A Greek God
lt. derrick “mac” macdonald x fem!reader
word count: 3.5k+
summary: Courtney makes a comment about Mac’s weight and you just have to make sure her words don’t get stuck in his head.
warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, Bullying, Mac’s ex wife is a bitch and makes a comment on his weight, self-esteem issues, smut, oral (male receiving)
notes: I hope you guys like this one. You can blame Wheels for this. Big thanks to @peachyproserpina for editing for me 🥹🫶🏻
You and Mac pulled into the usual spot— it’s the same tired corner of the strip mall parking lot. The one with the flickering light post that was covered in slap tags and broken graffiti. The curb crumbling beside you. The truck’s A/C wheezes in protest as it idles, a faint hum beneath the static of silence in the cab.
Waylon sits in the backseat. He’s quiet, but chewing the end of his hoodie’s drawstring despite the hot summer heat— the nervous energy he never could quite shake when it came to these exchanges. He always tried to play it cool, it was just his mom, but his knee still bounced restlessly and his hands wouldn’t stop moving.
Mac cuts the engine and rests an elbow against the steering wheel, staring straight ahead at the street in front of them. You could see it happening already— the subtle clench of his jaw, the shift in his shoulders. She wasn’t even here yet, and he was bracing for whatever dumbass remark she’d have to make to him today. He was bracing like it was muscle memory, spurred on by dealing with her time and time again for the last twelve years. Like maybe if he tensed in just the right places, the words she spat at him wouldn’t land so heavy in his chest.
“She’s two minutes late,” he mumbles and leans back in his seat.
“She’ll be five,” you say gently, laying your hand on his thigh. You give him a gentle squeeze, trying not to look at him directly. “She’s always five.”
He doesn’t respond to that. He just nods faintly, his eyes still locked on the far end of the parking lot. And right on cue at the five minute mark, her white town and country rounds the corner. She barely slows before swinging into the spot two spaces over. The back of the car dipping with the force of her brake pedal. The engine cuts, but she doesn’t get out. She never does. She waits for Mac to walk him over.
And Waylon lets out a soft sigh as he starts to gather his things, his shoulders are already pulling in on themselves. Mac turns in his seat, an almost sad smile on his face— and he lies a steady hand on his son’s shoulder. “You good?”
Waylon nods and gives you a small wave as he opens the door. “See you Sunday.”
“Bye, sweetheart,” you say softly, your smile softening as he climbs out of the truck.
Courtney sits behind the wheel of her town and country as Mac climbs out. Like a queen surveying her subjects— her sunglasses are on, she’s scrolling her phone one-handed and she reaches up with the other to press a button. The rear door pops open with a mechanical click. Mac exhales slowly, like he could feel the tension in the air thickening just as he gets close. He grabs Waylon’s duffel bag from the backseat and hands it over to him, letting a hand linger on his kid’s shoulder for a moment. “You got everything?” he asks quietly, his voice low, not above a whisper.
“Yeah,” Waylon mumbles and then sighs. “Do I have to—?”
“Just the weekend, bud,” Mac smiles a little. “I’ll see you on Sunday.”
You stay in the truck, watching. The window’s down, it doesn’t offer them much privacy. But you don’t mind. You know how Mac gets around her.
It starts off polite. Too polite.
“Hi,” Courtney huffs, not looking up from her phone. “He needs a haircut.”
“He just got one,” Mac replies, using everything in his power to keep from groaning, so he just rolls his eyes. “Same barber he’s always had.”
She glances up then, barely. Her eyes flick back to Waylon as he starts to walk over to the van, then they land on Mac. “Well, maybe ask them to cut all of it next time. He looks like a sheepdog.”
Mac doesn’t flinch. Just kisses the top of Waylon’s head and turns to grab the duffel from him.
“Did you pack his inhaler this time?” she asks loudly, raising an eyebrow. “Or were you waiting for me to telepathically remind you again?”
“He was fine when he left, Courtney. I sent one a month ago. You should have it.” He sighs as he starts to hand the duffel over.
“Oh, sure,” she scoffs and shakes her head. “He’s always fine right up until he isn’t. Typical.”
She takes the bag without even glancing at it, then adds, like it was an afterthought not a necessity to Waylon’s stay, “Also, his jeans didn’t fit when he came back last weekend. Either you shrank them in that prehistoric dryer of yours or you’re letting him eat like you do.”
