𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐲, 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐝 ⛧ 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐨
☞ 2.2k words, secondo x manon (f!oc), established relationship but no prior knowledge needed, cunnilingus, v fingering, erectile dysfunction, soft penis kink, frottage, two smitten fools, d/s undertones, alcohol mention, secondo is a bit tipsy here so skip this one if it bothers you, rated E: 18+
His shoulder hits the wall and he huffs a pained breath, rummages for the keys in his pocket. Secondo is not that drunk, not really, tipsy, perhaps, yes, but the thought of finding Manon in his bed makes him dizzy in a way the alcohol never could. It's a new thrill, a reason to go home instead of drinking the night away, though the Bishop kept him longer than he would have liked.
She must have heard his unelegant meeting with the wall but he tells himself that she's been waiting for him. He's barely taken a step into the room before her arms trap him against the door.
"Hm, did you miss me?" he asks, folding his arms around her waist.
"I always miss you," she whispers and he chuckles.
"Have you been reading?"
"Yes." She inhales against his neck, hums, presses her lips to his jaw. "He kept you long."
"Ah, you know, he refills the glass and you get to talking," he say. "He had a bottle of Bourbon I could not resist."
She lets loose, looks into his eyes with a smirk. "Are you drunk?"
"No."
"You slur a little."
"Ah, no."
She kisses him, then, but pulls away before he can indulge. "And you taste horrible."
"Bourbon is not for you?" he teases.
"No, I prefer you undiluted."
He laughs, presses her against him until he can feel the soft swell of her breasts againt his chest. And then he kisses her properly, tongue-deep, until his jaw aches, until there's no whiskey left, only her. His hands find her backside, kneading, all her softness his for the taking. He's a glutton, he knows no limits to his indulgences, and there is no obstacle, only bare flesh underneath the wide shirt she's wearing. Manon is already writhing against him, aching, no doubt. He wants her but his body isn't quite ready yet.
When he pulls away the room spins around him. He sighs, planting another kiss to her lips before the world pulls straight again. "Let me wash off the day, hm? Then I'll have you."
She pouts but all it does is enable him and when he's in the bathroom, white tiles, lights too bright, he does think that the last glass of whiskey had better stayed in the bottle. He tries to work himself up in the shower, splashes his face with cold water, but the headache is already setting in and he can't feel more than a tiny swell that leads nowhere.
When he comes back, Manon has discared the loose sleeping shirt, obediently kneeling on the bed with her hands in her lap. He does stir, at that sight, her heavy breasts, the soft curve of her belly, the slender neck exposed as her hair falls down her back with no effort at all.
"You are a sight even our Lord must envy," he says, leaning against the doorframe for a moment longer. She smiles, pleased, and he approaches, lifting her chin with his bare finger. Her eyes shimmer, the sheer depth of them unfathomable. He doesn't understand how she looks at him the way she does. "Lie back for me, my dove, open yourself to me."
She does, the white sheets contrasting the dark hair on her body, the honeyed skin the summer has left her with. What he feels is gratitude, undeservedly so. He sighs, thinks that he should have known the whiskey would make him sentimental. A soft smile graces her lips, betraying an excitement he won't be able to live up to tonight.
No matter. He leans down, grabs her ankles, pulling her all the way to the edge of the bed before he buries his nose in the dark curls that frame her cunt. She yelps and he chuckles, throws her legs over his shoulders. How wet she is, how she aches for him, her pulse fluttering against his tongue when he presses to her clit. It's more than enough.
"Fuck," she whispers, rolls her hips to meet him. He's not patient, the hours away from her have left him starved and he feels like he'd have to crawl inside of her to satiate this hunger. It's an obsession more so than pure lust, the way he tries to get closer and closer until he doesn't know where either of them ends. Most days he wishes he could disappear like that and never return.
He makes her come on his fingers, licks her to another orgasm until her heels bite painfully into his shoulders. When he finally gets up his knees ache. He'd fold her in half if he could, fuck the last bits of sense out of her, but he's still soft, warm-cheeked, mind hazy from drunk exertion.
There is some frustration gnawing on him, if only because she is so much younger and not used to being with men, especially not men of his age. It shouldn't matter, really, it's not like he needs his cock to give her what she wants.
Her arms reach out for him, a sweet offer to draw him near, but he shakes his head as he gulps down that feeling of inadequacy. "Not tonight."
"Why?"
He doesn't deserve it, he thinks, but he can't find a lie. She sits up slightly, scoots back on the bed where he's slowly lifting the covers. It's entirely too small. When he lies down she's already turned his head to her and he can't avoid her clever eyes.
"Secondo?"
"It is not you, my dove," he says finally, if only to calm her. "Too much whiskey."
She kisses his cheek, multiple times, until he squirms and she giggles into his ear. It's enough to ease his mind, to calm the voices.
"Manon–"
"It's okay," she says and when his brows scrunch she laughs. "Secondo, you should know that I don't need an erection to enjoy myself with someone."
His lips curl. "No, you don't need a cock at all."
"So, will you let me enjoy you?"
He chuckles. Those are his words she's stealing. Let me enjoy you. And she doesn't wait for permission, something he'd use to his advantage on any other day, a drawn-out punishment perhaps. But right now he's too docile, doesn't have it in him to play games.
