Currently a blog to stow my COD fanfics and 141 smutty goodness. But I'm open to other fandoms. I go where the writing feeds a need [for me]. Minors DNI.
Phillip Graves loves to watch you touch yourself. Better than any fuckin' movie or concert or show or whatever the fuck he's seen before. Horny bastard pops a cold one, leans back in his chair, and gets comfortable, smugness and arousal emanating off him in droves. Eye contact steady, he gives you the green light in that drawl of his.
And when you're done, and the aftershock of your orgasm leaves you shivering and whimpering, Graves takes a final swig of his beer. Like a predator that's found its prey, he stalks over, and you see the outline of his dick straining against the fabric of his pants. He hovers over you, smirking something darker, primal, and that drawl is deeper, more pronounced.
"Open up, baby."
Tentatively, you open your still trembling thighs wider, and Graves deliberately ambles his way down and makes himself at home between your legs. He tastes some of the finest southern cuisine on the fuckin' planet. You gasp brokenly.
... so that dunkin reader and dr shen right... the ones who accidentally share drinks.... what if they got really into spit kink without even realizing it...
you run into each other on a night off in some fun little bar your friends dragged you to. its busy, but its not a club; the music is low enough that you can easily listen to him talk.
"What are we drinking?" he jokes, gesturing to your cocktail.
"Chambord spritz." You hold the drink up for him, straws caught between two fingers
"I don't even know what that is." but Shen is already leaning down, taking the straw between his lips. When he drinks, they brush against your knuckles. "Strawberry?"
"Black raspberry," you say.
"Really? Let me try again." He takes another drink and this time his lips are pressed against your fingers purposefully.
"Don't drink it all!" The liquid is drained to the ice.
"Relax," Shen says. "You can have half of mine."
His drink doesn't have a straw, so he has to hold it up and tip it into your mouth. You get a good mouthful before he pulls it back. lipstick sticks to the glass.
"This is why people think we're fucking," you murmur.
"Yeah," his eyes flicker down to your lips as he runs his tongue over the lipstick stain. "It is."
Oh, you're way too many drinks in now. Dr. Shen -God, you're blanking on his first name right now and it's killing you- has his hand on your lower back, pulling you in much too close for coworkers. Every now and again, he runs his knuckles up to your open back as a casual touch and tease, always trailing back down to the same spot on your hips.
"The drink?" It's more crowded now; he has to lean in to hear you. His breath smells like Chambord. The two of you stopped ordering separate drinks three glasses ago, now just sipping from the same damn cup. "It's good."
"No," you shake your head. "You like that people think we're fucking."
"Oh. Well, yeah." He's not bothered in the slightest. He takes around sip of the drink, then turns the straw your way and you obediently drink. You're both trashed: his body is flushed red, from ears the chest, and his eyes are glazed over and wet. "Duh."
"Why?"
"Why do you think?" His forehead bonks against yours and you're 100% sure it was by mistake. "People think I'm fucking a hot nurse. What's not to like?"
Your mouth moves much faster than your brain. "You could just fuck me?'
His forehead hits yours again and, for some odd reason, it makes your pussy unreasonably wet.
"What? I can't hear you."
It's a chance to take it back, but you can't seem to shut up, not when your body is so needy-
"We could--" you stammer this time. "We could actually fuck."
Again, he leans closer, a grin creeping over his face. "What?"
"You should fuck-"
His mouth finds yours midsentence, catching you open mouthed and vocal. It's spitty and wet and fueled more with desperation than skill, but in a way that has you wet in the knees. You mean weak in your panties. Or--
Your brain is giving up on you. All you can do is kiss him back, hand clutching at his jaw, the other tugging at his shirt. You suck on his tongue like you're a teenager alone of the first time, not a grown woman in a bar-
And then there's voices around you.
There's multiple iterations of "She's too drunk!" and "She can't go home with you!"
Your dear, lovely friends, are pulling you away with nervous laughter. It takes you a second to realize what they're doing.
"No, it's okay, he's my Doctor!" you try to explain, but they're having none of it.
"It's okay-" he slurs. "I'm too drunk-"
The night gets blurry from there.
The next day, at work, you're incredibly hungover.
Judging from his face, Dr. Shen is too. The both of you spend the shift absolutely running (your only break was when you threw up in the women's bathroom because you smelled alcohol on a patient's breath). You try and avoid having him in the room with you, but there's a few overlaps where neither of you can meet each other's eyes.
Shen doesn't even acknowledge you until you're both walking out.
"It's weird now, isn't it?" he says out right.
"Yeah." You scuff your sneaker against the concrete ramp. "Can you imagine if we actually fucked?"
"Oh," he pops his lips. "I did."
You turn separate ways: him to his car, you towards the bus stop.
"What was that?"
"I did imagine fucking you."
"I can't hear you."
His eyes go wide when he realizes you're teasing him. Shen glances around, checking for coworkers or eavesdroppers, then turns back to you, tongue running over his canine.
"I've imagined fucking you into the mattress," he says with his full chest. "Every shift. For months."
cw/tags: 18+ (eventually). food truck owner simon x reader, eventual sexual content. cis-female reader. unedited.
part 1
Cheapest food truck around. Stuck haphazardly in the middle of a dirty industrial park, tucked between HVAC and roofing buildings. Shit signage — hand-scribbled nonsense that you have to squint at to decipher.
All it — he — serves are burgers and fries ("chips").
His line's long, but you watch him whittle it down with sharp teeth, big fast hands, and a loud barking voice. Thank god, it's so fucking hot out, standing out in the scalding sun with no relief of clouds is your worst idea in awhile. Rumour has it, if you don't answer his first call to grab your order, he gives it to the next customer in line and tells you to fuck off. If you're busy on your phone while trying to order, he shunts you to the back of the line.
You had flipped open the app to check his reviews while you stood in line behind a bunch of workers from the nearby businesses.
buddy needs an attitude check. good food though.
told me to fuck off then gave me the best burger i've ever had. will be back!
absolutely horrible service!!! he's lucky he only charges $5 or else he'd be OUT OF BUSINESS!!
You think there's no way a man like him cares about reviews in the first place. You internally practice your order — literally just 'burger with cheese and extra pickles with fries, please' — as you get closer. Tap at your phone nervously, watching how his looming body fills the order window. He leans over the window frame to hear properly, tilts his right ear down to the customer; his left ear doesn't seem to work as well. When he leans like that, his big tattooed arms press against the counter behind. He bites on his lower lip in concentration when he's listening, eyebrows drawn down tight. He can somehow ignore everyone else around him to focus just on the single person ahead of him at a time.
The two workers in front of you are next up to order and yapping about a job when a third, then fourth buddy call over to them, then melt themselves into the line like they were there all along. You were already on a tight lunch, adding two more orders ahead of yours is going to eat up your time.
It's petty, but you sigh loudly and pointedly.
One of them turns around, uses his height to look down at you disgustedly, and says, "Fuckin' relax."
"Excuse me?" You scoff, heat itching across your face and chest instantly. You glance behind you, but everyone's either glancing down into their phones or chatting with buddies.
"You fuckin' heard me."
"Oi." The voice is like a sudden clap of thunder over your house in the night, startling your whole body awake in a single crack. Your head snaps up, eyes wide, to see the man's arms punched fist-down on the countertop like a silverback, dark flat eyes fixed on the men ahead of you. "Get the fuck outta here."
"C'mon, man," one of them pleads. "S'just a joke."
You have only ever seen the look on the man's face on television before. A predator baring its teeth, dead-still like a stone dropped flat into a stagnant pond. A shudder runs through you as you stare at the men, who're all squawking complaints and fussing like babies.
He whistles so sharply, you press your hands to your ears and wince.
"Don't make me come out there."
You start to drift away, the heat washing over you too intensely to withstand. You don't want to order or be here. You just want to slink back to your car, drive to work around the corner, and grab something from the vending machine to tide you over until the day's done. You're not cut out for confrontation like this, a soft thing that can't take the heat.
"You. C'mere."
Everyone left in line is staring at you, open-mouthed. You want to disappear into the steam of today's heat, evaporate until you're a puff of something that melts away without notice.
His eyes on you. You couldn't possibly prepare yourself for it. Worse than the sun. He chucks his chin to the side, his eyes sliding slowly to tell you to walk around back. You move with shaky, locked-up knees, avoiding everyone's stares, head down. It feels like being sent to the principal's office. Shame and hot frying nerves soak your skin as you slink around the side of the fixed truck, eyes frantically assessing the environment. Dumpster. Broken-down boxes. The typical detritus, you imagine.
And a short set of stairs leading up to the back of the food truck, a door hanging wide open.
"All out f' the day. Fuck off til tomorrow." You hear the man bark, then there's a loud metallic shuttling sound, and when you glance behind you, the tail-end of the line are all throwing their hands up or groaning in frustration, starting to walk off.
Then, the man appears in the doorway and you suddenly think of Leatherface in the Texas Chainsaw Massacre: the bulk of him, the dirty apron knotted at his thick waist, his stomach fat plumped over it, and the eyes that don't move when they land on you.
You hesitate at the bottom of the steps, looking up at him.
"Up y'get." Like a child attempting stairs for the first time.
There's no railing to trail a hand over. You knot your hands on the cross-body bag strap in front of you, wringing it as you step up one by one. The heat is foggy in here, thick and weighty.
"They givin' you trouble?" He walks over to the far end of the truck interior where you can see fryer baskets and crooked stacks of take-out containers. No order notes at all. Must be all in that big head. It's so much darker in here with the order window shuttered closed.
"No…why'd you close up?"
There's a shrug across his hefty, rounded shoulders. His white t-shirt is filthy, the collar ringed with yellowed sweat stains, dried and fresh, long scoops of sweat darkening from his armpits to where his pecs must rest, a unique pattern set-in. The lack of light doesn't give you much of his face, but it's scarred and heavyset, a strong set of mouth and brows.
"How d'ya take it?"
"Pardon?"
