pairing: chef Luca x reader
word count: 2.6k
warnings: 18+, nsfw!!!, smut!, no use of y/n but luca calls you baby :3 (unf), unprotected p in v, little bit of fingering, dom/sub, orgasm denial/control, edging, angry/annoyed sex?!?, public bathroom
summary: “Let me guess… ‘Too proud to stage’ but just humble enough to fuck you in a bathroom?”
author's note: um, so, this was my attempt at writing porn without the plot, but the plot got me!! the plot got me!! ugh >.< i'll try again. fyi this chef Luca smut has nothing to do with my fine line smut :) also i might write a second part?!?! anyways i hope you enjoy! the wordy peach <3
Seven minutes ago, you were sipping champagne, laughing with your cousins, letting the band’s cover of Sugar by Maroon 5 carry you into that familiar warmth weddings are supposed to have. Then Sydney just had to lean in, casual enough to pretend she wasn’t stirring the pot, and mention that Luca was definitely going to be the new stage at The Bear.
Now?
Your back is against the cold porcelain countertop, heels slipping against the tile as Luca’s frame crowds yours. Somewhere between your third “you’re better than this!” and his clipped “you don’t get to tell me that!” his hands had found the hem of your dress, and silk is now pooled around your hips.
You’re both glaring, eyes locked, daring the other to blink first.
“I thought you were joking, but you’re serious — you’re really going to be a stage? At his restaurant?” Your voice echoes through the tiled room, sharp and incredulous.
Luca doesn’t say anything, mouth screwed shut. His hand is braced beside your hip, the other grazing black lace — the panty he insisted you wear tonight. His fingertips slide the flimsy fabric to the side, letting the cool air hit your most sensitive area.
Your fingers curl against the counter, nails biting the surface, holding onto your anger to keep you steady. To keep you anchored. It’s your cousin’s wedding, for fucksakes. It’s practically a family reunion after years spent in Copenhagen with Luca while he chased, and caught, his dream of being a chef. You’re supposed to be mingling, drinking champagne, catching up, delivering a speech in about twenty minutes…
Not pinned in a bathroom with a needy cunt.
“It’s humiliation, Luca. You’re better than Carmen, and you know it.”
The more you poke, the more you prod, the heavier his silence grows. And Luca just stares at you in a flat, bored way. He’s done with the argument. Your words mean nothing to him, yet you’re still dragging it out. You grit your teeth, pulse thrumming.
It’s impossible to look away. He’s dressed too well for this fight. Black slacks, black collared shirt, hair styled to perfection. Fabric clinging and cutting in all the right places.
Luca looks untouchable.
Every inch of him screams control — making it harder to resist, and even harder to remember why you’re supposed to be angry when he looks like this, and smells like smoke and spice and something so distinctly him.
Then, Luca lifts two fingers to his mouth.
The wet sound of him coating them in saliva is obscenely loud in the tiny bathroom. Your stomach twists, heat rushing even lower, because he doesn’t look away.
Not once.
The connection is so palpable it makes your skin prickle — Luca is doing this on purpose. All because you picked a fight with him, because you dared to tell him he’s better than your cousin.
“This is about you proving something to him, not to yourself." you murmur, your voice faltering.
His fingers pop out of his mouth. Your chest stutters.
He drops them to your slit, peeling you apart. He starts just below your clit, gliding in an endless give and take motion — nothing about the way Luca touches you is careless. It’s dedication. Years spent mapping your body, so of course he knows the exact pressure it takes to make you gasp.
Your hand closes around his wrist, meaning to stop him, to push him away.
But you can’t.
Because you’re not in control. Luca is.
And he knows it.
The glint in his eyes tells you he feels the shift, feels as you lean into it. Into him.
“And if it is? What then?” He finally speaks, voice low enough that it scrapes over your skin.
His thumb ghosts over your clit, never makes contact. He knows your reaction by heart: a sharp inhale through your nose followed by a ragged exhale, squeezed through clenched teeth.
But he’s taken back by your harsh words.
“Then you’re not the Luca I thought you were.”
The real insult?
His pupils don’t even dilate. Just that same bored, ‘are you done?’ stare before muttering, “Mmm, wrong answer. Try again.”
Then, he circles your clit, just once.
Your body jolts, and you try to cover it with a useless scoff, “Well, the Luca I know wouldn’t go back to be a fucking stage.”
A muscle feathers in his jaw. Not anger. Not even annoyance. Just tired. So fucking tired of your persistent inability to understand him. One by one, Luca plucks his fingers away, leaving behind a glistening trail of ache.
Then, he moves.
Clutching your waist. Hauling you up. Setting you on the counter. Slotting his body between your knees. Cold porcelain biting your ass. Breath rushing out of your lungs. Hands gripping his shoulders for balance.
The bathroom is suddenly too small, and too hot. Music and laughter filter in through the walls, muffled but close. You vaguely register the risk of being caught, but none of it tears you away from Luca.
He tips your chin up, inspecting your flustered defiance at being manhandled.
“Go on, then. Define me some more, baby,” Luca orders, voice dark, hand dropping to his belt, flicking it open before working on his zipper. “You know how I hate half-assed prep work.”
Your throat bobs once. No words come. You’re still, silent, trapped by the certainty in his eyes that he has you right where he wants you. Every thought you had is gone, wiped out by the weight of his cock resting on your plush cunt, panty still shoved to the side.
“Let me guess… ‘Too proud to stage’ but just humble enough to fuck you in a bathroom?”
There’s no slow build, no easing in. Just a deep, hungry thrust. Nails digging into his arms. Teeth sinking into your bottom lip, clamping around a gasp. Walls squeezing, adjusting. Every exhale comes out as a thin, nasally whine. Brows furrowing together, each line a whisper of it hurts.
Luca lifts a hand, fingertips slowly tracing them. His touch is light, teasing, and infuriatingly intimate. You flinch, slapping him away.
He smirks a little, daring you to try again.
“Luca, you can’t just—nngh, fuck—”
He shoves deeper, forcing your gummy walls to expand for him. Luca loves how your cheeks puff out, round and straining, fighting to stay quiet. Even after all these years, you still can’t handle his stupidly fat cock.
It’s cute.
Your hand drops to his stomach, trying to signal that you need him to stop, that he can’t just take what he wants. He halts, pulls out a little, lets your cunt flutter around his tip instead.
His calloused hand cradles your jaw, grip just shy of painful. His thumb traces your bottom lip, admiring how lightly it quivers beneath his touch.
“Can’t what, baby?” His gaze lingers, all honeyed and sweet.
You fix him with a glare that’s not really a glare. It’s heady, full of heat and frustration, trying to regain control over the situation you created.
“Is it too much?” His head tilts, just enough for the bathroom light to crown him. Gold-lit hair, sharp angles, and that permanent, teasing smirk.
Luca looks impossibly perfect. Entirely in control.
You nod, a little. A soft mewl escaping.
“Oh, that’s too bad…” He rocks forward, cock devouring the space inside you again. You wince, breath hitching. It’s too much. The friction. The burn. You feel dizzy. Lightheaded. Invaded beyond comprehension.
But it's also everything you ever wanted.
Luca watches, mesmerized, as your face reddens. His finger taps your swollen cheek, pressing just enough to make your lips part in a gasp.
“Adorable,” he murmurs, “But I’m going to need you to breathe, baby.”
He holds your gaze, waiting for your lungs to cooperate again. When they finally sort of work, he whispers, “Good girl.”
His praise liquifies your bones.
Then, you feel the slick drag, inch by inch, of him withdrawing. Leaving nothing to clench. Your face twists into panic — is Luca just going to leave you like this — cunt empty. Sticky. Drooling.
Your fingers dig into his shirt, tugging at him. Your eyes start to water, trying to reason with him, “If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t have said anything. I just don’t want your talent to go to waste working as a stage again.”
You whimper. It’s sad, and pathetic.
“Luca, please—”
“Mmhm, gonna have to cover that pretty little mouth,” Luca places his palm firmly over your mouth, the heel of his hand pressing against your cheek while the other hand locks onto your waist, holding you in place, “Or the entire wedding is going to hear you.”
With a single thrust, he splits you open. You writhe beneath him, grunting words that get caught between your lips and his palm.
Wait. Please. S’fucking big.
He doesn’t stop, giving you every fucking inch, burning through your limits until there's no room left, until he's completely buried at the hilt. Luca licks the tear spilling down your cheek, and lets out a low hum of pleasure, “Fuck—tight little thing still can’t take me, huh?”
You don’t answer him. You can’t. He’s knocked any and all sense out of you. Your chest just arches into his, neck tipping back. Luca uses his weight and strength to cage your body against his, and, he fucks you.
Each thrust is a reminder that he’s the one who’s spent hours plating dishes you can’t even pronounce. That he’s the one who lifted, endured, broken his body into muscle and precision until it became second nature.
“Tell me, was it the 16-hour days where you watched me bleed that makes you think I’m too good to get my hands dirty as a stage again? Or are you just going to miss being the only one who gets to taste my best work?” His fingers dig into the soft yielding flesh of your hip, body angling impossibly closer.
“Be honest, baby. I know you hate sharing.” Luca growls, tearing into the resistance like it's nothing, cock hitting that spot now — your eyes roll back, and your moans vibrate against his hand. He works it over and over and over. Showing no mercy as a hot, insistent pressure builds that's too tight. Too much.
You’re right there, walls pulsating with the promise of release that never comes. Because Luca has pulled away, leaving you a shattered, ruined thing of almost.
A wet, broken sound crawls up your throat. It’s half-gasp, half-sob.
It makes him laugh, a soft, disbelieving sound.
“Oh, did you want something?”
You nod, a bit too desperately. Maybe even a little bit humiliated too.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have picked a fight over nothing.”
His hand that seals your mouth is a brand, a reminder you can’t shake. Each slow flex of his fingers tells you that he’s the one who’s spent years perfecting pressure, and restraint.
He shakes his head, tsking, “Some insignificant bullshit just to hear yourself talk.”
Your stifled disagreement earns you a hard grind of his hips. It’s just enough to make your toes curl, but not enough to send you over the edge.
This is where Luca keeps you, teetering on the edge, denied.
Because he likes this part.
Like the way your hips jerk, desperate, when he pulls back. Likes the way your lashes flutter, the furrow of your brows, the tension in your neck. He sees it all. Feeds on it. He could end this anytime. But why would he? Watching your thighs quake with the need he refuses to satisfy is half the fun.
And just to prove how practiced he is, how effortless his control is, Luca eases up. Penetration becomes shallow. Only giving you an inch, maybe two. Taking his fucking time, making every second count — again, again, again — until your nearly wrecked cunt starts making lewd, squelching noises and you’re clawing at him, whining in frustration.
A bead of sweat traces down the sharp angle of Luca’s jaw. He doesn’t wipe it away, doesn’t even flinch. Too busy holding the line, too busy forcing you to stay in this dizzy, aching place a heartbeat longer.
The sweat is the only thing that gives him away. The only crack in his control. And you’d worship it, if he’d let you.
“I know how to stage. I know how to be a chef.” Luca leans in, close enough for you to feel the heat of his words. “And I know I’m fucking good at it.”
He drags your hand to your stomach, covering it with his own, and presses down. Then, his hips snap forward. And you can feel the faint outline of his cock as it spears your cunt, owning you.
It makes you shudder.
“I’m not doing this to prove myself to Carmen — I’m doing this because he needs a chef like me in his kitchen.” Luca’s throat moves like he’s forcing down glass, tendons standing rigid under his skin. A swallow that’s too loud, too telling. But his eyes are worse. They’re bright with something feverish, pupils swallowing the light.
“I know I’m better than him in every way that matters.”
His hand stays firm as he kisses the corner of your mouth — a mockery of tenderness.
“Do you understand, baby?”
Only then does Luca lift his palm.
“—yes, chef—”
A knock rattles at the bathroom door.
You practically choke on your answer, eyes going wide with panic. Luca doesn’t seem to care, smoothing his hand over your mouth again, steady and calm, as if he’d been expecting it.
“Hey, you in there?” It’s your cousin. Carmen. “Your speech is coming up...”
You twist, a muffled sound pressing into Luca's skin, but he just looks at you. Totally unbothered. Then, without missing a beat, his voice lifts, casual and lazy, “No, she’s not in here…”
Luca smiles. It’s not sharp or cruel, but boyish. Soft in a way that completely disarms you, like he’s not the same man whose throbbing cock is still buried inside your cunt. He lingers, eyes sweeping your face before finally easing out. The loss is immediate, the ache cutting into the space just below your navel.
“Luca?” It slips out as a plea, a question you don't even know how to finish. You're half-undone, wound so tight. Head buzzing, blood thrumming hot in your ears. Desperate for the rest of him.
Luca just steadies you, patient, hands firm as he helps you down from the counter. Your legs wobble when your feet hit the ground, knees nearly give, and it makes him smile again — quiet, and infuriating. He knows exactly how wrecked you are.
With one hand lingering at your hip to keep you up right, Luca crouches low, helping to slip your heels back on, fixing the straps with sure fingers, like he’s dressing a doll he isn’t finished playing with yet. As Luca rises, he sweetly adjusts your black lace panty before smoothing your dress down over your thighs with those sure, capable hands. Tugging at the fabric until it lies flat, until there’s no evidence of what he just did, of what he almost finished.
“You’re fine,” Luca says softly, though you know he's lying.
You're ruined.
His thumb brushes your jaw, sweeping a stray strand of hair from your cheek. A deceptively soft touch, domestic, ordinary. And then, quietly cruel, with the faintest curve of his lips: “Well, baby. You better get out there — got a speech to give.”
part two: here
pairing: Shepard Leopold x fem!reader
word count: 4.5k
warnings: 18+, NSFW!!, smut, no use of y/n, dom vibes??, handjob, cum, nurse/patient stuff
summary: That's how it started: him injured, you paid to care. Simple. Professional. Temporary. You should've known it wouldn't stay that simple.
author’s note: idk what it is but i am riding the will poulter train HARD this month. he's talented and a total hottie. i might add a sequel to this. i just love thinking of Shepard as a sulky and brooding loser baby - it just gets me goingggg lol.
Shepard Leopold isn’t what you expected.
Slumped in a leather armchair like he owns the world (he does), arms suspended in slings, one leg crossed with careless elegance. He doesn’t look up when you enter. Just flicks a glance at the clock and drawls, “You’re late.”
You’re not.
But truth doesn’t matter much in this line of work, so you offer a bland smile. “Good morning, Mr. Leopold.”
A slow, scathing once-over. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That voice. Like I’m ninety and incontinent.”
You blink, “Duly noted, sir.”
Shepard jerks his chin toward a tray on the end table. “Start by feeding me. Unless you’re the kind of nurse who believes in natural consequences.”
“I believe in getting paid.”
”That makes two of us.”
You pick up the spoon.
That’s how it started: him injured, you paid to care. Simple. Professional. Temporary.
You should’ve known it wouldn’t stay that simple. Three weeks later, you’re standing in his bathroom, steam fogging the mirrors, and Shepard Leopold still hasn’t learned how to ask for help nicely.
His bathroom is all marble and echo, stupidly luxurious for a man who treats dignity like an optional accessory. Gold fixtures. Heated floors. A shower big enough for a person who’s never heard the word no. You test the water with your fingers. Warm, not scalding. But the real heat is the weight of his stare between your shoulder blades.
Shepard is perched on the closed toilet lid behind you, clad in nothing but sweatpants and disdain. His slings are gone now, but the way he holds himself says I could still ruin you without uttering a word.
“You’re stalling,” he says.
You don’t turn. “The water's not hot enough.”
A scoff, “it’s a bath. Not a lobster boil.”
“And yet here you are, already red enough to serve with butter.”
Silence. Then a low, dangerous chuckle. Progress, you think. Last week, that joke would’ve earned you a snarl and a threat. Now it’s just another move in a game neither of you admits you’re playing.
You straighten. “Ready?”
He doesn’t answer. Just lifts his chin in that you-first tilt that means I’d rather die than ask, but I will make you offer.
You roll your eyes and reach for him anyway.
Shepard is taller up close. Too tall, the kind of height that makes you aware of every inch between professionalism and something else. Lean line, fading bruises. His body tenses as you help him stand, muscles locking like he braced for a shove instead of support.
The shirt comes off first. You’re careful with the fabric, but he still turns his face away when it catches on his elbows, jaw tight. You don’t chase his gaze. Some silences are better left unbroken.
Towel in hand, you start to speak, “I’m going to -”
“Just do it.”
You crouch. The sweatpants cling at his hips, damp from the steam. He doesn’t help. Doesn’t resist. Just breathes through his nose like he’s counting seconds in his head. Your finger skin his waistband, peeling it down in one practiced motion.
Bare skin. A hitch in his breath.
You don’t linger. You don’t look. Just guide the towel around his hips with a snap of fabric, tucking it snug against the sharp cut of his pelvis. Your knuckles brush a faded bruise as you fold the edge and his stomach flinches.
Still no eye contact. But his pulse jumps in his throat when you step back. The towel isn’t thick enough. You pretend not to notice what he’s trying to hide.
It’s awkward. Painfully so.
You guide him into the tub, your grip firm on his hip. Not because he needs it, but because you both know he won’t ask for it. His skin burns under your palm, and for a second, you swear you feel it: that faint, betraying tremor. The one he’d cut off his own hand before acknowledging.
“I’ll be quick,” you say.
“Don’t talk to me like I’m dying.”
“You’re not dying,” you murmur, reaching for the washcloth. “Just temporarily at my mercy.”
His laugh is a low, rough thing, “Fuck you.”
You swipe the cloth down his spine. “Promises, promises.”
You’re gentle, careful not to jostle his arms. He breathes slowly, like he’s trying not to react to the fact someone is touching him like this. Not sexually. Not affectionately. Just… humanly.
You run the cloth down the slope of his neck, over the curve of one shoulder, then the other. You feel the way his body stiffens, just slightly, when your knuckles brush the side of his rib cage. He’s quiet. Too quiet.
“You okay?” You ask.
Silence. Then, so quiet you almost miss it: “I don’t like needing anyone.”
The water ripples as you wring out the cloth.
“Funny,” you reply. “Neither do I.”
That gets a glance. A slow turn of his head. His eyes meet yours for the first time since you started. There’s something raw behind them. Not just pain. Not just discomfort. Loneliness, maybe.
You don’t look away. Neither does he. Somewhere in the steam between you, something shifts. Neither of you mention it.
Then, as if nothing happened: “If you try to shampoo my hair, I will scream,”
You snort, “No one wants that.”
He leans back, letting you work. You both tense when you reach his toweled waist. For fuck’s sake. You are a professional. This is your job. You’ve seen plenty of dicks. Too many, frankly. But this? This is different. And you don’t know why.
Maybe because it’s not a hospital, and he’s not just another patient. He’s Shepard Leopold. Wealthy, infuriating, deeply inconvenient. And right now, essentially under your care. You could do anything. You could humiliate him if you wanted to.
But you don’t. You choose to give him dignity. Whatever is left of it anyway.
You realize you’re hovering a nearly dry washcloth over the outside of his thigh. You freeze. And he’s watching you. Closely. Quietly.
You meet his eyes. “Do-” you stop. Think better of it. You nod toward his lower body. “Should I continue, Shepard?”
He swallows. Shakes his head.
You expected a snarky remark. A crude joke. Something that would make this easier to ignore. But he just sits there. Silent. The only movement is the slight tremor in his fingers.
You nod and step back. He’s eye level with your chest now, and you immediately regret changing out of your scrubs earlier. Your damp white t-shirt clings to your body. You can feel his gaze settle there, hot and heavy.
You turn away, pretending not to notice. You grab the handheld showerhead and adjust the temperature.
“I know you said you’ll scream if I shampoo your hair,” you say lightly. “But I really think I should at least rinse it.”
You glance over your shoulder. He nods. No fight. No smartass comment. Just… trust.
“Okay,” you murmur. “Lean your head back.”
He does. No hesitation.
You reach forward, careful not to let your body brush his. Still, you can’t help but notice how long and impossibly regal his neck is. Even with that hint of stubble. You guide the warm water over his hairline, fingers working gently through his hair. His throat bobs. You hear a low sound, barely audible, as your fingertips move across his scalp.
You pause.
Then keep going, slow and steady, massaging the base of his skull. Another sound. A groan, deep in his chest.
It does something to you. Unlocks something. You like Shepard vulnerable, maybe a little too much. You set the showerhead back with a twist, cutting the water off.
Shepard doesn’t move. Droplets cling to his skin. His hair drips, dark and heavy against his neck. He looks… expensive. Even now. Soaked and silent and ruined. Like a tragic oil painting of a boy born into too much money and not enough kindness.
“I’m going to help you out,” you say, keeping your voice even.
He gives a shallow nod.
You offer your hands, and he lets you take them. His grip is light, barely there, but his body’s solid as you guide him up. Water drips from him in rivulets, pooling at your feet. You reach for a fresh towel and gently start blotting at his shoulders, then his arms, careful around the casts. The towel that had been wrapped around his waist, the one that you tucked in yourself before helping him into the tub, is soaked through, barely clinging now.
As you crouch slightly to dry the backs of his calves, the towel slips. You both feel as it happens. You both freeze. It hits the floor with a soft, wet thud.
You don’t look. You really don’t look. You step back, eyes snapping upward, to the crown of his head, the ceiling, anywhere but…
Shepard just stands there. Motionless. Like it doesn’t matter. Like this doesn’t matter.
And maybe it doesn’t. Not to him.
Maybe that’s what hurts a little.
You grab yet another fresh towel and unfold it slowly. You hold it open in both hands and move toward him. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t joke, doesn’t meet your eyes.
You wrap it around his waist again, gentle and businesslike. Tuck the edge in. Your knuckles graze his hipbone. His skin jumps. Still, Shepard says nothing.
You wipe your palms on your pants and step back. “Okay,” you murmur. “You’re good.”
He stays rooted to the spot for a second too long. Then, a shallow inhale and a nod.
No “thank you”.
Just the soft sound of wet footsteps as he walks away, ignoring your voice as you call out to him, “Shepard, we need to put on your slings!”
The rest of the week is… weird.
Shepard gets snappier. Not in the clever, biting way he was at the beginning, but in this shimmering, pent-up kind of way. He snaps at you when you fluff his pillows. Glares when you adjust his sling too tight. Grumbles through every meal like the act of chewing your presence is a personal insult.
He sighs dramatically when you help him brush his teeth. Sighs harder when you remind him he needs to drink water. You try not to take it personally.
“Do you want to tell me what’s wrong,” you ask one evening, “Or do you want to keep pouting until your bones heal?”
“Maybe I’ll die first,” he mutters.
“Good,” you say. “At least I’ll get paid.”
But something is off. You feel it in the way his eyes linger a little longer when you readjust his robe. The way he stares straight ahead as you towel-dry his hair after a shower. The way his ears turn pink every time you reach across him to pull the blanket up at night. He barely looks at you anymore, at least not directly, and you’re starting to wonder if you did something wrong.
Then, on Friday, it clicks.
You knock on his door early, maybe too early. The house is still asleep. The hallway is cold against your bare feet. You’re holding a small tray: tea, a protein bar, a little cup of painkillers. You figure maybe a kinder start will help his mood.
You open the door quietly.
Shepard is still asleep. Flat on his back, hair messy against the pillow, mouth parted in a frown. His blanket has slipped down to his waist. One hand is curled near his chest like a useless bird. The other, well, is still broken.
And then your eyes flick lower.
And there it is.
A very distinct, very undeniable tent beneath the thin sheet.
You freeze. Blink. Look away. Then, unfortunately, look again, because your brain can’t not confirm what it just saw.
