Bella

You're completely run down, drained of everything that isn't numbers and money or worries about numbers and money. You should call your accountant. Instead you're sitting at your little kitchen table with receipts and month income reports. You're pretty sure you're turning a profit. You might not be. Who knows? Not you.

You haven't had a day off in... fuck when was the last time you took a day off? Maybe two, three(?), months ago? When you got dragged to that Renn Faire? That sounds about right. Today doesn't count. End of the quarter accounting doesn't count as a day off even if you had to close the shop.

König seems restless. He's been pacing around the flat with nothing to occupy him all day. You've snapped at him a couple times, sent him outside or to the shops just for a moment's piece. You rub your eyes with the heel of your hand, tapping you pencil against your calculator as you stare down the list you've been making on spare notebook paper. You're starting to get a migraine. The lights are too brightly haloed, each ambient noise too loud against your skin, you can feel your bones and it's nauseating.

You sit back in your chair and press your hands to your face, giving yourself a moment's darkness as you try to weigh Advil against just going to bed. When you finally slide your hands from your face you're staring up at König, his concern radiating off of him, or maybe he's just blocking your overhead light.

"Are you sick meine liebe?" he asks, leaning to press the back of his hand against your forehead. He takes it back with a frown, fingers hovering close.

"No, I'm just-" You shake your head, sit forward again to keep working, König's hand covers your eyes. You sigh and lean against the gentle touch, "I'm just tired König."

"Everything will still be there in the morning Liebling, come to bed." His thumb rubs at your forehead, soothing the worried creases.

"I'll just keep thinking about it," You let out another sigh, press your hands against König's, press his warmth and darkness into your tired eyes. You feel a childish whine building behind your ribs, your head hurts and you don't want to think anymore. You think- you think Love talked about Ghost doing something about that. God the last thing you want is to engage with anything similar to her reckless behavior, but the thump of a migraine against your skull is highly convincing.

"Can you-" The only experience you have with König's magic is what he gives you during sex, you don't really know what to ask for. You don't really know what to call what you want. Good fucking God you hate asking for help. König stays quiet, lets you sort through your thoughts without his interjection. "Can you make me stop thinking?" You ask, the migraine has started migrating towards nausea and the threat of being curled over the toilet overpowers your self sufficiency.

"You would put yourself in my care?" His voice is so soft, so careful and almost hopeful. You don't really know how not thinking would need care, but you nod against his hand. König takes a breath, his pointer finger raising to tap your forehead lightly.

Everything about you drops as you sag forward. All of the building pain is gone in an instant as König's magic sweeps through you, pushing every thought from your head. It settles like a blanket over your mind, hushing your sense of self and independence, and leaving you at König's mercy.

It's dark. No. There's something covering your eyes. A very careful movement, a hand sliding off your line of sight to cup your face and tip your head back. You're kissed so sweetly, gentle pressure and soft lips against your own. König, your sluggish brain supplies. König's magic seems eager to pick and choose what you know. Just the important things, his kiss tells you.

He pulls away with a low purr. You watch the twitch of his gaze, transfixed by the way he searches your eyes. He takes a breath and when he exhales it blows over you like a mist. Your eyes lid, then close, and you threaten to tip over again. Everything is heavy and soft. His hands slide under your arms, lifting you out of your uncomfortable seat.

"Up Schatz," König coaxes you to stand, helps you move your fuzzy, floaty, limbs, "There you go." You hardly stand from your chair before König's hand is pressing between your shoulders, tipping you forward at the waist to rest your hands against the table and scatter papers. His hands are big on your hips, holding you up as he drops to his knees behind you. "Let me help you," His voice is so husky, you hum and drop your head forward. It feels too heavy to keep holding up.

But it's so blissfully quiet, your thoughts silent and still as a lake. Any thought that slips through König's filter falls like sand through your fingers. Too slick to hold onto, not that you want to. No, this is good. Somewhere between sleeping and wakefulness, your body tingly and warm, just at the edge of a dream. You feel so peaceful. König drags your pants down. You feel kept. You feel like you're forgetting something.

"Am I supposed to be doing something?" You ask König, he'll know. He pauses, his hands squeezing your ass appreciatively.

"No, I'm going to eat you, and then you're going to bed." He tells you. You hum, that sounds nice. "Alles gut?"

"Yeah, good." You pull the syllables out into a low hum as his tongue licks a flat stripe over your slit. You rock back against his hold when he repeats the motion, slicking you with long teasing strokes. His tongue is so strange, twisting and circling against your clit, between your folds. Inhuman, entirely inhuman. The thought hums pleasantly in your veins, stirring heat alongside his long thick tongue.

It's hot and wet, his breath ghosting over you as he laps at your cunt making you shiver with need. Each slick drag rolls back and forth as his fingers squeeze your hips, your ass, every inch of softness appreciated for what it is. You. König closes his lips around your clit and sucks, his tongue fluttering against the sensitive nub, making heat race through you. You stomach jumps, your breath hitches, you press your hands against the table to try and press back against him. His hands hold you firmly in place as pleasure leaps up your spine.

The clench of your needy cunt catches his attention, and he shift to wiggle his tongue into the hole. He slurps greedily as you drip into his mouth, one of his hands leaving your hip to thumb your clit, coaxing you to clench on his tongue and whine. One of his claws catches your clit and you jerk, only for the ones on your hip to dig in further. Your breath stutters feeling the firm pressure of skin at its breaking point, the hot pinpricks of beading blood.

You freeze, grip the scattered papers under your hands with unsteady fists. If you focus past the slick liquid pleasure he's licking into you, you can feel the flat dangerous press of teeth just behind his lips. You shiver, his tongue twisting inside of you to push against your gummy walls, stroking alongside the fingers at your clit. He's more monster than man, and you're reminded how much you love that when he growls against your cunt.

"More," You beg, pressing back against his mouth. He pulls back and his hand leaves your hip, hardly giving your knees time to buckle before it smacks your ass. You jolt forward, your thighs hitting the edge of the table as quickly as he's holding your hip to pull you back onto his tongue.

"Such a greedy thing liebchen, remember your manners," He spits on your cunt, watches his saliva drip down with the rest of your slick before gathering it on his tongue.

"Please," You mumble, letting the word drop from your lips as he licks you. The hot roll of his tongue before his mouth closes over you, before he sucks at your slick skin, makes your back arch. His hum reverberates through you, and you let your eyes roll. König pinches your clit meanly, before soothing the ache with his tongue, his fingers moving to press into your hole.

He lets you rock back against them. The two thick digits rough with callouses, crook to press against your spongy sweet spot, claws all but forgotten as he strokes your soft inner walls. Each gentle thrust of his fingers drags a new coil of heat through you, tightens the feeling deep in your stomach. His tongue coaxes it tighter, easing you towards a hard release.

"Don't tell me I made you so stupid you forgot how to cum Schatzi," He murmurs, pressing sucking kisses to your clit. You don't think so, but you certainly feel like you're missing something. Every touch of him inches you a bit higher, winds your muscles a little tenser, until you don't think you can take any more.

His grip on your hip loosens as his hand slides up under your shirt. König's fingers spread wide under the fabric, hooking themselves in the strands between you with practiced ease. They grip, hard, and rip you forward to collapse against the table, all your tethers bursting into full technicolor. Everything inside of you breaks and you feel your orgasm crash into you.