"Pardon," he smirks down at the fryer, his body moving smoothly through the motions of pressing a fresh meat patty on the flat-top griddle. The meat steams up toward his serious face.
Why are you here?
"Just…whatever is fine."
You try to find the smallest corner you can occupy in here, unobtrusive. You don't know if he wants you to watch him, but you do anyway. His large arms, full sleeve tattoos curling up into his t-shirt, working diligently on flipping and pressing the patty. A little stack of onions on top, cooked together for a few seconds to melt them together a bit. Bun slathered with whatever he uses here. Melted cheese on top of the meat, over the fried onion. A dribble of liquid down the side of the bun as he delicately places each topping on top. Wrapped into burger paper. Fries pulled from the basket, shaken, salted and something else. Scooped hot and stiff into a take-out container.
He uses a steel-toed boot to pull out a stool that's pushed under the corner counter. Tips his chin up at you. "Sit. Eat."
You tell him your name as you stumble onto the tall, tippy stool, pulling your wide-legged dress pants up. He just grunts in response. "Simon."
Okayyy.
He turns his back and starts to put the little compact kitchen to rights, clanging around. With nothing left to do but eat your burger and fries, you dig in. Tentatively at first, self-conscious sitting here as some strange guest that somehow earned scary food truck guy's full attention and his preferential treatment. Sweat slides down from your neck to spine to ass under your thin office top. You take small bites until the relief of a good lunch melts over your taste buds. It's everything a burger should be: crispy, crunchy, melty, packed with flavour. Nothing fancy or stupid ingredients complicating it. You sigh a little, then jam a few of the hot fries in with a bite of meat. They're spiced with something you can't quite name, and when he finally looks back at you, there's a determinedly puzzled look on your face.
"Summat wrong." Should be a question mark at the end of his words, but no.
"No!" You realize you're hunched like crazy over your container, back molded in a c-shape, and spring back up. "It's so good. I was just wondering what you used on the fries, that's all."
A coarse grunt. Dishes slipped into hot soapy water.
"Turmeric." He mangles the word. "Lawry's." Better.
You savour a fry, trying to parse those out. "State secrets, eh."
"Not tellin' you everythin'. Nosy."
A laugh of surprise huffs out of you. "Oh, I wasn't ask—"
"Just fuckin' with you, bird." He might as well reach out an arm and shake the stool beneath you for how off-centre you makes you.
You let out a puff of nervous laughter. None of the reviews said he pulled me into his food truck and force fed me, so you were shit out of luck on what to do. How to act.
"Cute watchin' you eat all prim." He leans against a stainless steel countertop, some damp raggedy dishcloth folded into the fat of his crossed arms. "Makes me wonder what else you do proper."
Your mouth falls open, a round of tart pickle plopping squarely on your lap. Before you can gather up wits and senses not fizzled out by the heat in the truck and Simon's presence, he advances on you, pulling the shadows of the space with him. His huge arms prop up on either side of the corner counters, triangulating you right inside. Up close, you can see the beaded sweat at his hairline. Behind his ears. Where it's tracked down inside the t-shirt. You wonder what his armpits look like; if the hair there is pressed with moisture and a morning application of antiperspirant. His fingers strum on the stainless steel calmly. Deciding what to do.
Stupidly, you stare up into his eyes. Stupidly, you think of telling him that his eyes look like onions that have been caramelized on a stove for hours.
"You like my food?" Leaning on the muscles of his arms, playing with you, coming down a little to your height.
"Y-yeah," you laugh.
"Like watching you eat it."
The pickle round is soaking through the thigh of your pants. You're going to go back to work smelling like pickle juice and grease and fries. You shift on the stool anxiously.
"Gonna give me a kiss me then?" An old stitch near his lip pulls the corner of his mouth, but it widens further with a smirk. Dark tea-brown eyes flashing.
Your world shrunk down to a claustrophobic corner of a sweating food truck, wedged in by a man three times your size, feeling like you've just surfaced from a pool only to find yourself still underwater. "What?"
Closer, he smells like cigarettes. Coffee. Sweat has your top and pants plastered to your entire backside. It's breaking out on your upper lip. Your breath has shallowed out to thin short pants.
"I'll let you. For bein' so sweet an' cute."
Let you? Let you kiss him?! His audacity won't strike you until much later, unfortunately. Oxygen is low. Heat is swamping.
"Oh."
"C'mon then."
He lowers himself, arms still propped up and out on either side of you, until he's flush with your face. Lets you snap your mouth closed and hover forward on the stool precariously until your lips have pressed firmly over his.
"S'nice. Were I still in Year 6." You pull back and his eyes are nearly electric, how alive he looks, mouth tugged up.
In grade 6, you were a compulsive liar at your new school, desperate to make friends. You bragged that your dad was famous because he travelled all the time for work at a pop company and that was why you had to live with your cousins. You were bug-eyed and scrawny with a huge gap between your teeth. You certainly weren't being kissed like this, or at all. Simon seems like the kid who understood what all the bases meant and showed the other kids porno mags in the forest. Those boys frightened you.
Still do.
Suddenly, he cranks up to his full height. Arms down to his side. Boots wedging the stool in place, big pillar-like thighs covered by a nasty apron pressing into your kneecaps.
You are going to be late back to work.
His hands surprise you by drawing up your neck, setting loose a big shiver that you can't hide, and cupping you there. Large hands, damp with soapy water or grease or something else altogether. His thumbs make little circles on your jawline as he manipulates your face to tilt up toward him, and you realize then, with crystalline and unnerving certainty, you have never been kissed properly before this moment.
His fingertips curl around the tops of your ears, bumping over the flatbacks of your piercings, rounding out the cartilage and bone under his mapping.
Kisses that made you smile, kisses that melted into foreplay or sex, goodbye kisses with no eye contact. Lots in between.
But a kiss that demands nothing else of you except your eyes on the other person, watching them begin to dismantle you.
CW: BDSM, Sexual Content, hucow kink, speech restriction, themed lingerie, lactation kink, lactation, breeding kink, dirty talk, pre-nut insanity (Bambi and Simon this time), dubcon elements
Notes: A sequel to Best in Show, and I'm very proud of it. There are elements of under-negotiated kink (surprises!), but if you've read Transferrable Skills and Best in Show, you know these two have very established communication. That being said, feel free to assume they have not negotiated enough, if that tickles your fancy.
The idea to surprise Simon pops up during a research assignment at work. The Lactation Consultants of Great Britain need data compiled and arranged from the NHS, and you find out a lot about lactation by talking to Dalia, your contact on their team. She’s is really passionate about her work. “Free the Nipple” flyers in her cubicle passionate. She’s also so organized that your meeting objectives are met early, every time, so you get to talking. Before you know it, she’s answering questions you didn’t even know you had about the experience of breastfeeding and inducing lactation.
“Anyone with breast tissue can do it,” she says with a shrug. Her coffee mug is covered in pairs of watercolor boobs. “Well, they can at least try. Hospitals are always in need of donated supply, and honestly… it makes damn good ice cream.”
Armed with the information she gives you, surprising your man becomes the new project. It’s ridiculously easy to get the medication and supplements. You make up a whole story about an adoption, a family member who is worried she won’t produce enough milk to for the new baby, the whole nine yards, but no one asks. The doctor writes the prescription, the pharmacist fills it, and you pick up some extra fenugreek from the health food store.
The breast pump isn’t much harder. The new mother forums are full of reviews, and it’s easy to find a pretty good one, used, for a decent price. The woman is even kind enough to walk you through the cleaning and sterilization process, showing you how to separate the parts and areas where moisture might want to linger. You take notes on your phone. Your thoroughness is taken for worry, and you find yourself with the contact info for her lactation consultant.
“She’s really nice,” Mary tells you, with a reassuring hand on your arm. “No matter what your jitters are, she’ll listen.”
It’s such a caring thing to say that you can’t help but give her a hug. You’re so misty eyed about it when you get home that Simon notices.
“Alright, love?”
“Yeah,” you tell him, shoving the pump, still wrapped in one of your reusable bags, to the back of the bottom kitchen cabinets. “Just… thinking about a conversation I had today. The woman was really nice.” You stand up to grin at him. “What’s for dinner?”
For all that he’s an elite soldier, Simon doesn’t dig around in the corners of the house unless you ask him to. He does notice the changes to your birth control and the supplements you’re taking, but doesn’t fuss when you assure him that things are fine.
And then he gets sent on a mission for four months.
You almost scream when you get the news that Simon is finally coming back home. Once he’s cleared by medical, he’ll be on leave for at least two weeks. Which means you’ve somehow timed everything out perfectly. Six months of planning and timers and patience, and now you get to surprise your man with his deepest fantasy. And thank goodness. According to the forums, the fullness you’re feeling in your breasts means the stars have aligned just right for you to hide the pump and let Simon stimulate you to actual production over the course of the weekend.
But first, you meet him at the pub with the rest of the team. It’s the usual post-mission ritual, and even Kate is there, so you’re glad to show face. As soon as they see you, Soap and Gaz jostle to be the first to show off new scars and flirt shamelessly, but you only have eyes for Simon. The captain and Kate give you quick one armed hugs, but don’t stop you from falling into his arms as soon as you can. You’re both smiling so hard that it’s hard to kiss him properly. Maybe another time, you would feel bad about taking his attention, being so clingy and distracting. But Gaz and Soap’s girlfriend shows up, and Price, his wife and Kate entertain everyone with stories and friendly jabs and good natured laughter. You’re free to cuddle up as much as you like.
Simon’s lips press against your temple through his surgical mask. “Missed you, sweet’eart. We c’n go whenever you’re ready.”
“Acknowledged,” you murmur back, tipping your face up to kiss his chin. “Half an hour, then we can say bye.”
“Gonna eat your pussy until you scream,” he whispers back, and you shiver at the promise in his eyes.
But you know better than to get too excited. “Let’s get home first.”