Yup. That’s … definitely not a broken limb.
You back out of the room like you just walked into a hostage situation. The tray nearly topples. Your face is burning. You close the door softly behind you and whisper to no one, “Ohhh, I get it now.”
Everything clicks. The simmering frustration. The short fuse. The avoidance. The way his voice dipped when you brushed his hair.
Poor bastard. He’s been pissed off because he can’t do anything about the tension that’s been knotting between you all week. And now, here you are, nurse-slash-accidental-crush, standing in the hallway with your cheeks on fire and a very clear image seared into your brain.
You stare down at the tray. Then sigh.
“...Yeah, that’s gonna be a fun breakfast.”
You take an extra thirty minutes before re-entering his room with the tray.
He’s awake by then, sitting up with his head tilted back against the headboard. Blank expression. Sheets pulled up to his chest. Completely composed. A little too composed. You don’t say anything about it. Neither does he.
You set the tray on his lap like it’s any other morning, like you didn’t accidentally glimpse the reason behind all that tightly wound irritation. Like you didn’t nearly drop a cup of chamomile tea in shock. Like you’re not acutely aware of what he looks like under those sheets.
“Morning,” you say, as neutrally as possible.
“Is it,” he mutters.
You don’t look at him. Not directly. Not for long. But you see the flush along his throat, the way his jaw tenses like he’s grinding the words back before they can escape. He stabs at the protein bar with his eyes like it personally offended him.
You go about your duties with all the professional calm you can muster: changing the pillowcases, tidying his side table, checking his ice packs.
But every time he so much as shifts in bed and makes a huffy sound, your brain flashes red with oh my god, this is hormonal. He’s not mad. He’s pent-up. Trapped. Desperate. Horny. And now you know.
Mid-morning, you try to help with a button on his shirt.
His hands twitch. “I’ve got it.”
“You really don’t, Shepard.”
“I said-” His voice catches, “I’ve got it.”
You pull your hands back, pulse high in your throat. The collar’s still open. His skin is warm, close, familiar now. You clear your throat and back away like you touched a hot stove. No one mentions it.
Later, when you’re feeding him soup at lunch, he snaps at you for stirring too fast.
“I didn’t realize there was a correct velocity for broth,” you reply dryly.
“Everything has a correct velocity,” he mutters.
You glance at his flushed cheeks. “Yeah. Starting to realize that.”
Shepard looks at you sharply, and for a split second, you think: he knows. He knows you saw. He knows you know. But he doesn’t say a word. Just glares at his soup like it’s responsible for all of his unmet needs.
You go downstairs after lunch and lean against the counter, face in your hands. You can’t unsee it. You can’t un-feel the way your stomach flipped. The stupid ache in your own chest that has no business being there. This was supposed to be a job. A paycheck. Just some brat with broken arms and a vocabulary of insults.
But now every time he sighs, or sulks, or won’t meet your eyes, all you can is: Oh. Right. You’re falling apart from want and can’t do a damn thing about it. And for some reason, you’re not just amused. You’re starting to feel it too.
It’s past midnight.
You’ve brushed your teeth. You’ve changed into your pajamas. You are so close to freedom when Shepard calls your name from his room, voice muffled and annoyed.
You close your eyes, take a breath, and turn around.
When you walk in, he’s sitting on the edge of his bed, blanket tangled around his knees, his whole posture one long, irritated sigh. The lamp beside him casts soft golden light over his face. His jaw clenched, hair a mess, frustration radiating off him like heat.
“I can’t get comfortable,” he grits out.
“Again?”
“My neck hurts. My back hurts. My arms hurt.”
You step toward him. “Alright, I’ll fix your pillows.”
“You always say that like I’m being unreasonable.”
“Because you are unreasonable, Shepard.”
He doesn’t answer. Just watches you as you adjust the pillows behind him, flattens his lips when you nudge the blanket into place.
He shifts again. Sighs. Huffs.
You freeze halfway through fixing the corner. Your hands fist the blanket. And then, before you can stop yourself, “Okay, Shepard, I get that you’re pent up.”
The words fall into the room like a slap. Loud. Blunt. Indelicate.
He jerks his head toward you, scandalized. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, come on,” you snap, standing straight. “You’ve been sulking and short-tempered and insufferable all week. Don’t pretend it’s not what I think it is.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, stiff.
You scoff, rubbing your hands over your face. “God. I can’t believe I’m asking this…” You drop your hands and look him dead in the eye. “And it goes against everything I stand for, but - can I help you?”
Silence.
His eyes widen. His mouth opens. Closes.
You continue, almost frantically now, like you have to say it or you’ll burst. “Can I help you. Get some of that frustration out. Because clearly, you can’t do it yourself, and I’m not sure I can survive another day of you huffing at your toast like it personally wronged you.”
Shepard stares at you like you just offered to break him out of prison. Or shoot him. And then, he mutters, “You’re not serious.”
You tilt your head, “Do I look like I’m joking?”
He blinks. Swallows. His voice, when it comes, is rough. “You’re my nurse.”
You nod. “Technically, I’m a private hire on a short contract. And we both know this thing between us is not strictly professional anymore.”
His jaw tightens.
You step closer.
“Say no,” you tell him. “If you want me to leave, say no.”
He doesn’t. He just looks up at you, flushed, breathing shallow, and for the first time in days, Shepard’s not huffy. He’s quiet. Unmoving. Waiting.
He doesn’t say no. He doesn’t say anything.
Just stares up at you, stunned and still and breathless, like he’s been punched in the chest with his own heartbeat. So you kneel in front of him. His eyes widen just a little more, mouth parting like he’s going to stop you. But he doesn’t. He can’t. He’s frozen, watching you like you’re unreal. You rest your hands on his knees, the soft cotton of his pajama pants warm under your palms.
“Still nothing?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re just gonna sulk in silence?”
Shepard swallows hard. “I… I don’t even know how this works.”
“Me neither,” you admit. “Guess we figure it out.”
You push his robe open, gently, and he sucks in a sharp breath like it hurts to be touched even a little. He’s trembling, just faintly. Not with fear. With tension. With that unbearable need he’s been carrying around for weeks.
“This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever let happen,” he mutters.
“Then stop me.”
He doesn’t.
Your hands slide up his legs, and you watch the way his jaw tightens, and the way his chest heaves with a breath he forgot to take. He shifts his hips without meaning to, just a tiny and involuntary roll forward, and it makes your stomach flip.
Shepard is already hard. Desperately so. You feel it through the thin cotton of his pants, hot and twitching. Your hand slips beneath the waistband of his pajamas. He squirms under the contact, a barely-there shiver that betrays how hard he’s trying not to react as your fingers wrap around his thick shaft, tugging it free from the confines of fabric.
His cock throbs in your hand, already leaking. You lean over and swipe away the dribble of precum with your tongue. Shepard exhales sharply. A hitched, startled sound like it punched out of him. Shocked that you’d wanted to taste him - that anyone would. You glance up. There’s a faint redness to his cheeks, to the tips of his ears, like his body is still catching up to the closeness, the touch, the want he’s trying to suppress.
This is a violation. Of boundaries. Of professionalism. Of everything you were taught in school. You tell yourself to compartmentalize. To treat it like any other task. Clinical. Strictly business. Nothing more. Nothing less.
But the taste of Shepard lingers faintly on your tongue. And now, you’re not sure you can do this without feeling something. Especially since you find yourself marveling at the heaviness of his engorged cock, and forcing the thought of how good it would feel to be stretched and filled by this thing to the back of your mind.
“You sure?” you ask, voice lower now.
Shepard already looks wrecked. Soft and vulnerable, pupils blown wide and filled with an aching. There’s something delicious in the way he frantically nods, his throat bobbing, “Yea-yeah. Yes.”
Shepard tries to hold onto his trademark irritation, but the moment you spit on his cock and begin stroking him, he breaks. Soft gasps. Quiet curses. His voice hoarse as he whispers your name like it’s a question and an apology at the same time. It’s like he doesn’t trust his voice to say more. Like he knows just how wrong this is, but he needs what you’re offering.
Your hand moves methodically along his length. Up and down. Up and down. It’s not graceful. You both know it. You’ve never touched him like this. With no barriers. No excuses. You take your time, trying to figure out what he likes. It’s awkward. A little too fast, a little too desperate. Sometimes too tight, other times not tight enough. But it’s real. His head falls back. His legs shake.
You like Shepard like this. You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t. But god, you do. You like the raw, unfiltered sound he makes when your hand picks up speed. You like how his pride is fracturing under your touch, and how his sharp tongue is silent when your hand squeezes the head of his cock.
“Shit. I can’t - just - don’t, don’t stop -“ he rasps, voice cracking on the words.
You revel in the sound of his voice, savouring the rough, unraveling quality of it. The way it cracks, the breathlessness hitching in his throat. You’ve never heard Shepard Leopold like this: no carefully composed cadence, no venom-laced wit, no drawling sarcasm designed to keep people out. Just the strained, involuntary sounds of someone losing control.
His skin is flushed a feverish pink, damp with sweat, slick and trembling under your hands. His curls have come loose from whatever grooming ritual keeps them perfectly arranged, sticking to his temples and the nape of his neck. He looks like a prince fallen from grace. Disarmed, disbelieved, still somehow infuriatingly beautiful.
There must be something wrong with you. Truly. Because you’ve had difficult patients before. Arrogant ones. Entitled ones. Ones who refused care, insulted your competence, tested every limit of your patient. You’ve even had rich ones who assumed your hands were theirs to command. But none of them ever made you feel like this. Like something restless and ancient has been uncaged inside you. Like there’s a fire behind your ribs licking at your lungs, whispering more.
If he were meek, if he were sweet, if he said thank you with soft eyes and bowed his head like he owed you something… this wouldn’t touch you at all. You’d walk away unscathed. But Shepard burns under your care. He resents needing you. Resents the softness creeping in. And that resistance, that fight, it draws you in like nothing else.
His eyes, normally sharp, and calculating are now just… open. And staring at you like he’s seeing something sacred. Something that could wreck him further, if he lets it. His posture has come apart too. No more tight lines, no more regal straightness. He’s slouched slightly, like the tension holding him upright has finally snapped. Like he doesn’t have the strength to pretend anymore. One shoulder twitches. Almost as if Shepard wants to reach for you, even knowing he can’t. And his hands, still stiff in their slings, flex uselessly.
“Gonna cum,” his voice is caught between a moan and a gasp; the kind of sound someone makes when they’ve given up trying to pretend they’re not coming apart.
The tick of tension in Shepard’s jaw, the one you’ve come to know like a warning flare, has gone slack. No more clenching, no more biting retorts. His lower body bucks forward. With your free hand, you grab his hip and hold him still. His mouth opens, lips parted like he wants to curse you, or beg. A low, ruined sound slips out of him. Half-growl, half-plea. “Can I - can I?”
Shepard needs you, and that knowledge curls hot and dark in your stomach. Not in the way your patients normally need you. Not in the sterile, clinical sense. This isn’t about wound care or recovery timelines or monitored vitals. No, this is something rawer. Stranger. Because Shepard Leopold doesn’t ask to be cared for. He doesn’t admit to weakness, doesn’t yield easily. But now, like this, he’s pliant under your hands, eyes glassy with something that he doesn’t have the words for.
“Cum for me, Shepard.”
His breath comes fast, and shallow, cock pulsing as hot, ropy cum spills over your fingers and onto the fabric of his pajamas. You keep stroking him through it, gentle now, until he jerks and gasps once more. His body finally relaxes beneath your touch.
For the first time, neither of you rushes to fill the silence. But Shepard is still gazing at you. Like he doesn’t know whether to reach for you or apologize. Like he doesn’t know how to be seen like this and still be wanted.
pairing: Carmen x reader, chef Luca x reader
word count: 6.2k
warnings: 18+, nsfw!!!, smut!, no use of y/n, unprotected p in v = creampie, fingering, squirting, cuckolding (carmen is a cuck?!?! sort of?!?!), YEARNING (ughhhh), DEVOTION, WORSHIP, angsty as hell, slightly vague implied cheating but not really? idk idk idk....
summary: The restaurant has become the world’s most persistent, infuriating cockblock.
author's note: okay. i had plans to make this filthier. with way less words. but it just didn't happen that way. like chef luca just fills me with a weird yearning and he just wants to do a good job, y'know? and i love carmy but he loves the restaurant more - so ofc he's a cuck lmaoooo. xoxo the wordy peach <3
You’re tired. Feet dragging as you enter the kitchen of your partner’s restaurant. He’s standing there, in his chef’s white, sleeves rolled up. His hair is a tousled mess; your favourite. His face reveals how tired he is, but his eyes are bright, a slight smile toying on his lips. He’s looking at his phone, typing something to someone.
“Mhmm, my Bearypie? Can we go?” You murmur, your voice half-yawn, half-prayer. You walk around the prep table, fingers skimming the edge for balance. The kitchen is dim, humming with the afterglow of service. Stainless steel and citrus oil. The scent of roasted bones in the air.
When he looks up, his eyes flash with that usual intensity. Still hungry for something, even now, even after hours. You catch that familiar glimmer and steel yourself. Whatever he’s about to say, it can wait until tomorrow. It has to.
“Honeypie,” he says, voice low and careful, biting his lip. He’s holding something back. You can tell. He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet a little, like he does when there needs to be a menu change. Whatever it is, it’s not sleep. You just want home. You just want bed. You just want to be horizontal, your hand in his, your leg tossed over his thigh, his breath steady beside yours. And tonight, for once, you might actually get that.
You raise your brow, worn-out and wary, “Mmmm?”
He holds his phone out to you. Screen bright, thumb hovering like he doesn’t quite want to let it go. There’s a conversation happening. Your eyes flick to the contact name. And freeze.
Luca.
Your breath catches before you can stop it. A name you haven’t heard in years. A face you haven’t seen since - god, what was it? Pre-pandemic? Longer?
But of course you remember him.
Tall. Broad. That blonde halo always curling slightly at the nap from heat and sweat. Arms roped with muscle, flour-dusted and knife-calloused. And that voice, soft and rich and devastating. His British accent laced with humility and warmth, with a kind of slow-burning joy that made everything he said sound like a compliment. Even “pass me that bowl” somehow felt like poetry. He and Carmy staged together, back in the day. Back before Carmy was Carmy, before Michelin stars and broken glasses and therapy.
How could you forget about Luca? How could you forget how his body filled yours? How could you forget how he stuffed you beyond capacity and had Carmen eating for days?
A blush creeps up your neck, adding rosy color to your cheeks.
His first message is innocent enough. “Hey, mate. Heard you opened something wild. Congrats!”
The rest is Carmy, practically gushing. Full paragraphs about the menu, pickles, pacing, and plating. Luca keeps up, just as nerdy, just as warm. It’s all brunoise and butter ratios and chefs being chefs.
Then comes a newer one.
“Would love to catch up with you both.”
And then, a minute later:
“You still into 🪑🐔 ?”
Three words. Two emojis. A chair. A chicken. No soft landing. Straightforward.
Your gaze shifts to your Carmy, who’s been watching you this whole time. Lips curved, just barely. God, you love the way he studies you, like he’s trying to memorize you again and again. You’re his lighthouse, and he’s the ship, always coasting home to your shore.
“Well?” You slip into him, body fitting against his like second nature. He’s warm, all fatigue and adrenaline, and he smells like mirepoix reduction and late-night sweat. Your fingers push his hair back, tangling gently.
“Are we?”
You kiss the hollow of his neck. His favourite spot. It gets him every time. A low, slow hum rumbles from his throat, and he tilts his head back, finally letting go of some of the tension he’s carried all night. You kiss the spot again, this time letting your teeth graze it. He inhales sharply, chest rising.
“Are you?” Carmen breathes. His eyes flutter open: blue flame, hot and untamable. Everything he feels lives there, right on the surface. No armor. No mask. Just him.
Your cheeks warm, giving a small nod. “Bear…you know I am.”
Your voice comes out softer than you expect. Timid, even. You’ve always been on the same page, instinctively aligned. But this one kink of his, this quiet possessiveness, took you time. And even now, even in his arms, you feel a pang of guilt admitting how much it turns you on.
Because the truth is: your mind is trying not to think about Luca.
Carmen glances around, instinctively. The kitchen is quiet. Still. He sent everyone home an hour ago. Just the two of you left, closing up. Mostly, it’s him. Working out tomorrow’s menu, fighting his perfectionism. And you, orbiting him. Walking the space like it’s muscle memory. Double, no, triple checking everything because that’s what you do. Because it’s easier than naming the heat gathering at the base of your spine.
His hand touched your waist, fingers splaying across your navel, claiming territory. Holding you there. His head tilts, eyes half-lidded, voice dipping into something low and husky.
“Hmm. What was it you said you liked about him again?” It’s not accusatory. Not quite. More like a dare. A spark thrown into dry kindling.
You huff a breath. Half-laugh, half-warning. And rest your palm flat against his chest. His heart’s already picking up. Carmy leans in, mouth brushing just beneath your jaw, “You said he had, what - a British accent? Big hands? Right?”
You roll your eyes. He hums, pressing a kiss below your ear. “Oh, no, wait. You said he has a massive cock, and it's bigger than mine.”
You feel the smile against your skin. His fingers are pressing inward and downward. “It’s been a while since you’ve been filled… hmmm, hasn’t it?”
Carmy is right. It has been a long time. Way too long.
Between the death in the family and the chaos of opening the restaurant, you and he haven’t had a moment to reconnect in the ways you’re used to: the old rhythms, the extracurriculars.
“Mm,” is all you can manage, distracted. Your thoughts drift to Luca’s unexpected but strangely welcomed reappearance. The timing feels almost fated. Because lately… you’ve been frustrated. Not at Carmy, not really. But at the restaurant. This stupid, beautiful, all-consuming thing he built that’s eaten every spare moment of his attention.
If he’s not here, he’s thinking about it. Dreaming about prep lists. Stressing about staff. He’s been stretched thin, turning you down more often than not. Not because he doesn’t want you, but because he simply doesn’t have the space to be with you.
The restaurant has become the world’s most persistent, infuriating cockblock.
Carmy’s not broken. That’s not the issue. He can perform, and when he’s present, he’s there. But being a chef is who he is, and sometimes it just gets in the way. You get it. You’ve always gotten it. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting. And Carmy knows that. He knows. He’s never judged you for needing more. Just… hasn’t always known how to give it. This is what led to him opening the door on cuckolding.
“Tonight?” You ask, voice soft, hopeful.
Carmy raises an eyebrow, teasing. “Honey, weren’t you just yawning and complaining about how tired you are?”
But his smile gives him away. Your eagerness is a balm. He looks at you like you’re the last clean thing in the world. With such tenderness, such aching love, it almost breaks your heart. This version of him: quiet, open, yours only comes out when it’s just the two of you. And God, you’ve missed him.
He presses his forehead against yours, “Your cute little pussy just needs to be filled, hey?”
You nod, face flushing, excitement blooming low in your belly. You love Carmy. You’ve always loved Carmy.
Since the day your family moved in across the street and saw that wild-eyed, shy little boy peeking out from behind the tree in your front yard. You’d asked if he wanted to play… and he ran. But he came back the next day. And the next.
That was over ten years ago. And still, he’s by your side. Always has been. Always will be. You really can’t imagine life without him. He’s the crackers, you’re the cheese. “The gluey kind,” Richie once joked. “No one even wants it unless the other one’s there.” Richie had said, smirking at Carmy but clearly meaning you. It was stupid. It still makes you laugh.
“Mhm, you go ahead, okay? I just need to-”
You pout before he can finish, cutting him off with a whine. “Bearrrry…”
You want him to come. You want him to watch. It’s always been better when he’s there. Hotter. Realer. Sharper.
Carmy leans in and kisses you sweetly. “I’ll be home before you even get there, I promise.”
Then another kiss. Deeper. His tongue sliding into yours, deliberate and slow. You groan into it, your whole body winding tight with want.
But he pulls back too soon.
“Go,” He murmurs against your lips, breath warm, “I’ll text Luca you are taking an Uber over,”
And just like that, your pulse stutters. Your breath catches.
Because now, it’s real.
-
You step into Luca’s place.
You smile as he helps you out of your coat, like he’s handling something fragile. His touch lingers just a second too long on your arm. That’s always been Luca. Gentle, thoughtful, precise.
Luca hasn’t changed. Not really.
Still tall, still broad, still carrying that quiet warm like it’s stitched into his bones. His accent is exactly the same. Velvety, low, every syllable drawn out just a touch longer than it needs to be. But there’s something different in him now. A stillness. A quiet confidence.
You remembered how Luca used to look at Carmy like he was lighting. Brilliant, but untouchable. Now? He seems less daunted by the idea of walking alongside him. Like he’s finally figured out he’s made of fire too.
His place is bare, but not empty. A studio apartment that’s clearly just been claimed. Clothes folded with care across the kitchen appliances. No furniture yet, except a single chair pushed into the corner and a bed. Frame and all, neatly made. Clean lines. Solid. Lived-in, but only just. And on the counter, beside a stack of folded chef whites, are two water glasses and one wine glass. A bottle of white you recognize immediately - your white, crisp and floral. Just the way you like it.
Luca remembered.
He presses a hand to the small of your back, guiding you gently into the place. “Welcome to my humble kingdom,” he jokes softly. “All… seventeen square feet of it.”
You both laugh. It feels easy. Familiar. Maybe too easy.
He gestures vaguely toward the room. “So, yeah. That’s the tour.”
You arch a brow. “Very impressive layout.”
“Right?” he grins, “Open concept. Cutting edge.”
And then, Luca’s tone shifts. He turns toward you, eyes soft but serious.
“Are the rules still the same?”
You know what he means.
With Luca, there were always rules. Not out of distance, but respect. Every touch, every pause, every breath between you was deliberate and careful. But they weren’t just your rules. They weren’t just his.
They were Carmy’s too.
Rules drawn in quiet conversations. Shared glances. Agreements unspoken, but deeply understood. Boundaries set not because of fear, but out of love, for each other, and for what this was allowed to be. Because in your worlds, everything has a rule. Timing. Rest. Temperature. Space. Boundaries are how things stay intact. Boundaries are what made this possible at all.
You meet his eyes. The room feels quieter now. Closer.
And you have to ask yourself, as your pulse steadies and the wine waits on the counter: does the recipe still hold?
You nod.
There are rules.
No kissing on the lips. Cheek kisses are okay. Forehead too. Anything else gets…complicated. No staying over. You go home. Always. Almost immediately. Everything must be prepared beforehand, emotionally and physically, no surprises. No sharp edges. No one walks away with cuts that weren't expected.
The three of you came up with these together, once. Quietly. Respectfully. In the margins of long nights and after-hours wine. A system that worked. That kept things clean.
Luca takes the answer in stride. He nods, like he already knew what you’d say. Like he hoped, but didn’t count on it. Then, he turns toward the counter and pours you a glass of the white. No questions. No assumptions. Just an offering.
You take it, your fingers brushing his.
“Thanks,” you say.
“Of course,’’ he murmurs, voice soft, gaze steady. He drinks water from one of the plain glasses. Of course he does. Luca always paces himself.
There’s a pause, but it’s not awkward. Just measured. Like everything between you.
You set down the wine, barely touched, and toe out of your shoes. His eyes flick to your feet, then back to your face. He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to.
You sit at the edge of the bed. He follows.
Nothing rushed. No sudden movements.
This isn’t about hunger. It’s about reverence. Muscle memory. Knowing exactly how this goes and still choosing to feel it fully, each time. He kneels in front of you, hands on your thighs. His forehead rests against your knee for a beat. Breathing you in. Grounding himself.
Another rule: If it ever stops feeling good, we stop.
