He Doesn’t Speak Until You’re Holding Him Again
He channels his emotions through you (literally). I'm sorry its kinda long.
He left again. You didn’t text. Didn’t call. The silence was a wound, and you let it bleed. Because this wasn’t new—not really. Knew what it meant when Simon disappeared. It meant he was scared.
Not of you, but of what loving you was turning him into. Of the parts of himself he thought had been long buried coming alive again. Softness. Need. Hope.
The first time, you thought you’d done something wrong. The second time, you begged him. Just tell me next time. Let me know you’re okay. And still… this time, no word. Just the echo of his absence.
So when the door opened five days later, and he stepped in like he’d never left—eyes bloodshot, hands clenched—you didn’t shout. Didn’t cry. You just stood there, heart hammering. And he looked at you like he didn’t deserve to be looked at at all.
You let him in. Like you always do. And now...now he’s inside you.
You’re in his lap, knees spread wide, body molded to his. You’re facing him, straddling him on the edge of the bed, his cock seated so deep you swear you can’t breathe right. His hands are on your hips—holding, not guiding. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t keep you anchored there.
Your arms are wrapped around his shoulders, and your forehead is pressed to his. He hasn’t moved in a while. Just breathing. Just there.
You’re soaked. You’ve been like this for minutes—no thrusting, just the feel of him. Heavy and deep and so close it’s maddening. Every nerve in your body tightens with the way he holds you—gentle, but solid. There’s reverence in it. Restraint.
He shakes once. A breath, stuttering from his lips. Then, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
The words ghost out of him like a secret. Not really meant for you, but said anyway. You want to respond. Your lips part. But you stop. You don’t say anything.
Because you know. This is how it works. He needs to get it out and you need to let him. He exhales slowly, nostrils flaring. His hands flex on your hips. And then—
“I’ve never… wanted someone like this.” His voice is hoarse. Raw. “Not even close.”
You try to stay still. Try to hold on to the control he’s trusting you with. But your hips shift, barely, and the drag of his cock inside you punches the air from your lungs. Your fingers tighten on the back of his neck, and you clench around him hard enough he groans—quiet, but guttural.
He thrusts—once. Deep. Slow. And it hits everything.
“I thought,” he says, breath ragged, “if I stayed gone long enough… the need would go away.”
Your jaw tenses. Your eyes burn. He moves again, sliding out so slow it feels like a tease, like punishment, and then pushing back in just as carefully. You bite your lip. Hard.
“I missed you like I’d lost a limb.” His voice breaks on it. “And it scared the fuck out of me.”
You can’t help it—you whimper. Soft, but it splits the air between you. He trembles beneath you like the sound undid something inside him.
Your head drops to his shoulder. His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head.
“I’ve never made love before,” he whispers. “Not like this. Never wanted to. Never thought I’d get the chance.”
Your breath hitches—words bubbling up in your chest. “Simon—”
“No.” He cuts you off, but not harshly. His mouth finds yours. Kisses you soft. Slow. Tongue barely brushing. “Let me… let me say it before it eats me alive.”
You nod. You don’t trust yourself to speak again.
He rolls his hips. Slow. So unbearably slow it hurts. Your body clenches without permission, and your nails bite into his shoulders.
He doesn’t stop. “I’m scared every time I touch you,” he says, breath trembling.
You moan. Quiet. A sob in disguise. He feels it—feels your body tighten again and holds you through it, arms wrapping tighter around your waist.
“Not because I don’t want to… but because I do.” Another thrust—long and deep, dragging over every place that lights your nerves. “So much it makes my hands shake.”
They are. Shaking. One of his hands slides up your spine, broad palm stroking over the back of your shirt, grounding you.
“I don’t know how to be that and still be me.” Your throat closes.
He’s fucking you like the rhythm is synced to his heart. Every motion slow, devastating, steady. Not stopping. And you—God—you’re falling apart. Silently.
Your mouth opens but no sound comes out. Just air. Just trembles. Because your body is trying to fall apart but you won’t interrupt him. You won’t.
He feels it. He holds you closer.
“I want to be soft with you,” he breathes. “I want to show you every part I’ve kept hidden. Even the ones I hate.”
Your eyes flood. Your arms shake. He doesn’t stop. And it builds.
He’s holding you still while he confesses, while he fucks you like he’s memorizing every inch of you, every sound you try to suppress. The burn of him inside you is constant, every drag slow and torturous, but it’s the emotion in it that’s ruining you.
And then, “I love you.” It’s not shouted. Not grand.
“I love you so fucking much it makes me sick.”
That’s it. Your body gives out. Orgasm hits like a wave crashing into bone.
You cry—fully cry—as your body pulses around him, thighs trembling, face buried in his neck, broken sounds slipping from your lips without shame. It’s too much. It’s everything. It’s him.
Doesn’t move faster. Doesn’t chase his own. Just stays inside, deep and grounding, his arms wrapped around you like protection itself. He whispers into your hair, breath catching.
“I’m still not done talking.”
Your heart splits open. You nod—barely—too ruined to do anything else.
And he starts again. Moving, slow. Again. Deeper. Not done with you. Not done speaking.
“I thought I was past this,” he murmurs, his voice steady now. “Past loving anyone like this.”
“But I want everything with you. All of it.”
You cry again—but it’s quieter this time. Softer. Acceptance blooming behind the ache. He kisses your temple. Keeps going. Keeps loving you with his body.
“I don’t want to leave anymore.”
And then—he falls quiet. His rhythm shifts just slightly. Not faster, but fuller. Like he’s focused now. Intent. You feel the change before he speaks again—his breath warm at your ear, his hand sliding between your bodies to touch you where you’re already aching.
“You’ve got one more for me, haven’t you?”
Your breath stutters. “You can give me another,” he whispers, voice low and reverent. “Just one more.”
You nod—but it’s a broken nod, lips parted, unable to speak.
“Let me feel it. Let me feel you fall apart again.”
He moves with purpose now—still slow, still devastating, but direct. His fingers rub slow circles, his cock dragging deep, hitting that spot inside that makes your spine arch and your mouth open in a sob.
You clutch at him, arms tight around his shoulders, every nerve lit up again. “Simon” you gasp, “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can,” he breathes. “You’re mine. Let me have it.”
And you do. You fall apart again, right there in his arms—louder this time, trembling through it, voice breaking on his name. It hits hard. Fast. Completely. He doesn’t stop until your body’s shivering and twitching from overstimulation, tears streaking your cheeks, your lips parted and gasping for air.
Only then—only after you’ve given him everything—does he let go.
He buries himself deep and stays there, trembling as he spills into you with a quiet, broken sound. Not loud. Not frantic.
Just your name. Breathed like a prayer. Like relief.
And then he’s holding you again—really holding you—his chest rising against yours, one hand splayed between your shoulder blades, the other stroking your thigh, grounding you.
You’re both shaking. But neither of you pull away.
