rubberroomwithrats - Tumblr blog

rubberroomwithrats · 3 months ago

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Synopsis: [MH Wilds Olivia x Fem Hunter/Reader]

She glances over her shoulder at you; an invitation, a challenge, as if she's asking you to dance with her.

Genre: Romance, adventure, action, smut.

CW: Sexual content, canon-typical violence.

Dividers by: @strangergraphics

Title from: 'Howl' by Florence and the Machine.

(I worship this woman, and here is my ode to her. Please tell me I'm not the only one writing Olivia fanfic.)

She'd been standing at the prow of the flying vessel, the first time you'd seen her.

In the desert, the sun held court in all its white-hot glory, burnishing everything it touched to soft-edged brilliance. It was the reason you'd imagined, initially, that the pale flame of her hair was partly illusory.

Sand thrown up from the passage of the ship clouded the air as you made your way across the deck, inviting enthusiastic greetings from your guildmates.

She'd turned to face you, verdant gaze cool and appraising, cutting through the pall of dust like a wyvern's talon. Her features comprised a series of hard edges and smooth planes, the rough-hewn beauty of a glacier.

In that moment, something passed between you two; a recognition of a kind, one hunter to another. The kind that served you well in nameless territory.

And something else, undefinable.

Maybe it was the heat of the day, scorching through your clothing, or the stinging spray of the sand on your skin, but you felt a certain tension in your abdomen as she came forward, stride steady and confident over the pitching deck. The sensation rose within you, like the clawing ascent of anticipation before a hunt.

She took your hand, her grip as powerful as you'd expected.

You'd wondered if she could feel it too, the coil of that serpent beneath shifting sands, as you'd grasped her hand in turn.

She'd asked you to call her Olivia.

To know Olivia was to know the hunt.

She wasn't at all unfriendly, offering up herself and her unit with a selfless sense of duty, again and again. She ate with you, drank with you, shared stories of their adventures in this new land.

It was that very sense of duty that seemed to clothe her as well as her armour, encouraging comradery and trust, but nothing that dipped below that steel-clad surface. Olivia was a professional, through and through.

And you, well, you were a hunter.

You couldn't let sleeping monsters lie, not when their serpentine coils curved around the walls of your abdomen with increasing fervour every time her gaze met yours, every time she stood by your side in battle, every time she urged her seikret to run alongside yours, your knees brushing in thrilling peril in enclosed spaces.

Then came your sighting of the Uth Duna, the leviathan wrapped in a shield of water, and you began to see more of her, the passion she allowed to slip through the cracks.

Nata immediately recognised the White Wraith that had attacked his village. It was all the identification Olivia needed. Before you had a chance to react, Olivia was spurring her mount forward, unerring, even in the face of the unknown.

Now that was something you hadn't witnessed in a while.

The sheer brazen nature of her charge was something you'd probably label as reckless for anyone else. But you'd seen the change in her expression, the immediate switch from soldier to predator. You knew, all too well, the instinct that drove her.

Afterwards, you'd approached her where she'd stood near the entrance of the camp, eyes trained on the horizon beyond.

"Olivia?"

She turned to you, some small shift in her expression.

"Come to talk about the hunt?"

You paused, then came to stand at her side, feeling her gaze travel over the side of your face, intent and observant.

"The way you charged in earlier ... "

"You think that was ... irresponsible?"

You turned back to her swiftly, but she was smiling, the corner of her mouth curving slightly.

You shook your head and laughed.

"Not exactly. I can't say I haven't done the same myself. More than once. But you didn't even hesitate. The White Wraith ... it's like nothing I've ever seen before."

She tilted her head and seemed to consider.

"My unit have seen a lot of new monsters since arriving here. You could say it was why we were brought over in the first place. We're frontliners, in more than one sense. To hesitate when we see something new ... that simply isn't who we are."

You gestured airily to yourself.

"Think I would fit in with your unit?"

Something in her gaze changed, hooded, warm, and she took a step toward you.

