call it what you like." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead, brief and almost tender. "You are awake now. The day awaits. I have duties, and you have whatever it is you do when I am not bedding you."
You restrained yourself from glaring at him. He could only tolerate so many complaints until he turned insufferable in return. You had learnt to pick your battles. You had also learnt that if you slipped out of the role of the charming wife, the lovely lady Tyrell, instead of figuring out you had never wanted to play the part of his wife in the first place, he'd think you were deeply upset about this one particular thing and he'd fixate on it. So you rose, and you dressed, and you went about your day, and at night he came to you again.
Nothing deterred him. Not your moon blood, you had been mortified the first time, stammering apologies and trying to push him away, but he had only laughed.
"The wetness is different," he had said, his voice dark with fascination. "Hotter. Slicker. I like it." And he had taken you anyway, slower than usual, watching the evidence of your body paint his length with each withdrawal. Afterward, he had kissed your belly and wished for a son, same as always, utterly unbothered by the blood that stained the sheets.
Not even your fights deterred him. If anything, they made him more ravenous. The night you quarreled over some petty thing, you could not even remember what, some slight or sharp word that had spiraled into shouted accusations, you had retreated to your chambers expecting a night of cold silence. Instead, he had come to you with fire in his violet eyes, spun you around, bent you over the bed, and taken you from behind with a ferocity that left you gasping.
"You are all the more delicious when I am angry," he had panted against your ear, his hips slamming into you with bruising force. "My sweet rose. My infuriating, stubborn, impossible wife. I should hate you. I should cast you aside. Instead, I cannot stop wanting you. Cannot stop needing you. What have you done to me?"
You had no answer. You could barely form words, too consumed by the pleasure and pain of his possession. When he finished, he had pulled you upright against his chest, his arms wrapped around you, his face buried in your neck.
"I do not wish to fight," he had whispered, so quiet you almost did not hear. "I do not know how to stop. But I do not wish to fight with you."
And then, because he was Aerion and could not let tenderness stand unadorned, he had smacked your arse and sent you stumbling toward the bed. "Sleep. I will wake you in the morning."
You had fallen asleep within moments, as always, and slept through until his hand connected with your rear at dawn.
That was simply how things were for some time.
You began to build stamina. Your body, accustomed to his nightly attentions, no longer collapsed into exhausted slumber the moment he spent himself inside you. You still fell asleep before him, Aerion had always been a restless sleeper, prone to lying awake and staring at the canopy while his mind churned, but you no longer passed out like a candle snuffed.
One night, however, Aerion woke in the small hours of the morn and found the space beside him empty.
He assumed you had returned to your own chambers. It was not unusual, you kept your own rooms, as was proper for a lady of your station, though you spent nights in his bed. Perhaps you had needed something. A different gown. A book. A ribbon for your hair. He rolled over and went back to sleep.
But it happened again. And again. And again.
The third time, he mentioned it over breakfast. "You left last night."
You looked up from your plate, your brow furrowed. "Did I?"
"You did. I woke and you were gone. Did you need something from your chambers?"
You blinked, clearly confused. "I...do not recall. I must have been half-asleep. I am sorry if I disturbed you, husband."
He let it go. But the fourth time, and the fifth, and the sixth, he began to wonder.
"You left again," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "Three nights this week. Where do you go?"
"I have no idea what you are talking about." Your eyes were guileless, your expression genuinely bewildered. "I sleep through the night, my love. You know this. You are the one who complains about having to smack me awake each morning."
He studied your face for any sign of deception. He found none. But Aerion Targaryen had been raised in the Red Keep before Summerhall, had survived the viper's pit of court politics, had learned to see lies even when they wore the most innocent of faces. His wife was a Tyrell. She had been trained in deception since birth. If anyone could lie to him convincingly, it was her.
The suspicions only began to grow, curling through his mind like poison ivy. She was leaving his bed in the night. She claimed not to remember. Where was she going? What was she doing?
His mind, ever prone to darkness, supplied answers that made his stomach clench.
A lover. She was sneaking off to meet a lover. Some handsome knight, perhaps, or a lord's son with a pretty face and gentle manners. Someone who was not cruel and sharp and difficult. Someone who could give her soft words and tender touches instead of games and barbs and rough handling. He could not think about it without murderous rage. He could only imagine all the painful ways he would kill the man.
Not a lover, mayhaps, but conspirators. She was a Tyrell. The Tyrells had been loyal to the Targaryens during the Blackfyre Rebellion. Leo Tyrell won notable victories in the Reach against Daemon Blackfyre's supporters, though his forces were unable to gather quickly enough to arrive in time for the battle of the Redgrass field. But loyalties shifted with every harvest in the Reach. Perhaps she was meeting with agents of her house, passing along secrets, plotting against him. Perhaps their entire marriage had been a scheme from the beginning, a way to place a Tyrell close to the throne, close to Summerhall, close to his father Maekar.
Perhaps, and this thought hurt most of all, she simply did not truly love him. Perhaps she left his bed because she could not bear to lie beside him. Perhaps she waited until she thought he was asleep and then fled to her own chambers, where she could breathe freely without his suffocating presence.
Aerion did not sleep that night. He lay beside her, listening to her soft breathing, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest. She looked peaceful in sleep. Innocent. Beautiful. When he finally drifted off, his dreams were troubled.
The next morning, he smacked her arse to wake her, same as always. She yelped and swatted at him, same as always. But when she smiled at him over breakfast, he found himself searching her face for signs of guilt, for evidence of betrayal. He found nothing. She was either innocent or a very, very good liar.
That night, he decided he would catch her.
He feigned normalcy. He unlaced her gown with practiced ease, as he always did. He kissed her throat and her breasts and the soft curve of her belly, as he always did. He took her slowly at first, then with increasing urgency, until she was gasping and clutching at his shoulders and crying out his name. Afterwards, he pressed his lips to her belly, just below her navel.
"A son," he murmured against her skin. A tradition by now, a ritual, his way of sayinga prayer. "Give me a son, my sweet rose. A strong son. A dragon."
He paused. Something caught in his throat, words he had rarely spoke aloud, words that terrified him more than any battle or tourney ever could.
"I love you," he whispered, so quiet that he was not sure she heard. "Even if it causes me pain to say it. Even if I cannot admit it when you are awake to hear. I love you, and I cannot...I cannot lose you. I cannot bear the thought of you slipping away in the night, going somewhere I cannot follow, seeking something I cannot give."
He fell silent. She did not stir. Her breathing was slow and even, her face peaceful in sleep.
He pretended to sleep. Hours passed. The candle burned down to a stub. The fire in the hearth faded to embers. Aerion lay still, his breathing deliberately slow, his eyes cracked open just enough to see the room in shades of grey and shadow.
In the deepest part of the night, she moved.
He watched through squinted eyes as she sat up slowly, her movements strangely fluid, almost mechanical. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat there for a long moment, utterly still. Then she rose, her bare feet silent on the stone floor. She found her slippers, felted wool, soft and quiet, and slid them on. She found her robe, a heavy thing of green velvet, and wrapped it around her shoulders.
She did not look at him. She left the bedchamber.
Aerion counted to ten, his heart pounding. Then he threw back the furs and followed.
He kept to the shadows. He had learned to move silently through corridors patrolled by guards and servants and spies. Trailing his wife through Summerhall was child's play.
She went first to her own chambers. Aerion's heart seized, this was it. She was meeting someone. A lover hidden in her rooms. A conspirator waiting in the dark.
But she did not stop. She passed through her chambers without pausing, movements unhurried, and continued through a side door that led to the gardens.
The gardens. Of course. A secret meeting among the roses. How fitting for a Tyrell.
Aerion followed, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. The night air was cool and sweet, heavy with the scent of night-blooming flowers. Moonlight silvered the paths and the fountains and the carefully tended beds of roses, red and gold, the colors of his house and hers intertwined.
She walked. And walked. And walked.
No one met her. No shadow detached itself from the hedges. No whisper greeted her from the darkness. She simply walked. Around the fountain. Down the rose path. Past the marble bench where they sometimes sat together in the afternoons. Her steps were slow and aimless, her arms loose at her sides.
Aerion watched her for what felt like an eternity, his confusion mounting. What was she doing? Where was she going? Why was she... She turned a corner and nearly walked directly into a rose bush, its thorns gleaming in the moonlight. Aerion moved before he could think. He strode forward, caught her arm, and pulled her back from the thorns. She did not resist. She did not react at all.
"What are you doing?" he demanded, his voice too loud in the quiet garden. "Where are you going? Who are you meeting? Tell me now, wife, and I may yet show mercy..."
She did not answer. She did not even look at him. Her eyes were closed.
Aerion's words died in his throat. He stared at her face: peaceful, serene, utterly unaware of his presence. Her lips were moving, forming words too soft to hear. He leaned closer, his heart pounding for an entirely different reason now.
"...roses need pruning," she was mumbling, her voice distant and dreamy. "The red ones first. Grandmother always said red roses first. Then gold. Then the path to the fountain..."
She was not meeting a lover. She was not conspiring against him. She was not fleeing his bed because she could not bear to lie beside him. His poor, sweet wife was sleepwalking.
Relief crashed over him like a wave, so intense it left him dizzy. He stood there in the moonlit garden, holding his sleeping wife's arm, and laughed: a shaky, breathless sound that was half-sob.
But the relief faded quickly, replaced by a new and different fear.
She could have walked into that rose bush. She could have torn her skin on the thorns, could have bled into the garden soil while he lay sleeping in their bed, oblivious. She could have fallen into the fountain and drowned. She could have wandered out of the gardens entirely, into the darkness beyond, where anything might have happened to her.
She could have been hurt. She could have died. And he would have woken in the morning to an empty bed and no explanation.
His grip on her arm gentled. He stepped closer, sliding his hand down to clasp hers.
"Come," he said softly, though she could not hear him. "Come back to bed, my sweet rose. You are safe. I have you."
She did not respond, but she did not resist when he turned her gently and began to lead her back toward the castle. Her feet moved automatically, following his guidance, her face still peaceful and blank.
As they walked, Aerion's mind raced with plans.
He would have to lock the bedchamber doors at night to keep her safe. He would put the key somewhere she could not find while asleep. Under his pillow, perhaps. Or around his neck on a cord.
He would have to put away all sharp things. The letter opener on his desk. The small knife he used for cutting fruit. Her sewing scissors. Anything she might stumble upon in her dreaming wanderings.
He had heard, somewhere, that a wet cloth placed on the floor beside the bed could help wake sleepwalkers. The shock of cold on bare feet, jarring them from their dreams before they could wander far. He would have the servants place one on her side of the bed each night. He would check it himself before they slept.
He would protect her. He would keep her safe. He would not lose her to something as absurd as a sleepwalking accident.
They reached his bedchamber. He guided her inside, closed the door behind them, and made a mental note to have a new lock installed in the morning. A sturdy one. One she could not open without a key.
He led her to the bed and eased her down onto the bed. She went willingly, her body limp and pliant, already sinking back into deeper sleep. He lifted her legs onto the bed, arranged the furs over her, and stood looking down at her for a long moment.
Her face was peaceful. Beautiful. Utterly unaware of the terror she had put him through. He climbed into bed beside her and pulled her against his chest. She mumbled something unintelligible and burrowed closer, her hand fisting loosely in his nightshirt.
