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Gaz x Reader - Sculptor
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you could say I was tied up | Gaz x reader | Written by @saintquincy for @massivescissorsthingperson
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the handcuffs were a gag-gift that fell way to the bottom of your nightstand years ago, fuzzy and hot pink. they resurfaced a few days ago after some reorganizing and john, somehow, now finds himself with both wrists locked to the headboard above him.
the cuffs are funny, sure. but there’s really nothing funny about the way he looks right now. broad and bare-chested and already flushed down his throat, the same color blooming across his chest like a sunburn, hair mussed where you dragged your fingers through it getting him settled. the pink fluff sits absurdly against the thick bones of his wrists — you realize he could very easily break them.
“comfy?” you ask.
“bit snug,” he grunts, mouth twitching at the corner. “s’pose you planned that.”
they’re actually on the loosest notch, but, he doesn’t need to know.
you settle astride his thighs and watch the increasing rise of his chest, the swallow that rolls down his throat, the way his stomach tightens under your fingertips. there’s a sheen on him already, sweat beading in his collarbone and at his temples, dampening the edges of his hair. you drag a finger down his sternum, through the coarse hair there, and he pulls against the cuffs, the links rattling against the metal bars.
“ah-ah.” you lift your hand off of him and gently grip his jaw. ”struggling only makes it worse.”
he goes even redder, and you can feel his heart thudding, faster, harder.
“you’re enjoying this a bit too much,” he manages, voice rough, wiggling his jaw loose.
“says the man who’s already hard and i’ve done nothing yet.”
“i wouldn’t call this nothing,” he grumbles.
you lean in until your lips brush his ear, until you can feel the heat radiating off of him, and slide your hand down to palm him through his boxers.
the sound he makes is ruinous; punched out of him, half a growl, humid against your neck.
“love.” a warning strained through clenched teeth, his hips lifting into your hand. “when i get out of these…”
“if you get out of these.” you squeeze him, and his head thumps back against the headboard, breath wet and ragged. “big if, captain.”
he does get out of them. ten minutes later, one sharp pull and a sad little clink of cheap metal, and before you can even laugh you’re face down into the mattress, him bullying his cock into you, talking about the real cuffs he’s got for you in his duffle.
That ‘comment on your a03 work’ email hits like a line of cocaine every time. unmatched dopamine increase. shoutout to everyone who leaves a comment on fics. you deserve the world
fingers wrapped around his cock any time he's not on set, a constant refrain of your breathy,
"nobody fucks me like you"
that drives him mad.
maybe he's been too lenient with you, let you go off script so much that he can't tell what you mean and what you've been coached on. but he doesn't think it matters anymore,
nobody fucks you like he does.
presses you down into the mattress like he does, ruts their fat cock between your wet folds like he does. when he wraps his hand around your jaw, pulls your head up to drool for the camera, it's not because he's the best it's because he won't let anyone else try. you're meant to be his, you just met him at the wrong time for it.
doesn't matter, he supposes, not when you keen and moan, legs shaking and hips swaying at the first touch. you don't want anyone else, do you sweetheart? no. no, he shakes your head for you, shoves his fingers into your mouth to make you slur the words.
"i'm yours," he loves it "i'm yours," he loves you.
so maybe you've been too lenient with him, let him take more than he's owed.
but nobody fucks you like ghost does, and you're too cockdrunk to ask someone else to try.
not sure how small of a detail this really is but i’m still very irked that everyone in the realm (book and show) were so quick to forget that rhaenyra and laenor’s children had baratheon and arryn blood but no the princess must’ve had an affair with harwin who cares that she’s the chosen heir and hotd writers fumbled bringing book aemma and rhaenys to life to even bring enough doubt to the accusations
Experimented a bit with a new way of detailing the tiles. Kinda like it? This particular piece took a hell of a lot of work. I’d love if you shared the vibes it’s giving off, for research purposes 💖
Lately, you’ve been thinking about having a baby.
Or: the fertility clinic au
Part 3
masterlist
You feel like mangled prey the next morning. Nipples sucked raw, crotch a tacky mess of cum and sweat, flakes of it dried between your thighs, throat hoarse from screaming his name. Every inch of you aches when you try to move, the energy sucked out of you like marrow from a bone.