"Oh, I already knew you would. But ... I've heard things about you too. Your reputation for working alone. Has that changed?"

Her scrutiny made you a little self conscious. You ran a finger along your arm, where your bracer had left a groove in the skin. Her eyes followed the motion, to where it stopped at the crook of your elbow.

"Changed? I don't know. I've always preferred my own company, I suppose. But ... things are different here. It's not just my life at stake when I hunt."

She nodded slowly, and you watched as the breeze sifted through the lighter strands of her hair, revealing the soft darkness beneath. You wondered, briefly, what it would feel like to brush that tawny mane back with your own fingers, where only the wind had passed before.

Sometimes, as you know all too well, the hunter becomes the hunted. It starts with the sensation of being watched, of lambent eyes bent on the curve of your spine, the sound of your breath, the shift of your legs over the saddle.

It ends with a large shape, unfurling through the darkness, as your target comes toward you.

Olivia approaches you, one evening, as you sit near the campfire on the journey to Azuz City.

She has removed her armour, opting for a simple long-sleeved tunic against the rapidly cooling air of the desert night.

The temperatures had been variable along the way, sometimes weighing down the air with oppressive heat as your party had passed volcanic areas and hot springs.

You'd taken the opportunity to bathe in the clear waters of a nearby rock pool, your hair drying loose over your shoulders. You feel her eyes pass over you, and there's always something different about her regard. She seems poised on the verge of action, as if there's a fine, invisible line between where her gaze falls and her hands follow.

You'd seen it, in the way she'd accept interesting new baubles and artifacts that Erik handed to her, strong fingers sliding over surfaces, the sinew at the back of her hands playing under the skin, telling of the strength of her grip.

She seated herself on the overturned log beside you, close, but not quite touching.

"Zenny for your thoughts?"

You smiled at the fire crackling merrily before you both.

"I want to pause, sometimes. To really take it all in. There's never much time to enjoy the scenery, is there?"

"Eyes on the job. That's the way of the hunter. I've learned to appreciate the downtime, when we get it."

"Right. We've got no shortage of changing pastures, that's for sure."

"Hunting has its own appeal, I suppose. And sometimes the view at camp can be just as good."

"It can?"

You turned to her playfully, to catch the humour in her expression, and instead find the heated softness of her glance under shadowed brows, lingering for a moment on the firelit cast of your skin.

Ghostly fingers flutter up your spine, your cheeks tingling with a warmth you hoped she hadn't noticed as she looked away.

A few moments later, when she bids you goodnight and makes her way to her tent, you rather wished she had.

The blazing heat of the Everforge exploded with shattering force, sending the villagers of Azuz reeling backward, crying out in alarm. Their shadows flickered, huge and monstrous across the walls, as they darted to and fro, scrambling to divert the damage.

There was no time to apportion blame for what had occurred; such luxuries were rare in the world of a hunter. There was only the necessity for acting now, decisively.

Olivia was at your side in an instant as the rest of the guild members scattered the villagers, sending them to safety. You made your way through darkened streets and across precipitous bridges, right up until your quarry found you.

Ajarakan. Two of them.

Their fists thundered into the cobbled courtyard as they made their descent, massive walls of muscle and fury, spittle flying from molten jaws as they roared and tore up the ground beneath them.

Olivia was slightly ahead, and there was a brief moment when she glanced over her shoulder at you; an invitation, a challenge, as if she was asking you to dance with her.

Your answering smile was a fierce acceptance.

She leads with strength and grace, as always, feet pivoting as she times a perfect swing. You catch glimpses of her in between the rush of your own battle, between huge fists that swing a hair's breath too close, between enraged bestial howls and the brief snatches of energised relief as your palico heals you.

Fire snatches at your hair, singes your skin, dries your breath in your throat, but you watch your opponent with an eagle's eye, dodging, countering, wearing away at the giant ape, inch by hard won inch.

