purrrrrrr

| SFW Headcannons:

• Frank is the type of guy to make you practice saying “no” to people, because he refuses to let anyone walk over you. Including him.

• Frank is the type of guy to make your coffee/tea exactly the way you like it every morning and set it on the bedside table before you’re even fully awake.

• Frank is the type of guy to make you practice clearing a room and basic firearm training until you can do it half-asleep, because he won’t allow himself to relax until he knows you can handle yourself if he’s not there.

• Frank is the type of guy to keep track of your cycle better than you do and starts stocking your preferred comfort snacks a day or two early.

• Frank is the type of guy to warm your cold hands between his bigger ones during a brutal winter day and mutter about how, “These little fingers are always freezing.”

• Frank is the type of guy to stand behind you while you’re brushing your teeth and rest his chin on the top of your head, shooting you a little smirk in the mirrors reflection as you brush your tongue.

• Frank is the type of guy to walk on the outside of the sidewalk without thinking, always putting himself between you and the street.

• Frank is the type of guy to leave little notes on the fridge that just say things like “Remember to eat” or “Back soon.” Always signing off with his initial and a wonky heart.

• Frank is the type of guy to love resting his head on your tummy after a long day because he knows you’ll treat him to the luxury of playing with his hair. Oftentimes he’ll give you some playful nomming against the skin as payback for making him “a softie.”

• Frank is the type of guy to randomly send you surprise selfies because he knows you love them. The angle is usually a little awkward, and he’ll send it off with a clueless “Is this good?” Yet he somehow manages to look unfairly attractive in every single one.

• Frank is the type of guy to clean up the kitchen after you cook, even if you insist you’ll do it later. Chores often get done before you even realize it was needed. Frank is a man of initiative.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.

| NSFW Headcannons:

• Frank is the type of guy to make you come first every single time. Often more than once. No discussion.

• Frank is the type of guy to hold your hair in one fist and tilt your head down so you have no choice but to watch every inch of him sliding in and out of you.

• Frank is the type of guy to pull out mid-thrust just to drop down and eat you out. We all know he’s a munch.

• Frank is the type of guy to act unbothered by overstimulation until you’re the one who keeps going after he’s already come, and he’s the one twitching and breathing like he just ran a marathon when he manages, “Alright… alright, give me a second.”

• Frank is the type of guy to land a quick but firm spank to your ass if you tried to hover while sitting on his face. He’d just shoot you a deadpan stare and say, “You’re not gonna fuckin’ suffocate me. Now sit properly before I make you.”

• Frank is the type of guy to get turned on by your attitude. If you roll your eyes or even shoot him some back-talk after he has asked you to do something, he has to take a moment to adjust himself before continuing the conversation. Angry sex is basically guaranteed.

• Frank is the type of guy to gently shush you when he first pushes inside, knowing that you still struggle with the stretch.

• Frank is the type of guy to casually faux-thrust against you at any chance given, whether your bent over or reaching for something on a shelf. He’s an ass guy. Argue with the wall.

• Frank is the type of guy to slide his foot between yours under the table during dinner with other people, and slowly push your knees apart as his hand slips under your dress.

• Frank is the type of guy to press his forehead against yours when he’s about to finish, muttering things like, “This dick is all yours… ‘n this pussy is mine, right, baby? Mhm.”

• Frank is the type of guy who isn’t afraid to let himself make noise in the bedroom. That man is all grunts and groans, especially when you’ve got your mouth on him.

───────────୨ৎ───────────

Hi! You’ve made it to the end, I hope you enjoyed! I’m starting to get back into writing again after two head injuries affected my ability to write the way I used to. I developed acquired aphantasia (loss of the ability to create mental images), and it has been difficult for me to learn how to write the way I used to.

You’re home early. It’s by the grace of all things good that you managed to miss the thick city heat and find the cool air of your apartment. It’s uncertain whether or not you would’ve survived a second longer in traffic, or at work, or anywhere that wasn’t home.

You’re home early; Frank’s home late. He sends you a quick text in the middle of your lengthy shower.

“Guy won’t show. Might be a few hours. Miss you. Don’t wait up for me, mama.”

You can’t hide the slight irritation, you’ve had a long day and need to decompress. Need Frank. You blink for a moment and practically feel the soft massage, and being in his arms dozing off to a movie, and mindless kisses from your ear to chest, fingers splaying in your hair. And you want need it bad.

But you can’t have it, and your frustration only builds and builds the longer you sit in the bathroom after your shower.

