Divine Lament

Kinks: Body Worship, creampie, rough sex, raw sex, eye contact, size difference, public sex.

────────· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·────────

The library had gone quiet hours ago, the dim lights humming softly overhead as Elspeth stood on her toes to shelve a hardback on the top row.

Simon watched her from the end of the aisle, half hidden in shadow behind a shelf of old magazines. She was so small—less than five foot, if she stretched on her toes—drowning in an oversized black jumper that slipped off one shoulder, revealing the jagged red scar on her throat. He shouldn't be hiding here after closing, but his feet had carried him through the aisles anyway, drawn by the same magnetic pull that had kept him coming back for weeks without ever managing to choke out more than a grunted “thanks” when she checked out his books.

She turned, and those mismatched eyes—one emerald and amber, one blue—fixed on him without surprise.

Simon stepped closer, filling the narrow space between the shelves, six foot four of muscle and scar tissue towering over her. He reached up and pulled the skull balaclava from his head, exposing the wreckage of his face. His knuckle tattoos—Forgiven—flexed as he dropped the mask to the floor, waiting for the flinch.

It didn't come.

Elspeth tilted her head, her dark curls falling across her face, and lifted her hand. Her fingers were tipped with glossy black nail polish, long and slightly pointed, and they gently traced the scarred ridge of his upper lip where the skin pulled tight.

Simon? He stopped breathing.

Her own scar bisected her left lip, a vicious red line that tugged her smile slightly off-center. When she didn't pull away, something fragile in him snapped.

He picked her up.

Easily, like she weighed nothing, his hands spanning her waist over the thick fabric of her clothes.

She wrapped her legs around his middle on instinct—she'd have to, the height difference was absurd—and he carried her to the reference desk, setting her down on the edge among the stacks of returns. His hands shook as he pushed her jumper up, revealing the soft swell of her belly, the heavy curve of her breasts. She wasn't hiding under those clothes; she was magnificent, scarred and solid and so fucking soft it made him want to weep.

Simon crowded between her thighs, his tactical belt digging into her belly until he clumsily yanked it off, letting it clatter to the floor.

He kissed her, messy and too hard, his scarred lip catching against hers. She tasted like the tea she always drank, Earl Grey, and she kissed back with a ferocity that surprised him, her fingers tangling in his short hair, pulling gently. He groaned into her mouth, the sound rough and broken.

He was already hard, had been since she touched his face, his prick straining against his combat trousers.

He freed himself with shaky hands, the weight of his cock heavy in his palm, flushed and aching. Elspeth watched him, her chest heaving under her black lace bra, those heterochromatic eyes wide and fixed on his body—the muscle, the scars. She was flushed, trembling slightly as he yanked off her joggers and spread her legs wider.

When he pushed into her, the heat and tightness of her made him see stars. She was small everywhere, and he was big—too big, probably—but she took him with a gasp that sounded like relief, her nails digging into his shoulders through his hoodie. Simon gripped the edge of the desk, his knuckles white, trying not to crush her. The books rattled as he moved, a steady, desperate rhythm that knocked a dictionary to the floor.

He couldn't stop looking at her face—her beautiful, extraordinary face—flushed pink, her eyes rolling back.

"S-Simon," she gasped, “Si-Simo—nnnnngh!”*

He hooked her knees over his elbows, opening her even wider, driving deeper. The sound of his hips meeting her thighs filled the silent library obscenely, her breath hitching every time he bottomed out.

He was being too rough, he knew he was, but she was clawing at his back, urging him on, her tight little cunt spasming around his cock.

“You're fuckin’ perfect, sweetheart.” He groaned, cock throbbing.

He bent his head to her throat, pressing soft kisses against that red scar, breathing her in—apples and pine trees and cigarette smoke.

He wanted to keep her, this brilliant, broken creature who looked at him like he wasn't a monster.

His hips snapped forward, the desk screeching against the floor, and Elspeth cried out, her head falling back, exposing the column of her scarred throat.

The pressure built uncontrollably, tightening his balls, drawing his whole body taut. He was close, so close, and he wanted to wait, wanted to make this last, but she was tightening around him, milking him, her small body shuddering with her own climax.

Simon?

He lost it.

“Take it f'me, angel. Fuuuuck. That's a good girl. My good fuckin’ girl.”

He buried his face in her hair, inhaling the scent of her, an ungodly of cum filling her tight cunt, pulse after pulse that left him trembling and raw.

He cradled her face, legs shaking, his nose brushing hers, lips pressing against hers desperately.

Simon woke with a jolt, his hand already gripping his cock through his sodden shorts, the last twitch of his orgasm fading as reality crashed in.

His bedroom.

The wet spot spread cold and sticky across his stomach, his heart hammering against his ribs like he'd run a marathon.

He lay there panting, the ghost of her touch still burning on his scarred mouth, and cursed softly into the empty room.

“Bloody fuckin’ hell, Riley.”

────────· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·────────