That one hits deep in his chest and you see it in real time. The flicker in his eyes, the way his hand pauses on the strap just as the duffel makes its way through the window, and then he lets go of it.
She doesn’t stop there, no, she goes for the fucking jugular. “Actually,” she says sweetly, “I’ve been meaning to ask, Derrick… are you okay? Like, health-wise? Because you’ve really filled out lately.” She raises her brows, her eyes drifting over him and then back up to his eyes. “Like, really. I almost didn’t recognize you last time you dropped him off. Didn’t know being single came with a second chin.”
Mac doesn’t say a word back to her. Just crouches again, gives Waylon one more hug, whispers something only he can hear, and shuts the door once he climbs inside, with the same care you’d use to close a sleeping baby’s bedroom door.
Then he walks back to you— he’s stiff. Like each step was measured deliberately so his heart didn’t shake loose from his chest. He gets into the truck, he doesn’t look at you, just stares out the windshield until Courtney’s van pulls away, like he was willing himself to vanish into the hot haze.
“She’s always been like that,” he says quietly after a moment.
“Mmhmm.”
“I mean, whatever. I’m not… it’s not like I don’t know I’ve put on weight. I’m not blind.”
You reach over and curl your fingers around his tightly. “Did I say a single thing about it?”
“No, I just—” His voice breaks a little. He shakes his head, his eyes still forward. Then he turns the key and starts the engine like it gave him something to do other than think about the little bit of softness accumulating in his middle. One hand is clamped hard to the wheel, the other is still gripping yours like it’s his lifeline. “I don’t care.”
But he did. You knew it. You could feel it.
He was sitting small in the driver’s seat now, hunched in that way he got when he didn’t want to be seen. Like maybe if he held still long enough, his entire 6-foot body could disappear from himself and everyone around him. “Pull over,” you sigh quietly.
He frowns and risks a peek over at you. “What?”
“Pull over. That empty lot behind the hardware store. Now.”
He looks at you, confused— but he listens. He pulls into a spot in the middle of the lot and turns off the trucks. He’s parked behind a pile of busted wooden pallets, and he looks at you like he was waiting for a lecture. Instead, you unbuckle, toss your leg over the center and climb into his lap. It wasn’t graceful, not in the slightest. The console got your hip and the seatbelt clicked against your knee, but his hands fly to your waist like it’s instinct, steadying you. “Jesus— Baby, what are you—”
“I love every inch of you,” you say quietly. Framing his face with both hands as you whisper, just loud enough for him. “Every inch.”
His eyes are getting wet, but you don’t stop. “I love your body, Mac. I love the way you feel. I love that you’re strong and solid and warm, and that I get to fall asleep on your chest like it was made for me.”
He tries to look away. But you hold him tight, not letting him in the slightest. This was something he had to hear. “I love that you’re not punishing yourself anymore to look like you did at twenty-two. I love that you’ve lived. That you eat real meals with me now. That you’re present. That your body shows the life you’ve built, not the war you fought.”
His throat works like he wants to speak— but he doesn’t trust his voice.
“She doesn’t get to do that,” you whisper to him, your thumb brushing over his cheekbone. “She doesn’t get to dig into your skin and make you feel small again just because she feels sorry for herself. She fucked up. You’re mine now. All of you.” You kiss the edge of his mouth, then his jaw. “And for the record— you’re like… stupid good in bed.”
That gets a ragged laugh out of him, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes yet, he won’t meet yours. “Derrick, do you think I’m lying?” you tease, soft, guiding his head until he has no choice but to look at you. “You fuck me like you’re trying to ruin me for anyone else. Like it’s your personal mission to make sure I never forget your name.”
His hands grip your thighs just a little tighter. “I think about you at work,” you mumble, your voice dropping as well as your hands. You run a finger up his chest and smile. “I think about how heavy you feel on top of me. How your belly presses against mine when you’re so fucking close and I wrap my arms around you like I never want you to move. Like never again.”
He groans, low in his throat. Like he shouldn’t be that turned on from just hearing you talk. His forehead drops to your chest.
“I love that little curve right above the waist of your jeans,” you whisper. “I love the softness in your middle and the strength in your arms. I love all of it, Mac. I love you. Exactly how you are… like this.”