"I will keep you safe," he whispered into her hair. "I will do whatever I must. You will not wander where I cannot follow. You will not come to harm."
a/n: You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
a/n: This was a random fic but I missed Growing Strong!Aerion hehe. I had the last chapter of the series, named Valyrian Legacy, typed up. Then I realised it sucked so now I'm going to do it in a completely different format. I now understand how George R. R. Martin feels about finishing his book.
SYNOPSIS: on your way home from work, you spot a stray dog and decide to help it from the pouring rain. little do you know you caught the attention of the scary, unapproachable mob boss and now that he’s got his sights set on you, he never plans to let you go. based on this request.
WARNINGS: 18+ MINORS DNI — alternate universe. fem!reader, oblivious!reader, sensitive!reader, age gap (reader is early20s & bucky is late30s) reader works a normal office job, pet names such as “baby” , “babydoll” & “sunshine” , reader hates cursing, reader adopts a puppy (teddy) stalker!bucky, mention of steve being bucky’s head of security, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, bucky hides his identity for a while, eventual smut, kidnapping, blood, guns, murder, reader gets injured, happy ending, no use of y/n
AN: this is a mini series that should have 1-3 parts. if there’s any more, you guys will be updated.
Nikolai x female!reader, omegaverse, omega reader, alpha Nikolai, heat, nesting, lots and lots of sex, oral, fingering, breeding kink, LONG FIC 4.7k words
Thank you my beloveds in the discord for encouraging this monster @gazstations @vinnierobot748 @lialucis
now on AO3!
You escaped notice, mostly. It was your job- you were a floater, assigned whatever task was necessary but not worth the time of the actual, important people. You coordinate schedules, take stacks of files to be digitized and others to be shredded, run between meetings with updates and sign off for deliveries of things you don't want to know about. A secretary without the sex appeal, you joke to yourself, and put your head down and request your heat time off in advance.
When it comes, you swallow the lump in your throat and wave bye to the handful of people you talk to, and go back to your room with a heavy step. Alone, locked doors and a nest made of your regular blankets and pillows, a couple toys to help the ache. Your head fucking kills, and you curse at yourself for not prepping enough- but there were three different fires to put out this week, one literal, and so you couldn't eat and couldn't rest and haven't been able to even think ahead for anything.
There's someone leaning on your door, and your steps slow. You know him by reputation only, the sort of man who appears and disappears as needed, and not on anything official. He looks like he's made himself comfy, and you scowl at him when pain spikes behind your eye, wanting to just get past and lie down and sleep the heat away.
He doesn't move though, staying right there to block your way, and his scent is heavy in the air- something dark and cool- and his frown lines deepen when he moves his sunglasses up on his head. You don't say anything, waiting for him to break the silence.
"Sweet omegas need to be taken care of, not care for everyone else," he says finally. "I see you running around like a chicken. Come, you can spend that heat with me." He pushes off your door and reaches for you, frowning again when you yank your arm back.
"A chicken-!" You sputter, before realizing that's not the main point. "How do you know I'm in heat? Or who I am?" That's not quite it either, dammit. "Who are you?"
He grins, unashamed, and this time his hand makes contact with your arm, tucks into your elbow and draws you in closer. You can't help but feel the warmth of his skin, the almost refreshing scent in your nose. You know you're all over the place right now, stressed and tired and aching, a pain in your head and a warmth in your belly. You just want a break.
"I am Nikolai, call me Nik," he says, and lifts your hand to kiss it. "And I know you keep this shit hole running smooth and no one sees it. No one notices you, do they? I do." Tears spring into your eyes, and you gulp them back. He kisses your wrist this time, the thin skin inside, where your pulse beats. "Come with me, sweet, let me help you. I can take care of you."
Your head hurts and behind you is paperwork and stress. Your door leads you to a flat mattress and small comforts you got for yourself.
Nik smells strong and soothing, you think about old growth forests and rain clouds. It's probably a stupid decision, but he's gone right to your heart with a couple sentences. Why the fuck not?
You step into his space, and lay your head on his shoulder, scenting him properly. Your neck arches, and his lips touch your skin as he does the same, breathing you in.
"Poor sweet thing," he purrs, "you're in good hands, now," and tugs your arm to follow him away from your room.
-
Nik drives with one hand on the wheel, the other on your thigh- patting up and down over your clothes, not groping like you half expected- just soothing over your flesh until it's so normal you forget about it. There's a paper bag between your feet with little snacks in it- fruit and honey bars, some spicy jerky, a cup of something juicy and rich. You dive through them eagerly, hungry, and catch Nik grinning when you moan a little in delight.
It's probably a bit much, but you can't help feeling better, some old instinct being soothed down as you ride away from the base. Your head still hurts, but the empty stomach at least has eased off by the time he pulls up to an honest-to-god log cabin, half buried in trees that look impossibly big to your view out the window.
You step out of the vehicle, looking around, and jump when Nik catches you up in his arms.
"What," you start, and then all your tension floods out as he tucks his chin over your shoulder and purrs.
It's deep and rumbling and soft, vibrating into your chest, and you sag in his hold, gasping. You've never had this, never had a purr just for you, and Nik cups the back of your head with his big hand. "Easy, sweet," he says, and kisses your throat. There's a burst of heat like fire in your belly. "Come inside, all is ready. I have you, I will take care of you, come," and he scoops you up off your feet.
The inside of the cabin is cool and dark, curtains half drawn, the corner of the single room dominated by a huge bed. It's carved top to bottom, thick curtains hanging down over it, the open side showing you what you register immediately as a nest- thick quilts, pillows, actual fucking furs- is this guy for real?
You whine a little as Nik sets you on your feet and begins unbuttoning your shirt. Your head is swimming, and you stumble out of your shoes- bed, bed, that nice heavy soft bed- and crawl into it mostly naked. If you were at home, your little room, you'd be in old soft shorts, thick socks, but nothing sounds better than feeling that rich softness on your bare skin right now.
Fucking heat.
Nik laughs a little behind you, easy, and tugs your pants off the rest of the way. "Rest, omega," he says, and tucks your hair behind your ear as you wrap a thick blanket over your shoulders. He draws another up, and all but buries you into the bed.
Your smile is soft and shaky up at him, feeling caught off guard and vulnerable, worried about being too much and also still not enough. His hand on your forehead strokes down, makes your eyes close. He doesn't do anything else, just picks up your clothes from the floor and steps away, and you slide into a sleep deeper and more restful than you've had in- ever.
-
You wake up to heat, to liquid warmth in your belly and between your legs. There's someone strong and hairy against you, muscles flexing as he moves, and you come with a wavering moan as you remember Nik.
His fingers slip from inside you, and there's a wet sucking sound. He's licking them. You can't see, it's fully dark and the curtains boxing in the bed are thick. The blankets on you are suffocating, suddenly, and you push them away.
"Nik?" Your voice is soft, muffled under the layers of dark and fabric. You can smell yourself, hot, nearly steaming with it, all the rich layers of omega scent overwhelming, and moan in relief when you find Nik in the dark and breathe into his neck, the cool breeze of him calming your fever. The purr in his chest keeps rumbling for you, a pleased alpha.
"Here, sweet, right here- so good for me, you taste so good. So wet." His fingers trail down the side of your cheek, sticky, until they find your mouth; you open and suck for him, tasting yourself. He groans against you. "Eat a little more for me?"
You don't know how he does it, you can't see an inch, but his other hand meets your lips, holding some little morsel. You leave his wet hand for this one, and bite into meat- something warm and dense, spice on your tongue, and moan aloud as Nik feeds you another even as his fingers slip between your legs again.
You feel swollen and achy, pulse pounding in your clit, and he circles it gently. You're so slick for him, he can just slide right into you, and he tells you this as you swallow the food. Your whole body aches, limbs trembling, as the alpha provides you with- good, rich food; a warm nest; a body to writhe against and take pleasure from. You want to cry, because it's so good and so perfect, his scent and purr going to your head like liquor.
Nik kisses down your face, scenting against your throat, and shifts so you can feel his cock against your leg. He's so hard, thick and wet at the tip, and you find your hands exploring down his body to it. He's stocky, chest hair soft under your palms, trailing down his belly to his groin, his thighs. His cock jumps when you stroke it, and you yelp as his teeth suddenly bite into your shoulder.
"Sorry," he pants, and you realize with a bolt of lust that he wanted to bite your throat, had to stop himself, that he wanted you.
"Please," you gasp, "yes, do it, bite me-!" Nik groans, almost snarling, and licks up your neck, under your jaw.
You come again, clamping down on his fingers, and and shove at Nik to make him move over, letting you roll onto your belly.
"Alpha," you plead, and lift your hips, "Nik, please, please," and your thighs spread open, your hand spreading open your folds so he can just slide in, take you, please just fucking- get inside, need it, the heat and the coiling pressure in your belly, the forest in his scent and the warmth of his body, the strong arms wrapping around you and keeping you in place as he finally, finally, spears you onto his cock.
You moan and shake when he bottoms out, full and stretched open. Nik groans, a hand fumbling up your side until he can get his hand into your hair and wrench your head to the side, burying his face into your throat, puffing hot breath over your skin. He sucks hard as he thrusts, wet smacks between your bodies, and you clamp down on his cock. He's sucking and licking at your throat, scent blooming up off you, and he drags in a deep breath and moans. He's so good, heavy and strong, and you feel the ache settle into something deeper between your legs. This is what you needed, a cock in your pussy to fill you up, thick thighs bouncing off yours, alpha scent in your nose as you moan and squirm for him, his big hands squeezing at your thighs, arms, breasts.
Nik gently pinches your nipples, tugging a little, making you gasp. In heat, you think of them leaking milk, heavy and full for the swollen belly he's going to give you, and plead for more until he's grunting into your ear and getting both hands on your tits, groping harder as your pussy squeezes his cock.
You lose your words, just sinking into the heat and sensations- soft furs under your knees, alpha inside you, hands and skin and sweat all rippling together. You clasp one of his hands with yours, twining your fingers, and he leaves your throbbing nipples alone long enough to grip your jaw and turn your face to his, kissing you messily.
He speeds up, hips smacking into your ass, and your arms give out as you feel his cock swelling. You moan wildly, letting Nik grab your ass and thighs, thumbs digging into your flesh as he pants. Your pussy clings to his cock as his knot swells, tugging at it every time it pops in and out, making your back arch, toes curling. You're so close, and Nik bends over you, forcing your ass up higher, your face pressed into the furs.
Nik shoves a hand under your belly and rubs furiously over your clit, and you feel his knot swell and lock into you as you come, gushing over him, limbs all quivering as your belly tightens and releases, flexing, the throb of your pussy milking him as he groans and falls over you.
His teeth sink into the side of your throat, sharp, finally, and you come with another slick gush, his knot so deep and full you can't get anything out around it- plugged up so well not even your own come can leak out- he moans and his cock twitches inside you, coming in spurts, filling you up full.
The heat takes over you fully now- you're an omega under your alpha, taken, knotted and held in place to be pumped full. Your pussy squeezes with each twitch of his cock, milking his knot, and your alpha groans and rumbles and purrs, steady and strong, letting you take everything you need from him.