It still feels good.
You exhale slowly, your hand finding the back of his neck. His hair is soft. Shorter than you remember.
“I missed this,” he admits quietly.
You don’t answer. You don’t need to.
Because your body is already answering for you.
Your fingers are still resting at the nape of his neck. You feel him exhale against your leg, a warm, steady breath that makes your skin prickle. Luca doesn’t move until you do.
You slip your hand beneath the collar of his shirt, just enough to tug him closer. He rises from where he kneels, moving with care. His hands ghost up your arms, over your shoulders, fingers brushing the hem of your shirt like a question.
You lift your arms in response. No words are needed. This is choreography. One you’ve done before, one your bodies remember.
He pulls your shirt off slowly, folding it once and setting it on the chair. Always tidy. Always gentle.
You undo the buttons on his shirt in return, one by one, your fingers working at a pace that betrays your heartbeat. It’s fast. Anxious. Anticipating something sacred. You pause at the last button, gaze drifting up to meet his. He’s already looking at you.
There’s a pause. Worship.
Then you slide the shirt from his shoulders, his skin warm beneath your palms. You sit back on the edge of the bed, and he is in between your knees, hands hovering just above your waist, waiting.
“Okay?” Luca’s question is quiet, and gentle.
You nod, pulling him in. His fingers find the zipper of your skirt, and you catch his wrist, not to stop him, but just to feel it. To anchor yourself. He leans forward and presses a kiss to your cheek. Then your temple. His lips linger there, soft and steady.
It’s not about rushing. It never has been. It’s about the yes that lives in every breath between you.
You let go of his wrist. He takes his time.
Your skirt slides off. Then his jeans. Layer by layer, the space between you dissolves. Bit by bit, until there’s nothing left but skin and breath.
You lie back, and Luca follows. And for the first time in a long time, you feel seen. Not as someone left waiting. Not as someone trying to make space. But as someone wanted.
Right now, here, completely.
Another rule: once the clothes are off, you make the first move.
Not Luca. Never Luca.
It’s about choice. Control. Safety. It always has been. The only way this works is if you’re the one who initiates. If he follows. And tonight, like always, he did.
Luca’s hands were always the first thing you noticed. Not because they were large (though they were), or strong (though they were that too). But because of how he used them. Careful, thoughtful, devoted. He touches like a craftsman. Like everything he holds might bruise if he’s not careful. And maybe that’s the point. He is careful. Always has been.
It’s not hesitation; it’s respect.
Your hand finds his, your fingers curling around his without a word. The size difference is ridiculous. Yours all but disappear inside his. He could hold both of yours in one palm and still have space left over. You guide him south, his gaze following with. There’s nothing frantic, yet.
You move his hands like you're in no hurry to get anywhere. Because once his hands land, they don’t take.
They offer.
His hand flexes as you hover above your navel. You can feel the warmth and excitement radiating off of him. You watch his throat as it bobs, a nervous swallow he can’t suppress. He’s inches away now. A bead of sweat slides down his temple, disappearing under his jaw. Impatience clouds his eyes, but he waits. So fucking patiently.
You let him down, let him go, and immediately, Luca cups your pussy, holding it, cradling it. His finger slides with such precision down your slit that it makes you both groan. Your thighs fall apart and you lie back, pressing into his clean sheets. It’s your sign that you're ready, that you give him permission to do what he wants.
He moves closer, on his side, rutting his body against yours. His cock is heavy as it rests against your thigh. Precum glazing your skin. You can feel it practically pulsating, and you want to touch it. But you can’t. Not yet.
“Always so ready,” His voice pulls you in. Luca still knows how to work your body even after all this time.
The muscles in his arm are strained, he’s holding so much back. And you hate it. You want him just to fucking take it. You want him just to fuck you already, and that is the cruelest part because that’s why rule number three was made in the first place. You couldn’t take his cock without having one orgasm beforehand, at least. There’s been times when you needed two, or even three -
Just then, your vision’s edges go fuzzy and your chest shudders. His thumb has brushed over your clit. Barely. The ghost of a touch if anything. You’re not expecting what comes next: the insertion of not one, but two of his fingers. A sharp gasp spills forth from your parted lips, his name follows: “Luca.”
He lifts his head and smiles at you. It’s the kind of smile that starts in one corner of his mouth and creeps out like it’s not entirely sure it has permission to be there. It’s like he’s surprised he can pull that kind of reaction from you.
“Mmm, s’okay?” It’s not a question.
Your muscles are tight, and Luca gives you a second to get used to it, before his fingers start going in further. Your hand flies to his wrist, not to stop him, but to anchor yourself to something because you swear you can feel every goddamn ridge and knuckle of his against your walls.
“Oh, this… is going to take some time,” He breathes with an airy laugh.
You swallow hard, barely able to get out an answer, when Luca presses his thumb against your clit, making actual contact this time.
“Luca -” You say his name again, arching against him.
“I know,” he replies, “Patience is a virtue.”
Patience is a fucking bitch, you want to say, but you can’t because Luca is working you open now. Relentless, yet gentle. Still taking his time, still savouring your tightness. There’s nothing but gasps and whimpers coming from your throat, and he thinks it's so goddamn delicious to hear you. Because sometimes you forget to use your words, and your little noises just remind him that he’s doing a good job.
From between your thighs, he sees and hears how wet you’ve become. Fuck, if only, he could bury his tongue into your pussy. If only he could give you a proper tongue lashing. He’d surely have you over the edge by now, but it’s forbidden. Off limits.
It’s Carmy’s peach only.
Luca never thinks about breaking many of the rules, except for this one. He sits up, lowers himself on the bed. His one hand pushes your thighs further apart, pinning it against the mattress. You're displayed across his mattress now, your cunt practically glistening in the light.
A feast, a fucking delectable feast, that has been denied to him. He groans, cock twitching. Just one taste, his head dips before thought can catch up to impulse, but you are quicker. You stop him, a mere inch away. His tongue could almost…
“Luca, no.” That tone. A warning.
He’s quickly brought back to his senses. Luca gives you a wickedly, wretched apologetic look that almost has you breaking too. How could you deny him?
Instead, you watch as he slowly withdraws his fingers from your hole, a mess of juices clinging to them, and brings them to his mouth. Luca sucks the sweetness away and the sound he makes, a low groan in his throat, is more vibration than noise.
The way his lashes flutter, as if you’d fed him something sacred. Something forbidden. As if Luca was Adam taking the apple from the garden. When his eyes met yours again, they were soft at the edges, the blue gone hazy like steam over a simmering pot.
“Sweet,” he whispers. A shadow clings to his features, “But not sweet enough…”
His fingers are back inside. Three this time. More stretching. Moving vigorously. His free hand settles on your pelvis, pushing down. Your abdomen grows tight, breath catching mid-inhale. Once again, you hold onto him. Not out of need, not entirely out of want. But because you like feeling him work.
The tension in his back. The slow, controlled movement of muscle. The way Luca listens and responds, always so carefully, like he’s plating something delicate. It tells you that he’s here. Not back at the restaurant. Not dreaming up sauce pairings or obsessing over reductions. But here.
Present.
With you.
And working.
Luca is putting in the hours, not just with his hands, but with his attention. And you feel it in every shift of his body. He’s showing up. Not just for the moment, but for you.
There's a tension unfurling low and warm, stretching to the edge of too much, but not quite. Your muscles once drawn tight loosen. Just enough to feel it. You've been waiting. For this moment, this touch, this closeness.
And now that it’s here, it’s… quieter than you expected. Not bad. Just smaller. Less than the ache made it seem. It eases something in you, but doesn’t erase it. Takes the edge off, but doesn’t fill the space. It’s not everything you wanted, but it’s enough. For now.
Luca doesn’t say anything right away. He sits there for a moment, steady, still, letting the air settle. His arm still drapes across you, hand resting on your pelvis, fingers twitching like they want to keep moving.
You feel it. Not in what he says, but in what he doesn’t. He’s good at hiding it. The quiet dissatisfaction. The stretch of days that feel the same. The lack of spark in a kitchen that isn’t his. He’ll never say it aloud. Not yet. But you know him. You know what it feels like when you're being fed by his work.
Luca bites his lip, that small, tight movement betrays him. He’s watching you breathe, chest rising and falling. His gaze softens, eyes tracing the slight tremor in your ribs. Almost imperceptible shift that tells him everything he needs to know.
The itch he didn’t scratch. The need you didn’t voice. It’s there, beneath the surface, quiet but aching. He can see it now, in the way you hold yourself. In the spaces between your breaths, in the way you let the silence fill the room. He knows exactly what it means.
Luca sees the quiet neglect. The kind that doesn’t get spoken about. The hunger you’ve learned to sit with. The one you’ve never complained about, never asked for more of. You’d never admit it. He knows that. But he sees it. And it makes something tighten in his chest.
The thought of you going hungry, of not being fed, of your needs being overlooked, when he’s the one who should be taking care of it? It gnaws at him. It’s nothing he can just ignore. His jaw tightens, then he exhales, a slow, controlled breath. His fingers twitch again, itching to fix it, to make it right, but all he can now is watch you. Trying to let the moment breathe, knowing the longer he stays, the more he’ll want to do something about it.
He wants to show you how good it can be. How you deserve the kind of warmth and light that makes your whole body tingle. Fireworks exploding from your chest and behind your eyes. He wants to make you feel those sparks, to see them burst, bright and wild, just for you. Because you’re worth it. Because you deserve the fireworks.
Luca didn’t know when, or if, he’d get another shot at this. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe never. But you are waiting, breath held, and that is enough. So he’s back at it, working his fingers harder and better than the first time. You’re gasping, begging, but not for him to stop. He knows you need this too because he knows how uncherished your pussy is.
Luca knows how Carmy gets when he’s locked in, and he just doesn’t understand how Carmy can overlook your needs. The quiet ways Carmy lets you go hungry when it comes to what matters most. To Luca, it feels selfish. Because you deserve so much more. You deserve to be worshipped. To be cherished. To have every day feel like a celebration of you.
If you were only Luca’s, he knows you’d have it. He wouldn’t let a single moment pass without showing you just how much you mean. How deeply you’re seen. How fiercely you’re wanted. It’s not just desire. It's reverence. And that is what Carmy is missing.
Luca swallows the bitterness, tucks it away, and lets his hands do the talking. There’s an aggression to his movements now. A possession almost. He’s curling his fingers with a purpose, pressing deeper, marking territory in a way that’s as much about need as it is about claiming. He’s not just touching you. He’s reminding you. Reminding himself. You belong here. With him.
A slow smirk curves at the corner of Luca’s lip, the flicker of satisfaction quiet but unmistakable. He knows, he fucking knows, how to get you there. How to make those sparks fly when it counts. That’s why he has to do this. Why he has to be the one. Because Carmy can’t. Not really. Luca remembers the look on Carmy’s face the first time Luca managed to get the job done right. Right and proper. The surprise. The grudging respect. The unspoken acknowledgement that sometimes, despite the love and years, he just couldn’t. It wasn’t a failure; it was a truth.
Because you deserve fireworks. Because Luca can give them to you. Your body is squirming beneath his touch. Your chest and throat are tight, breaths coming out short: “Please, please, please, mmm’fuck, please, Luca, o’fuckfuck.”
It pulls tight low in your belly. Urgent. Aching, like holding something in too long. Sharp with anticipation. Almost unbearable. Your body is begging for relief. Not from the pain, but from the pressure. That rising and demanding pressure. You don’t know how to form proper words anymore; you’ve been reduced to a blabbering and incoherent mess.
Then, it happens. The levy breaks. It comes in a tiny swell before the entire current spills from your wrecked and trembling cunt. You're holding his wrist so tight that there’s going to be a bruise there tomorrow, but Luca doesn’t mind. He already knows he’s going to jack off to the image and lingering scent of you tomorrow.
Luca removes his hand that had you pinned and runs it through his hair, pushing it back and away from his face. You can’t help but watch him again, in awe with the slightest adoration peaking through. You’re both thinking the same thing, too bad you can’t say it out loud.
But Luca knows. He fucking knows. If only he met you first. You’d be all his, and he’d be all yours. You wouldn’t need to ask or search, because he’d take care of you. Take care of everything. He’d keep you so well fed, so utterly satisfied, that you’d never want for seconds from somebody else.
“Fuck.” Luca grunts, more to himself than to you. A self-deprecating laugh follows. He’s gazing down at you and you’re just stunned. Heavy eyelids, parted lips, drunk on the moment. Every blink comes slow, syrupy, as if you’re afraid to break the spell.
“Was that okay?” He murmurs, fingers tracing idle patterns over your skin. He’s memorizing the topography of you. Luca’s blue eyes hold too much tenderness, and a devotion that makes your pulse stutter.
God, Luca is so maddening.
You remember now why you had to distance yourself from him. Because he does this. Asks like your answer is scripture, touches like your skin is sacred, looks at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth seeing. You want to drag him closer, to finally press your lips to those stubborn, pink pouty ones that he keeps biting. But instead, you force yourself to exhale sharply through your nose.
“Yeah, s’okay,” you lie.
Because it’s not just okay. It’s everything. Too much, too fast, too real. And that’s what scares you. Luca unravels you, stitch by stitch, and part of you wants to hold on tight, while another part is desperate to pull away before you lose yourself completely.
He smiles, knowingly, thumb brushing your hip. “Just ‘s’okay’?”
Bastard.
You grab his hand with yours and press it against your ribs, where he can feel your traitorous heartbeat. A silent confession: you’re wrecking me. Keep going.
Luca runs a hand through his hair again, pulling harder than necessary. He needs to remind himself that you aren’t his, and he has to return you. But not until he’s stuffed you full of his cum, and fuck, he’s been saving up for weeks. It’s been nothing but edging to thoughts of you and holding himself back for this exact moment. And now that it’s here, he’s determined to make it count. Because you’re worth every saved orgasm, every restless night, every risk.
He shifts closer, moving your hips as he settles between them. The head of his cock sits at your flushed entrance. Your pussy is so swollen, wet, and dripping with pleasure. He nudges his member forward, sliding just the tip inside, and the narrow friction almost wrecks him right then and there.
You shift on the sheets, eyes closed, but your face betrays you. A flicker. Barely there. A slight tightening around your mouth, your brows. A pained look that passes across your face like a shadow. You don’t make a sound, but Luca sees it, feels it. You’re taking something you can’t quite hold. And for a moment, Luca stills. He hates that he’s part of it, that he’s both the pleasure and the ache.
He leans in just enough to kiss your shoulder, barely a brush. And you shift, small and instinctive. Trusting. He pushes his cock, inch by inch, inside. A low grunt escapes from his chest. He could spill everything then, but Luca has always been disciplined. That’s what makes him good at work, at his craft, at this. He knows how to hold the line. How to keep it together. And right now, it takes every ounce of that control not to unravel. Not to give you everything he has -
“Mm’so fucking big,” Is all you can manage as you feel it deep in your belly. A fullness that’s impossible to ignore. Exquisite. Not just from the act itself, but from what it means. The weight of being wanted. Of being given to. Of being filled with something more than just touch.
It lingers, warm and heavy, blooming outward like honey spreading across hot skin. It grounds you, centers you. Makes you feel held. It hums through your bones and settles low, slow, and satisfying.
“Just a bit more,” His words ghost out, but a little bit more… and … he bottoms out. There’s a lot of breathing. It’s heavy and harsh. Both of your chests are rising and falling in sync. Your unused walls are fluttering around his cock and fuck. Luca holds still. He’s in no hurry to start, but he’s vibrating with tension.
Then, he starts to move. In and out. A slow, agonizing rhythm that has you clawing at the sheets below. It’s delicious, but you need more. You always need more. And Luca is going to give it to you. Because it’s his job, and he takes his job very fucking seriously. His pace picks up. Your body has gotten used to him, to his length, to his girth. It’s easier for him to glide in and out, easier for him to control himself. He wants you to go over the edge before he does. It’s only fair.
The heel of Luca’s palm slides down and rests against your clit, and just like that. Your mind goes hazy before going blank. You’re already cumming. No warning. His cock twitches inside of you, rolling his hips as your body sinks into pleasure. It feels good. Too good.
The way Luca touches you like he already knows what you need before you do, it lights something up inside of you. Something you’ve been pretending that doesn’t exist.
And god, you feel guilty.
Not just for being here. Not just for wanting it. But for enjoying it this much. For melting into it, for melting into Luca. For the way your body reaches for him even when your mind screams you shouldn’t. But the guilt doesn’t dull the sensation. It sharpens it. Makes every brush of his hands feel more dangerous. More electric.
Luca makes you feel seen. Taken care of. Fed.
And for a second, just a second, you let yourself forget everything else. Because in his hands, you don’t have to ask. You don’t have to explain. You just feel. And it’s the best thing you’ve felt in a long, long time.
He’s watching you in the shifting light. You’re breathing slow, lashes low, that hazy content clinging to your skin. And it notices it again, what he always notices after you’ve orgasmed. The way your body changes color. Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just glows. Faint traces of pink across your chest, your neck, the tops of your thighs. A fever that blooms just beneath the surface.
And he wonders, does Carmy even care to see it? Does Carmy know how your skin flushes when you’ve been properly touched? Properly fucked? How your breath catches in your throat before you let go? The way your limbs go heavy and boneless, but your fingertips still twitch like they’re holding onto something visible?
Because Luca does, and Luca knows. God, he knows. He closes his eyes. He shouldn’t be the one who knows your body this way. But he is.
He buries his cock. To your hilt. He doesn’t hold back. He never does. When he gives, he gives everything. Every inch, every breath, every ounce of himself poured into you like it’s his only purpose. He goes deep, not just in the way his body moves with yours, but in how he stays there with you. Present. Steady. Locked in.
His teeth graze the side of your neck, murmuring against your skin, “All yours.” Because this is the part that wrecks him the most: not that you’re here, not that you let him in. But that someone else gets to call you theirs… and that Carmy doesn’t even realize what he has.
And even as guilt coils tight in your chest, the pleasure outweighs it. Because no one’s ever given like this. No one’s ever offered you like this. You take it. You take all of it. His rhythm, his depth, the full force of everything he’s too careful to say out loud.
part one: here
pairing: Shepard Leopold x fem!reader
word count: 6.6k
warnings: 18+, NSFW!!, smut, no use of y/n, dom/sub-ish vibes, p in v, creampie, blowjob, orgasm denial-ish, masturbation, nurse/patient stuff
summary: That's how it started: him injured, you paid to care. Simple. Professional. Temporary. You should've known it wouldn't stay that simple.
author’s note: ok, ok, ok! part 2. ooof. was a bit of a doozy to write because i wanted broody, sulky Shepard but also wanted him to be bratty and i wanted more of the dom/sub vibes but it's like how far do i take it? >.< anyway, i hope you enjoy <3 twp.
It’s been a week.
Seven days of business as usual.
Or something like it.
You wake him. Bathe him. Dress him. Feed him. Tuck him in. Same routines. Same rhythm. But there’s a shift, almost imperceptible.
Shepard is quiet most days, but it’s not the same grumpy quiet as before. Less sulky, less bristling every touch. Now, it’s the silence of someone thinking - no. Remembering. You catch him watching you. Not staring, but not not staring. His jaw works, his brows knit just slightly, like he’s annoyed with himself. He answers in one or two-word bites, no extra energy spent. But then - thank you. It falls out before he can catch it, and he looks just as surprised as you feel.
You don’t mention it. Just smile to yourself. Barely.
You don’t comment on the way he watches you, either. That long, unreadable stare. Not quite bitter, not quite soft. Just… there. Quietly devouring. And you definitely don’t mention how your hands hesitate, a breath too long, when you button his shirt. Or how your face gets warm when his eyes follow the path of your fingers.
You both pretend. It’s better that way.
After the day is done, after the routine is finished, you lie in bed most nights, body thrumming with nerves you can’t shake. Playing back things you shouldn’t have said. Shouldn’t have done. But tonight, the buzzing under your skin won’t quiet, no matter how you shift beneath the sheets. So you give in. You think about it. About him. You go back to that night. Back to him.
Your hand slips beneath the waistband of your bottoms. You shouldn’t. You never do. But tonight… it’s worse. Maybe it’s his silence. The way his painkillers make him softer, looser-limbed, less fortified. Maybe it’s the way he looked before you left tonight: not soft, not hard. Just aware. Like he knew what you were thinking and didn’t have the strength to shame you for it.
Your hand hesitates. You’re not going to think about him, you tell yourself. You’re not. You’re thinking about your own body, about tension and need and whatever hot, nameless thing that has been growing in your chest like a weed since the first time he flinched when you touched him. You press your palm flat against your own skin. Breath out slowly.
You’re already wet. Your proximity to Shepard has your body working against you. Overproducing. Overreacting. It’s embarrassing how easily your system floods with androgens and estrogens. Like some helpless animal responding to heat. You’ve been wrestling with your own hormones daily since taking this job.
You think about the way his body trembled under your hands. The sounds Shepard made were involuntary. Guttural. Like it surprised him… like it scared him. You exhale, low and slow, as you lightly stroke the drenched seam of your panties, arousal tingling dully in your core.
The truth is, you can’t remember the last time you were with someone. Not like this, never like this. Your job is demanding. Long hours, no time for mistakes, no room for softness. And that’s how you prefer it. It keeps your hands full and your heart quiet. And Shepard is certainly demanding. Just not in the way you’re used to. He says things that get under your skin, and somehow, he does it without lifting a finger. And that might be the worst part. He doesn’t even have the use of his hands, but he’s still managed to undo you more efficiently than anyone has in years.
You imagine what Shepard might do if he knew you were thinking about him like this. Would he mock you? Call you pathetic? Or worse… would he say nothing at all? Just look at you with that stupid, unreadable expression that makes your stomach turn? The thought is sharp. It lands low.
You try to stop, try to take your hand away. But all you can see is the slope of his neck, the way he sat so still, breathing through the pain and the pleasure. All you can feel is the heat of him, the memory of how quickly he folded under your touch, how his eyes swam with something neither of you dared to name.
Your hand doesn’t move. It slips beneath the flimsy cotton, and presses into the sticky desire that coats your bare cunt. You think about how infuriatingly delicious Shepard looked when your hands were wrapped around his cock - a prince fallen from grace. Hair loose, pride fractured, completely undone. The usual sharpness had drained from him, leaving something raw, and wrecked. In that moment, he was yours.
Utterly, undeniably yours.
You move faster now, fingers gliding in the slickness, hooking inside your opening. A strained whimper escapes from your throat, and with it comes a giddiness of being caught by Shepard. You wonder how long he’d last just watching you, or if he’d be climbing on top and claiming you with that obnoxiously thick shaft of his. Your insides clench. Unsatisfied. It’s not enough, it will never be enough. Not when Shepard is down the hall. Laying there. With that thing between his legs.
You push the unquenchable emptiness away, focusing on your clit instead, drawing lazy circles around the sensitive nub, adding pressure until it’s just right. You breathe in shallow, hushed gasps. And when your thighs press together, creating a dizzying amount of friction, you have to bite back a moan.
You’re close, so close, body humming impatiently as it tips over the edge. You think about every graze of skin, every low command, every moment spent close enough to smell Shepard and feel his warmth - and at last, you let the current take you, resistance futile.
A pleasant warmth spreads across planes of flushed skin. Any noise spilling forth is quickly muffled by your other hand, but his name still manages to slip past your lips: “Shepard.”
The next morning, you knock softly on Shepard’s door.
No answer.
You open it anyway and step inside, carrying a tray of his pain medication and a glass of juice, like always. The curtains are half-drawn and the light spills over his bed like a quiet blessing. Shepard is already awake. Not looking at you, not yet. He’s staring out the window, lips drawn into a tight line. The ever darkening shadows under his eyes tell you he didn’t sleep - again.