You feel like something torn from every angle, limbs just barely attached to your body. You vaguely recall him waking you up in the middle of the night by rolling you onto your stomach, a big arm hitching your hips up and positioning you just right before thrusting into you without any warning, no time to process waking up, the room around you still pitch black.
When sleep comes though, it comes hard, knocking you out until around mid-morning the next day.
Even then, when the sunlight splinters through your eyelids and rouses you back to life, it takes a considerable effort to even twitch your little finger, threaded through by a deep exhaustion. The bags under your eyes must be a wonder.
Your throat feels like sandpaper when you stick out your tongue to wet your lips, grimacing at the taste of your own morning breath. When you try to lift yourself up, your arm buckles, sending you toppling back down. Second time’s the charm though. There’s a deep ache in your hips and joints that you only feel when you roll out of bed. It’ll likely linger into the rest of the day.
“Where are you off to?” a heavy voice grumbles from the other side of the bed.
“A shower. Then coffee,” you croak, tucking your feet into a pair of slippers before waddling over to the door where you keep a housecoat hanging.
“Put the kettle on f’r me, darling,” John grunts, before turning over and burying his head back into the pillows.
The coffee maker boils and bubbles while you take a quick shower. It’s not what you need, but it’ll do until you’re alone, when you can take an hour long shower and luxuriate under the hot water with no thought to anyone waiting somewhere else in your house.
You sigh and shut the water off.
The breakfast table feels like a scene from a dream.
On the plate in front of you sits a satsuma orange, quartered, and toast with a thick layer of butter nearly spilling over the crust. Another plate sits on the placemat next to yours, piled high with toast, beans, sausage, and two fried eggs, a stark contrast from your plate.
At the sink, the man you let spend the better part of the night rutting between your thighs washes a pan. You stare at the meaty, undulating slabs of his back muscles until you’re nearly hypnotized, only snapping out of it when he shuts the water off, laying the pan down to dry in the dish rack.
“That’s all you’re having?” John asks, gesturing at your plate with his fork.
“For now,” you respond. “I might have something later if I’m still hungry.”
“Of course you’ll be hungry, you’ve hardly got anything on your plate. Here—have one of my eggs.”
He holds his plate over yours and uses his fork to push one of his fried eggs onto your plate. It flops unceremoniously onto your toast.
You decide against snapping at him because it’s too early and you’re far too tired. You slice open the yolk with the side of your fork instead, staring at the yellow spill over the sides of your toast.
There is a moment over breakfast where you begin to wonder whether John will leave at all. He eats his breakfast and drinks his tea with no real sense of urgency, no indication that he believes that he’s overstayed his welcome. You don’t want to come out and say it, but you can feel yourself getting antsy, your leg jittering under the table.
Then finally: “Well, this has been lovely, darling, but I’ve got to get going.”
Euphoria swells in your chest at the announcement, but you force it down, schooling your expression into something understanding. “You sure you don’t want more tea?”
The wry look he gives you lets you know that he can see right through your feigned dismay. “No, darling, I think that was enough for now.”
Shrewd man. Far too shrewd for the likes of you.
You send him off with a kiss on the lips and a look so heated that it nearly singes. And then he’s gone, the door locked behind him and his footsteps growing fainter and fainter until they disappear altogether.
And then, and only then, can you finally exhale.
It’s one of the first weekends in a while where you feel no compulsion to go out or do practically anything. All you want to do is laze about. You make a batch of iced tea and plop yourself in front of the TV, feet tucked under your thighs and phone open in your hand, both screens on at the same time.
It feels so good to do laundry after making a mess of everything. You strip the sheets and throw them into the washing machine the second John’s out the door, your clothes from the night before not far behind. Later, you cobble together lunch from whatever you have in the fridge, and when supper comes around, you order takeaway, barely cracking open the front door wide enough to snatch the bag off the stoop before retreating back inside.