"There you go, there you go," He groans, fingers thrusting a little faster into your cunt, hitting your sweet spot a little harder as you squirt against his mouth. Every muscle firing to shake and shudder as you collapse forward onto the table, letting König work you through your orgasm. Your legs shake, hips jerking as he keeps fucking you, keeps sucking at your clit, overstimulating you when you don't have the energy to tell him not to. You whine high and tight in your throat, feel another spring snap and bring the shivers back in full. It hurts so good. He drinks you down so nicely.

You don't know if your really standing as much as König's letting you sit on his face. Dimly you think it doesn't matter. You said you'd put yourself in his care, and you don't regret it. You're tingling and warm, wrung out. He's gentle moving you, you hardly feel it when he stands, when he helps you pull your shirt over your head so he can pick you up.

You settle against him, his hand holding you up as your arms drape over his shoulders. You close your eyes and enjoy the darkness of it, the calm peace in your mind. The sink turns on as you nod off in König's grip. The rush of water is almost a welcome sound, but does nothing to eclipse the soft purr that rumbles from your partner. He moves and you lose track of where you are in space in favor of letting his purring pull you further under his spell.

Your mouth pops open in surprise, because you don’t know what you were expecting, but it wasn’t that. He’s with you nearly every minute when you’re both home, and he’s certainly never given any indication of needing to sneak off to take care of something. 

But really, is it that surprising? You know first hand that he’s quite functional.

“Hmm,” you reply finally. “You’re a really interesting person.”

“It’s not that interesting.”

“Mmm… disagree. I have way more questions now.”

He turns his head to get a look at you, resting in bed with your cheek smushed into the crook of his shoulder. “Like what?”

“Like… have you jerked off today?”

“No.” His hand begins to move again, steadily smoothing against the worn fabric of your sleep shirt. 

“Would you ever want… help?” You ask casually, smiling at him. “Just like, for fun. Like a quick, wham bam… here’s my hand.”

You expect him to laugh at your little joke, but instead Simon makes that grumble in his throat that means he’s uncomfortable, and stares up at the shadowy ceiling. “It’s… ahh. It’s not easy… well, it’s a problem, having things done, sort of, to me.”

“Gotcha, okay.” Your reassurance is automatic, but you still lay there against his side for a minute with your heart clenching, wishing the worst things the world has to offer on whoever caused this. 

You know you should probably end the conversation there and not push him, but you can’t help asking, “What about if you were controlling it? No pressure of course, I’m just troubleshooting. Do you think it would be easier if you were the one just like… fucking my mouth?”

 He takes a deep breath and slides his free hand down his face, like he’s really considering it. “Maybe.”

You contain your smile to a mere tenth of what it wants to be, and add, “Well, if you ever feel like experimenting, I would really, really like to do that. And you know we could stop whenever you need.”

“You’d want to do that?” He finally glances at you, frowning slightly like he thinks you’re lying. 

“Yes! Oh my god.” You sit up in your excitement, beaming down at him. “That would be so fun.”

He assesses you like this is all new information to him. Like he never even imagined that you’d be practically creaming yourself at the chance to get him in your mouth, no matter how it happens. You’d absolutely give him that control, you’d let him fuck your face for as long as he wants if it means you get a taste of his pleasure.

“You’d like that,” he muses finally. 

Please, please, god, PLEASE.  

“Mhmm,” you reply with a heavy dose of faux nonchalance, so he’ll feel like he’s allowed to say no. 

His eyes flick to the clock on the nightstand. There’s still some time left before you usually go to bed. 

“Would you do it with the lights off?”

“Of course,” you beam. “I’m up for anything.”

“All the lights,” he reinforces sternly, as if that could possibly matter.

“Baby. You’re gonna get me excited.”

He throws his legs over the side of the bed and stays there for a minute stretching his neck out, while you remain where you are, vibrating with anticipation. Finally he sighs and glances over his shoulder at you. “Suppose you’re allowed to get excited.”

Just like that, it’s settled. 

Gleefully you spring into action to do the necessary bedtime things, scrubbing over your teeth and washing your face. When you meet him back in the bedroom, he’s for some reason staring down at a pillow that’s lying on the floor.

“What are you doing?” you ask. 

“Err… you’ll be on your knees, yeah? Would a pillow be wobbly, or?…”

This is really happening. 

“Carpet’s fine,” you assure him, scooping up the pillow and tossing it back on the bed. “It’s plenty soft, and also I don’t care.”

“Hmm.”

Ignoring you entirely, he starts stalking around the room, running his fingers over the locks on the windows and unplugging anything with a little glowing light. 

You do the only thing that’s really your job, and strip your clothes off, because surely he’ll want to look a little before the lights go out. And since he’s still meticulously getting the blackout curtains to stay as closed as they can go, you begin to plan the scene.

If he’s going to be the one fucking your mouth, if you aren’t allowed to move at all, you’re going to want something for support. The obvious thing is the bed, so you test it by getting to the floor and slipping your feet into the space under the bed frame. This could work. You have the soft edge of the mattress to lean your back against now, and it’ll be relatively comfy to give a blowjob like this. 

Your mind only focuses back to the present when Simon comes to a stop some paces away, tracing your body with his eyes. 

“Is this okay?” you ask. 

“Mhmm.” His hand comes to rest on the doorknob as his gaze floats up to your face. 

“You locked the front door. I saw.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t move though, and you can practically see him second guessing it through his unfocused expression. He won’t be able to relax unless he knows for sure.

“Go ahead and check,” you concede, “we have time.”

Instantly he’s out the door. You let your head fall back on the bed, smiling to yourself as you rest there for a moment. You stroke your hands down your stomach just to feel the softness of your own skin, and then squeeze your breasts. 

The last person who touched you was Johnny. He’s gone tonight, had to do a nighttime shooting qualification at work, so you won’t see him until hopefully tomorrow. 

What would he think, if he knew this was about to happen? Would he worry about Simon? Maybe feel like you’re pushing him too fast? It was just a couple of days ago that you were biting Johnny’s head off about feeling unwanted, and now you’re experimenting without him again. 

Your hands drop off your body as soon as the door opens. You blink up at your boyfriend who’s now towering over you, a completely different person than he was a few minutes ago.

He must have satisfied every bug in his brain, because the curtains are now the farthest thing from his mind. His eyes are liquid darkness, roving over your bare skin as he reaches behind his neck to strip his shirt over his head. He doesn’t even fold it, just wads it up and tosses it on the bed without a glance.

“You ready?” you ask innocently, shivering a little. 

“Yep.”

“Okay.” Your gaze wanders down to the situation in his pants, and you realize your mistake. “You’re more like, here, aren’t you?” You readjust, getting to your full height on your knees instead of sitting. 

“I think so.”

You put your elbows behind you to prop you up on the bed, and surreptitiously watch him cross the room to turn off the lamp.

Click.

And then it’s real.

The first thing you notice is that he did an excellent job of killing every light. There’s fucking nothing, not even the clock display to orient you to your surroundings. Granted, your eyes haven’t adjusted yet, but it’s basically pitch black, which means he has a good chance of going through with this. 

Which means—

He’s quiet, as he usually is. It’s only his unavoidable weight, and the creak of old floorboards that allows you to sense that he’s come back to you. Your body awakens with the awareness of proximity, excitement and arousal, and for some reason a little bit of fear, which doesn’t seem to diminish the other two. 

Your name comes out of his chest, slow and deep, and right in front of you.