You say nothing as you walk in. Just set the tray down on the nightstand. You feel the moment his eyes snap to your face, and stay there. The back of your neck prickles.
“Rough night?” A detached inquiry, his tone indifferent.
Your throat dries, and your eyes lift to his.
Shepard looks at you like a match to dry kindling. Not accusatory, not even curious. Just knowing. A shift. Subtle. His legs parting slightly beneath the blanket, settling into the weight of your gaze or maybe he’s daring you to look away.
A twitch of his mouth. Not a smile. Something meaner. “You walk differently when you’ve taken the edge off.”
The audacity. The accuracy. You blink, once. Twice. Your gaze catches on his lips, a second too long, before you turn away, clearing your throat. Deflect. Distract.
“Do you want to eat breakfast downstairs, or in here?”
He doesn’t answer. Not with words. Just the slow, deliberate lean back into the pillows, his gaze still heavy. Still waiting. And there it is again - the thread pulled taut between you. Memory and suggestion. Body heat and bite. You should walk away.
Finally, Shepard shrugs, all maddening ease, voice rough with something unsaid, “Whatever’s easier… for you.”
You hand him the tiny plastic cup with two white pills inside. It’s light enough for his fingers to manage, but still, Shepard takes his time. Drawing it out like he knows what it does to you. His lips part, tongue catching the edge of the rim before he tips the pills back.
You have to turn away. It’s too much. Too aware. It’s intentional, and calculated like he’s tasting more than what’s on offer. But the moment doesn’t last. You still have to press the cool rim of the glass to his mouth like you’re some saintly caretaker, not the woman who bit her own lip last night to stifle the moans he dragged out without even touching her.
Shepard doesn’t make it easy. He observes, eyes half-lidded and sharp. A dissecting stare that peels back your skin, studying the heat underneath. You wonder if he’s picturing it now. The way your body arched, the sweat along your neck. How his name left your mouth in a broken exhale, like a prayer and punishment all at once.
His lips close around the glass. You have to keep your hand steady.
“You’re quiet,” his throat works around a swallow. “That’s not like you.”
You want to roll your eyes, but they sting. “You’re imagining things.”
“Oh, I am,” A breathy laugh escapes him, all loose limbs and dangerous amusement. “Trust me.”
His reply makes you freeze. The glass clinks as you set it down. Too loud in the deafening silence. You busy yourself by tidying up, clearing surfaces that don’t need clearing. Anything to keep your hands moving and your thoughts from spiraling into heat again.
“I’ll bring your breakfast in here.”
“Great,” The word stretches, syrupy with false cheer. “Let me know if you need help.”
You should be relieved. The sarcasm’s back, his familiar armor clanging into place. But this? This is worse. It’s a measured provocation that sinks its hooks deep, nestling right where he wants it.
“Or,” A pause. His voice drips with lazy cruelty, “you could sit on my lap and feed me by hand. That’s the level of service I’ve come to expect.”
Your glare does nothing to steady your traitorous pulse. Shepard catches it, of course he does, mouth quirking like he’s tallying points on some invisible scoreboard.
A sharp exhale, “Do you even want to eat breakfast?”
“Depends…” All casual indifference, as if discussing the weather. But his eyes? Dark. Hungry. Tracing the flush on your throat, the restless tap of your fingers. A man savouring the menu before the meal.
You try to smother the jolt in your stomach with a scoff, “Cereal or toast. Those are your options.”
A hum. Low. Considering. “Doesn’t sound very satisfying.”
Your breath hitches, just enough. Enough for his gaze to sharpen, for that smirk to tilt. The blush crawls from your throat and settles on your cheeks. Heat pools low between your ribs, a liquid ache you refuse to name.
“Right,” Too quick. Too clipped. “Toast it is.”
The door slams behind you. Not enough to rattle the frame, but just enough to tell him he won. And through the wood, barely there: the quiet, triumphant laugh of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing.
You return with his toast, slamming the plate onto the side table with just too much force. Shepard lounges against his pillows like a king on borrowed time. The butter knife becomes your lifeline. Grip too tight. Strokes too precise. You feel his gaze as it trails over your forced impassivity, and up to the slight pinch of your brows.
You thrust his toast forward. No resistance now. No performative grumbling about dignity. Just his mouth opening, obedient and expectant, lips grazing your fingertips with deliberate heat.
You jerk back. Burned.
He chews slowly, eyes locked on yours. Smug. Satisfied.
“You used to hate this.”
A swallow. A shrug. “I acquired a taste.”
Another bite offered. Another lean forward, his breath warm against your knuckles. Too close. Too knowing.
“Funny thing,” Shepard murmurs around the food, “How being hand-fed by someone who hates you feels… intimate.”
Your fingers freeze mid-air. Baffled. Flustered. One moment he’s brittle silence, the next he’s all provocation and molten glances. That glint in his eyes isn’t just mischief; it’s recognition, like he’s seeing straight through the charade of your irritation to the beat hammering in your heart.
“You’re a brat, Shepard.”
“Yet here you are,” he tries to lick butter from his bottom lip, “Still feeding me.”
You swipe the napkin across his mouth, rough enough to redden his skin. His smirk is a blade. “Such a good nurse.”
The words slither down your spine. You feel him cataloging your reactions: the catch in your throat, the way your hips tilt unconsciously toward him. God, you hate this. Hate how your body betrays you.
“Look at you. All huffy.” His voice dips, velvet over gravel.
“I’m not huffy.”
“You are.” A lazy once-over. “Huffy as hell. Your nose does that thing -” He mimics a twitch with his fingers, “- that little tell.”
You clench your jaw so hard your teeth ache. “Must be a side effect of dealing with an overgrown child.”
“You weren’t calling me a child when you were -”
You shove the toast between his teeth, “Eat, Shepard.”
It’s unbearable. The way your heart riots. The way he watches you, chewing slow, savouring your frustration. This is the game now: you, playing at indifference. Him, peeling it back layer by layer.
And the worst part? He’s winning.
Half-naked, broken, and still smirking like he knows exactly how this ends. With your hands fisted in his hair or around his throat. Maybe both.
He leans in, “You know… if you wanted to be this close, you could’ve just said so.”
You press the toast hard enough to make him choke. His laughter is worth the butter smeared across your fingers.
“If I didn’t know any better,” you mutter, “I’d think you’re milking this.”
A slow swallow. A slower smirk. “Maybe I am,” his gaze drops to your sticky fingertips. “Maybe I like watching you milk me.”
The air between you thickens. You should wipe your hands. You don’t. His eyes lock onto yours. Say it, that look says. Tell me how you remember how I taste.
“Shepard -” Your voice is a frayed thread, pitched too high.
“We both agreed,” he cuts in, mimicking your tone in a hushed murmur, “it would be a one-time thing.”
You nod, too quick. Too stiff. You snatch up the half-finished breakfast tray. You desperately need space. Air. Distance. Anything to escape that searing stare of his - like he can see straight through the muscle and ribcage to the dull, insistent throb below your navel.
You turn to flee.
His fingers graze your arm. A ghost of a touch. Clumsy from healing bones, but intentional. It arcs through you like lightning, your pulse lurching to your throat. You swallow. Dizzy. You can’t look at him. Won’t.
Behind you, Shepard’s voice comes, rough with certainty, no tease left: “You’re scared of how much you’ll enjoy it.”
And the worst part? Shepard is right.
The words cling like smoke, settling into your pores. Your grip on the tray turns vicious, knuckles bleaching white. If you turn now, if you meet those knowing eyes, you’ll freefall. No net. No ground. Just him.
You make it to the kitchen before you remember how to breathe. Pathetic. You shouldn’t let him under your skin like this. But he is. Has been for weeks. That smug, infuriating, unfairly beautiful bastard has been chipping through your defenses since day one -
The day passes in careful performance. Nurse and patient. Professional and polite. But beneath every measured touch, every clinical instruction, something simmers.
By late afternoon, you’re crouched beside him on the chaise, fingers working at the brace around his wrist. Velcro snagged, edges pinching skin. A delicate operation.
His breath catches when your fingers slip beneath the strap. His arm tenses, but not from pain.
You glance up, “Did that hurt?”
“No.”
But Shepard isn’t looking at his wrist. He’s looking at you. The temperature drops ten degrees. Or maybe it spikes. You can’t tell anymore. Your hand remains pressed to his forearm. You should move it.
“Are you always this gentle?” His voice is rough, barely there.
You exhale, “Do you always ask questions with answers you already know?”
A smirk flickers. Gone too fast.
“I think you like me now,” he murmurs.
“I think you’re delirious from the lack of sleep.”
But neither of you move. Knees almost touching. Faces too close. You’re balanced on the edge. One breath away from tipping forward. And then, that pull. Stupid. Relentless. Painful.
Shepard shifts. For a heartbeat, you think he’ll close the distance.
Instead: “Do you need something?”
The question lands like a stone in your chest. You stand abruptly, but hesitate. He’s watching you, head tilted, that faint crease between his brows like he’s already solved you and is just waiting for you to figure it out.
“Just water.”
Silence. Heavy. Unyielding. You wait for the barb, the smirk, the something -
“Then go get your water.”
Not cruel. Not sharp. Just flat. And beneath it, something fractured.
You nod, “Right. Okay.”
The kitchen is too bright, too cold. You grip the sink, staring at the remnants of breakfast. Crusts fossilized in butter, a butterknife smeared with fingerprints. His gaze burns through walls. Real or imagined, it doesn’t matter. You’re both playing statues, both waiting for the other to shatter first.
The work continues.
Dinner. Bath time. Miraculously, no bloodshed.
In the shower, he’s unnervingly still. Lets you maneuver him without protest, but his eyes, dark and steady, follow every moment. The cloth drags over his chest. Your fingers skim the towel wrapped firmly around his waist. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak. Just takes even breaths.
You dress him in silence. Cotton whispers over healed bruises. Your hands fumble at the hem. A beat too long. Still, Shepard says nothing.
Pillows fluffed. Blankets tucked. Lights dimmed.
The air swells, suffocating, pressing against your skin, testing your resolve. And Shepard just watches. That infuriating, knowing look. Like he’s already mapped every weak point and is waiting for the collapse.
Worst of all?
It won’t happen when you’re ready.
It’ll happen when he decides.
You hand him his last dose of medication for the night in the tiny little pill cup. It’s the same as before. The same tantalizing view. His mouth parted, waiting. His lashes lowered, the curve of his neck exposed just slightly from the way he sits propped up.
You bring the glass of water to his lips, only this time, you’ve given him a straw. And somehow, that’s worse. He puckers and sucks, taunting. Because Shepard knows. He feels the minute shift in your temperature from where you’re standing, holding the glass steady. His throat works once, twice, swallowing the pills down.
The seconds stretch. Neither of you move. Then, as he licks a drop of water from his bottom lip, he murmurs, “Was that easier for you?”
You don’t answer because you can’t. Because the heat has returned, unrelenting, and frantic as it crawls beneath your skin.
“You’re shaking.”
You weren’t. But now, you are.
His shoulder brushes your hand, the one still clutching the glass, as he moves forward. Just enough.
“You keep doing that.” His breath ghosts over your knuckles.
“Doing what?”
“Feeding me like you’re not starving too.”
Another shift. Not enough to hurt. Not enough to topple whatever fragile balance hangs between you. But enough to loom, to let his voice fall into something dark and velvet.
“You think I don’t notice it?”
Your skin burns from the inside out.
“You hold your breath when I drink,” his thumb traces the rim of the glass, mocking your white-knuckle grip. “Like you’re worried I’ll do it wrong. Or maybe you’re just waiting for me to - what? Choke? Spill it? Give you an excuse to wipe my mouth?”
“Shepard,” Sternness crumbles into something too soft.
His mouth twitches. He hears it. Savors it.
“Maybe you like that part,” Another shift. The glass trembles. “The cleanup. Your fingers grazing my face.” His eyes drop to your chest, “Your body pressing closer to mine..."
“You could just toss me a napkin - we both know I'm capable of some things," His voice is pure spite, mouth twitching. Not a smile, but the ghost of one. You feel as the room starts to shrink, walls bending under the density of unsaid words.
"So, tell me... is it all just an excuse to touch me?"
Your knees nearly give. Nearly. Shepard watches, amused, as you sway. He already knows. Of course he knows. You see it in the flicker of his lashes. In the way his tongue swipes the corner of his mouth, tasting your silence.
His head tilts, just slightly, "What are you thinking about now?"
Shepard doesn't wait for your answer. Why would he? He already knows. Your lips press together. He grins. Exactly as expected.
“I'm thinking about how far I have to go before you break."
The glass finds the nightstand with a too-loud clink. You retreat, one step. Two. Just enough to breathe. Just enough not to crawl into his lap and finish what he started. Shepard lets you go. His gaze burns holes through your shirt, feasting on every tremor, and every near-surrender he pulls from you.
The pathetic part?
You don’t even last an hour before you’re back. Standing in front of his bedroom door. Fists clenched, fury and want twisting hot beneath your skin. One sharp knock. No permission sought.
Inside, Shepard’s awake. Of course he is. Propped against the headboard, arms splinted, TV glowing silent. His eyes drag over you, slow and insolent, catching on the hem of your shirt. No pants. No pretense. You didn’t even notice. Or maybe you wanted him to look. The door clicks shut behind you.
“Couldn’t sleep?” Mild. Innocent. Infuriating.
“You’re a spoiled brat!” The words tremble, not from anger, not entirely.
He grins, “Didn’t know that was breaking news.”
“I am here to help you." You grit between clenched teeth, “I wipe your mouth, I carry your food, I bathe you-”
“ - thoroughly.” A slow, deliberate purr.
“You -” Your fists clench, “You are making this - my job - impossible.”
“Am I?” he tilts his head, the picture of mock innocence, “I thought I was just sitting here. You’re the one who stormed in here looking for a fight.”
“You keep pushing,” You glare. “Flirting. Teasing. Then pretending it’s all just a joke.” Another step. “But it’s not. You’re doing it on purpose. To watch me squirm. Because it’s funny to you.”
The edge of his smirk falters, “It’s not funny.”
“Then what is it, Shepard?”
Silence. The air hums.
When he finally speaks, it’s rough. Almost raw. “It’s the only thing I can do.”
“What?”
“I can’t touch you,” His tone darkens with frustration, “Can’t move my hands. Can’t kiss you. Can’t even lean forward without help.” A bitter laugh, “All I can do is sit here and want you.”
Your ribs splinter around your lungs.
“So yeah. I talk. I tease. I look.” Shepard’s throat bobs before the words rumble out, “Because that’s all I’ve got right now.”
A pause.
“Do you think this is easy for me? Watching you walk around, touch me, talk to me like that?”
You’re struck mute.
Shepard exhales, sharp. “You don’t talk to me like I’m just another patient. And you look at me like -”
He cuts himself off, eyes darting away. Chest rising too fast. He’s said too much, yet not enough.
“Like what?” You demand.
His eyes snap back. That unreadable mask, cracked open. Heat. Hunger. Hesitation. It ignites something furious in your chest. You move closer. To the edge of his bed. To the point of no return.
You climb on, and feel the mattress slowly give to the added weight as you begin your taunting ascent, crawling up his body, movements thick with intent. Your eyes fuse with his, watching as his pupils dilate. Your knees bracket his hips, settling there.
“Say it, Shepard.”
His hips jerk up instinctively, a silent fuck you to the injuries that keep him from flipping you onto your back. Your palms press flat against his chest, fingers splayed wide. The heat of his skin sears through the thin fabric of his shirt. Beneath your hands, his heart stutters. A frantic, uneven rhythm that betrays the steady facade he clings to. His breathing turns shallow, each inhale too quick, too sharp, like he’s already drowning in the space between your bodies.
Shepard tries to look away. But you catch him. Your fingers curling under his chin, tilting his face back to yours. Not harsh. Not gentle. Just… inescapable. His jaw tightens under your touch, but he doesn’t pull back.
“No more games - no more smug little comments,” Your voice thins to a whisper, “Say what you mean.”
And still, he doesn’t say it.
Your eyes drink him in, tracing every micro-expression, watching him watch you. He’s trying to anticipate what you’ll do next. He can’t, and that’s the point.
“Say it,” you repeat, lower this time. Deadly calm. “You had so much to say all day, Shepard. So say it now.”
He swallows, parts his lips - nothing.
“What’s wrong?” Your words measured, predatory, “Tongue-tied all of a sudden? I thought you were hungry, Shepard - I thought you wanted to see me break."
There’s a flicker of something wild in his eyes. Frustration. Need. You drag your hips forward. Just enough to make him feel it. Not a grind, not a roll. Just pressure. Shepard makes a low, bitten-out sound that’s more snarl than speech.
“Say it, Shepard,” A smoldering whisper, hot against his ear, “Beg for it.”
You feel a fine tremor running through him. Not from pain, but from shear fucking willpower. From fighting it. From fighting you. From fighting himself.
“You know what I want.” The rough timbre of his voice scrapes down your spine, leaving the vertebrae marked.
You withdraw, heat lingering in the imprint where your hips had fit together, “Try again.”
Every tendon in his neck stands taut, face twisting into something pained at the loss of contact. Like it hurts to want you this much. You peel your hands away, and watch the exact moment his control slips by just a fraction.
“Please, I’ve been going insane. Watching you. Wanting you to just - fuck - kiss me, please kiss me."
No pause, no breath between thought and action as your mouth claims his. His lips are softer than you imagined, so unlike the sharp edges of his words. His fingers drag weakly up your thigh. Too broken to hold you, too stubborn to stop. They trace your skin, memorizing a map he can’t yet claim.
When you pull back, Shepard's eyes are wide and glassy. Like's glimpsed the sun up close. Blinking. Stunned. Already aching for the burn of it again.
"I could stop," Your thumb drifts along his jaw, "Or I could see how far I have to go before you break...again."
Shepard forces out a single exhale that's almost a laugh, the kind that says 'we're still doing this?'
A tilt of your head. He thinks the game is over, that you folded and surrendered to him. All because of a kiss (it was only a kiss). It's almost cute, the way he thinks he's won.
You pat his cheek, just hard enough to sting, "Shepard, you can’t even touch me."
He shoots you a miserable look and pouts. Actually pouts. You've never seen a grown man look so whiny in your life. And just to add to his misery, you lean back and drag the hem of your shirt up before tossing it aside. His head tips back, eyes studying the curve of your breasts, tracing the areas he’d mark if only his hands were free.
“If I hurt you, or if anything hurts," You lean forward, chest crushing his, feeling the exact moment when his lungs shudder, "you have to tell me, okay?”
“Yea-yeah, okay." It’s quick. Almost too quick. You both know he’s not going to tell you if it hurts. He never does. You catch his chin, forcing his gaze to yours. He’s so pretty like this: mouth swollen and pink, chest heaving.
“I asked for the truth, not whatever that was.”
His cheeks puff out, flustered. Yet somehow, his voice is steady and unshaken, “If anything hurts, I’ll tell you.”
The contradiction is maddening. He’s still in control, trying so hard, and you? You’re a sinner on a mission. You’ll make him break if it’s the last thing you do.
You sit up in increments. First your shoulders, then your spine, finally your head. Savouring Shepard’s reaction: a huff, a pointed look at his useless fingers, then back at you. All wounded pride and dramatics.
“You’re overdressed.”
An eyeroll, a long-suffering sigh, “Well I can’t exactly help with that.”
“Good. That just means I get to take my time.”
Inch by inch, you slide his shirt up his torso. His stomach dips under your touch, neither firm nor flabby. Just unapologetically there. You’re careful of his slings, of the healing breaks in his arms, but you don’t shy away from the rest of him. And you make sure Shepard feels everything: fingertips, gaze, breath as you kiss a path along his midsection.
When you finally remove his shirt, it hits you. You’ve memorized his body in fragments. The slope of his back, the twist of his scars. But this is the first time you’ve let yourself want it all. Your palms run down the planes of his chest, then lower, your fingers skimming just under the waistband of his pants. He bucks, just slightly. A useless jolt of want.
Your fingers hook into them, easing them down, so slowly that Shepard swears under his breath. And when you glance up, you catch it.
“You’re blushing.” You muse, and watch him sputter. His ears, already pink, darken to crimson. His flush isn’t just embarrassment. It’s fury. Want. Defeat. A silent realization that he’s a pawn in your game, and that you’re still playing.
“Well you’re not playing fair.” He grumbles, bottom lip caught between his teeth. You’ve never wanted to kiss away someone’s sulking more in your life.
You leave his sweatpants bunched at his knees, hands skating up the softness of his inner thighs, flesh yielding when you knead it. Your body shifts until your face is hovering above the tent of fabric that’s been hard to ignore. A muscle jumps in his jaw.
“Oh, well... since I'm not playing fair, why don't you tell me what you want, Shepard?"
He swallows, throat working overtime because he’s fighting it. When he speaks, it’s hoarse and frail.
“I want - fuck. I want you.”
You sigh, “That’s not very specific…”
Shepard groans, head thudding against the headboard, as though the effort of holding back is physically painful. It probably is. You know it is, and still. You wait. It’s worth it. Seeing him unravel like this.
“I want your hands, your mouth -” His breath is shaky, eyes pleading, hips arching closer, “I want you to take anything you want from me.”
“Anything?” You toy with the slit in his boxers.
He makes a quiet, wounded noise before gasping, “Anything, fuck. Anything, whatever you want - you can have all of me.”
Your chest tightens at the way he’s offering himself to you. Not just some, but all of him. It’s everything. You reach inside the slit of his boxers, fingers closing around his thick length, pulling it free. You start by licking the head, methodically. Reverently. Feeling his smooth and warm skin against your tongue. Hands moving like a whispered confession, thorough in study and delicate in claim.
“Fuck,” Shepard growls, “This is torture, you know that right?”
“You’re still breathing. I must be doing something wrong.” Your tongue swirls down his twitching length, savouring the taste. The smell. When you reach the base, you softly kiss it. Shepard lets out a groan, your name falling from his lips with whispered pleas.
You’re not done yet.
His pulse is still too steady, his breath is still too even. You uncurl from him. Your body protesting every inch of separation. You wiggle free of your panties. Shepard watches, powerless. Every breath punching out of him as he catches sight of your bare cunt. His arms twitch against the pillows, trapped, as his body revolts with the need to grab, to pull you in. A full-body tremor racks him, violent in its futility.
You watch the agony of it: the way his fingers claw at nothing, the way his hips lurch, seeking contact he can’t take. You kneel over him, just out of reach, and savor the way his breath shatters. His muscles cord with the effort not to beg.
“Look at you. All that fight, and here you are -”
“I want you - mmm, fuck. I want you.” His frustration melts into something raw, lips trembling just once before he bites them still. Too proud to beg, but too desperate to hide it.
“Say it again,” You whisper, not quite touching him, just observing his disintegration. “Tell me you want me, Shepard.”
“Please, mmm - please. I want you - I want you so fucking bad it hurts.” His voice has been worn down to gravel. Rough. Uneven. Broken open. It sends your pulse stuttering. This isn’t defiance. Not anymore. It’s the sound of his surrender. The sound of your victory.
You sink onto his lap, body pouring over his, owning the way his breath stutters as your weight settles back into him. Hips rolling forward, you pin his cock beneath your heated flesh and wiggle until your slick folds have spread and settled, your sticky labia hugging his thickness.
Shepard is all heavy-lidded, lips parted on empty air. No quip, no barb, just stunned silence. Body tensed beneath you, bare chest heaving, arms stuck to his sides. It kills you. Not because he can’t touch you, but because you know he would, if he could. He’d grip your hips. He’d leave marks. He’d tear the seams of your resolve open and laugh as he did it.