Your plans are made in less than ten minutes. Bar hopping until… well that was all that got discussed. You messaged Frank shortly after.

“Going out tn.”

It’s short, quipped, and pissing Frank all the way off.

He can’t help but get irritated. Is he valid? No, and he knows that. But he wants to see you, hear from you.

He can tell what is going on, can practically smell how the night will unfold. You’re home early, Franks home late, and last time things got this tense you graced him with a phone call to his burner. Sure, he scolded you about it, but he needed to hear your voice just as much as you needed his. Frank needs you just the same again.

So, yeah, Frank is irritated. Because now he is sat in his truck missing his girl. Wishing he could be sat on the couch with your weight on top of him. Wishing you really weren’t going out tonight. He can practically hear the frustrated gears turning in your head despite being miles from home. But he can’t afford to head home early so he stays there, thinking about you with fists so tight they ached.

“Alright, be safe baby.”

His fingers twitch to call you, almost do but he refrains at the notification that you’ve left the apartment. It’s agony.

The first bar is sticky. Truly in every aspect, tacky floors and bar countertops, and thick air that clings to your skin. The first two shots burn and not in the way you like so they’re the only ones you have.

Maybe your bra is digging into your chest too much or your skirts too tight, but even dancing with your friends at the next bar over won’t help the brooding feeling that hangs above your head.

You’re given more alcohol to your demise, it’s far too many shots that leave you tense and tossed around to blaring music. It’s not long before your friends drag you out of the bar and you finally check your phone.

“Call me.”

You do, and it’s like you can actually breathe. Your heart picks up at the sound of his voice.

“Baby? You okay?” You hear tires on asphalt. Frank is already on his way to get you.

“‘M fine. We’re done, I’m just outside now.” You try to remember the street name, but your head surges with pain.

“Uh huh. I’m on my way mama just sit tight.”

“Right.” There’s no intentional bite behind it, but you’re pissed off and drunk so it comes out a certain way.

Frank is out of the car before you realize it’s there, and he’s even quicker to get to you.

“You good?”

You look him maybe once in the eye and find something in his truck to focus on instead. Pissed and annoyed and tired are all blurred lines in your teary eyes. And it’s late enough that yeah, maybe you might just cry.

“Yeah.” Frank helps you into the passenger seat and holds you maybe a second too long because he can feel the heat of frustration. Because he knows you so well.

He’s happy to see you, but Franks never been good with tension. The feeling of your skin on his lingers on his hands as he white-knuckles the steering wheel of his truck.

He glances over at you, something in him just wanting to see you smile, but you’re facing the window.

His hand is warm when it wraps around your thigh. Frank watches you sigh, watches your shoulders drop, and nearly runs the red light because he’s lost in wanting to see you relax. He knows what you need, knows how to solve this fit, but still he’s pulled to ground himself and you until it’s steady.

“You hungry?” His eyes don’t leave you.

“Frank,” you huff. It’s enough to know you need quiet but his thick fingers are still kneading softly at the plush skin of your leg. “Alright.”

The apartment is never as quiet as it is when you get home. Everything feels worlds apart and it only makes things worse for you.

You shower, mainly to erase the past few awful hours from your mind. You find Frank cleaning his guns on the couch, something he only does when the mood is as stiff as it is. He showers shortly after you, and by the time he’s done, you’re tucked under sheets wishing you could fall asleep.

The mattress dips behind you as the weight of Frank’s arm pulls you to his chest. You shiver at the feeling of open-mouthed kisses down your neck to bare shoulder.

“C’mon mama. Talk t’me,” he says, low from his chest, and you feel the hum behind him. His hand snakes down and your stomach twitches in anticipation.

“This what you wanted?”

Silence.

Because heat is taking over your body at a pace you’ve never felt before. Frustration and tiredness and tension is manifesting into want need.

Frank mouths along your ear and eventually you face him. His hands roam and grip your body tighter. You kiss him and he’s drinking you in. He hasn’t felt you like this, hasn’t kissed you all day and he’s been burning for it all day. You have too.

You can’t bite back the whimper that slips from your lips and Frank moves you to straddle him. Your mouths clash together in a way that makes time a thing of the past. Your fingers roam and eventually find the warmth of his face.

Frank’s hands guide your hips down onto his hardening length.

“This what you wanted? All day you’ve been in a mood,” he leans in to nip and suck at the column of your neck, “Just needed me?”

You’re too desperate and overwhelmed to answer and all that escapes is a provocative whine. The fabric of your underwear catches on his clothed dick perfectly and heat coils deep inside you.

