Brendon Park x wife! reader. 18+ | MDNI | wc : 2.5K
The tupperware is warm in your hands. Brendon mentioned he had to come down to the ER for a consult around noon and your brain went oh perfect I'll bring him food. Like you're some housewife and he’s some guy who can’t feed himself.
But he does forget to eat. You've seen him come home at 8 PM having survived on black coffee, so maybe this isn't completely stupid.
The ER is chaos. It always is but you forgot how much chaos because you haven't been here since before— well. Before your body decided to become a dairy factory. There's someone screaming about their foot, a kid crying, and the white lights are giving you a headache already.
You're about to ask someone where orthopedics might be hanging around when you hear his voice.
"— completely unacceptable. I need those scans now, I have —"
That's your husband. Sharp, cold, probably making some poor resident want to quit medicine entirely. You'd recognize that tone anywhere, the one that means Brendon is two seconds from snapping someone's head off.
He's standing near the nurses station, all six feet of beautiful irritation in his white coat — you didn’t even know he owned one of those, what with always coming home in his scrubs —, dark hair falling across his forehead, he keeps running his hands through it when he's pissed. Which is always.
You walk over before you can think better of it. "Brendon."
As soon as your voice reaches him, his face changes. A complete shift from shark to softness, something that makes your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with how fucking full your breasts are right now. "Hey." His voice is different too. Quieter. "What are you doing here?"
"Brought you lunch." You hold up the tupperware like an offering. Brendon stares at it, then at you. There's this moment where you're suddenly very aware of how you look. Milk-stained shirt hidden under a cardigan, hair in a messy bun that's more mess than bun, the exhaustion that comes from a six-month-old who thinks sleep is optional.
You hear a crash, when you glance over there's a nurse staring at you. Then another one. A resident you don't recognize has stopped mid-step.
They're all staring.
"Uh."
Brendon's jaw tightens. He's noticed them staring too and he looks about ready to start firing people.
"Come on." His hand finds the small of your back and guides you away from the audience. You catch whispers as you walk past —did Park just —who is that—he has a wife?
Oh. Right. Brendon doesn't exactly share details about his personal life. You knew that, obviously you knew that, but somehow it didn't register that these people have probably never seen any evidence that he has a life outside of yelling at them about bone fractures.
There's a supply closet. Brendon pulls you inside and closes the door, which seems dramatic until you remember your husband thrives on drama as long as he's the one creating it. "You didn't tell me you were coming."
"It was spontaneous."
"Spontaneous." He repeats it like you’re dumb for even saying it. Then he takes the tupperware from your hands and sets it on a shelf next to boxes of gauze. "How's she doing?"
"Asleep when I left. Your sister's watching her."
Brendon nods, hands on your waist, thumbs rubbing small circles through your cardigan. It's such a casual thing, something he does without thinking, but it makes your whole body relax anyway.
A hiss leaves your moth as your breast twinges. It's been doing that for the past hour. Little reminders that you're about twenty minutes past when you should have pumped. The baby's been sleeping longer stretches which is amazing for sleep, terrible for your milk supply regulation. Your body keeps producing like she's still feeding every two hours and now you're engorged and starting to leak, standing in a supply closet with your husband who definitely doesn't need to know about this.
"You okay?" Brendon asks. The man notices everything, it's infuriating.
"Yeah, I'm fine."
"You made that face."
"What face?"
"The face you make when something hurts but you're pretending it doesn't."
Damn him. Damn his stupid observant doctor brain.
"It's nothing. I just need to —" You stop because how do you finish that sentence? I need to go home and hook myself up to a breast pump like a cow? "I'm fine."
Brendon's eyes drop. Zero subtlety, just straight down to your chest where your breasts are probably visibly larger than they were this morning. The nursing pads you shoved in your bra are doing their best but there's only so much they can absorb. "You need to pump."
You feel your face heat up. This is mortifying. Bad enough that your body has become a milk machine, worse that your husband who spends his days putting people back together has to witness it. "I'll do it when I get home."
"That's an hour drive."
"I'll survive."
"You're in pain."
"Brendon—"
He cuts you off with a kiss. It's brief, barely a press of lips, but it shuts your brain up for a second. When he pulls back his expression is set, he's made a decision and you arguing is irrelevant. "There's a room. On-call room, it has a door that locks."
Your brain is trying to catch up. "I don't have my pump."
"So hand express."
"Into what, my hands? The sink?" The image is horrifying. You're already leaking through your bra, the idea of standing in a hospital bathroom squeezing milk into a drain seems like rock bottom.
Brendon's quiet, looking at you with an expression you can't quite read, dark and focused.
"What?"
"I could help."
The words hang there. You're pretty sure you misheard because there's no way your husband just suggested —
"Help how?"
Brendon's mouth twitches, almost a smile but meaner. "You know how."
Oh. Oh fuck.
Did he just? Did your doctor husband just suggest he put his mouth on your breast and drink from you like —
"We're in your hospital." You say like every other part of the sentence was completely normal.
"That’s fine —"
How is that fine? "Someone could —people will —" You can't finish sentences apparently. Your chest is aching, your pussy suddenly very interested in this conversation. Brendon looking at you like he wants to devour you doesn’t help your cause.
"The room locks," he says again, his voice making your thighs clench. "And I told you, I can help."
This is a bad idea. Terrible idea. The worst idea either of you have ever had and that's including the time Brendon thought he could fix the garbage disposal himself. But your breasts hurt. And the thought of Brendan's mouth on you, his tongue, the heat and pressure and relief —
"Okay." You say it before you can take it back. Brendon's eyes flash, something predatory and hungry. Without missing a beat, his hand goes to your lower back guiding you out of the supply closet.
It’s completely normal for a doctor to take his spouse to an on-call room. They might have to talk, they could just eat. But your brain treats the walk like a death march, hyperaware of every person you pass, convinced they all somehow know what's about to happen. A nurse tracks you, looking above her reading glasses. But your husband doesn’t seem to care.
When he closes the door behind you and locks, he speaks, "sit."
There's a bed, a tiny desk, a chair that's seen better days. You take the bed, legs feeling shaky like they might give out any second.
Brendon moves in front of you, and starts unbuttoning his white coat.
"What are you doing?"
"It's in the way." When the coat comes off, you catch sight of the familiar scrubs. You hate how good he looks. How unfair it is that he can spend twelve hours putting bones back together and still look like that.
Your cardigan is next. Brendon's fingers are gentle when they push it off your shoulders, careful like you might break. The nursing tank underneath is stretched tight across your swollen breasts, wet spots clearly visible where you've been leaking.
"Fuck." Your husband rarely swears, mostly because he can get his point across without having to raise his voice. More so lately after your daughter was born, he’s been all soft words and small smiles. But now he swears. It’s quiet, almost to himself, hand coming up to cup your breast through the fabric and you gasp. The pressure feels good and painful at the same time, relief and torture. "Sensitive?"
"Mhmm."
Brendon's thumb brushes over your nipple and milk leaks out, soaking through the already damp fabric. You can see the wet spreading circle. Your cheeks burn hotter with each second, arousal gathering within you, making you want to hide and also spread your legs.
"I'm gonna —" You reach for the tank but Brendan stops you.
"Let me." He pulls the fabric down himself. Like they’ve been in confines all day, your breast spills out, heavy and swollen, nipple already beading with milk. The air feels cold against your overheated skin.
Brendon stares. You've been together for years, he's seen your breasts more times than you can count, but this feels different. More exposed. Your body is doing something it's supposed to do, natural and maternal, and he's looking at you like you're the hottest thing he's ever seen.
"Bren —"
His mouth closes around your nipple and your words fail. The first pull of suction is intense. Relief floods through you, almost immediately, overwhelming, better than any pump you've used. Milk flows freely and your husband swallows, tongue working against your sensitive flesh, and holy fuck this feels good.
This shouldn't feel good. It's functional, practical, your husband helping you with a medical issue. But you can’t think of practical when his fingers are indented in the flesh of your hips, hard enough to leave marks, mouth spilling groans he can’t quite control.
One of your hands find his hair. The soft dark strands slip through your fingers when you pull, maybe too hard, but Brendon just sucks harder in response. "Oh god—"
You can feel the pressure in your breast easing, a gradual relief, but it's being replaced by a different kind of pressure between your legs. You're wet. Soaking wet, probably leaving a mark on your underwear.