But all he can do is feel, and you make sure he can feel everything: the delicious friction of heated flesh against heated flesh as you glide along his length; the quiver of your thighs each time you bump the head of his cock against your clit. You’re not even properly fucking him, and Shepard is barely okay.
His arms lie useless at his sides, but his fingers. God, his fingers. They twitch against your thighs, a frantic, broken rhythm. Trying to clutch, to claim, but succeeding only in brushing skin with trembling, frustrated grazes. And his face. Eyes dark, entirely unguarded with pure, shuddering want laid bare for you to take or to ruin. Cheeks puffed out from the effort of holding back.
“You should see your face, Shepard. I almost feel bad.” Your voice is saccharine, needling, fingers sinking into the slight softness of his waist. It’s pathetic, this aching to be acknowledged. But here you are, needing a sign that you haven’t lost him.
“Gonna make me -” his voice cracking pathetically, stripped of all its usual deflection. "Mmm, gonna make me cum."
Your movements stall, head shaking. “Not yet. You can’t cum yet. You’ve been such a brat -”
“You like me bratty." He swallows hard, a quiet whimper snagging in his throat. It’s infuriating because he’s right. Because you do like him bratty.
You lean in close enough that your breath fans over his lips as you speak, “Do you think you can do that for me, Shepard? Be a good boy and not cum until I tell you to?"
His head tips in the barest nod, throat working round another swallow as your hand travels between your bodies, nudging the tip of his cock inside your opening. Your breath catches like a gasp swallowed too late. Because it’s too much. Too much stretch. Too much heat. Too much of him, thick and throbbing. Your hands brace against his ribs, stunned, squeezing reflexively, trying to adjust to his size. His throat bobs as he tries, and fails, to keep it together.
“I have been trying to be good - so good - for you.”
“Liar,” Your hips roll, and a low sound tears out of him, like he’s been hit with something visceral and bright. It sparks through you too. A shock of pleasure ricochets from your core to your limbs.
“I have,” he pants, eyes fluttering. “You don’t know - fuck, if I had my hands -”
“Oh? What would you do, Shepard?”
“I’d ruin you.”
Your mouth finds his, letting him kiss you with everything he has. Teeth, tongue, breathless desperation. It’s messy and imperfect and real. The kind of kiss that’s not trying to prove anything. The kind that just takes. You let him have it.
When you pull back, your smile is sharp against his jaw, “Not if I ruin you first.”
He wants to say something cruel, something vulnerable - but then, you sink deeper, walls splitting open, burying him to the hilt so he has nowhere else to go. Shepard shudders, the words evaporating from his throat. Another victory.
You start with a steady pace, dragging every wavering inch of his cock along. Little broken noises punch out of Shepard. He can’t stop them, doesn’t try to, just lets you have them. His arms flex where they cradle your thighs. His body wants to lift you, grip you, help you - but can’t. So, instead, he gives you his voice.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” his teeth catches the plush of his lower lip, but it doesn’t stop him from speaking more truths, “I’ve never … mmm, I’ve never felt anything like this before. Ever.”
Your chest shudders from his worship, and from the shape of his want in the fullness, and in the depth he reaches. You feel every ridge, every vein. His cock thickens even more, impossibly hard and quivering. Your walls clench around him, moans burst from his chest, loud and jagged. They make your spine arch and your rhythm falter.
“I can’t—I’m not gonna last— mmm, gonna cum.” Shepard chokes, eyes screwed shut, the muscle in his temple feathering.
You already know. You can feel it. The pressure. The twitch of his cock inside of you, begging for release. But it’s all you. Your pace. Your rhythm. Your pleasure dripping between your bodies, sticky and sweet.
“Mmm, gonna cum for me, Shepard?” You whisper, barely holding on yourself. “Just like this? Just from me riding you?”
His mouth parts like he wants to speak, but he can’t seem to manage anything except your name. Over and over again, like he’s trying to survive you. And maybe he won’t. Maybe you won’t survive him either.
Shepard’s eyes snap open, pupils blown black, teeth gritting, “I need… mmm, I need to - fuck, I’m gonna cum - oh, fuck, can I? Can I cum? Please.”
It’s the please that shatters you. The wild, distraught way he says it. His muscles clench with the effort to stay and to wait, fighting to hold it in because giving you his cum is the only thing Shepard's ever wanted.
Your head dips, the nod hesitant, breath spilling. "Okay, Shepard - you can cum."
Shepard obeys, hips jolting. A raw and unsteady groan tears out of him, too loud to hide, as you feel every pulse, every frantic throb of him spilling inside your cunt. But it’s the helplessness of it all that tips you over. The sound of you, wet and needy, fills the space as you ride it out, walls fluttering and narrowing, taking what’s yours to have.
Your head drops to his shoulder, chest panting and thighs trembling. And for a long, stunned moment, you don’t move. Of course, Shepard can’t let you have this -
pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader
word count: 3.3k
warnings: 18+, NSFW!!!!, smut! smut! smut!, no use of y/n, unprotected p in v = creampie, fingering, slight orgasm count, oral fixation??, titty sucking (lactation kink), fingering, implied breeding kink?!?
summary: Joel doesn’t have to worry about getting you pregnant because the damage is already done.
author's note: i should be studying for my finals next week but joel miller sucking titties is obviously more important, and i just couldn't help myself! i just had to write it!!! the result? it's hot. maybe too hot - can you handle it? i know i couldn't. xoxo the wordy peach <3
“Only nine weeks left!” Ellie says excitedly, peering at your protruding stomach with wide eyes of wonderment. She can’t wait to meet her little sister or brother, and each week since announcing your pregnancy, Ellie crosses off a week in her little calendar.
Fondly, you smile at her. She’s been your saving grace during this pregnancy - distracting you with every question possible. She even managed to get it out of you when you and Joel convinced the damn thing (“It was that night at the stables, wasn’t it?”)
“Nine weeks,” She repeats with a confident nod; she glances at you, a single eyebrow raised, “Have you looked at the list of names I gave you?”
You let out a chuckle, nodding, “Yes, Ellie - I look at it every night,”
Her eyes widen, “Every night?”
“Every damn night,” Joel grumbles as he walks into the room. He’s exhausted from the extra shifts he’s been putting in because he wants time off for the baby. With tired, bleary eyes, Joel looks at Ellie, “Shouldn’t you be at school?”
She glares at him, points directly at your belly, and speaks with conviction, “Well, technically, I am in health class, and if I have to learn about procreation, Joel, I want her to teach me,"
Exasperated, Joel sighs. He shakes his head with frustration, and briefly, you can see the hint of annoyance on his tired face. He looks at Ellie with his eyebrows knitted together - she knows better than to argue with him. She purses her lips into a thin line and begins gathering school supplies. Ellie ignores Joel and starts idly chatting about her day and her plans.
She’s looking forward to the new reading assignment and asking if you’ll help her later with something. You rub your belly and nod, “Of course, Ellie - you know where I’ll be,”
A flicker of concern mixed with panic crosses her face. She glances at you; you know she’s asking if you’ll really be here when she returns. Ellie confirms, a slight wavering in her voice, “You’ll be here, right?”
You feel a pang of empathy for her. The world you live in is uncertain - even here, in Jackson, there’s no guarantee of safety. You understand her fear, and reassuringly, you tell her, “Yes, Ellie - I’ll be home all day,”
She nods, and her shoulder’s visibly relax at your confirmation. But before leaving, Ellie just has to turn to Joel and says, “She isn’t feeling good today, so don’t be a dick - or else I will know, and you’ll have to deal with me,”
As Joel sips his water, Ellie shoots him a stern look. Despite what your partner likes to think, you both know Ellie is in charge. Her gaze holds a silent warning, and you stifle a chuckle, watching as she finally leaves the house. Once the door is closed, silence falls between you and Joel. It’s tense; his eyes penetrate you, noting your skin's paleness and its sickly sheen of sweat. Usually you’re glowing -
“What’s wrong?” Joel asks in that demanding tone of his.
You sigh, shaking your head, “It’s nothing,”
“Babe,” Joel warns, and you hear him shuffling over before the chair next to you pulls out, and he’s sitting there. He places a hand on your thigh and repeats his question more gently this time.
“I’m…” You think about the right words, carefully selecting them, “Uncomfortable,”
Confessing this to your partner is almost embarrassing. Maybe it’s his rough exterior that makes you feel like this. Joel, who is waiting patiently, peers at you. His eyes soften, and he looks at you with such tenderness. You’ve been missing these moments because he’s never home anymore.
He presses, “C’mon, darlin'… tell me what’s wrong,”
Your cheeks flush pink, and after a minute or two, you admit: “My boobs hurt,”
Joel gives you an incredulous look, and his cheeks blush too. His gaze turns to your breasts - even he can’t deny how much they’ve grown in the past few weeks. Joel knows they’re swollen with milk for the incoming baby, but he doesn’t understand how uncomfortable you are. He probably never will because, biologically, he’s a man.
He watches as you reach up, adjusting your tits, groaning out a slew of complaints: “My nipples are so fucking sensitive and hard all the goddamn time! I feel like I’m in that stupid Austin Power movie with the fembots and their machine gun titties,” Joel knows the movie you are referring to, and he can’t help but chuckle and hearing this makes your eyes narrow at him.
“Are you seriously fucking laughing at me, Joel?” Your voice is emotional, and you attempt to stand, but it’s useless. Your stupid round belly makes it impossible to do anything, and sadness floods your hormonal body. You whine, “I am so fat -”
Joel shakes his head, watching as your face goes through several emotions simultaneously. There’s not much he can do, but he does reassure you that you are not fat - “You are pregnant,”
“Yeah, and whose fault is that?” You grumble, arms crossing over your chest. You wince because you’re nipples feel like they’re on fire, and you feel like they’re about to burst at any second. You wiggle uncomfortably and pout at Joel. He’s thinking of ways to help and can only think of a single thing that might help but is hesitant about bringing it up.
“What if…” He trails off, swallowing the dry lump growing in his throat, “What if I help… relieve some of that pressure?”
Your eyebrows furrow together, confused. “How?”
“Umm,” He glances around. He knows it’s just the two of you, but he wants to make sure because he’s about to suggest something crazy. His voice drops an octave, suggesting, “I can milk you,”
Your jaw slacks, and you hiss, “Like a cow?”
“N-no!” Joel sputters, hands waving aimlessly around, but it dawns on him it’s exactly like that, and sheepishly, he says: “Okay, yeah… it might be similar to that,”
“Joel,” Your voice wavers, hot tears swell in your eyes. You feel stupid! And your emotions won’t stop. You know he’s just trying to help, but dammit! Joel just called you a cow - “I can’t believe you think I’m a cow,”
Joel gives you an apologetic look. He’s sympathetic to your situation; he knows you don’t mean to be this hormonal, and he knows it’s his child doing this to you. He places a hand on your belly and gently rubs the fabric of his stretched-out shirt (the only one that fits!). He leans over, “Darlin’… you’re not a cow. You’re growing a baby. And I think, from what I read, that your milk ducts need to be expressed,”
“What does that mean? Expressed? Are you going to suck the milk out, Joel?”
Joel's cheeks redden, and the sultry tone in your voice surprises him. He thinks he has imagined it, but then, Joel sees how your eyes darken into a lustful frequency. He reads your message loud and clear.
Without hesitation, Joel captures your jaw between his rough fingers and kisses you. It’s sweet. Gentle. Exactly what you need to forget your frustration with him. But of course, you want more. You deepen the kiss, swiping your tongue across Joel’s lower lip and dipping your tongue into his mouth. Ever so slightly, he groans. He loves it when your forward.
You’re leaning over, as far as you can with your belly, and place your hands onto Joel’s jean-clad thighs. You must hold onto something for balance because your stupid belly messes with your center of gravity. You have yet to get used to it. You’re trying to climb into Joel’s lap, but it’s useless. You’re struggling to lift your body into his, and you pull back, huffing in frustration.
“This stupid belly!” You mutter while rubbing it. Joel finds your annoyance cute, and despite his best effort, Joel’s cock is already stirring inside his pants. It’s been a while since you two had sex, and today is the day that he’s going to fuck you after weeks of hiatus.
“Babe, it’s not stupid,” Joel coos and helps you stand. Your belly knocks into his, and it makes him smile. His teeth flash, and the skin by his eyes crinkles with delight. He can’t believe he’s going to be a father again. He can’t wait to meet his little one. But, for now, Joel must give you some relief because it is his fault that you’re in this position. He’s the one who kept pumping his seed into your womb.
Joel knew the consequences of not using a condom, and here he is - reaping what he sowed. He begins leading you to the bedroom, insisting, “Let me take care of you,”
“We shouldn’t - I have to meet Maria in an hour, and it’ll take me at least 45 minutes to waddle there,”
Joel ignores you, pulling your body into the room and shutting the door swiftly behind you. He doesn’t need prying eyes on what he’s about to do. Joel starts by showering your jaw and neck with kisses, his fingers playing with the bottom hem of his shirt before tugging it off. He nearly gasps from seeing your breasts, practically spilling out of the tiny bra that once fit your tits so perfectly.
You feel Joel devouring your body, noting how his hungry eyes stare at your chest. You mutter, “They’re massive, aren’t they?”
“They’re perfect, babe,” Joel nods and wraps an arm around your body. With a single finger, he unlatches your bra, and your tits spring free as the garment falls to the ground. A groan of surprise escapes Joel’s throat, and his hard cock strains against his zipper. He marvels at your milky skin, strewn with veins and stretch marks. He reaches and cups them, his fingers ghosting over your nipples, which are a deeper colour than before. Even in these short weeks, your body has made changes he wasn’t even aware of.
You hiss, “Joel,” but your eyes close because the relief of him holding your breasts has taken the strain off your back. He blows a soft gust at your left side and watches as your face twists into discomfort.
“Shit, darlin’… are they really that sensitive?”
You whimper, “Yeah - they’re that sensitive,”
“If it hurts, tell me to stop,” Joel instructs before he lowers his mouth to your breast. He kisses the skin, and you melt beneath the attention. When Joel swipes his tongue across the rock-hard nipple, you bite back the yelp that threatens to come out and instead focus on how Joel gingerly kneads the pillowy flesh that drapes from your chest. He’s listening to you, waiting for you to tell him to stop. But you don’t. You’re bearing the torment he's putting you through because you know it will feel good at some point. And eventually, it does.
It’s undeniable: Joel’s hands on your breasts feel amazing, and his warm mouth working on your right nipple is starting to create wetness between your thighs. As his fingers continue, you notice a new sensation in your breast that makes you squirm. At that moment, you feel a release as something emerges from your nipple and shoots into Joel’s mouth. You gasp and watch as he finally yields, pulling away from your body. You see the slightest evidence of white dew on his lower lip, and when you look down at your nipple, it's leaking with the same substance. You are shocked, unsure of what to do.
“Does that feel better, darlin’?” Joel hums. Hastily, you nod and swallow dryly. It does feel better, but you need more relief.
You gaze at Joel, eyelids cutely fluttering at him. You sheepishly ask, “What about the other side?”
Joel just smiles and helps you onto the bed. He places two extra pillows behind your back, ensuring you’re comfy before he settles down. He raises his head again, latching his mouth onto your other breast. Once more, the feeling is overwhelming. Almost too much to bear. You grit through the discomfort, relenting to the sensation of Joel’s mouth and hand as he works. Soon enough, another squirt of hidden cream comes forth.
It has you moaning this time, and you bask in the momentary relief. And instead of leaving your breast unattended, your hands thread through Joel’s dishevelled hair, and you keep him there. Breathlessly, you demand, “Don’t stop,” He listens and continues to work your breasts until your moans are frantic and your thighs continuously flex. Your arousal has grown to great heights, and an aching desire radiates in your core for the first time in a long time.
You reach down, fingers dipping into your sweatpants - again, it’s the only thing that fits - and notice how soaked your panties are. Of course, these days, it's a common occurrence. Pregnancy has your body changing in ways you didn’t even consider. Some of them are shocking, and some of them are annoying. Since the first trimester, the idea of sex repulses you. And it made you feel guilty because you live to please Joel. But your lovely partner doesn’t mind; he’s just been taking longer showers, which has been pissing Ellie off because there’s often no hot water left for her -
Joel notices your hand sliding into your pants and wants some of that action too. He takes one hand and places it on top of yours. Sharply, you inhale. You love how Joel is guiding your hand to his will. With his skillful touch, it doesn’t take long to reach the peak, turning you into a groaning mess as waves of pleasure swell and roll across your body. You notice how your belly quivers with delight too.
As you descend from the peak, you let Joel go. He lifts his head and wipes his milk-laced mouth before kissing you on the lips. You taste yourself. It’s sweet and creamy, reminding you of something you can’t quite place. As Joel’s tongue explores your mouth, you relish the feeling because it’s been too long. You missed his passion, and you missed him ravishing your body.
“Joel, I need you,” You whine through kisses as your hands wander up and down his back, attempting to undress him. He moves, and his shirt and pants are on the ground within seconds. With no underwear in sight, your eyes lock onto his dick, hanging freely. The presence of it never fails to make you drool.
Despite his quick movements to undress, Joel takes a slower approach with you and leisurely removes your sweatpants. His hands work with delicate precision, especially when he’s around your stomach. It’s incredibly frustrating for you, and you’re huffing in annoyance. It’s never been like this before. He’s always so rough, taking on a lusty savageness, and Joel would be inside by now. However, he’s still working off your panties.
“Joel,” You whimper. Your body vibrates with anticipation, and you don’t know how much more you can take. You need his cock, and you don’t care if something goes wrong. Months of built-up horniness are making you reckless. You beg, “Please just fuck me already,”
His eyes snap to yours. They’re dark with desire. As he places his body between your thighs, he murmurs, “I don’t want to hurt you or the baby,” Joel anticipates your reply - stupid belly - and hushes you before it can come out: “It’s not stupid - it’s love,”
“Love?” You whisper, confused. It’s not common, and Joel has only used it once. Morning sickness took over, and you were throwing up for weeks. Ellie and Joel thought you were dying. And, of course, for a little while, you believed them. It wasn’t until Maria asked when your last period did you clue in. And when you relayed that message to Joel, his grumpy face went unusually slack before joy took over. He swept you into his arms, kissed you, and said:
“I love you,” He repeats while wrapping a hand around his cock, lowering it to your glistening, swollen exterior. Expertly, he glides the crown of his cock up and down, watching as your juices coat it. You moan because your pussy is so unbelievably sensitive that another climax is blooming in your core. Joel finds himself commenting: “Goddamn… Your cunt is soaking wet,”
You squirm, hips wiggling as you spread your thighs further apart. You hate begging for it, but your cunt yearns for fulfillment. “Please!”
Joel presses his big, round tip against your tight entrance. You bite your lower lip, eyes gazing down at the penetration point, but your belly is in the way. You can’t see what’s happening but don’t have to because you suddenly feel his cock pushing through. At first, your velvet channel is resistant, but that doesn’t deter Joel.
As your walls grip his cock, coating it in a creamy warmth, Joel tosses his head back and sighs with satisfaction. It’s been so long. His hand has nothing on your pussy. Joel delves his cock as deep as possible, and you can feel it practically bulging inside your stomach. And when Joel places his hands on either side of your protruding belly, your impending orgasm rips through.
“Mmm, cumming already,” Your pussy convulses and clenches as a powerful wave of immeasurable pleasure crashes. White, hot flashes across your vision, sweeping you into a moment of intensity. Joel admires as your body undulates beneath him, studying as your belly ripples. He knows the pregnancy is the reason for your quick orgasms, and he wonders how many he can get out before he cums.
With a mission in mind, Joel lets you come back down before he starts to rock his hips back and forth. It doesn’t take long until you’re trembling with a third orgasm. You cry out, hands gripping the sheets below. You barely have time to catch your breath before Joel ups his pace, and he excitedly speers your pussy with youthful energy.
Hypnotically, Joel watches as your tits bounce with each thrust, and soon enough, his fingers are back on them. He squeezes and kneads until the milk sprays out with a such force that it sprinkles across your chest and coats his hands. A feral growl escapes from your mouth, “Joel,”
Your vision swirls, and your body shivers with ecstasy as a fourth orgasm rolls through. You gasp, sucking in as much air as you can. You look at Joel, marveling at his skin's sheer layer of sweat. He has a look of concentration on his face, and you know he must be close. You encourage him to cum, repeatedly.
But before he can, a fifth and final climax hits your body. It has you swearing and calling Joel names, “You fucking bastard,” as your pussy floods and swells around his cock. By this point, there’s a growing puddle beneath your ass, and Joel’s cock is exploring your molten wetness with ease. His flesh claps against yours and echos across the room. His groans are uncontrollable now, and he screws his eyes shut, trying to hold back.
The effort is futile, and he slams into your body, forgetting about being gentle. A stern look of arousal etches upon his face, and a deep, low guttural grunt spills from his lips. He doesn’t have a chance to warn you because his cock surges with a thick, plentiful rope of his cum, and floods your cunt with a warm stickiness. His hands are back and resting against your belly. Joel juts his hips forward, pushing a second load of cum deep into your cunt. He doesn’t have to worry about getting you pregnant because the damage is already done.
pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader
word count: 2.9k
warnings: 18+, NSFW!!!!, smut! smut! smut!, no use of y/n, unprotected p in v = creampie, oral, titty sucking and titty fucking, (lactation kink), implied breeding kink, squirting, etc.
summary: Joel needs his thirst quenched, and only one thing in this world can do it -
author's note: ummm … so this sequel had me questioning my life choices. like i do not know what possessed me to take it this far lol so you better blow it up like you did with ‘Milk’ 🤭 anyways, i hope you like it <3 xoxo the wordy peach
It begins with: “You’ll never guess what they’re playing at movie night,”
You look at Joel, a single eyebrow raised. Joel wolfishly grins, his brown eyes sparkling, “Austin Powers and the Spy Who Shagged Me,”
He watches as your eyebrows knit together in confusion. Joel can’t believe you don’t remember the conversation from last week, the one that had you confessing to him that you felt like one of those fembots from the aforementioned movie. He steps closer, head dipping to your ear, whispering: “Machine gun titties,”
That’s all it takes for you to remember. And it has your cheeks flushing pink. Sheepishly, you smile at him. But, of course, the cock block herself pipes up: “The spy who what?”
Ellie, you spunky little shithead. You love her to death. You never want her to grow up. But lately, she’s been ruining your alone time with Joel. You know she just wants to be a part of the family, and she is. It never even crossed your mind to think otherwise. She’s the daughter you never had. Sometimes you wish she’d just go and make friends that aren’t you or Joel.
You look at Joel, waiting for him to answer. But Joel is expectantly gazing at you. A playful smirk ghosts across his lips. He thinks it’s your duty to explain the birds, the bees, and everything between them to Ellie. Of course, she knows most of it. But she questions absolutely everything. Just yesterday, you had the unfortunate experience of explaining anal to her; Joel walked out of the house when she asked and didn’t return until later.
You poke a finger into Joel’s chest, hissing at him, “It’s your turn,”
His face goes slack before he gives you a sullen look. He pouts those luscious lips of his, “But darlin'….”
“Don't darlin' me, mister. You owe me for yesterday,”
Joel continues to pout but eventually relents. He turns to Ellie with a face void of any emotion: “It’s a classic movie from the 2000s,”
“Yeah, but what does shagged mean?” Ellie asks. Her eyes look between you and Joel, waiting for an answer. Joel grows uncomfortable. He’s never been one to talk about this kind of stuff.
“Yeah, Joel. What does shagged mean?” You ask.