-
The heat-haze stays over your mind longer than usual. You doze on Nik until his knot releases, and orgasm as his tongue licks his own come out of your pussy, crying for the pleasure and the need to keep it inside, too empty!
Nik's a good alpha though, he plugs you back up after he's done, fitting his cock back into you as your clit is stroked gently, soft as silk after he sucked it so much. You splay on top of him this time, legs open over his thighs, and he takes your weight easily, stroking over your pussy where it's stretched open around his knot. His fingers play with your folds the same way his tongue flicks along your ear, until you're coming again for him, his knot throbbing as he fills you more.
The next time is face to face- you lift your legs up, knees as high as they can go, to let Nik get your body in place, pressed down, pinned. He can't reach your clit like this, but you don't mind. Instead he sucks your nipples, squeezes your breasts and leaves over them with his tongue as you pant and whine.
"настолько мягкие, что наполните их молоком*," he moans, and you don't understand but he lifts both your breasts up together, pressing the flesh in tightly, and bites your nipples. You keen at that, attempting to thrash even as his weight holds you down, the sticky mess between your thighs getting hotter and wetter again. He keeps alternating them, biting and sucking until your nipples feel swollen and hot, until the flick of his tongue makes you moan and clench around his knot.
Your heat has a strangle hold on you- all you want is a knot, and between fucking Nik has to coax you to eat, feeding you more bites of meat with his fingers, petting your tongue when you swallow for him, sips of cool water poured down your throat. It's never been like this before- you could think, prepare, fuck yourself on some knotted dildos and snack on whatever you set next to your bed- Nik drizzles honey on your lips and licks it off, bounces you in his lap and drapes both your bodies in the furs and blankets.
Light spills through the gaps in the curtains, pale and thin, then brighter, golden. You stretch and roll into Nik as he purrs, kissing you as you open your legs for him again. He slides into you easily, so wet and worked open that it's nothing at all to stretch for him, and the day slips past in flashes of light on his skin, highlighting the curve of his shoulders, the sweat on his forehead, the way shadows dance across your belly as you come again, crying out, so sensitive you're sore- or so sore it's sensitive, pussy and clit all a warm, swollen mess, nipples aching.
You roll over, presenting with your hips up and chest flat to the bed, sweat dripping down your spine. Nik purrs at you, pleased with his omega, and you moan and arch further. His hands span your ass, lifting and bouncing your cheeks, and when his thumb rubs over your asshole you whine, clenching as he slips it inside, gently fucking you just a little while his knot settles into your cunt. Each push inside makes you clench, milks his cock, and you whimper into the pillows as he adds a finger, another- so tight where your cunt is so stretched out, your own slick and his come smeared into a thick lube that he shoves into you.
You think about his cock in that hole instead, knot bulging in your guts, as you beg for it to be fucked into the right hole, and come as he fingers your ass, Russian words dripping from his lips.
The orgasms pulse through you. Nik is as sweaty and wrecked as you are, moaning with you each time his knot fills and releases, using his fingers and tongue to drive you insane every time. You gasp for breath, shaking, sucking food and water from Nik's hands with big, soft eyes. The alpha tucks your hair back, kisses your lips, cradles you down in the nest as you cool off a little. Thoughts begin to slip back in, and you notice the bags of food and bottles of water tucked into a shelf built into the bedframe out of the way. The next time Nik brings you a bite, you reach for another and press it to his lips instead.
He holds your eyes as he takes it, teeth scraping your fingertips, and you swallow hard. He lets you give him some water too, and you pass the bottle back and forth. Cool droplets fall from your wrist when it spills a little, shaky hands, and Nik licks it up.
His tongue follows your wrist down, and your pussy pulses as he licks the crease of your elbow, jumps over to your breast to lick your nipple again. "Nik," you moan, surprising yourself, the only word you've had has been alpha for- hours? Days?
He hums around your nipple, the lines around his eyes creasing in a smile as he flicks it with his tongue, making you whine.
"Nik- again, please," you beg, and he groans and buries his face into your breasts.
"Killing me, sweet," he says, and lifts your hips up to meet his. His cock is still heavy and hard, leaking steadily, and you reach down to caress the half-blown knot as he pushes into you. "So good, letting me have you- taking me so well- let me hear you again, omega," and he shifts his weight and just fucks you, hard and sharp, making you moan on each thrust. You're too sensitive for such a harsh fucking, but it's too good to stop, all the heat building up into another orgasm too quickly, almost painful. Your pussy hurts, soaked and swollen, and you feel tears slip down to your temples as your body takes it again.
Nik groans, mouthing at your breast, until you lift his face up to yours. You kiss him, sucking on his tongue as his hips gentle, slowing, and fumble blindly for another bottle of water. He pants as you tip it to his mouth, spilling it between your bodies, and he follows the trail down your throat, where the side of your neck is marked up purple and pink, swollen, stinging as the cool water drips over your skin.
You finish the bottle yourself and find instead of orgasm, your body is settling down at last- you stay soft and open, Nik's knot bumping against your hole as he works it inside, teasing your pussy with it until it swells up, locks in. You whine and let him bite you again, clenching down, feeling the ache catch and release, release, limbs all going liquid and falling down as Nik spurts a little come into you- just enough to feel the twitch of his cock before he settles his weight down, your hips splayed open, warm and wet for him to rest inside.
The light has shifted again, going dim, and you doze off and on. Nik has shuffled you to your side, still locked together, and is nuzzling your cheeks and nose with his. You play with his hair, coiling the dark strands around your fingers as he falls asleep himself, the low snore vibrating through him like a purr. Everything feels liminal, outside of time- just the nest, soaked in sweat and come, a hidden space away from everything else. The cabin itself creaks in the wind, the forest noises quiet for the night.
You fix your teeth into Nik's throat and bite, laving your tongue over his skin, sucking as he rouses up, moaning, his hand coming around the back of your head to hold you in place as you mark him, taking him, his knot finally easing out, deflating fully, still joined to your cunt with the thick web of come and slick smeared between you.
-
The morning sun slices through the curtains right across your eyes where you're sprawled over Nik, a quilt hanging off you, rising and falling with his chest as he snores.
You have to pee so fucking bad.
You stagger off the bed, legs wobbling, and manage to make it to the narrow door of what you pray is a bathroom. You're successful, and not even the absolute life ruining heat you just had compares to the simple relief of peeing for the first time in- what, two days? Three?
Back to the bed is another feat of strength, and you drop into the pile of pillows and furs gratefully. There's a pounding ache between your legs, your back hurts, you're monstrously thirsty again. Nik is no better off, his hair matted with sweat and his cock soft and bruised looking, a muscle jumping in his thigh even asleep.
You press your lips to his chest, feeling his heartbeat. He still smells good, still that old-forest-dark-clouds, under the new layer of sweat and sex. More kisses up his pecs, across his collarbone, until you can gently lick at the purplish bite mark decorating the smooth skin under his ear, right where you can scent him the strongest.
He rumbles a little, waking up, and you smile up at him as he turns his head to you, taking a soft kiss from your mouth. "Morning, sweet," he says, and kisses you again.
You half expect him to start shooing you out the door as soon as it was clear the heat had finally released you, but instead he keeps going- he feeds you breakfast, bites of the same fruit and honey, thick bread spread with butter. You hum in delight- it's delicious- and he blushes, telling you almost shyly about learning family recipes, ones from his grandparents days, made for nesting omegas. The bread is thick and strong, packed with herbs, and your praise makes him blush even more, which is too cute for a man of his size and strength.
You nap, Nik snoring into your ear, and when he wakes you the sunlight spilling through the windows is fading. The little bathroom- it looks tacked on, and you wouldn't be surprised if this place was built when outhouses and chamberpots were standard- sputters warm water, and Nik even joins you in the shower.
His body feels amazing under your hands, his scent mixing in the air with the plain soap. You use your hands to scrub him down, stroking over his arms and legs, and he moans and swears when you kneel down for him, kissing along his cock as you soap up the tender skin around his balls, behind them.
His knot stays down, but you suck him anyway, eager to give him a little more pleasure when he did so much for you. His cock is sensitive, and you treat it gently, conscious of the way your pussy clenches each time he moans, the taste of his precome on your tongue. He rubs his fingers along your cheeks when they hollow out, pressing in, and you blink the water out of your eyes and look up at him, watching his face as he groans and comes for you. There's not much of it- you're surprised he has anything left in him- and you smooth your tongue along along the underside as his hips pump forward into your mouth, letting him go only when he whines, overstimulated.
Your own fingers slip across your clit, barely touching, but still enough to make your eyes roll back as over-sensitive nerves spark and catch, the little quivering orgasm pulsing through you. Warm water slides off your back, over your legs, as you sigh and lean against Nik's legs, feeling him petting the wet strands of your hair. He even coaxes another flutter from you, rubbing soapy fingers across the folds of your pussy, one teasing your asshole again- without heat clouding your mind, it feels dirtier somehow, and he grins when you squirm and hide your face, trying not to think about how your hips work back onto his hand.
Your clothes are stacked neatly on a chair, and feel strange on your body after the luscious nakedness in the bed, Nik's hands as he cleaned you up in the shower after. Nik doesn't seem in any hurry to move things along, you get the feeling he'd be happy staying here another day or three, but you have a job waiting for you.
You gently push forward the idea of leaving, going back to the base and home- though thinking of your room as home feels strange now too- and Nik just kisses you again. He loves doing it, you've learned, taking any chance to kiss your hand, your lips or cheek, nuzzle up under your jaw and along your throat.
"I know, sweet, time to go back," he grumbles, and you help him strip the bed- a huge bag is filled with the sheets and quilts, the furs stacked up in a pile he carries to the truck still waiting outside. You ask him about paying for the laundry and he just laughs.
"Laundry? Sweet, I will be sleeping in the scent of you just as they are," he insists, which is thrilling and a little gross. You help him load back up through, packing in all the left over water, snacks, the small loaves of bread wrapped in paper and carefully placed where they won't be crushed.
You pick the music on the way back, your head no longer spinning and able to appreciate the drive, the forest as it speeds past, and realize you're laughing in joy- when you glance over Nik is grinning back at you.
The base seems quieter, less overwhelming, when Nik drops you off at your door. You hesitate with the key in the lock. It feels wrong to walk away from him- you've spent the last few days in this fog of desire and need, that he so perfectly carried you through- but what can you say? What can you do? How do you move forward with someone when you don't know their last name, barely met them, but they made such a mark on your life? Maybe you should just tell him thanks? Ask for a date? Does he even want to date you?
A soft, deep brown fur lands around your shoulders like a shawl, stopping the spiraling thoughts. You breathe in and smell Nik, cool and dark, mixed in with yourself- something like sunlight breaking through the leaves. Peace and comfort.
You breathe in deeply, and Nik's hand cups your cheek. "I'll see you soon, милый**," and kisses your lips before he winks at you and just- leaves, whistling, a spring in his step that wasn't there before- you're pretty sure. The bag with the loaves of bread, the small snacks that he fed you through the heat, is at your feet.
Your smile could light up the hallway on its own. Food, soft materials for your nest that smell of him. A promise to see you soon.
