making a marriage pact with your best friend that you’ll marry each other if you’re both still single by 30. finding out years later that he’s subverted every attempt another man has made to date you in the interim…
Your sunglasses do nothing to conceal your staring. (18+)
Neither does the book in your hand, neglected a few minutes ago, based on the way you haven't flipped a page no matter how many times you try to focus back on it.
Kyle continues to pretend it isn't obvious. Giving you quick smiles from where you're sat at the shore, legs restless, shifting to lay straight and then bend and then squeezed together.
Perhaps you're still sore from this morning, where he'd lapped at your cunt to wake you. Slow and reverent and teasing until you begged to come, a request he was happy to indulge.
He slips under the water again, letting it rush over him, trying to calm his cock at the memory; at the sight of you in that wet, tight bikini; or just the thought of your blissed smile alone.
You're still staring when he surfaces, until he meets your gaze, burning even from meters away and you avert your eyes shyly. Almost as if you're just a random girl caught ogling at her crush and not the man you married four days ago.
By the time he collapses back onto his towel, limbs a little tired from the crashing waves, you've finally put your book down behind you. He fights the sunlight and squints to watch as you sit back on your legs, turned toward him, your brows just slightly furrowed, lips wet.
He reaches his hand toward you and finds your knee, squeezing it with wet fingers. "You okay, babe?"
"Mhm," you lean forward, your shadow touching him before your lips do. You're slow with it, tasting of mint and lime, parting from him just as he starts to get breathless.
Your gaze is fixed on his body. Trailing upwards, carefully, as though assessing every ridge and dip and–
You drop down quickly, as though trying to act before your doubts stop you, and lick a stripe straight across his abs, taking the water droplets still clinging to him with you.
His mouth parts, surprise choking him, his hand instinctively curling into your hair. There's a second of shifting, a hand planted at the other side of his body as you make yourself more comfortable and do it again.
"Jesus– Fuck–" His head tips back against the towel, neck straining as his fingers tighten over your scalp. You hum against his stomach and he can feel your smile there, the defiance and desire and ambition.
Fuck, it would almost make him proud if it didn't mean he was three seconds away from blowing his load right there in his swim trunks.
The next time your lips touch his skin he lifts you by the grip in your hair, gentle even then, coaxing you to meet his mouth again—obeying without hesitation, preening even more than you had before.
"Pretty fuckin' girl," he groans, slipping his tongue further.
"Taste s'good," you pant.
"Yeah?" Kyle smirks, his other hand reaching under one of your thighs, hoisting you up so you straddle his abs. "What do I taste like, baby?"
He guides you to grind down against him and you moan. "Salty–"
"Tha' right?"
You nod fervently, your hips settling into an uncoordinated rhythm against the hard muscle. He's burning underneath you, desperate to feel your core and the wetness gathered there.
It's a little clumsy as he tugs on the closest string he finds, yanking it when it doesn't give out under his touch the first time. His thumb rubs over your hip there before he's pushing as much of the damp fabric away from your cunt.
He's pleased to find you're burning too.
Gasping as the friction intensifies, brows pinched tight as he detaches his lips and kisses along your jaw, and neck, moving you as you see fit. Bringing your mouth close to his ear just so he can hear your breathy little,
"Mm, feels good. So good, Kyle– All mine..."
"All yours, baby," he coos, and when you sigh again he can't help it. His hands drop to his own trunks, hips lifting, taking you with him as he shuffles them the few inches down his thighs so his cock springs free.
It slaps against your ass, heavy and aching, and your eyes widen.
"Gonna take what's yours?"
You're quick to move down, searching behind you blindly, scratching until you find him. Curling your fingers around the base as you steady yourself, too lost to tease as you sink down on the tip.
Kyle swears under his breath, hands coming to steady at your hips as he usually does, usually guiding you to sink down, but you do it without warning. Burying yourself into the hilt, clenching around him fiercely, so tight and wet and hot Kyle thinks he might actually die here.
On his honeymoon. On a beach. Shadowed by his wife as she rides him like there's no tomorrow. Not the worst way he could go.
Your knees tighten around his waist, the sun above your head like a halo.
"Kyle," you breathe, dropping down onto his lap with increasing urgency.
"I know, baby," his thumb reaches between you for your clit as soon as you settle into a comfortable rhythm. Already swollen from earlier, he works firm circles into it, muscle memory taking over as he tries not to ruin this by coming so quick. "Been the best for me, yeah, you have. Wearing that pretty ring, sittin' here like eye candy. Knowin' you're only for me."
You keen and he's dragging you down to kiss you, drowning in your sweet KyleKyleKyle as your orgasm tears through you, a little painful but mostly delicious. Arching your back, trying to grind into and escape his touch at your cunt at the same time.
You collapse into his chest, breathing hard, he digs his heels into the blanket and thrusts up—short and sharp as his own high curls through him fast.
He has half the mind to pull out, come coating your bellies, heaving and flexing with the strain.
Kyle murmurs your name, catching his breath as the surroundings come back to him, your own sticky against his collarbone. He's selfish when he tightens his arm around you, proven by your whine about it being too hot, but he keeps you there, completely and utterly blissed.
"You're perfect-"
He's interrupted by smashing glasses.
Just as you look up from the crook of his neck, he strains to look back, met with a waitress covering her eyes, now empty tray in hand as she slowly backs away.
"I'm so sorry!"
She runs off down the path between the greenery and he's biting his lip to stifle his laugh—made harder when he sees your surprise.
You smack his chest lightly, "don't laugh!"
But you're already halfway there, spurred by his amusement. Your grin even brighter, squealing when he sits up with you still in his lap, licking a stripe up your neck.
"How much do you think she watched?"
"Kyle!"
"I'm joking," he laughs, taking to nibbling at your earlobe, hands firmly clasped at your ass. Delighted by your moan when he squeezes. "Can we ask her to bring a drink that tastes as good as you?"
18+ mdni thinking about jack abott and his sweet girl who gets distracted during sex n can have trouble finishing…
he can see when you’re into it— meeting his eye, smiling, responding to his words with sweet whimpers n hushed whispers as he fucks you… but then he can see when your head goes elsewhere. your eyes glaze over a bit and drift to the ceiling, you stop grinding down to meet his thrusts.
His hand comes up to cup your face in an attempt to draw you back, and you turn your face to kiss his palm, but he knows it’s just an absentminded reflex.
“Hey.” Jack urges, voice a low rasp. “Hey, doll. Look at me.” He smiles gently when you finally meet his eye with a small one of your own. “Where’d you go, pretty girl? Gotta stay with me.”
“Sorry,” you murmur, all breathy as Jack’s hips snap forward n his cock kisses your cervix. “Just thinking.”
Jack shakes his head, light and easy and hardly a reprimand. “You’ve got all the time in the world to think, sweetheart. I need you to focus right now, can you do that for me?”