At some point, you hear Olivia shout to you, a warning that she was leaving the area to pursue her own prey. You offer a terse nod, wiping sweat away from your brow.

Instinct takes over, deep and primal, and the swing of your weapon, the surge of power that thrums through the earth beneath your feet, the age old battle between your will and your opponent's, takes over your senses.

The heat from the malfunctioning Everforge is unusually extreme, sapping your own strength. Perspiration stings your eyes, and your lungs burn in protest with each blow landed.

With one sudden misplaced step, you stumble and the Ajarakan's downward swipe sends you careening across the ground. You struggle upright, panting, seeing it ready the next strike.

You're not going to dodge in time.

Gritting your teeth, you brace yourself for the crushing impact, but it never arrives.

She certainly does.

You spy a flash of pale gold and silver, the powerful arc of Olivia's hammer and the Ajarakan's paws scrabble helplessly over the cobblestones as it tips over on its side. She veers over to you, but doesn't take your hand, instead, tossing you a healing potion.

You snatch it out of the air, pulling the cork with your teeth, the soothing flow of it down your throat heralding a new surge of energy. You sprint towards the downed Ajarakan, drawing your weapon at the last moment, timing your blow with hers.

The beast roars in the finality of its defeat as you stand over it, breathing heavily.

In the aftermath, as adrenaline deserts your veins, you feel the weight of your armour, the pain that flares up your thigh where your initial injury still requires healing. You stagger slightly, but an arm loops around your waist, firm and unyielding.

Your hand braces on her shoulder as she tugs you against her, armour scraping over the surface of yours. You know that if you turn your head to face her now, it will be a point of no return.

You do it, anyway.

The clean cut planes of her cheeks are smudged with soot, her hair in disarray. A bruise blooms across the side of her neck, visible above the armour. You cannot look away from the pale, searching fire of her regard, the way her lips part slightly as her gaze drops to your own.

Without thought, you reach up and brush the hair away from her forehead, watching it fall back after a second, your fingers grazing the simple silver hoop of her earring. You can feel the warmth of her breath rolling like fog over the curve of your mouth and neck.

Distant shouts reach your ears. The villagers are calling out for the both of you, approaching the arena of your recent battle.

You attempt to stand upright, but she does not relinquish her hold on you.

"Easy. Let's get you back to the tent. I'm all out of heals."

You nod, wordlessly, feeling rather cowardly for the way you allowed the moment to slip away as she guides you back to the others.

It's right before you enter your tent, though, that your eyes are drawn to her again. It's only a fleeting moment, but the knowledge that she is already looking back at you causes that vicious coil low in your stomach.

You can no longer deny its nature, just as you can no longer deny her.

Pushing aside the canvas flaps, you take a bracing breath as you remove your armour, preparing some water on the small stove top in the corner.

As it comes to a boil, you pour it into a larger wooden basin, dropping in a small healing pod. This will certainly take care of your remaining aches and pains. You pick up a cleaning cloth and a bar of soap, ready to begin your ablutions, when a rustle sounds behind you and interrupts your preparations.

Turning hurriedly, you see Olivia enter your tent and your pulse seems to still before beginning an erratic rhythm.

She shows no hesitation whatsoever. As with all things she does, there is an all-encompassing confidence, as if she truly acts on what she believes.

She stands before you, expectantly, and you rise to greet her. In the dim light of your small lantern, you see that she has also removed her armour.

The skin of her broad, freckled shoulders, turned tawny-gold by exposure to sun, ripples like the sinuous body of some water leviathan under the surface, the shift and slide of sculpted muscle very evident. Your eyes trace the veins that cord along her arms, pale hair standing like a faint dandelion cloud just above the surface, running all the way down to her wrists.

Among hunters, a show of bare skin has long since ceased to attract attention. You all dressed and undressed within the confines of limited space, without shyness or remark.

But this ... this was entirely different, considering what had happened right after your battle.

You tore your eyes away from her fingers, as they clenched and unclenched within your view, and looked up at her.