Brendon pulls off with a wet sound, lips shiny with milk, pupils blown wide, looking fucked up in the best way. "Other side."
He doesn't wait for you to respond, pulling the other side of your tank down and takes your breast into his mouth. The relief is immediate again, almost dizzying. Brendon drinks it down like he's been thinking about this for months, not wasting a single drop.
You've caught him staring sometimes when you're feeding the baby, look on his face that you couldn't quite identify. Hunger maybe. Want. You know, the want that makes people do stupid things like suggest sucking their wife's tits in an on-call room.
His free hand slides up your thigh, and under your skirt. In retrospect, you’re happy you chose the skirt instead of those overworn sweats, even though you weren't exactly planning for this. His fingers find the edge of your underwear. Your legs soread themselves immediately , on their own accord.
"You're turned on." Brendon says it against your breast, muffled and matter-of-fact. Like he's diagnosing a condition. As if his fingers aren’t currently making their way to your pussy.
"Shut up."
His fingers slip under the fabric and yeah, okay, there's no denying it. You're drenched, which kind of feels humiliating even though you’ve already known. His fingers slide through your folds easily, collecting wetness. You bite your lip to keep from moaning.
"This turning you on that much?" Brendon's voice is dark, teasing. "Me drinking from you?"
"Maybe."
"Maybe?" He bites down gently on your nipple and you gasp. "Liar."
Two fingers push inside you. You’re so wet there’s no resistance, and the stretch is perfect, an immediate fullness that makes your walls clench. Brendon's fingers curl, finding that spot inside you that makes your vision blur.
His mouth doesn’t part from your nipple, mil still flowing and coating his tongue, the dual sensation of it is too much, wet sounds filling the small room. "Brendon —"
He doesn’t look up to speak, not willing to part and lose the flow. "What?"
"I'm—fuck—I'm close."
He hums against your breast. The vibration shoots straight to your clit. His thumb finds the swollen bundle of nerves and circles it. "Come for me, honey." Your husband, who spends his days giving orders in operating rooms, is telling you to come and your body obeys.
Your pussy clenches around his fingers, walls fluttering. You have to slap a hand over your mouth to muffle the sound. Brendon works you through it, fingers pumping steadily, mouth still on your breast like he can't get enough.
Even though you’re shaking, your chest finally feels lighter, the ache replaced by a pleasant soreness. Brendon's fingers slip out of you and you watch as he brings them to his mouth, licking them clean.
"That’s disgusting."
He doesn’t seem to mind it. You watch his tongue slide between his fingers, cleaning off your wetness, and your spent pussy gives a valiant twitch of interest.
Brendon fixes your tank top, gentle hands pulling the fabric back into place. Your breasts are still visible through the wet fabric but at least they're covered. The cardigan goes back on next. "Better?"
"Yeah." You are better. Lighter. Less like you're about to burst. Of course now you're sitting in an on-call room having just had an orgasm while your husband drank your breast milk, so better is relative.
"I have to get back." Brendon's putting his white coat back on, smoothing down the front. He looks completely composed. Meanwhile you probably look like you've been thoroughly fucked. "You good to drive?"
"I think so."
"Text me when you get home."
"Okay."
He kisses you before you leave. It's soft, careful, and you can taste yourself on his lips. Sweet and tangy, weird but intimate in a way that makes your chest tight. "Thanks for lunch."
"You didn't eat it yet."
"Yeah, just drank it." His hand squeezes your hip. "Tonight when I get home we're doing that again."
Your face burns at his words. "The lactation thing or the orgasm thing?"
"Both."
You leave first. Brendon waits a minute before following, some attempt at discretion that's probably pointless. When you walk past the nurses station every head turns. You can feel their eyes on you, questions forming, gossip already spreading.
Park the Shark has a wife. She's soft and tired and apparently visits him at work. She also looks thoroughly debauched but they probably don't know that part.
Probably.
Your phone buzzes before you even make it to your car.
It was only a matter of time until I wrote the first Brendon prof!fic, so here we are. Please like and reblog if you enjoyed reading this, your comments keep us writers motivated! Enjoy my loves. Xxx
Summary: Reader works as Brendon's TA at the university he teaches at once a week, while he's cold, she's warm, soft in a way he seems to hate, but she won't back down, not even when he kicks her out of his lab
Warnings: 18+, smut, oral (f), dom!Brendon, enemies to lovers somewhat, prof x ta, Brendon being an asshole for half of the fic
Pairing: Brendon the shark Park x fem!reader (4.5k words)
The first thing she learned about Dr. Brendon Park was that everyone was afraid of him, not intimidated or just nervous, but utterly afraid. Fourth-years whispered warnings outside the lecture hall like they were passing around ghost stories, first-years heard of him before their first ever class.
“He’ll humiliate you if you answer wrong.”
“He made a resident cry at The Pitt yesterday.”
“He once told a student their stitching looked like ‘an active crime scene.’”
By the time she met him, (y/n) was honestly expecting horns, a devilish-like creature sent to make her life as a teaching assistant a living hell. Instead, the man looked tired with those tall, broad shoulders he undoubtedly trained every second day at the gym, dark circles under sharp eyes, coffee in one hand and a stack of papers tucked under his arm like he was already annoyed the students existed before he had started the class. Brendon Park walked through the university hospital corridor with the kind of presence that made people flatten themselves against walls without being asked, and yet she didn’t find it in herself to be scared at first.
“You’re late.” He didn’t look at her when she entered the ortho lab, holding onto the strap of her bag as she glanced at the clock.
“I’m eight minutes early.” That got his attention. His eyes lifted slowly from the attendance sheets in front of him, expression flat and unimpressed while he took in her frame.
“And yet somehow you still managed to disappoint me already.” Ah, so the rumors were true. Most people would’ve shrunk right there, (y/n) could practically feel the tension from the students organizing equipment behind her, waiting to see if she’d fold, instead, she smiled.
“That’s actually kind of impressive considering we just met.” One of the students choked on a laugh as Dr. Park’s stare sharpened. He looked at her as if he was trying to figure out if she was stupid or just reckless.
“What’s your name again?” His eyes found their way back to his papers as if he had truly no clue who she was.
“You forgot my name before we met? That hurts, Dr. Park. I’m your TA, (y/n).” Once again his eyes flickered back to (y/n), just for a short second, and yet it was enough to push a weird sense of pride through her. She had managed to get under his skin within a handful of seconds, good.
“I didn’t ask for your commentary.”
“Good thing I give it out for free.” She winked at him before silence followed, then, somehow, his mouth twitched. It was barely visible, a microscopic thing that was gone in less than a second. But she saw it, and judging by the way his expression hardened immediately after, he knew she saw it too.
Great, now she was definitely getting fired.
…
Being Dr. Park’s teaching assistant turned out to be less of a job and more of an endurance sport. He was ruthless in the lab, he expected perfection from students who were still learning how to hold surgical instruments correctly, he pointed out mistakes with surgical precision.
“No, that’s wrong.”
“Did you even review the anatomy?”
“If you hesitate that long in an OR, someone dies.”
The students feared him, the faculty tolerated him because his ortho program ratings had skyrocketed after he started teaching there once a week. And somehow, for reasons she couldn’t begin to understand, he seemed especially irritated by her.
“Your grading rubric is too generous.” He murmured the words as he looked over the test she had graded for him, not expecting him to even care about picking them up.
“They’re first-years. Do you want me to fail half the class?” (Y/n) heard his sharp exhale, the annoyance dripping from him without needing to put it into proper words.
“If half the class is incompetent, yes.” Finally she turned fully towards him, arms crossed in front of her chest, head tilted slightly to the side as if he was a mystery she struggled to solve. Brendon Park was an asshole, quite frankly the worst professor she had worked for so far, and yet there was something awfully intriguing about the tense, closed-off man.
She could see it, the exhaustion under the sharpness, the way he rubbed the bridge of his nose when he thought nobody noticed, the way he stayed after class to reorganize supplies himself instead of asking for help, the way his anger never felt cruel for the sake of cruelty. He expected impossible things because somewhere along the line, impossible had become his baseline, because years back the same had been asked of him, turning him into this hard version of himself.
So (y/n) didn’t back down, she teased him when he got too intense, brought him coffee during six-hour labs, and told him “good morning” every week even when he grunted at her like a threatened guard dog. Every single time, he looked at her like he didn’t know what to do with someone who kept choosing kindness after he’d given them every reason not to.