Frank lets his smug grin slip but he’s just as down bad as you are, if not worse. He rolls you over and you land on the plush pillows. You pull at his boxers before he gets the chance, ignoring the wet patch you left on them.

Frank springs free and his dick is an angry and leaking red. He twitches a few times in your grasp but it’s not long before his mouth is on yours, deeper than before. The tension unwinds off of you and melts away. It’s bliss and ecstasy and it drives you both mad.

He slides himself through the wetness between your legs with a filthy groan. “Look at you, baby. So wet f’me.” It’s not long before Frank is inching in, stretching you out in a way that steals your breath.

The look on his face when he bottoms out tells you he’s whipped. Frank’s face is flushed and he’s cursing under his breath. As much as you ache for movement, you could sit there for hours, filled to the brim and then some.

He moves slowly, and it’s agonizing. Your breath picks up at the feeling and the sounds that leave you as he picks up speed are lewd.

“So good for me baby. Takin’ me so well. Just needed me to take care of you.”

You clench around him and his hips snap. Frank drinks up the mewls that leave you as he kisses you again, pulling out before thrusting hard in a way that makes you cry out. Your nails dig into his back and he’s vocal and his breathing is rapid against your skin. He lifts your legs to rest on his shoulders and ruts into you deeper. The steady boiling heat inside of you grows and burns and aches so good you nearly cry.

“Let go mama. Give it to me.”

He sets a faster pace, chasing the clench of your sweet walls. His calloused palm finds your throat. He’s not choking but he’s there, caressing the marks he left with his thumb. Frank is wrecked above you, his head tipping back momentarily as he nests himself impossibly deeper inside you.

You fumble for the sheets as the coil of pleasure nearly bursts inside of you. His thumb finds your clit and shows no mercy. The orgasm hits hard. Vision blurs and ears ring as you squeeze and milk his cock, quickly reaching for his thick arms.

He doesn’t let up, his pace is still brutal through the sweet aftershocks of your orgasm. His thumb only speeds up on your nub at the sound of his skin slapping against yours, filling the room. It’s beyond filthy.

You’re a mess beneath him, struggling to catch your breath, begging for him to keep going, to thrust harder. He complies, pulling completely out before snapping into your wet cunt again. It’s overwhelming: the constant split of his cock inside you, the speed of his digit on your sensitive skin, the waves of your last undoing still crashing over you.

You can’t quite hear it well, as the ringing in your ears is yet to stop, but Frank is loud. The wet slap as he slides into you so easily only spurs him on. He was fast before but he’s even faster and harder in a way you can’t comprehend. Your brain’s gone fuzzy and all you can compute is the constant stuff stuff stuff of your boyfriend’s dick kissing your cervix.

“You’re perfect, you know that? Squeezin’ me so good baby. Knew this is what you wanted. ‘M so close sweetheart,” he babbles. You’re both wrapped up in the feeling and never coming down. Frank is fixed on the bulge deep inside you as he snaps in and out of you. You’re lost in the sight of his length moving in and out, glistening with a mix of you both.

He pushes you to your second climax. It’s enough to make everything go numb. Your limbs go limp in his grasp and your eyes squeeze shut as you cry out. Your body is on fire as you gush and gush around him and it’s not long before Frank is too. His hips begin to stutter and his head falls back once more when he finally spills inside you.

His mouth is all over you again, whispering praises and adoration in your ear. He pulls out painfully slow and you squirm. “I know. You did so good. My pretty girl… I love you so much.”

Frank takes his time cleaning you up. He brings snacks and water shortly after and he tucks you into his side. The two of you finally get to talk about the events of your day an his hands lazily run through your hair until you’re close to dozing off.

his weight is alleviated by a forearms supporting where he holds of you, and knees either side of your thighs where he controls what his hips give you. while he supports some of his hefty weight, it's not much all things considered. it keeps you caged, locked in place as he pumps into you over and over from behind.

frank lowers, reaching for the side of your face that it's smushed into the sheets. he gets close, breath hot and ragged as he pants against your ear, gruffs growing lewd the more he loses himself within your cunt.

his thrusts become repetitive, though it's the furthest thing from boredom. they're sort of incessant, the pumping of his hips into the back of you. each one knocking out strained, choked out gasps in a way that makes his dick throb between your pussy's walls.