He’s still there though. Every time you get a twinge in your hips or an ache in your belly. Every time you glance towards your bedroom on your way to the kitchen and you see the sheets, all clean and neat now, though you can easily recall what they looked like just a few days ago—a tangled, filthy mess of cum, spit, and sweat.
Unlike your sheets, the stink of John’s presence isn’t easily washed away.
By the time Monday rolls around, you feel normal again. Like you’ve caught your breath after a long sprint. No bout of Sunday scaries this time, not after the weekend you had, but still you come into work with your head on a bit of a swivel, feeling a bit like an emperor in invisible clothes. Waiting, against all odds and rational sense, for someone to read the signs of your weekend on you.
No one does, of course. No one says a word because no one notices a thing. You might have expected that if you weren’t so on edge, but paranoia has a way of twisting the mind. By the time lunch comes around though, and no one has said more than a pleasant word to you, you start to let go of the anxiety. Better late than never.
The latter point doesn’t apply to your period.
Tuesday is better. You pass a flower shop on your way to work and stop to smell the roses for a change, the heavy weight on your shoulders barely a feather in the light of a new day. It’s that time of summer where every colour is at its most saturated, the pinks and greens and golds and oranges so intense and vivid that their colours seem to almost pour out of them.
And then it’s Wednesday.
Wednesday is a croissant, the buttery flakes scattered all over the wax paper that you use as a plate, and an iced coffee. It’s a series of boring meetings at work that barely move the needle. It’s a long, circuitous drive home that ends at least once in a dead end because of all the construction going on downtown. It is, in every sense of the word, a profoundly boring day.
The first thing you do when you get home is collapse on the couch for a solid half hour, shoes just barely kicked off at the door. Supper can wait until later. Your stomach grumbles when you think about it, but you just don’t have the energy to cook, all of it eaten up by the stress of the drive home.
This is how the rest of your life is going to look. With a baby, for sure, but still, just you. Just you to come home from work and cook and clean and do it all. And even though it’s what you’ve been working towards, you’re a little morose thinking about it.
There’s a knock on your door. You lift yourself up to sit, frowning at the door. The bell follows soon after.
You know it’s John before you even check. Call it a sixth sense or intuition, but when the bell rings, your breath catches and your stomach clenches, and you know it’s him on the other side.
He comes bearing gifts at least. A stack of takeaway containers in a brown paper bag. Even just the smell has you salivating. You can almost imagine that you let him in, that you took a step back and waved him inside, interest and appetite piqued by the smell of greasy food.
You didn’t though, a sneaky little voice reminds you. You let the door open just enough to poke your head out and he was there on the other side, taking up every inch of space, as if someone had suddenly built a wall right outside your door. And he was gentlemanly about it, smiled down at you and asked you how you were, but his foot was against the door and then wedged between it and the frame, working it open gently with his leg and shoulder, pushing his way inside. Polite all the while, of course, announcing the meal that he’d come with and dropping a sweet kiss on the top of your head, but he did, in fact, push you aside on his way in.
Your problem is that you can always find a silver lining. Anyone with any common sense would tell you to kick him out tout suite—shove him towards the door, bye bye, so long, thanks for all your help, I’ll let you know if I need you to come back—but you can’t help thinking that, you know, while you have him here, you might as well—
John catches you glancing towards your bedroom door and smiles, amused. “We can get to that later.”
And he does.
Three times in one week. That’s how many times he comes over. He never leaves without at least folding you over the side of the couch and pumping a load into you, only satisfied when he dips thick fingers into a creamy centre and pulls them out wet, your trembling legs letting him know that the job is done.
You don’t complain because what is there to complain about? You have a man at your beck and call—though you haven’t yet had to call him—willing to help you make a baby and not asking for anything in return.
His involvement in your life extends beyond just the bedroom though. You suffer through mid-morning headaches for a week before realizing from the label on the jar that someone must have swapped your instant coffee for the decaf version. John doesn’t deny it when you bring it up.
Prenatal vitamins are the next thing shoved down your throat, albeit not literally. Fresh, organic fruits and vegetables as well. And grateful as you are for him saving you the trip, you can’t help but wonder if he realizes that you don’t need his help. Eventually, you’re going to have to be self-sufficient. You can’t get used to John bringing you dinner or picking up your meds or getting your groceries because eventually it’s going to end.