You nod.
“Feel this?” He rolls his hips again, slow and deep. “Feel how full you are?”
You nod again, and this time your brows furrow n your face scrunches in pleasure as you fully find your way back to the present.
“Yeah. Attagirl. Feels nice, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” You breathe out. You let your back arch, rutting down against Jack to chase that build-up you need. He nods encouragingly.
“There you go. You’re doing such a good job.” Jack’s hand moves low between your bodies. He finds your clit, rolls it between the pads of his index and middle fingers.
He smirks when you moan and tremble. He knows you’re getting there, but also knows that you could just as easily lose it again. So he keeps talking.
“Such a good girl for me. Look how fuckin’ perfect you are.” He presses a kiss to your cheek, then your neck, then he connects his lips to yours and lets his tongue sweep inside, swallowing your next moan. He’s panting softly when he pulls away.
His fingers speed up just a bit when he can tell that you need more. He nods, urging you along when your hands come up to grip his shoulders and you look at him with desperate eyes. He keeps the encouragement flowing freely. “Good girl. Come on, you can do it. I feel you getting close, babydoll. You’re doing so well. I wanna feel you to cum on my cock.”
Your brows knit in concentration and you writhe on the bed, trying to move the right way and find the right angles to finally send yourself over the edge.
When it works you tighten up everywhere— your fingers dig into the freckled flesh of Jack’s shoulders, your body goes rigid, your mouth slackens in a long, airy moan. Jack groans lowly at the feeling of your walls clenching up around him, pulling his cock in deep.
“Goood girl.” Jack grits out. His hips stutter as he diligently fucks you through your orgasm. “You’re so good, honey. Fuck.” His forehead falls against yours, sweaty gray curls pressing against your hairline and lust-blown eyes mere inches from your own. “That never gets fucking old.”
Your sunglasses do nothing to conceal your staring. (18+)
Neither does the book in your hand, neglected a few minutes ago, based on the way you haven't flipped a page no matter how many times you try to focus back on it.
Kyle continues to pretend it isn't obvious. Giving you quick smiles from where you're sat at the shore, legs restless, shifting to lay straight and then bend and then squeezed together.
Perhaps you're still sore from this morning, where he'd lapped at your cunt to wake you. Slow and reverent and teasing until you begged to come, a request he was happy to indulge.
He slips under the water again, letting it rush over him, trying to calm his cock at the memory; at the sight of you in that wet, tight bikini; or just the thought of your blissed smile alone.
You're still staring when he surfaces, until he meets your gaze, burning even from meters away and you avert your eyes shyly. Almost as if you're just a random girl caught ogling at her crush and not the man you married four days ago.
By the time he collapses back onto his towel, limbs a little tired from the crashing waves, you've finally put your book down behind you. He fights the sunlight and squints to watch as you sit back on your legs, turned toward him, your brows just slightly furrowed, lips wet.
He reaches his hand toward you and finds your knee, squeezing it with wet fingers. "You okay, babe?"
"Mhm," you lean forward, your shadow touching him before your lips do. You're slow with it, tasting of mint and lime, parting from him just as he starts to get breathless.
Your gaze is fixed on his body. Trailing upwards, carefully, as though assessing every ridge and dip and–
You drop down quickly, as though trying to act before your doubts stop you, and lick a stripe straight across his abs, taking the water droplets still clinging to him with you.
His mouth parts, surprise choking him, his hand instinctively curling into your hair. There's a second of shifting, a hand planted at the other side of his body as you make yourself more comfortable and do it again.
"Jesus– Fuck–" His head tips back against the towel, neck straining as his fingers tighten over your scalp. You hum against his stomach and he can feel your smile there, the defiance and desire and ambition.
Fuck, it would almost make him proud if it didn't mean he was three seconds away from blowing his load right there in his swim trunks.
The next time your lips touch his skin he lifts you by the grip in your hair, gentle even then, coaxing you to meet his mouth again—obeying without hesitation, preening even more than you had before.
"Pretty fuckin' girl," he groans, slipping his tongue further.
"Taste s'good," you pant.
"Yeah?" Kyle smirks, his other hand reaching under one of your thighs, hoisting you up so you straddle his abs. "What do I taste like, baby?"
He guides you to grind down against him and you moan. "Salty–"
"Tha' right?"
You nod fervently, your hips settling into an uncoordinated rhythm against the hard muscle. He's burning underneath you, desperate to feel your core and the wetness gathered there.
It's a little clumsy as he tugs on the closest string he finds, yanking it when it doesn't give out under his touch the first time. His thumb rubs over your hip there before he's pushing as much of the damp fabric away from your cunt.
He's pleased to find you're burning too.
Gasping as the friction intensifies, brows pinched tight as he detaches his lips and kisses along your jaw, and neck, moving you as you see fit. Bringing your mouth close to his ear just so he can hear your breathy little,
"Mm, feels good. So good, Kyle– All mine..."
"All yours, baby," he coos, and when you sigh again he can't help it. His hands drop to his own trunks, hips lifting, taking you with him as he shuffles them the few inches down his thighs so his cock springs free.
It slaps against your ass, heavy and aching, and your eyes widen.
"Gonna take what's yours?"
You're quick to move down, searching behind you blindly, scratching until you find him. Curling your fingers around the base as you steady yourself, too lost to tease as you sink down on the tip.
Kyle swears under his breath, hands coming to steady at your hips as he usually does, usually guiding you to sink down, but you do it without warning. Burying yourself into the hilt, clenching around him fiercely, so tight and wet and hot Kyle thinks he might actually die here.
On his honeymoon. On a beach. Shadowed by his wife as she rides him like there's no tomorrow. Not the worst way he could go.
Your knees tighten around his waist, the sun above your head like a halo.
"Kyle," you breathe, dropping down onto his lap with increasing urgency.
"I know, baby," his thumb reaches between you for your clit as soon as you settle into a comfortable rhythm. Already swollen from earlier, he works firm circles into it, muscle memory taking over as he tries not to ruin this by coming so quick. "Been the best for me, yeah, you have. Wearing that pretty ring, sittin' here like eye candy. Knowin' you're only for me."
You keen and he's dragging you down to kiss you, drowning in your sweet KyleKyleKyle as your orgasm tears through you, a little painful but mostly delicious. Arching your back, trying to grind into and escape his touch at your cunt at the same time.
You collapse into his chest, breathing hard, he digs his heels into the blanket and thrusts up—short and sharp as his own high curls through him fast.
He has half the mind to pull out, come coating your bellies, heaving and flexing with the strain.
Kyle murmurs your name, catching his breath as the surroundings come back to him, your own sticky against his collarbone. He's selfish when he tightens his arm around you, proven by your whine about it being too hot, but he keeps you there, completely and utterly blissed.