"steady, my girl," he utters into the shell of your ear, words low and gruff as he mutters them, "easy, that's it."

you slip an arm between yourself and the mattress, reaching for your cunt that's in need of something that much more. without so much as warming up your clit, you begin circling at it, rubbing most urgently with each of your two middle fingers — working over it like you're eager to chase another high. 

it's unsystematic, your rubs. they follow no such pattern or routine, just mindless friction alongside the strokes of his cock. 

"right there, right there, right there, right there— god, right fucking there," you repeat over and over, voice devolving into breathless, sharp whispers as you squeeze your eyes closed. "my god— fuck"

"yeah, I know, baby. I know," he coos, words warm at the spot where your jaw and ear connect. 

frank doesn't change a thing, not when you ask so pathetically, not when he has you dangling over the edge like he does. he continues as he has done, cock reaching deep within you and filling you with nothing but pure, unwavering bliss in return. 

he'll fuck you through it, pumping into you from behind until you eventually and inevitably slap at his arm, calling it quits in a way you fail to do with words. and when he finally pulls out, he will lap up the mess your cunt has made until you've calmed down enough for another round.

simon shoulders through the front door, drops his boots onto the mat, and shrugs off his jacket. 

"...love?" he calls out, getting no immediate response.

he finds you eventually in the living room. the television's on, volume low enough to barely hear. your eyes are on the screen, but you don't seem to be watching it.

he leans down behind the sofa just enough to brush a kiss against the top of your head.

"'hey, sweetheart."

you look up at him, the corners of your mouth tugging up. “hi, si.”

his hand rests on the back of the couch for a second before he heads into the kitchen.

"you eaten?"

he doesn’t think anything of it, being that he’s asked you the same question hundreds of times since you’d gotten together.

you shake your head. “haven’t been too hungry today. go on without me.” you nod in the direction of the kitchen.

he doesn’t comment on it, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t make a mental note of your answer.

he puts the kettle on the stove, turning to the fridge to heat up some of yesterday’s leftovers. 

a few minutes later, he returns with a warm plate and two steaming mugs of tea, making sure to set one of them on the coffee table right in front of you before settling down beside you, balancing the plate on his knee.

you two fall into a comfortable silence, the only noise in the room the soft droning of the television in front of you. 

“you can take from my plate if you change your mind,” he says, noticing the way you had yet to even acknowledge your tea.

you nod slowly. “...thanks.”

your brain buzzes as you stare at the screen, likely from the dehydration, hunger, and exhausting repetition of your last few weeks, but you know you have to keep talking so he won't worry about you.

“how was your day?” you ask him, eager to deflect any attention from you.

“same old,” he says with a shrug. “meetings. paperwork. debated leaving early just to come home and see you.”

he doesn’t have the heart to say the rest.

because you’ve been worrying me sick.

“but price must’ve been able to tell. dragged me to another afternoon briefing before i could get away.”

the corner of his mouth twitches slightly, and he glances over at you, less interested in the story itself and more interested in whatever reaction he could provoke out of you. he catches the way your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes, not quite creasing the skin around them the way it usually did when you were laughing at something he said.

his expression softens, lifting another spoonful to his mouth.

“what about you? been up to much?”

you shake your head.

“no, not really,” you laugh dryly, finally realizing that you’ve been in that exact spot since he left for work that morning. “but i guess sometimes you just need a day or two like that.”

the steam from the mug he set out for you earlier curled through your peripheral vision.

“i get it,” he replies gently, setting his empty plate on the table in front of him. “as long as you don't make it a habit.”

you hum in reply, blinking slowly at the screen.

he reaches out for his mug, and grabs yours too, handing it directly into your hands this time, before settling back on the couch with his own. he takes a long sip from it and sighs.

the warmth soothes the coolness of your fingers and the aroma fills your nose, though you still can’t find it in you to bring the mug to your lips.

he recognizes your restraint immediately.

“you’re allowed to rest,” simon starts again, leaning forward to set his mug down on the table. “...but you’ve got that look.”

your brows crease as his eyes settle on you again. “what look?”

you feel ridiculous saying it, acting like he couldn’t see through your facade like it was a pane of glass.

“that one. the one where you can’t look me in the eyes.”

you blink at the tea in your mug. 

“i’m just tired. didn’t get good sleep last night.”

he says nothing, just watches you from the other side of the couch. 

“you’ve been saying that for weeks, love,” he gently reminds you. “you don’t have to pretend with me.”

your throat tightens and he shifts beside you, folding an arm over the back of the couch.

“c’mere.”

you slide over easily, curling into his side. you’re grateful for the excuse to hide your face from him, too aware of the way your eyes begin to sting. he pulls you closer, arms wrapping firmly around your waist.