You'll need to get a Russian dictionary- he might be taking care of you, but there's a few things you can think of to give him as well.
may i suggest 141 going out to and meet stripper!reader
Poly!141 x female!reader, stripping, gangbang, dubcon, fingering, oral, spit roasting, deep throating, breathplay, anal, comeplay, noncon drugging, kidnapping yes these got darker out of nowhere
Anon I hope you like this because something in it ate me alive and I blacked out into 4.5k of smut and a hard left into fucked up land
now posted on AO3!
Now this was a good night to be working.
Everyone had picked good music, the drinks and cash were flowing, and you had managed to land four of the biggest guys in the place all to yourself.
Normally you didn't like the military types- they spent a lot but also expected extra just for their "service", as if sitting around a base and driving jeeps made them special. These guys, though, were something else- scarred, bulging muscles that looked like they came from work, not the gym. They introduced themselves with what sounded like code names, and you knew those were legit because the only one that was sort of impressive was Ghost, and he was the quietest of the bunch, sitting in the corner of the booth. Their captain, Price, had an air of authority that made you purr daddy at him while thanking him for a tip, he blushed, fucking cute, which got a laugh from Ghost, also fucking cute.
And they definitely knew how to make a girl feel appreciated.
Money slid down the strap of your shoes and tucked into your bra, Soap and Gaz grinning and bringing bringing folded bills up to you in their teeth, so you can tug it free with your tits or curl your tongue around it like a kiss. When you sat on Price's lap and stole his hat for yourself, offering to return it if he bought you a drink, the man's hand had come up like he was about to grip your thigh and then deliberately pulled away, which holy fuck, was he actually obeying the no touching rule?? He didn't even try for a pinch or pretend he didn't notice??
You signaled the bouncer a peace sign, and held Price's gaze as you slowly dragged his fingers up the outside of your thigh, letting him feel your skin all the way to the narrow strap of your thong panties, before letting him go. The other three all oohed at him, teasing him for being the first one to get a hand on you, while he blushed again under his mustache.
This was dangerous, because now you were starting to like them.
The men kept you busy, anytime you weren't on stage being beckoned back to them, money flowing from their hands to yours, drinks bought, your fingers tugging belt loops, plucking their shirt sleeves, climbing into their laps and teasing your weight along their cocks. You could touch them, and kept the bouncer in eyesight, but they all kept their hands to themselves unless you gave permission.
Gaz took a shot out of your cleavage with Soap holding your bare tits from behind, his hands big and warm, and you laughed as Gaz turned bright red when he choked on the drink.
Soaps thumbs slid over your nipples as he let you go, and oh fuck, there's that little clench that means you need a break. Because you like stripping, you like the fast cash and attention, but the dark dirty secret was, it turned you fucking on.
Bouncing your ass on stage, spinning on the pole with your thighs open and only a tiny little thong to cover your pussy. Tits squeezed and groped under your own hands just for men to line up for a taste, a little touch, before you're away and leaving them wanting. All the validation you could need combined with the sheer physical pleasure of dancing, enjoying your body, feeling your muscles warm and your skin flush under the strobe lights.
Except you don't get a break, because Gaz is coming back with two shots and hopeful eyes, wanting a second chance, and Soap already has your tits squeezed up against the cold glass, and Gaz is licking into your cleavage and dipping his tongue to curl into the glass, oh shit.
You whimper as Soap's hands tighten, and he grinds against your ass. You flash another peace sign, and behind Gaz, Price smirks, Ghost leaning in to say something in his ear.
Gaz holds the second shot to your lips and you open obediently, swallowing the liquor as Soap wrapped his arms around your waist, kissing your neck.
"Give 'em that sign, love, you know you're fine," Soap says, and you flash another peace sign at the bouncer, watching him nod and turn to check the other dancers. Gaz tugs you out of his arms and over to their table, and you slide in and climb into Ghost's lap, feeling a little lightheaded. The big man pulls you to sit properly against him, back to chest, and spreads his knees so that your legs part around him. Price stares at the little scrap of fabric over your pussy, and you actually feel a little gush of slick when he licks his lips.
"Give us a dance, love?" Ghost says into your ear, and when you've barely squeaked out a yes before he's fucking lifting you up, carrying you back toward the sectioned off booths for private shows. You gape when Price puts a thick wad of cash into your hand- fucking hell- and you realize that all four men are following Ghost back to the booths. Together.
You clamp your thighs together and peel off a few of the bills to pass to the bouncer on booth duty. He raises his eyebrows and whistles at you, then pockets the cash and waves you in.
The booths aren't monitored, is the thing, which is why someone is always outside. They're supposed to track how long a girl is in a booth, if she's dancing or maybe doing something else- but even the good guys who check in and walk dancers to their cars after a shift can be bought off to look the other way for a bit.
You've never had to buy them off. You've always danced, maybe teased a little more than you would on stage, and then gotten paid your due. You'd been too nervous, maybe somehow shy, about crossing the final line, no matter how much money was flashed your way.
Now though- four big men crammed into the little booth, music pounding in your head- now all you want is to let loose. When Ghost sets you on your feet and rubs his thumb over your lips, you realize you'd be doing this for fucking free. You let his thumb pop in and suck on it, flicking your tongue around the base, and he grins, scars creasing his cheeks. He lets you go, and you spin in place, Ghost sitting down next to Price on the cushioned bench seat, Gaz and Soap leaning on the walls.
The song changes and you dance, more sensual than you would on a stage- this isn't a performance, this is for them, and you feel the weight of their eyes as you play with your breasts, swing your hips and ass, touching yourself and driving your own pleasure up and up.
You brace a hand on the wall of the booth, bent at the waist with your ass facing them, and- Jesus fuck, you really are doing this- you drag your free hand down your stomach, slipping into your panties, and make sure they all can see how you slide a finger into your pussy, smooth and slick, a little moan muffled under the bass beat.
There's a deep groan of want from behind you, and you look over your shoulder to see all four of them locked on, watching you, and it goes right to your core. There's not much room- the booths are meant for a single dancer and customer, not one regular person and four giants, and you can practically feel it get hotter. Gaz brings a hand up, hovering over your ass, and when you nod at him he slides his fingers under the strap of the little (soaked) panties and-
Oh fuck, he just ripped it off, snapped elastic dangling, and the little scrap over your cunt stays put only by how wet you are-
Gaz peels it away, dropping your panties to the floor, and you slide a second finger inside and moan louder. Fuck, that was the hottest thing that's ever happened to you, and now you have your bare cunt spread out in front of them, too wet to be professional, just a girl who wants to get fucked.
Someone moves your hand away, and you only know it's Price by the scrape of his mustache on your ass as he kneels down and shoves his face into your pussy, licking from clit to hole in one swipe, and you nearly crash to the floor in surprise. Soap gets up at your face and you brace against him, instead of the wall, gripping the side of your throat with one hand as he angles your face for a kiss, sucking on your tongue, devouring you. Price's tongue is hot and wet, teasing your clit and hole both- oh fuck, licking your asshole, little soft flicks of his tongue that make you whine into Soap's mouth when he goes back to your clit again. Someone else lifts your leg up, opening your thighs more for Price. You're balanced on one mile-high heel, and when two different hands start groping your breasts you wobble dangerously.
"Here, love, let's get you settled-" that's Ghost in your ear, his lips tracing the shell, and Price pops off your clit as you're lifted and shuffled around to sit like you had at the table- Ghost behind you, back to his chest, his thighs opened up to spread yours. This time though, he gets his hands under your knees, lifting up as well as out- both your holes are presented this way, the soft pink flesh of your pussy gleaming wet under the strobes, and Price gets back to eating you out even harder, sucking deeper, curling his whole tongue inside you to stroke your g-spot, god, you'd never been eaten out this well. The only fingers that have touched your pussy are your own, all the men still have their pants buttoned, cocks big straining bulges. Ghost grinds up against your ass, and when Price finally slips a finger inside, you think of being split open on Ghost's cock while Price sucks your clit, and come right there, thighs shaking and lips parted in a moan.
Price sits back, fingering you gently through the aftershocks, his mustache wet. "Good girl, love, that's gorgeous," he says, and pats your pussy, a little wet slap. "Nice and relaxed now. Simon, you want her first?"
Simon- Ghost, you realize- huffs into your ear and lifts you up. He's fucking holding you in midair, Jesus christ, the muscle control alone- and Price pops his jeans open and holds the man's cock at your hole before you can even blink. It hits you that he's about to do just what you had imagined, and your pussy winks where a little creamy slick is leaking out.
Soap swears, "Fuck LT, either stick it in her or hand her over," and you hear Gaz laugh at him as Ghost lowers you so slowly down, his arms steady under your knees, your pathetic whimpers as he splits you open coming almost on beat. He seats you on his lap, your pussy stretched, and even before you can catch your breath from the cock shoved up to your lungs he's moving, thrusting up and pulling down, your whole body held in place to be used.
You're moaning nonstop, each thrust in shoving a little squeaky sound out, each long pull back a desperate needy noise. Your eyes slide closed, and someone tuts, pinching your nipple until they open again, whining.
Price is still kneeling in front of you, but he's got his cock out, jacking the rigid flesh to the rhythm Ghost is fucking you. He's huge too, big and thick, and you think about him shoving inside while you're still sloppy and open from Ghost.
The man groans behind you, "fuck birdie, I felt that. Got so fucking tight. You like watching him huh?" You moan a weak yes, and shake as Soap's hand comes to your clit, teasing it with just his fingertips. "Going to come for daddy to see?" You should never have made that dumb joke, but its too late now, because daddy is ringing in your ears like a bell, and Ghost is slamming his cock into you so hard it hurts, and Soap has his fingers rolling over your clit, Gaz sucking on his neck with both hands pulling out their cocks together, big and heavy, stroking them off.
You come again with white sparkles behind your eyes, and Ghost drops your legs to get his hands on your tits, squeezing each so hard you shout. It hurts, it's too much, but his grip is rock solid. He's fucking using your tits like handles to fuck you up and down the last little bit, milking his cock, and you feel another orgasm creep up on the heels of the last, pussy clenching and clit throbbing, the mess of your combined come leaking out around Ghost's cock.
You don't bother trying to stand up, you can't, feeling so fucked out and you've only had one of them, fuck. Soap helps you sit forward, and you whine as your thighs twitch.
He tuts and pushes your hair back from your face, damp with sweat. "Poor lass, gone all come drunk already. Want to take her with me Kyle?"
Gaz grins and pulls your hips up, off Ghost, and you're turned sideways. The man is sitting on the bench looking rather come-drunk himself, eyes dark and sweet, his cock still sticky as it softens against his belly. You did that, you put that look on his face and that streak of slick down his balls, and you shiver and moan as the other two arrange you between them, kneeling down, Gaz behind you and Soap in front. You realize what they're after as Gaz pulls your ass cheeks apart, rubbing the tip of his cock up and down your pussy, spreading the slick around further, and Soap cradles your head and helps you brace against his thighs. "Nice and easy, lovie," he says, and you open your mouth and slide down onto his cock as Gaz slides his into you.
Full at both ends, the heavy hot taste of cock in your mouth, another smoothly thrusting in and out of you, and you lean into the easy rhythm and let go. The two men are big and strong, they can move and hold you where they want, all you have to do is keep sucking and not choke. It's good, comforting even, feeling a slower syrupy arousal building up in you. Your breasts hang and bounce, and you're hyper-aware of them, of your nipples and how you want them to be pinched again, groped by Ghost's huge hands.