You’re fighting giggles by the time you get him through the door to your apartment. Simon’s eyes and feet have only gotten heavier the closer you got to home. The hand on your shoulder might be the only thing keeping him upright. He kisses you on the threshold like it's the only thing he could ever want, and then yawns so hard his jaw cracks.
"Wanna eat y'r cunt," he mumbles. His eyes are starting to unfocus, eyelids so heavy it almost makes you yawn. For all his bluster at the pub, he’s docile as a lamb when you lead him to the bedroom.
"Tomorrow," you promise, with a kiss to his eyebrow. His hands squeeze at your hips, and you can't help but grin. "Got a surprise for you."
He’s slow as you help strip him down to his shorts. "Mmmyeah? G've it."
"Tomorrow, Simon," you giggle, tipping him into bed. Everything creaks under him as he crumples down, well and truly exhausted. He always sleeps hard, that first night, no matter what his heart wants.
The next morning, you're up before him. You’ve already called out of work, so you aren’t in a rush, but you’re too excited to stay in bed. Grumbles follow you when you leave the room, but they’re quickly followed by more snoring. Simon'll be out for at least a couple more hours, you think, so you double-double check that everything is in order. All of his favorite foods are waiting, including the short ribs and macaroni that are ready to be thrown into the oven for quick heating. Every room has a tube of lube and at least one towel half hidden for easy access and cleanup. The various parts of your costume are hidden well enough that Simon probably won't find them, as long as he doesn't wake up with Ghost Paranoia and tear through the whole apartment. Hopefully, that’s not the case; at that point, the surprise is well and truly off the table.
Two hours later, the semll of cinnamon rolls in the oven coaxes him to emerge, a bleary eyed bear that takes a little longer than usual to drink his tea. He reels you in for a kiss, when you set his omelet on the table, and he’s so warm and solid and here. It’s so good that you keep kissing him for long moments, then jump and laugh when your oven timer goes off.
“Simon,” you ask, grinning to yourself as you set the rolls on the stovetop. “Do you mind hopping over to the pharmacy?”
“Need somthin’ from the shops? C’n go farther if you need.”
“No, no,” you answer, turning back to him. He’s so handsome that you have to bite your lip and look away to not get distracted. “Actually, can you just… grab some condoms?”
Simon blinks, brow furrowing, then nods to himslf. “’Lright. C’n get stocked back up. Lube, too?”
“Yes, please,” you hum. “Sorry, I thought I got everything.”
“Y’re perfect, Love. ‘Ll finish up ‘ere ‘n ‘ead out.”
“Thank you. You’re the best.”
You should have known that finishing up would include lifting you onto the kitchen counter and burying his face between your thighs. He might need a little longer for his own body to catch up to being home, but somehow, you had almost forgotten that Simon eats pussy for the love of the game. You barely have time to brace yourself before your thighs are over his shoulders and your hands are in his hair.
Two almost perfunctory orgasms later, and he pulls away from you with a kiss and a promise in his eyes. The ridiculous man doesn’t even clean off his face before putting on a black surgical mask. As soon as the door closes (and your legs stop shaking), you duck into one of the kitchen drawers and pull out a cow print headband. It’s sturdier than the one you bought the last time you played farm games. Even so, you take a couple of minutes to braid your hair around them to make sure they’ll stay in place. You take quick selfie to confirm that they’re just right. And that reminds you to put your darkest lip stain on your top lip while you still have time. Once that’s set, you’ll take a few more photos before Simon gets back. It might be the last time you look relatively decent all weekend.
Simon notices as soon as he comes home, of course. He freezes in the threshold, narrows his eyes, and closes the door behind himself.
“Teasin’ me?” he rumbles, crowding you against the wall.
The way he’s suddenly over and surrounding you, caging you in with his arms steals your breath. The flex of his bicep when he leans in is almost enough to distract you from the game.
Almost.
“I’m not teasing you,” you can’t help but tug at his jacket pocket and sway closer. “I was just standing here.”
“Oh yeah? Just standin’?”
“Yeah, I was, until you came over here to bother me.”
“Oh, am I botherin’ you? Expected me to stay away when you got your ears on?”
“Huh? What could you possibly mean?” You don’t bother to bite back the smile when he narrows his eyes at you. “I’m not wearing my ears and horns. They’re in the bedroom.”
“What’s this then?”
It’s so funny to exaggerate surprise when he tugs on one of your cow ears. “Oh my goodness! Those shouldn’t be there, yet!”
Simon’s head tilts, and you can see the gears turning as he tries to figure out what your angle is. “Yet?”
“It was supposed to be a surprise.” You roll your eyes and sigh, “I didn’t think it would take effect so fast.”
You try to wiggle away from him and gasp when he catches your chin in his hand. He’s amused, crows feet wrinkled as he smiles down at you. One of his eyebrows goes up.
“Bambi.”
“Yes, sir?”
The corner of his mouth twitches up. “What’re you up to?”
“Nothing off limits.”
“’S’at right?” He huffs a laugh. “Seem’s y’re tryin’ something. But alright.” He stands to his full height and crosses his arms. “Tell me. What’s takin’ effect so fast?”
God, you’re grinning too hard to even pretend to be coy as Simon huffs that “heh heh heh” that means he’s genuinely tickled. You duck under his arm and practically skip to one of the kitchen cabinets. The little plastic bottle of gummy candies that you painstakingly designed a label for is right in front. When he wraps his arms around you from behind, you show him the simple cartoon cow.
“Ditzy Farms: Happy Heifer Supplements.” He laughs against the base of one of your horns. “An’ where’d you find these?”
“Right in the supplements aisle,” you laugh. “Apparently they’re new to the public. Lab and farm tested, and perfectly safe. To a degree.” You pop open the top and eat a couple of orange and pink swirled disks.
“They’re not actually multivitamins, right?”
“Just gummy bears I melted down,” you confess. Then you tip back to look at him with a smirk. “Packed full of the latest in hucow pharmaceutical technology. And as long as we do this right, most of the effects are totally reversible.”
“’F Course,” he agrees, wrapping his hand around yours. “That mean you’re gonna lose your cute little ears?”
“As long as you don’t come in me until 12 hours after I’ve taken the last of these. Or drink my milk.”
It’s probably a trick of the light, but you could swear you see Simon’s eyes dilate. The hand on your hip tightens, but all he says is, “Tha’s why you asked for condoms, then?”
“Mmhmm. Once this dose I just took kicks in, I’ll be super fertile, so we have to be extra careful.” You hold eye contact to reinforce how serious you are. Nevermind the fact that he had a vasectomy long before you met and your tubes are solidly tied. “I’m really, really serious about this Simon. No surprise babies.”
“No surprise babies,” he chuckles. “Acknowledged.”
He meets you when you stand on your tiptoes for a kiss, and fire burns between you from the moment your lips touch. He groans when you turn more fully in his arms. With a grunt, he lifts you until your legs are around his waist, then carries you out of the kitchen. You’re not really sure where he’s going, and it’s hard to care. It’s easy to get lost in kisses when Simon is back from a long deployment.
At least… it usually is. The new pressure in your breasts is a distraction that unexpectedly splits your attention. You’re so sensitive, where you’re pressed against him. The softness of your sleep shirt rubs against your nipples in a way that has you panting into his mouth in record time.
Simon tips you onto your back on the couch and doesn’t stop kissing you. Your clothes are gone so quickly that your head spins, and you can’t help the noise you make when one of his hands pinches at your nipple. Then he’s tearing into the condoms, and you can’t even be annoyed that the box is definitely not closing again. The corner of the foil goes between his lips, then one hand goes between your thighs as the other seeks out the lube.
You’re wetter than you thought, and Simon is so hard it almost looks painful when he shoves his boxers down his thighs. Your both groaning in short order as he gets you ready, one, two, three fingers knuckle deep almost too soon. Then he’s pulling back to roll on the condom and stroke more lube over himself.
You try to say something along the lines of “towel” or “mess,” but you honestly forget what you’re talking about as soon as he pushes against and then into you. The slow, thick glide of it makes you grab at his shoulders, and he’s right there to swallow your breathless moan. The pace he sets is fast and deep and steady, just the way you both like for a first round. It won’t last long - it never does, even with a condom. But you don’t want it to. You want to be overwhelmed with him in you, on you, filling all of your senses. He’s knocking the breath from your lungs and rumbling like an engine, holding himself just far enough away to brush against your chest with every shove of his hips. You’re almost dizzy with how good it is, and you’re on the cusp of an orgasm when Simon suddenly shoves deep with a groan. The base of his cock pulses, and you whine. The knowledge that he’s coming so hard, that he would be right up against your cervix if not for a thin barrier of latex makes it hard to catch your breath.
Lost in the fantasy of the risk of it, you gasp. “Oh, oh. Oh god. Oh, fuck. I wish we didn’t have the condom, fuck, Simon. Simon!”
“Don’t tempt me,” he growls. His hips slam forward, startling another yelp from you as he groans. Then he’s reaching down, between you, rubbing his thumb over your clit just right. “Just told me the rules, Bambi, fuck. Can’t go bare or you’ll get all round and milky, won’t you?”
You’re hurtled into your orgasm so fast you can’t even take a breath to respond.
You’re both still for a long moment, panting into each other’s mouths. When you look at him, Simon’s eyes are dark and warm and full of energy. He chuckles when you whimper, then pulls out to take care of the condom. And then he immediately puts on the next one. You can’t help but whine when he pushes back into you.
The pace he sets is more drawn out, slower, and has your mind melting out of your ears. His touch is achingly gentle, but the way he kisses and squeezes your breasts and sucks on your nipples makes you clench down on him involuntarily. He surges up to kiss the moans from your lips, lifting your leg to settle even deeper into you while his other hand keeps rubbing you, just soft enough to bring your attention back to your breast.
“Y’re perfect, y’know that?” He emphasizes his words with a rough thrust that has your nails biting into his shoulders. He grins into your cheekbone. There’s a confusion of movement, and he manhandles you until he’s sitting back on the couch, grinning up at you in his lap. “Gorgeous fuckin’ girl.”