…
The fight happened six weeks later and it was bad, not because he yelled, no, it was worse than that. He went cold, locking away the small progress they had made over the past weeks, pushing her away from the open door before she could set even one foot inside.
The lab had already been a disaster before it started. Half the equipment they’d requested hadn’t arrived, one student nearly passed out during a demo reduction, and the projector stopped working twenty minutes into the lecture. Brendon had been in a foul mood from the second he walked in. The students felt it too as nobody spoke unless called on and nobody breathed unless medically necessary. By the third hour, (y/n) was basically running damage control.
“Okay,” she told a trembling second-year quietly while adjusting his grip on the drill, “ignore Dr. Doom over there, your hand positioning’s actually fine now.”
The student laughed nervously, but unfortunately, Brendon heard her, “If by ‘fine’ you mean unsafe, then sure.”
The room went still at his words, nobody dared to move as she looked up slowly from beside the student. For a moment she kept quiet, eyes wandering over his tired features before letting go of a sigh, “It was a joke, he’s clearly nervous, Dr. Park.”
“He should be nervous. Complacency gets people killed.” The student looked about two seconds from throwing up. He had grown even more tense beside her, almost dropping his grip on the drill while (y/n) tried her best to stop the whole ship from sinking.
“Maybe back off a little.” She straightened carefully as Brendon’s gaze snapped back to hers. There it was, that shark-like look which was sharp enough to cut skin.
“You don’t tell me how to run my lab.”
“And you don’t get to terrorize students because you’re in a bad mood.” A few heads immediately dropped toward tables, nobody wanted to witness this blood-bath which was about to happen. Unfortunately for them, they absolutely were as Brendon stepped closer, voice low and lethal, arms pressed to his sides, shoulders shuddering with every angry exhale.
“If they can’t handle pressure here, they won’t survive an operating room.” (Y/n) had to swallow her own anger, she told herself to stay professional, not to fuck this up further as the man in front of her had the power to decide over her medical carrer, and yet the need for honesty and protection was stronger.
“And if you keep humiliating them every time they make a mistake, they won’t learn a damn thing either. You’re an asshole without any reason, terrorizing students in hopes of turning them into emotionless doctors won’t do them any good.” Silence followed her words. The student between them looked ready to evaporate, hoping they’d get a chance to leave.
“Careful.” That should’ve been the moment she backed down, and honestly, she probably should have. But she was tired too, tired of watching him carve himself hollow and call it discipline, tired of him acting like cruelty and excellence were the same thing. Tired of the way he pushed and pushed and pushed everyone around him like he was waiting for them to finally leave. So she set the drill down on the tray with a loud clatter and took a step toward him instead.
“No,” she said evenly. “You be careful. You think being brutal makes people respect you? Fine, maybe it works sometimes. But this thing where you tear into people because you’re exhausted or angry or miserable? That’s not teaching.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” His jaw flexed, eyes stone cold as he kept staring down at her, almost forgetting the crowd of students watching their fight.
“No? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you walk into every room expecting everyone to fail before they even speak. You know what your problem is, Brendon?” The use of his first name hit like a slap. “You act like caring about people is some kind of weakness. Like if you keep everyone at arm’s length, nobody can piss you off or let you down, but you do care. That’s the worst part. You care so much it’s eating you alive, and instead of dealing with that, you punish everyone around you for it.”
The entire lab looked petrified, nobody had ever spoken to him like this. Ever. For a second, she thought he was going to explode, but instead, he just stared at her, completely motionless, and somehow that was worse. Because beneath the anger, beneath the offense and pride and sharp edges he looked like she’d reached inside him and hit something he spent years trying to bury.
When he finally spoke, his voice was terrifyingly quiet, “Class dismissed.”
Nobody hesitated, chairs scraped violently across the floor as students fled like frightened animals, and within seconds, the lab emptied, leaving the two of them alone. The door slammed shut behind the last student. She crossed her arms, mostly to stop herself from shaking while Brendon stood near the center table, eyes fixed on the surgical instruments laid out between them.
“Are you done now with your lecture?” His tone wasn’t angry, that was the problem. It was flat, controlled so tightly she couldn’t tell what was underneath it. “You crossed a line, (y/n).”
“You crossed it first and apparently I am the only person willing to tell you when you’re being impossible. You want everyone scared of you because it’s easier than letting them get close enough to realize you’re human.” He looked away immediately afterward, shoulders going rigid. A part of her suddenly began to understand that this was the root of all problems. It wasn’t anger or ego, no, it was exposure. Brendon hated this because she could see him and he didn’t know what to do with that.
The silence after her last words stretched so long it started to hurt, Brendon looked away first, just a brief turn of his head, jaw tight enough to crack teeth. Then, without looking at her: “Get out.”
“Brendon-” she blinked, trying to take a step closer, though without any luck.
“I said get out of my lab.” There was no yelling, no emotion dripping from his words, which somehow made it sting worse.
Something in her chest twisted, because fine, she’d pushed him. She knew she had. But she’d also meant every word, and the fact that his response was to shut her out entirely hurt more than she liked to admit. (Y/n) swallowed hard, grabbed her bag from the counter, and walked toward the door. With one last glance thrown his way, she stepped out into the now empty hallway, heart clenching in her chest as if the shark had managed to rip it from her without giving her the chance to fight for it.
…
By the time (y/n) came back to his office that night, the corridors were mostly empty. The department lights had dimmed to evening mode, soft and gray against polished floors, somewhere down the hall, a vending machine hummed. She almost turned around twice; this was stupid. He’d probably tell her to leave again. But the alternative was letting this sit between them like an infected wound, and she was too angry to let him get away with pretending none of it mattered.
So she knocked once and pushed the office door open after a few seconds. He looked up immediately, sitting behind his desk with his laptop open, sleeves rolled up on his muscular forearms. The sight caught her off guard for a second as it was softer somehow, less armored. She shut the door behind her and for a moment neither of them spoke. The tension from earlier was still there, but quieter now, as if it was exhausted around the edges.
“If you came to keep fighting, I’m not interested, (y/n).” Brendon leaned back slightly in his chair, eyes not daring to leave her once.
“Well, that’s convenient for you.” His eyes narrowed faintly at her words while (y/n) crossed her arms to steady herself. “You kicked me out like I was some student you were disciplining.” She tried to keep her hurt at bay, not daring to offer all parts of her emotions to the cold professor yet.
“You undermined me in front of the class.”
“I shouldn’t have challenged you in front of everyone like that, but you do not get to throw me out because I pissed you off.” She admitted, slowly taking a step closer to his desk as if she was trying to walk the line, seeing how far she could go.
“I was angry.” His jaw tightened.
“I know.”
“No,” he eventually gave in quietly, eyes locking onto hers now. “I was furious. You stood there and dissected me in front of thirty students, and you think that gave you the right to-”
“No,” she interrupted, voice softer now. “I think working together means we respect each other enough to tell the truth. I didn’t want to embarrass you or anything like that.”
“You said I punish people for caring, but that isn’t the case. When I was a resident, being wrong got people hurt.” Brendon looked down at the papers scattered across his desk, expression unreadable. Something in her chest pulled painfully, because there it was again, that exhaustion, that impossible weight he carried around like it was stitched into his spine.
“You can push students without destroying them.” (Y/n) stepped closer once more, almost able to reach the desk now.
“You make that sound easy.” He gave a humorless huff, eyes momentarily fluttering close while he brushed his hands over his tired features.
“I think you make everything harder than it has to be.” That almost earned a smile, almost, as Brendon kept studying her in that intense, unnerving way he always did.
“You don’t scare easily, do you?”
“Oh, no, you’re terrifying,” (y/n) chuckled. “Like clinically concerning. But that never stopped me before.”
A quiet laugh escaped him before he could stop it and it changed his whole face. God, that was dangerous. Her breath caught slightly, and judging by the way his expression shifted afterward, he noticed. Of course he noticed. The room suddenly felt much smaller as Brendon’s gaze dropped briefly to her mouth before returning to her eyes, slowly, carefully, “I shouldn’t have thrown you out. I’m not very good at this.”
“At apologizing?” She blinked, wondering what he was talking about exactly.