He doesn’t always stay the night. Sometimes he leaves right after the act or in the wee hours of the morning while you’re half-tucked under the sheets, limbs akimbo. His goodbyes are always a long, drawn out affair, even if it means pulling you from a dead sleep. Always a soft, slow kiss sipped from your lips and a little bit of tongue. One last once-over to make sure you’re okay. Sometimes he even fetches a glass of water to set on your bedside table for the next morning.
A pity you can’t look forward to this for the rest of your life.
A week and a half later, your period arrives right on schedule.
It isn’t a surprise—you warned John as much over dinner—but it does dampen your mood somewhat when you realize this means that you won’t be seeing John
The next time John calls, you tell him as much.
“We should probably reschedule—I’m on my period this week.”
You can hear the raised eyebrow in his voice. “Are you going away as well?”
You frown. “No, I’m not going anywhere. Why?”
“Then why would we reschedule?”
“Oh. Okay.”
Implacable. Unflappable. If you knew more about him, you would’ve expected that from him, but you learn it too late. Instead, you find out about this particular character trait in the shower of all places, your cheek pressed against the wet tile and your hips canted back, John’s cock plunging between your legs, blood dyeing the water around your feet pink and swirling down the drain.
If you’d known that about him, you might never have let things get to this point. But the dice have already been cast; they’re out of your hands now. All you can do is grip the reins in both hands and hold on for dear life.
It’s difficult to imagine what your life will be like after this. You’ve spent so long waiting instead of living. Waiting takes up so much space, so much time. It fills the walls of your mind with its presence, a constant, irksome insistence, making the world you’ve been running towards seem leagues away.
And then there are moments when it seems close enough to touch.
A month passes like a buzzing fly. Here one second and gone the next. You have an alarm on your phone that goes off while you’re scrolling in bed, waiting for John to come over, and you blink when you see a reminder for the first day of your period. You hadn’t even felt it creeping up on you.
You pull your shorts and underwear off right there on your bed, checking the gusset for blood and feeling your heartbeat speed up when you find nothing there. You’re late.
You call and catch him a couple blocks from your place, sounding half-crazy over the phone, but you’re coherent enough for him to double back and grab a box of pregnancy tests. One of the three-pack ones, splurging a little.
The second you let him in, John herds you into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him, flipping the lock at the same time. Your stomach drops out from under you when you hear it click.
“Here. In this,” he says, handing you a small, plastic cup.
“Wait, can’t I just pee on the stick?” you ask, reaching for the box that he yanks away from your grasping fingers.
John shakes his head. “This is a better method. Less chance of you missing or not wetting it enough. We’ll put the stick in when you’re done.”
“John—”
“We can stand here all night talking about it, if you’d rather?” The slight furrow of his brows signals that his patience is wearing thin.
You’ve clearly been giving him too much leeway if he doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with putting you through the indignity of peeing in front of him.
You do it though. Hunched over on the toilet with your pants around your ankles and the cup between your legs, John leaning against the counter and watching you the whole time.You stare down between your spread thighs and into the bowl instead of meeting his eyes, half to ignore him and half to make sure that you don’t miss.
When you’re done, you hand him the cup. Let him handle it while you wipe yourself off and pull your underwear back up.
The wait is excruciating. Three minutes of pins and needles, front teeth chipping away at the nail of your thumb. You wish that John would distract you somehow, but his eyes remain fixed on the pregnancy test, unwavering.
You nearly jump out of your skin when the alarm on his phone buzzes, practically leaping over him to grab the pregnancy test.
Your heart sinks when only one line stretches across the display. You turn the test this way and that, trying to make out even the faintest indication of a second line, but it’s clear what that one line means.
Taking it from your hands, John sets the test down on the counter and wraps his arms around you, cupping his hand around the back of your head as he pulls you into his chest.
“It’s alright, love,” he says in a low, soothing voice. “We’ll keep trying.”
His comfort is an unexpected balm. A firm pressure over a wound aching to open back up.