He doesn’t let you out of his grasp for what feels like hours. You ride him for longer than you thought you’d be able to, and then he’s bouncing you on his cock like you barely weigh anything, biting at your chest with hungry growls until you both come. You don’t resist when he coaxes you up onto your knees so he can remove the condom, but the crinkle of another foil wrapper makes you try to see around your body to his hands.
“Simon?”
“Shhh, easy, pretty girl. Settle.” He rumbles a pleased note as he pulls you back down onto his cock, petting your hips. “Jus’ so, tha’s my girl. Just need to be filled up if I can’t breed you, isn’t that right? What’s my pretty cow say?”
Oh, you might be in trouble. You sag into his chest with a breathless, “Moo, sir.”
“Tha’s my girl.”
You almost don’t have energy for a costume change after all of that, but the show must go on. Simon looks downright predatory when you emerge from the bedroom in your cowprint bralette and garter set. He almost inhales his sport drink laughing when he sees the little cow tail you’ve attached to the back. In short order, you’re bent over the back of the couch while he admires it, then pulls it out of the way to kiss you where you’re tender. He laughs again when you yelp and dance out of his grip.
Dinner is barely in the oven before he’s back on you, unsatisfied with a bare taste of you. There’s nothing hurried, this time, about the way he works his tongue and fingers into you. He’s indulgent, leisurely, as he eats you out, and no amount of pleading or squirming can make him rush. He only stands once you’ve come on his tongue, and then he’s railing you from behind. But only after dutifully putting on another condom.
You knew the barrier would drive you crazy, but you had no idea how erotic it would feel. You’re hyper aware of the latex between you. He won’t forget, you know, will remain collected and in control even as you unravel. But a part of you wants him to push that boundary, so bad, wants to play with the fantasy that he would cross the line, forget or refuse, and make you his pretty little breeding cow.
You’re so caught up in your head that Simon’s hand around your neck startles a groan from you. His arm squeezes your breast, pressure that sends a tingling zip of sensation from your nipple to your pussy and back up. The feedback loop of it throws you into an orgasm that hurts so soon after the last one.
“Tha’s it,” Simon rumbles, and you grip his arm with both hands as he seats himself deep. “So good, Bambi, so wet, fuck. Dream of this when I’m gone, you know that? Spend all my downtime ‘alf ‘ard, thinkin’ of this pussy, of my pretty girl waitin’ back ‘ome to take my cock. An’ I come ‘ome an’ you’re makin’ y’self even needier, huh? Takin pills to make yourself all soft ‘n breedable?”
“Simon!”
“Mm, love when you say my name,” he growls. “But that’s not what my pretty cow says, huh?”
His hands leave your body, and all you can do is hang your head and brace your arms on the counter. You grind back against him, and don’t realize that your eyes are closed until something touches your lips. Your jaw drops open before you can think, and he presses two sweet gummies into your mouth. Then he’s squeezing your cheeks with one hand, and pinching your nipple with the other until you squeal.
“C’mon, pretty girl,” he growls, letting go of your jaw to slap your ass. The next thrust has you up on your toes, a guttural moan torn from your throat. “Oh, there you are. Wanna hear my good girl moo for me. That’s why you started this, right? Want to turn that beautiful brain off and let me make you feel good? Let me take care of my pretty cow?”
His words flow down your spine and you moan after you swallow. “Oh, oh.”
“That’s it, that’s my sweet girl. Almost there, huh?” He fucks you faster, and you know he’s chasing his own peak. “By tomorrow, you’re gonna be right where I want you, huh? No more words, just my sweet girl letting me do whatever I like to her.”
“Yeah, yeah, oh, Simon,” you whimper. And then, breathless, “Oh, moo. Moo.”
Simon groans behind you, thrusts once, twice more, and comes.
Both of you are exhausted, after that. You eat dinner in a haze, too tired to even realize you forgot to steam the broccoli. Your consolation is that Simon looks half way to sleep as soon as he’s cleared his plate. You tag team cleanup - packing away food and cleaning the minimum requisite number of dishes before you let yourselves collapse on the couch again.
He pulls you into his lap to kiss your temple. “Thank you for the surprise, sweet’eart. Was real nice.”
“I’m glad,” you whisper, kissing the edge of his jaw, then settling into him with a sigh. “But that wasn’t the surprise. Well… not all of it.”
“Mm, you do got more for tomorrow, eh? Thought I might be talkin’ out of turn.”
“Mm-mm,” you disagree, before a yawn interrupts whatever you were going to say next.
“Wore you out today,” Simon agrees, around his own yawn. “What’s your number, Bambi?”
There’s really not much pain to catalog, but you’re definitely sore from so much sex after months without. “Three… point two five. Probably have to be done with penetration for the night.”
“Hips?”
“Not too bad. I’ve been doing my exercises.”
“Good girl.”
You’re both quiet for a long time after that. Just as you’re about to suggest that you could watch a movie, Simon starts snoring.
Simon is a big fan of the cowprint thigh highs and black, platform hoof boots that you reveal the next morning. You also gave yourself spots, but he’s got you sweating them off within minutes of seeing you. The horns almost fall off of your head as he plows you into the mattress. If you’re honest with yourself, you moo at least once on accident.
“Si-Simon! Please,” you whine, when he flips you onto your back and presses inside again. He pinches one of your nipples, a there-and-gone sharp sensation that makes you clench down on him. “Inside, please, moo, please, pleasepleaseplease.”
“You know I can’t,” he teases, putting a hand on your lower belly using his thumb to play with your clit. “Pretty girl, we gotta be careful. No accidental babies, right? You made me promise.”
By lunch, you’re barely holding it together. Your nerves are so alight with overstimulation and hunger for him that the fork shakes as you bring leftovers to your lips. Somehow, Simon has the audacity to look refreshed, pleased and amused when you keep shifting in your seat. He has to keep reminding you to eat and drink, and interrupts you from speaking anything but low vowel sounds.
“Only one dose left, hm?” The flex of his wrists when he twists open the bottle makes you feel more than a little crazy. “Lookin’ forward to seein’ what the final transformation does.”
He presses the gummies past your lips and hums when you lick his fingers afterwards. And then he stands and takes your empty plate to wash up. You can see a red line where you couldn’t resist scratching his back last night. You’re halfway from your seat and ready to jump on him, but your breasts almost hurt with how full they are. You want to beg him to touch you, but you’re genuinely in need of a breather.
“Simon, I need five minutes for a purple break.”
“Acknowledged,” he says, looking at you over his shoulder. “’Lright?”
“Yeah, just… need to cool down a bit, I think.”
“Drink some water ‘n lie down. 10 minutes. Acknowledge.”
“Acknowledged,” you concede, circling the table to kiss his shoulder. “I’ll see you in just a bit.”
His hum of agreement follows you out of the kitchen as you shuffle along to the bedroom. Simon’s already made sure your water bottle is refilled, so you take a few deep pulls. Lying down feels good, after that. It’s second nature to pull one of Simon’s pillows into your arms, but the soreness of your breasts and the way his scent makes you squeeze your thighs together mean you have to push it away again in short order. Even though you know you need a break, you want Simon again. Cliche as it is, you feel empty without him. And with the condoms, it’s even worse than it normally is. Clean up is undeniably quicker and easier, but… you miss the sensation of him coming inside.
You kick your feet and whine, because purple breaks are for doing things like that. Lying on your front hurts, and when you lie on your back, you want to touch yourself. So you flop onto one side, and then the other, and then your front again. You circle the whole bed that way, it feels like, before coming to rest on Simon’s side of the bed. And then you see one of the boxes of condoms on his bedside table. When you shuffle closer to peek, there are only two left. Two more isn’t so bad… but there’s at least one more box of twelve. And they’re so high quality. A part of you wishes he would have bought cheaper ones. He’s so fastidious about proper condom use that these high quality ones would never break-
Before you can stop to think about it, you reach into his drawer for one of his smaller utility knives. And then you poke a neat hole in the center of both condoms before putting everything back how it was. When you roll onto your back on the bed, you raise shocked eyebrows at yourself.
You’ve lost your mind.
The timer on your bedside table dings, so you make yourself go into the bathroom to freshen up. The feverish and bright-eyed woman in the mirror startles you. Your hair and horns and cow ears are holding up well, but the remnants of your makeup are basically gone. The bralette is fraying a bit, and your breasts are spilling out of the top even more than you realized. It’s just this side of obscene. The sight of yourself, along with the sheer weight of your chest, makes you feel wild. Or… well… domesticated. Feral.
Simon is leaning against the opposite wall when you emerge into the hall. His arms are crossed, and he cocks his head in a way that makes you freeze in place. Something in his eyes is almost predatory, just a bare edge of darkness that has you waiting to see what he will do. But when he smiles, you can’t help but relax, even as you curl into the door frame a bit.
He chuckles. “Suddenly shy, pretty girl?”
“Um.” Your tongue sticks to the top of your mouth when he stands to his full height over you. “Mm… moo?”
“S’at so? Interestin’,” he cocks his head. “What’s y’r color, Naya?”
The use of your name is startling, makes you pause to really assess yourself. “Green?”
“You askin’ me?”
He takes a step closer, and you not-so-suddenly remember that he’s bigger and stronger and faster than you. Your heart leaps into your throat, even as your whole body goes hot with arousal. “G-green.”
His hand is firm when he catches you under your chin, and his other hand grips your hip when you stumble in your boots. As you gasp, he chuckles, crowding you until you brace your hands against his chest.
“Such a pretty girl you are,” he rumbles. He uses the his grip on you to waggle your head back and forth. “And so trusting. Changed your whole body for a little fun, didn’t you? Cute little horns ‘n hooves, pretty tail. Like servin’ y’self up on platter for me.”
“Si-!” His hand goes tight on your jaw, and the alarm bells that were jingling ever so quietly in the back of your mind start crashing like cymbals. Your heart kicks into overdrive as you grab his wrist.
