cw: zamboni guy!simon, cock-warming, author made shit up about how zambonis work
the zamboni conks out mid-rink with a broken mechanical whirr, and simon — cock still stuffed inside of you, hands finding your hips to hold you exactly where you are — leans sideways to pop the small panel beside the steering wheel open.
'must be a connection…' he mumbles to the wiry guts of the thing. 'maybe a fuse…'
it’s been five whole minutes of him elbow-deep in wiring, brow furrowed, entirely absorbed, while you sit impaled dead center of the ice. every small shift he makes to reach further into the panel moves him inside of you, slow little drags and presses that he apparently doesn’t even notice, no matter how much it has you shifting where you’re spread wide across his giant thighs.
he’s tracing a wire with two fingers, humming tunelessly, and at some point, starts talking and it takes a second to realize he’s talking to the zamboni and not to you.
'hmm, who did tha’ to you, eh?' a gentle click of his tongue, shaking his head. 'poor thing, the state of you...'
'simon,' you whine breathlessly as he digs into one of his pockets.
'mm?' he shoves his penlight between his teeth, mumbles around it, 'wire’s corroded.'
you clench around him using all of your strength — you don’t exercise kegels for nothing. his hand pauses in the panel for a second then keeps working. but his head tilts slightly, and without looking at you, says, 'do tha’ again and i’ll lose my place. distractin’ me.'
'that’s the point,' you groan, pressing your face into his throat breathing in all engine grease and cold air. he smells you back, nose in your hair, one long inhale like it might help his diagnostics process. 'simon.'
'heard you,' he grumbles as he strips the end of a wire with his thumbnail. 'gimme a minute.'
icy-cold creeps in at your back, but the heat of him against your front keeps you comfortable enough; your whole body narrowed to where you’re stretched around him, full to the point of stupidity, throbbing in time with your pulse. you count his heartbeats through his jacket just to focus on something, anything other than the frustrating ache of him. it’s beating far slower than yours, and every beat you sit there you get wetter and wetter, soaking into his denim; humiliating.
you drop your forehead to his shoulder and make a long suffering sound.
'i know, i know,' he says mildly. to which of you? it’s unclear.
you rock your hips and his free hand clamps down on your hip again, holding you down, thumb finding the crease of your thigh and pressing into the folded flesh, and you make a wretched moan of frustration and feel him go still.
'interestin’,' he murmurs, his hand reaching back into the open panel.
'mhm.' the panel clicks shut and the engine turns over, rumbling up through the seat and straight into where you’re joined together, and you moan so loud it echoes around the whole empty rink.
simon pockets the penlight and pats the dashboard twice, 'good girl,' to the machine, and settles back against the seat, which shifts him deeper inside of you, you can tell her felt it too despite how hard he’s trying to be unaffected.
then he puts it in gear, 'left off at the blue line, sit tight.'
you could kill him. and you would if killing him didn’t require getting off his cock, and you’ve been sitting on it so long that the thought of moving makes your thighs shake. so you cling to him instead, arms around his neck, every pass of the ice translating up through the seat, through him, and into you; a low relentless vibration that has you leaking down all over him in waves of desperation.
as you’re shaking apart in his lap, and his eyes stay firmly on his lines, checking the overlap, the amount of water he’s letting out. but every so often his gaze flicks down to you, cataloguing — the sheen on your neck, the way your mouth’s gone slack — and then back to the ice.
you realize that he’s tracking both of you, seeing which one finishes first — you or the zamboni.
a corner turn rolls his hips under you and your nails dig into his shoulders.
'breathe,' he says at the halfway mark, and you realize you haven’t taken a breath in a while.
by the far end you’ve given up on dignity — forehead on his collarbone, breath ragged, grinding down in tiny, helpless circles that he permits now without stopping you, one of his gloved palms spread wide and warm over the small of your back, pressing you against him through every shiver.
then suddenly, due just to the engine’s grind and the fullness of him and the drag of another helpless circle, your orgasm hits somewhere low and deep, a hook that yanks. heat floods up from where you’re stretched around him, up through your stomach, spreading across the backs of your taut thighs, and your whole body clamps down; a rolling clench that punches a keening moan out of you, high and cracked and swallowed against his collar. your hands close around his neck for purchase. you can feel yourself fluttering around him, and there’s nothing to do but ride it out with your face hidden in his throat.
you can feel the zamboni drifting, then the small jolt of the wheel correcting, then stopping — and then both of his hands come to your hips, grinding you down through the last of it.
he pulls his glove off with his teeth, tosses it somewhere onto the dash, and leans you back so that he can look at you, taking your jaw in his bare hand, tilting your slack face up.
'couldn’t wait, huh?' he asks.
you try to answer but his grimy thumb presses into your cheek, and that’s when you feel the small restrained tremor in his hand. twenty minutes of sitting stone-still inside you and it’s finally in his fingers, in the flex of his thighs under yours, in the way his breath’s going through his nose too fast now. his hips twitch up involuntarily and he exhales through his teeth.
his whole unperturbed performance crumbles between one breath and the next, and both hands move to hook under your thighs and drag you up, then back down onto him hard enough that the seat creaks and you both shout a different swear.
that’s just about all the warning you get before he’s moving you the way he wants, hauling you up the whole length of him and slamming you back down. you’re still raw from coming — every drop of your hips lands on nerves already rung out, stretched too much, sparks-behind-the-eyes too much, and you sob into his neck and take it anyway.
‘fuckfuckfuck—’ he grits out just before he comes with a long broken groan against your ear, cock pulsing into your sensitive walls, emptying himself.
and you both sit frozen for a moment, heart rates easing, you can feel him twitch one last time inside of you and he sighs against your temple.
‘…still got half a rink to do,’ he mumbles, hips giving one last lazy grind that makes you whimper.
‘could stay just like this for it.’ a pat on your arse, he’s dead serious. ‘you’d barely notice.’
and before you can dispute it, he’s already started the ice from the beginning again.
in direct response to @anneofgreengabagool’s ‘rink rat’