"You're perfect-"
He's interrupted by smashing glasses.
Just as you look up from the crook of his neck, he strains to look back, met with a waitress covering her eyes, now empty tray in hand as she slowly backs away.
"I'm so sorry!"
She runs off down the path between the greenery and he's biting his lip to stifle his laugh—made harder when he sees your surprise.
You smack his chest lightly, "don't laugh!"
But you're already halfway there, spurred by his amusement. Your grin even brighter, squealing when he sits up with you still in his lap, licking a stripe up your neck.
"How much do you think she watched?"
"Kyle!"
"I'm joking," he laughs, taking to nibbling at your earlobe, hands firmly clasped at your ass. Delighted by your moan when he squeezes. "Can we ask her to bring a drink that tastes as good as you?"
boyfriend jack abbot who always lets you touch but never lets you come. not unless he’s around to give you the express permission or to force it out of you. says he likes the sounds too much. the squeaks and the whines and the nails digging into his shoulders when you repeat his name. his not name, too. the begging and the pleading, the muffled ‘daddy, daddy, daddy’ as he fucks into you, your pussy sloppy and wet, your burning face hidden against the curve of his neck.
he makes the argument that waiting is the very least you can do. ‘for me,’ he says, his thumb brushing the curve of your cheekbone, leaning down to press warm, knowing kisses to your mouth. ‘just want you to try for me.’
so you agree, hesitant at first but also excited. like the prospect of denying yourself orgasm is a shiny new toy that’s been dropped in your lap, ready to be turned over and inspected for possibility, for layer and depth. you touch yourself when he’s not around and you don’t let yourself come. let yourself teeter on the edge and text him sweet, vague nothings, like ‘miss you’ and ‘thinking of you’ and ‘can’t wait to see you later.’ and he responds in kind, when he can, when he’s not elbow deep in traumas.
over time, the messages grow bolder, less vague. messages he has to hide his screen to read lest his ears and the back of his neck flush bright red. and that makes it even better, you think, of having a dirty little secret. of being one too. jack abbot’s needy, desperate girlfriend who can’t go a single day without him giving her an orgasm. who has to bother him at work like a child would their guardian. ‘can i go to the park? can i watch a movie? can i come in our bed thinking of you?’
‘so empty, it hurts,’ you text him with one hand down your pants, and, ‘i almost came, but i didn’t! didn’t want to disappoint you. but now my pillow’s all wet :(’ and once, memorably, because he calls you almost directly after, ‘i need you to take care of me, daddy, where are you?’
a cute, flirty little game that makes the distance apart more bearable. connects you through space and time and a digital footprint that should most definitely be wiped clean before you die. it evolves into slow, delicious torture over the course of the relationship. as you find it exceptionally more and more difficult not to come on the days you’re ramped up, near impossible during ovulation.
days like today when you’re at home, naked in your bed, the past who knows how many hours spent with your hand between your thighs, rubbing mindless circles around your clit and thinking of jack. of his voice and his hands and the thick circumference of his waist you absolutely adore, that you love to wrap your legs around when he’s deep inside of you, holding onto him with all four limbs like a koala.
you still stop when you get too close, breathing fast and hard and squeezing your thighs together at the achy, empty feeling but you hate it, think you might actually vibrate out of your skin soon if he doesn’t come home and take care of you. in an act of desperation, you send him a voice note that he sees twenty minutes later, ducks into the bathroom to listen to, phone pressed to his ear.
it’s almost two minutes long. begins with the slick, wet sounds of your pussy he knows so well, realizes with a hot pulse of desire in his stomach that you’re fingering yourself and then your voice starts up, pleading. you sound wrecked, completely out of it, like your entire world has been shrunk down to your cunt and what you can fit inside of it.
‘i’m sorry—i’m sorry, i just need it so bad. need something inside me, 'cause you’re not here to—,’ you cut yourself off on a moan and then the slick sounds get faster, more urgent. ‘fill me up. i’m so empty, all of the time ‘n i need it, daddy, need your big cock inside me, stretching me open, oh—,’ a squeak then loud, audible breathing, the slick sounds of your pussy ending, ‘almost came. fuck, fuck, i almost came.’ there’s muffled rustling, the bed maybe, the phone, and then your voice again, sweeter, closer to the microphone, ‘i need you to come home and fuck me. i’m so wet, you have no idea. i'm getting the sheets all dirty. i would feel so good inside when you—,’ more shifting, a high, soft moan. ‘stuff me full. you wouldn’t even have to ask for permission. you could just bend me over and take what you want. nng—you could fuck me on the floor.’ you were touching yourself again. he could hear it, his own fingers white knuckling his phone. ‘in the hallway, and i w-would beg for it. beg for you to come inside me, so, so deep, daddy and—,’ you let out a delirious giggle as the slick sounds grow louder, ‘it would probably stick 'cause i’m—fuck—'cause i’m ovulating.’
jack is slowly but surely banging his forehead against the solid door to the bathroom.
‘don’t you want that? to become a real daddy? you could hold my legs open and make me take all of it. your cum, pump a load inside of me.’ he hears a squelch and then a moan. ‘you could stay like that until i’m pregnant. please, please, please, i’m made for it, made for you. jack—oh my god—,’ you make a guttural, unintelligible noise that abruptly cuts off as the message ends.
what the fuck?
jack pulls his phone away from his ear, breathing hard, and texts you. ‘did you come?’
you respond back almost immediately. ‘no >:( i stopped’
then he groans as an image comes through. fingers of your right hand spread apart, shiny, wet string connecting them. evidence of what they’ve been doing. and then another of your face, smushed cheek into the bed and beaded tears on your eyelashes.
fuck. jack rubs the aching skin on his forehead and hopes there isn’t a red mark.
‘good,’ he texts, ‘that’s really good, sweetheart. i’m proud of you.’
he receives back a long row of frowny faces that make him huff a laugh and then words. ‘i’m tired of being good. it hurts.’
‘i know, baby,’ he says, ‘but you’ll do it for me?’
a brief pause as three dots appear then disappear and then appear again.
‘yes, daddy, i’ll do it for you.’
he squeezes his dick as it pulses between his legs.
‘good girl. i love you.’
‘i love you too. home soon?’
‘home so soon, baby. just be a little more patient for me.’
and then jack spends the next five minutes splashing cold water on his face and the back of his neck, willing his erection to die down enough to leave the fucking bathroom.
When he's watching the game, Simon likes to tease.(18+)
Big meanie that he is, lets you cuddle up to his side, bat your eyelashes as though sleepy, his thumb teasing over the delicate fabric of your underwear. Waits until you're whining in his ear to shush you, pressing a chaste kiss at your temple.
"Games on sweet'eart, can't 'ave that."
He doesn't actually care about what's flashing over the telly, colours blending together as his head slips away into white fuzz. There's a cool beer in his hand, an easy way to chase down the days ache and then you: thighs straddling one of his own, thicker, filling the space deliciously.