It’s the first time he sleeps in your bed without making a move on you. You almost have half a mind to bring it up, but you bite your tongue just in time. Why spoil the mood when his arm makes as comfortable a pillow as any one of yours? You like the way his breath tickles the tip of your nose. The way he doesn’t snore but breathes so heavily that he might as well.
You’re glad that it’s him. This would’ve been harder on your own, with no one around to make the heavy moments lighter.
Sure, you would have had your friends to lean on. But you would’ve had them on weekends and at mocktail hours, not in the quiet of your bathroom, staring at a negative pregnancy test in only your underwear.
You’re glad you have John.
Not everyone shares your opinion.
A lawyer friend (not a friend by virtue of being a lawyer, but simply happenstance) goes ashen when you finally break and tell someone about your arrangement with John.
“Did you hit your head or something? Are you out of your mind?”
You wince, sheepish, aware that you deserve the dressing down. “I know.”
“No, you clearly don’t know or you would have come to me about this before having unprotected sex with a stranger in order to get knocked up. Did he even get tested before sleeping with you?”
“Obviously. I’m not that stupid.”
“You actually are that stupid. Did you have him sign anything forfeiting parental rights?”
Your lips form in a perfect circle and she groans, scrubbing a hand down her face.
A day later, she has something for you to give John to sign. It’s long and technical, but you understand the gist of what a voluntary forfeiture of parental rights entails.
It should’ve crossed your mind to seek out legal advice before all of this, but you hadn’t been thinking that far ahead. You’d sort of hoped it would be quick, that he’d spend one singular night with you, and two to four weeks later, you’d be pregnant. You hadn’t expected it to take this long; you certainly hadn’t foreseen John's active and prolonged involvement in the process.
Clearly, you haven’t been thinking straight these past few weeks.
The next time John comes over, you hand it to him, expecting to have his signature by the end of the night. Not anticipating any resistance, and why would you? Your arrangement with him is predicated on this being a temporary affair.
His face gives nothing away as he works through the document. He might as well be reading a circular.
“Very official,” he remarks. You almost feel bad about springing this on him after everything that he’s done for you. He’s been nothing but helpful and dependable since this started.
You feel so bad that you actually apologize. “Sorry. One of my friends is just really paranoid. It’s just a formality.”
John doesn’t respond, flipping over to the next page, eyes still scanning the text.
“You don’t have to sign it right now,” you insist, guilt clawing at your stomach.
“Nonsense,” he says, dismissing your worry. “I know this is important to you. You have to take care of yourself and our baby. That’s what matters most.”
Your stomach flips. Our baby. It doesn’t alleviate the guilt you feel about ambushing him with a legal document when there are groceries on the counter still waiting to be unpacked, another one of his thankless gifts. It just notches the arrow, the bow pulled back to a taut full draw.
“Do you have a pen, love? I didn’t think to bring one with me.” The arrowhead punches right between your ribs.
“No, just take it home. I don’t need it today. Please,” you stress when he tries to argue, trying to take the papers from him. “John, I’m serious.”
He sighs, reluctantly handing you the contract back. “Alright, love, whatever you say.”
There’s a certain relief in getting that off your chest, even if it means putting it on the back burner for a while. It’s not like you have to deal with this now anyway. You aren’t even pregnant yet.
That must occur to John as well because he wastes no time divesting you of your clothes, his passion tonight a slow burn, a little ember cooking you from the inside.
Even he seems to be suffering from it tonight. He touches the head of his cock to your lips and sighs like it’s a shame he can’t come in there. He doesn’t mind wetting it though. Makes it a smoother glide when he gets you down on all fours, the floorboards chafing your elbows and knees with every thrust.
The next morning, you happen to glance down at the coffee table on your way to the kitchen and notice the contract missing. John must have taken it on his way out.
You never do see that little document again after that, and you never think to bring it up.
i will give tiktok one concession and that is that it has spawned a comment that contains a phrase that i think of often at relevant moments: pack it up boys we've made a social blunder
tangentwithtanner
stormborns
germansingergirl
amandla
gracieabrams
areudirty