“Yeah, baby,” you whisper, feeling more vulnerable in the darkness, because you can’t anticipate the first place he’ll touch you. 

It’s your chin. His familiar hand finds your face, and then you’ve got a palm holding each of your cheeks. Thumbs you can’t see brush across your temples, careful fingers tuck your hair behind your ears. His hands are steady as they repeat the motion, stroking the edges of your face to pet your hair out of the way. Again. Again. Gentle fingers of a patient man. 

You keep your eyes lifted as if you can see him, relaxing your body and allowing him to tilt your head back a little. Your hair gets methodically gathered into one of his hands, and then held firmly like that, in a way that makes you anticipate getting your mouth filled soon. 

But he releases it, as if he was just testing the option. His hands slip back around to your face, cupping the underside of your jaw and curling around your nape. 

“You're safe,” he tells you, for some reason.

“I know.”

His methodical breathing is all you hear as his thumb sweeps the length of your cheekbone, slowly, like he’s touching something valuable. And his other thumb finds the seam of your lips, coaxing them open with a little pressure. 

You stay soft for him while he pushes that digit past your teeth, keeping your mouth relaxed as he lets it rest on your tongue. You wait like that, letting him feel how warm and pliant your mouth is, just breathing through your nose as he caresses your face in the darkness. What a good girl you are, his thumb seems to say, skimming the tips of your lashes when you blink. So well behaved for me.

He never loses contact, even when his hand retreats from your mouth. He keeps the back of your skull resting in the cradle of his wide palm while he gets himself ready. That soft rustle of fabric shoots a thrill down your spine, has you lifting your chin a little to straighten out your throat. 

Then something warm and a little sticky kisses up against your lips, and the man you love breathes a quiet, “Open.”

Against the blanket, your fingers curl in pleasure while he eases himself into your mouth. He presses just the tip in, and then pulls back out a little, repeating the motion. It’s like he’s sampling the way it feels sliding across your tongue, so you stick it out for him to play with, just past your lower lip. He feels you do that, you can tell by the appreciative breath he lets out. He likes it. He likes picturing you here, patiently waiting with your tongue out, letting him rub his leaking tip up and down it. 

It’s so good. Your eyes drift closed on their own, mentally slipping into the skin of someone who deserves this kind of attention. You take an ungodly amount of pleasure in being toyed with like this — the slow, systematic breaking down of your psyche until all you are is a craving. A bone deep, unending ripple of want that registers your mouth as the natural place for his cock. He gets to come home now, pushing inside you and finding relief in the same act that’s getting you slick between your legs. 

You’re not sure if he does it like this on purpose to get you worked up. You’re not sure that it matters. 

“Show me how deep I can go so it’s still comfortable.” His thumb presses down on your jaw, guiding you to open wider. “This is important to me.”

Oh. Okay. Obediently you reach out and find his thigh with your hand, relaxing your mouth as he begins to push himself inside it. A happy, breathy noise leaves you when you finally feel it the way you’re meant to, finally get your mouth full of that fundamental piece of him. 

He doesn’t pause, just carefully pushes inside until he reaches the line of your gag reflex, and you offer some resistance on his leg to let him know. 

“Fuck, alright. Yeah, alright.” His  breathing is ragged between words. “Christ, you sound so pretty.”

Yeah, you’re too aroused to really hold back at this point. As he begins to slowly thrust into your mouth, you thank him for it with soft, needy throat noises. He keeps one hand around your jaw and feeds you his cock to exactly where you showed him, and it feels divine. 

You're not sure if it’s intentional, but he never fully pulls out. He never gives you a chance to collect yourself or swallow, just keeps filling your mouth until you’re no longer anxious about it ending before you’re ready. You’re dazed and content, drooling around him and communicating exactly how much you’re enjoying yourself, through every soft moan and whimper. Your lips are wet from the mess of spit and precum gathering in your mouth, and you’re getting so turned on that you swear there’s a faint sensation of something dripping down the inner crease of your thigh. 

Maybe you like this a lot. Maybe you enjoy the way your jaw aches with how thick he is. Maybe you’re glad this is lasting a lot longer than the other time, because there’s nothing that compares to getting on your knees for someone who loves you the way he does.  

“Don’t want to— Can I cum on you?”

Like he’s just remembered that you can’t talk with your mouth full, Simon quickly pulls out and stays there, holding your face and catching his breath. 

“Yeah, of course,” you say after a quick swallow. “Maybe don’t get it in my hair if you can help it.”

“I won’t.” 

He gathers your hair again in his shaking hand, and this time he uses it to hold your head steady while he sinks himself all the way to your throat. 

It has you grabbing onto the blanket while you fight back the urge to gag. You just weren’t prepared for that, hadn’t given yourself time to relax into it after he was so insistent earlier about not going too deep. One more thrust and you can’t help the way your throat constricts, the wet sputter you do when you can’t quite accommodate him. 

“Oh, fuck,” he gasps, nearly scraping himself on your front teeth in his haste to pull out. “M’sorry. Sweetheart, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.” You lift your hand to his wrist, finding his fingers with yours and wrapping around them to make sure he doesn’t let go of your hair. “You’re alright.”

His voice still has a frantic edge. “Didn’t mean to. That wasn’t on purpose.”

“I know, baby,” you assure him, slow and calm. “Take a breath, we’re okay.”

You’re rewarded with a deep inhale and exhale from somewhere above you. Then a steady, “You’re alright?”

“Yep, I’m doing great.” You sink down the side of the bed, letting your ass rest on your feet, and draping your head back on the edge of the mattress. “And you know what?”

“What?” His fingers shift in your hair, but he doesn’t let go, so you stroke your fingers down to his wrist.

“My tits are really soft,” you tell him, letting your smile warm the words.

There’s only a beat of silence, and then a little amused huff for you. “Are they, now?”

“Mhmm. You can see for yourself, if you want.”

There’s barely a second of hesitation before you hear his knees pop, and then feel that familiar hand tracing down your collarbone to find your breast. “Mmm. You’re right.”

Your evil plan is working. “Check the other one too, just to be sure.”

Simon only stops long enough to do another deep breath, then wraps his hand around your other breast, squeezing it gently. “Yeah. Fuckin’ nice.”

Time to get him what he needs. 

“So I have these nice soft titties right here for you, right? I think you should cum on them.”

His next breath is choppy and delicious, as he runs his fingertips down the swell of your breast and fiddles with your nipple. 

“I think they would look extra pretty,” you purr at him, “with a little decoration.”

His hand leaves your skin then, and the air is so quiet that you can hear him stroking himself with your spit remaining on him. You sigh happily, letting him hold your head out of the way by your hair, so your face won’t get dirty in a minute when he cums. 

“I love your voice,” he whispers. “That little high note you do at the end of a breath, when you’re… like this.”

“Wet?” You playfully whisper back.

“Are you wet, darling?”

Your thighs seem to flex together on their own accord. “Uh huh.” 

The slick sounds pause for a beat, and then he says, “Can I feel?”

Oh, fuck. You’re definitely going to have to get your toy out after this. “Yeah, baby.”

He doesn’t let go of your hair, just reaches down with his free hand to find your thighs. You spread your knees apart on the carpet and marvel at the lack of hesitation, as he runs his fingertips up and down the outside of your pussy. 

“Jesus bloody fucking Christ.”

“I’m having a great time,” you laugh, keeping your hips as still as possible so he remains in control of the contact. 

“You are, aren’t you?” 

“Mmm, yeah.” His fingers are still stroking your soaked pussy, so you turn your head a little to kiss his wrist. “I like this, baby.”

He’s collecting your wetness, you finally realize. He gets his palm nice and slick with it, and then gets back to his feet, and starts jerking off with your arousal. 

You close your eyes and let yourself picture it, how he’s standing now with your knees between his legs. You do your best to push your tits out so they’ll get the bulk of the exterior decorating, and just relax there and let him hear your happy, horny breaths. 

His choked curse is the only warning you get before something warm and sticky hits your chest. You smile to yourself while he works himself through that orgasm, painting you with his pleasure because for some reason he’d rather do this than shoot it down your throat. 

You don’t mind, not really. You’re pretty sure it’s not a humiliation thing for him, and it’s easy enough to get cleaned up afterwards. Once his breathing has started to level out and his grip in your hair loosens, you reach up and swipe a little bit of cum off your breast. In the pitch black, he doesn’t see you suck it off your finger.

His recovery is much better this time. Maybe it’s the fact that you didn’t actually fuck, or maybe it’s because he’s processed the initial hurdle already, but he never goes nonverbal. He ends up wiping you down with his own shirt so the lights can stay off, and then he holds you in his arms while you make yourself cum with your vibrator. 

Simon reaches down to your wrist and encourages you to keep your toy on your clit while you whine and gasp through the overstimulation after your orgasm. He makes you promise not to stop before he releases your hand to play with your nipple. 

“Just a little longer,” he whispers, stroking his thumb over the sensitive point. “I know you can do it.”

He’s right. It only takes a few more minutes before you’re shaking, jerking the toy away and squeezing your thighs together through the rushing in your ears. 

You’re limp after that, a mere jellyfish washed up on the beach. Simon thinks it’s funny, keeps lifting your wrist in the air and then letting it flop to the mattress. He can’t even see it, but finds it entertaining all the same. 

“Simon?” You whisper after a few sleepy kisses.

“Hmm?”

“What do you think about clearing out the spare bedroom, and putting a bed in there for Johnny when he spends the night?”

Your boyfriend tugs affectionately at a lock of your hair. “I think that’s a bloody good idea.”

Next Part coming soon

Stuffy, stagnant air hangs thick around you. Its fingers curl around the back of your neck, between your thighs, along your chest, leaving nothing but perspiration in its wake. The window is open but you’re caught in a doldrum. It’s still. No wind to tickle the leaves of the trees; it’s painfully quiet. So much so that the football game blaring on the TV seems ten times louder than normal. It shakes your eardrums, rattles them until your brain turns to mush. 

Man United is playing against Liverpool, and Simon has been cursing profanities for the last half hour as he sips on a glass of whiskey. It’s the same brand he ordered the night he hunted you in the bar. You hate that you recognize it. Spiced aroma wafts through the still air — too familiar, like a faded scar. 

You despise being around Simon more than you do Johnny these days. Of course you still dream of a day when both their blood soaks the mattress in the bedroom, fresh corpses acting as the keys to undo your bindings and set you free. But there is something rancid about Simon that grows more foul each day. His eyes are darker, mouth set firmer; he looks at you not like a toy to be played with, but a dog to be trained. One he wants to bend and snap until you’re curled up at his feet just like Johnny; mindless and unknowingly cruel. 

His sweet Johnny boy has been overly kind lately; saccharine. Sometimes, he almost seems more human than mutt, kind words lulling you into the safety of the chair in his study where you curl and hide like a feral cat. He watches you — you know he does — studying you as he commits your likeness to paper. You’ve seen the drawings. He always shows you with glee, like a child proud of their primary school art project. Elegant and lovingly, he captures your essence like you’re more flesh and blood than a rubber toy. 

You do not mind it. It’s easier for him to devour you with his eyes than with teeth and claws. 

Still, there are times where he grates your nerves. Greedy hands paw at you from your spot on the couch, mindlessly trailing over the meat of your thigh as his eyes stay locked on the screen in front of you. He’s the whole reason you’re sitting there watching this stupid game. Dragged you by the hand with boyish excitement the moment he heard the announcers. He talks about his time as a kid playing football with his cousin. Goalkeeper was his favorite position, which has been reflected in him poking fun at Liverpool’s inability at blocking shots.

You attempt to get the name of his cousin, but he stays silent. You suspect he might not even remember. 

“Bleedin’ christ,” Johnny curses, fingers squeezing your upper thigh. “How’d ye miss that one?” 

Another failed save by Liverpool. Simon grunts in satisfaction, reveling in his home team's success so far. You tried not to care about the game. Thought that disconnecting yourself from the situation would make it easier on yourself. Instead, you find the game a nice distraction to Johnny’s aimless wandering of your body. You watch the dancing feet maneuvering tricky shots and passes. Annoyed, twisted facial expressions as things don’t go the players way. 

Though, as usual, it only gets worse. 

He stretches, arm leaving your knee in favor of wrapping around your shoulders, drawing you closer to him. Warmth radiates off of him like a space heater, and you find yourself grimacing at the sweat that coats your side at the mere contact of him, but it’s nothing compared to the way his hand now paws at your chest. It’s aimless; uncoordinated. You try to ignore the intrusion as his other hand joins in, mindlessly squeezing between your thighs. 

One lesson you’ve learned well is that no matter how much you pray, it always gets worse. Testosterone rises high in Johnny’s blood, and you feel the change in his body as his groping becomes more firm, as if he’s just made sense of the fresh meat in his hands. You see the flash of his blue eyes in your periphery, and you attempt to will it away. Starve an animal of attention, and it’ll get bored  — but Johnny never gets bored. 

The tip of his nose rubs against your temple, and the cheering of the crowd mixes with the harsh sound of his inhale as he breathes you in. Eyes fluttering shut, you try to keep your breath steady as he places a kiss on your cheek. It’s sweet, but barely restrained — he quickly takes more as he turns your head to face him, mouth wasting no time crashing against your lips. 

With a muffled grunt, you place your hands on his chest and push against him. You should know by now that it’s no use. Johnny only unlatches himself from you when he’s had his fill. Otherwise, he sinks his claws in deep and refuses to let go. 

“Johnny,” you mumble against his lips. He hums as if you saying his name, even obstructed, is the most mellifluous sound he’s ever heard, and he offers you reprieve from his assault on your lips. “Should… Shouldn’t we be watching the game?” 

Gentle redirection. It’s the only thing you can think to do when he’s this hungry. You might as well be offering dry kibble to a dog — why would he trade the bone in front of him for that? 

“The game?” he repeats. “Ah dinnae care about the game. Nae when a've got something so soft 'n pretty right here in front of me.” 

There’s no time to argue with him. There never is. He’s smart and quick, and he’s already got you sitting in his lap by the time you even come up with a response. Teeth knocking against yours, hands pawing at your back; he nearly growls. Gently moaning into your mouth as his fingers tear you to shreds at an excruciating pace. Shirt bunched up, breasts hitting the warm air, your nipples perk against your will as he tugs on them. He stimulates them until they’re hardened, and he chuckles. 

“Gettin’ excited for me, Bonnie?” he teases. 

You squirm. Writhe like a worm while you’re finally able to breathe without a tongue down your throat. Unwavering esurient hands continue to paw at you while your brain attempts to scrounge up words that might allow Johnny to show pity on you. Babbling, you press against his chest, legs twisting, feet flailing — you have been so good at making yourself behave. Numbing the fear in favor of your torment being swift. Yet now, some latent terror licks its unforgiving flames along your skin, burning you alive until you melt in the palm of his hands. 

“I just, uhm, wanna watch the-”

“Fuckin’ hell,” Simon barks. 

His words silent you with a mean yap and a violent shove of your legs. Having been so caught up in your attempted escape, you were left unaware of the way your body so disgustingly desecrated Simon’s space. As you yelp and cling to Johnny — the very creature you’re trying to flee from — Simon glares at you with so much rancor you feel the acidity of it scar before the wound is even made. 

“If you’re gonna fuck the bitch, do it on the floor,” he grumbles before pressing the tight neck of his beer bottle against his lips. 

While Johnny looks at him in disbelief, the bile boils in your stomach. Thick bubbles sting like vinegar against your vocal chords, terribly sore and overused with pitiful begging. This is the precipice you’ve been dragged towards. Nothing but sharp jagged rocks await. 

“Really?” Johnny asks. He can’t be too sure if this is real. If his dreams and wants are finally coming to fruition. “Ye mean it?”

Simon huffs. “Just stay quiet so I can watch the game.” 

But you’ve known this the whole time, haven’t you? 

Announcers drone on about the game on the screen as Johnny lays you on your back. He shucks your shirt off, then everything else, peeling you apart like sweet maize. You allow him without protest, your pacifism turning you into a victim, and it isn’t long before he’s bare and hovering over you, an incessant insect lured by the sweet aroma of fear that permeates your skin. 

The restiveness that haunts Johnny finally seems to be satiated once he’s got you like this. Ignoring the cursing gaze of your eyes, he knows that he’s finally got what he’s been wanting this whole time. He’s too insatiable to take his time. To savor the taste of you as his teeth drag along your stomach. Impatient fingers prod against your cunt and you jolt, skin rippling as muscles tense and flex. There is no arousal for him to collect, yet he grins like a jackal all the same. 

“Look at ye,” he croons. A weight settles on your abdomen, hot and needy. Your eyes flutter shut, heart tensing to the point you feel it tear in the cavern of your chest. Mistaking your disgust for adoration, Johnny slides back, pressing the tip of his cock against your reluctant hole, before blanketing your body with his once more. “So pretty. Mah sweet angel. Ah told you. Ah promised you, right? Always keep mah promises.” 

When he presses into you, you’re reminded of the papercuts you used to get as a kid. Obsessed with arts and crafts, they’d litter your fingers in little lines, like railroad tracks. Sometimes, you’d pull the severed skin apart. Watch the blood pool between shredded cells. You don’t know why you did it. 

As Johnny presses further, splitting you apart, skin searing with the burn as it stretches further than it should, you start to think you did it because it was proof you were alive. A reminder — just as it is now as he bottoms out and groans against your ear. You are alive on that hardwood floor. You are alive even as you tear, even as you’re bifurcated. 

You are alive because Simon wills it, and Johnny wants it. 

So you lie there and take it. Despite the pain. Despite how much you want to flee. It’s the only reason you continue to draw breath, even if it’s staggered with silent sobs as Johnny gives you everything he promised he would. You wonder if he can feel you dirl. 

Once Johnny finds his rhythm, the pain becomes nearly unbearable. The friction is too strong, shredding your skin off layer by layer, but if it’s uncomfortable for him he says nothing of it. Just continues to mutter praise as he pistons himself between your legs with no regard for the way your hands press against his shoulder — desperate waves against unmoving rock. 

“Johnny, please,” you choke out. Your plea is hardly heard over the announcers droning on the television. “T-That hurts.” 

He offers you little reprieve, a gentle slowing in his pace before he grunts and continues his assault like he’s already forgotten. He says something to you, but you don’t understand it. It’s the same mindless muttering he’s spewed since he’s sunk himself into you, but it’s drowned out by the audio of the game. Someone’s scored another goal — Manchester, judging by Simon’s grunt in approval — and everyone cheers. They cheer and scream and shout, smothering your attempts of mercy. 

They mock you. Players running across the field with their fists pumped high in the air, reveling in their accolades, in the love, all while you’re torn apart by a dog on the floor. Skin from bone. Sinew off muscle. It should be one of them here, ravaged by a beast. Bad things aren’t supposed to happen to you. But they do. And they continue to cheer as Johnny gets rougher, and they laugh as nails trace the curves of your body, and they enjoy their drinks and meals as the cameras zoom in — as they enjoy the show in front of them. 

Something inside of you snaps as the tip of Johnny’s cock butts against your cervix. It sends a shock throughout your body, synapses jittering, limbs flailing, throat shredding as you cry out. There is nothing you can do to control the way your arms jerk any more than you can control anything else that’s happened to you in the last few weeks. They snap violently before seizing tight against your chest, clinging close to your body as if you can comfort yourself in the midst of such violence. 

Johnny stops with a curse as something warm dribbles on your stomach, pooling just above your womb. You grimace as it adheres to your skin, sliding along as it dribbles down your hip and onto the floor. It isn’t until you get your eyes to focus that you realize it’s blood. Brilliant coccineous blood, and it’s dripping from Johnny’s nose despite the way he presses his fingers to the bridge. 

“Ah, christ…” he mutters. He slides out of you as he leans back on his haunches, ichor spewing in a haphazard mess. 

It isn’t until Simon’s feet hit the ground that you fully realize what you’ve done. Eyes widening, your hands cover your mouth as you watch him loom behind Johnny, gaze fixed on you as he takes in the bloody evidence staining your skin. 

“I’m sorry. I-I didn’t mean to,” you sputter. 

No apology reaches Simon’s ears. He stomps around Johnny, knees colliding in the floor as his fingers hook underneath your collar. It takes little effort for him to yank you up, back jumping off the floor as your hands hold onto his wrist for support. Hot breath fans across your face and the stench of alcohol has your eyes watering. Or maybe you only want to think that because you don’t want to admit you’re crying out of fear. 

“Which hand?” he asks. 

Throat growing dry, your head shakes. “What?” 

“Which fuckin’ hand did you use to hit him?” he repeats, voice cutting. Keeping his fingers firmly locked underneath your collar, he grabs your right hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles. It almost feels kind, but it’s falsely saccharine. “C’mon Bonnie, need to know which hand to break.” 

Fat, hot tears seep from your eyes as Johnny groans, still trying to get his nose to stop bleeding. Simon’s head tilts as his grip grows more firm. You feel your tendons shift. Metacarpals strain underneath his strength, and you sob, snotty and pathetic as you shake your head. 

“I’m sorry!” you cry out, a broken record that can do nothing more than apologize. 

“Doesn’t answer my question. Think you can hurt my boy and get away with it? I’ll break ‘em both if I have to,” he threatens. 

“Please, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, it was an accident! I didn’t mean to, I swear,” you babble. 

Hardly containing the enmity in his eyes, Simon pauses. His thumb continues to rub across your knuckles, relishing in the way you tremble beneath him, craving to feel the bones splinter and crack. 

“Sorry?” he repeats, voice terrifyingly void of emotion. “Sorry enough to make it up to him? Gonna lay back down like a good girl then? Gonna let him fuck ya ‘till he’s had his fill?” 

Mustering as much feigned enthusiasm as you can, you nod and it seals your fate. Contemplating for a moment, Simon stares at you before he drops your hand and drags you by your collar. You squeak as his hands twist you, contorting you until you’re on your hands and knees. The floor digs into your palms, but it gets worse as he pushes your head down where he keeps you pinned. 

“Keep that arse up,” he warns. “This is your apology, remember?” 

Penance. Apology. Punishment. You sob throughout it all after Johnny’s able to get the bleeding to stop and he continues. Blood stained hands grip your hips as he pushes himself back into you, and it hurts. That ache burrows deeper, stretching far into your stomach until you’re sapped of every breath you attempt to inhale. 

Pressure builds on the side of your head as Simon keeps you pinned, cheek squished against the floor as your tears soak into the wood. He talks Johnny through it with a low voice but you refuse to hear it. Refuse to listen to him praise his favorite dog for tearing you apart. 

He’s faster at this angle. Hits deeper. Unrelenting. Grunts and snarls echo against your back as he leans over you, lips brushing against your spine. You wish he’d bite down. Snap his jaw through your spinal cord and end the suffering they subjugate you to. 

“Ah, fuck,” Johnny groans. “A’m gonna come.” 

“Go on, then,” Simon urges. “She’s not good for anythin’ else.” 

Johnny continues for a little while longer before his hips stutter and cease. Thick seed spills into you with the vibrant pulse of his cock and your body betrays the disgusted feeling inside of you with relief. He pumps into you a few more pathetic times before holding himself inside you, refusing to waste a drop as he pants and heaves. There was nothing you could have done to outrun this. Your only reason for being here has been to satisfy this insatiable mutt, and it’s finally over with a strained grunt and gentle curse. 

It’s over for now. 

Once Johnny’s able to pull himself from the supple softness of your cunt, Simon barks at him to go wait in the bathroom so he can clean him up. The poor boy reaches for you, fingertips bruising against the crux of your ass, but you do not respond. He slinks out of the living room with careful steps, leaving you and Simon alone. The monster’s lips brush against the shell of your ear as he leans down, voice low and quiet as if he’s telling you a secret. 

“If you ever hurt my boy like that again, I’ll break every bone in your goddamn body before killing you,” he growls. “You understand?” 

The muscles in your neck tense as if to nod, but he’s trained you to know better than that by now. “I understand.” 

He gives you no response or praise as he stands, towering over you like you’re nothing but a miserable insect, and he does not linger. Heavy footsteps wander off out of the living room, making way to the bathroom before the door shuts closed behind him. 

Cheering erupts on the television just as you allow your body to twist and fall sideways, giving your knees the break they so desperately need from the unforgiving ground. Bloody fingerprints stain your body as if calling you out for the hot sin you committed tonight. It crusts and chips like cheap paint. Bleary eyes focus on the screen just as confetti trickles over the football field like fat flakes of snow. Players sprint across the field, enveloping one another in hugs as camera men storm the field. 

The guys aren’t really bantering with each other like they should, but you’re probably just reading into things that aren’t there, as usual. You take a bite of eggs, and squeeze Johnny’s knee under the table when he chooses the seat beside you, to let him know you’re not mad at him. He didn’t do anything wrong, really. It’s just you who’s broken.

He may have kissed away the worst of it, but there’s still something aching inside you for no reason, hurting when it shouldn’t. It’s stupid that you’re feeling like this, feeling so lonely even though there are two people here for you now. How is that not enough? Simon’s even given you an extra person for attention, and that’s still not enough for you? 

You need a distraction. You can’t seem to push this hurt away on your own, so you need to replace it with something else. You want to get fucked.

Okay, maybe that’s not entirely accurate. The truth is, you want to get used. You’re not even that horny anymore, you just need to feel like you’re desired and important and useful for something. You have a body, you have holes. You’re conveniently here, and incredibly willing at the moment, so there’s no reason why you can’t have this. 

It’ll be easy, because you don’t even care if you get to cum – you just need to get pounded into the mattress until you feel like an object, until it hurts. Maybe then, this feeling will finally go away. If you turn yourself into merely a thing, if you’re the one hurting yourself, then at least you’re to blame for it. It’s more controlled that way, when the pain starts and stops with you. It’ll allow you to avoid your feelings a little longer.

You’re set on it by the time the three of you filter into the living room. This is how it always goes, anyway. This is when you fuck. No one will mind if you ask for it extra rough, or zone out, or don’t seem to care about your own pleasure. It’ll be fine. It’ll get you through, and that’s what’s important. That’s what’s necessary.

“Putting me in a coma with those pancakes,” Simon grumbles, as if you personally forced him to eat so many. He’s sprawled himself out on the thick rug on the floor, hand curved lazily across his stomach. 

“Good, you need more sleep,” you reply automatically, turning the TV to some quiet background music.

Johnny joins him on the floor, toeing his shoes off and groaning in satisfaction when he gets to stretch out. He glances at you for a second, then reaches his arm up to slide his fingers along the hem of his friend’s sleeve. 

“No touching,” Simon grunts, smacking the hand away. 

Rolling his eyes, Johnny just wriggles his upper body across the carpet until he can reach your leg, wrapping his hand around your ankle. 

‘Touching?’ His eyes seem to say, blinking innocently at you from the floor. 

And really, how can you say no to that?

You snag a throw blanket on your way to join him, to keep you both warm while you fuck. The floor sex you’ve had in the past wasn’t exactly enjoyable, but that’s okay, because enjoying it isn’t the point. Maybe you’ll get some nice rug burns.

But the moment you settle on your side and tuck your face into Johnny’s chest, things feel different. He wraps you up so tight you can barely breathe, pressed like that into his clean, nice-smelling body while he makes a happy rumble. 

It feels unreasonably good to be held. It has you closing your eyes and wrapping your arm around his back to keep him tightly against you. Yes, this is right. This is what you were hungry for.

Johnny waits for you to be the one to release him, before he unlocks his arms a little. His chest moves against your cheek with a long exhale, and then he presses his mouth to your ear to whisper, “What do you need?”

Fuck. What do you need? You can tell him anything right now, and Simon won’t hear it. You can tell him to fuck you any way you want. Now is your chance. 

But instead, inexplicably, you hesitate. You tip your face up to look into his eyes for a moment, and really take in what you see there. He’s tired, first of all. He was in Europe yesterday, and you can tell he still hasn’t recovered, not really. You’ve actually never seen Johnny this tired, but he’s still willing to help you. He’s still offering himself. 

And in a way, you would have to exploit him, in order to get to that feeling of being used. That sort of activity doesn’t exist in a vacuum, and maybe the act of hurting yourself would hurt him, too. Johnny has never been anything but nice to you, and suddenly you realize you can’t do that to him, no matter how much pain resides in your chest. You don’t want to.

“I’m… feeling tired,” you lie. “Let’s take a nap.”

“Sure? I’ll eat you out first if you’re willing.”

His eyes are so honest, it makes you even more certain that you can’t trust yourself with sex right now. “I’m sure.”

There’s this heavy wash of peace that comes over you, when Johnny gives you a little smile and closes his eyes. His arm is still wrapped around your waist, so you hide your face in his shirt and try to rest, try to give yourself more time to recover. Your hand wanders into his hair, stroking your fingers through that fluffy softness in a way that’s meant to soothe both of you. It feels nice on your fingers, and it feels nice in your heart. 

You don’t look over Johnny’s shoulder at Simon, even though you’re curious, because you can’t handle anything more than yourself at the moment. In a roundabout sort of way, being selfish right now and not worrying about anyone else might be what’s best for everybody. There’s only so much you can give. 

You must be more tired than you realized, because you fall asleep with Johnny under that fuzzy blanket. 

----------------------------------

The sensation of being lifted is what wakes you up later, and you must have slept for some time because your limbs are like concrete blocks. Still half asleep, you get hugged chest-to-chest against a large body and transported a few steps, with the hand on the back of your head encouraging you to rest your cheek on his shoulder. You know it’s Simon, because it’s the same way he carries you to bed sometimes. 

“Y’kay?” you ask groggily, not bothering to open your eyes as he settles down to the couch. 

“Mhmm.” He tucks your knees around his hips, adjusting so gravity keeps you on him like a blanket. “Go back to sleep.”

You make a happy sound and wrap yourself around him a little, soaking in the slow, strong thump of his heart against your chest. 

Did he sleep? Surely he did. He needed it as much as Johnny did, and he’s had an emotionally draining morning. But the fact that he can tolerate contact with you now probably means he’s finished napping. 

You don’t even notice your fingers fidgeting on his shoulder until they get enveloped in his. 

“Ready to talk about it?” he asks quietly, as if he’s trying not to wake up Johnny. 

No, not at all, not in a million years. You open your mouth to say that there’s nothing to talk about— But… that would be a lie, and he knows it.

 Different excuses race through your head, ways to delay this worst, most horrible conversation you never want to have. You fight with yourself, knowing you really do need him to shoulder some of this weight in your heart, but feeling like the worst person in the world to even voice it. This isn’t the day he needs anything extra to deal with. You’re the untraumatized one, you shouldn’t ask for anything at all from him today. 

“It’s… hard,” you finally admit.

“I can start.”

You want to be brave. You want to tell him no, that you’ll be a big girl and express how you feel, since you’re the one acting all hurt about it. But you’re not sure where to even begin. You’re not sure what it is you actually feel, after spending all morning carefully repressing it. 

“I did it wrong,” he tells you in the silence, stroking his hand over your hair. 

“Simon—“

“No, no I did. Shouldn’t have done it without Johnny here, should have made sure— I rushed it, I think. And I hurt you.”

“It’s okay,” you whisper, trying to ignore the ache at the top of your throat. That large hand continues to pet your hair, down to the back of your neck. 

He makes a thoughtful noise. “You know what you’re always telling me? That I don’t have to do this? That’s what you need to hear now. I don’t have to do it, if it doesn’t work for us.”

For us. God, you never thought you’d be in this position, to be the one standing in the way of his forward progress. But that is what you’ve always told him – there’s no moral weight attached to trying or not trying. Your relationship isn’t dependent on sex. 

There’s so much you know you need to say, but it hurts to get it out. Literally, it feels like you’re dying, that the exact same survival instinct that prevents you from jumping off a cliff is now locking up your lungs, telling you it’s suicide to voice your feelings. It’ll make him hate you, it’ll ruin everything. He’ll act like he understands, but then he’ll keep this conversation wadded up in a little ball of resentment, and it’ll lead to your breakup in a year. 

“It’s alright,” he tells you, apparently picking up on your anxiety. “You can say it, it’ll be okay.”

His arms tighten like he’s holding you steady, but really he’s just holding you under. He’s creating this heavy silence and making you say it, even though you’re not ready to die. It’s going to hurt.

“I don’t know how—“ your voice stops in your throat, so you swallow and start again. “Usually I can sort of handle it when you get closed off, but I couldn’t today. It made me feel… kind of worthless.”

His chest expands underneath you in a deep breath that you can’t interpret. You definitely just said the wrong thing. You should have been more supportive, and told him that just having Johnny around would have fixed it, but… you know it wouldn’t. You don’t want Johnny caring for you after you fuck your boyfriend. You want the man who loves you, you want this. 

“I was okay,” you continue in a worried rush. “The whole thing was good, it was just, you know, the afterwards that was hard. I know you tried, and it wasn’t easy, and I feel stupid that it wasn’t enough for me.”

“Shh, none of that.” He squeezes you up in his arms and pushes his face onto your hair. “I didn’t think about the after, and I should have done.” 

“Just getting something like this,” you indicate the two of you, “would help. But I know talking is hard after stuff like that, so I’m not sure how it would work.”

“Alright.” He kisses your temple, with the little prickly sensation of his upper lip.

“Baby,” you breathe, tipping your chin up for a better kiss. “I’m so proud of you, you know. Thank you for showing me that part of you. I know it wasn’t easy.”

“Wasn’t any worse than seeing you hide. I don’t care what you think I need, you ought to yell at me before you do that.”

Your mouth pops open to argue that you’d never yell at him, but isn’t that basically what you did to Johnny? And for no good reason, too. He came all the way here to take care of you, and you took out your frustrations on him, instead of being an adult and letting your actual boyfriend know what you were feeling. 

“Okay,” you mumble, because he’s right.

“Now, then.” His hands slide down to your hips, fingertips dipping just under the band of your leggings. “What’s going on in here?”

It’s an effort not to wiggle upwards slightly and coax his fingers down. “Um, the usual. Horny, and making it everyone’s problem.”

“Darling, that’s my favorite problem.”

You make an amused noise into his neck and try to ignore his hand now sliding up your lower back, under your shirt. “How… was it?” you ask impulsively. “For you, I mean. Was it… good, earlier?”

He lets out an incredulous huff. “For me?” Then his head turns, and you could almost swear he’s peeking over to check if Johnny is still asleep. “For me,” he continues as quiet as he can, right next to your ear, “It was so good that I couldn’t last a fucking minute inside you, you precious thing.”

“Ahh, yeah…” you reply lamely, stifling your smile. 

Simon fiddles with your bra strap. “Was dreaming about you, before I woke up. A nice one, with those little yellow knickers you wear sometimes to torture me.”

Oh, the ones you’re currently wearing. You laugh quietly into his shoulder. “I didn't realize you had favorites.”

“You’re enough of a danger as it is, don’t need the extra munitions.”

“Well, I enjoyed it too. This morning, I mean. Maybe not in like, a sexual way—“

“...Which is the whole fucking point,” he gripes.

“—Which is not the only way to enjoy sex,” you insist. “By the way, did you know you’re fucking massive?”

“‘Course.”

You internally roll your eyes at his automatic, matter-of-fact reply, and start to lift your head. “I need to go pee.”

Your boyfriend groans like you’ve just ruined his entire day, and instead of letting you up, he cages you in tight with his arms. “I’m too comfortable for that.”

“You’re the one who gave me that big old glass of water at breakfast,” you accuse.

“You’re dehydrated.”

“You’re going to get peed on!”

“Christ, you two,” comes Johnny’s irritated voice from the floor. “Kiss already.”

Simon finally releases you, and after clambering off the couch you lean down and give him a quick smooch. 

“Morning, Johnny.” You ruffle his hair on your way past. 

-------------------------------------

It’s nice to get a little freshening-up time. You brush your teeth again and wash your face, and it’s almost like the worst parts of the day never happened. It’s well into the afternoon at this point, and honestly the nap was a good idea. Just getting that mental reset was exactly what you needed.

Your reflection stares back at you in the mirror, with freshly moisturized skin and slightly tired eyes, and you have this unexpected wave of compassion for yourself. You’re only human. You had a big day, and a significant conversation, and you made it through the hard parts. Things are going to be okay now, because you chose right. You’ve poured yourself into people who actually deserve to have you, and it will all work out somehow in the end. 

Johnny’s still on the floor when you return, hands tucked behind his head and chatting with Simon about something. “Hey,” he says by way of greeting, his eyes wandering a little down your body, “saved you a seat.”

You’re a little confused by what he means at first, but then you notice him tapping his mouth with two fingers. You laugh good naturedly at the joke, shoving at Simon’s knee so he’ll give you a spot to sit.

“The fuck you laughing for?” Johnny complains, reaching out to grab your ankle and tug it in his direction.

“Wait, are you serious?”

He cocks his eyebrows. “I’ll beg if you want.”

You quickly glance at Simon, who just inclines his head towards Johnny. “Go on.”

Oh, god. Okay. “You better not be fucking with me,” you warn Johnny, reaching back to unhook your bra under your shirt. “I’m going to cry if you do.”

He makes a negatory kind of noise, tugging at the bottom of your leggings like he wants them off as soon as possible. Is he really okay eating you out after you fucked Simon? You’ve been with people who wouldn’t even kiss you after a blowjob.

He’ll ask, if it’s important to him. Just stop thinking for once.

Simon gets up to turn up the thermostat while you finish peeling off your clothes. You leave your socks on, and your shirt, because you’ll be cold otherwise. But it feels so scandalous to be otherwise naked that you find yourself hurrying down to the floor, like it’ll be less embarrassing once you’re getting touched.  

“Come on, give it to me,” Johnny insists, when you start to just lay down beside him. He manhandles you up over his chest until you’re a few inches from his mouth, trying to figure out the best way to give him your pussy without smothering him or looking stupid in the process. 

Johnny’s looking up at you with a light of challenge in his eyes. “Don’t go shy on me.”

“Oh, Johnny.” You sigh, walking your knees a little farther forward, to line yourself up. “You’re the best.”

“Mhmm.” He lets you hover there for a moment, wandering his hand down the front of your pussy to push your folds apart, and then tilting his chin up to kiss your clit. “Making me work for it, or are you going to come down here?”

Only Johnny could make suffocating him with your pussy sound like the kindly thing to do. 

He rewards you for it, though. He opens his mouth and gives you something wet and teasing, and you give him a long, grateful moan for his efforts. Oh yeah, this is nice. This is actually, surprisingly relaxing and comfortable. All you have to do is sit here, and your pussy gets played with by this warm, clever mouth. You don’t have to think at all.

You don’t even notice that your eyes have drifted closed, until you feel the disturbance in the air, someone coming to stand in front of you. You peel your eyes open and watch Simon crouch down, as close to eye level as he can get, studying your content expression. Then he drops his gaze and follows the path of his own finger, lifting the hem of your shirt up your stomach until you can feel the touch of chill air on your exposed breasts. 

“Baby,” you whisper, struggling to stay still when the weight of his eyes feels like they're plowing a path through your belly. Also, Johnny’s got your clit in his mouth and it’s distracting. 

Simon looks casually back towards your face. “Hmm?”

Ohhh, fucker. You know that look, and that tone. He’s going to mess you up. 

“Do you want me to take my shirt off?” you offer.

“You’ll be cold.”

“Yeah,” you agree breathlessly. It’s a small price to pay to get to that possessive gleam in his eyes.

“Hmm.” He drapes your shirt so that it rests on the top of your breasts, just shy of falling back down, as long as you stay still. So you’re kind of stuck there now, knowing that if you lean forward or move around at all, it’ll spoil his view of your tits. 

“Johnny,” you gasp, jerking your hand off your thigh, but then realizing your shirt will fall if you grab onto Johnny’s hair like you want. He’s doing something with his mouth that’s pulling your soul out your pussy, and it’s right on the edge of too much, too soon. 

“Shh,” Simon soothes, placing two fingertips to your lips. “You’re alright.”

You’re not exactly sure what he wants you to do with those fingers, but when he doesn’t take them away, you decide to just go for it. You part your lips and let him push his fingers inside, resting them on the front of your tongue. 

“Do you like that?” He asks you softly. 

You blink in affirmation, closing your lips and making sure he doesn’t feel teeth. 

“How deep do you like it, sweet girl?”

Oh, that’s not fair. Your shirt finally slips down your breasts when you twitch a little, focused on the heat in his eyes. He replaces the hem without even looking, lingering his eyes on where his fingers disappear into your mouth. “Show me.”

Your shirt is going to fall again if you lean forward, so you just take hold of his hand and push his fingers farther into your mouth, right on the edge of your gag reflex. 

Simon lets out a long, delicious sound, the kind you’d make if you fell into a soft bed after a long day of traveling. “How’d you get so pretty, hmm?”

It’s definitely a rhetorical question, with his knuckles pressed to the roof of your mouth like this, but you don’t mind. Your aching clit is getting sucked, and your man’s thick fingers are in your mouth, and he’s calling you pretty. He can ask you anything he wants, you don’t mind one bit. 

Does he… like this? This is just for you, surely. He knows you like it when he talks to you like this, so he’s just playing along with your favorite game. Right?

It’s strange, the different ways he relates to you. The man crying in bed with you this morning was Simon Riley, but this is also Simon Riley. One was operating from a place of uncertainty, and the other seems content to play with you in a way that allows him to maintain control of himself. You wonder vaguely if they’ll ever meet in the middle. 

You have to swallow around his fingers so you won’t start drooling, and for some reason Johnny decides that’s the perfect time to play with your nipple. 

Simon smiles at the noise you make, the way your teeth graze his fingers while you endure that hot wave of pleasure. 

“Suck.”

Goddammit. You were just starting to get a grip on yourself again, and now you have to devote all your attention towards not embarrassing yourself with too many throat noises while you obey. 

Your eyes start to water a little, but you don’t care. You allow your shirt to fall so you can shove your mouth deeper onto his fingers, fighting that instinct to gag, just to show him that you can take it. If he ever wanted to switch his fingers out for something better, you’d be so willing.

A flash of something crosses Simon’s face, and his fingers twitch on your tongue. You can’t tell if it’s good or bad, but it has him breathing heavily through his nose for a second, as his eyes drop down to your mouth. 

His fingers are coated in your spit when he eases them out, and wraps his hand around your chin instead. “Cold?”

“No,” you practically groan, dropping your hand down to Johnny’s hair and fighting the urge to grind your clit against his tongue. You’re very wet, and far too empty, but not cold. 

“What do you reckon, Johnny?”

The man between your legs unglues himself from your pussy, and if Simon were letting you look down, you know he’d be catching his breath down there with that stupid grin on his face. 

“Could go for another lie down, maybe. I’m loused.”

Bastards. 

Thankfully, they don’t make you wait. They make you go facedown on the bed, messing up the perfectly tucked blanket in your fingers, the first time you cum. 

“Ahh, sweet thing,” Johnny pants into your neck. “That was easy, wasn’t it?”

He makes you work for them after that, fighting your own body’s sensitivity while you shudder and spasm around him, getting more overstimulated after every orgasm. You lose track of Simon, give up your grasp on reality and just hold onto the feeling of Johnny’s fingers worming themselves under your belly to find your clit, and his voice, low in your ear, calling you baby.

Next Part coming soon (headcanons and bonus scenes while you're waiting)