“i’m okay,” you mutter against his chest, denying what you both know is painfully obvious. you hate the thought of him worrying about you.

he rests his chin on the top of your head, thumb working slow circles across your back.

“i know you are.”

i know you want me to think you are.

for a minute, he just holds you there, strong arms warming your skin through the fabric of your shirt.

“humor me, though,” he eventually says.

“need to head into town tomorrow.” he pauses for a moment, holding you steady. “come with me.”

he glances down at you, looking for any sign of protest before continuing on.

“i need someone to tell me which tea we’re buying, ‘cause,” he eyes your lukewarm mug on the table, “apparently i’ve been getting the wrong one.”

it’s a lame excuse and he knows it. he refuses to tell you it was because he hadn’t seen you leave the house in weeks and he needed a simple enough reason to get you out.

“just a quick trip. pick up a few things. then we come home right after.”

you turn the idea over in your head, already searching your mind for any excuse to get out of it, but it’s the way he asks you, so gently, so patiently, that makes you inclined to accept.

“deal?” he asks, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before you can even answer, a silent assurance that he’ll be there no matter what you say. 

eventually, you find it within yourself to nod against his chest.

“deal.” 

the corners of his lips twitch, shoulders loosening just a little.

“good,” he murmurs, kissing you again, slower this time. “tomorrow, then.”

────────────

You might as well be braindead, aching for the relief that's been so close to the tip of your fingers and yet so far. You know he's aware of how much you're trembling around him, how your slick is pooling in the sheets, making a mess of them. You've lost count of how many times he's brought you to the edge already, made you feel so good that you could barely keep your eyes open, could barely catch your breath.

"Please, please I need it."

You don't know if he's been edging himself as much as he's edged you, but you can feel him twitch inside of you when you beg. Your thighs are trembling, hips jerking every few seconds to chase the stimulation he's been so cruel to deny you.

He kisses the tip of your nose. "Look at me when you cum, okay? Daddy wants to see those pretty eyes."

Before you can even register what he's asking of you, he shifts, his cock pressing against that sweet spot inside of you. Your jaw drops, and the moan that rips from your throat sounds like you're dying—and maybe you are, because this is the best feeling on fucking earth.

"Good girl, that's it," he growls into your ear, hips pistoning in and out of you.

The room is filled with your sounds, the slap of skin, and Simon's murmurs of praise. He's got you barreling toward that bliss—the one he keeps dangling in front of you only to rip away. He's not going to this time; you can tell by the way his breath turns sharp, his pants falling into your hair, and his cock swelling inside of you.

When it finally crashes into you, you're sent into a dark abyss. Your vision blurs, and your entire body tenses. Every muscle clenches, from your calves to your neck, and the only thing you know for certain is that you're falling, falling, falling. Simon is the only thing you can feel—his hands on your hips, his lips on your shoulder, and his cock so deep inside of you that you swear you can feel it in your belly.

The tremors are hard to come down from, but Simon doesn't stop. He continues to fuck you through the aftershocks until you're a sobbing mess beneath him.

"Fuck, bird. You feel so good."

His pace is punishing, each thrust making your body jerk with the intensity. It's too much, and you're about to protest, but then he's pulling out, the sudden empty feeling leaving you gasping.

It's only when the cool air of the room hits your swollen, sensitive skin that you realize he's flipping you onto your stomach. You're too tired to fight him, too fucked out to do anything but let him position you how he wants. He lifts your hips off the bed, getting a firm grip on your ass, the flesh squeezing between his fingers as he spreads your cheeks.

Simon's not a cruel man, not really. But when he lowers his head, his tongue laving over the flesh of your ass, you can't help but think he's out to ruin you. His lips are on your cheeks, sucking marks into the skin that will probably be there for days. It tickles, the sensation making you squirm, and the whimper you let out is pathetic even to your own ears.

"Simon," you warn, but it's weak, and he knows it.

"Shh, bird. Just let Daddy take care of you."

You're not sure how much more you can take, but then he's rolling you back over, pinning you flat to the mattress as his tongue laps at the slick coated over your thighs. It's so filthy—the sounds of his mouth on you, the feel of his tongue so close to where you're throbbing. You can't help but arch your back, pushing yourself closer to his mouth, but he just laughs against you.

He's going to kill you. You're sure of it. Because when his tongue finally finds your clit, you nearly come again, the sensation far too much after all the orgasms he's already pulled from you.