“At people.” That surprised a laugh out of her as Brendon’s mouth twitched faintly in response. Suddenly the air between them shifted into something warmer, something cosying her along while he stood from his desk slowly, towering over her immediately.
“You need a ride home?” Her heart stumbled a little, unable to bite down a grin.
“Is that your apology?”
“One of them.”
“Are you planning more?”
His eyes held hers for another second.
“Possibly.”
…
The car ride started quiet, it wasn’t uncomfortable but strange in a way. The city blurred gold outside the windows while rock played low through the speakers. Brendon drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift, fingers tapping absently against the console. She kept sneaking glances at him, which was unfortunate, because he caught every single one.
“You really meant all that stuff earlier?” he asked after a while, voice almost too quiet for a man like him. “That I care.”
“Yeah,” she gave in softly. “I did.”
Brendon was quiet for a long time after that. By the time he pulled up outside her apartment building, neither of them moved to get out immediately. She was comfortable around him, probably way too comfortable looking back at the day they had just survived.
“Thank you for the ride.” (Y/n) turned toward him slowly. Neither moved while her pulse started climbing for absolutely no good reason. His gaze dropped to her mouth again and this time, it stayed there.
“Come here.” The words were so low she felt them more than heard them. She moved before she could think better of it. The second (y/n) leaned across the console, Brendon met her halfway. The kiss was nothing like she expected, it was too careful like he was trying not to ruin it.
One hand came up slowly to cup her jaw, warm and impossibly gentle for someone who spent all day breaking through bone and barked orders like bullets. She felt his breath hitch slightly when she kissed him back harder, it seemed to break whatever restraint he’d been clinging to as the next kiss was deeper, hungrier. Months of tension compressed into one devastating moment.
“Come upstairs.” The words slipped out before she could overthink them. Brendon went completely still for a second, his eyes searching hers carefully as if he was making sure she wasn’t fucking with him.
“You sure?” She nodded once and that was all it took. He exhaled slowly through his nose like he was already losing a fight with himself, then reached for the door handle.
The elevator ride to her apartment was unbearable in the best possible way, neither of them spoke much, there was too much awareness packed into the small space already. His shoulder brushed hers once and her entire body reacted embarrassingly fast. Heat climbed straight into her face but the elevator dinged before she could recover.
Her apartment hallway was quiet as (y/n) fumbled slightly with her keys, suddenly aware of everything, her heartbeat, his presence behind her, the fact that Brendon Park was standing close enough that she could feel heat rolling off him. The lock clicked and the second the door opened, he kissed her again. Harder this time, like he’d been holding himself back the past minutes and finally snapped like a shark should. She barely got the door shut before her back hit it with a soft thud, Brendon crowding into her space immediately, one hand braced beside her head while the other settled at her waist.
He kissed like he argued, intense, focused, relentless, but underneath it was that same carefulness she’d felt in the car, like some part of him still couldn’t believe he was allowed this. Her fingers slid into his gelled back hair, allowing her to pick up on the soft sound clawing out of him.
“Jesus,” he muttered against her slightly swollen lips, voice rough. “You’re trouble.”
“You should have figured that out weeks ago.” She laughed softly, breathless, and he kissed her again immediately like the sound did something dangerous to him. Everything about this felt a little unreal; the terrifying orthopedic surgeon who glared people into silence was currently kissing her like she was something precious enough to ruin him.
“You can still leave, you know, professor.” Her hands slid down his chest slowly as Brendon leaned his forehead briefly against hers, breathing unevenly.
“Not helping.”
“Wasn’t trying to.” A low sound escaped him, half laugh, half warning, then his hands tightened at her waist suddenly.
Before she could process it, he lifted her off the floor and (y/n) let out a startled laugh, grabbing his shoulders automatically. He carried her to the open kitchen with terrifying ease, kissing her again halfway like he couldn’t go more than thirty seconds without touching her now. By the time he set her down on the kitchen island, both of them were breathing harder.
She sat there between his arms, big palms pressed to the cold counter top while her heartbeat was absolutely out of control. Brendon looked at her like he was trying to memorize every expression crossing her face, wondering what was going on inside her mind.
The kitchen light cast soft gold across his features, catching the exhaustion still lingering around his eyes, but for once, he didn’t look closed off, he looked open, raw. Her hand lifted instinctively, fingertips brushing lightly along his defined, sharp jaw.
“You know,” she said softly, “you’re a lot nicer when you’re kissing me.”
He kissed her again, but his lips didn’t stay on her mouth for long, quickly finding their way to her throat and drawing a few trembling moans from her. All (y/n) could do was hold onto him, finding strength in the way she clung to the man kissing her throat as if he were exploring a map of unfamiliar territory. His name left her mouth softly, nothing more than a whisper, yet he kept moving lower, hands leaving the counter to tug her shirt over her head.
“You’re a fucking menace, you know that?”
She couldn’t reply. (Y/n) could only hum into the quiet kitchen as he pushed the cups of her bra down, letting her breasts spill free, hardened nipples exposed to his hungry mouth. His lips instantly found her chest, sucking one nipple into his mouth while his hand took care of the other, tugging and squeezing it as if she’d been his for months, as if he already knew exactly how to stoke the heat building between her thighs.
She arched against his touch, needing more from the man greedily exploring her body. Shaky breaths left her as her thighs closed around his legs while he remained standing between them, keeping them apart while teasing her. His name left her lips again, a quiet plea for more, one he clearly picked up on as he began kissing his way down to the seam of her panties.
“Bet you’re dripping already. Did you get off on our fighting?” His rasped words made her choke on a breath, struggling to find the right response. His sharp eyes flicked up to meet hers, brows raised as he waited for an answer she couldn’t seem to form. Slowly, he tugged her panties down her legs, letting out a rough chuckle as his fingers brushed through her slit. “Of course you did. Fuck, you’re soaked, baby.”
“Brendon,” she whined, eyes fluttering shut as he finally pressed his mouth against her pulsing clit. A moan tore from her, the sound filling her kitchen as if it had been built for this moment alone. Brendon kept his eyes fixed on her while he ate her out, sucking on her clit to push her closer and closer to the edge waiting for her.
“Gotta prepare you for me. Will you be a good girl and take my fingers?” (Y/n) hummed at the question, hoping it would be enough of an answer, but the second his hand came down sharply on her inner thigh, she knew he expected more. She struggled to reply, struggled to form even a single clear thought, managing only a breathless, “Yes, please.”
“Atta girl.” The rasped praise sent heat rushing to her cheeks. Brendon kept his focus on her face as he pushed two fingers inside her, spreading her walls around them while continuing to suck on her clit. Her moans grew louder as he curled his fingers against her sweet spot, making her shudder beneath him. “Fuck, you’re beautiful.”
His praise only pushed her closer to orgasm, the feeling creeping up on her too fast to overthink. Her body trembled, thighs struggling to stay open while the man between them seemed determined to devour her completely. Brendon drove her toward release eagerly, needing to watch her come apart before he fucked her properly, “Cum for me, baby. Let go.”
She whined his name again, her body instantly obeying the command. Brendon kept thrusting his fingers into her while sucking on her clit with just enough pressure to push her over the edge. (Y/n) came with a gasp, eyes squeezed shut, fingers tangling in his hair to keep him close while his tongue and fingers worked her through it.
“I shouldn’t be surprised that a man as cocky as you is good at this, should I?” Her whispered words made him chuckle against her skin. His sharp eyes forced hers back open while he slowly pulled away, sucking his fingers clean.
“Well,” he murmured, voice rough with satisfaction, “that was only the beginning, baby. Hope you’re ready for more.”
and can we just talk about how badass the name donovan rocker is??? and it suits lou so well. i know everyone on this show has a Cool Name but this one is just soooo… you know?
cw: afab reader, reader can visibly blush, breeding, cucking, scratching, size difference, simon thinks about eating you a lot :)
medieval!au based on this post of mine. your lord husband is letting you down and simon knows he can do something about it
Simon remembers the first time he saw you.
How could he not? You were a stranger in a strange land.
A flower from the south, grown up in warm soil and rich sun. Looking like you lived on fruit and honey, and Simon bet you smelled like it, too. Blackberry jam, and sweet cream, and nectar, he'd reckon. It was the first thought that passed through his head—that he'd like to smell you. Wanted to shove his ruined nose into that soft part in the hollow of your neck, where you were warm and delicate and he could feel your pulse thrumming just beneath, and inhale. He had to get close to anything to get a scent—his nose was mostly scar tissue, burned and singed from coke smoke over and over throughout the years—but he had wanted it.