His arms wrap around your waist and pull you in tighter than you were before. He kisses you then— it’s not urgent, but it’s so deep. Like he needed it. Like he was taking oxygen from your mouth. And by the time you pull back, your hands were threading into his hair and his eyes were glassy, tears threatening to spill. “You really think about me at work?” he chuckles softly.
“All the time.”
He laughs— hoarse, and in disbelief— but his grip on your waist doesn’t loosen. “I love you,” he says finally, each word punctuating deep in your veins like he means every single syllable.
You press your forehead to his, letting your eyes slip closed for just a moment. “I know you do. And I hope you know that I love you too. Exactly like this.”
He doesn’t say anything else after that, he just holds you like he’d never been held before. Like he was finally starting to believe that someone could look at him— just as he was— and want more than Courtney had ever given him.
-*-
There’s a movie playing— some action flick Mac picked, full of explosions and heavy sound design— but neither of you are really watching it. He’s lounged across the couch, his legs spread, one of his arms slung lazily over the backrest, the other lying loose across your thighs, thumb brushing the inside of blanket covered your knee. He’s warm beside you, radiating heat like a furnace, but his mind is clearly elsewhere.
You’ve been together long enough to recognize the difference between him being quiet and him growing more and more withdrawn. This is unfortunately the latter. You shift closer to him, tugging the blanket on your lap up just a little. “Talk to me.”
He doesn’t respond at first. He just blinks at the TV, like he’s trying to stay interested in that instead. “It’s fine,” he says. It’s too quick. Too fucking soft. “Just tired.”
You place your hand on his chest and just feel the slow rise and fall beneath your palm. “You’re not tired, Mac. You’re sad. Because she said something fucking cruel, and you’re pretending it didn’t hurt your feelings.”
He doesn’t answer you right away, but his jaw flexes. Then— quietly— he sighs, “Yeah. I guess it did. I know she’s a piece of work. Hell, I was married to her for five years. I know she doesn’t matter… Or shouldn’t. But it’s like… once someone says it out loud, it’s all you hear for the rest of the damn day.”
Your heart aches for him. Not because you agree with her— God, not even close— but because he does. Because someone he once loved made him feel like less than he is, and he’s carrying it in his silence like a weight he doesn’t know how to set down. You do the only thing you can think of and move to straddle him, gently tugging the blanket down and off your shoulders. He looks at you, surprised— his eyebrows lifting.
“Baby…”
“I need you to hear me, Derrick MacDonald,” you say sternly, letting your hands slide up under his shirt. “And I need to show you. Because apparently you don’t listen and I don’t want even one more second to pass where you believe her bullshit more than you believe me.”
He looks like he’s going to try and argue— but you kiss him before he can. It’s slow and deliberate, with a quiet hum that melts into his mouth. Your hands are warm against his stomach, your fingers glide up his ribs. You’re feeling every inch of soft and solid skin that you love so much.
“Every single part of you,” you mumble against his lips, “is perfect to me. Not just tolerable. Not just good. Perfect. I look at you and I get so greedy.”
Mac huffs out a laugh. And then hums low in his throat. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you whisper as your kisses make their way across his jaw and down his throat. “Your arms… Your chest… That perfect belly that I love falling asleep on. You walk around like this big, gorgeous mountain of a man, Mac… and you don’t even know how badly I want you all of the time.”
His hands settle on your waist, before you quickly remove them. His eyebrows knot down in confusion before you slide off his lap and onto your knees on the carpet. He leans back against the couch cushions and you tug gently at the waistband of his sweats. Then you pause.
“Can I?” you ask, your voice not above a whisper, looking up at him.
He nods, the breath already knocked from his chest. “Yeah. Jesus, yeah.”
You peel his sweats down slowly, your fingertips brushing each newly exposed inch of skin. He lifts his hips to help you slide them down his thighs, and you tug his boxers down with them, revealing the heavy curve of his cock already growing thicker with every second that passes. He’s beautiful like this— half hard under you, warm, his skin flushed with the blood pulsing through his veins. His stomach rises and falls in slow, steady breaths as he watches you take your time in front of him, pressing kisses along the trail of hair that leads down, down. You wrap your fingers around the base of his cock, stroking him slowly. You watch the way his mouth parts slightly and how his head tips back against the couch cushions. His thigh tenses beneath where your free hand rubs small circles into his skin, they’re thick and strong and a little soft around the edges— your favorite fucking thing to squeeze.