But it's fun to pretend. Your breath tickles the shell of his ear, warm with desire as it grazes over the point of his jaw. Hands braced on his sloped shoulders, face just out the way so you don't block his view of the screen.
It always gets tough after the first few minutes, the painful strain of his cock against his sweats having him bite his tongue. The way your sighs get wobblier as you grind your hips down again, dragging yourself over him, wetness seeping through your knickers.
And then he caves. Hand slowly inching its way up your body, settling at your lower back first, as though he's keeping you steady rather than making sure you don't pull away. Fingers dragging up and down absentmindedly until they're between your shoulder blades.
They curl around your nape.
Your breath stutters, hips doing the same.
"Come on love," he grumbles, quiet enough that the roar of the commentators could still drown him out. "Not givin' up now, are ya?"
Simon doesn't see you shake your head, the tremble of your lip, but he knows it's there regardless. Your body mapped out underneath years of his touches and stares.
There's no reprieve from his grip, the overwhelming presence of his body encouraging you forward. You get louder—something he doesn't complain about again. It's not hard to imagine what your cunt looks like, weeping as your clit is rubbed so pathetically.
Drinks up the sight of you as your body locks up, his fingers loosening so your head tips backward freely. You're gasping, pleasure shattering every thought. Grinding yourself down harder to ride out the wave, and Simon even does his part, flexes his quad so it fits against you better—nicer.
You collapse into him when it's over, sweaty mess of a smile against his collarbone, what he thinks is an occasional giggle. Your legs are still twitching, still where they were at the start of this all.
His arm curls over your shoulders, keeping you tucked into him, pressing his cheek into the crown of your head.
"Feel nice, sweet'eart?"
You hum against him before muttering out a weak yeah. Nuzzling yourself closer into his skin. Simon pops the beer bottle on the floor, lets that hand of cool fingertips tickle your side. You're squealing but unable to get away when you accidentally graze over his lap with all your flailing.
There's a bit of shock, a bit of horror too. Mostly anticipation as you wait for the classic tell of his voice purring in your ear:
"Came so hard you made me miss the penalties, love." The click of his teeth, the tighten of his hold over your waist. "Gonna make it up to me, eh?"
18+ mdni, jack abbot x fem!reader, this is like really tame med play, post sex talk kinda?, thanks for this anon now it’s all i’m thinking about, enjoy!
and i say: jack abbot who checks your pulse teasingly? like when you get really excited about something, he’ll press his fingers against your wrist and quietly count. when you realize what he’s doing, you swat his hand away. you both laugh and jack smiles at you.
and after having sex with jack. you’re always blissed out and breathless on top of your mattress. jack lays beside you, propped up on his side so he can look at (monitor) you. and he tries to be casual about it. he’ll start by dragging his fingers along the side of your face, pretend to push a strand of loose hair back into it’s place, and drag his fingers down to your neck all while murmuring sweet, distracting praises. “wish i could have you like this all the time.” while his hand is on your face. “you’re so pretty like this, baby.” while he pretends to tuck hair behind your ear. “you were such a good girl.” when he finally presses his fingers against your neck.
Johnny's never had Dairy Queen. You're going to fix that.
[soap x reader; nsfw 18+, explicit sexual content, afab!reader, sticky situations, car sex, oral, squirting, short drabble
'blizzard' prompt from @beebymoonlight + one-word prompt masterlist]
"They didn't do the thing!" You whine as the two of you leave the store.
"Do wha'?"
"They didn't flip it! That's the whole point!"
Summer sun hits your face the moment Johnny pushes the door open, heat thick enough to choke on. In your hand, a blue cup of Mocha Mudpie beckons—unflipped, uninitiated.
Johnny gives you a weird look as you head towards the car, his own cup of Peanut Butter Cookie Dough slowly sweating beads of water.
"Why would they dae that?"
The car, even when parked in the shady corner of the small lot, is stuffy when you hop in. Should've left it running.
"'Cause they're supposed to! And if it falls out, then it's free."
You flip it.
It stays.
"See? They could've totally flipped it—fuck!"
You should have just let it go while you had the chance.
The blizzard is all over you now—somehow splattering over your chest, the front of your tank top, and all over your lap. You tighten your legs to keep the cold creaminess from dripping deeper into your thighs.
"Napkins—fuck, Johnny, napkins!"
Flailing your free hand, you motion at Johnny for help. He doesn't answer. You look up.
He's stiff. Eyes trained, locked in on the trail of ice cream dripping down your chest. They flicker down, landing on the melting mess pooling between your thighs. A look emerging on his face.
(You've seen it a few times, the same one that takes over whenever there's wires for him to cut.)
Your voice finds itself with an embarrassing tremble.
"Johnny?"
He snaps out of the haze, a jolt that’s barely there.
"Fuck, bonnie—sorry, dinnae mean to stare, s'just," His eyes glaze over again the moment they land back on your sticky body. "Here, let me jus—"
—do you remember how you ended up in the back seat?
No.
Or how Johnny ended up between your legs?
Also no.
It's okay, though, at least that's what he keeps telling you while nose-deep in your sticky cunt.
"S'alright, bonnie, mmph," his lashes tickle your thighs. "Gotta clean ye up s'more—"
It's what he said thirty minutes ago, when he first started lapping at the coffee flavored ice cream on your chest and sucking your sugary nipples. Twenty, when he threw your legs up, shoved your thighs open, and attached his hot mouth onto your clit.
Ten, when he slid thick fingers inside your pussy and fucked it hard until creamy slick covered his hands and your body shook with how hard you came.
Gotta make sure ta clean yer cunt, bonnie.
Filthy, filthy sounds keep echoing through the car. The squeak of leather peeling from your sweaty skin, the crinkling of his pants as he grinds against the seat. The moans you're trying so hard to hold back, each slurp Johnny makes as his tongue dips into your pulsing hole and drags up your clit.
(You really shouldn't be doing this in broad daylight.
You really, really shouldn't, really—)
"Cunt's sweeter than the fuckin' dessert, fuck, bon—"
You're feeling too much.
It's hot—too hot. Hair clinging to your neck and face. Wet leather sticking to you in weird places. Your body feels like it's on the verge of going numb.
Oh, but it's so, so good.
"Fuck, Johnny, haah," you paw at his shirt, head lolling. His fingers are hitting that spot again; it's driving you insane. "G-gonna cum again—mmh!"
His tongue flutters over your clit, tracing flat circles as your body overflows with blinding pleasure once more. Your thighs shudder, closing in on his head—it doesn't deter him though, no. If anything, Johnny fucks you even harder. Stretches you even further as his fingers rub and curl inside of you.
"Cream on me, bon, c'mon—"
"Oh, fu—aah!"