You're convulsing, your entire body shaking as you try to escape the pleasure that's quickly turning into pain. He doesn't let you, his fingers digging into your hips, holding you in place as he devours you. The sounds are obscene: the wetness of his tongue against you, the violent way your body reacts to him.

It's too much, and you're sobbing, tears streaming down your face as you beg him to stop, to let you breathe. You're not even sure what you're saying anymore, the words tumbling out in a rush.

"Please, Daddy. I can't, I can't cum anymore. Please, just use something else. My ass, my tits. Anything else. Please."

You're not above begging, not when you're this far gone. Simon pulls away, his lips swollen, his chin covered in your slick. He looks at you, his eyes dark with lust, and you know he's considering it. He could make you cum again—could probably make you pass out from the pleasure—but he's not going to.

"But I need a little more. Can you give Daddy a little more?"

You're nodding before he even finishes speaking, willing to agree to anything if it means he'll stop torturing your clit. He grins, and then he's sliding into you again, his cock stretching you in the best way. The hand that's not holding your hip comes up to cover your mouth, his fingers pressing against your lips.

"You're such a good girl for me. I'm gonna give you more, okay? Just a little more."

You're not sure what he means by that, but then he's moving, his hips snapping against yours. The angle is different now—deeper. It's overwhelming, the way he's filling you, the way his heavy body is pressed against yours. You're trapped under him, your legs wrapped around his waist, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

"More, fuck yes." The words are muffled by his hand, but he hears them, and his pace quickens.

You're not sure how much time passes, but you're lost in the feeling of him, of the way he's fucking you like he owns you. Maybe he does, because you're his in every way that matters.

When he finally cums, it's with a guttural groan, his body tensing above you. You can feel the heat of him inside of you, the way his cock pulses as he fills you. It's enough to push you over the edge one last time, your body trembling as you fall apart for him.

"Open your mouth, bird. Daddy wants to see."

You do as he says, your mouth falling open, your tongue out. He spits into it, the act so filthy that it makes your head spin. You swallow it, your eyes never leaving his, and he groans, his hips jerking as he rides out the last of his orgasm.

When it's over, he collapses on top of you, his body covering yours like a blanket. You're both sweaty, sticky, and thoroughly fucked out. His hands are gentle as he strokes your hair, his lips pressing soft kisses to your temple.

"You did so good for me, love. So good."

You hum in response, your eyes already closing as exhaustion takes over. Simon shifts, his arms wrapping around you as he pulls you closer. You're safe here, in his arms, and you know that no matter what happens, you'll always have this.

He took over the rhythm, forcing a slow, punishingly deep circle that drew a long, ragged hiss from between his teeth. "Fuckin' hell," he groaned, the vibration rattling against your chest where your bodies pressed together. His gaze dipped, watching where he was buried deep inside you, taking in every inch as he dragged himself back out only to sink back in. "You look so fuckin' good like this. Ridin' me."

His praise went straight to your head, making your breath hitch. You planted your palms against his sternum, feeling the hard, frantic thud of his heart hammering against his ribs, a sharp contrast to his deliberate movements. "You feel so good, Si," you murmured, your throat dry. "So deep. You're gonna fuckin' ruin me."

His grip tightened on your hips, the tips of his blunt fingers leaving hot, dull aches in your flesh.

He was stretched thick inside you, the heavy pressure hovering right on the edge of pain before settling into a deep, dizzying ache. You could hear how slick you were — the wet, heavy friction of your movement filling the quiet room, layered over the steady drumming of the rain.

You started to lift yourself, rising until barely the tip remained inside, before sinking all the way back down, taking every bit of him. The sudden, hard depth made you both swear out loud.

"Oh, fuck, fuck, Simon!" you choked out, your chin tilting up as your hair fell over your shoulders.

"Look at me," he ordered, his voice low and dense as velvet. "Eyes on me, Sergeant."

You forced your head up, your gaze locked onto his. Without the mask fully covering him, without the distance he kept on duty, he just looked wrecked by the feel of you. You reached out, and he caught your hand halfway, his wide, rough palm slotting against yours, scarred fingers lacing through yours. The contrast of his cold, calloused hand gripping yours while you rode him so relentlessly made your chest tighten with a sudden, sharp ache of intimacy.

You leveraged your joined hands to tilt your pelvis, grinding directly against the coarse hair at his base with every downstroke. "Jesus, right there," you gasped, your rhythm turning erratic, frantic. "Don't stop, don't fuckin' stop."