“It- it… it means…” Joel stutters and stumbles over the words. His face is turning pink. He looks flustered as he searches for the right thing to say. You’re enjoying him floundering around. In one great, big breath, Joel spills out: “It’s a British slang term for intercourse,”
Ellie blinks at him several times as she repeats what Joel just said to her. She starts chuckling, “Shagged means sex?!” Ellie turns into a mess of laughter. She’s clutching her sides. It’s not that funny. But you like watching her have fun. It brings back the innocence and reminds you of childhood. You were young when the movie came out, and the world was ravaged by fungus a few years after. So you cherish this moment of hilarity. You rub your tummy and smile at how much fun you will have raising this new baby with Joel and Ellie -
You don’t make it to movie night because you’re busy with the nursery, and the thought of walking all the way to town hall makes you cringe. You don’t like going anywhere unless it is essential. You make Joel and Ellie do everything for you. There are still some things you do yourself.
You insist Joel and Ellie go. Ellie doesn’t fight it (she’s so excited to watch a piece of history), but Joel grumbles about it. He wants to stay and help. By helping, Joel means he wants to milk you. He can’t stop helping you, and it’s the only thing on his mind - Joel swears he even dreams about it now. However, there hasn’t been a single moment for him to help you. Tommy has Joel doing everything and anything, and between his brother and Ellie, Joel hasn’t had time for his new hobby.
So, after he drops Ellie off at the movie (making sure that she is settled and making sure that Tommy will bring her home after), Joel leaves and makes his way back to you. He wants to spend every free minute with you, but more importantly, this is the perfect opportunity to do what he’s been dreaming of without any interruptions. Joel needs his thirst quenched, and only one thing in this world can do it -
You hear him before you see him, and then you feel him. His arms wrap around your body, and he presses his chest into your back. You sink into the warmth, eyes closing and throat humming. His hands briefly touch your stomach before they find their rightful place. Joel cups your tits, placing each of them into his hands, and marvels at the heaviness. So full of his special cream.
“They’ve gotten bigger, haven’t they?” Joel murmurs. His cock is already hard and straining inside his pants. Hell, on the walk home, the prospect of milking you had him almost cumming right then and there.
“They’re definitely heavier,” Joel adds as he squeezes them. He notices you aren’t wearing a bra, and with one simple motion, he has his shirt on the floor (the only one that fits you). You’re facing him now, chest and belly exposed. The sight of you has him losing it. Joel feels happy and excited, and everything in between that. Joel can’t believe that you're his, and he’s yours. Nor can he believe his eyes because your tits are definitely bigger, and your nipples are already dewy with that milky nectar he loves so much.
Joel groans, latches his mouth onto your right side, and starts suckling like a starved man. Your nipple is already stiff and responsive, and you feel the sensation of milk rushing through to meet your partner’s greedy tongue. His hand expertly kneads the pillowy flesh, expressing even more of the sweet cream that has him hard as a rock. Joel starts to breathe deeper and sucks harder, causing you to moan.
Your fingers comb through Joel’s hair, and you hold him there because the pleasure of having Joel drain your tits is undeniable; in fact, the more Joel sucks and licks your nipple, the more your arousal grows. You have to remind him, “Joel…. We have less than ninety minutes -”
He grunts in response and moves his mouth to the other side he’s been neglecting. The feeling is indescribable, and you relish it. The relief Joel is giving you is insurmountable. But it also has you growing impatient with him. Your core is aching for his cock, and your hands travel over his body. You feel his muscles, thick and robust, beneath the plaid shirt. You need him now.
“Joel,” Your hand drops to the bulge in his jeans, and you gently rub it with purpose. The friction makes Joel groan, finally lifting his head from your tits. His eyes are filled with a dazy lustiness that makes you fumble with your words. Still, it doesn’t matter because Joel is suddenly pressing his lips against yours and kissing you with an ardour that makes you forget everything you are about to say.
You taste the substance that has Joel acting ravenous. It reminds you of cereal milk because it’s so sweet. You part from his lips, whispering, “Can I taste you now?”
He doesn’t have time to answer because you’re already lowering yourself to your knees, planting them on the ground in front of Joel. With one hand, you pop open the buttons of his jeans and pull down the zipper. Roughly, you tug at the opening and watch as his thick, luscious cock springs free from its confines. At the sight of it, you lick your lips. Your fingers wrap around his length and slide over his stiffness. The movement makes Joel shiver, and when your lips finally touch his cock, a groan escapes from his throat.
Joel has been so concerned about making you feel good that he forgot to consider himself. Suddenly, you thrust him inside your mouth while twisting your hand down his cock. He quickly fills your mouth, and his hand grasps your hair in hopes of controlling you. However, he’s fine with letting you have your way right now. It’s been a while since you had the opportunity to please him; Joel loves how the tip of his cock hits the back of your throat, and you’re so adept at sucking him off that his length doesn’t make you gag anymore -
Expertly, you glide your mouth from the hilt to the tip of Joel’s cock, coating it in your saliva. Joel’s eyes nearly roll into his head because it feels so fucking good. It’s the only thing he can tell you because he’s almost lost his mind from the bliss of your mouth sheathing his cock. You don’t stop until Joel gasps for air and asks you to stop.
“Babe, babe, babe,” His voice is husky, and he roughly pulls on your hair. You gasp and gaze up at him with a thick string of spit connecting your lips to his cock. Joel quivers at the sight and has to remember what he will say. You wait patiently. Obediently.
Breathlessly, he asks, “Do you want me to fuck you here? Or…”
Without skipping a beat, you reply, “Here,”
Joel doesn’t need to be told twice and is quick to shed his jeans before he starts to help you. You lean forward onto the palm of your hands and watch as Joel goes behind and begins to slide off the sweatpants you’re always wearing. Not that Joel minds. He knows it’s the only thing that fits you because you remind him every damn day. Once the sweatpants are off, he tosses them to the side and stares lovingly at your ass. It’s so round and perky and panty-less. He’s genuinely surprised, and it makes him smile.
He caresses your fleshy cheeks, asking, “Is this for me?”
Joel can’t see your face but can tell you are blushing. Sheepishly, you admit, “As soon as you left, I took them off - for easy access,”
“Oh, darlin’,” He swoons, “You’re so sweet to think of me,”
Joel pries your sweet cheeks apart and buries his face, his tongue immediately swirling around your puckered asshole. Mewls spill forth from your mouth, and you wiggle your hips, trying to splay them apart because your body needs more. Joel’s tongue slithers down, lapping the juice practically pouring out of your needy, swollen cunt. He licks and sucks with wild abandon, groaning at your deliciousness. He doesn’t stop until you are begging him, “Joel, fuck me. Fuck me with your big cock, please. Oh god, fuck me, already!”
He removes his mouth from your exterior and replaces it with his cock. He rubs and rubs his bulbous crown between your molten wetness, gliding it back and forth until it’s coated with your slickness. When he thinks it’s enough, he pushes into your tight cunt. At first, your channel is resistant. But slowly, your velvety walls happily start devouring Joel’s cock until his entire length basks in the warmth.
You are gasping at the sensation of being stretched out. It’s almost too much in this position, and a small rock of Joel’s hips gives way to your first orgasm. Your vision swirls as a wave of ecstasy comes crashing through. Your fingers grip the carpet as your cunt swells and clenches his cock. Your back arches as you cry out, “Fuck, Joel,”
Immediately, he stops, thinking he has hurt you or the baby. Panic-stricken, he asks, “What’s wrong?”
“N-n-nothing,” You stutter out, attempting to catch your breath. Your lungs greedily suck in the air, saturated with the smell of sex. You tell him, “You made me cum,”
“Already?” He murmurs and devilishly thinks about the five times he made you cum last week. Joel rocks his hips again, and you whimper at the movement. At a glacial pace, Joel pulls out before sliding back in and burying his cock to the hilt. You’re gripping the carpet and moaning like crazy. He’s sure the neighbours can hear you, which drives Joel forward. He wants them to know how good he is at fucking you.
Joel grabs your hips, nails sinking into the fleshy bits, and plows in and out of your pussy. He’s pulling all the way out and pushing all the way in, ensuring you feel every inch of his girthy length. Your body is rocking beneath his, tits swaying like udders. You reach between your legs to touch your clit. It’s pulsating and yearning to be touched. You gingerly circle it, knowing a light touch is enough to send you over the edge. And you’re right because, within seconds, your second orgasm is rolling through.
You wail, “Joel, Joel, Joel,” but Joel doesn’t stop this time. He continues to youthfully spear your pussy and watches as your creamy juices coat his cock. Vigorously, you rub your clit because a third orgasm is imminent. Your back arches and your hips are high in the air, and Joel stops, pulling out completely, to watch as your pussy trembles with another orgasm. Your thighs are dripping with your juices, and his name still spills out of your mouth. Repeatedly.
His hand squeezes your hip, “Mmm, darlin’. That’s your third one - should we slow down? Don’t want to hurt -”
“Need more,” You interrupt him, “Need to cum more, Joel,”
Joel shakes his head, “Darlin’,'' He knows you aren’t thinking straight, driven to recklessness because of the pure ecstasy that has raptured your body. You turn over, laying on your back. You splay your legs apart, and your pussy glistens in the light. It’s so swollen, so puffy. Your hand is back, and your fingers are working your clit. But from this angle, it’s a little more challenging because of your protruding belly. And it’s making you frustrated. Especially because Joel is just watching, not helping.
“Joel,” You growl, “Fuck me,”
A single eyebrow of his shoots up, and you begrudgingly mutter, “Please,”
Much to your surprise, Joel moves. However, instead, he hovers above your chest and settles his cock in the valley of your tits. His hands squeeze them, and the milk for his unborn child sprays out, sprinkling across your chest and hitting his cock. At first, Joel goes slow, his cock passing between your tits. It’s a different kind of friction and holy hell… it feels good. His cock, slippery with your juices and milk, has him gliding through your breasts with ease. He grips harder and fucks your tits faster, rocking his hips back and forth.
As he slips in and out, he milks your bountiful breasts in the process. He does it until you are soaked. He’s breathing hard, and his balls are tightening. He’s close, so fucking close. But he doesn’t want to finish like this because he knows you want more orgasms, and who is he to deny his pregnant partner? You have been carrying his baby for months, and it hasn’t been easy. And Joel knows that once the baby is born, you won’t be able to have sex for weeks. Not until you’re healed. So, why not let you live a little?
He pulls his cock out of your cleavage and moves his face to yours, kissing you passionately. His tongue swirls and mingles with yours before he shifts down. Joel latches his mouth around your nipple and practically inhales a gulp of cream into his mouth. He doesn’t swallow and comes back up, kissing you again. Messily, Joel washes your mouth with your milk. It’s sweet and warm, and it’s fucking kinky as hell. It has you moaning into Joel’s mouth. He moans back, letting you know he loves every moment of it too.
As he continues to kiss you, Joel reaches down and takes his cock, sliding it over your puffy and sensitive lips before pressing it into your velvet channel. Your body welcomes him, and your mouth drops, gasping as you effortlessly fit his entire length . Once more, Joel explores your warm depths with a vigorous youthfulness. His flesh is clapping yours over and over until you are yelling his name over and over. Your hands are gripping his forearms, nails digging into his skin.
“Mmm, Joel, mmm, Joel, gonna cum, Joel, mmm - fuck, fuck, fuck!” Your eyes roll back, and an unwavering fourth climax raptures your body. A euphoric release rolls across your body, and you undulate beneath Joel. He watches as your belly quivers, and he feels your cunt trying to expel him, and when he does finally pull out, a massive bolt of liquid escapes - he realizes you’re squirting. Something he’s only heard rumours about. He’s astonished by the amount of liquid that is coming out and by how long your orgasm is lasting.
Meanwhile, you are gasping for air, lungs greedily gulping it down. You have no idea what happened; all you know is it’s a big wet mess down there. You’re gazing at Joel, cock-drunk. Orgasm-drunk. Your brain is buzzing with satisfaction. Your fixation on cumming has been satiated. However, your partner is still rock hard. He still needs to cum, and he’s more eager than ever before. He shoves his cock back in, and the molten wetness has his cock quivering as his climax punches through, pushing him over the edge.
He doesn't warn you. He doesn’t have to - the damage is done. You’re reaping what he sowed. Joel shoots his seed as far into you as possible with a single thrust. His hands touch your belly, caressing the soft skin, and he pushes his cock even deeper, where he empties the rest of his balls. When he pulls out, his cum mixed with yours oozes out from your crease and pools onto the carpet beneath you.
You dare to smile up at him, murmuring: “Thank you, Daddy,”
pairing: Paul Atreides x fem!reader
word count: 9.2k
warnings: fluffy smut. virginity. oral (m receiving), fingering, unprotected p in v, vague mention of dom/sub, breeding kink?!?!?, etc. chubby reader, no use of y/n (however your name is daisy lol)
summary: you consummate the arranged marriage to your new husband, paul atreides.
author's note: this is my second story that i am posting! i've been working on this one for awhile now... absolutely adore Paul Atreides and Dune. watched both movies like 5 times and just finished up the book! waiting for the next one from the library :) also Timothée's hair in this film is just ungodly and totally unfair - like i don't know if i want to be his hair or have it?? anyways, it's fluff with smut or smut with fluff??? its cute and dirty. that is all. thank you for reading!!!!! addendum: 05/04/23 - this is picking up reads because of Dune 2 promo and i just wanted to let you know that it's poorly edited, and a sequel will be coming soon.
For the first time since you landed on Caladan, the rain has finally stopped. And for the first time since you arrived, you are completely alone with him. Your husband. You haven’t spoken more than two words to him; you’ve been nothing but frightened for the last week, afraid of your new life on this new planet. You know you are going to have to accept this new life because you have no other choice. The other thing you are going to have to accept is him.
Paul Atreides.
You watch as he kneels before a delicate blossom, eyes fixed upon the intricate folds and hues of its magenta petals. His once sharp features have softened, the angles smoothed into an expression of wonder and reverence. You’ve seen this look of his before but can’t seem to place it. His slender fingers reach out and touch the velvety surface of the flower as if he were under its spell. His dark hair, wild and unkept, falls in loose waves around his face.
While you can’t help but notice how breathtakingly handsome Paul is, it’s not his looks that initially drew you in, but rather it is his quiet intensity that captivated your attention. He turns and his green orbs take a quick scan of you. His eyes have always held a depth of knowledge and experience far beyond his years, and even now as he observes you, he knows something you don’t.
“The flowers on Caladan are a wonder to behold,” He says tepidly, almost as if he’s afraid of scaring you away. He knows you’ve been on edge the last few days, practically jumping out of your skin every time he speaks to you. He straightens, his lean frame moving gracefully as he strides toward you. “Each one is so unique, with its own fragrance and beauty. Some are delicate and sweet, like the jasmine that grows near the waterfalls, while others are bold and robust, like the wild roses that climb the cliffs.”
You are frozen in place, knees trembling beneath your skirt. Paul stops when he is in front of you, his body mere inches away. Those eyes of his, perfectly green like the forest that surrounds the two of you, sparkle with reverence. He’s been in disbelief at how strikingly beautiful you are and how you don’t even realize it. The thought of you not knowing your strength or beauty brings a sadness to him that he can’t shake; it brings forth a determination to help you see and understand your true worth.
Gently, he raises his hand and touches a finger to your temple, sweeping away a piece of black hair. Underneath the light, the strands of hair shimmer with a blue hue. He moves his attention back to your face, “Caladan didn’t have daisies until you,”
When it comes to you, Paul can’t help but be tender. He knows you’ve been through so much. He sees the turmoil etched upon your face; Paul is afraid your sadness and fright will be permanent, and he does not want to go forward if you are intimidated by him. The corners of his lips pull down, shaking as he confronts you, “I… I know that you are scared of me, Daisy,”
Your throat tightens. You aren’t scared of Paul but rather, you are scared of what lies ahead in your future with him. He’s the son of Duke Leto Atreides; Paul has responsibilities that you never dreamed of. Folding your arms around your body, you swallow dryly and think of what to say with careful consideration because you can tell that Paul is growing frustrated with your lack of reciprocity.
“My lord,” The way you regard him by his formal title makes his chest constrict. He does not want such formalities when it’s just the two of you but he bites back the urge to correct you. He impatiently awaits the rest of your words. Your eyes cast downward, afraid to look him in the eye as you confess, “I’m not scared of you. I’m scared of the responsibilities that come with being your wife. I do not want to burden House Atreides.”
Concern floods Paul’s face and he is quick to shake his head. His brow knits together and he rushes to speak, the words tumbling out before he can think about what he’s saying, “Daisy, you need to understand that I didn’t choose this life either -”
He stops and inhales deeply to calm himself. Paul takes a step closer and the gap between your bodies narrows. Immediately, you can’t help but notice how his scent is a tantalizing combination of rain and a woody floral. It makes you think of safety. Paul drops his voice to a whisper, “I have responsibilities to House Atreides that I can’t simply ignore. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you or that I won’t do everything in my power to protect you.”
“You don’t even know me,” Your voice shakes with emotion. This isn’t how you address nobility but damn Paul’s title. His status brings forth an apprehension that claws inside your already rattled heart. You have known each other for less than ten days and yet here he is, declaring protection with everything he has. However, despite his best effort you still feel like a burden. He’s too young to feel like this - he has his entire life ahead of him and now? He has a wife to take care of. Your eyes snap up and you breathe out, “You shouldn’t have to deal with this, any of this…”
Paul studies your face, sensing your doubts and your burdens. Your eyes remain clouded with fear and melancholy. Oh, how Paul yearns to alleviate your concerns and set your mind at ease, but he feels helpless in doing so. His father never taught him how to be a loving husband; Paul is only schooled in politics and the responsibilities of a Duke. Navigating the complexity of matrimony has never been part of his training.
“I understand that this might be difficult for you to understand,” He cups your face and caresses your cheek with his thumb. Paul realizes this is the most affectionate he’s ever been with someone and it breaks his heart knowing this is the first time you are on the receiving end. He silently vows to give you all the love he has. As he speaks, warmth radiates off his words, “You are not a burden, and you will never be a burden to me because we are in this together, Daisy. You are my family now. I promise we will figure this out, together.”
Tears swell in your eyes, “I’m sorry, m’lord -”
“Daisy,” He sharply cuts you off, “You don’t have to apologize - none of this is your fault, okay?”
Paul leans his forehead against yours, “We are a team now. You are my wife and I will do everything I can to protect you.”
You close your eyes, letting the tears fall down your cheeks. Paul is quick to wipe them away and much to your surprise, he kisses each of your eyelids. Your hands cling to his waist, suddenly desperate to keep him close. Paul notices the change and feels your urgency as if you are afraid of him slipping away. He responds by planting butterfly kisses on every inch of skin he can reach. More tears crash down and Paul sweeps them away. You can’t help but giggle at the valiant effort that your husband is making to make you feel better.
The sound of your giggle makes Paul giddy and it causes his stomach to flip. He’s never felt like this before. His lips stretch into a smile as he continues to assault your beautiful face with endless amounts of affection. Paul stops for a brief moment, pulling away to see how your face has brightened. You look like sunshine now and it leaves him breathless.
Your eyes flutter open, wanting to see why your husband has stopped. Paul is peering at you with so much love and admiration that it makes your breath hitch inside your chest. You have never felt so safe and so adored. A look flickers across his verdant eyes and before you can say anything, Paul captures your lips with his.
Technically, this is not the first time he has kissed you but this kiss is exceptionally better than the one you were forced to share at the ceremony. This kiss felt natural and it felt right. There is a certain innocence to how he is applying soft pressure against your lips. Almost as if he’s afraid of breaking you. You want more, no, you need more. You can’t get enough and truth be told, neither can Paul. A desire ignites inside him and his stomach coils as something stirs inside his pants -
“Paul!”
The interruption causes you to jump but for Paul, the interruption of Gurney Halleck angers him. You are blushing at being caught in a compromising position, hiding your face against Paul’s chest as the future Duke turns to the weapon teacher. Annoyed, Paul scowls at the smirk on Gurney’s face. Gurney didn’t think Paul had it in him because truthfully, Gurney didn’t support the arranged marriage; he had his own misgivings and predictions about you. But upon seeing this revelation, Gurney’s opinion swiftly changed.
“My apologies for the interruption,” Gurney clears his throat, “My lord, may I remind you that your weapon’s master doesn’t like to be kept waiting…”
Paul glares at Gurney before turning his attention back to you, his face softening into that of a lovesick puppy. Your face is still pressing into his chest. Gently, he lifts your head and sweetly kisses your cheek, murmuring, “I will see you later, okay?”
Unwillingly, Paul tears himself away from you and stalks toward Gurney who is patiently waiting by the edge of the garden. Gurney, having known Paul since he was a wee little one, chuckles at the bulge in the young master’s pants. When Paul is close enough, Gurney leans over and mutters, “May I suggest a cold shower before training?”
Paul’s face turns bright red upon realizing what Gurney is talking about.
Throughout weapon training, Paul is distracted. His thoughts are consumed by you. Gurney notices and finds himself pushing the young boy harder, and harder. Paul mustn’t give in to thoughts of temptation. Gurney barks order after order, hitting Paul over and over until the boy is on the ground, huffing and puffing, sweat pouring down his face.
A look of determination etches upon Paul’s face as he lifts himself from the ground, swinging his blade around and glaring at Gurney. Paul is about to lunge at his weapon’s trainer but Gurney makes the quick decision to draw the session to a close because it’s clear, they won’t get much farther than this.
“Paul,” Gurney orders, raising his hand for the boy to halt, “That’s enough for today,”
“I’m not done yet,” Paul hisses, clutching the handle of his blade. He eyes as Gurney walks over to the table of weapons and begins to clean them, buffing the blade until it shines.
“Your skills are improving Paul,” Gurney says gruffly, “But there’s something else you need to learn if you want to be a good husband,”
Paul looks at Gurney with a quizzical look, unsure of how being a husband has anything to do with a training session. The young master huffs, “What are you talking about, Gurney?”
“What I mean, boy, is that being a good husband takes more than just sword skills,” Gurney replies, his tone serious. “You need to have control over your thoughts.”
Paul blushes, had it really been that obvious? He sheepishly admits, “I… I guess I was a bit distracted...”
“A bit?” Gurney guffaws, throwing his head back. Paul’s naivety is something else. He presses, “You spent two hours thinking of your wife - this type of distraction is unacceptable, young master Paul. What are you going to do when an enemy has overpowered you?”
“I have my shield -” Gurney is swift to penetrate the forcefield of an unsuspecting Paul. The defence shield vibrates at the intrusion causing Paul to stumble, his green eyes snap to his waist where the blade is hovering above his sweat-soaked shirt. Paul lets out a sigh of frustration, feeling like he has not only let himself down but Gurney as well.
Gurney scorns, “How many times have I told you? The defence shield is only -”
“As good as the person wielding the sword,” Paul finishes Gurney’s sentence. Gurney ignores Paul and continues with his speech, “Even the most powerful shield can be breached by a skilled warrior and no matter how advanced or sophisticated your shield technology is, if you can’t properly use your sword, you are vulnerable to an attack.”
Gurney sheathed his blade, eyeing Paul who looks defeated. Gurney lets out a exhale, “Paul, marriage is a lot like weapon training. You have to be willing to put in the work, to learn and grow together, and to be there for each other through thick and thin.”
Paul turns off his defence shield and runs his finger along the edge of the blade, fascinated by the vulnerability - one wrong move and he could cut himself, and bleed to death. Suddenly, the weight of being a husband falls on his shoulders and he thinks about the promise he made to protect you. He's liable for another person now and he wonders if he's even ready for the responsibility of having a wife. The young master mutters, “What happens if I can’t keep my promise of protecting her?”