It hits you hard—your body convulsing as your orgasm breaks. Something throbs inside of you, a pressure welling up from deep inside your pussy, wet and hot. Too much, too much!
But there's not much you can do than let it take over you, with how uncontrollably you're trembling, the aftershocks of bliss still going strong.
When you finally come to, it's from the feeling of something wet against your aching cunt.
"Made another mess," Johnny tuts. He's staring up at you, face wet, tongue already lapping up your sweet juices.
oh to cook for jack in a teensy pair of shorts and a tank top. hair in a claw clip and jewelry clinking as you flit across the kitchen.
he's perched on his favorite stool, one leg sticking out, thighs spread. just watching. there's something very carnal that possesses him when his beautiful girl cooks for him.
it's one thing to come home from work to find a covered glass plate filled with his favorites; bacon and three sunny-side up eggs. but it's another thing entirely to see you making it, humming and tapping your nails against the granite countertop he installed for you last month and waiting for his food to be perfection.
it has him chubbing up in his cargos, a soft whistle leaving his lips to grab your attention. turning to face him in interest, and he's just squinting his eyes and smirking, motioning you over with a crook of his pointer finger, "c'mere."
holding your hips as you stand in between his legs, your hands perched on his broad shoulders as you smile. his broad palms dragging from your hips, to the sides of your ass, to the soft fullness of it. fingers spreading, your plump cotton shorts divoting in between each of his thick fingers. he's smiling up at you, that cocky jack abbot look that always gets him what he wants... or into trouble with the right girl.
"smells so good, 'm starving" as he nuzzles into your chest, stubble prickling through the thin fabric of your tank. and suddenly you don't know if he means the food or you.
CWs: smut! medications & side effects, low libido, subtly touches themes of depression. porn is being watched during sex. this is like two smut fics into one lmao
CoD Masterlist | Main Masterlist
"Do you want to watch porn together?"
Never a dull moment with you, he thinks. Always full of surprises. The way you sprinkle excitement and spice in his slow, boring life is the only thing that keeps him afloat.
And Simon can confidently say that this is the least bored he’s ever been with you.
He's learned to school his expression into place; however, not even years of duty can mask the curious quirk of his brow. He shifts on the sofa, propping one ankle over the opposite knee. One arm rests on the backrest of the couch, fingers thrumming against the leather.
Your eyes fall onto his other hand, sitting atop his thigh.
He nods with his chin. "Run tha' by me again?"
You stand barefoot on the carpet. Loose shorts and an old tank top that has stretched out from one too many washes. The nibble of your lip tells him that you're ready to eat your words as soon as he questions them. The same goes for the way you're tormenting the cuticle on your thumb.
But he's interested. Fucking hell, this is the most intrigued he's been in ages.
"Porn?" He inquires the moment you open your mouth to most likely take everything back.
You close your lips with a pop and look at the ceiling, trying to force the heat collected on your cheeks to dissipate—flow southward perhaps, where it's not a bother but a welcome feeling instead.
But then you clear your throat. Straighten your spine. "Yes, porn."
Simon echoes you, enunciating the word. "Porn."
"Porn."
He nods, the corners of his lips curving in a smirk.
"With me?"
You tongue your cheek, eyes sharp. "Did I stutter?"
He pinches the air in front of his face. "A little."
But he must have taken it a step too far, because you're suddenly rolling your eyes and huffing.
"Right. I shouldn't have asked—" You mutter, turning on your heels.
Simon's got quick hands. One of them reaches forward and grabs your wrist, pulling you in. You stumble between his legs, big thighs now parted for you to stand comfortably before him.
His eyes soften, then, only because he can tell you've taken pains to summon the courage to ask him such a curious thing.
Simon rests the back of his head against the couch to look up at you. Instead of finding your eyes, however, he sees your profile—stubbornly, you're forcing yourself to look at everything but him.
"M'sorry, alrigh'?" He rumbles. The tip of his finger finds your jaw, and he gently steers you to face him. "Took me off guard is all."
The line between your brows deepens, sudden worry branching through your features. Though when his finger on your jawline turns into a palm cradling your cheek, you sigh, leaning into his hand.
And as your body softens, your tongue loosens, too.
"I just—" You bite your lip, nibbling at the flecks of dry skin. Once again, your eyes dart around, as if the firmness you need is stuck somewhere in the furniture of the house.
He grounds you again, this time with a light tap of his fingers.
You rub your forehead in frustration. "Ever since they upped the dosage of my meds, I—we—"
You don't need to finish the sentence for him to understand where you're getting at.
Yes, you haven't fucked in months. He’d wager it’s been at least two, maybe three, and the last thoroughly satisfying fuck he’s had with you goes back to a couple of days prior to that fated doctor’s appointment. It’s not the longest break, and he’s aware. Fucking hell, before he met you, he could’ve gone years without getting his dick wet. He has gone through years of solitude, in fact.
Though it’s you that he misses. Fucking you senseless. Eating you out. It’s the taste of your skin, not the taste of skin itself. It’s the scent that nestles in the creases of your neck, not the smell of sex.
Most people would say that, in such cases, they don’t remember the last time they had sex. Simon, however, does. He remembers it quite vividly, actually. Nothing can erase from his mind the picture you paint when you’re feeling good—when he’s making you feel good.
He misses it. Misses you. He’s human, after all.
But he likes you with that smile. Likes you proper happy. Likes you healthy, hungry, and then sated. Likes you laughing at jokes, at life. Likes the fight that’s suddenly surged within you. The need for control in a life that left you without it.
He misses it, true, but he likes you alive.
And nothing will ever change his stance on that.
His other hand brushes your thigh with the back of his knuckles.
“Go on,” he murmurs.
“Well, I—I can’t stop this—” You gesture vaguely at your stomach, as if it’s there where it all festers. “—Sense of guilt. I feel guilty, alright? I—I know you’ll say I shouldn’t—”
“Aye, you shouldn’t.”
“—But,” you interject, pointing a finger at him. “I still do.”
“Love,” he insists, but not unkindly. “Won’t fuck you outta guilt, yeah? You gotta want it.”
“I do!” You whine, lightly stomping your foot against the carpet in frustration. “I swear I do! I just—"
You rip your cheek out of his touch. His hand falls to your other thigh, then, no matter how reluctantly, just to give you space.
“I—I don’t think I remember how to feel like I do anymore,” your voice cracks. “I hate it. I hate how I can’t control it anymore.”
Simon falls still. Stays silent, waiting for you to get to the point of your reasoning. No sense in stopping you when, clearly, you’ve been trying so hard to tell him what feelings have been festering inside you.
You take in a steadying breath, smoothing your hands down your shirt.
“And I thought, you know, maybe porn can help me. Maybe it can make me horny.”
He nods, urging you to go on. His hands on you, slow and grounding, draw mindless shapes.