“Didn’t even notice I’d doubled up your last dose, just opened your mouth for it. How long until all you c’n do is moo, hm? My pretty girl, already so soft and sweet. Not a care in the world ‘cept getting bred and milked, exactly the way I like her.” He presses a hard kiss to your lips, then chuckles. “You even gonna notice if I’m not usin’ a condom this time?”
The part of your brain that knows this is a game crashes into the part of you that realizes he’s talking about about permanently changing you without your consent. A nervous giggle bursts from your mouth as you wiggle in his grasp. Here you were, clumsily orchestrating an accident, while your Dom, an officer, a tactician, was plotting to take advantage of you. No matter what you had planned, he’d already decided how this was going to end.
“W-wait, no, oh - moo,” you whimper, as he pulls you into the hall and back toward the bedroom. He keeps you off balance, the sturdy boots in the way of the zig-zagging steps he makes you take. When you get to the bedroom, the under-bed restraints are out, cuffs open and waiting, one at either end of the bed. The high side of your wedge pillow is aligned with the edge of the mattress and the spreader bar is on the floor. Everything he needs, ready to keep you bent over the side of the bed for as long as he wants.
When did he even have time to get all of this set up? You manage to get a tiny amount of space between you as you’re backed into the room. His hand remains solid around your neck, no change in pressure, even when you try to push him away and look for a non-existent escape route. He takes up the whole doorway, and regardless of if you could shake him off and try to dive back into the bathroom, he would have you in hand in barely a second.
And then you remember that your breasts hurt. The plan had been to ride Simon on the couch and have him suck your nipples. Then you would have finally felt relief **from the pressure while taking him completely by surprise. You can’t just lay over the pillow if your milk is about to come in; you didn’t do all of this work just to waste the big reveal on a wet spot!
If your renewed struggle does anything other than amuse him, he doesn’t show it. When you try to push him away, again, he easily brushes your hands off and arches you slightly backwards by your neck. Your center of gravity shifts so suddenly, you have to clutch at his arm to keep from falling. And then you almost jump out of your skin when he uses the opportunity to pinch one of your nipples and pull. He chuckles over your gasping, pulls your bra down under your breasts, and then does it again, again, again.
“Can’t wait f’your milk to come in.”
Your breast tingles, almost stings, and you can feel the change as your areola swells. A wave of endorphins flows from your temples down, and your legs tremble like you’re coming off of a massage table. You trip on your tongue, “wait” and “stop” and “Simon” and “moo” all tangled together in a moan.
The sensation is so strange. Like nothing you’ve ever felt, and just like every mommy forum said it would be, like something being drawn from you in a way that makes your whole body thrum. **You’re so caught up in it that you don’t notice Simon freezing in place, barely register the cool sensation of a drop rolling down your skin. Both of you are unmoving for a long moment, and then you’re arched even further, he’s guiding you down to the floor with one hand under your back. The one on your jaw goes tight, and he forces you to meet his eyes.
“Bambi.” As soon as your shoulders touch carpet, his fingers are pinching your nipple again. When you moan, he makes a sound like you’ve punched him. “Fuck, Bambi. What’re you-? How did you -?” He cuts himself off to growl a kiss into your mouth. You almost forget to give him a breathless moo as he holds your face in place.
Simon forces your legs apart so he can kneel between them, and puts both hands on your breasts. He pulls away to watch as he squeezes again, face frozen in something like hunger. The feeling of milk being expressed is a revelation, something you’re not sure you’ll ever get used to. You look down to see it, and the way it beads from your nipples makes you moan again.
“Fuck, fuck, Bambi, I ‘ave to, fuck.” Your panties and garter tear under his hands, and then he’s shoving his sweats down. The head of his cock is almost purple with how hard he is. He laughs breathlessly as he notches it at your entrance. “You really should’ve thought twice about this. Even if I wasn’t plannin’ on breedin’ you up, you think I would’ve resisted after this? I wouldn’t’ve been able to stop from comin’ in you, as many times as it takes.”
It’s devastating, when he pushes inside. You arch into the stretch, the feeling of his cock with nothing between you as he starts a quick, rough rhythm. One of Simon’s arms goes under you, and then his lips are on one of your nipples. When he sucks, the fuzzy sting of it zips right down to your pussy. Simon groans, again, when you clench down.
“Gonna keep you forever,” he growls, switching to latch onto the other breast. “Beg me f’r it.”
“M-muh,” you whine.
He grabs you again, by the face this time, and sits up to stare into your eyes even as he keeps shoving into you. “Beg me to breed you up, tell me y’re mine. Tell me y’re mine, Bambi.”
“Yours, Simon, I’m yours,” you babble, clawing at his shoulder, his hip. “Keep me - keep me as your pretty cow, moo, breed me, please please, moo, please, breed me, I’ll be good-!”
“Fuck, you’re so good, my pretty girl,” he pants into your mouth, and his hands are back on your breasts, squeezing until you can feel more milk spilling. “Gonna breed you up, come inside you until it takes.”
He keeps saying that, until it takes, and as he bends to take your breast in his mouth again, you almost wish it would. That that he really could change your body, change you, make you into nothing but a pleasure dumb creature that craves his touch. It’s hard to catch your breath, it’s so good. You wish you could feel like this all the time, overwhelmed and blissful, the center of Simon’s attention and hunger. In that other world, he wouldn’t give you a choice, wouldn’t let you escape.
The orgasm slams into you all at once. It hurts, after so many in the last two days. Your abs, your thighs, your nerves are nothing but lightning as you claw at his shoulders and sob.
You’re still shaking with it when he suddenly pulls away from you. His weight, his mouth, his cock, gone in a moment. It’s so disorienting that tears spring to your eyes, but before you have time to flail, he’s flipping you onto your belly and then lifting you with one arm under your neck and the other under your hips, sudden and awkward. You flail with your arms, for a heartbeat, and then you’re dropped, your chest hitting the wedge pillow with a breathless gasp.
Propping yourself up on shaking arms takes long enough that he’s bound your legs apart by the the time you manage it. “S-Simon?”
He shushes you as he pulls one of your arms into place and locks the cuff around it. “Gotta do it right, don’t I?” He uses one hand to tilt your face back, over your shoulder, and his eyes are so dark that you shiver as he binds your other hand in place. When you’re secure, he pinches your nipple. You flinch away, but there’s nowhere for you to go. “There you are, pretty girl. Better’n the floor, yeah? Feel good?”
What can you even say? You drop your chin with a whimper. “Moo.”
“Fuck.”
He’s inside of you again, fast and rough, and his hands are the only thing that keep you upright. You almost can’t breathe. Every thrust knocks the air from you, and you can barely catch a breath before he’s coaxing milk from your breasts again with dizzying tugs. It’s a shock when he hooks two fingers in your mouth, unexpectedly sweet, and you can’t help but bite down when his other hand goes between your thighs.
“Shh, shh, shh, settle, Bambi, there’s my pretty girl,” he rasps in your ear as you keen and flail against the restraints. “Don’t gotta fight it. All you gotta do is come f’me, yeah? All you ever gotta do f’me, now, I c’n take care of the rest.”
His fingers on your clit are too much, too soon, but no matter how you much you struggle, you can’t close your legs. He knows you’re overstimulated, he has to, he has to, but he’s still rough with you, rubbing fast circles until you’re sobbing and drooling around his fingers, thighs shaking with another climax around his cock.
“Atta girl,” he rumbles against your shoulder, and you barely hear him over the ringing in your ears. He grunts and pants as he hikes your hips up again to meet his thrusts. “Fuck, gonna make me come inside, pretty girl. Gonna keep you ‘ere, just like this, until you pass out, hm? Then ‘m gonna take you somewhere no one’ll interrupt us, fuck, c’n just breed you ‘n drink your milk ‘n watch you swell with my babies, as many as you want, Bambi, ‘ll give you whatever you want.”
He’s wheezing by the end, and so are you, your whole body one, long, sharp nerve that sings with waves of tension that leave you blind. Simon stops thrusting, his fingers go still, and you can feel his heart thundering as his cock flexes inside of you. Somehow, that makes everything crash again, makes your cunt flutter, shakes your bones loose as the world goes white.
You flutter your eyes back open, coming back to yourself with a whine. You’re on your back on the bed, now, legs wrapped around Simon’s hips. He’s inside of you again, and when your eyes can finally focus, he’s staring down at you. You reach for him, but your hands are bound to the headboard.
“Th’fuck’ve y’done t’me?” he growls against your cheek. His hips stutter into yours, and you can hear how wet the two of you are, even over your weak moans. “’M supposed to take care of you, be gentle with my sweet girl, huh? But every time I come I just want to fuck you again an’ again. Fuck, it almost ‘urts, Bambi.”
Your lips can’t wrap all the way around his name. “S-Si-Si-”
“Gimme your color,” he pants, and his voice is desperate. “Tell me to stop, now, Bambi, love, tell me, or ‘m gonna-”
“-reen.” The word is past your lips almost before you can think. “Green, please, I can- I’ll be good, please, let me touch you, please.”
He does something just outside of your awareness, and then your still-linked hands are over his head, he’s in your arms, exactly where you want him. When he kisses you, his mouth and chin are wet, sweet. His chest slides against yours, and you whimper as he groans and shakes and comes inside of you again.
It’s dark out by the time the two of you wince your way back to the living room. Your favorite blanket is almost too soft once you’re bundled up and slumped into the arm of the couch, but you’re too tired to look for something more comfortable. You can’t even lift the mug of pleasantly hot tea that feels impossibly heavy for your still shaking arms.
Beside you, Simon looks worn out. He’s not so much reclined back into the cushions as sagging. His hand trembles as he lifts his own tea to his lips, and then he tips his head back to stare at the ceiling. With great effort, he slings his arm over the back of the couch behind you. You flop into him with a labored sigh of your own, and you barely avoid putting your ear into his armpit.
“So,” you rasp. “Debrief?”
He huffs what could generously be called a chuckle. “Fuckin’ ‘ell.”