You stepped out of your vulgar carriage, a little bird, bright and smiling in the bitter, sodden morning, and he had wanted it.
He doesn't know why. Hours in the forge leave him plenty of time to mull thoughts like warmed, spiced wine, but he hasn't yet figured out his taste for sweet things. Finespun things. Things he could crush in his hands like eggshells. He only knew that the sweet things never liked him much. Sweet things were frightened of the large, scowling thing making iron sing among the flames.
Until you.
You looked him in the eye. Smiled at him that day when he stood in the receiving line in the courtyard. You had a flash of teeth for everyone, it was true, but often even those generous with their smiles could never quite find one for Simon. They got lost somewhere, swallowed by his imposing frame. And maybe you didn't know to be afraid, maybe you'd never learned to be wary of mutts in your fair, tempered home, but Simon thought it was something else:
Curiosity. Interest in the beasts bred in the north—because your lord husband certainly wasn't an example of one.
The first son of a first son with a great old name and a castle. His family had lived within its walls for four hundred years, building and defending it in the name of some faraway king Simon couldn't give two shits about, and your mooncalf lord was going to run it all into the mud. He was a dull axe, meek and mollycoddled. Played at war to take the spines of other, greater men. A bare branch, too, Simon figured.
You'd learn all that when he returned from his latest campaign.
Married in absentia for your father's wealth of fighting men, you'd meet your new husband for the first time a month after your arrival. For now, you're alone, a warmblood getting used to the frost. It's no wonder you wander into Simon's forge.
Three days into your residence at the keep, your maids have you dressed for the winter. All wrapped up in a dull-coloured cloak. Hiding you beneath thick fur and delicate embroidery—as if anything could dull what you hold within you. The waifs are too flighty to follow you into Simon's workshop. The smell, the heat, the man within—all of them offend their delicate sensibilities in one way or another. Not you, though. You run to the bellows with no mind paid to the bull hammering metal beside them.
Simon only stops his work when you clear your pretty throat.
"What is your name, ser?" you ask. You're a daisy blooming in the winter muck. Or a weed, sprouting stubbornly where it doesn't belong. Wilting petals sucking sunlight in a smithy.
The only light here is from the fireglow; all else is choked. Coal smoulders in the hearth, belching sulphur and tar into the dense, stifling air. Breezes are throttled the moment they pass the threshold, so there's nothing to kick up the ash and soot—they lie in a blanket over the vices and punches, chisels and swages. Anything in Simon's forge doesn't stay clean for long. Even you, satin eve. Linger, and you'll melt into the walls with all the rest.
"Not a ser, little bird. Just a blacksmith," he says.
He had been mending a mail hauberk ruined in your lord's last battle. Some bannerman had a terrible day, and it was Simon's job to set the chain back right so another soldier could have one more. He sets the armour aside, and the loops of steel shimmer like stars in the firelight. You demand his full attention, and Simon wants to see what you'll do with it.
"My lady," you say, tone polite and proper. You run him a cunning once-over, top to toe, and Simon wonders what you see.
"Not no lady, neither."
"No, blacksmith, I'm a lady—the lady of your liege lord," you remind him with a smirk. As if he needed it. You look the part enough—clean and soft, highborn, grown up never scraping a knee, no doubt. But there's mischief twinkling in your eyes, like a child looking at a stream they want to ruin their boots in.
Simon doesn't know if he wants to stamp out that mischief or if there's something else he'd like to do with it.
He'll have to get closer to find out.
"And what does the lady of my liege lord want?"
"Your name." You're puckish and enjoying it, a smiling imp playing in the tick of your mouth. Even as your neck cranes to look up at him.
He rounds the heavy anvil to stand in front of you. Simon knows he's a big man. Can't forget when he's looking at the tops of people's heads all the time. And he's reminded, often and loudly, by highborns who think their sigils and names make them large. If I were your size, I'd rule the fucking kingdom, they say, and they're right. Simon probably could be a knight if he wanted. A ser. Fight hard enough for a lord who would give him a holdfast and a wife of his own. But he prefers the forge, prefers bending iron to his will to being bent to a lord's.
And if he were some perfumed knight, you wouldn't be here, looking up at him with intrigue.
Mud-madness, maybe. Maybe you want to know what it's like in the dirt.
"Riley," Simon says. He gives you his last, a secret joke just for him.
He's stepped into your space, something that would get him flogged if there were anyone around to see. But it's dark, and warm, and lonely in his poor hovel, and he likes how a little bit of your bravery is sapped away with him so close. Likes to see the uncertainty bleed into the curve of your brow with every notch your fine spine bends.
"Riley the blacksmith." You run a delicate finger on the flat side of a blade Simon was working on earlier, pressing prints into the cooled iron where it rests on the table beside you both. You're pretending now, pretending you're not afraid. But you can't look at him, and Simon can see your chest rise and fall.
"You'll forge a new sword for my husband," you continue. "I've brought good steel from my home for you to use."
"Not some jewelry?" he asks.
You hum. "I have enough jewelry."
"Didn't mean for you."
That gets your eyes back on him. You're affronted at the insult to your perfect lord. You draw yourself to your full height, taking back the measures you shrank. It's still lengths below Simon, and you know it. Simon sees the exact moment you realize just how tall you'd have to grow to match him, so you put another kind of distance between you and him. You glide to the other side of his work table, and when you speak, it's harsh and proud. "No jewelry. A sword, a longsword."
"Why?"
Chin tipped high, shoulders squared; a bead of sweat rolls down your temple. "Because I want for it."
"Used to getting what you want, little bird?" Simon follows your path, but when he steps, you step, and it's a dance. Not the measured steps you were surely taught as a girl, not the proper trips of light to plucked strings. It's a different sort of dance, and it doesn't help you. The only thing it does is get his blood hot.
If it's a chase you're after, you'll get it.
"Yes," you say.
Simon likes how your throat looks when you swallow.
"You don't know what you want," he tells you.
He could show you. In his mind's eye, Simon sees the woods outside the keep. He hears your soft footsteps thumping on the forest floor and the sounds you'd make when he catches you. Can almost smell the frozen leaves tangling in your hair, and the prey-sweat on your skin, and his jaw tingles.
"I do." You circle the table, never letting Simon get within arm's reach. Smart bird, but you sound as petulant as a child.
"And what's that?" he asks.
A table between you and him, and you think it is enough. That's the problem with highborns—they never think the lowbreds are half as bloodthirsty as they are. They think they are the teeth. Think their rank is armour. But what's a title in the mud, and even a worm will turn. That table could be across the room in a second, if Simon had the mind. You stir some creature in him, your furtive steps like the beating of wings. It rises from his chest like bile, that urge to hold you down, stop your movings and twitchings with his weight, feel your muscles flex below him.
Like a hound on a coursing—only what runs is hunted.
"A happy husband," you tell him, and Simon can't remember what the conversation was. He's busy keeping his feet planted, even as you step into the doorway and his every instinct begs him to act. He hadn't even realized you'd circled all the way back to the entrance to his forge, where the cold and daylight await.
"And a sword. By the end of the month, Riley, for his return."
Your scent sits in the air like poppy oil long after you've left.
You come back the next week, a winter rose tucked behind your ear and flakes of snow dusting your crown.
You're a bright thing, too full of life for this unwelcoming keep. Simon keeps thinking you'll wither, that one of these days he'll see you round a corner and you'll be sallow and wet like the rest of the north, but you keep surprising him. He eats his fill of you in glimpses, flutters of your cloak through the keyhole of his doorway, traipsing through the snow with your litter of gamines at your heels. You haunt his nights, his dreams, walking the scorched halls of his mind like a shade of witness, and in them, too, you run.
Simon wakes every dawn before you're caught. Always just around the next bend, soft soles padding on the stone.
Seeing you, then, measures from his wingspan and unaware of the danger dripping drool at your feet, Simon feels of consequence. Feels like a whispered name of a fable, too treacherous to say too loudly, or something may hear. Infamy, that's where Simon's thoughts lead him. Or into the loop of a noose.