“But it’s weird to… get ready for it.” You cinch your shoulders. “I don’t want to watch some porn in the bathroom waiting to get wet only to find you after, because—because it literally takes a walk from the loo to the bedroom that it’s just… gone.”
Simon thinks about it.
It would be odd, he doesn’t deny that. Doesn’t know what you like to watch when he’s deployed. Then, it feels wrong to look at another person while he’s fucking you. Doesn’t care much about other people and those fake moans, or selfish ones and their plastic performances.
You’ve got a few videos you both took when drunk or when trying to spice it up a little. Perhaps those?
He knows he’s got one of you that he can’t get tired of.
You’re lying on your front as he pounds into you, pretty ass wiggling against his crotch whenever he stops. The phone is propped up on the pillow, its back leaning against the headboard. The shot shows your face first, then the curve of your spine. Your ass pressed to the V of his stomach, bouncing round and soft.
He put the phone there, even as you insisted it’d be better if both of you were in the frame. But he was stubborn, asked to have something to look at when he’s away, and he joked about how he’s not a fan of his ugly mug.
“Can’t have a wank an’ look at this mug now, can I.”
Your face, mainly. That’s what he likes to watch. Brows pulled tight, eyes hooded, mouth agape. White paints the knuckle of his hand as it fists your hair, forcing your head back. Then, there’s you. The uncomfortable and jagged curve of your neck, your tendons bulging at the sides, the veins that branch out from your collarbones and find root at your jawline.
Fuck, the sounds you make. Those strained breaths that stroke your vocal cords like you’re an instrument—moans clipped and sharp, rhythmic with the pistoning of his hips.
Oh, the groan of your first orgasm. The whites of your eyes eating up your pupils. The curve of your mouth, a pained smile that trembles, unsure whether to cry out or laugh blissfully.
It’s your voice that brings him back. His eyes focus on you once again, redefining the lines of your shape.
He must have stayed quiet for a bit too long, because the worried look on your face starts withering into something even worse, something like rejection.
“We could watch anything,” you provide nervously, rubbing your palms against your thighs. “Your favourites, maybe? Do you have any? I don’t know, you can take the lead on that—on everything, actually. I—I need to—”
With a frustrated sigh, you run a hand down the back of your neck. “I need to feel like you want to fuck me. I—I want to feel like I want to have sex again. I want to be in control of it.”
Your chest heaves. “Please tell me I’m making sense.”
Fucking hell. It would be odd, true, but fuck odd.
Your brows pinch. “It’s okay if you don’t wa—"
“I got an idea.”
“This isn’t what I had in mind,” you blabber breathlessly.
Simon’s fingers are buried inside you. The video is muted because you asked.
“Met you halfway, didn’t I?”
His phone sits propped against the headboard, the lower margin hidden beneath the hills and curls of the pillowcase. The light is dim in the bedroom, similarly to how it looks on his phone. He’s got you with your stomach pressed against the mattress, just like in that video. The only thing keeping your head from slipping against the bed is his fist, holding firmly onto your locks.
“But I—” You choke when his knuckles brush your clit. “—I don’t like to look at myself.”
Simon cracks his neck, tilting it side to side.
“S’porn, innit?”
You groan. “God, Simon—”
“You asked for my favourite,” he rumbles. “There y’go.”
There’s a slow, accommodating fashion in the movements of his hand. Languid strokes given with two fingers, sometimes slipping out to smear your wetness down your slit, brushing featherlight on your clit.
“But this won’t make me horny,” you whine, though there’s a telltale weakness in your statement that doesn’t manage to mask the lie.
Greedy eyes eat what his mouth still can’t. The sweat collecting on your temples, the slope of your nose and the curve of your mouth—lips pouting, teeth sinking into the flesh to silence yourself. Shy thing. You’ve never been one, but he reckons there’s nothing wrong with a change of pace, every once in a while.
He parts your folds with his fingers and gulps harshly when the thick sound of your wetness reaches his ears. Proved yourself wrong, there.
“Won’t it?”
He’s kneeling on top of you, knees digging into the mattress on either side of your thighs. The video is not what he focuses on, though. He’s got better things to admire. The angles of your shoulder blades, the indents of your muscles as they tense, and the sweet dip of your spine. Where it hollows and where it ends—two tiny dimples crowning the plump of your ass.
Fuck you’re a painting, aren’t you?
“Look at yourself,” he drawls, forcing your eyes to the screen with a tug of your hair. “Look at how good you were feelin’, mh?”
The little whine that escapes you matches the clench of your pussy around his fingers. Gladly, he realises that you’re not cutting off the blood flow of his hand, but instead you’re opening up to him, feeling much softer than when he first entered you.
For a brief second, his eyes flicker to the screen.
There’s the pretty curl of your lips as you look up at him, subjecting your neck to bend in an uncomfortable arch, though his face is out of frame. You go a little cross-eyed, right there, as your smirk turns into a beautiful smile—all teeth and wrinkled nose.
The video keeps rolling, and after a heartbeat, you offer your tongue. From the top of the screen, a rope of spit falls and lands directly on it, and he watches as you drink it down.
The soft bob of your throat, the delighted grin it follows, the mouthed “thank you”.
Simon’s cock sits above your ass. It hangs heavy with blood and gleaming at the tip, aching to be touched. His balls feel painfully tight, and if he ventures and grinds down between your cheeks, he might finish before this thing even starts.
His fingers switch, moving from inside you to lightly tap at your clit. Deliberately slow, circling around your clit to unsheathe it and leave the most sensitive part to his mercy whenever he glides down.
You suck in a breath.
Gentle touches wake up your body, skin rushing with waves of shivers that tiptoe up your spine.
“Can—can you do that?”
Simon’s pads slide forward, from your clit to the curls on your pelvis, slipping easily with the wetness collected on his pads. Back and forth, until the tautness in your thighs melts away into the sheets underneath.
“Do what, swee’heart?”
Shyly, you look up. Your neck cranes backwards in a mimicry of that same painful curve he’s witnessed time and time again.
Your lashes flutter up to him. “Can you spit in my mouth like that?”
And it goes straight to his cock.
Don’t need to tell him twice.
The hand in your hair slowly releases its grip, and by the way your moan comes, breathless and aching, he can tell the sting it left must have added to your pleasure. His fingers grasp your jaw, digging into your cheeks.
Shifting forward, Simon aligns his mouth with yours from above.
“Open up.”
You blink, doe-eyed and bashful. Lick your lips and nibble at the flakes of dry skin, pondering for a moment, before you heed his order and part your mouth for him, letting your tongue loll down your chin.
Simon’s eyes roll back.
His throat is parched, and he wonders how the fuck he will spit in your mouth when you managed to dry out his tongue with just a look.
Nevertheless, he summons the strength and purses his lips, letting a rope of spit fall slowly onto your tongue.