“Yeah.” You have to use both hands to sip your tea.
The silence after that is comfortable, easy.
Extended.
You almost fall asleep, you’re both quiet for so long. But then Simon shifts in his seat, and when you tip your head back to look at him, he’s looking back. Whatever he sees - your lovesick expression, or maybe the wreck of your braids - puts a soft smile on his face. He’s so handsome that you can’t help but smile back.
A wave of love makes you want to purr. “Hi.”
“Mm. Hi.” His arm comes down around your shoulders. “Gimme your number.”
Everything hurts like you went too hard at the gym, if the gym also worked out your pussy. “Four point two. Achy. You?”
“Three-five,” he says with a shrug. Then he shifts his hips. “Balls ‘urt, though. Solid four.”
“Then I’ve done my job,” you joke around a yawn.
“Didn’t scare you too bad?” he checks. “Saw you poke holes in the condoms, figured you wanted somethin’ a little more… forceful.”
You giggle and cover your face with one hand. “Oh my god, you saw that? I felt crazy.”
“Came to see if you wanted a snack.” He huffs a laugh. “Wanted more’n that, apparently. Never thought you’d try to baby trap me.” You can’t help but laugh with him at the ridiculousness. When you’re both settled again, he hums, then asks, “…’ow’d you do that, anyway? The milk, I mean. ‘S a prosthetic?”
“What?” You’d never even considered something like that. “How the hell would I put milk In a prosthetic without you knowing?”
“I dunno,” he chuckles, voice warm and tired. “Got real convincin’ makeup ‘n things these days. Skin safe adhesives ‘n such. Shape of your breasts’s different, figured you’d talked to one’f your furry friends.”
“My breasts are a different shape because I’m lactating,” you chuckle. “Got a prescription, got a breast pump. Six months later, here we are.”
Simon goes still. “Naya. You said those were just gummies.”
“Oh my god!” You almost spit your tea. “No! Those were just gummies.”
You can see him working through the confusion and exhaustion. “But… the milk is real? You’re… it’s real.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re… lactating.”
“Uh-huh.”
“But… wait.” He sits up, suddenly, eyes wild. “Naya. Are you pregnant?”
“NO!” You don’t scream laughing, but it’s a near thing. “Oh my god, no. Neither of us can have kids, remember? I just… induced lactation. You know. Just milk, no baby.”
“Thank fuck,” he groans, slumping back into the couch. He swipes a hand down his face. “Okay. So when are you done?”
“Done? Lactating?” You shrug. “As long as I keep pumping and expressing, I can go as long as I want, I think. It took months to get here, so I want to go at least a few months. I’m gonna try making some ice cream or something.”
“Ice cream?” He perks up, then scrunches his eyebrows. “You’re… months?”
“We can talk more about it tomorrow, when we’re both more awake,” you tell him with a yawn. “Plenty of time. Did you like your surprise?”
He pulls you back into his space and kissees the top of your head. “Almost gave me ‘n ‘eart attack.”
“A sexy heart attack, though.”
“Yeah,” he chuckles, with another kiss to your hair. “Was perfect, Love. Thank you.”
CW: BDSM, Sexual Content, kink negotiations, hucow kink, speech restriction, themed lingerie, lactation kink, breeding kink, dirty talk, so much dirty talk, pre-nut insanity (one of my favorite flavors of Simon), fantasies of dub-con (no actual dub-con), post-nut laughter
Notes: This was supposed to be a short addition to the Kinktober prompts, but obviously I am bad at keeping things short. Also, the working title for this was "Moo Moo Moo."
Simon is hiding something. Maybe that’s the wrong way to look at it. There’s something he’s not saying, not making obvious. It itches at the back of your mind.
It starts with looking at your own nude body in the mirror after a shower. You’ve been going to the gym, just a little bit. Weight training and cardio to keep up with all of the sex you’ve been having since moving in with Simon. You haven’t really lost any weight. In fact, your hips are wider, with no real change in the pouch of your belly.
Simon makes an interested noise when he walks into the bedroom. “Guess we should ‘old off on supper, eh?”
“No, no, I want to try that recipe I found,” you say, ignoring his discontented noise as you pull on underwear. The pleased noise he makes when you tug on his shirt is predictable, just like the kiss he presses to your cheek. “I was just… looking at myself. Kind of surprised that I’ve got more hip. Still got the belly, though.”
Simon surprises you by saying, “Tit’s’re bigger, too.”
“Are they?” You bunch the shirt in the back, and take yourself in. “Huh.”
“More pectoral muscle,” he says with a shrug. “More breast.”
“That’s not how that works,” you scoff, shoving him playfully before leaving the bedroom. “Besides, I heard your tis are the first to go when you lose weight.”
“Then I hope you don’t lose weight,” Simon answers, following you into the kitchen for a kiss. “I like all’o you.”
He spends extra time worshiping your thick parts, that night. Kisses you and kisses you and kisses you while rubbing your belly and groping at your hips, stroking and pinching at your breasts, your thighs, your love handles, your arm fat. He’s ravenous as he eats you out. The two of you are loud as he takes you apart. You fall asleep completely drained and covered in sore spots.
It doesn’t occur to you that you’ve been missing anything for a while after that. In fact, nothing seems off until he catches you masturbating a couple of months later. One moment, you’re alone at home, in bed, and the next he’s climbing in next to you with a groan and a sigh of relief.
“Whatcha wachin’?” he asks over your surprised yelp. “Tha’s not y’r usual boyfriend.”
“What do you know about my usual porn,” you laugh as you pass him your earbuds to place on the side table. You roll to kiss him as you admit, “It’s not really exciting, I was mostly done.”
“What counts as exciting?”
“I dunno,” you shrug, cuddling up. He smells so good. “You know my usuals, why don’t you tell me?”
Simon chuckles into your hair. “Big dicks ‘n ‘elplessness. Bonus points for dubious consent.”
“…Well… You’re not wrong.”
“I know what my girl likes.”
“Okay,” you giggle. “Well, what’s exciting for you?”
If you didn’t know him, you would have missed the split second pause before his answer. As it is you barely catch the way his hand twitches against the curve of your ass.
But he says, “You know what I like. A beautiful woman asking for what she wants.”
“And getting it until she cries,” you purr, rolling on top of him.
“Lies and slander,” he deadpans, grinding his hips up into yours. “I’d never enjoy seeing you with those pretty tears in your eyes, beggin’ me t’ keep goin’ and t’ stop at the same time.”
Of course, you both prove him wrong in short order. After, he holds you while you tremble, pressing kisses to the crown of your head. He laughs, just a little, when you can’t sit up enough to get your water on your own, but he also helps you, so that’s okay.
The next day, you realize that you actually don’t know what porn Simon finds exciting. He’s shared some with you, of course, on the nights where sex was too much work until it suddenly wasn’t. Every now and again, though, he would scroll past something with a dismissive noise. It wouldn’t be noteworthy, except… well, they’re all videos he’s saved in his favorites. So he likes them, but doesn’t necessarily want to share them with you. Which is fine. Heaven knows you’re deleting your porn history regularly. Whatever you look up when you’re ovulating is between you, Bowser, and God.
But the last straw for your curiosity comes when you borrow his phone to do some quick online shopping. A friend is having a themed pool party and wants everyone in shades of blue. You’ve been on a pink and purple kick, so you don’t actually have an appropriate bathing suit. So you pull up the search engine and look up bathing suits.
And there, in the search history: ‘Cow Print Bikini’.
Your research brain goes, “Jackpot.”
There’s no way to tell what, if anything, Simon looked at in the search results. But you’re good at knowing where to look. More importantly, you know your man. And after a full 24 hours of research, you have a pretty good idea of the shape of things.
-
“Hey Simon,” you call, a week later.
“In the den,” he answers.
“Can you… actually, I’ll be right there!”
When you get there, he’s playing one of his video games. He turns his head to kiss you, then curses under his breath when a pink slime eats the fruit he’d been trying to harvest. It’s such a sweet, domestic moment that you almost don’t want to interrupt.
“Do you have space for a kink discussion?” You settle onto the couch next to him, and pull your legs up under yourself. “Nothing bad. Just… maybe some negotiations. You can keep playing.”
He taps the controller against one of his palms, twice, then says, “Sure.”
You take a deep breath, then ask, “Have you ever heard of hucows?”
The pause menu comes up immediately, but Simon doesn’t look at you. In fact, he’s so still that you’re sure he’s stopped breathing. When he doesn’t say or do anything for a full ten seconds, you look up at him.
His face is blank, and he looks back at you from the corner of his eye.
“I’m going to take that as a yes,” you whisper.
He blinks, then shakes himself back into his skin. He looks back at the television, but doesn’t resume the game. “Why do you ask?”
“I’ve been doing some research,” you answer. “And I thought you might find it… interesting.” When he looks at you again without saying anything, you confess. “And there were cow print bikinis in your search history.”
All of the air leaves Simon in a whoosh. He leans back into the couch and scrubs a hand over his face. “’M sorry. I don’t… I wouldn’t ever… You know I love you. ‘N that I respect you. I’d never-”
“Woah, woah, wait!” You grab one of his hands in yours. “Hang on. You love me, I love you. I trust you. Do you trust me?”
Simon doesn’t answer for a long moment, and then he says, without taking his hand from his face, “I trust you to be ‘onest with me. Trust you’ll accept a no. Trust you’re not g’nna yell. Trust you not to punish me if you’re upset.”
“Acknowledged,” you breathe against his bicep. “I trust you to be honest with me, too. And I trust that it’s okay to tell you if I’m not comfortable with anything we discuss or do. I trust that you won’t yell at me. I trust that you’re not going to hurt or harm me on purpose to correct my behavior. Acknowledge.”
Simon sighs, again, then peeks through his fingers at you. “Acknowledged.”
“Okay,” you say, coaxing him to release some of the tension in his shoulders. “So. I did a little research. But I just want to know for sure what you think, what you find exciting.”