Where you got that rose, though, he'd like to know. Crystal ropes of ice line the petal edges. A precious beauty frozen in time, black as liver blood. When he asks, you pluck it from your ear and hide your smirk behind it. "I met a handsome fairy in the wood, and he said he would give me a secret if I gave him a kiss. All I received was this rose," you tell him. Grinning like this is the start of a fun game, like you're the Good Neighbour between the iron oaks.
In your southern home, perhaps, The Folk are just stories. Here, in the unyielding North, people don't have the luxury to laugh at tales. If you're born in the snow, you don't take bargains with a light heart.
"Trading kisses, eh?" Simon grunts. Coke smoke and steam billow around him as he quenches a blade in a pail of water. Metal screams and hisses as it chokes for breath. "What do you want, then? A pair of earrings? I could give you a necklace you'd like."
You come to his side, straining around his torso to watch the steel drown. You're nothing, just nothing beside his great frame. He could bend you as easily as red iron, but your teeth flash with alloyed courage.
"Is that your usual payment, Riley?"
"Give me a kiss, little bird, and you'll get more than a necklace."
Sheltered, highborn lady, whistling in the dark. You don't even know what he's saying. You may have a shade of an idea, words sipped from distant whispers not meant for your ears, but it's like the light that slips through coloured glass. Insubstantial, just a facsimile of the real thing. You're here to catch rays to see what they feel like. To know.
Because you came back—like a moth to a flame, you came back alone to singe your wings—and you don't call for the guards when he drifts into your space. Simon wonders how far he can push you, and how quickly. Cool a blade too fast, and the core bows. Warps. Its edge turns to brittle glass, itching to chip and crack. Heat it too fast, and the steel tempers and softens. Becomes just another useless lump of metal.
He wants you boiling when you come to him, and you will come to him.
You've caught his scent just as much as he's caught yours. Like a doe snuck into his territory, you tease his edges—not wise enough to realize just how threadbare his control is.
For now, he'll let you feel the warmth sitting, perpetually, just underneath his skin. Let you feel your own size as he looms over you. Some birds like their men grizzly, like towering beasts with hard fists and mean jaws—you love it. Simon can see it in the twitch of your chin, the draw of your pupils, the hard spots of heat on your cheeks. Bad luck that you're married to your dim, fallow reed. Frightfully bad luck.
"There you go again," Simon whispers. The tips of his boots touch your fine shoes. Your delicate hands wring together in front of your belly.
"Pardon?"
So mannered, so decent, even as Simon can see your thoughts swimming around your empty head like water wraiths. Just the promise of a kiss below the murk, or a wet grave. He could pluck the pictures from your mind, roll them around his mouth like spit-stones, and he knows what he would taste. Interest, and imaginations, and lilac honey. Sweat and dew. Clotted cream. So virtuous, even as your lips hang slack, and he can see the pink, wet muscle of your twitching tongue.
"You blush when you look up at me," Simon tells you. Lets some scorn, some mockery, flavour the words as they burrow into your ear. "You even know what you're blushin' over?"
Your hand flies to your cheek, cooling away the flush with dancing fingers. An indignant huff puffs from your mouth, and Simon is sure you'd stomp your foot if you had less of a hold on yourself. It almost makes him smile. Do it, he thinks. Give him a reason to take you over his knee. Welts on your ass and three fingers in your cunt would wipe that whiny look off your face, he's sure.
He doubts anyone's ever taught you that lesson—doubts you even know just how hard lessons can be learned—but he wouldn't mind being the first.
"I do know," you puff.
"Know what, little bird?" There's a sparrow, just there, embroidered on your heavy wool cloak. The hours it must have taken to thread it carefully between the weave, the years of practise to accomplish a stitch with such beauty, precision. And Simon could ruin it. Ruin it in a moment. The urge bites at him as he reaches forward to pet the fine fabric between his fingers.
A risk if he's ever taken one. Simon likes his hands. They're rather important to him.
"Why ladies blush." Your voice is just a promise.
"Do you, now?" You're looking at your hem balled in Simon's heavy fist, at the scrapes on his knuckles so close to your belly where you're warm and heaving with breath. "Good little ladies like yourself blush at pretty highborns with flowers in their hair. Why're you blushin' at me?"
You're looking at him like a traveller near a bluff, aware of the drop, feeling the call. One tug, and you would fall into him.
He doesn't get the chance, though. At least, not yet.
The spell breaks, your lady's maid calling your name from the snow, and you take flight—spinning when he, for just a moment, doesn't let your cloak slip from his grasp. Simon knows it's no matter. Your winter rose rests on the cobblestone at his feet, already withering in the heat and choking air. You'll visit him in his dreams again, and maybe he'll see what will happen when you're snared.
Some rabbits chew their foot off. What will you do?
Your milklivered lord comes home clean as spring, and brings disappointment with him.
You try to hide it, but Simon knows. Plucked and preened, you greet him in the courtyard as you were greeted a month before, and present to him the sword Simon forged. The sword with the bloodgutter shaped to the exact curve of your lips, Simon's sickness hammered into the folded iron. The sword your lord can hardly hold upright as his thin arm trembles. Chagrin dusts your tepid smile when his frail hand cups your chin. When he wraps you in his hold, and so much of you is left exposed to the chill.
He's weak, another thing Simon can crush in his palm, but that one, he hates.
And the disappointments only grow, only follow you—dragging behind you like a limp mule slowing down the retinue. Better to cull the lame thing, put everyone out of their misery, but you, the dutiful wife, do try. The servants say you read to him by the hearth in the evenings, and tug him on gentle walks through the wood, and they whisper about the noises he makes as he sweats over you every night. And you glow and simper in the mornings, but he can't keep you happy.
Simplest thing in the world to breed a bird, and your lord is failing.
He's letting you wilt. When more months go by without an heir in your belly, the folk start to whisper. They think there must be something wrong with you. The women make you eat comfrey and daisy, and carve words into the butter you lathe on your bread. They stir hare's egg powder into the tea you choke down. You plant parsley alone in the dawn light, nails cracking in the hard, cold soil, and if you aren't growing soon, you'll be sent away. Back to your father, who may not receive you, or to a lone and quiet convent to dwindle into old age.
Or worse. Much worse can befall a woman who doesn't give her husband a child. You're in a different sort of trap, now.
Simon knows it's not your fault, but he seems to be the only one who does. So he waits—lingers in your periphery for you to work it out for yourself—and it's the dead of night when you come back to him at last. Your lord has just left on another campaign for his king, and you're shivering and washed with the snowfall, standing in Simon's forge. Winter-dimmed, strained in the face and hard around the mouth, but the blustering bellows dance warm, orange light over your skin.
It's what you've needed. Some heat. Should've come to Simon weeks ago. He can press some warmth back into you.
You open your mouth to speak, but Simon hasn't forgotten your last conversation, and it's time you listened to him. "It's because you like blushin' at me, isn't it?" he asks, coming to you where you stand by his work table. "Like lookin' at me. Wonderin' how it would be to have me in your bed and not that tallow-faced lord of yours."
"He's not—"
"He is. Can't even put a baby in your belly." The keep is dark and quiet in the distance. Only the mice are awake. Even though you don't scream when Simon bullies one paw beneath your cloak, planting his palm on your soft stomach, he doubts anyone would hear if you did. "I can do it, little bird. I can give you a pup, and it won't take me no season either."
You grip his forearm like you're going to push him off, but when your nails sink into the scars and mottled flesh there, you hesitate. Something mercenary sits in your gaze, something hard-won and hewn in ice. No more mischief, just purpose.
Simon's a venal man. What's another ware to be sold?
"I need a son," you say at last. Jaw set, shoulders tight.
Simon was never one who needed to be told twice, and he's held long enough. You squeak when he lifts you, hefting you with hands around your ribcage to be set on his worktable, but don't protest when he undoes the clasp of your cloak. Shoves it off your shoulders to find the thin shift beneath. Diaphanous, flimsy—your nipples pebble through the linen. You were probably tossing in bed thinking about this, of coming to him in your night things, wondering what he'll do with you.
Brave thing. You're a conscript yet. Simon can't blame you for your means to an end, and this is as sweet a bargain as he's ever struck.
You run trembling hands over his shoulders, as if picturing a child with his build. "A son, blacksmith," you repeat, as if you can speak it into being.
But that's Simon's job—you only need to lie there and let him.
"I'll give you one. I'll give you three."