"Olivia?"

Her reply was soft. Without the tone of professional command, it was infinitely more intimate.

"I came to check on you. In case you needed any help."

"I'm - "

You gestured to the warm water and cleaning cloth. She eyed it only for a second before coming forward, taking the material in hand and passing it over the bar of soap.

Was she -

Yes. She was.

You certainly wouldn't be caught lacking.

Turning away from her, you slowly unlaced the edge of your tunic, allowing it to drop from your upper body. Somewhere, behind you, the noise of water being wrung out of the cloth paused.

There is a moment of drawn out silence before you feel her shift. Warmth, damp and slow-spreading, begins across your neck, moving down between the shoulder blades. She spares no inch of skin, trickles of water running in aching rivulets down the parts she hasn't covered yet.

The cloth disappears, and then she is even closer, the weighted brush of her thigh against the back of yours. She speaks against the shell of your ear, and your body gives an involuntary shudder that she must notice.

"May I?"

You can feel her fingers at the edge of your bunched tunic, caressing over the remaining ties that hold it in place.

You nod. You don't trust yourself to speak.

Deftly, the knots are undone. You tilt your neck to the side, arms rising slightly to give her more room. The fabric slides all the way to the floor and you finally find the courage to turn your head slightly, lashes lifting until your gaze meets hers.

It is quite something, to see the way she looks at you.

The clarity of her gaze is misted over with raw desire, undisguised, but no less intense.

You clasp your hands gently around hers and bring them up to your bare chest, guiding her fingers over your breasts. She cups them, grasp firm, and now she is watching your head falls back against her shoulder, lip caught between your teeth as the cloth drags across your hardened nipples.

You're not sure if it's your own breath quickening, or hers, but she never stops her ministrations, massaging, kneading, wiping down, down, all the way until ...

Your raise your hands until they are just above hers again, and she pauses. You can feel the focus of her undivided attention as you drag your fingertips down, across the flesh of your breasts, down your ribcage, along your stomach, until they hover just above the fabric of your underwear.

She exhales heavily, breath hot and moist against your neck, and that's all the encouragement you need.

You can't help the soft moan that escapes you as your touch slides further, tugging the material down with it, until she stops you.

Finally, finally, her lips find the side of your throat, feather soft at first, then latching onto you hungrily, as if she can still taste the remnants of your shared battle.

Suddenly, you're incredibly impatient. You both are.

You arch your body back into her, desperate for more as her hands slide eagerly down your sides, dragging your underwear away completely. It drops between your ankles and her hands are now moving over the outside of your hips, squeezing briefly, appreciatively.

They dip down to your inner thighs, and now you're struggling to keep your breathing even as she moves them up again, her grasp hard, possessive. She slows once more, and you realise that the soft sounds that have been escaping your lips are now words.

"Olivia, there, please, I - "

"Hush. Come here."

Her voice is low, shot though with husky intent. You barely have time to register what she means before that powerful arm curves around your waist, an echo of the way she supported you earlier.

She backs you both towards your hammock, tugging you down onto her lap. Her knees, still clad in leather, slip beneath yours and push them apart, holding you open and vulnerable to her touch.

You throw your head back as her fingers finally slide down across your folds, and shit, you really hope that all the others have moved to the central area for the meal, because the noise you make cannot be mistaken for anything other than mind-numbing pleasure.

"Oh God, Olivia ... "

"Yes. Tell me ... what you want."

"You. Want you - "

"Here?"

"There! Yes!"

Olivia strokes you the way she handles her weapon, steady and sure, holding you firmly by the hip and you gasp and jerk against her. You mindlessly throw up your hand, threading fingers through the short hairs at the base of her neck, desperate for something, anything to hold onto as she breaches you.

Your slick coats her exploring digits, slides down to her palm as you rock against the delicious penetration. Her other hand wanders lower, underneath your thigh, and she utters a soft grunt of effort as she lifts, spreading your legs further apart.