"Never," he gritted out, his hips snapping up to meet you with a heavy, blunt force that knocked the air from your lungs.

He let go of your hand only to pull the black fabric of his mask up past his nose. His lips were parted, wet and flushed, and the sight was almost too much to take. You leaned down, slotting your mouth over his in a messy, heavy kiss. It was all friction, heat, and needy noise; saliva mixing with the taste of his skin as you moaned right into his mouth.

He pulled back, breathing heavily, his chest heaving under your hands. He spat; a deliberate, hot drop of saliva that landed between your breasts. The raw, filthy unexpectedness of it made your heart leap into your throat. "Fuck, you're a dirty bastard," you whispered, a breathless laugh escaping you as you used your thumb to smear the wetness across your skin, keeping your eyes dead locked on his.

"Only for you, doll," he rasped, the word buzzing against your senses.

The pressure low in your belly turned into an unbearable, tight knot. You sat straight up, taking control again, riding him with everything you had left. "Simon, I'm gonna... I'm gonna cum," you warned, your voice cracking.

"Cum for me," he demanded, his own voice strained to its limit. "Fucking soak me. Let me feel it."

His order broke whatever restraint you had left. Your thighs clamped tight, your entire body going rigid as a wave of heat surged out of you, drenching his groin, his heavy trousers, and the leather couch beneath you. You shook violently, crying out as the release wracked through you, turning your limbs to lead.

"Holy fuck," Simon growled, the breath knocked out of him as he felt you drench him. His hand shot up, wrapping around the front of your throat, just applying enough steady pressure to hold you still, anchoring you while your body shuddered out the last of it. "That's it, my good girl. Look at you. So fuckin' beautiful when you squirt for me."

Before the tremors even settled, he moved. In one swift, heavy motion, he lifted you off his lap and laid you flat on your back against the leather. He loomed over you, his cock still fully hard and dripping with your slick, jutting from his unzipped fly.

"Need your mouth," he growled, his voice thick and rough. "Open up for me, doll."

You parted your lips without hesitation. He guided the wet, thick head of his cock past your teeth, sinking into your throat with a steady, unyielding rhythm that left you gasping around him.

"You feel so good," he hissed, his chin lifting toward the ceiling, the thick cords in his neck straining. "So fuckin' perfect. My girl. My dirty girl."

You looked up at him through watering eyes, your hands resting on the hard muscle of his thighs, anchoring yourself to him.

After a few heavy thrusts, his hand slid down between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit hyper-sensitive and swollen and beginning a small, relentless circle.

Your back arched off the couch. "Simon, I—"

"I know," he murmured, his tone softening just a fraction. "Just one more. Give me one more, and I'll fill this pretty mouth up. Can you do that for me?"

You could only nod, the tight sensation already coiling back up in your gut. He shifted, maneuvering his heavy frame into a tight inverted 69, the weight of his hips framing your head as he buried his face between your thighs. You felt the warm shock of his breath against your wet skin a second before his tongue dragged up from your entrance to your clit in one long, broad stroke.

You gasped at the contact. Reaching up, you took his cock into your hands, pulling him back down to your mouth. You didn't just take him; you took your time, lapping at the vein running down the underside, swirling your tongue over the head before swallowing him down again. You let your saliva pool, coat his shaft, making every slide as wet and friction-free as possible.

He let out a heavy groan right against your skin, the vibration sending a sharp ripple straight through you. His mouth was relentless—his tongue pushing inside you while his lips pulled at your clit. The dual sensation was overwhelming, pushing you over the edge faster than before.

He felt your muscles tense around him, and he pushed two fingers deep inside you, hooking them upward with a sharp pressure. "Cum on my face, Sergeant," he growled into your skin, his voice thick and muffled. "I want to fucking drown in you."

You broke completely. A silent scream tore from your throat as your legs locked around his head, your body spasming as another wave tore through you, drenching his jaw and lips. He growled in deep, primal satisfaction, lapping up the mess without missing a beat.

As the crest passed, he pushed himself up, straddling your chest. His hand was a blur around his shaft, pumping himself furiously, his knuckles white, the head of his cock flushed a deep, angry red. "Open wide," he panted, his voice completely wrecked.

You opened your mouth, resting your tongue against your bottom lip. With a low, rough shout, he came. The first heavy splash hit your tongue, the next painted your cheek, the next caught your lips. He marked you completely, and you stayed still, taking every drop. When he finally stilled, he pressed the tip of his cock against your cheek, dragging the excess cum down toward your lips, a final, possessive touch that made you swallow around him.