Propped in front of him like a dinner plate, eyes round as the moon, gone is your stiff upper lip. Maybe you thought you'd take it like a soldier—get the job done like farm animals and be back to your soft bed within minutes. You don't know, though, what you owe him. What you've done to him in his thoughts. Simon has a score to settle in your flesh, and a hunger in his belly he intends to sate in your sweat. Made him wait, you did. He's going to savour it.
He slips between your legs, bending down and down to bump your chin with his own. You know your pact. He wants his payment.
The kiss you give him is hesitant, cold lips on a warm, scarred mouth. His melted flesh pulls his lips into a permanent sneer, but you don't seem to mind. It's your tongue, first, which presses into his teeth. Your jaw, first, to pop open, expecting. You taste like the first spring day—snow-melt and sunshine, new grass and dripping, shining, icicles—and you hold him like you're going to blow away in the wind. Tugging at him, his clothes, like you're skinning a deer. Folding stripped flesh over itself to get to the warm, wet muscles beneath, still filled with the blood that made them run.
Your shift is insubstantial, so delicate that Simon could shred it like wet paper—so he does. Rips it down the front in one, great sheer to lay bare the body below that he had been thinking of for months. Months. Wondering what you hid beneath your many layers of wool, how your breath would catch when Simon grabbed heavy handfuls of your curves, picturing sooty handprints marring your pretty dress.
You break the kiss to complain, some indignant protest that falls on deaf ears because Simon isn't listening.
He's looking, swallowing the sight of you so he can never forget the way it felt slipping down his throat. The swell of your breasts, the soft roll of your stomach, the plush give of your thighs, knees knocked wide around his hips. Simon's longed for this painting. His muscles cramped with it.
How dare that lord of yours let you walk the halls of the keep. If you were Simon's, really his, you wouldn't be allowed. He would take you to the woods, the vast, unending forests of the North, where no one could ever find you, and he'd tie you to the bed. Make sure the only thing on your mind is the next time his cock will be seated inside you. Drip honey in your mouth and fill your womb with his seed again, and again, and again.
He has half a mind to do it. Take you. Bring you to a place where you could run for lengths and never come close to another heart beating between the trees.
You're halfway to letting him, he thinks. Dropped back into some primal part of your mind as he lays you back, tools clattering to the floor, and latches his mouth to the soft velvet of your breasts. Everything he does, you react as if it is the first time, and Simon wonders. Wonders if he could mark the warm curves of you, sink his teeth in, take a bite and swallow, and if your lord would ever notice.
Limp, pidgeonhearted lord. Wasting you.
He wouldn't waste you. Thoughts catch like fingers on cliff edges, cock swelling, achingly hard, at you so sweet and fictal looking up at him. He'd crack his ribs open, tuck you there, if he could. Make you sip the air from his lungs, breathe when he breathed. Your years of careful comportment, of being hidden in high towers, crumbling in his palm like white ash.
Simon's never wanted anything like this. His stomach aches. He feels washed away, uprooted, by the want—vicious and cruel, rearing now after months of suffocation.
The want to raze and build anew.
Simon has a bed, somewhere—a threadbare nest tucked in some corner—but he likes you where you are, laid out on his table like another thing to be forged, moulded into whatever he sees fit. You move how he wants, pliable as liquid metal, as sweat blossoms in the dips and wells of your body. He could make you, but you let him. You only falter when he parts your legs and dips his head between them, looking like a filly. New to the world on weak knees. Eyes wide, confused, as he kisses your thighs. You rest your hands protectively in a knot below your navel.
It's a near thing, holding back the sleeping creature within himself. The one that howls to devour, claim, own. But things can be owned in other ways—forever changed, tied to him. Something, finally, for himself. Made to keep.
The first brush of lips against your cunt has you squirming, and he has to hold you down. "Is this … necessary?" you ask.
Simon hooks your legs over his shoulders, opening you up more to him, and his mouth waters. He can feel his cheeks tingling as saliva collects, and he can smell you. Finally close enough to really know. Loam, and lye soap, and the tang of dandelion milk. Gooseflesh blooms in the wake of his searching nose.
"Yes," he tells you.
"No wonder I'm not withchild yet, my husband has never—oh." A needless sentence, aborted with a bleat as his mouth descends.
Even though you run from him. You're prim and proper about it, hiding sighs behind a furrowed brow and the flit of your fingers. Simon doesn't want the Lady; he wants what he knows is beneath, but he knows he's going to enjoy teasing it out of you. You're jumpy, writhing and twitching, swallowing soft hums and hiccups as Simon parts you with his tongue. Sipping nectar from the source, kitten-licks around your pulsing entrance until he finds the sensitive bud at the apex of you and wraps his lips around it.
Soon, other wetness joins his spit, and your hands leave their knot to scratch against Simon's scalp. Gripping his hair at the root, pushing his face into your bucking hips, and it tastes like victory. Your lord is off conquering a strip of land no one cares about, and Simon is here conquering his wife. Simon can feel the rumble in his own chest as he groans into you.
He pulls back, chin wet, to watch his finger disappear inside you, practically sucking him in as you whine. He'd give up breath to keep tasting you, to keep your velvet heat under his tongue and feel you pulsing as you're wrung out, but he has to see. Has to witness the crescent of dirt under his nail, the dark lines in his knuckle sinking in. Watch your stomach as it jumps, and your pretty face twisting up. Your walls flutter around him, giving in to his prodding, his petting, until he can slide another inside. And because he's greedy, Simon's tongue follows too. Muscle against muscle, he could drown in you.
Live forever on only this. On your trembling thighs and plaintive cries, nuzzling his ruined nose against your clit until you shout.
Supine, you thrash, limp limbs tensing and releasing like the crash of waves. Like you're scrabbing for purchase in the dark, and only Simon is there to lead you. "Wait—stop," you mewl, voice high and reedy, and Simon halts—barely. He doesn't ask why, doesn't trust his voice to be anything but a growl, and he doesn't want to frighten you. Not yet. Not when you're teetering on the edge of where he's taking you.
Tears rim your glossed eyes when you catch his gaze down the line of your body. "I don't know what's—I feel—"
Rage and male pride swirl in his chest, a potion he could get drunk on. Ire-honeyed mead his fists could siphon out. Sweet, sweet bird. Poor, mistreated highborn. Simon'll give you a dozen, a score, until you're spent and dazed. Until your eyes can't focus, and the only thing you can say is his name.
"Told you this was necessary, didn't I?" he asks.
You nod, a pout Simon wants to chew off tugging at your lips.
"Then stop whinin'."
You hold his hand through your release, lacing your fingers in his and holding them, locked, to your chest. Your eyes are closed as if in concentration, and Simon can feel your heartbeat against his wrist, thumping in time with your pitiful laments. They pour from your throat as if hooked out, spiralling upward in rungs like a silver-keen melody. It's winsome, how you curl against him, shoulders bowing inward, fingers scrabbling at the singed hair of his forearm. How you clench down on his fingers, still petting inside you, gummy walls pulsing as your muscles tense. Tight as a bowstring, horse tendons dried and twisted, until you're loosed, limp and panting.
Simon's decision is made. It drives into place like a rosehead in his nape, clouted in with your lips on his knuckles. Wrought-iron against bone, muscles making room for rusted metal. Can't pull nails without a fight, not once they've been clenched.
You scrunch your face up when he kisses you afterward, pressing your own taste back into you. He expects you to shy away again. To fawn, coltish and faltering. But you're on him the moment he pulls away, chasing him, sitting up from the table to follow the heat of his torso like you're an early-spring lamb. His tunic, you shove halfway up his chest without a care for the ties, and your nails follow. Clean, shaped things that leave lines in their wake, coaxing Simon's blood to the surface—a red bloom on pale flesh and stark, pink scars. Old burns still holding flame inside him.
Perfect, kept teeth sink into the plush of his chest as you tug at his trousers, paw at him, hard and leaking, straining against the fabric, like you can't wait another moment
—and you're his. Another man's wife, traded to him for swords and arms to wield them, but you belong to Simon. From the moment you smiled at him in the courtyard, you did. And not you nor any man could stop him. You mark bites into his skin like you could chew him living, and Simon thinks about making off with you like a monster in the night. Not Beowulf, but Grendel. But no one is nailing his arm to any wall, not when it can slip around the curve of your back and bring you close to him.