He watches your nostrils flare in anticipation. Your brows as they flutter when it lands. How you seem to savour it when you swallow. How you find his face again in your stupor, with your eyes smothered under the dark veil of lust.
His cock grows tighter when you smile.
“Thank you,” you mouth, licking your lips as if you might taste more of him again.
Simon’s left breathless as you repeat your own words, and he has to summon all his strength not to spear you with his cock right then and there. He genuinely wants to pace himself, but you look so fucking appetising that he just craves to have a taste. He should give you time to adjust, space to settle—he shouldn’t devour you with his mouth.
He should, should, should. Should be better. Should be softer. Should be—
I need to feel like you want to fuck me.
Simon’s heart comes to an abrupt stop.
He should, should, should—
—give you more.
Show you how he wants to fuck you, like you asked, instead of going at a slow, far-fetched pace. He was never one to sit down and have a feast patiently. Simon’s hungry, he’s always been. To merely nibble on supper would feel artificial, plainly wrong.
And above everything, Simon wants you.
He leans down and smashes his lips to yours.
The sound of clacking teeth almost swallows your gasp, but the surprise is short-lived—promptly replaced with the same kind of hunger, only delivered more tentatively.
His kiss is hungry and unrestrained. His teeth sink into your lip before launching again, smearing spit down your chin. You taste like you. Of mint and sugar. Herbs from the tea you shared, sweet because of the biscuits you dipped in yours, even as he grimaced at the sight.
It’s the taste of you. The feel of your skin.
The growing warmth of your cheeks as his stubble irritates them, the slick of your tongue as it dances with his.
Your palm lands harshly at the nape of his neck, grasping blindly until it clutches around a handful of hair. Your fingers wander and grab, nails scratching his scalp and sending shivers down his spine. Now that your hand isn’t supporting your weight anymore, you’re using him as leverage—pulling down his head and further smashing his mouth against yours.
Simon’s hand around your throat tightens just slightly.
“Remember tha’?” He purrs, lips to lips. Then, he steers your face to look ahead, where the video keeps rolling.
And you’re so diligent, following his lead. “Yes.”
“Mh,” he rumbles. “Felt good, didn’t it?”
The swell of your ass grinds against his cock. Simon kisses his teeth, jaw tight in the effort to keep himself sane.
“Yes.”
His offhand reaches down to the base of his cock. Slaps the head against the curve of your ass once, twice.
“Wanna cum on my cock like that?” He murmurs, reaching down to lick the shell of your ear. You shiver. “Wanna feel like tha’ again?”
You wiggle underneath him, letting out the smallest whine. Shy thing, you. That’s one of the things that has changed. He’s always loved the bite of your teeth, the cut of your tongue. Loved the leash you put on him, how it revealed his need for control for what it truly was—mere, unfettered fear. Shackles he thought were keeping him safe, when they were only locking him up in a cage of his own making.
He recognises that same trait within you, now. Recognises, also, how you’re trying to be rid of it.
It’s why he’s more than delighted to understand that you're fighting against those chains—forever his clever, clever girl.
He narrowly misses your hand reaching forward to press the buttons on the side of his phone.
Your voice fills the room.
“Oh fuck,” you groan.
Simon’s hand has your hair in a brutal grip, pulling you back until all the phone can record are the angles of your jaw and the sharpness of your collarbones. His chest peeks from above, glistening with sweat and ruddy in blotches.
Your ragged moans are punched out of your lips by the rhythmic snap of his hips. Thrust after thrust framed by the slap of skin and his voice—some raucous, crackling thing that rips from his chest, claws and all.
“Like tha’, pet,” he snarls. “Fuckin’ take it.”
And you nod, sweet thing. You nod dumbly as you smile up at him. Your tits hang and bounce as the raw force of his hold lifts your chest from the bed. One last pull, tight and strong, turns those moans into one sharp yell.
His grin is unseen but clearly plastered in his tone. “Y’liked that, uh?”
Another tug, another helpless moan.
“Ah fuck, yer close,” he chuckles. The wet squelches of your pussy ratchet up in volume as he thrusts in, over and over, picking up the pace. “Listen to tha’. Yer gonna cum, love?”
The lower half of his face pops into frame from above, only to land a kiss on the crown of your head.
“Can feel ya getting’ tight.” His lips brush your skin. “Go on, sweet girl.”
Before leaving the grip in your hair.
“Cum on my fuckin’ cock—"
Your face hits the pillow with a groan that drowns in linen. The phone falls, now recording the ceiling. No one bothers to pick it up again.
“Fuck me,” you heave. “Fuck me like that again, baby.”
Simon has to close his eyes and inhale to get himself back in line.
“Fuckin’ hell.” He kisses his teeth. “C’mere.”
He pulls your head back once again. Kisses you until his lips feel numb. Right beneath him, you keep chanting your plea like he isn’t about to give in already.
“Fuck me, baby,” you mumble to his mouth, on and on without rest. “Please fuck me. I—I want to feel you inside me, please. Please.”
I want to feel like I want to have sex again.
“I want it,” you whimper. “I want you.”
Blood pulses from the base of his cock all the way to the tip. He can feel the shockwaves seizing his limbs when he presses it to your cunt, sliding it up and down your slick until he’s drenched in it.
He kisses your temple. Moves upwards to the back of your head, safely cradling your jaw in his palm.
“Missed it, haven’t ya,” he purrs by your ear. His cock enters an inch. “Feel tha’?”
He’s never been this hard in his life—never been this turned on either.
You must realise it too. Words fail you, but your voice doesn’t. It crackles through your lips with a moan that shatters on his palm.
“Missed you too, pet.”
He’s barely been inside you, and if he doesn’t truly, really, focus, he’ll ram his cock and come so fucking deep you’ll drip for days.
Suddenly, the thought feels more tempting than wrong.
“Yer gonna take it, yeah?” He grunts, moving forward with his hips. “Gonna take it like a good fuckin’ girl.”
A pleasing sob. “Please.”
With a groan, Simon gives in.
Not a sound leaves your lips. He can feel them open up against his hand, choking on air, and that is all you yield as he pushes in. The rest tightens into one euphoric knot at the base of his throat, cutting off each intake of air.
In a swift motion, Simon buries his cock to the hilt, hips flush to your ass. His head collapses against you, mouth to your shoulder, and peppers kisses all over its curve. When he pulls back, the first stroke after months sends his brain into a frenzy. His teeth sink into your neck, growling like the famished beast that he is—
One you tame with your hand in his hair, tightening the grip to settle him.
“Oh my fucking—" Words tumble out of your mouth in a strained whimper. “Fuck it feels so good. Move. Move, please move—”
Simon’s mouth opens against your neck. His tongue licks a path from your thundering heart to the shell of your ear, where he tries to focus.
It’s the smell of you. The floral of your shampoo and the sourness of sweat. The butter of your face cream and the ginger of perfume.