He’s pink when he asks, “Y’ve seen the videos?”
“No!”
That finally makes him look at you skeptically. “No?”
“I wasn’t snooping through your stuff,” you protest. “I literally searched for a bikini on your phone and it had the little history symbol next to it. I got curious.”
“Hell of a distance between a bathing suit an’ niche kinks.”
The hint of humor in his voice gives you the permission you were waiting for. You climb into his lap and throw your legs over one of his arms. He hugs you exactly the way you want, just as loving as ever.
“So then,” he eventually says. “What did you find?”
“So much bad porn, oh my god,” you answer. “Not that the actual hucow stuff itself is bad. It’s just that the non-paywalled stuff is steeped in so much spam. And what isn’t pure spam doesn’t really seem like your kind of thing. Just… lots of humiliation and degradation and misogyny kink. Stuff you’ve already said takes you out of the mood. And if that’s sometimes the mood, that’s fine, too. I know we don’t always masturbate to things we’re usually into-”
“It’s not that,” Simon interrupts.
You’re both quiet after. You realize that his heart is racing under your hand, and your heart is beating just as fast. But he keeps holding you, and you keep petting over the dip of his collarbones.
Your stomach churns. “I shouldn’t have said the porn was bad. I’m sorry.”
“It is bad,” Simon snorts. “’S part of why I never mentioned it. Some of that shit is nasty.”
“I like nasty.”
He hums and rubs a hand over your back. “I know, beautiful. But this feels… bad. Some ‘f it… ’S ‘ard to find the words. But I didn’t want you t’ think I see you that way, that I ever want to see you that way.”
“Porn isn’t real life,” you remind him. “Things that happen in a scene that everyone consented to-”
“Yeah, yeah.” He rolls his eyes as you glare up at him. “Let’s not pretend that kink has no basis in reality. Our dynamic is special to me, Naya. I don’t want to… disrespect it, or you, or us, with this.”
“Okay,” you whisper, tucking your face into his neck. You take one of his hands back into yours. “We don’t have to keep talking about it, if you don’t want to. But,” you can’t help but add with a smile. “I did get cow print lingerie. And a headband. It’s got little ears and horns.”
Simon groans. “No, you didn’t.”
“I did!” You press a kiss to his chin. “I’m glad I didn’t try to surprise you with it.”
“Would’a given me an ‘eart attack.”
“That would have been fun to explain. ‘Oh gee, Captain, I didn’t think he’d like it that much.’”
“Oi,” Simon growls.
He dips down to press his lips to yours. You don’t hesitate to wrap your arms around his shoulders and shift to straddle his lap. The kiss is sweet, a reassurance. Like aftercare. Maybe it is. Both of your bodies relax, until you can’t even hold yourself up to keep your lips on his. You lay your head on his shoulder with a content sigh.
You’re like that for a long time before Simon speaks again.
“Its the idea that her body… your body… could be nothing but pleasure and instinct. That I could pull pleasure from you until it would be pain not to.” He’s quiet for a moment, then continues when you don’t reply. “There’s something about it. But it’s a fantasy I never intended to bring to the bedroom. It’s… just something to think about, sometimes.”
Simon presents the cow print bikini on a Thursday. At first, you’re confused. Then you’re amused, because a year ago you would have worked yourself into a tizzy trying to figure out what he was saying about your weight. But Simon loves your body, and you, and after months of avoiding talking about it, this is a huge step. So you stay silent, and look up at him expectantly.
“Would like to do a scene this weekend,” he says. “Acknowledge.”
“Acknowledged,” you answer, biting back a smile. “What are the parameters?”
Things seem downright vanilla for the first half. A whole day of pampering - spa, nails, hair - that means he’s been planning this for a while. Your favorite, just fancy enough food for dinner, and a dessert to go. All the usual rules apply: Simon’s in charge, you promise to be honest. All in all, a perfect date night.
And then he says something that boggles your mind.
“Okay, wait. I put on the cow print, and then I can only moo? After we get home?”
“No,” he surprises you by saying. He takes a deep breath, then continues. “I want you to wear it all day. An’ you’re only allowed to moo. Except durin’ your appointments. Please don’t moo at your stylists.”
“But at dinner…”
“I’ll order for you,” He says. His eyes flick away, then back to yours. “I’ll take care of everything.”
“But we won’t talk,” you press.
His ears go pink, but he cracks a smile as he says, “I’ll talk. And it’s not a rule that you have to be silent.”
He’s embarrassed, you realize. He’s finally acting on this thing you discussed so long ago, but he’s still nervous about what you’ll think. You have to stifle the part of you that wants to coo.
“Okay,” you say, taking his hand and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “Unless I’m using a safeword, I can just… make cow sounds. All day. Acknowledged.”
The day of comes quickly. And then you’’e contemplating the lingerie you bought months ago. It’s much nicer than the flimsy thing Simon got, “just as ‘n experiment, no sense in wastin’ money ‘f things aren’t good as the fantasy.” The bikini he got you is… cheap. Your purchase will certainly fit under your clothes nicer.
As you pull on the silky material Simon apparently didn’t believe you actually ordered, you take a couple of deep breaths. You’re going to wear cow print for your partner. It’s not much different, you reason, from asking him to graze his knife over your skin while he watches TV. It’s not not his thing. And this isn’t exactly your thing. But you love each other. So you’ll do this thing, because his enjoyment can be yours.
Yeah.
-
By the end of dinner, you’re much deeper into a submissive headspace than you ever expected to be. You’re so aware of the urge to talk and the fact that you can’t. It’s a constant cue to look to Simon. More than once, you almost slip up. The words catch in your throat and you have to pivot to a lowing sound, a drawn out vowel that leaves you feeling helpless as he smiles and pets at your hand. You expect it to be maddening, but it’s not. Simon anticipates your needs so well that there’s nothing you need that he doesn’t already provide for you. All you can do is shiver at the way he gives you everything, touches you everywhere.
By the time you’re in the car home, you’re a mess. You can’t sit still, find yourself staring at the side of Simon’s face as he drives. You’re startled when he looks back at you at a red light. He reaches out and you lean in, then jump when he pinches your nipple just hard enough to make you gasp. He watches your face as he pets and plucks, chuckles as you pant and groan and moo.
When the light is green again, he stops. You’re very aware of your right breast.
At the next red, he says, “Give me the other one.”
You do.
“Sweet, pretty girl,” he praises as he tugs at you again. He hums, pleased, as you arch your back. His eyes are dark when he says, “Not wearin’ what I gave you. C’n se y’r nipples beggin’ for attention.
When you look down at yourself, heat flushes through you from your crown to your toes. He’s right, the thin bralette that you’d chosen does nothing to hide you body’s reaction to being teased. And the dress he’d picked for you was already tight around your chest…
The light turns green. You moan as he releases you and turns back to the road.
“What’re you wearin’?” He asks. When you look at him, he’s smirking. “Tell me. Wha’s my pretty girl got under her dress?”
You open your mouth, and your voice sticks. “…Moo?”
“Oh, tha’ sounds nice,” he chuckles. He takes your hand in his. “Lookin’ forward to seein’ it.”
Your thoughts and legs stumble into themselves when you finally walk through your front door. Simon doesn’t let you get far. He catches you around the neck with a big hand and brings you close for a kiss. As soon as the door is shut, his hands make their way to the back of your dress. He unzips and then guides the soft material down until it’s past your hips, and drops down to your feet.
When he pulls away to look at you, his breath catches, and his whole body goes still. You’re so caught in the way his pupils dilate that it takes you a moment to remember the bralette, the panties, the garter belt. The cow print feels like an exaggeration of itself, when you look down at your own breasts. You vaguely remember feeling silly, when you’d put them on, but you don’t remember why. Simon’s eyes are so hot when he looks at you, you can’t help but preen a bit.
“Thought you was jokin,” Simon murmurs, cupping one of your breasts in his hand. His other hand cradles your jaw and makes you look up at him when he pinches your nipple again. His thumb dips into your mouth when you gasp. “But my sweet girl don’t lie to me. An’ she’s always show ready, huh? My sweet, soft girl,” Simon murmurs, going to one knee. He takes one of your hands and kisses your knuckles before placing it on his shoulder. Then he gently lifts your calf to take one of your shoes, then the other as he says, “Not a worry in the world, an’ you still give me so much.”
Even kneeling at your feet, he takes your breath away. His hands smooth up your stockings until he can dip his fingers under the straps of your garters, then he groans. You groan with him. You never know what to do with yourself when he gets like this. Hungry. Reverent on his knees. With a sigh, you close your eyes. You don’t need to know what to do, because he does. The gravity of him makes you sway forward as he leans forward to kiss just above your belly button.
You must signal your mental shift, because Simon stands and lifts you into his arms in the same movement. He kisses your lips like he’s starving. And you try to meet him, try to put everything you haven’t been able to say into the drag of your lips against his.
I love you. Thank you. I love you, I love you, I love you.
You expect him to be rough with you, heavy handed. But Simon is gentle as he touches you all over. When he lays you on the bed, instead of diving into your chest, he keeps kissing your mouth, your neck, down to your shoulder. You can’t stifle a giggle as he sucks kisses into your bicep and down to your forearm.
“Fuck,” he growls. He takes a hold of your hips and gives you a little shake. “You’re so perfect. ‘Ips ‘n thighs ‘n this arse. So strong and still so soft for me.” He dips down to press a kiss to your hip, even as one of his hands starts pinching at your nipple through your bralette again. “Eatin’ good and’ workin’ out ‘n sleepin’ better. Gonna let me give you that life of leisure? No more workin’, pretty girl. Just whatever feels good, whatever makes you ‘appy an’ soft, whatever I c’n give you.”
You try to gasp something that might be “yes” or “please,” but it turns into another drawn out moan. It doesn’t really matter, because Simon flips you onto your hands and knees so fast that your head spins. You almost fall over, but he catches you.