Her pace increases, seeking out those secret places that send surges of white hot bliss up through your abdomen, striking with repeated, devastating precision as you come apart on top of her bracing thighs.

You're no longer in control of the wanton sounds that spill from you, the sweat that beads your brow and gently bouncing breasts. She guides you, a completion of your earlier dance, pushing you with unerring skill towards a burning horizon that shimmers just beyond your fluttering lids.

Your mouth opens wide, soundless, chest heaving, back arching, as you reach your peak. Pleasure like nothing you've ever experienced crashes over you like the restless sea, dragging you helplessly into a roaring rip-tide.

You're vaguely aware of Olivia's teeth sinking lightly into your shoulder, her fingers stilling inside you, thumb keeping firm pressure on your clitoris as you let out a strangled cry, clamping down on her like a vice.

It takes a few blissful seconds before you're able to breathe again, before the shuddering of her own chest beneath your back reminds you that she is still very much wanting.

Limbs still trembling pleasantly, you edge yourself sideways off her lap, stifling a gasp as her hand falls away, sliding out of you.

You realise, as your eyes meet hers, taking in the sweat on her brow, the heavy flush on her skin, the moistened lips, that you haven't actually kissed her yet.

That would have to be remedied.

You tug her towards you, mouth colliding with hers. She tastes of dust, scorched earth, the honey sweetness of her beneath. The kiss grows passionate, clumsy, as you both seek out more, more of each other, always more.

There is a brief swooping sensation in your stomach as the hammock jounces under your back. She has pushed you back with gentle firmness while she stands and rids herself of her remaining clothes.

Your eyes are drawn helplessly towards the large damp patch over her thighs, where your own arousal had soaked into the material. Then she is naked, gloriously so, the ridges of her abdomen as hard as a wyvern plate under your exploring fingers.

Such an alluring combination; the softness of her skin, roped here and there with old scar tissue, the sheer power of her body beneath. She crawls over you, predator's grace in every line of her form, eyes burnished to turquoise brilliance as her focus falls on you, and you only.

Her arms brace on either side of your head, and your arms are now full of her, of the prickle of the shorter hair at her nape, of the broad, ever-shifting wall of her back, the supple curve of her buttocks, the heft of her thighs.

When Olivia's lips find yours again, there is an inevitability there, the surrender of a flower to the plundering hummingbird, the sinking of the sun beyond the enveloping horizon.

She engulfs you until you're aware of nothing but her, of the glide of her firm flesh against yours, the whispers of everything she has longed to do to you, the rock of the cushioning hammock beneath your entwined bodies as she takes you further into pleasure than you could have ever thought possible.

The night comes swiftly, when you're in her embrace. It gorges itself on tender hours with a gluttony well-earned, until soft light steals over your camp. You, with your nose pressed to the base of her throat, come to a realisation.

Olivia had always known, with that keen sense of hers, that this was what you both wanted. She'd never once rushed you, or pressed her own desires. She'd sensed, hunter's instinct on high alert, when the moment would come, and she'd taken it, as had you.

A hunt is an endless dance of desire; you now had no doubts about that, and with her in all her strength and splendour, in battle or in love, you could never quite distinguish predator from prey.

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rubberroomwithrats · 6 months ago

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the new baby you take care of is the cutest baby you've ever met. (a lil dubcon, baby trapping, 18+)

he has a big head with a tuff of little blond waves, and he has the brightest brown eyes in the entire world. he smiles at every face you make at him, and he takes a bottle like a champ and will nap for hours as long as you're quiet.

his father has a strict schedule set for him. when you met that big man for the very first time, you were speechless. your teeth had clacked together with how fast you tried to close your gawking mouth, but it was impossible not to with how much he towered over you, nearly touching the top of the doorway.

he is methodical, down to every minute. tacked onto the fridge, he had shown you his son's current schedule, which he emphasized with a dead glare must be followed to a T.