Gurney furrows his brow and gives Paul a stern look, “Then you’ll have failed not only her, but yourself as well,” he says firmly, “A true warrior doesn’t waste time worrying about the what-ifs. Instead, focus on the task at hand and what you can do to prevent it. Train harder, study your enemy, and always be one step ahead. The best way to protect her is to be prepared for anything that comes your way and that means forcing yourself not to think frivolous thoughts about her,”
Paul grimly nods but Gurney sees the young boy hasn’t been convinced yet. Gurney feels for him; this is new territory and Paul has yet to find the best way to navigate it. Gurney continues, “As for your wife, you cannot be with her every moment of the day, but you can teach her to be just as skilled with the sword as you are.”
Paul hurries down the corridor of his family's castle, trying to get back to you as soon as possible. He is so excited to see your face that his stomach is churning with anticipation. He wants to hold you, touch you, kiss you. You are all he’s been thinking about and he is so close to seeing you again. Paul accelerates around the corner and nearly collides with his father, Duke Leto Atreides. Paul is caught off guard and he stumbles back.
Duke Leto regards his son with a knowing look as if he had been waiting for Paul. Leto watches as Paul straightens himself out, smoothing and adjusting the black tunic with the House of Atreides symbol on his chest. Paul suddenly feels nervous being in the presence of his father, he’s unsure of what to say or do. Paul waits for instruction.
“Paul,” His father nods. Leto knew that Paul would be in this area of the castle because Gurney had already informed him. In fact, Gurney had also informed the Duke of the kiss that the young master and his lady shared in the garden - Gurney said it wasn’t just any kiss either. It was the kiss; the type of kiss that would’ve certainly led to something more had it not been for Paul’s strict training schedule.
Leto is amused by his son’s red face which is impatient and restless. The Duke knows that Paul will not disobey his orders and decides his teachings in matrimony couldn't have come at a better time. He offers a smile to Paul, “Relax, son - Gurney told me you’d be here,”
Paul clears his throat and nods, “Yes, my lord - can I help you with anything?” Paul is dreading the answer and finds himself becoming resentful toward the Duke because now, Paul has been delayed from seeing you. When the Duke gives a curt nod, Paul’s stomach drops - why did he have to be such a fool and ask such a question?
“Yes, Paul. There is something you could help me with,” the Duke motions for Paul to follow him down the corridor of their castle. As they walk through the dimly lit castle, the glowglobes above them illuminate the towering walls made of rough-hewn gray stone. The Duke’s footsteps reverberate through the long, empty hall, echoing off the walls and filling the silent space.
Leto thinks about how small Paul used to be and how it seems like it was only yesterday that Paul was running around the castle and playing pretend with all of his imaginary friends. He has grown into a tall, handsome young man but despite all of his training and teachings, Paul still has yet to master his stoicism. Leto notes how Paul's lips are pursed with muted animosity - his son is annoyed with him. The Duke is amused by this; he knows he is yet another barrier keeping Paul from his new wife.
As the Duke regards his son, he realizes that Gurney is right. Paul is completely smitten by you and those verdant eyes of his are pooled with so much love that it spills out. His infatuation with you is written across Paul's face. This is a side of his son that he has never seen before. It pleases him because originally, Leto was resistant to the arranged marriage brought on by the Padishah Emperor who insisted that Paul take one of his daughters from House Corrino.
The Duke knows that this type of look on royalty is frowned upon and that it may be seen as a weakness. But Leto cannot help but feel proud of his son for allowing himself to feel and express intense emotions. In a world where political alliances rule, it is a rare and precious thing to see someone unabashedly show love and affection. Leto thinks of his own reasons for not marrying his concubine, Lady Jessica, and does not wish for Paul to be burdened with the same regrets.
With a sense of determination, the Duke decides to do everything in his power to help Paul build a strong and loving relationship with you. Leto refrains from chastising his son about his open display of affection because he realizes that Paul needs guidance on other matters; matters attaining to the bedroom.
He knows Paul has received the talk about procreation but Leto is about to give his son advice on proper lovemaking. It's a topic he was unwilling to breach but Lady Jessica was insistent that it happens tonight as it's obvious the newlyweds will be consummating the marriage sooner than later; she gave her own advice to you earlier and now, it is the Duke's turn.
He takes a deep breath, carefully selecting his words. He doesn't want to scare Paul and begins imparting his knowledge with a casual statement, “Gurney informed me of your training session,” He pauses when he realizes that Paul isn't paying attention to him. However, the Duke presses on, “Paul, you’re a husband now. You have a wife - a beautiful wife -”
“She is beautiful, isn’t she?” Paul interjects rather dreamily as a dazed look crosses his eyes. There he goes again, letting his love spill out. Leto realizes that he'll have to remind Paul about the importance of keeping his emotions in check but for now, it could wait.
"Yes, she is. And now that you're a husband, there are certain things you must do and certain things you must not do," Leto stops and turns to his son, watching as Paul's expression changes to that of confusion. "You are responsible for her happiness, her sadness - your actions will directly affect her well-being."
Paul slowly nods, taking in his father's words. Leto cocks his head to the side, asking, "Son, do you know how to keep your wife happy?"
The young master shakes his head and casts his gaze downward - no, he doesn't know how to keep you happy. And it's been plaguing him all day. It's what kept him distracted during weapon training. But when his father speaks again, it's not the type of advice he was expecting to hear: "Listen very carefully, Paul. I’m going to tell you the secret to keeping your wife happy -"
Leto glances around, making sure that they were alone and just for added measure, he lowers his voice, “You’re going to kiss her lips, kiss her until you can’t breathe. And your hands, they’re going to touch her. Everywhere. Slowly at first, but with purpose...”
Paul's face grows hot with discomfort and simply put, he's dumbfounded by these instructions; it takes him a minute to realize that his father is giving advice on foreplay. His cheeks burn crimson. He's hesitant, feeling like a fool for asking such a silly question, “How do I know if she likes it?”
"Oh, you'll know, son … you'll know," His father's eyes darken and it startles Paul. His father inches closer, his voice dropping to an even lower octave, “Your fingers and tongue are tools, they will aid you in making your wife happy."
This advice is the limit of the boundary Leto is willing to cross. He's unwilling to give any more as it is up to his son to learn that not every woman is the same and that what Lady Jessica likes might not be what Lady Daisy likes. Leto also doesn't want to scar his son with his own prowess because what he and Jessica do in their bedroom is none of Paul's business.
But of course, Paul can't help but wonder how his father knows such things and it quickly dawns on the young master that the Duke does these things with Paul’s mother - is this the reason for their happiness? The thought makes him feel uneasy and strange. He never thought sex could have such a profound effect on a relationship but it makes sense. Paul suddenly understands the gravity of his father's advice and the complexity it will bring to his own marriage; ultimately, Paul is frightened yet intrigued by the idea that his tongue and fingers will help him in the pursuit of your happiness.
Paul's brows knit together and he gazes down at his fingers, watching as he repetitively curls and uncurls them. He clarifies, "I can... I use them... on her?"
"Yes, Paul. Use them on your wife - and remember to listen to her. Nonverbal cues are still cues, her sighs and moans will tell you everything you need to know," His father sees Paul struggling to hold back the utter panic and he feels for the young boy who is about to become a man. Leto remembers feeling the same way when it came to bedding Lady Jessica for the first time. He places a reassuring hand on Paul's shoulder and adds: "The most important part is consent, Paul … remember, you have an entire lifetime to spend with her. Don't feel like you need to rush through it all tonight."
Paul nods, his throat tight and dry. The prospect of seeing you makes him anxious, and despite knowing that he desires you with every fibre of his being, he can’t shake off the uneasiness of being a disappointment. What if he can’t please you? What if he can’t perform? Will this make you love him less?
“Breathe, son. Breathe.” The Duke pats his son's shoulder and gives an encouraging smile, “You’ll do fine, Paul. I’ll see that a change is made for your weapon training session tomorrow and I’ll make sure that Gurney Halleck doesn’t bother the happy couple.”
“Have a nice evening son, and be safe,” with that, Duke Leto Atreides departs, leaving Paul alone in the corridor to ponder on what lies ahead of him tonight.
The young master leans against the cool stone and closes his eyes, taking deep breaths to steady himself. The weight of responsibility and expectations from both his father and his new wife weighs heavily on his conscience. Paul has to remind himself that he loves you and he is willing to do anything to make you happy.
The sound of the bedroom door opening startles you. Quickly, you stand. Hands trembling as they smooth out the cream-coloured negligee that adorns your body. It was a gift from Paul’s mother; she gave it to you earlier. It seems that gossip travels around the castle at an alarming rate because not even an hour after you and Paul were seen kissing in the garden, Lady Jessica was pulling you to the side for a little chat because she seems to think that tonight is the night that you finally consummate your marriage.
And she’s right because the moment Paul steps into the room, and closes the door behind him - locking it - you know exactly what is about to happen. Paul stands across from you, eyes blazing at the sight of you, drinking in your body. He’s wearing his usual black tunic. His wavy hair looks even more dishevelled than before. His cheeks are rosy. And once again, his eyes capture you and pull you into those pools of emerald. Every ounce of his love surrounds you and it spreads like wildfire across your body.
You can't believe that Paul Atreides is yours. He's so unbelievably handsome with his aquiline nose, his high-cheek bones, and his slender neck that tapers gracefully into his lean shoulders. He oozes noble lineage and the thought of providing Paul with an heir makes you giddy.
“My lord,” You finally speak. You give a curtsy, bowing your head in the process. Paul cringes; he hates when you call him by his formal title. He despises it. It makes his blood boil. He takes several long strides until he is standing in front of you. Paul places his fingers beneath your chin, lifting your head until your eyes meet his.
For a moment, you look… frightened. But there’s something else hiding in those russet-coloured eyes of yours. Paul softens, he’s suddenly all too aware that he still has the remnants of distaste written across his face. “Daisy, please… when it’s just the two of us - Just you and me - call me Paul,”
It almost feels like treason disregarding his title but he doesn’t want such formalities with you. Never. Ever. Your cheeks flush with embarrassment and you nod, "Of course, my -"
You swallow his title and shakily breathe out, "Paul," his name sounds foreign as it leaves your lips. You feel … naughty calling him by his name. You don’t think you’ve ever regarded Paul as such, not even during your marriage vows did you call him just Paul. His name leaves your lips once more, “Paul,”
The way you say his name makes him smile. He smiles so wide that his teeth make an appearance and the skin by his eyes crinkles with delight. He softly replies, "Daisy,"
You return the smile and your eyes glisten with adoration as you and Paul regard each other with a newfound appreciation as if you're meeting him for the first time. It might as well be since the first few days were tumultuous, filled with uncertainty and a longing to be anywhere that wasn't Caladan. But now, all you want to be is with him.
Paul can't help himself anymore and gives into temptation, his eyes glancing down at the negligee your body is adorned with. It’s a bit tight and it leaves almost nothing to the imagination; he's able to see the colour of your flesh through the transparent silk. His eyes linger on the imprints of your breasts as they poke through the fabric but what really intrigues Paul is the secret that lies between your thighs. Paul notices the strap of your negligee has started to slip down your shoulder and he reaches up to adjust it, his fingers gently brushing against your collarbone as he does so.
Immediately, he notices that the simple touch has caused goosebumps to explode across the surface of your skin followed by a tinge of red. Paul is fascinated by this change and wonders what other reactions you have in store for him. Meanwhile, you're growing impatient with him. You wish he'd just kiss you already because you miss the feeling of his lips against yours. But he doesn't and unbeknownst to you, Paul is planning to take his sweet time.
Paul steps back, unbuttoning the top of his tunic. He's never gotten used to the tightness of his uniform and he lets out a sigh of relief. His eyes briefly glance at you standing there. You look annoyed by his actions and this amuses him.
You begin to shift on the balls of your heels, teeth biting into your lower lip as you think ‘patience is a virtue’. Paul has had a long day of weapons training and royal responsibilities. Surely, he is tired. But you have also waited all day for him and waiting a few more minutes sounds torturous - maybe if you ask him to kiss you, he'll listen.
"Please, Paul..." Your voice comes out whinier than intended. You feel embarrassed but it's Paul's reaction to your petulance that makes the pink colour in your cheeks deepen into crimson.
He pauses, a single eyebrow of his raising as his lips lift into a playful smirk. "Please, what, Daisy?"
Paul watches you through those thick, dark eyelashes of his. He waits for your answer and what you're unaware of is that he has enough patience to wait forever. After all, he is the son of a duke. Since birth, he's been taught to endure and persevere.
“I-I…” You stutter, feeling suddenly overwhelmed by the look clouding over in Paul’s verdant eyes. It causes an unfamiliar feeling to stir inside you and your thoughts quickly become a jumbled, incoherent mess. But thankfully, what you can recall is Lady Jessica’s advice: if you can’t tell him, show him.
Slowly, you walk forward with Paul watching your every move. Your fingers tremble as you reach for the button of his tunic, feeling a mix of nervousness and excitement. As you unbutton his tunic, you quietly inquire, “How was your weapons training?”
Your question brings a sense of closeness that you’ve never experienced before. But truth be told, you don’t care about his weapon training. You just think it’ll help speed things up a bit. But Paul is distracted. His gaze lingers on your face; he’s admiring the smattering of freckles that dance along the bridge of your nose. You glance at him and see that his lips are still curved into an adoring smile. It makes your heart swell.
Paul finally answers your question but his words fall on deaf ears because your mind is distracted by the sight of his lean waist. You find yourself growing envious of his body and begin to feel insecure because there is no denying the fact that your body is fuller than his, your bits fleshy and pudgy. Of course, Paul sees the change in your face and at first, he’s confused. But as he watches your eyes studying his body, particularly his perfectly flat stomach, he realizes what is bothering you.
"Oh, Daisy..." He coos. His voice breaks through your thoughts and you look at him, puzzled. Paul tilts his head to the side and traces his finger along your rotund jawline. Truth be told, he adores the ampleness of your body. He’s been admiring your curves for days and now, he finally has the opportunity to touch them. Paul is filled with the utmost delight at the prospect of being smothered by you body that’s bigger than his.
It is this exact thought that unleashes Paul from his restraints and he leans down, capturing your lips with his. You sigh happily and instantly forget about your jealousy. You relish the feeling of his supple lips pressing against yours - finally. He places a hand on the nape of your neck and the other on your hip, fingers digging into your thick flesh. He eagerly presses his body against yours, but it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough.
This kiss is different than the one in the garden. It's urgent. Needy. Paul is eager for more and he deepens it by swiping his tongue against your bottom lip. Your mouth opens - you've never been kissed like this before and at first, you're timid. Unsure of what to do. But Paul seems to be just as lost as you are. It doesn't stop either of you from trying.
Time blurs and for several minutes, it's nothing but a kindling mess of trembling hands and soft, wet noises. There is no rhythm and there is no tempo. Paul is sucking your tongue into his mouth and next, you're nipping at his lower lip; he growls when you do so. The growl reverberates through your body and dissolves into a heavy pleasure that presses down into your core.
Your lungs are desperate for fresh air and reluctantly, you separate. Your chest heaves against Paul’s and you gaze at him, noting how his eyes are still closed, lost in the throes of passion. His lips are swollen, bee-stung. Your lips are swollen too. Paul begins to run his hands up and down your back, his feathery touch tickles and you giggle softly at the sensation. His eyes snap open, verdant eyes flickering with burning desire.
“Do you want to lie down?” His voice is low-pitched but clear, his intentions are polite and sincere. He'll never stop being a duke even during the most intimate of times. He presses his forehead against yours, patiently waiting for an answer.
"Yes," Your voice shakes. He takes your hand and leads you to the bed. Tension begins to simmer beneath the surface and it causes your throat to dry up, making it difficult to speak. Those pesky nerves have come back and you wish they hadn't because you were having so much fun before -
“Are you okay?” Paul asks lowering your body down first before sliding his body next to yours. Your stomach is violently fluttering and you can only nod in response. You wonder if he can hear how fast your heart is beating.
Paul can just tell by wavering doubt on your face that you’re not okay. He peers at you, his face full of concern. He speaks, “Tell me you’re okay, Daisy,”
You swallow dryly and nod for a second time. Your fingers are gripping his arm because you are afraid that if you let go, he might disappear. It takes you another minute to gather yourself.
“I’m o-okay,” Breathlessly, you repeat, “I’m okay,”
This time it's Paul’s turn to nod. His lips turn into a soft, reassuring smile. He tenderly tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear and addresses your concerns, “We don’t have to do this - we don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to,”
Your heart tumbles over its own rhythm and you quickly shake your head. You want this - you want him. You want him to penetrate you with the bulge that has been steadily growing in his pants. You whisper, “But… but what if I do want it?”
He bites into his growing smile, trying to hide his excitement. He’s thrilled that you feel the same way and he loves hearing you speak. He wishes that you’d do it more and he knows in time that you will. As his father said, Paul has an entire lifetime to spend with you.
“Make love to me, Paul…” Your confession is quiet. Barely audible. Paul is unsure if he has even heard you but at the sight of your blushing cheeks, he knows that he wasn’t dreaming. You are silently pleading that he feels the way because if he doesn’t, you might just perish from embarrassment.
Paul pauses to watch the look of yearning etch itself across your face. You start to shift beneath the intensity of his gaze, your eyes dropping down. That’s when Paul feels your hands moving down his body. Your fingers latch onto his trousers, attempting to unbutton them but you’re having trouble, and it’s making you flustered.
Paul is loving every second of it. He enjoys how your brows have furrowed in concentration and he particularly likes the frustration growing on your face. You bite your lower lip and impatiently huff as you give up. You realize he’s been watching you this entire time and your eyes snap to his. You glare at the coltish expression on his face. Paul finds your exasperation endearing.
You bury your face into his arm, mumbling, “Paul, make love to me…”
Blood rushes through his body and goes straight down to the bulge straining against his trousers. He loves your wantonness and he wants to hear you beg for it again. He pulls your face away from his skin, eyes devouring you. As he holds your chin between his hands, Paul demands, “Say it again,”
You can’t help but glare again at him. He knows you won’t disobey. You speak, voice clipped with precise ardency, “Paul Atreides, my lord, will you please fuck me?”
The mixture of his full name and his title sends his blood into a frenzy. If he was already turned on before, then what’s happening to his body now? One thing for sure is that you don’t have to ask again because, within a minute, Paul has hastily thrown off his trousers and he’s now completely naked.
Your eyes, well… your eyes are instantly locked onto the appendage between your husband’s thighs. Of course, you have seen what a phallus looks like in art and in scientific videos. But in comparison to Paul’s, those examples were tiny and they definitely did not prepare you for the real thing.
His cock is so engorged and so pink, the tip of it glistening with some sort of secretion. As he moves his body back down to the bed, his cock twitches and bobs. He sees your fascination and watches how you are practically salivating over his well-endowed gift. Your core squirms with anticipation and your thighs involuntarily flex at the thought of him being inside you.
“Do you want to touch it?” His voice is timid, hesitating to request such a thing from his innocent wife but he’s held back long enough. Paul is so sure that he’s going to burst at any second - he watches as you reach out, hand faltering at second thoughts. Paul inhales sharply, “Touch me, Daisy, please…”
When your fingers brush against the tip of his cock, he shudders and his stomach constricts causing his cock to quiver. You quickly look up at him, wondering if you had hurt him but it’s clear you haven’t. He has an intense but dazed look on his face and he’s biting down on his lower lip, restraining himself. Paul is holding himself back and persevering through the pure torture you’re currently putting him through.
You wonder what’ll happen if you firmly grasp his cock, so your hand wraps around his girthy shaft and a throaty groan escapes from deep inside Paul’s body. His reaction pleases you and slowly, you continue to drag your hand down until it rests against the furry tufts on the base of his cock.
You notice how Paul’s chest is heaving and he’s pressing his body into the mattress, hands gripping the sheets, knuckles almost turning white. He looks at you through half-lidded eyes, pleading for more but you’re taking your time, exploring his body, finding ways to incite reactions from him. You know he’s enjoying your hand gliding up and down his cock but what if… what if you were to taste him? You readjust your body so that you’re sitting with your mouth hovering over his cock.
“Daisy, what’re you…” Paul says, his voice deeper than usual. You lick the tip of his cock, tasting the pearly secretion that has been leaking out. Paul gasps, swearing under his breath. You lick his cock again and once more, Paul reacts with a throaty gasp. You’ve overpowered him with one simple move and now he’s yours. It is at this moment that Paul realizes he is supposed to be listening to your sighs and moans but instead, you’re listening to his.
He watches as you thoroughly lick the tip of his cock. The sensation is immaculate and he’s struggling to remain cool and composed. You aren’t exactly sure what you’re doing but you’re enjoying the smoothness and warmth of his arousal. You seal your lips around him and slowly, very tentatively, lower your mouth down. Paul groans loudly and his hand finds the back of your head, his fingers gripping your hair so that it’s not in the way of his view.
The sight of you, mouth full of his throbbing cock, practically sends him over the edge. He has to restrain himself by closing his eyes and silently begging that he doesn’t ejaculate - he can’t. Not yet. He’s trying to convince himself that it’s your turn to be pleasured but when his cock hits the back of your throat, you gag and the sound makes him completely forget everything. His eyes snap open, watching as you bring your mouth back up, leaving a trail of spit pooling down his cock.
“D-Da-Daisy,” Paul sputters out, completely out of breath. You ignore him, dragging both your hands along his quivering cock. He struggles to find his words but when he does, he orders, “Stop,”
He grabs your hands and pulls them off his body. Shocked, you look at him. He looks like a man who has just been to hell and back. His hair is beyond dishevelment, strands of it sticking to his damp forehead. His eyes are wild, his once verdant eyes have been taken over by expanded pupils that have blackened out any colour.
Before you can ask what you did wrong, Paul is tugging off the negligee and exposing your naked body to him for the first time. His eyes sweep over every nook and cranny, noting every bulge of abundance. He’s taking inventory, marking his favourite areas. He’s particularly drawn to your breasts and how they swell against your chest, gravity pulling down the pillows of dough. They look rather heavy to Paul and he just has to reach up to grasp them. God, they’re so soft and perfect. He’s quick to lower his mouth, latching it onto your perky nipple. The sensation of his tongue swiping over the sensitive bud makes you gasp, “Paul,”
He grins against your skin and can’t help himself, he just has to nibble at the fleshy softness of your chest, which causes you to gasp. Your hand grabs the back of Paul’s head, fingers kneading through his hair, locking him there because your breasts absolutely love the attention. Meanwhile, Paul feels like he is in heaven, sighing happily as little noises continue to escape from your mouth.
Simply put, he can’t get enough of you. He licks and sucks your breasts as if they were ripe fruits, his tongue sweet and rough against the sensitive flesh. He alternates between too much and not enough, which creates a perplexed feeling between your hips, right in the crest of your crotch. It’s vague, incomplete. You have never felt such a thing before tonight. You flex your thighs, hoping that you can rid yourself of the unnatural feeling.
With his mouth still attached to your breast, Paul takes his hand and plants it on the inside of your thigh. This movement doesn’t help the unnatural feeling that has been steadily growing and you squirm, hoping Paul doesn’t notice. Of course, he does and he detaches himself to peer at you. He loves how pink and splotchy your cheeks have gotten, and he loves how your eyes have narrowed into a lusty squint.
Testing you, he drags his fingers upward. His cock throbs at how saturated your thighs have gotten. He doesn’t even think you’re aware of the wetness seeping from your flower and he cups your fuzzy mound, which causes you to squeal in surprise. The sudden intrusion is too much and you’re squirming out of his grasp. Paul is quick and wraps his other arm around your body. He’s strong enough to hold you, keeping you locked against him.