Then Gaz shoves in deep and holds himself still, both hands gripping your waist, and you have a moment of confusion before Soap pulls your bracing hand away and pushes, cock going all the way back, bumping your throat. You try to cough around him and you can't, and can't pull away or get leverage- a little curl of fear grows in your belly. You whine and plead up at him with wet eyes, and Soap grins at you like a jackal.
Gaz pulls back a little and slams home, and your body pushes forward, and Soap pops into your throat for an eternal second, and you have a sudden realization that he's fucking your throat the same way Gaz is fucking your cunt, making a space for himself. Both men pull back out, not all the way- you cough and gasp and feel your pussy drooling- and then thrust in again. You hear the wet garbled sounds you're making- you can't moan or breathe around the cock stuffing your face- feel a string of slick snake down your thigh where your pussy is already overfull of come and cock- and fuck it. Who cares if you make it out of this. You've never felt hotter, more wanted, your clit throbbing, and that syrupy arousal climbs through your limbs again. You feel suffused with it, a warm glow, and Gaz groans as your pussy begins to bounce.
"fuckin- she's fucking half gone and still working her pussy on me. Soap, hold up a sec," and when the man slows and holds his cock half in your mouth, you whine and lick sloppily at it, your hips grinding back, wanting more of what they're giving you. Soaps gets a hand down to pinch your nipple, and tugs, pulling the little nub until your whole breast is peaked, you're whimpering and trying to smack your clit back on Gaz's balls, and he lets you go to grip your head in both hands and fuck your face, too fast to breathe around, drooling a frothy mix of spit and precome as your eyelids flutter.
"imagine what she'd look like in ropes, tied up all proper," he grunts, and Gaz's hips stutter, fucking you out of rhythm with Soap, your body jostled and bouncing, groaning and quivering and coming between them. Your pussy aches and your throat spasms around Soap, one hand weakly coming up to clutch at his wrist, as he holds you down against his balls. Your belly heaves as you instinctively fight for air, and the lights around Soap's head flash a halo of pink and blue prisms as he comes down your throat, pulling out to jerk his cock over your face, sloppy, your makeup streaking and ruined. You collapse onto the floor, your hips held up as Gaz keeps fucking your pussy. The mess drooling out of your mouth smears on your cheeks, bubbling as you whimper, your overstimulated body feeling the aches and aftershocks of multiple orgasms, dancing, being stretched and fucked.
There's so much come and slick spread around your pussy, it's wet up your ass, and you feel at a remove how Gaz is swiping his fingers through the mess, scooping up a palmful, but it doesn't register really.
Until he pauses his hips and you feel two fingers slide into your ass.
You keen into the sticky floor as his fingers probe deep. "Opened right up," he comments, and fucking hooks his fingers, using your asshole like a grip to fuck into you again. It hurts, and your pussy clamps down tight, struggling under a new pressure from the inside. Your moaning goes unheeded, and Gaz shushes you with a little pat to your ass. "Settle down, you're fine," he soothes, and rubs your clit. It's still swelled up and sensitive, and your moaning hits a new pitch, muscles tensing in anticipation of another orgasm as he plays you with both hands, fingers stroking and pulling in your ass, thumb flicking over your clit like he's lighting a match, and you sob into the puddle of spit and come under you as your body betrays you, coming in a wave down to your cramping feet. Gaz holds his cock deep inside, grinding, and you feel his come spilling out: hot drippy mess that oozes onto the floor when he lets go and you collapse, splayed out, both holes winking at the men gathered around.
How long had you even been back here? How long had they been driving you insane with pleasure?
Price's boots are in front of your face, and some buried desire pushes you up, brings your tongue out to lap at the leather, over the tight laces. Ghost moans above you, and you hear the other voices swearing.
You scrape yourself to your knees, blinking up at Price with eyes full of tears. You're still in your heels, but it's the only clothing left, your makeup smeared away and hair in a wild tangle. There's come over your face, drips down your chest and tits, smeared all over your pussy, ass, and thighs.
Price is hard, the foreskin pulled back and tip wet, still so heavy he hangs down over his balls. You open your mouth and kiss it, licking clumsily along the shaft, little whimpering moans trickling out of you. Price cups your cheek gently, and fresh tears trickle out of your eyes. You'd give him anything right now.
"Sweet thing, any other day I'd be fucking your throat even harder than Johnny did, but tonight I've got other plans for you," he says, and the bench seat scrapes the floor as Soap hauls it over, turning it cross-wise, and Price helps you stagger upright just enough to lay down on your back. You sigh in relief at the relative comfort of the padded cushion, and Ghost sits on the end just behind your head, straddling it. His cock is back in his boxers, pants still open, the half-hard shape of him bumping the top of your head.
Ghost lifts your hands and presses them to his belly, twining your fingers together. You wonder muzzily what he's doing, and then a slow awareness grips your addled brain. Price is between your legs, pants down and open, cock fully out, and you look down to see him pressing in.
Why does it feel so strange?
It's another moment before your brain turns over and your mouth opens on a moan, a sob, a plea- the heavy hot cock isn't going into your pussy, but your ass.
Tiny little hole barely opened up with two fingers, smeared inside and out with come and slick, stretching out over Price's fucking hammer, and your thighs start to spasm as an ache grows in your lower back. He's splitting you in two, your hole squeezing tight to try and keep him out, but you can't- you're too exhausted, muscles weak with orgasms, heart hammering in your chest as you realize he's going to fuck you nearly dry, and you're going to come while he does it.
Your pussy throbs from abuse, swollen and sensitive, your clit erect and aching, straining up like it's own little prick, ready to be stroked. Your nipples are so hard they hurt, breasts sore from groping and the rough floor, and when Price works the last final inch inside you cling to Ghost's hands and take it, the burning in your ass and the empty clenching of your pussy, pouring slick down onto your asshole and making each thrust a little smoother, wetter. Ghost gets one hand free and pinches your nipples as you cry, smacks your breasts, grips one in his fist and squeezes like he's going to crush it. It hurts so much it goes around to good again.
If you have any words they're nonsense, if you have any sounds other than a cry or moan they're lost to you. Price's cock slams in and out of your asshole and your body sings with it. The music still plays, a thumping beat that you feel in your chest.
Ghost's cock appears by your cheek, the wrong angle to suck it, but you can watch his fingers stroke over the skin, the precome dripping out of his hole, the shiny thin skin of the head flushed red. He comes with a grunt, and the warm wet streaks splash over your breasts, puddling in your cleavage and down your neck. Price swipes a hand through the mess and puts his fingers to your mouth- you open and let him stroke your tongue, too blissed out to suck but eager for the weight in your mouth.
Low cursing, and Price puts his hand down on your throat instead. You lay your head back, giving him more room, and feel his hips slam in, fucking into an orgasm, your clit smacking at his groin when he bottoms out. It's nearly enough, just a little more to drag you over the edge one last time, please let this be the last time, and you get it when he looks down into your eyes and says, "Come now, pet, come for me."
You black out.
You wake up- or blink- or something. Your body aches and burns, and someone is gently wiping down between your legs with a soft cloth. Someone else is kissing your throat, licking away the come and sweat, and another does the same to your breasts. The lights are flashing too brightly, the music too big and loud. Someone shushes you and cleans your face, this time with a damp wipe, and you gasp for water that comes to your lips in a plastic bottle. Its cool and sweet and you blink up at Soap, holding it to your lips, feeling shivery and precious.
Price finishes cleaning you up with a little, careful touch around your clit, and pats your thigh when you flinch. Your shoes are missing. "There, love, take it slow," he says, "don't stand up yet. You're alright."
Gaz takes one last lick of your tits, suckling on your nipple to get the drop of come that was stuck. Soap does the same behind your ear. Ghost- oh, he's holding you, cradled in his arms like a comfort toy.
There's no way you can go back out to the floor, talk to girls and guys and act like you didn't just have a religious experience in this booth. How long have you been there? How many song changes? Was anyone looking for you?
As Price stands with a groan, hands on his knees, you reach out and catch his wrist. You swallow around the lump in your throat. "Don't leave," you beg, and he blinks at you before smiling so kindly you tear up.
Ghost squeezes you up, big arms strong and safe, Gaz and Soap so warm right next to you. The lights are still too bright, a halo around their heads, Price outlined in sparkles.
"Oh, dove, we won't leave you, not ever. And you won't leave us. Been keeping an eye on you for a while, finally took our chance when we could, we aren't giving you up now."
You nod along, happy down to your bones. You didn't know you missed them until you had them. Your men, your boys, they'll take you home? Keep you forever?
Wait- which home? Your home?
Soap brings the water back to you and you swallow gratefully, parched. Your throat aches, but it's a good ache.
Ghost lifts you up like he did the first time, and you snuggle down into his shoulder, closing your eyes. You're so fucking tired.
There's a shuffling, low voices you can't make out over the music. Gaz has your bag from the dressing room, that's sweet. You'll need your normal clothes. They help lift your sweatpants up your legs, work your rubbery arms through the T-shirt. No shoes, Ghost picks you up again. Out of the booth, down the hall- the sudden chill of open air and a door that takes you into a calm, quiet night. A big van with blacked out windows, soft leather seats you lay across with a sigh. A heavy coat over your shoulders, more murmuring that's not important. More sweet water down your throat, more soothing touches and kisses.
The van's engine turns over, and drives off, your dancing heels left in the corner of the booth and your phone sitting in the locker where Gaz had stolen your bag. The bouncers who looked the other way pocketed thick stacks of cash and shrugged when asked if they saw you leave. The only things left from the night were a couple of dirty shot glasses, one with a little filmy layer stuck to the bottom, and your shoes and the snapped elastic of your panties shoved into a corner.
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series masterlist
video title | 'ellie's forced orgasm treatment'
video description | 'sweet little ellie might just have the tiniest clit dr. ari has ever seen. to prep her for her forced orgasm treatment, he uses a precision pump to grow the itty bitty nubbin to a more manageable size. as the machine milks the patient's clit, the doctor stretches out her tiny bottom with a gloved finger, reveling in the way she cries so pathetically at the unwanted penetration. once her clit is nice and swollen, the pump is removed and a clamp is applied to keep the knot of flesh exposed. dr. ari chooses one of his favorite tools to administer ellie's orgasm treatment: a vibrating brush designed for the clit combined with his patented warming paste, alongside a larger plug to properly stuff her abused little bottom. with expert care, he scrubs the patient's clit while working the plug inside her burning hole, building her up to a powerful orgasm right there on the exam table. poor little ellie wails as she squirts all over dr. ari's hands and tools, earning lots of praise from the proud doctor.'
participants | dr. ari levinson, ellie [regressed patient]
warnings | unambiguous NONcon: crying, resisting, pleading. nswf age regression/play. medfet elements: clinical setting, exam table, stirrups, restraints, gloves, sex toys used as "medical instruments." clit focus: pump, clamp, the dreaded brush returns >:D, warming paste. (virgin) anal play: fingering, plug. squirting forced orgasm. mocking, degradation, humiliation, praise. (basically) no aftercare.
word count | 2,098
an | eun's first smut in like,, actual years at this point? and it's filthy, depraved medfet? more likely than you'd think besties B^) so the way i've started to draft private practice concepts (and i'll explain this more in a proper post about the series/update the masterlist to include this information at some point) is in the format of a video library that the clinic keeps, comprised of videos taken during patient appointments. i'm not quite sure why i've been doing it this way, but it's been working, so i'm not gonna fight it lol. i've found it's been a little easier for me to use a nondescriptive "patient" with a name, instead of traditional reader-insert; i hope that's alright with everyone. the patients won't have many physical descriptors if any at all, and i'm not sure if their appearances will each be a one-off or if they'll have ongoing storylines. but for now, enjoy ellie and dr. ari in this piece :) thanks so so so much to everyone who has waited literal years for me to get back to posting. i love you forever with all my (slutty little) heart <333
The opening shot of the recording shows one of the clinic's pristine exam rooms, with little Ellie strapped down securely to the padded table. Her legs are spread obscenely wide in the sturdy set of stirrups, a paper gown already pushed back to only reach the bottom of her tummy. Tears prickle in the poor girl's eyes as Dr. Ari takes a seat on the stool at the foot of the table.