two feedings in the morning followed by a nap. another feeding. a longer nap. another feeding. another nap. all separated in increments of 45 minutes, with instructions on how to use the bottle warmer and how to measure the formula.

his son does not cry. his father had told you, if he cries, y'r doin' somethin' wrong. and he was right. the baby only cried when he was hungry, and he would fall into a dead sleep as soon as you gave him a bottle.

it's odd, to take care of someone else's baby. especially this man's. there's no woman in the house, as far as you can tell. the whole house is decorated very minimally, cozy and in shades of warm greens and cool blues and browns. there are no heeled boots by the door or pretty fur coats, and whenever you pass by his bedroom, only one side of his bed ever looks lived-in. there are no pictures on the walls, no makeup in the bathroom drawers, and no pads or tampons under the sink.

just a big, unfeeling man and his big, adorable baby.

but you think that your actions to get this big, unfeeling man to like you are starting to have the wrong kind of implications.

it starts with dinner. you start to make it, using the ingredients from his fridge to make stews and buttery mashed potatoes and roasted veggies. the image of you stirring a pot with his baby on your hip has not left him, and whenever you don't have some kind of meal cooking when he gets home, you answer to someone curt, annoyed, and cold, even to the touch.

then it's the decorating. you thought his couch was a little bare, so now there's a few throw blankets laying across the back of it. there's a vase of pretty tulips on the coffee table. you're growing herbs on the windowsill, little pots of thyme and rosemary and basil. you leave house shoes by the door now, and even when you're not there, he sees those fuzzy pink slippers in the foyer, and he can't help the way he chubs up just seeing them when you're not around.

you start to bring some extra changes of clothes. after the baby spit up on you more than once in a day, you bring a duffel bag with you once a week with extra changes of clothes. he snarls when he sees your clothes in one of his drawers; pretty black panties and matching bras, all laid out under your lounge wear right next to his fucking socks.

the toothbrush next to his in the bathroom. the multi-colored chapsticks in the drawers. tampons and pads organized in the cabinet, your moisturizer next to his shaving cream. he smacks his fist against the wall when he sees the finished package of your birth control in the trash because wot the fuck are y'doing taking those things when y'know i want another--

he can see you in the baby monitor. swaying in the dark of his son's room, the baby's head on your chest as you rock him softly. you're singing a little, a gentle hum to soothe him enough that his eyes start closing. he groans a little when he sees your eyes shut as you kiss his son on the forehead, cooing at him as you pat his little back and tell him to have sweet dreams.

you're making brownies when he comes home that night. his son is seated in his high chair, clapping his hands, and you're smiling at him and cooing in that baby voice you do as you take the warm brownies out of the oven. when you see him emerge from the darkness of his living room, you smile at him, taking off the oven mitts.

"hi, simon," you say softly, and his pupils dilate when you slip a hand over his son's head to soothe him. "i made some dessert, hope that's okay. thought you might wanna try my new recipe."

simon comes into the kitchen as you take his baby out of his high chair. you hoist him up against your hip, and when simon comes closer, you giggle as tilts his head to the side and stares down at you both. you tilt your head back a little, blinking up at him, and the flutter of your lashes is enough to have him rock hard in his cargos as his hands curl into frustrated fists at his sides.

"i'm gonna put him down for bed, it's a little late," you tell him. you hoist his son up a little higher on your hip, picking up his little chubby arm and waving up at simon. "say goodnight, daddy."

simon grins under his mask at the soft lilt of your voice. you try not to squeak when one of his big hands slides around your waist to hold you at your back, and he bends down to kiss his son's forehead through his mask.

"goodnight, my boy."

you try not to linger on the idea that he may have grabbed your ass as you walked away. no, his arms are just so long, they grazed you while you passed by him.

the baby always goes down nice and easy. one bottle later, with a full stomach, he's rubbing his little eyes and fussing in your arms as he tries to fall asleep. he's a mover, simon's little one--always grasping around with his arms and flopping onto his side in the bed. oftentimes, after a nap, he's facing the opposite direction and on the other end of the crib when you come to get him.

so you shouldn't be surprised when as he's falling asleep, his little grubby hands reach for you and pull.

your eyes widen when you hear the pop of buttons. you look down, gasping, when you see his son has grabbed onto the front of your blouse and pulled the first few buttons out. they clatter onto the floor in a mess, and you're not able to see where they go with it so dark in his room.