With his voice barely above a whisper, Paul asks, “Can I?”
You swallow hard. You desperately want him to touch you down there but you’re terrified of what might happen because you heard that unnatural things can occur. Paul senses your worry and feels your hesitation, and immediately takes his hand away - consent is the most important thing. You can’t help but notice how your pussy suddenly feels lonely now…
However, those thoughts are quickly pushed away because Paul pulls your body down with his, your chest colliding with his as he lies underneath you. You feel like you’re crushing him and for a third time, you begin to squirm.
“Daisy,” His grip tightens. You stop squirming and sheepishly glance up at him. He’s gazing at you, with so much love and adoration, that it makes your breathing hitch inside your throat. Paul whispers, “You’re the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”
The compliment makes you blush, your skin reddening even more. You confess, “I’m not a woman yet -”
“Yet,” Paul interjects and shifts so that your body is lying next to his. He kisses your temple, “Lay back and relax, I’m going to try something…”
You’re reluctant for Paul to see such an intimate part of you. He pleads, eyes begging for a chance. He murmurs, “Just trust me, okay?”
His words make you reconsider. You decide to trust your husband and you lay down, inhaling to calm yourself. But the moment Paul places his hands on your legs, your heart rate spikes and rattles against your chest. As he spreads you open, he looks at your flower with reverence. It’s so puffy, so pink and so wet that it glistens beneath the glowglobes.
He positions his body between your thighs, his cock rubs against the inner flesh, and you shudder at the sensation. He looks at you, worried. You shake your head, “Paul, I need you…”
At your request, he is so quick to touch you. His finger slides along your folds. You suck in and bite down on your lower lip, holding back. But Paul yearns to hear you, and he does it again, repeating the movement. A small groan escapes and it’s all the encouragement that he needs. Through heavy-lidded eyes, you see that he is in deep concentration, studying as your hips jerk when he presses his palm against a sensitive little nub that’s hiding between your petals. As he does it again, your mouth goes slack and a moan slips out. He begins to circle it with determination, knowing this must be the spot.
There’s a liquid heat pooling in your core and the more pressure he adds, the less you can take it. You are back to squirming beneath his touch, gasping and groaning at the pressure building inside. It’s such a foreign feeling - you feel like you’re going to burst open. You feel scared about what might happen. You want Paul to stop, yet you don’t. Everything is so conflicting and your throat is parched, and you want your husband to look at you. But Paul is so engrossed in what he’s doing - he’s absolutely fascinated at the stickiness that seeps through your magnificent folds.
Unable to take much more, you reach down and grasp his chin, forcing him to look at you. At first, he’s baffled. He was so sure that you were enjoying his hard work - your eyes are hungry, having not been satiated yet. The look sends a chill down his spine and when you whimper, his cock twitches.
If he wants to make you a woman, it needs to happen now. You whimper again, “Paul, I need you … I need you inside of me,”
“Are … are you sure, Daisy?” He asks, eyes glazing over. You nod and reach up to caress his cheek. Paul is so unbelievably sweet. He begins to trail kisses along your stomach, tongue dipping into your belly button causing you to throw your head back into the pillow. He grins wolfishly and continues marking his territory, relentlessly teasing you until you are nothing but a wet, blubbering mess.
Finally, after a lifetime has passed, Paul sweetly kisses your lips and his cock brushes against your swollen labia. The first meeting. Wetness against wetness. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling his shoulders down into your body. Paul steadies himself, his chest puffing out with excitement as he lines the tip of his cock against your entrance.
“Fuck,” He hisses. Paul knows it’s going to be a tight fit and he’s worried about hurting you. He plants a tender kiss against your jaw, whispering, “Tell me if I hurt you, okay?”
You nod, shutting your eyes and moaning out as his cock begins to nudge inside. It’s definitely a little too large for comfort and your body is resisting - you have to order yourself to relax. And when he’s finally pushed past, there’s a popping sensation. It’s quick and it hurts, pain shooting through your pelvis. You wince.
Paul notices and stops, he attempts to pull out but you’re quick to lock your legs around his. His lips move against your skin, “Am I hurting you?”
“No,” You sniffle, shaking your head. But Paul can see straight through your lie. He asks the question again, shifting because he’s afraid of causing you pain. This time, you answer truthfully, “It hurts but your cock… it feels so good, Paul - don’t stop, please don’t stop -”
He listens and continues to push his hips forward. Your eyes remain closed but your mouth hangs open, little mewling noises coming forth. Paul struggles to remain composed as your tight cunt swallows his girth. At a glacial pace, he pushes into your body and buries his face into the crook of your neck. He’s struggling not to cum because, for him, the suction of your velvety walls is swiftly driving him toward the edge.
“You’re such a good girl,” He’s barely audible, hands gripping the side of your protruding stomach. He gives one final thrust, grunting, “Cunt so goddamn tight,”
His cock is fully inside, buried to the hilt. You’re gasping, fireworks sparking behind your eyelids. Your hands are trailing along his back, nails digging into fevered flesh. It still hurts but it’s a good type of hurt. He begins rocking his hips, slowly at first, stretching out your virgin cunt. The mixture of pain and pleasure has you splitting open, crying out, “Oh, fuck! Paul!”
For a moment, Paul thinks he’s hurting you again and he pauses. You hiss at him, “My lord, just fuck me already,”
Your lord does not like that. He sits up on his knees, arms placed on either side of you and hovers over your body. It glistens with sweat and you’re eyes have snapped open at the sudden loss. You see that Paul’s eyebrows are knitted together, irritated that you brought up his nobility. He pulls out, noting the smear of crimson around his cock but doesn’t think twice about it and shoves it back inside.
You cry out, “My lord,”
He seethes, biting down on his lower lip and begins to rapidly thrust in and out. You want to be properly fucked and he’s giving you exactly what you want. The room fills with your cries of pleasure as Paul spitefully fucks your sweet cunt. The same sweet cunt that is making crude, wet noises, making it impossible not to spill his seed right then and there.
He wants to make sure that you finish too but Paul knows he’s close. He feels the familiar sensation of an orgasm building inside; he knows the feeling all too well because he’s no stranger to masturbation. In fact, he’s spilled his seed onto this very bed many times in the past year. He’s restraining himself, the friction starting to become too much for him - the tight coil wants to snap and he can’t stop thinking about filling your womb with his seed.
He shudders, willing himself to slow down so that you can catch up to him. His thrusting turns tender and he begins to lovingly guide his cock into your body, burying it against your hilt. Paul notices that you like this more because your moans have become guttural, coming from somewhere deep. He does it again, fully burrowing his cock in your velvety walls. They are contracting, practically convincing Paul to spill his seed. He's barely able to resist the temptation.
You seem to be fighting your own demons and reaching for something that you aren’t even sure exists. Certainly, it must because what else is this feeling that has pooled inside your belly? The liquid is hot, near boiling point. Each time Paul thrusts his cock, it hits a spot and it makes your cunt convulse, and your eyes roll back because the stimulation is too much.
Your hands grip Paul’s strong arms, nails digging into his flesh. Paul reaches down between your bodies, fingers fondling your fuzzy little mound as he remains buried inside. He pushes your puffy lips apart and presses your button. It sends a jolt through your body and you bellow out, “Paul!”
He presses his thumb against the sensitive little nub and glides his cock against that spot, and you’re so close - so close. Paul pushes his cock into the depths of your cunt, practically tearing into your womb. His cock quivers against the friction of your walls and he shudders, eyes closing tight while his hand continues to work your clitoris. He wills himself not to cum but it’s useless because, within seconds, he’s shooting his hot, thick load into your tight, breedable cunt.
You cry out, feeling as Paul’s arousal fills you. It’s the thought of Paul impregnating you that causes your orgasm to boil over. Your pussy clenches and convulses with gratification at having the opportunity to give Paul an heir. You cling to him, needing him more than ever as you repeatedly call out his name, prolonging the vowels, “Paaaaauuuul, Paaaauuuul, Paaaauuuulll!”
pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader, Tommy Miller x fem!reader
word count: 3.1k
warnings: 18+, NSFW!!, smut, no use of y/n, incest (stepsibling!!), threesome, oral (f and m receiving), unprotected penetration x2, anal, double penetration, dirty talk, creampiessss
summary: You dreamed of being in their orbit, and now, you're the sun, and they're planets.
author's note: as requested, a sequel to Flesh without Blood! i hope you enjoy. i have some other stories in the works, so keep an eye out for those! xoxo the wordy peach <3
The door to the apartment opens, and two familiar voices flood the small space. Naked and ready, you call out, “I’m in here!”
You’ve been waiting all afternoon for Joel and Tommy, pussy hungry, aching from the lack of attention. Your brothers walk into the room, and their reaction to the scene before them makes you vibrate with anticipation.
As they peer at you, their exhaustion dissipates, elation replacing it. You blush as they devour your naked, willing body. A sheepish smile flickers across your face, eyes shifting between them as you meekly ask, “Who is going to take me first?”
They glance at each other, and their lips slowly curve into a grin. You wait, feeling downright nervous. You’re worried that they will reject you - but thankfully, Tommy answers, “We were thinking both of us….”
Anticipation floods your core, and excitedly, you gaze at them. After that fateful night, all you wanted was for them to fuck you simultaneously; you didn’t care how. You just wanted both of their cocks inside you -
“At the same time?” Your question comes out in a rush.
Tommy gives a quick nod, confirming, “At the same time,”
Immediately, your body begins to squirm. You can’t hold back the excitement. You’ve been very keen on this fantasy, but Tommy and Joel have hesitantly resisted it. You think it’s absurd; they’ve already shared your hole once before - Joel literally fucked your used pussy directly after Tommy came inside. So, what’s a little double penetration?
“What changed your mind?” You move to the bed, lying down on it. Tommy watches your tits bounce, noting how your nipples are perky and alert. Joel is busy looking at your thighs, waiting to catch a glimpse of your slit; he’s disappointed when your legs clamp shut as if you’re shy about it.
“We wanted to show you how much we love you, Nic….” Joel finally speaks up, his voice gruff and low. You watch as he moves to one side of the mattress, and out of the corner of your eye, you see Tommy going to the other side. They both sit down, the bed dipping down in the process. In tandem, their hands move to touch you. Tommy immediately fondles your chest, kneading the pillows of flesh; Joel’s hand races down to your naked thigh, spreading it open.
Your heart pounds at their calloused hands, giving you dual pleasure, and you try to differentiate between their touches for a moment: Joel’s touch is soft, and Tommy’s touch is rough. You love both. Each touch brings out a different feeling, and your body floods with arousal, pussy mounting with wetness, ready to be ravished. Joel's palm is at your thigh, his fingers trailing over the sensitive skin before finally ghosting over your slit, making you shudder.
It glistens in the light, and Joel licks his lips. He looks like he’s starving. You eye him as he teases the exterior, circling your juices around your slickness and thumbing your clit. Joel shifts his body to lie between your thighs, and once settled, his mouth seals over your pussy.
“Oh, shit,” You moan, head tilting back, watching as his strong jaw works to lap up every ounce of your sweet nectar that drips out of your tight hole. Suddenly, your attention turns from Joel to Tommy, who suckles at your tits and squeezes them repeatedly. The warmth of their mouths on your most sensitive parts is almost too much to bear, and you are quickly raptured into a state of pure ecstasy.
You run a hand through the hair of both, breathlessly giggling, “This is quite the sight….” Your brothers only grunt in response, too busy for a proper answer. It makes your stomach flutter from being the center of their attention; it’s all you’ve ever wanted. You dreamed of being in their orbit, and now, you’re the sun, and they’re planets.
Your chest heaves and your hips buck forward, desperate for Joel to give you more. His dexterous tongue drives you wild, but you want his skillful fingers inside. You squirm underneath Joel, trying to get his attention, when finally Tommy stops what he’s doing and barks at his brother, “Joel, just finger her already,”
And Joel, the one who hates taking orders, obeys. His thick digit circles your hole, and he slides it in - past his knuckle - and you take it so well that Joel adds a second. You gasp at the intrusion as your muscles reluctantly stretch around his appendages. Joel’s tongue cruises delightfully up your folds, parting them to massage your pulsating clit. A growing pleasure mounts your body, and you’re writhing beneath your brothers, desperate for the release.
“Are you gonna cum on Joel’s face?” Tommy asks, lifting his head to yours and pressing his nose into your cheek. He peppers kisses along your jaw to your ear, nibbling the lobe and dodging his tongue inside. Your teeth sink into your lower lip, concentrating on the sensation radiating between your thighs.
Tommy hums, “Hmm? Tell me, Nic - is Joel gonna make you cum?”
“Ye-yeah,” You nod, grinding into Joel’s face as his tongue and fingers coax your body to the edge. Your hand threads itself through your older brother’s hair, tugging it as he continues his relentless assault. You tell Tommy, “Joel’s gonna make me cum,”
“Cum for him,” Tommy orders as he wraps his fingers around your neck, applying the slightest pressure, “Cum for Joel -”
You love this side of Tommy. Hearing him be assertive and controlling triggers something feral, and those sweet, sinful nothings have you climaxing; it’s the type that seizes your body and have you clenching your teeth and eyes screwing shut as you call out, “Fuckkkk - mmm cumming!”
Your pussy convulses, walls clenching around your brother’s fingers, drenching them. Your hips rise off the bed, and Joel’s mouth remains attached, continuing to nudge your clit over and over. You shudder, gulping down air, filling your greedy lungs as your body floats back down to earth.
“Mmm, good girl,” Tommy hums, removing his hand from your throat. A tingle shoots through your body from his compliment, and your eyes snap open, watching him unzip his pants and pull his cock out. The sight of it makes you salivate.
Tommy asks, “Wanna taste your brother’s cock?” He already knows the answer. He can see it in your face and how your eyes are glued to his length. He steps forward, and your mouth opens, feeling his thickness push past your lips until your mouth has sheathed him. Your tongue swirls over his bulbous crown, making him groan. He holds your hair away from your face, still unbelieving that he gets to experience his sister’s mouth.
“Fucking love this filthy mouth of yours, Nic,” Tommy’s approval is encouraging and spurs you on, and your tongue keenly slides over the smooth, taut skin, pussy swelling at the memory of him filling you up with his seed. Hearing Tommy grunt and groan, mixing with the sounds of you sputtering around his cock has Joel grinding into the mattress below. His cock, unbelievably hard, strains against his jeans and begs for release.
So, reluctantly, Joel removes his mouth from your pussy. You don’t seem to notice, instead focusing on your other brother’s cock. Joel quickly undresses and returns to place his body between your thighs, nudging them open and splaying them apart. He glides the tip of his cock up and down your folds, juices coating it.
You feel Joel pushing his cock into your entrance, and you groan, mouth full of Tommy’s cock, as your tight hole opens just enough to let Joel in. At first, your velvet channel is resistant; inch by inch, Joel sinks in until you have swallowed him entirely. You mewl, realizing you have both of your brother’s cock inside. But not in the way you pictured -
“Shit, Nicky….” Joel slowly rolls his hips back, and with each word, he thrusts, growling, “So. Fucking. Tight.” You sputter around Tommy’s cock; your pussy is so full, so stretched, but it’s not nearly enough. You want more. You need Tommy’s cock inside there too.
Hand still pumping Tommy’s shaft, you pull your mouth off and ask: “Joel, is this room for Tommy?”
Your question catches off both of your brothers, who glance at each other before looking at you. You have this innocent, insatiable expression written across your face - you wait, a single eyebrow raised. You’ve rendered them speechless.
“Uh, what do you mean, Nic?” Joel asks his cock still inside.
“I mean, I want you and Tommy inside -” You suck in a breath before huffing out, “The same hole,”
“Holy fuck, Nic….” Tommy mutters, running a hand over his face and stalling as he tries to wrap his head around the suggestion, “You’re fucking nasty,”
You don’t know if that’s a compliment or an insult, but regardless, your cheeks redden, murmuring, “I know….mm’sorry -”
Joel swoops down, capturing your face with his hands, peering at you with his limpid brown eyes, “No need to be sorry, darlin’...”
“Joel, are you seriously considering it?” Tommy asks, incredulous. Despite his uncertainty, Tommy’s cock remains hard, which tells you the double penetration doesn’t entirely turn him off.
Joel looks at his brother and shrugs, admitting, “I’ll try anything once. You know this, Tommy,”
Meanwhile, you’re laying there, velvet walls still wrapped around Joel’s cock, waiting. You don’t want to push Tommy into something if he’s uncomfortable, and you think of a compromise. “What if you fuck my ass instead, Tommy?”
Tommy groans, and you feel his shaft quiver in your hand - he liked that suggestion. Slowly, you start to move your hand, jerking his cock again. His eyes shut close, pausing to think. As your hand squeezes his thick crown, he shudders, “Yeah… yeah, I’ll fuck your ass,”
You waste no time, keen to capitalize on your fantasy. Of course, you’re nervous. You’ve never had anal sex, but you trust Tommy and Joel. You feel safe with them, and you know that if it’s going to be anyone, you rather it be one of them -
“Joel, lay down,” You instruct. Joel listens, positioning himself underneath your body. His hands quickly find your hips as you settle in his lap. Joel sees and feels your exhilaration, watching you shift down, pressing your chest into his and raising your ass - meanwhile, your eyes are on Tommy, who is shuffling onto the bed.
As Tommy pumps his cock, his stomach flutters. He feels jittery as a rush of adrenaline whooshes through him. Eagerly, you wiggle your hips, giggling. Joel hasn’t seen you like this in years, nor has Tommy. An inexplicable force drives Joel to grab your face and kiss you with such passion that you feel it in your core. Joel’s tongue meets yours, intertwining as Tommy’s face dips down, and you feel his big hands smoothing over your cheeks before his mouth closes in on your sensitive asshole. You gasp, body tensing.
“Relax, Nic,” Joel whispers between kisses, “Or else his dick won’t fit,”
You nod, closing your eyes as Tommy preps your puckered knot by moving a finger and swirling his spit and your pussy juices around it. The sensation sends a jolt of bliss through your body and leaves you wanting more, and Tommy does just that. He gently pushes the tip of his finger inside, commenting, “How does it feel, Nic?”
You moan, confessing, “Good,”
But your body is still hesitant, and Joel can tell. He encourages, “Take a deep breath,” you listen, filling your lungs with a long and deep inhale before exhaling slowly. During your tantric breathing, Tommy can slip his entire finger in, causing you to hiss in surprise.
“How’s our girl doing, Joel?” Tommy asks as he stops, letting you get used to his finger being in a taboo body part. Joel looks at your strained face and notes how you are biting your lip and how your eyes are still shuttered close.
“Add another finger, Tommy,” Joel instructs, and with that, Tommy adds a second finger. Your eyes spring open as a slight squeal escapes from your mouth. Once more, Joel is instructing you to relax, his voice more demanding than before. He’s enjoying your expression of discomfort, and he swears his cock is getting harder because of your pain - after all, you are the dirty slut who wanted this. You wanted Tommy’s cock inside your ass, and you’ll get fucking it.
The room has filled with your laboured breathing, and soon enough, your hips are rocking backward to meet Tommy’s pistoning fingers. You’re moaning and groaning as your brother stretches your asshole. Meanwhile, Joel is becoming impatient, and his cock is aching for release. He wants to fill your cunt with his seed -
“Tommy, I think she’s ready,” Joel says, continuing to talk about you as if you’re not even in the same room. It’s as if Joel has reduced you to a mere object, and it only adds to the fire already burning in your core.
Tommy nods, withdrawing his fingers, leaving you feeling empty, but it’s quickly forgotten about because Tommy is there again, this time pressing the head of his cock against your taboo entrance. You hear him spit and feel his homemade lubricant dripping down before Tommy starts to ease himself inside. The pressure relents and opens just enough to let his cock through.
Your jaw slackens, and your mouth gapes open. It’s a pain mixed with pleasure. It’s the feeling of being full yet yearning for more. Your breathing, still laboured, comes out sharp and tight.
“Relax,” Joel reminds you. He’s holding your hips, trying to pry them apart more than they already are. Meanwhile, Tommy’s hands knead your plump mounds of flesh, spreading your cheeks apart. Your brothers are practically ripping you in half. And, of course, you love every damn second of it.
“Mmm, you like this, Nic?” Tommy grunts, “You like my cock in your ass?” he doesn’t wait for your answer and plunders forward, stuffing the first couple of inches of his cock inside. The feeling is indescribable.
“Oh, Tommy, I love it,” You whine, despite the soreness surging through your body. Joel writhes beneath you, jutting his hips upward. He needs to be inside you now, and he reaches down to hold his cock up. Joel waits, and the next time your hips sink, the head of his cock slides into your molten wetness. Your head tosses back, and you cry out.
The pain is sharp and punches through your core. It’s official. Your pussy and ass have been claimed by your brothers, and now both of their cocks are being sheathed by your holes, separated only by a thin veil of skin - forbidden fruit has never tasted so sweet.
You feel their thick cocks ribbing their way inside your holes. You swear you can feel every ridge and vein as they move in tandem. You feel so full, so complete. The sensation is otherworldly, and hearing Tommy and Joel grunt together is simply exquisite.
“Fuck, Nic,” Tommy hisses, “You like being filled by your brothers’ cocks?”
“I do, I fucking do,” You moan, pressing your hands into Joel’s chest, fingers gripping his bulky chest muscles as you struggle to remain composed because each time Tommy slams into your ass, it sends your pussy up Joel’s cock. It’s a rhythm you have no control over, and all you know is that it’s building you toward a very powerful orgasm -
The three of you are breathing heavily, moaning, and coiling together in an act so sinful that neither of you can believe it’s happening. Joel is losing himself in the winding bliss, knowing he won’t last much longer as he undulates his hips to match his brother’s thrusts. It’s a position Joel never thought he’d be in, and he enjoys it. Maybe a bit too much.
Tommy’s eyes are screwed shut, and his hands grip your ass so tight it’s sure to leave bruises on your peachy flesh. He feels the tension in his balls tightening, and he wants to slow down to prolong the threesome, but Tommy can’t. Something inside yearns for the release, so much so that it practically burns him from the inside out. Tommy tosses his head back, throat bobbing, licking his lips, “Fuck, Nicky - I’m gonna cum,”
“Cum in my ass, Tommy,” You reply, noting how Tommy’s tempo quickens. The speed at which your brother drives his cock in and out of your forbidden hole produces a feral cry that sounds deep in your core.
“Joel,” You pant, eyes fluttering down to the brother beneath you, “Are you gonna cum in my pussy?”
His eyes are screwed shut, and a look of concentration flickering across his face. Joel nods, grunting in response because words evade him. He can’t think; he can’t speak. He can only chase the thrill of his sick kink of filling his sister up to the brim with his spunk.
“Cum in my pussy,” You encourage, watching Joel’s face redden at the request. You repeat, “Cum in my pussy, Joel,” Your words push him off the edge, and he’s shoving his hips into yours, cock surging with cum that floods your warm, velvety hole.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” is all Joel can say. His chest is heaving as his orgasm punches through his core, sending yet another blast of cum into you. Tommy is next, having lasted a few seconds longer than Joel, and you feel Tommy’s cock turns rigid, and his moans turn into primal sounds of his release.
As Tommy shoots his load deep in your ass, your climax peaks, and heat sears through your body. You cry out as an orgasm rips through your body, tearing you apart. Pleasure surges, assaulting your senses. Your pussy and ass violently clamp down on your brothers’ cocks, milking the leftovers. The ecstasy is overwhelming and neverending, and you can’t help but collapse into Joel’s chest, body completely spent.