“Alright, Ellie," he murmurs calmly, snapping on a pair of nitrile gloves. "We have a very special treatment planned for that little clit of yours today." Reaching up with a large hand, the doctor adjusts the overhead light to shine down more directly onto Ellie's exposed pussy, which twitches nervously under his and the camera's gaze.
"Now as you can see," the man narrates clinically for the recording, "little Ellie here has an exceptionally small clitoris. It's hardly visible," he muses, using a gloved hand to gently manipulate the girl's folds to better reveal her tiny nub, which remains hidden by its protective hood of skin. "Mhmm," Dr. Ari hums thoughtfully, reaching over for the tube of lubricating gel that sits on the instrument cart at his side. "We'll have to do something about that, won't we?"
The clit pump itself is a standard-issue, medical-grade machine. Its power source is a small box with a set of control buttons and levers, with a foot pedal for easy operation. The pump itself is a clear plastic cylinder that attaches to the base with a flexible tube. Ellie whimpers softly as she eyes the machine, watching as the doctor applies the lubricating gel to the attachment generously.
"There, that should make things run nice and smoothly," he coos, his words meant to ease the little patient's worried expression. "We certainly don't want any pinching or tugging on that precious little clit of yours, do we, sweetheart?"
Steadily, he uses the thumb and pointer finger of his left hand to retract the hood of Ellie's clit, exposing the little nub to the camera's view. "There it is," he coos lovingly, positioning the pump directly over it before powering on the machine with his foot. The equipment hums to life as the gentle suction starts, pulling the poor girl's tiny clit upward into the plastic cylinder.
Ellie lets out a startled gasp, her hips bracing against the restraints that keep her held down so securely to the table. Dr. Ari watches with a pleased smile as her clit is worked by the pump in a torturous milking motion, the knot of flesh already growing darker in color as blood flow increases. "There we go," the satisfied doctor murmurs, watching intently as the little patient's clit is worked by the machine. "Nice and visible now." Ellie whines softly, her eyes squeezing shut as the relentless rhythm of the suction overwhelms her, her fingers and toes twitching against the table.
"And while we let the pump do its work..." Dr. Ari reaches for the lubricating gel again, this time coating his left pointer finger, "Let's open up that little bottom of yours, shall we?"
Ellie lets out a louder cry of protest as his gloved fingertip teases her tighter entrance, her entire body tensing with dread. "Just relax for me, sweetheart. The more you struggle, the worse it'll feel."
With skilled ease, the man begins pushing past her tight ring of muscle, humming sympathetically as she continues to cry at the unpleasant feeling. "I know, angel. It burns a little, doesn't it? That's okay; that's what the gel is there for. You can take it."
Once he's made it past the initial point of resistance, he begins a slow, steady pumping motion with his slick digit, stretching her tight entrance as the machine's low hum drones on. Ellie's sweet face contorts with embarrassment and pain as she's violated in both places by the doctor, with no way to fight back or stop him.
But despite her tears and clear displeasure, the poor little patient's pussy has begun leaking as Dr. Ari continues his work. Taking notice, the doctor grins darkly at the sight of the girl getting aroused by having her tiny hole penetrated against her will by his gloved finger, her wetness dripping down onto the lined napkin below her bottom. "Look at that," he muses, nodding towards the clear fluid that's begun leaking from her pussy. "You like it when the doctor straps you down and makes you cry, don't you, little one? Getting your bottom fingered like this is making you wet." He slides his finger deeper, working the slippery digit in and out against her poor, aching walls. Ellie whines and shakes her head in denial, her humiliation evident. "Such a naughty little patient."
After several more minutes of stretching out her tighter hole on his finger, Dr. Ari notices that the pump is ready to be removed. He releases it with a careful pop, revealing the girl's abused clit, which has grown and hardened noticeably from the prep.
Withdrawing his finger from Ellie's bottom, the practiced man uses his clean glove to smear her own wetness over her throbbing little clit, watching with delight as the poor girl flinches and hiccups from the brief stimulation. "Alright, sweetheart. You did such a good job letting the pump do its work. Now we can begin your real treatment."
He keeps his eyes on his patient's dripping sex as he removes his gloves before snapping on a fresh pair. "Mhmm, that machine made your clit nice and puffy for me. Now it should be much easier to make you come, don't you think?"
Leaning down to open one of the drawers below the medical cart, he pauses as he considers his selection of tools. "Now let's see here..." His eyes scan the assortment of vibrators, dilators, plugs, and more. “Since your pretty little bottom is already nice and stretched from my finger, let's use a plug to keep it that way while we work on your clit," the doctor decides aloud. Selecting a large, ribbed plug from the drawer, he sheaths the tool in a disposable rubber cover before preparing it generously with lube. Poor Ellie's cries worsen again at the sight of the instrument, her tummy trembling at the idea of the textured length being forced into her ill-prepared opening.
"Here we are, little one," Dr. Ari says cheerfully, pressing the daunting tip of the plug against the patient's slippery hole. "Now be a good girl and open wide for me."
Ellie wails as the insertion begins, the girth of the tool stretching her obscenely wide as her sphincter and walls ache with each passing ridge. Once it's fully seated, the doctor gives the base a loving pat, earning an extra whimper from his mess of a patient. "There," he smiles broadly. "And now that your bottom is taken care of, let's focus on that messy little clit of yours."
The man selects a small clamp made of plastic, removing its wrapper before opening it wide and positioning it over Ellie's helpless button. "This will keep your clit exposed and hard while we work you up to that orgasm."
The girl cries out weakly as the clamp is placed, trapping and holding her clit steady beneath the doctor's perverted gaze. Satisfied with the setup so far, Dr. Ari returns to the drawer of instruments for a final time.
One particular instrument catches his eye, a vibrator with a disposable head that's similar to a toothbrush, though the bristles are made of soft silicone. After years of experience, the doctor knows that this tool in particular always produces powerful orgasms, especially when used to "scrub" the clit with the specialized warming paste he designed himself.
Picking up the vibrator's base, he grabs a tab of the paste as well as a new head to pair with the handle. Ellie watches in horror as he clicks the silicon attachment into place, securing the circular tab of paste to the back of his gloved hand for easy access. "This is a very special tool, Ellie," the doctor explains as he works, holding it up for the patient to see. "We're going to scrub that swollen little clit of yours until you come nice and hard for me.” Ignoring the girl's soft sobs and protests, the doctor applies a decent amount of the paste to the instrument's bristles before switching it on, smiling fondly as it hums to life.
As soon as the brush is lowered onto little Ellie's clit, she lets out a loud yelp, her legs kicking uselessly as they're held tightly to the stirrups by the straps. "There, see? The clamp is going to hold your clit nice and still for me while I give it a good scrubbing. Now be a big girl and hold still for the doctor."
With a steady hand, Dr. Ari begins working the brush in small circles over the little one's clit, the warming paste stinging and burning as the poor girl can only manage to weep on the table. "That's it, sweetheart," the man coos gently, his expression full of mock-sympathy and understanding. As the brush does its work, the gritty paste quickly mixes with the patient's wetness to form a frothy foam that helps the brush work nice and smoothly. The doctor watches in sick delight as Ellie's clit swells up even more in the clamp, unable to escape the horrible stimulation. Through a bit of experimentation, he finds that she cries the hardest when he focuses the whirring bristles of the brush right on the sensitive head of her clit, working in small circles.
Using his free hand, he presses firmly on the base of the anal plug, preventing the girl from pushing it out. "Shhh, I know. That feels so intense, doesn't it, baby?" the cruel doctor murmurs, keeping the brush positioned right where it's needed most. "Every time I circle this spot right here, you cry a little harder. Don't you, sweetheart?" Applying a bit more pressure, he watches as his patient's hips and legs jerk against the restraints, tears and drool dripping down her chin as she cries so pathetically.
"And your little bottom, it's still stuffed up nice and full, isn't it?" Dr. Ari reminds her, pumping the oversized plug in and out of her abused hole a few times to earn some extra whimpers and tears. "And we'll just keep working your clit here, just keep scrubbing and scrubbing..." It's a tactic he uses often, and it's having its exact intended effect: the more the doctor describes what he's doing out loud, the more distressed and ultimately aroused the patient tends to get.
Within just minutes of the combined clit scrubbing and anal penetration, Ellie's cries have taken on a familiar tone as the pressure in her tummy has grown to unsustainable levels. "That's right, baby girl," Dr. Ari praises kindly, watching her muscles tense up as her body prepares for its unwanted peak. "There it is; you're almost there. Go ahead and come for me, sweetheart. Come for the doctor."
Just as he planned, his words tip his little patient over the edge as her whole body spasms, a broken cry rising in her throat as she comes hard against the doctor's instruments. "Good, that's a good girl," he hums as he keeps the tools in place, watching as her clit twitches painfully beneath the brush's steady pressure. To his surprise, Ellie squirts heavily, drenching the gauze napkin beneath her. Her tiny bottom tries to push the plug out, but Dr. Ari makes sure to keep it right in place, continuing to encourage her, "There you go, angel. Keep coming for me... such a good girl."
Ellie's forced orgasm lasts a torturous several seconds before the red-hot waves of pleasure are finally replaced by softer, fuzzy tingles. Once the doctor is certain she's finished, he gently removes the vibrator and switches it off, setting it down on the tray beside him as the girl's soft panting fills the silence.
"Very good," he hums again, leaving the plug in place as he uses a gloved hand to spread the little one's folds open, admiring the aftermath of his work. "You did such a good job for me, angel. Just keep taking those deep breaths, okay? We'll get you cleaned up here in a second." The final few moments of the tape show little Ellie lying there, breathless on the exam table, Dr. Ari's hand stroking her tummy softly as she floats down from her terrible high.
synopsis: When a midnight craving strikes, John Price doesn’t hesitate to throw on a sweater and slippers to make sure his wife gets exactly what she wants.
warnings: Pure fluff, pregnancy cravings, devoted husband Price, excessive tenderness, and a very serious approach to fast-food missions.
word count: 833
The clock on the bedside table glowed with unforgiving numbers, 2:37 a.m. John Price groaned softly, shifting beneath the covers, barely clinging to sleep when he felt a gentle nudge at his shoulder.