"oh, god!"

you try to be gentle as you set the baby down in his crib. he immediately sticks his thumb in his mouth with his head lolling to the side, and you try to pick up anything you step on as you hurry out of the room, trying to hold your shirt together.

it's useless. you're standing there in the hallway, hastily shutting the baby's room closed, tits out at eight in the evening.

"tha' why he so good ta ya, mama?"

your eyes bug out of your head when you see simon there. he's standing at the end of the hallway, arms crossed over his chest, and his eyes are focused on your poor open blouse. the bra you're wearing leaves nothing to the imagination--just mesh with underwire, and when simon comes closer, there's virtually nothing separating you when he reaches up with that gloved hand and cups one breast, thumb smoothing over your nipple before he tugs on it gently.

"wha--simon--"

"thinks y'r his mum, pretty tits out like tha'," simon hisses. "'f ya wanted it so bad, why didn't ya just say?"

"simon--"

he tsks, using both hands this time to grip your blouse by the edges and tug it down your arms. it falls around your elbows, and he takes the straps of your bra with it, until it's pooled around your waist and your tits fall free.

"fuckin' hell," he breathes, and your lips part gently as he hikes up his mask and spits on your nipples before sucking them into his mouth. "mmmph..."

you arch your back as he rips the rest of the buttons off with one smooth tug. your blouse falls, and your bra follows it, until you're in nothing but your skirt, backing up into the darkness of his bedroom as he kicks the door shut. you scramble to get him back on top of you when your knees hit the edge of the bed, and you're laying down--grabbing around his shoulders as you try to guide his mouth back to your breasts where he can suckle on them with that filthy mouth of his.

"knew it--" he rasps. "fuck, i knew it--"

your eyes squeeze shut when he ruts his hips against yours. your panties are ruined, slick wet and digging uncomfortably into your folds, but the scratch of simon's jeans have your back bowing at a hard angle, your fingers sliding between your bodies as you reach for his zipper. you gasp when you feel him under your hand, straining against denim, the girth of him tying your stomach in hard knots as you think about what it'll take to get you open enough for him to slip in.

"keepin' me fat," simon murmurs. "holdin' my baby like tha', wot did ya think was goin' ta happen, eh?"

"h-huh?"

"'m gonna make you fat, too, swee'eart," he says, smoothing his hand over your tummy. "saw those little pills in y'r bag. it won't take today, but we'll try again tomorrow, yeah?"

you're drooling as he fucks you. your hips are hiked up, your skirt flipped up as his thighs smack against your ass. you're not privy to the way the fat of you shakes every time he's buried to the hilt, but simon appreciates it, tongue out as he watches you push back against him to try and get yourself filled quicker. he traces your spine with his fingers, leaning over you as he watches your fingers dig into his dark sheets and grip for dear life as he gives it to you fast and deep. it's a mess of wet between you, and you know the bed underneath you will be soaked by the time he's done with you, but you can't think about that when the very thing you've been wanting since the day you met him is so close, so within reach.

you haven't taken a single one of those pills since the first week you met that fat, beautiful baby. maybe simon didn't take too close a look at the dated little pills in your bag and in the bin, the little calendar you used to mark rotting away in a forgotten pocket, gathering dust.

when simon comes, your mouth is filled with saliva, and you gurgle between barely-lucid giggles as your hips sink into the mattress. he's saying something, but you don't hear it. instead you reach down with your fingers and stuff them inside, trying to gather as much of his cum and keep it. when simon tries to cum in your mouth later, you nearly bite his dick off.

how dare he try and waste it?

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