You come readily into his hold, trembling legs locking around his hips, fingers letting blood at the back of his neck, as you're carried. Anywhere. Any flat surface Simon can find so he can sit, can hold you fast in his lap and feel you tense atop his thighs. Let you work yourself full of him as the fire spits.
He doesn't know where he lands. Somewhere hay-filled and dusty. He can't stop relishing the feel of you, better than he could've ever conjured in his rotten mutt mind. So fragile, so soft—your ribs give when he presses his palms into them. A thing to protect, or shatter like overheated glass. Because blood-heavy, aching in anticipation, Simon wants to be cruel. Wants to let free the leash, the vice clamped somewhere in his stomach, and see what crawls out the back of his throat. Pour it into you, let your wrangle or succumb. Plant an ugly seed and watch it sprout.
Simon likes the thought of your lord finding out. Of him stitching it together like piecemeal and coming in the night. Likes the thought of grinding his jaw into the anvil. Making his skull into a fine cup.
You buck clumsily in his lap, hunting for friction. Grinding a wet spot into his trousers because he hasn't even freed himself yet. You cease at a growled command and wait so nicely for Simon to pull himself free and line up, even if your brows furrow at the sight of him.
"It will fit?" you ask. It's vulgar, the sight of him—mean and thick and dripping white globs of seed as his fist tightens around the base of himself—next to you. Shaking thighs and supple flesh, spit and slick dripping down your legs as you hover above. "Riley?"
"Yes, little bird."
"It's only … You're much larger than—"
"M'not him, am I?" He wraps his other paw around your nape, bending your neck to make you stare down between your bodies. The two of you watch together as you slowly sink down on him, the angry, red flesh and veins like bruises pushing inside, just past the lip of his crown. You're too tense to allow anything more, strangling him already; he can hardly breathe. "Look."
Your hands grasp at his shoulders, fingers clawing at the flesh and meat there. Can't do that to your lord, Simon thinks. Your husband is made of bones and twine. He can't take the bruises you want to mould into muscle, can't fill you so full you can't even swallow. Simon can just picture him wheezing over you in your marriage bed, you silent and smiling. Nowhere near the creature Simon's made—the lap dog panting in his hold.
You need him.
Need him to protect you, someone to cover your whole body with his own until you're not even there. Until nothing can find you. Your lord can't make you safe like that. Simon can.
You suck in gulping breaths like a gaping fish as you lower yourself, squeezing him in steadily. It's velvet heat and mouthwatering pressure all around him that make his thoughts dart like wide-eyed hares. Your forehead slides against his, slick with sweat and the mixed putty of settling ash, and he can taste your lungs on his lips. You grind back and forth as you work him in—too fast. Too fervid and impatient, you constrict around him, forcing him in with hurt twisting your pout into a grimace.
"Careful," Simon warns. He moves his grip to your hips to guide you, sliding you up and down his length in slow, shallow dips as you hiccup. "Like this. That's it."
Teaching you how to take him, making you ease him inside because you're too eager to check yourself, choking down pain just to get him in, in—it cracks open something wretched in Simon. It spills like spoiled egg yolk through his chest, dripping through the rungs of his ribcage to dry and split. He wants to pop out every one of your teeth like willow buds and hold them in his cheek. Wants to bite your knuckles into his mouth and feel the bones grind together. He wants. He wants.
You, eyes fastened to the joining of your bodies and none the wiser, spill a warm whine over his mouth. Protesting the pace, you scratch your grievances into his skin.
"Slow at first," he tells you, nipping at the curve of your jaw to quell the ache in his own. "Just this time, little bird."
"No," you complain, pettish and sullen. Sour in your urgency, piqued in your restlessness. "I want—"
"Patience," he murmurs, but he can hear the strain in his own voice. Simon's been patient for months. You can weather a palmful of minutes. It's only a blink of time to get you used to his size. Simon's ox-built in all countenance, so it's steady, patient work, but your muscles give to him eventually. Suddenly, he's seated inside you, fully sheathed and struggling for control.
You're a vice around him, battened down like a garrote. He feels smothered, having to clamp down his insides so he doesn't do something awful.
"Can I move?" you plead, ignorant of the maelstrom happening inside his head, his stomach. You plant sweet kisses on his cheeks, the corner of his mouth, supplicating for movement. Supplicating to be eaten.
Simon rolls your flesh under his palms, hobbling his desire with thin-spun thread. "You think of this when he's inside you? Think about if it were me?" he demands, unable to keep the cruelty behind the ladder of his teeth. "I'll show you."
He starts off blunted, keeping his clip deliriously slow, letting you languish in the feel of him dragging inside you—but that can only go on so long. You cry for him to speed up, to fill you harder, and deeper, more savage, more bruising, and Simon obliges.
And Simon tells himself that this—snapping his hips into you, the head of him grinding against the plug of your womb, bullying himself inside again and again as your eyes roll, hands spasm—is for you. That he's freeing the snare, not tying a new one round your twitching ankle. But it's for him. Because maybe Simon likes sweet things because of the opportunity they promise, the chance of ruin. Nothing sweet lives in the world for long, not without interference, and you have so many lights Simon could snuff out
—or fuel. He could make you burn only for him.
A selfish sort of preservation, like a lover's hands kept in milky jars of vinegar.
His back aches with the strain, that old injury born of being bent over anvils for all his life flaring now as he pistons upward, but he's chasing. His own release and yours, hunting oaths and promises and the feel of you coming apart around him. He tucks you against himself, forearms squeezing your torso into his to lock you in place, but also because he cannot fight the instinct that's telling him to hide you away somewhere warm and dark and that might as well be somewhere beside his liver.
Your skin slides against his, your arms, so much smaller than his own, crushed between your chests so all you can do is huff and squeak as he drives out and in and out again. Rude, crudish squelching sounds dance in tandem with your high cries. Simon shoves your head into the crook of his neck, wanting you close to his pulse hammering there, and tilts the angle of his hips so that your sensitive bud grazes his abdomen with every thrust.
His name is a stunted cry whimpered out between heaving breaths as you clench, but it's not the pulse of your walls constricting around him, or the tender way your muscles run taut as you come, that sets his own release spinning. It's the thought of spilling inside you, filling you full and some part of himself taking root there. Of you, raised on silver and grace and careful comportment, letting yourself be bred by a lowborn smith with only the dirt to call his own. Because only he can—and you want only him to.
A lifetime of prudent rearing, unravelled in seconds. You've left the door open
—and a wolf wandered in.
Simon's body draws tight as his hips stutter, settling finally for just badgering the head of himself against your womb as he floods it with his seed. You thrash in his hold, bucking like an ill-tempered mare, at once running and grinding back on him in your own throes. You shake in his hold like a needle clinging to a pine, simpering out your afterglow into the humid heat of his neck. You're both left panting and sticky, the air in the forge suddenly suffocating.
You try to pry yourself from his arms, to sip cool air instead of the steam between you, but Simon grips you fast. "Can't spill a drop, little bird. You're going to sit here until it takes."
You whine, but settle, nuzzling at the strong cut of his jaw in a sated, satisfied way that makes his chest puff up.
You're very good, listening at last. Sitting there with Simon licking the soot and sweat off your skin until, eventually, he grows hard again, still inside you. So Simon flips you over so you're tucked beneath him and he can finally know what your muscles feel like straining below his, and know how you sound begging him to go slow, please. And he does—take his time, this go. Drives into you slow and hard until drool and tears slip down the side of your face, and you're begging him instead to fill you again.
You pay with a froth-spit kiss, and take your own price with eight red scratches up the curve of his back.
Simon wraps your cloak around your shoulders for you, fastening the cotton tight together up to your chin, and tells you to move quickly and silently when you return to your rooms. He tells you he will burn your shift, but you leave without ensuring it. Instead, Simon folds the tatters carefully and holds the linen to his nose as he closes his eyes—inhaling steady mouthfuls, looking forward to a dreamless sleep. Ragweed pollen, and sunwarmed skin, and the chimney tar he knows he crushed into you like powdered marigold.
He'll keep the shift.
Rage brews in his stomach at the thought of your lord returning, of him putting his spider hands on you, rubbing smooth palms over your growing belly and demanding the world proclaim what a splendid job he did. Simon tamps down the violence clawing at his throat—saves it for later, storing it in the cold cellar of his fists.
Yes, he'll keep the shift.
How else will Simon prove to the little lord that you're not his anymore?
