when he fucks you, simon's usually just a panter. some grunts might find a way to slip their way out of him but he's gotten adept in keeping quiet, focused on hearing you and your noises and how to make them that much louder–that is, until the first time he fucks you raw.
after that, he's crumbling. trapping you in between the mattress and his heavy-as-a-ton mass of a figure, giving you little to no time to breathe in between the deepest stroke he can manage.
your shoulder is a mess of his sweat and drool as ghost pounds himself into you, groaning and whimpering at how he can feel every single soaking twitch and warm hug of your walls. how you leak and cream out so much your arousal that it mixes with his and splatters between the two of your jerking bodies. his accent slurs into something unintelligible, sounding worse than drunk whenever he speaks, most of his words either thick swears or shaking croaks of your name.
he cries and clutches you and wails so loud that you can no longer hear the thump of the bed against the wall when simon comes, stuffing you with a gushing load he just uses as lube to keep his thrust. completely intoxicated by you, simon can't quit. you just feel too good and he's too wrecked to not indulge.
© 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚
