mortis

Daeron: 

Daeron is most like a raccoon. He’s got a bad reputation; dirty, sneaky, a real pest. Deep down, they’re both just misunderstood creatures. Yes raccoons sometimes dig through the garbage, yes Daeron has spent many a night passed out in a ditch, but that doesn’t mean they should be given up on. Raccoons are crafty and clever, and Daeron seems like the type who can swindle and pickpocket his way out of anything. They’re also pretty weary and solitary, but have been known to enjoy affection and cuddling. Daeron is similar, standoffish most of the time, but deep down loves the closeness of others. 

Maekar:

Maekar is like an arctic wolf; stoic, hard, built strong enough to withstand the elements. The alpha male and female wolves in a pack mate for life, which mirrors Maekar never marrying after Dyanna. They also fiercely protect their young, providing food, warmth, and taking an active role in rearing. They can be very affectionate, but only with those they deem their own. plus, of course, the silver hair.

Aerion:

Aerion is like an arctic weasel. Another pale blonde, but small, vicious, and fierce. They are fearless creatures, ignoring their own size and going after prey larger than themselves. They’re both cute as a button, but will bite if you put your fingers too close to their mouth. 

Dunk:

I love the idea that Dunk is like an elephant; seems big and intimidating, but is actually gentle and sometimes timid. Alternatively, Dunk also resembles a coyote. Often considered a nuisance, the canine gets a lot of ridicule, especially where they’re invasive. Sort of like how Dunk is shamed and looked down at by many of the higher lords. They form social groups, protecting those in their families and watching over the young. Coyotes are scrappy and extremely resilient, but don’t actually pose a huge threat to humans unless they feel a weak member of their pack is threatened. Dunk’s kind of the same, he certainly has it in him to injure someone, but isn’t typically interested in causing pain unless it's protecting an innocent. 

Baelor: 

Baelor’s like a Florida panther; large, territorial, the apex predator, and everyone knows it. However, they are not actually considered big cats, because they purr (they’re actually the largest cats to do so). There’s something so cute about a large animal that has the teeth and claws to kill, but still makes the soft, rumbling, content noises of a housecat. Baelor has certainly earned his right to be considered a formidable warrior, but there is also a tenderness to him that renders the royal heir a gentle knight at heart 

Lyonel: 

Lyonel most resembles a hyena. I know the stag thing is right there, but hear me out. Obviously, their most famous trait is their laughter, similar to our Laughing Storm, but it's actually a form of complex communication. They’re often depicted as silly or foolish, but are actually extremely intelligent and good problem solvers. Lyonel is known to be wild, extravagant, and unserious, but he pulls it together to fight, and is extremely talented and clever. They are also known to be scavengers, and while that is true, they will hunt fiercely and can even take down lions when in a group. Lyonel is seen as this giggly drunken lord, but when he’s on the field, he shows his teeth.

his hand, large and calloused, began to roam, tracing the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist, and then, hesitantly, it came to rest on the full swell of your backside. he squeezed, a gentle, possessive gesture, and you hummed in contentment, pushing back into his touch.

"you're so soft here," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your bones. he leaned down, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the globe of your ass.

then another, and another, his lips trailing a path of fire across your skin.

his hands were gripping you now, kneading the soft muscle, spreading you open. you felt a moment of shyness, a flicker of self-consciousness, but it was quickly extinguished by the reverence in his touch. he was worshipping you, and you were powerless to do anything but accept it.

then you felt it. a hot, wet pressure against a place no one had ever touched. a tentative, questioning flick of his tongue against your tight, puckered hole.

your entire body went rigid. "ser!" you gasped, your voice a high, squeaky thing you barely recognized as your own. "w-what are you doing?"

he froze, his mouth still pressed against you. you could feel his breath, hot and shaky, against your skin. he pulled back just enough to speak, his voice muffled by your flesh. "i… i couldn't help it," he admitted, his voice thick with a shame that was laced with an undeniable hunger. "it's… i just wanted to… is it… is this alright?"

your mind was a whirlwind of confusion and a shocking, illicit thrill. no one had ever… you hadn't even… it was dirty, it was wrong, it was… unbelievably arousing. you could feel your own slickness, a fresh wave of it gushing from your core at the mere thought of what he was asking.

"uhm," you stammered, your face burning. "yes. if… if you'd like."

a low groan rumbled through his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated relief.

"oh, i'd like, m'lady" he breathed, and then he dove back in.

this time, there was no hesitation. his tongue was a firm, insistent pressure, circling your rim, teasing you, making you squirm. his huge hands gripped your ass, holding you open for him, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh as he explored this new, forbidden territory. he was making out with your ass, his lips and tongue working in a slow, sensual rhythm that was both filthy and deeply intimate.

you were moaning now, unable to stop the sounds from escaping your lips.

it felt… incredible.

a strange, new kind of pleasure that was different from anything you'd ever felt before. it was a deep, pulsing ache that spread through your entire body, making your toes curl and your back arch.

"do you like it?" he asked, his voice a rough, desperate whisper. "tell me if you like it."

"yes," you gasped, pushing back against his mouth. "gods, yes, don't stop."

he groaned in response, his tongue delving deeper, fucking you with a slow, deliberate rhythm that made you see stars. he was a man possessed, driven by a hunger that was both primal and deeply tender. he was savoring you, tasting you, claiming this last, untouched part of you as his own.

then he did something that made you cry out. he moved his mouth back to your dripping pussy, his tongue lapping up your slickness before returning to your ass, using your own juices as a lubricant to ease his way.

the wet, filthy sound of his mouth on you, the way he went back and forth, from your pussy to your ass, using your own arousal to prepare you, was the most erotic thing you had ever experienced.

"again," you begged, your voice a hoarse cry. "do that again."

he was happy to oblige.

he ate you out with a ferocity that was both shocking and deeply satisfying, his tongue a relentless, probing force that pushed you closer and closer to the edge.

he was asking you if you liked it, over and over, his voice a desperate, pleading mantra, and you were answering him with your body, with the way you writhed and bucked against his mouth.

finally, with a final, devastating flick of his tongue, you shattered. your orgasm ripped through you, a blinding, all-consuming wave of pleasure that left you gasping and spent, your body trembling with the force of it. he didn't stop, his mouth still working you, drawing out your pleasure until you were a whimpering, boneless mess. he ate you through his own orgasm, his warm cum spurting out and onto your thigh and calf.

when he finally pulled away, you were a puddle of satisfaction, your body limp and pliant. he crawled up your body, his still hard chubby cock pressing against your thigh, his face glistening with your arousal.

"did you like it m'love?" he asked again, his voice a low, hopeful rumble.

The Prince is also very fond of being close to you. Where other lords, and certainly some of the Princes, would find it unfitting or childish, Daeron will not shy away from holding your hand, tucking his head against your shoulder, or putting an arm around you. Several times, you’ve had to giggle and step away, playfully chiding him about his public image. He is well aware of how people see him, and if that means he can stand with you pressed against him in a crowd, he doesn’t mind in the slightest. 

I had this vision of him that struck me while writing this: Daeron, drunk out of his mind, lost in the dark outside of a tavern, halfway to Ashford with no brother in sight. He’s upset, confused, stumbling around in the woods, and falls against a tree when his legs can no longer keep himself up. He falls into restless sleep, visions of dragons spinning in his head. When he wakes, there’s only a dim light on the horizon, and a warmth pressed against his hip. It's a cat, ragged fur and a notched ear, sleeping soundly against him. He’s extremely confused in his drunk, half-asleep state, but scratches its head as it purrs, and falls back into slumber with a hand protectively on its back. Even when he thinks the worst of himself, others can sense the innate goodness, deep down. 

Maekar: 

Maekar is loyal to a fault. He’s a soldier, trained from a young age to take orders as the youngest son of a King. As an adult, it shows in his dedication to the people he loves. He is Baelor’s shadow, on and off the battlefield. The expendable spare, ready to take a hit for the brother he looks up to so fondly. There's a discipline in him; training, learning, listening to what he’s told and executing it with efficiency and competence. 

It is the same in his marriage; even if there isn’t love right away, he would never think to break an oath. He may not be soft or warm or cuddly but make no mistake, you can feel how much he cares peeking through his incessant need to keep you safe. He feels the need to do things for you himself. Yes you have an escort of guards around you, but he insists on being the one to take a turn with you in the gardens alone. If you’re planning on a ride, he checks your saddle before you mount, ensuring it will not fail. Maekar learns quickly to anticipate your needs; a new gown when you tear a hem, the next volume before you’ve finished a book, his cloak around your shoulders before you even realize you’re chilly. 

He’s not one for poetry or song, often he doesn’t even verbalize his love for you, but you feel it all the same. You know it's hard for him to admit his feelings, years of forcing down opinions in favor of those who give orders has made him unsure of how to open up. And Maekar hates feeling unsure of himself. Instead, he’ll avoid awkward confessions and scrambled musings of love, the unwavering faithfulness all the admission you need to know he feels the same. 

I touched on this in the other post, but he does secretly love attention and affection, especially physical. If you ask him to snuggle up to you in bed, he’ll grumble about how undignified it is for a prince to do something so silly, but he pulls you against his chest and tucks you under his chin. Part of it is a protection aspect: where would you be safer than in his arms? He also just loves the feeling of your hand holding his head or rubbing his back. 

Despite most of his life being an exercise in strength, brutality, and honing the ability to turn off emotions, Maekar loves hard. It doesn’t really look like it to people who don’t know him well, and that’s by design. For the first time in his life, he does not care what anyone but the person he loves thinks of him. He’s stern and grouchy, tough and crass, but he would follow you to hell and back if you asked him. 

Aerion:

For all his faults, and there are many, Aerion is extremely protective over what he deems as his. This can be toxic, at times, possessive, but there is a fierceness in which he would defend anyone or anything that he loves. He takes pride in the feeling of keeping someone safe, a true dragon defending his hoard. There are no lengths he would not go to defend someone if he truly loves them. He’s easily the most skilled warrior of his brothers, something else he takes pride in, spending hours training and dedicating himself to the task. He’s strong, wiry and tough, and able to stand up to men much bigger than himself without hesitation. Of course, it gets him into trouble.

He cares, very deeply, about a great many things; what you think of him, if he’s strong enough to warrant a reputation,  his own standing in the dragon house, but he has an ability to mask any insecurity, and turn it into confidence. It frightens most, lords and commonfolk alike keeping their distance. He revels in the fear, but he also knows it keeps you safe. He’s obsessive: a word spoken in jest about you, an eye staring too long at your neck, a hand offered to help you to your seat, and he’s losing it. It's his job to help you, to leer at your decolletage and to tease you mercilessly. Gods help any man who tries, they’ll suddenly find themselves at his mercy, and we’ve all seen where that leads. Bloody knuckles, broken bones, bruised eyes and egos. He’ll fight and fight until he feels like whatever wrongdoing has been fully paid back. Aerion doesn’t care how injured he gets, his eyes see red and feeling leaves his body as the adrenaline rushes. After, as long as you’re safe in his arms, kissing his face and cleaning his wounds, he’s content to keep fighting. 

Dunk:

Dunk is the very truest of knights. Honor, integrity, truth, these are the traits he knows are baked into the oath every knight swears, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t follow them. He’s chivalrous, but not in a way where it feels condescending. You know when he offers to carry your basket, he’s doing it to be kind, not because he thinks you can’t do it yourself. When he wraps his cloak around your shoulders, it's because he wants you to be warm, not because he expects anything in return. When he steps in front of you at the sight of danger, it's because the thought of you hurt makes him so angry that his body moves before his brain has fully formed the thought. He wants to help people, to be useful, needed. Helping old ladies up stairs, teaching a young squire a sword trick, giving the crust of his bread to a curious bird. It's purely out of the goodness of his heart. 

He’s the most lovesick puppy of a man. Following close behind you, dopey grin on his face, while you go about your day. He preens when you ask him to get something down from a high shelf, his shoulders shift back and his spine straightens when you thank him for helping you. Helping you up on a horse, tying your boot laces, giving you the warmer blanket, he’s just so pleased to have someone to take care of, and the way he knows how to show his love is to help. He does the same for Egg, though he does try to be sterner with the boy. His sweet, brotherly affection he shows for the child is heartwarming. There’s no end to threats of clouts on the ear, bed without supper, tending to the horses alone, but you, Egg, and even Dunk himself knows it's all in vain. The fond look on his face when the little Prince disarms him gives him away instantly. 

Dunk is well aware of how large he is, how if someone didn't know his kind heart, they might find him daunting. He goes out of his way to be smaller and softer, to move slowly so as not to spook people. I’ve mentioned it before, but Gwin Ashford picks at him, gets in his face, and feels no fear. She’s literally a tween girl, but immediately senses that he won’t retaliate if she jabs at him. It takes a lot to provoke him to real anger, and anything less means he tries hard to be unintimidating. 

He almost dies from happiness when you give the same attention back to him. Mending holes in his clothes, chatting with the horses as you feed them, gently pulling his giant form out of the way so he doesn't trip over tree roots. It's the simplest things, but he covets the attention you give him. Dunk adores you, and shows you by acts of service, so when you do something for him, it tells him how much you love him back. 

Baelor:

Despite being raised in King’s Landing, years of heavy strength and swordsmanship training, and countless bouts on the battlefield, Baelor remains gentle and kind in a way so few men in Westeros are. It's not weakness by any means, rather he fights all his instincts; the lessons engrained in him, his hot Targaryen dragon blood. For the realm, it means an even-headed, calm, intelligent man ruling with both compassion and tenacity. 

For you, it means a man who will listen to you speak for hours so that he can better understand every part of you. A man who will take a deep breath and apologize instead of escalating an argument. A man who, in spite of his status, treats you as an equal and insists on you calling him Baelor; not my Prince, or eventually my King, just the name he was given. Of course duty is important to him, he works himself to the bone to try and live up to his own standards, but he also yearns for a connection with you and to know you wholly, and for you to know him. 

Baelor works diligently on any task. Whether it's planning logistics for grain distribution, or helping you clip a necklace, he treats any duty like a chance to prove himself, and to execute said task with completeness. He does not not understand when you giggle to yourself in the mirror when he braids your hair with the same concentration he plans battle strategy, both are equally important to get right for him. 

He is also remarkably bright, focusing on his political and historical intelligence to better prepare himself when he ascends the throne. Baelor never makes you feel stupid, however. Intellect is something he covets, and he is more than interested in hearing what you know, and explaining what you ask him in a way that shows he thinks of you as academically equal. 

He’s not a show-off type, rather he knows his strengths, and is content to let them speak for themselves. Not one to brag, confident but with the poise of someone who knows his worth. You wouldn’t often see him on a tourney field, not only would it be unsafe for the heir, but he doesn't find he needs the satisfaction of winning. Why risk an injury, or frightening you, to knock some fresh boy off his horse? Baelor would much rather use that energy to practice and perfect his skill in a yard, sparring with experts he could actually learn something from. He’s not the proud sort. Rather, he’s a good man, with a good heart, who longs to take care of someone. 

Lyonel:

Lyonel is the type of man who never really cared about marriage; didn’t want a tidy wife to have to look after, and he certainly didn’t want to end his gallivanting and carnality. So when he does marry, he’s not the type to force a wife into the strict standards of a noblewoman. That doesn’t necessarily mean he needs someone who will get up and dance on a table with him (though he would certainly enjoy it), but he would never understand why some men want silence and subservience from a partner. 

Instead, he’s excited to hear you talk about your interests; he may cut in and ask questions or add his own commentary, but he’ll also sit and listen with his chin in his hand while you tell him about a book you read or a bit of gossip you heard. When you laugh loudly at a crude joke he makes, or make an even cruder one yourself, he’s grinning ear to ear. If you eagerly tell him how much you love dancing, he’s finding the nearest tavern to spin you in immediately. Lyonel has a way of making friends with anyone, and you are no exception. If the two of you will be living together, expected to make heirs and rule the Stormlands, he is determined to make you like him. He’s too busy trying to make you laugh with his antics, or impress you with a hunt, or regale you with stories of adventure, to realize he’s fallen head over heels, deeply, wildly in love. 

He’s not a serious person, and while that can have its faults, his lust for adventure and intense need for companionship mean that he wants to be around you constantly, and is in desperate desire for your pleasure. If you like to read, he’s sitting beside you in the gardens, fidgeting in his seat but trying to pay attention to the story. If you like to ride, he’s lifting you up onto a horse and following you out into the glen. You get the picture. It's not so much about the activity, as it is about getting to make you happy. 

At his core, Lyonel would do anything for the people he loves. I know I’ve said this before, but he literally joins a fight to the death for Dunk after knowing him for like a day. He is fiercely loyal, would step in front of an arrow for someone he cares for. It borders on crazy, certainly, but you cannot deny his devotion.

In reality you had sent Simon a suggestive photo. More than just suggestive actually.

You were sat infront of a mirror. Legs spread wide open. No panties. All you had on was Simon’s go-to sleeping shirt, the hem was pulled up to expose your breast. Your face hidden behind your phone.

He only looked at the photo for a second. But through out the whole meeting all he could think about were your slick folds glistening in the picture.

His mouth hangs open as drool drips from his chin, his eyes half-lidded while he watches your breasts bounce directly in front of his face, and he can’t help but suck one nipple into his mouth to bite down and relieve some of the unbearable pleasure. You moan out, your fingers moving to tangle in the hair at his nape, pulling harshly on the strands before pushing your chest out for him by arching your back.

“One more Si, p-please… need it, need your c-cum,” you beg, gazing down at him with fucked out eyes, obscene moans flooding his ears each time his cock knocks against your cervix.

Your knees dig into the mattress on either side of him, caging his body underneath yours while you ride him as if your life depends on it. Skin slaps against skin, the sounds sharp and loud, the headboard bangs against the wall, sure to leave a dent or scrape the paint, not that either of you care. The smell of sex hangs in the air so thick you can taste it, musky from the salty sweat beading across the two bodies that move together in tandem.

“So g-good,” you praise, bouncing harder, faster, pushing him deeper inside of you while your walls suck him in, and clench down as if your pussy never wants him to leave.

The veins and ridges of his cock slide through your walls, filling you up to the brim, leaving no parts of you empty for too long. He sucks, bites, licks on your nipple, letting it peak between his lips before moving off with a pop and focusing on the other. One of his hands slides from your hip, finding your clit with ease to rub tight, quick circles on the sensitive bundle of nerves instead.

You cry out in pleasure, sinking down fast to grind against his fingers before lifting up once more. With the added stimulation, your body grows weaker the closer and closer you reach your climax, and you beg him to help you.

“C’mon lovie… I g-got you,” he says, planting both feet on the bed behind you, and steadying you on top of him before he begins to pound into you from below.

His balls clap against your ass, sensitive and empty, and he whimpers every time. You slump against his chest, your nipples dragging across his rough skin, his fingers still working your clit, and you’re walking the edge of your orgasm faster than you would like.

“C-close… I’m so…”

He thrusts in deep and hard, knocking the air from your lungs, cutting off your words as a sharp gasp rips from your throat when his tip nudges against your sweet spot. Stars burst behind your eyelids, the sheer ecstasy rushing through your body is enough to have you cumming on his long, thick cock.

“That’s it. Cum on m-me,” he encourages, eager to feel you come undone, his cock crying out for him as it bullies your insides and bruises your cervix.

Your muscles draw taut, your body becoming rigid as pleasure consumes your entire being. Cum gushes from your entrance, leaking out around his length for the umpteenth time tonight, dripping from his skin and pooling onto the already wet sheets below. Your pussy clenches impossibly tight and pulses rhythmically around him.

He fucks you through your high, drawing it out as long as possible before giving himself the same release, his fingers only letting up on your swollen clit when your body begins to jerk and twitch from his overstimulating touch.

“Shit- gonna f-fill you up again lovie.”

With a few more thrusts he’s burying himself to the hilt and releases his seed deep inside of you. Long, thick ropes of warm cum flood your pussy, leaking out from his tip against your cervix, coating your walls and dripping out when there is no more room left inside of your raw walls. Your belly tingles from the sensation, your skin burning from his touch, your body weak on top of his as his thrusts slow and he collapses onto the pillows again.

Simon’s chest heaves against yours while he tries to catch his breath, his heart pounding in your ear as he comes down from his intense high. You do your best to recover too, your breathing coming in short, ragged gasps, the sound of your blood whooshing past your ears louder than any of the lingering whimpers and whines from stimulated sensitive body parts, your legs and arms trembling from the prolonged activity, it is all too much and not enough at the same time.

His cock continues to twitch inside of you, the mess continues to pool underneath you, and knowing you, you still would want more.

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Simon fucks you harder, the sound of your sweet voice begging for him enough to bring him to the brink of his orgasm, but not until you unravel on him for the umpteenth time tonight. His hand smacks down against your ass, your skin burning raw immediately, and he yanks your hair so hard that stars burst behind your eyelids.

“Please what? Be a good girl and use your fuckin’ words,” he says through gritted teeth, biting back an obscene moan that wishes to fall from his swollen lips.

His fingers press into the delicate skin of your neck, your pulse fluttering around his thumb, and the adrenaline of knowing that you’re at his mercy makes your walls clamp down tight around him, earning you a hiss from the man behind you. When you don’t respond in what he deems as a timely manner, his hand strikes your ass again, harder this time, but somewhere in this moment he still feels guilty for it when his thumb brushes over the scorching skin to soothe you.

“More, p-please Si,” you continue to beg, completely consumed by the feeling of his cock inside you, bullying your insides with no pity.

His hand moves from your throat to the pillow in front of you as he steadies himself. Leaning over your back, his cock pressed against your cervix with the utmost amount of pressure, he positions himself to watch your face while he fucks into you like a rabid animal as if he has no compassion or love for the woman under him what-so-ever.

You know he would apologize after. Apologize for being rough, apologize for saying mean things, apologize for acting as if he has no respect for you, but it makes your pussy so fucking wet all you can do is beg for him to be meaner.

“Yeah? Beg for it. Look at me and beg me to make you cum, beg me to make you feel good slut.”

Your gaze lifts to his, and the way his pupils dilate from the sight of you so undone solely because of him has a groan rumbling out from the depths of his chest. Drool drips from your chin while your mouth hangs open ever so slightly. Your eyes are half-lidded and dazed with tears staining your cheeks, your lips swollen and pigmented, and he watches how every single time his cock thrusts until there’s no more space inside you the air from your lungs comes in short, ragged gasps that sound like music to his ears.

“Make me c-cum Si- f-fuck- make me f-feel good, p-please,” you stutter, tripping over every other word, trying your hardest to form sentences coherent enough to beg for it like he asked.

He growls, deep and low, animalist almost, and he shoves your face into the pillow while spreading your cheeks with his other hand to watch your pussy swallow him whole. He fucks you, deep and hard and fast, it is almost too much. Your juices leak out around his cock, coating his length of your arousal, and he watches how tight you get the closer your orgasm gets.

“Do it,” he says, the words coming out strained, “cum on my fucking dick then since you beg so pretty.”

Every movement of his hips is hitting a spot inside of you that bursts into pleasure. Your cervix, your sweet spot, your nipples drag against the sheets until they’re hard and sore, your clit grinding against the pillow beneath you until it all pushes you over the edge. Your body becomes rigid, your muscles draw taut, and your screaming sobs fill the room, and no other sounds can be heard.

“I’m c-cumming-“

“Who makes you feel this good? Who do you belong to,” he asks, fucking you harder, fucking you through your orgasm, fucking you into overstimulation, waiting for the words to fall from your pretty, swollen lips before he allows himself the same release.

“You! F-fuck it’s always you Si,” you whimper, your body twitching from your walls being rubbed raw, from your clit grinding against every last nerve, from your nipples peaking beyond belief.

With a few more thrusts and a guttural groan ripping from his throat, Simon buries himself to the hilt, spilling his seed into the deepest parts of you. Long, thick ropes of warm cum flood your pussy, spurting out against your cervix with every twitch of his cock, coating your walls in all he has to give as the man behind you stills while he fills you to the brim. When nothing else will fit it leaks out around him, your cum mixing with his, making a mess between your thighs and spreading against the sheets.

“Fuck,” he groans, collapsing on top of you, trying his hardest to catch his breath.

His face is buried between your shoulder blades, his warm breath hitting your skin and sending shivers down your spine, his hands moving from their previous positions to caress up your sides as if asking for forgiveness through touch before asking verbally. He kisses against your spine, all the way down to your ass where he licks the raw handprint burning against your skin, and when he reaches your pussy, he licks up the mess before flipping you over with ease.

He hovers above you, wiping a stray tear before placing a feather light kiss to your lips. Admiring you, he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, watching the way you give him the softest yet brightest smile he has ever seen, and he can’t help but cover your face in the same kisses.

“You’re not a slut, and you never have to beg for me…,” he mumbles in between kisses, and before he can keep rambling on you pull him down until your forehead is pressed against his.

“If you say sorry… I swear Simon.”

He laughs softly, “I know, I know. I’m sorry- shit- sorry. Fuck. I’ll just stop talking now, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

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