“Fuck,” he mumbles softly, letting his eyes slip close, his voice gravely. “You’re fucking unreal, baby.”
“No I’m not,” you say softly, leaning forward to lick a stripe along the underside of his cock from base to tip, “I just love you way too much to let you fucking doubt how hot you are.”
You give him one last smile before you wrap your lips around him and take him into your mouth. You’re slow about it, taking your time like you want to savor every. single. inch. He groans softly above you, his hand immediately coming down to rest against your head, his fingers threading through your hair gently. He doesn’t push— he never really does— he’s just holding on, giving himself something to do with his hands. You work him into your mouth deeper with every moment, your tongue dragging along the vein that runs underneath. Sucking him in until the head nudges the back of your throat and you try not to gag. You pull back up with a wet pop, saliva still connecting your lips to his cock, then you take him in again— messier this time. It’s hungrier, just what he needs. Your jaw feels like it’s working overtime, your breath coming hot and fast through your nose.
“Shit,” he breathes out softly, lifting his head to look down at you. His hand heavy against your skull. “I can’t— fuck— Your mouth… I can’t even fucking think.”
You moan around him when he speaks and then let your free hand slide up to his stomach. Your fingers splay over the softness there, loving him with touches. His body jerks under your touch. “I love this, too,” you mumble when you pull off of him again, your mouth slick and your eyes glassy. “I love all of you. You get that?”
He lets out a whimper— a whimper— his voice breaking as he mutters out a little please, his hips rock forward slightly just waiting for your mouth again, like he can’t help sitting still anymore.
So you give him exactly what he wants, he deserves it tonight. You lean back down and take him into your mouth. Your hand wrapping around the base of him and moving in sync, your tongue curls around him in ways that make him gasp and twitch under you. You suck, then swirl, then take him as deep as you can again. Your throat tightens slightly around him and he’s loud now. His breathing is harsh above you, he’s cursing under his breath as his grip curls around the edge of the couch cushion with one hand and tightens in your hair with the other.
“I’m close,” he warns you quietly, letting his head fall back again, low and strangled— straight from his chest, “Fuck, baby, I’m so fucking close—”
You moan in answer but don’t stop. You keep him deep in your mouth, looking up at him as you try and swallow around him. You let your nails dig lightly into the skin of his thigh as he jerks forward, moving both of his hands to your head to hold you there, his body hunching over you. He pulses in your mouth, that fire in his belly burning bright as he cums with a groan that you’re not sure you’ve ever heard before.
He spills hot down your throat, and you take it all— every fucking drop— then when his grip on you lets up and you can pull back, slightly, you gently suck him through the aftershocks. You don’t stop until his hand twitches and he mumbles something to you in that desperate and overstimulated voice he gets. You pull off of him slowly, licking your lips. And then as you climb back up into his lap, you leave a trail of kisses. You kiss his hip, his stomach, each part of him like it’s sacred. Then once you’re fully seated on his lap, your legs bracketing his hips, you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. His eyes scan yours and then you dip down, resting your head against his chest. He’s still catching his breath but his arms wind tight around you.
“Jesus Christ,” he chuckles softly, his voice raw. “I didn’t even know I needed that.”
You tilt your head and press a kiss under his jaw. “Now you do.”
He lets out a weak, huffed laugh and then shakes his head. “You’re something else.”
You close your eyes and grin against his skin. “You feeling any better?”
“I feel like a Greek god who just got blown into another fucking dimension.”
“Pretty accurate, you look like one too.”
He catches your chin between his thumb and index finger, tilting it up. His eyes telling you everything he felt, then he kisses you long and soft and slow. His hand settles on the back of your neck, his thumb brushing your skin. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” you whisper softly, smoothing down his rucked up shirt.
He groans softly, peeking over your shoulder as you start to shift your body. “We are not turning that movie back on.”
“Mm. What a shame. I was starting to like it. Follow the plot, you know?”
“The plot now is you in my lap for the rest of the night,” he grins, hands sliding down your sides to slip under the hem of your shirt, tugging it up and over your head. “Might be my turn next.”
tags ;; @thejordiverse @vinecstasy @bradleybeachbabe @kripkie101-blog @robinbuckleywife @dancininseptember