"Can I still touch you?" she asks.
He nods reluctantly and she smiles, but it's a sweet smile, like she wants to reassure him. She bends down to kiss along his belly and he pets her hair, the soft silk of her long waves. Her lips trail over the dark line of hair over his navel and her hand wraps around him, gently, cradling him in her palm like something precious.
Her eyes flicker up to his face. "Is this okay?"
"Yes."
Surprisingly, it is. He wouldn't have anyone touch him in this state, not normally. He'd have tired them out in other ways until they forgot that he never actually fucked them. But of course Manon, the sleepiest woman he's ever met, suddenly possesses all the energy in the world. It's as if it is more interesting to her now, which he'd find hard to believe were it anyone else. But not with her, no. Manon has a habit of catching him by surprise, to burrow into his heart with as much as a glance. His pride is of no use when he's with her, not when she sets her mind to something.
"You find it hard to believe that I'm attracted to this, don't you?" she asks, stroking him so carefully that he can feel each finger as it moves.
"Usually, the people I sleep with are here for the thing between my legs." He stops, looks at her. "Yes, it is absurd."
He says it jokingly but all it does is make her frown. He can tell she's displeased with this admission, though he didn't think it would come as a surprise to her, considering their many conversations. She's never had an issue with his past.
"I want you to forget about that," she whispers just before her lips travel further down and he understands then, that it is not about jealousy. She doesn't appreciate when he assumes her intentions. Theirs is not a sexual agreement, it is no agreement at all.
He wants to voice his feelings but then her lips wrap around his dick and he blanks. It is a novelty, even for him, to feel someone's mouth around his limp cock and not with the aim to get it hard. Manon hums, a sound of genuine relief, as if this is for her, somehow. For a moment he's mesmerized by the sight of her, one hand gingerly holding the base of his cock while the other strokes along his balls, and she looks so tender, as if her face is made of clouds. Every sensation is slightly altered in this state, the warm cavity of her mouth hugging the soft curve of him. Smaller as it is now, it still feels like there is more of him. So much room, no harsh pressure, no choking, no hurry, only this pliable mess. Her tongue languidly moves around him, taking in the new feel of him, eyes closed, every movement an act of dedication in its own right.
"Manon–"
He's not sure what he wants to say. Keep going. Stop. Don't stop.
"I love how you taste," she whispers, kissing all over his thighs, his abdomen, her hand, spit-slick, almost lazily moving over his cock. He should be hard as a rock by now, should be bursting, but there's nothing. He thinks that he is not drunk on whiskey now but her.
"Come here," he orders. "Manon–"
Her eyes flicker up to him, unsure if she hurt him, but that's not why he stops her. He suspects that he'll die if he doesn't feel her soft weight on top of him, if he can't kiss the mouth that makes him feel so profoundly accepted.
Obedient as she is, he soon feels the gentle curves of her body meeting his. He makes her straddle him, then hugs her tight. Before he can give any orders she's already kissing him and then he feels the unmistakeable wet heat of her as their hips slot together. She moans, not yet satisfied, and the movements that follow are slow, sensual, like a snake moving through sand. She looks at him and he's not sure what she's seeing, what's happening on his face.
"Hurts?" she whispers.
"No," he breathes, his hands on her hips now, urging her on. She's so wet that he hardly feels the friction but he does feel her heat whenever she slides across his tip. And it doesn't matter, that he can't fuck her, not when he's stripped barer than ever, when she peaks while cradling his cheek, pressing her mouth to his so desperately that not even the taste of whiskey could hold her back.
Perhaps it is the fact that she's coming on his soft dick that somehow throws him into the abyss. It feels almost like an orgasm, not as intense but akin in its relief. His body trembles underneath her, his cock twitches with the phantom of a memory, and a comfortable warmth spreads in him. It's not quite the same and yet somehow heightened. His arms close around her so that she can't get up, keeping her heaving chest pressed to his until he feels the sticky warmth of perspiration.
"You're an angel, sent to me beyond reason," he whispers. "I am not worthy."
"You're dramatic," she whispers but her cheeks are deeply red when she burries her face against his neck.
He doesn't disagree. It's not like he cares about the humiliations of the past but there is something healing in the way she's accepting of him in every crooked shape he shows her. Perhaps it is dramatic, he has a habit of losing himself in his passions, but there is a certain weight to finding someone who never shies away. So many moments in which he thought he'd finally ruined her and yet she still won't let go of him.
"Do you need anything?" she asks, peppering kisses all over his neck and chin.
"No," he says. "Just stay here."
"M'kay."
He knows she'll be asleep in a few seconds but what is running through his mind will keep him awake for hours, no doubt. His head is crystal clear now, the damned whiskey sweated out, and he wonders why he stayed out with the bishop at all. He finds that old comfort at having eased her anxieties, at least, particularly felt in the looseness of her body, the way the tension has all but melted from her.
Still, he kneads her back, her shoulders, her scalp, just to occupy his hands. Her skin is soft from her lotion, the smell of peaches and chamomile. He inhales it with relief like the first drag of a cigratte. Manon chuckles, rubbing her nose below his ear, and he pretends, under the strain of a slowly forming headache, that she didn't reshape his whole world tonight.
if you want to see manon, i have a drawing of her here :)
more manondo here ⛧ masterlist