˖ ✴︎ ֹ super self-indulgent nsfw! mirren the florist x oc piece, ‘cause i looove this man.. check out @fanfics-with-coffee ’s mod ASAP. 👅
slick sounds of skin on skin echoes throughout the rustic store—the jostling of his belt that's hardly hanging to the loops of his jeans, as the metal softly dings against the table once used to showcase his floral arrangements.
mirren's mind never felt as muddy as it did now, drilling himself into the local archivist's drooling pussy at such a sloppy pace, followed by abrupt bursts of speed. the idea they could get caught at any moment now was as nauseating as it was exhilarating, considering they were in pierre's—far past it's closing time.
he could practically smell her, every last inch of her; the fragranced shampoo and conditioner she'd used that same morning, that old book and lit candles scent engraved into her clothes, the hot stench of her sex.
“shhit,” he'd lowly groan out before gnawing at his lower lip, already dipping his head down to rest against solange's shoulder from behind. hands that'd once tightly held to the woman's body soon shifted, one instinctively bracing against the surface with fingertips biting wood, as the other looms just underneath her waist to hoist up her lower half impossibly further.
the uncomfortable arch of her back was nasty, like a taut bow ready to release. but yoba, the angle was delicious. pelvis pressed to ass, balls slicked with arousal plapping against her swollen clit. surrounding the base of mirren's girth was a foamy, white ring; building up by the second, with every dip of his hips.
solange could only mewl in response, followed by a string of incoherent words spilling past those kiss-swollen lips. something so unlike her, mirren thinks. solange was always so well spoken, full of soft words that just had to be carefully rehearsed moments before, or subtle hums whenever she'd contemplate trivial matters.
she's spent so long building up a facade since moving into town, like some perfect display case of a restored scripture. so perfect, others would fail to see the errors. maybe that's what makes them so alike.
maybe even perfect, together.
or at least, that sentiment is what plagues mirren's obscure mind. maybe that's also what'd make it so thrilling to him in terms of undoing her carefully crafted persona, all in the comforts of a closed general store.
mirren could pull her apart by the seams, if it meant to see the authenticity she's hidden inside for so long. he craves it.
he could feel the sticky tip of his cock dragging along her walls, smearing pre with every shallow thrust as he'd hit against her cervix. ironically, mirren felt like a pervert, a scandalized victorian woman having been flashed a man's shin. having solange like this, he could—
the feminine voice tinged with annoyance catches his attention quickly, as mirren's head jerks upwards fast enough to have his glasses askew, meeting the face of an all-too familiar resident within the store, abigail.
because, right, that was all his imagination.
“sorry! what were you saying again?” mirren's words stumble out, hands that'd once absentmindedly hung in the air now raised to adjust his frames, before inconspicuously tugging at his pants' front from behind the counter.
“i was just telling you about how solange... you know what? forget it, just wrap up the flowers, dude.” the purple-haired girl sighs with an outward glance to the half-finished bouquet sitting in front of mirren, entirely clueless to his mental turmoil.
“right, right...” he'd awkwardly chuckle, his lips pursed into a tight smile. calloused fingers deftly finished his usual routine, “sorry about that, not sure what came over me. uh, tell solange i said hi!” mirren grits out, now passing off the vibrant bouquet to abigail before she pays and departs.
“damn.” he'd silently curse out, now burying his face into his palms.