“John.”
Your voice was a soft whisper in the dark, hesitant but insistent. His instincts kicked in before his brain fully caught up, his warm, calloused hand immediately found your thigh beneath the blankets, rubbing slow, comforting circles.
“What’s wrong, love?” His voice was thick with sleep, but concern edged through.
You hesitated, fingers fidgeting against your growing belly. “I… I think I need a McChicken. With extra bacon.”
For a moment, silence settled over the room. Then, a soft chuckle rumbled from John’s chest, deep and affectionate.
“Now?” he asked, voice still heavy with sleep, but his feet were already shifting, instinctively preparing to move.
“Now,” you confirmed, looking a little sheepish, but your resolve was firm. “I just… I can’t stop thinking about it. I swear I can taste it.”
John groaned dramatically but was already throwing off the covers, running a hand over his face before swinging his legs out of bed.
“You’re lucky I’d do anything for you,” he muttered, reaching for his sweater.
You watched him, grinning as he pulled it over his head. His mussed-up hair stuck out in places, and the sight of your rugged, battle-hardened husband looking slightly disoriented in sleepwear and dedication made your heart swell.
“You’re amazing,” you said as you slipped into one of his oversized hoodies.
John huffed, grabbing the car keys from the dresser. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s get you fed before you start listing my other good qualities.”
You smirked, following him out into the cold night. Little did he know you had a whole list.
The car ride was peaceful, save for the soft hum of the heater and the occasional quiet laugh. You rested your head against the window, watching the empty streets roll past.
John’s hand rested comfortably on your thigh, his thumb idly stroking along your knee as he drove.
“You look like a bear,” you teased, eyeing his comfy sweater and slippers combo.
He shot you a sidelong glance, smirking. “A bear who’s about to hunt down a McChicken for his missus.”
You giggled, shifting closer to him. “My hero.”
He squeezed your thigh. “Damn right.”
At the drive-thru, John placed the order with military precision.
“McChicken with extra bacon,” he said firmly, as if coordinating an extraction.
The teenager at the speaker sounded amused. “And anything else?”
John turned to you, brows raised. “Fries? Milkshake?”
You nodded eagerly. “Fries and a chocolate milkshake, please.”
When the bag was handed over, he gave a satisfied grunt, inspecting the contents like a seasoned professional. “There we go.”
Parked beneath the glow of the McDonald’s sign, you curled up in the passenger seat, unwrapping your treasure. The first bite had you sighing in satisfaction.
John watched you, amused but utterly enamored, the warm glow of the dashboard lights flickering across his face.
“This,” you said between bites, your voice full of bliss, “is exactly what I needed.”
John leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, a soft smile playing at his lips.
“Anything for you, love.” He reached over, placing a warm hand over yours on your belly. “And for the little one.”
Your breath caught slightly, overwhelmed by how easily he melted you with just a few words.
You turned your hand in his, squeezing gently. “You’re going to be such a good dad, you know that?”
His smile faltered just a fraction, his thumb brushing across your knuckles.
“Hope so,” he murmured.
The depth of emotion in his voice made your chest ache. You leaned over, pressing a soft kiss to his stubbled jaw.
“You will be,” you whispered against his skin. “the best.”
John let out a slow breath, his grip tightening on you, grounding himself in your touch.
As he started the car, he smirked. “Think we’ll be doing more of these midnight runs?”
You licked some sauce off your thumb, grinning. “Oh, definitely. Next time? Hot fudge sundae.”
John chuckled, shaking his head as he backed out of the lot.
“Christ, I’ve created a monster.”
You rested a hand on his arm, tracing absent patterns over his sleeve. “Yeah, but she’s your monster.”
John huffed a laugh, bringing your hand to his lips for a slow, lingering kiss.
It always hurts in that big, bright way, like a thousand sticks of dynamite blowing a tunnel open through a mountain, giving you a way to pass to the other side. Like whispering the same wish over and over again until your lips go numb and your voice goes hoarse, your plea still unheard after all these years.
Perhaps it would hurt less to desire if you could fill that hole every once in a while. If you could wet your tongue with the taste of satisfaction, of a want fulfilled, of the opportunity to say to someone, “Oh, look what I got” or “Look at what all my work has amounted to.”
That’s never been the case though, has it? Never been lucky enough for a wish to come true. You work like a dog for the barest scraps of what you know you’re worth (what you know and what every day seems less and less true).
Vacations that you never had enough money to take, jobs that never came to fruition, mistakes that couldn’t be undone, memories that you could never remake, friendships that grew apart or that never materialized altogether.
It’s not all doom and gloom. You have a good job and a decent network of friends and acquaintances, parties you attend on occasion and warm nights at home curled up in bed. You have a roof over your head. There's more than enough in your life to be grateful for.
But the wanting never goes away. That, you have in spades. That, you have in heaps and bounds. That multiplies itself tenfold.
And it happens that way with your heart too.
There’s a coffee shop down the street from your office with a decent amount of seating and an app to order your drink ahead of time, and every day at around two, you order your coffee ahead of time and walk over to pick it up, rain or shine.
It’s always busy to some degree when you walk in, a handful of people waiting by the counter and a short line at the register snaking around the merchandise display. The whirr of the coffee grinder hums in the background, just a touch louder than the music, always filling the café with the rich, pleasing scent of freshly ground coffee.
The same chairs are always filled by the same people. Plenty of them you’ve even grown to recognize over time—students bent over thick textbooks, elderly men creasing newspapers in ink-stained hands, and laptop screens glowing with blank Word documents, scarcely a sentence added in the time it took to order and finish their coffee.
You recognize most of the takeaway regulars as well.
They’re harder to remember at first. Quick to come and quick to go. Hard to commit their faces to memory. But some give you no choice—some boisterously loud or ostentatious in dress, eye-catching enough to hook you like a fish, drag your attention down river with them.
Then, to him.
He, like you, comes in every day around two for his afternoon coffee. He, unlike you, comes striding in full-chested, confidence nipping at his heels, no world-weariness weighing him down.
Hard not to notice him. Of course you notice him. He takes up space like a living sun, all bright smiles and radiant energy, handsome in the way that, when men are, they draw people in like moths. You feel no better than a moth sometimes, particularly in his presence.
Tea-coloured eyes. What you notice at first is that there’s a beautiful man waiting for his coffee next to you, a tall man with the sculpted physique of an athlete, all long limbs and broad shoulders tapering into a lean frame, and what you notice next are those tea-coloured eyes, honeying under the sun.
You stare so long that you only realize how dry your eyes have gone when the door swings shut behind him.
It’s no wonder then, that you latch onto his presence like so, a little flutter in your chest on your way to the coffee shop every time after that first time, hoping that you’ll cross paths again.
And you do. Cross paths again, that is. Only a few times those first couple of weeks, and then seemingly all the time, the two of you always in at the same time.
That isn’t unusual. There are plenty of other familiar faces picking up their afternoon coffees at the same time as you, people that you recognize at the mobile ordering station and laptop stickers that you’ve come to memorize, the same people sitting at the same seats. People like routine; you’re no different. Neither is he.
It comes over you like an ague, a desperate, eager thing, quiet enough at first when you’ve only seen him in bits and pieces, not studied him at length yet, but it—
It grows.
It grows like a vine in your chest, weaving around your heart and squeezing until you can feel it with every beat.
You don’t entirely blame yourself. How could you? You swear you’ve never seen anyone even half as good-looking as him—broad-shouldered and lean, perfect smile, perfect teeth. Haircut always fresh, his edges neat. He squints with the force of his smile, always effusive with his gratitude and praise, so earnest in his kindness that it makes your teeth ache.
He’s objectively a handsome man. Perhaps the handsomest man you’ve ever seen. What else could you do but go a bit crazy?
Want may not be a strong enough word for what you’re experiencing. It’s more of a torsion of the soul. A desperate, yearning ache that both releases and constricts when he walks into the café to order his coffee.
You don’t know what to do with yourself when he doesn’t show up at the same time as you. Your schedules are so in sync that you’ve grown to expect him, fattened and spoiled by the timeliness of his presence. But he doesn’t owe it to you to show up, and there are days when he doesn’t, held up for some reason, or maybe simply not in the mood for a coffee.
You practically drag your feet on the walk back to the office, a sorry sight. Pathetically despondent. You hardly know what to do with yourself the rest of the afternoon, oscillating between dejection and self-reproach. It’s pathetic that the mere absence of your crush would reduce you to such a state, hardly able to concentrate on your work because the stranger that you’ve become infatuated with wasn’t at the coffee shop where you see him for a total of twenty seconds every other day.
Forgive yourself though. Nothing you’ve ever wanted has come without pain.
What you don’t expect is for him to finally notice you.
It happens on a day when you cross paths rather than arriving at the same time, him leaving the coffee shop as you’re about to enter. Your heart skips a beat when you look up and see him staring down at you, both of you taken by surprise when you go to pull the door open and he’s already pushing on the other side.
“Traffic jam,” he laughs when you both lean left and then right at the same time, trying to let the other go around. “Here, I’ve got you.”
He extends an arm to hold the door wide open and angles his body to let you pass through. You thank him as you pass, your heart pounding against your ribs. His gaze follows you as you step inside, and you nearly jump when his voice calls a farewell after you, leaving through the same door.
You stand near the doorway for far too long, other customers coming in and going around you, cutting you annoyed looks on their way to the cash. Your drink must already be waiting for you on the counter and still you can’t move. It takes someone actually stumbling into you to jolt you back into the present.
That wasn’t part of the plan. It’s thrilling, initially, a rush so overwhelming, so kaleidoscopic, that you ride it all the way back to the office and all the way home, replaying the memory again and again in your head until even you start to tire of belabouring it.
And still you roll around in bed that night thinking about it, heart racing even hours after your short little conversation, picturing it over again in your mind—the crinkle of the corners of his eyes, the smile nearly pulling across his face, all white teeth and soft, supple lips.
The only problem is—
Now he knows who you are.
You don’t expect him to remember you after such a quick encounter. He’s not the one that’s been pining these past few weeks. He’s not the one that’s been beating himself up for crushing on a stranger.
But he does remember you. And not only does he remember you, but he looks for you the next time he’s in.
It’s one of those days when you get there first, coffee already ordered and paid for by the time he walks in, in dark trousers and a quarter-zip today, and filling them both out nicely, the sweater clinging to the muscles of his arms. You expect him to head straight for the cash like he normally does, blessedly and lamentably unaware of your presence.
Instead, your breath hitches when his eyes drift across the café and settle on you, a spark of recognition glinting in them.
His gaze immobilizes you, stronger than any paralytic. It’s what holds you in place as he approaches, the distance between you halved in an instant, and then fully collapsed, the gorgeous man in front of you doing what Zeno’s Achilles never could.
“Hey stranger, no dance today, huh?” he asks, clearly addressing you.
You don’t know what to say. This is your worst case scenario, your category five emergency. In the weeks you’ve spent crushing on him from afar, you hadn’t considered the possibility of him ever noticing you in return.
“Sorry?” you croak.
He gestures with his thumb towards the door. “From the other day, remember?”