“Sorry sweet girl,” he chuckles. “But you’ve got me so caught up. ‘M gonna take care of you, don’t worry. Just so pretty - distractin’ me.”
Then he’s kissing across your shoulders, then makes his way down to your hipbones. You moan and sigh as his hands grope at you. His hands squeeze at your breasts, then your belly, your thighs, back to your ass. When he bites you, you yelp and groan, arching away from his teeth and into the hands.
“Shh, pretty girl,” he hushes. “’M sorry, I’ll give you what you need. Easy, tha’s it.”
You’re surprised into a gasp by his fingers rubbing gently over your clit through your panties. His other hand eases your back down - from cat to cow, you giggle to yourself - with another shushing sound. The tension bleeds out of your spine at the sound. Simon’s got you, he’s going to take care of you.
“There you go,” Simon rumbles as you drop your head between your arms. He strokes a hand down your back as his other hand gives you just a hint more pressure. “Is that better? Feel nice an’ relaxed?”
You’re feeling less relaxed by the second. Simon knows how to touch you if he wants you to melt. This? Is not that. He’s giving you just enough to tease, to make you instinctively chase his fingers. You shake your head and whimper, shuffling your knees knees further apart and arching your back again. You don’t even try to swallow a grunt of frustration when nothing you do makes him speed up or give you more pleasure.
“Hm?” He presses his lips against your hip as he asks, “Wha’s wrong, pretty girl? You need something?”
You open your mouth to beg, then remember that you can’t say anything. This motherfucker. When you tilt your body to glare at him, his eyes are sparkling with mirth. It’s hard not to smile back, to hold your frown long enough to let him know that you know what he’s doing.
But as usual, he’s a step ahead of you. As soon as you open your mouth to moo sarcastically, he slips a finger under your panties and into you, just as his other hand shoves the bra out of the way to pinch your nipple.
“So wet,” Simon whispers against your cheek. “Took care of everything else today, but you still need more, don’t you? Greedy girl.”
You are wet, have been since before he plucked at your nipples in the car. Since dinner, when he’d explained the cut of his steak, why he liked it. Since he paused and visibly considered what he couldn’t see you wearing. Since he’d looked at you with so much hunger that you’d had to take a sip of your water to gather yourself. You couldn’t say anything, then, by his direction and your own body’s need. You couldn’t make any sound at all, had practically ground your teeth together so you wouldn’t moan like a whore at the table.
Your jaw isn’t clenched now. The sound you make as two thick fingers push in is exactly as obscene as you imagined it would be. They press into you exactly where you want it as his other hand sends sparks through your chest and down your spine. Simon echoes you, breath hot against your face. You can’t keep yourself from chasing his lips with yours.
“Yeah,” he pants between biting kisses. He growls when you rock back into his fingers, and pinches your nipple until you gasp. “Settle, Bambi, ‘m gonna take care o’ you.”
His words melt you. Even as he ratchets your body into more tension, you believe him, and the promise alone is nearly a relief. When he pulls his fingers free, you don’t even think to protest. All you can do is hang your head between your arms and try to catch your breath. Something like a sob scrapes it’s way from your throat when he pushes back in with three.
The sound of Simon undoing his belt makes you tip your hips back and up, automatic. He groans again, deep in his throat, and slaps the meat of your ass. The sharp sting of it reminds you to be almost embarrassed, and you drop to your elbows to bury your face in the bedding.
“There you go,” Simon grunts as he lines himself up. He pushes in slow, so slow, as you pant and writhe and make animal sounds. One of his huge hands comes down to grip the back of your neck as he grunts and shoves deeper. “There’s my sweet girl. Shouldn’t’a kept you waiting. You can take it now, tha’s it.” He leans down, pushing just that little bit deeper as he plucks at your nipple again. He growls against your shoulder, “Gonna do this every day, yeah? Quit your job so I c’n keep you soft like this all the time. Breed you up proper, bet y’re gonna taste so sweet when your milk comes, when it’s all y’ve got to do, just a life of milk ‘n honey.”
You almost can’t make out what he’s saying over the sound of your own noises and the wet sounds of him pushing in and out of you. The fireworks up and down your spine have you writhing back into his thrusts. You can tell he’s rambling, that he’s so lost in your bodies that he’s losing control of his mouth. A change in angle has you crying out again, every nerve on fire as he pushes into you just right. The orgasm that had been building steadily rushes over you. It’s impossible to stop, shakes through your limbs until you collapse onto your chest under him.
“Tha’s it,” Simon hisses, pace steady and devastating as he chases you down to the mattress. “This what you need? Need t’ be bred an’ fucked ‘til you can’t think of nothin’ else? Yeah, tha’s what you need. Gonna make you come on my cock again, fill you up the way you like. Then I’ll hook you up, huh? Can’t leave you wantin’ jus ‘cause I need a break. C’n put a pump at each o’ your tits an’ keep fuckin’ you with a machine, too, ‘til I’m ready to go again, yeah?
Jesus, you think, giggling under him. Your pussy flutters as he gasps something else you can’t quite make out over the rushing in your ears. He wants to ruin you. You want him to, to do all of these things he’s growling about. The thought that he might is thrilling and terrifying, that after he comes and breeds you full he could go to the closet and pull out the machine and the dildo you bought for when he’s deployed to keep fucking you…
Your stomach swoops as you get caught up in your own fantasy. He doesn’t have to stop. You’d be too weak to fight him. And if he tied you up, bound you where he wants to keep you, he could do whatever he wants. Did he actually have a pump, something to pull at your nipples while he watched across the room? Would this be the time he finally surprises you with something you hadn’t quite negotiated? He could, he could, you’d let him, you’d beg-
“Simon!”
The second orgasm hurts. It hits so fast and hard on the heels of the first. You can vaguely feel the wetness running down your thighs as you squirt, legs shaking. Above you, Simon goes abruptly silent as he comes, breath coming out in barely-there grunts as his cock kicks and twitches inside of you.
All of the air huffs out of your lungs as he partially collapses on you. Another giggle stutters out of you. It turns into a moan as he guides your legs down and open so he can grind into you some more until you’re prone. His own gentle chuckle tickles your ear.
“Fuckin’ ell,” he pants. The arm that’s braced to keep his weight off of you shakes a bit. “Gimme… fuck, gimme a minute. ‘Ll get up in a mo’.”
“Mmm,” you hum, kissing at his wrist. You tip your head back to grin up at him. “Moo.”
He crushes you a bit when his laughter makes him fall, but you can’t even pretend to be upset.
You got two sides, not an option
Gotta choose right in
And tonight, I decide it
You're good for switching up on him.
And it's intoxicating, addictive, like a fuckin' drug, and he—Jesus Christ.
You go from looking up at him, eyes watery and pleading, legs trembling and open, pretty moans falling from pretty lips, trying not to yell the house down as he fucks you to pushing him down, mounting him, riding and milking his dick for everything it's worth, refusing to let him cum before you do, your name a prayer on his lips. God, you're so fuckin' beautiful.
He doesn't know how you do it, and he'd be a goddamn liar if he said you didn't have a hold on him.
You have him cornered, back against the wall, caught between that and your soft body pressed against him. You're palming his cock, making it hard, making it strain in his pants, making him bite back a moan.
Fuck.
He runs a thumb over your lower lip; it's not long before you're biting down on it lightly, eyes pleading and yearning, grasp firm and resolute.
he doesnt know if he'll ever get another chance like this, so he takes advantage... mating presses and butter churns, pinning you prone and fucking you so hard your ass is red afterward.... even on the beach he's sneaking sucks at your nipples through your bathing suit...
sense8 au where you're in a cluster with the 141, and after a single harrowing (and handsy) visit, you're desperate to find a way to sever the connection. meanwhile, they're putting their heads together to pinpoint your exact location.
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?
Simon and Kyle coming home from a mission, adrenaline rushing, sloppy quickies and handjobs doing but so much, and they need something... softer. Not as rushed. Something to take the edge off.
Which means you're right where they want you. Ripe for the taking.
Simon and Kyle back home between your pretty thighs, pretty brown needy eyes looking up at you as they make you touch yourself, as you make yourself cum, as they talk you through it.
Simon and Kyle feeling reinvigorated, thirst quenched, and desires sated as their greedy tongues taste you, as they suck on your wet fingers, as they overstimulate you again and again.
a shy man with a big cock who guides it into you with his hand, softly moaning as you squeeze around him. stays inside of you for a moment, unmoving, because he is so grateful to be in you. thanks you and proceeds to fuck you like a feral animal
ghost is 100% the kind of dude to just go to a pub and wordlessly grab someone by either the hair or the back of the neck and use their reaction to gauge if he's taking them home
(his favorites are the ones who pause a moment before putting up a fuss- who melt into being manhandled before they remember that they're not supposed to like that, not when there's witnesses, not when it's in public and people are watching. they're the ones who hiss and spit all the way to the cab but moan like they're in a skin flick the second he's got them back at his, ass-up on his bare mattress on the floor)
you know when men do that thing before eating pussy like they ogle at it as if they're inspecting something. all while getting their lips wet. they tease your clit with a blow of air and smirk when you yelp. a big fat blob of spit lands on your clit and they lustfully gaze as it slides down to your entrance. then their thumb prods inside the hole of your pussy, pushing the blob of spit in as if they're checking how deep can their tongue go. and when you whimper and wiggle your legs in desperation, that's when they yank you closer, lock your thighs under their big biceps and start sucking like a starving man.
yes, it feels fuckin' amazing. no, simon won't let up. yes, simon bears down even more, and yes, simon makes you look him in the eyes the entire time.
don't look away, pretty, and don't you fuckin' dare hold back those moans. he wants you to fuckin' squirt, wants his cunt drenched in your pussy juice. wants you to scream his name, tell everyone what he's doing to ya.
wants ya wet as possible, sweetheart, because as soon as you've cum, he's gonna be tongue deep in your pretty pussy.
baratheonpilled
vaporwave
germansingergirl
kianamaiart
gracieabrams
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
ellievsbear