“I got you, pet,” he croaks, as his heart suddenly ties itself in a knot. “I got you.”
You’re incomparable. Fit like a glove, you do. Adjusting to him in the blink of an eye, already heaving like he stole the air from your lungs—though he’s just started, and considering the desperation of your hands, he reckons you’re far from done, too.
He’s deliberately slow, savouring each second that passes—but sometimes he slips, and thrusts in a little harder. Apologises with his lips down your neck, turning your hiss into the softest sigh. Thumbs your waist with the hand fisting the sheets, also the only thing preventing him from collapsing on top of you.
You find his fingers and twine them with yours.
The only sound he hears is the one coming from the video, the screen now flush to the pillow. It fell at some point. He never bothered to check when.
His groans, the slap of skin, your pleas as you come—
“Fuck,” you pant, hissing through your teeth. “Ngh—keep going. God, plea—keep going—”
“Yeah?” His voice purrs. “Fuckin’ feel that—Christ yer dripping.”
Your breath picks up, ricochets in the bedroom as another orgasm stalks closer.
“M’gonna come again—”
“Go on then,” he rumbles. “Do it, love. Cum all over me.”
Abruptly, your fingers reach for his phone and lock it. The echo of your moans is cut short, and so are his grunts. For a second, his tinnitus manages to shroud the lack of sounds.
But then, there’s the quiet stagger of your breathing that breaches past, poking a hole through the cotton stuffing his ears. The creaking of the bedframe follows. How his movements make the springs moan under his weight.
The wet of your nose nuzzles his cheek. “I missed you.”
Your fingers relent the grip in his hair, hand falling down to cup his cheek instead.
“I missed you.”
It’s said so wistfully that Simon, for a moment, feels entirely out of his depth.
He kisses the shell of your ear before guiding your gaze to point his way. Glossy eyes find him, thinly veiled with gratitude. He almost melts then and there. You got him wrapped around your finger, bow and all.
“I love you,” you say, placing your lips on his. “I love you so much.”
Simon’s chest grows tight.
He can feel those words take hold of his heart. Squeeze it bloody, only to travel southward and tighten around the base of his cock, too. In a stutter, his hips falter, and he has to come to a standstill if he doesn’t want this to end so abruptly.
“Christ,” he mutters, “Yer killing me, pet.”
The smoothness of your teeth brushes his lips as you smile. “Mh. And we don’t want that.”
He buries his nose in the crook of your neck and inhales the flowers, the butter and the herbs. The ginger, the sweat and the biscuits.
“Aye, we don’t,” he sighs.
Your tongue licks a stripe across his mouth. “But I love you.”
Simon groans. “Yer a cheeky fuckin’—”
He pulls back and slams in again, as if to chastise you, but it isn’t received as punishment at all. In fact, it spurs you on—you moan into his mouth and put him under your spell. A chant, continuous, of endless I love yous that peel off the layers that make him.
Simon finally gives in. He’s missed you, too.
He collapses on top of you, punching a gasp from your mouth as your whole body is enveloped by his. His arm snakes under your belly, and you favour him by lifting your hips. The angle has him hit somewhere deeper, and you shatter beneath him. Your throat cracks a groan, soaked by the pillow, and finally, you let go when his fingers find your clit.
“Missed you,” he croaks in your ear.
His pace picks up.
“Missed this voice ‘ere.” His mouth latches onto your neck. “Missed yer fuckin’ taste. Missed this fuckin’ cunt.”
Doesn’t care about the strain in his spine and the burn of his calves, not when your moans start growing louder and wetter.
“Fuckin’—” He stutters. “Love ya. Wanna fuck you every day—”
Your slick rolls out of you thick as liquor for each thrust, coating his fingers. Two, at first. Then three, gliding smoothly from side to side over the tight knot of your clit.
“When yer knackered, when yer cooking, when yer in the fucking shop an’ bend over to pick up some shite—”
“Oh fuck, Simon—keep going—”
“—Fuck, yer made f’me. Naked or not. I always want you. I do.”
“I’m—oh fuck—I’m gonna come—”
And he can fucking feel it.
“That’s it, pet. Give it to me.”
Your body seizes at first, taut as a bowstring. And then, you bloom.
Wave after wave, rippling against him with your whole being. Even as cramped as you are, crowded under the weight of him, you fuck him through your ecstasy. Push your ass backwards to ride him for all his worth.
And Simon is entirely helpless, so entranced by the pulsing of your cunt around his cock that he barely realises how he’s coming, too. It’s all it took, really. To feel you clutch at his hair with your fingers, to have you fight for control—steal it from the tight grip of his hands.
His teeth sink into the soft flesh of your neck, groaning when his release wrecks him from within. Feels your pulse ratchet up under his tongue, your stutters as they bubble up your throat as you wordlessly beg for him to want you, to love you.
As he silently gives it all to you. All you ask, and more.
Eventually, you fall still. The tightness of your muscles melts. All the effort of your movement turns into mere, occasional twitching as adrenaline leaves your bloodstream.
You’re soft again. Turning your head on the pillow to find him, resting with his cheek right by your side.
“I missed you,” you say wetly. “I’m sorry.”
Simon brushes his nose against yours.
He knows how that type of guilt feels—the misplaced one, the one with no reason to be there at all. It festers within your stomach and doesn’t care about the damage it yields, because it’s not how it operates.
It’s unfounded. Still, he knows words won’t be able to quell the heartache.
But Simon sees what you still can’t. It takes balls to survive a life you don’t want anymore. He knows a thing or two about that. Swam in his own ocean of shit.
Still, he watched you take control back in your hands. You asked for help and crafted a new life that fits you better and patched the wounds left by the one you once led. You witnessed yourself burst at the seams and decided that it was time to pick up the needle.
That requires an incomparable amount of courage.
Simon knows it well. Still bears the scars to prove it.
“Don’t gotta be,” he whispers. “Proud of ya.”
Your eyes widen. Open the faucet, too. The glittering rim left by your orgasm turns into a river. Tears cascade from the corners of your eyes and branch above the bridge of your nose, down your temple, into your hair.
“For what?” You chuckle dismissively. “Having sex?”
But Simon kisses your nose instead. Offers a lovely smile he hasn’t granted in a while.
“Yeah,” he concedes, because you need time. “Tha’ too.”
Your giggle is refreshing and genuine, though a bit strangled. He realises only then that you’ve been crushed underneath his weight all this time, so he props himself on his elbows. You sigh, wiggling to turn around in the cramped space between his chest and the bedsheets, until your eyes are aligned with his.
Your lashes are clumped, sticking to one another with dewdrops of happiness. They flutter when you look up at his face.
“Thank you,” you say. “For being here. For being proud of me.”
Always.
Simon leans down and breathes a kiss on your forehead.