You don’t know how you’ll make it through this interaction without making a fool of yourself. “Right. Haha. I guess the dance floor’s closed today.”
You could throw up on the spot. Of all the abysmal conversation rejoinders there have ever been in the history of humanity, the one you just offered must rank comfortably near the top.
For whatever reason though, whether divine intervention or something more dastardly, he chuckles, amused. He seems to like talking to you. Seems to like you even. That only becomes clearer when he approaches you the next day, and then the day after that, and then every day when you stop by at two p.m. for your afternoon coffee, your coffees now handed out together by the barista, as if you had ordered them that way.
The small talk alone almost makes you consider switching to a different coffee shop. It’s too much pressure. You feel sick with anxiety at the thought of him figuring you out.
And he will figure you out. You haven’t exactly played it subtle.
Then he gets your number. Somehow. And your name too, pried so easily from you that you don’t even notice, like freeing a pearl from a clam; barely a flick of his wrist and you offer it up without a second thought, embarrassingly malleable.
You get his too. Kyle Garrick. He spells it for you as he watches you save his number into your phone from over your shoulder, so close to you that your fingers fumble with the keypad, mistyping it almost four times before getting it right.
Kyle doesn’t seem to care that you can barely seem to string together a sentence in front of him. If anything, it seems to endear him to you.
His attraction makes itself apparent in tender words and a new penchant for touch, a hand always reaching out for you.
At first, it’s nothing more than the casual brush of his fingers against yours as he picks up your coffee from the bar and passes it to you, no different than a handshake or a high five. Ostensibly perfunctory. But that too changes over time. A fleeting touch becomes a hand at the small of your back as he guides you to a table for a quick chat before heading back to work, fingers squeezing your shoulder when he laughs at a joke you didn’t realize you made, and quick hugs that grow a little longer each time.
Maybe. Or maybe you’re imagining it.
“So when are you gonna let me take you out for real?”
That snaps you out of the daydream, reality crashing down with such force that it leaves your ears ringing. His words leave you dumbfounded, gaping up at him in that stupid way that you can’t seem to suppress.
“For real?” you repeat.
“On a date,” Kyle clarifies, as if the word alone weren’t enough to wreck you.
“Oh.”
You tell him yes because the word no evaporates from your vocabulary. By the time it returns, he’s already gone, disappearing into the world (likely an office building around the corner from yours, but it might as well be Timbuktu).
This isn’t what was supposed to happen. You were supposed to pine in agony until you died.
It’s everything you ever wanted, and yet, you couldn’t want it less in the moment, terrified for some reason that you can’t quite articulate. You count down the days with growing apprehension, jitters giving way to a full-body sweat.
You’ll break it off at a later date. That thought comforts you to a point. At some point, there will be a moment for you to bail entirely.
The problem is the longer you say nothing, the harder it is to say anything at all. Already guilt stays your tongue when all you want to do is tell him that you can’t do this anymore. You need to leave—go anywhere else, run home and lock the door behind you, never go back to the coffee shop again.
But there’s a text in your phone telling you the time and place, and every time you look at it, it leaves you feeling off-kilter. Sea legs without leaving dry land.
What is it about you that you feel the need to run as soon as you get too close? What about this isn’t what you want? Do you even know what you want?
Of course you know what you want. You want love and affection.
But having is not wanting. Wanting is safe. It’s the having that’s dangerous.
You contemplate cancelling on him about a dozen times until suddenly it’s too late, the man in question standing in the lobby of your building to pick you up. He must know someone in the building because he’s deep in conversation when you spot him, his head turning to meet yours at the same time, as if even in conversation, he wouldn’t allow himself to be distracted enough to miss you. Your heart squeezes when he wraps it up in the same breath, crossing the lobby to meet you.
Dinner is a restaurant in a different part of town, one you’ve seldom spent time in before, trendy in the way that would unnerve you were it not for the abrupt realization that to everyone else, this is simply a familiar part of town.
To some, the restaurant must be familiar as well. There might even be regulars. To you however, the small, dimly lit room with the booths on one side and the chairs lining the bar at the other, an eclectic assortment of framed photos and decorative porcelain plates on the wall beside you, is lovely, uncharted territory.
Over dinner, Kyle peppers you with question after question until your head spins, each answer that leaves your lips betraying some nervous tendency towards clandestinity. You have to keep some things to yourself. You have to keep some things private.
You have to shut your mouth before you—
“A long time,” you reply without thinking, the whole world blowing open when you admit it. You hadn't even consciously registered the question before answering. When was your last date?
Kyle doesn’t seem phased by it though, warm smile somehow warmer than the blood boiling under your skin. “I must be one lucky man then.”
He sweet talks you into agreeing to a drink after dinner, probably sensing the nervous animal in you, the fear about to take flight.
You assume he means a drink at a bar until you’re standing in the kitchen of your apartment, Kyle standing behind the island with a bottle of wine in one hand, uncorking it with practiced ease. When it pops out, you flinch.
What a strange thing, to lose time like that. You lose it again after he pours you both a glass, coming to on the couch with his arm around your shoulders, pinned between him and the side of the couch.
He turned the television on, you notice distantly, staring at it through your glass, red wine sloshing from side to side. It’s not a program either of you would care to pay much attention to, possibly by design.
“Do you have, um…any plans tomorrow?” you ask, swallowing when he drags his fingers over the bare skin of your upper arm.
“Nope,” he answers, playing with the sleeve of your shirt now.
You can hear it coming from a mile away. He makes it too obvious with his fingers trailing over your skin and the heat of his gaze searing into the side of your face.
The sky outside your window is black, the moon only a sliver of its usual brilliance, but your living room is bright, turning the window into a mirror reflecting the two of you, the picture of a couple in repose.
You watch his reflection lean over yours in the window, his lips grazing your double’s ears, your breath catching when his touch yours as well. “If I give you an inch, you’re going to run a mile, aren’t you?” he murmurs.
There’s a lump in your throat when you swallow. “No,” you lie.
He must see right through you though. Must see the creature inside you about to succumb to its instincts.
He must be good at chess, you think to yourself, staring down at him with a stupid look on your face as he lowers himself to lie flat on the bed between your legs, spreading your thighs wide enough to wedge his shoulders between them. Any game of strategy.
If you never give your opponent a moment to breathe, they can’t gather themselves enough to retreat.
That thought crumbles to dust when he makes you watch him lick the first stripe up the seam of your pussy, crudely spreading your lips with his tongue. Nothing more substantial materializes after that.
He eats pussy like he hasn’t had enough to eat. Lips and tongue and hollowed cheeks when he sucks your clit into his mouth and your back nearly arches right off the bed, twisted into such a complex shape that you almost don’t know how to unravel yourself. Fingers grasping at his head, his ears; rasping over the coils of his hair, fingers committing the texture to memory.
Your thighs tremble and squeeze, pried open again and again every time you try to shut him out. The muscles in his arms barely even bulge with the effort it takes to keep your thighs spread.
You are wound up in ways that would be a challenge to anyone, but Kyle doesn’t seem to care. He just holds you down and forces you to come on his tongue, rolling it over your clit until you actually start crying. Big, belting caterwauls. His poor baby, he croons.
When have you been someone’s ‘poor baby’? Someone’s darling, sweetheart, honey, that’s it, I’ve got you, that felt good, didn’t it? God, you’re so pretty, I can’t believe you let me—
He flicks his tongue over your sensitive clit and you yelp, reaching down to slide your hand between his mouth and your swollen sex only for him to lace your fingers together and pull your hand to the side and lick it again.
“It’s still sensitive,” you complain, and he lifts a brow, unmoved by your bellyaching.
“So what, you got twitchy little orgasm legs, that means I’m not allowed to lick your pussy anymore?”
“No,” you hiss, embarrassment warming the blood already pooled under your cheeks.
Warm hands rest on either side of your face as he eases his cock in for the first time, holding your gaze in place as sinks in to the root. All you can do is squeeze your eyes shut.
They don’t stay shut for long. He pries them open without words, without touch, every ounce of his ardor poured into you and lifting your own to the surface.
Sweat drips from his forehead onto yours. The sweat makes his hands slip up and down your face with the force of his thrusts, fingers tugging on your lips and pulling them apart, sliding over your gums and teeth.
“You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Kyle pants, sweat dripping off his forehead and onto yours, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them, glassy and feverish.
“Don’t—don’t say that,” you gasp.
He dips his head down to press his forehead against yours. “You can’t tell me that. You can’t tell me what to do.”
Whatever this is, it’s nothing like anything you’ve experienced before. Proper lovemaking. Real kisses with passion, with fervor, with delight; the messiness contained between you, in the sweat rolling down your back and soaking into the sheets, the saliva dripping from his mouth into yours, the squelch of his shaft splitting you over and over, never giving you a second to catch your breath.
Coming a second, no, third time is painful, like a thing wrested unwillingly from you, and you fall back on the bed windburned. Kyle follows you down, hips bucking into yours faster and faster, his own end nearly on his heels.
He comes with a grunt, without warning; a sudden surge of heat and warmth, his fingers biting into your cheeks where he holds your face in his hands, his lip curling up into a snarl that you swear you can almost hear, and—
You expect it to be over after that. For him to roll out of bed and pull on his pants, maybe give you a courtesy kiss for a job well done before leaving you to stew in the mire of another rejection, the small win eclipsed by the enormity of losing him.
What you don’t expect is for him to lay down beside you and pull you into him. Kyle laughs softly when he notices your stiffness, jostling you slightly in an attempt to coax you into relaxing.
“That’s right, baby,” he chuckles a touch breathlessly, pressing a kiss to the bridge of your nose before relaxing back down. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Coffee the next day is different than usual. Early for one, the sun still a syrupy morning gold, not yet the starchy afternoon white, and in a different location than usual, the coffee machine on your kitchen counter hissing through its second cup of the day.
Kyle maneuvers around your apartment too naturally, a stark contrast to the way you scurry from the bedroom to the bathroom like a stowaway. He’s entirely at home in your space though, helping himself to coffee and breakfast, only glancing at you for permission, the slightest cock of his head and arch of his brow, and you fold under the pressure instantly.
When you try to skirt around him, he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you into his side, the touch of his lips against your chest shocking you still, electrical impulses still skittering under your skin.
“I can feel your heart racing,” Kyle teases, caramel-smooth voice sending a low vibration through your chest.
And why shouldn’t he? Your heart is racing after all. “I’m nervous.”
“I know you are, baby,” he murmurs. “This is hard for you, isn’t it?”
It is. A few too many years on your own have turned you to stone, the slightest touch almost too much to handle. You’ve long learned to expect anything you touch to shock you.
“Want me to make this easier on you?” he asks gently. You’re not sure what he means by that, but you have an inkling.
And wouldn’t it be nice to not have to worry? To not have to second guess what you really want or what you should do?
You nod.
“Okay, honey. Then you don’t have to do it. No telling me to go away. I’ve got it from here.”
When Kyle takes your phone from your hand, you don’t stop him, even typing in your password for him when he turns it towards you, watching over his shoulder as he shares your location with his phone.
You exhale shakily, the tightness in your shoulders easing. There he goes with that oyster shucker again, opening you up.
So be it. What use is there in protecting something that’s already his?
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