He collapsed onto the narrow space beside you, pulling your limp, warm body flush against his chest. His black t-shirt was thoroughly ruined, clinging to damp skin. You were both stuck together, a mess of sweat, rain, and each other. Outside, the storm had quieted to a soft, rhythmic patter against the glass.

You buried your face into the curve of his neck, completely sated. "Si... I think we broke the couch," you mumbled against his skin.

Simon knows you're strong, he understands and knows you can do what he does whilst simultaneously in heels and on your period. He never makes you feel less than him, always bragging about the things you do on missions.

There's been too many times where he's scolded you for close calls, like that time you accidentally left the safety on your pistol and tried to shoot someone, allowing them the time and space to get a harsh kick to your stomach and knee. He watched you beat the man to death with your fists for winding you, but it should've never happened in the first place. There was another time where the communications got jammed between you and base and leavingyou stranded, badly out of position, coming under fire for a full 20 minutes, you were incredibly lucky that the three bullets that hit you only scraped your thigh. He delicstrly traces the scars left there as a reminder that you're capable enough to deal with these things, that your training and sheer determination to live pulls you through, but also to remind himself that you're only human. You live and breathe the same oxygen as him and if he wants you to be his 'blushing bride' he'd need to be ready to catch you if you fell.

So when a mission goes sideways and he's left exhausted carrying your seemingly lifeless body aside from your breathing and your pulse into one of the extraction helicopters himself, hands gripping your skin uncharacteristically in a harsher way as if to beg you to stay here on the mortal plane with him. He's angry, fuming even, that you would push yourself past the breaking point on a mission. He knows their target would've escaped if you hadn't done what you did, but you were told to fall back, told to leave it and months of work from multiple teams spent tracing this man's loaction only for the mission to be a bust. If he knew what you were going to do he'd have pulled you away himself.

He thinks you're reckless and stupid. You took an amazing shot, he'll commend you for that, 100 metres down range and you got enough of a shot to render the target still valuable, currently being questioned in an undisclosed location. Yet, that shot cost him you, when the shot was fired your location unknowingly got revealed. When you hit the shot you turned to him with a smile, only for a bomb to drop and your body to end up mangled and crushed beneath the weight of rubble. The scream that leaves his body being the last thing you hear as the rubble covers you. He desperately clawed at the bricks and dirt, his attempt at dragging you out of the mess he let you create, covering him in the settling dust from the concrete.

When Simon is finally able to rip your body out from underneath it, he feels the whole weight of the situation finally on his shoulders. You're not conscious, which he supposes is a lot better than if he pulled you out and you were dead. He instantly your pulse, two fingers checking your neck and wrist to be sure. he's relieved when he finds that you're still alive and breathing, for now. He grios you tighter to himself, knwoing full well when you wake up you're going to have a nasty concussion, steels himself for the journey back to base. He has to move, now. He's carried you for long distances before, just to prove he can do it, but your life is in his hands this time.

"Yer not dyin' 'ere." He carries you in a crude variation of bridal style all the way to the helicopter, he doesn't dare let go. When he gets there he gently loads you onto one of those shitty stretchers, fastening you to the ground so you can't get hurt badly during the travel. He has an oxygen mask covering your fsce, happy that you're still breathing. He finally tries to asses the damage, you're bleeding slightly from gashes all over your arms. At least two of your ribs look fractured, and your left leg is completely crushed. He swallows thickly as Price is frantically arranging a specialist medical tesm for when they land. He sits directly next to you, Soap and Gsz talking his ear off about something he doesn't give a shit about.

The hours go by in a blur, all he can think of is you smiling back at him as he screams for you to get down or to cover your head. It plays over and over in his head whildt the doctors tend to you. He can barely even think about leaving the ward, running on empty until he gets the news you're ok. He can't bear leave you alone, not when he allowed this to happen. When he's alloeed into the room he looks at the amount of bandages plastered on your skin, the shitty cadt encased around you leg that you're definitely going to beg the doctors to allow you to take off early because it itches, then frown when they don't let you.

He takes your hand gently, rubbing his fingers across the soft skin, he's always loved that your hands which do the same work as him always managed to stay softer than his, probably those expensive creams you use on an evening. He's just glad he can feel the warmth of it. He looks at you, in the white hospital gown, not at all the white dress he's imagined seeing you in so many times.

It takes three agonising and sleepless days for you to wake up. Body finally feeling rested enough to even dare open your eyes. The bright white lights of the sterile room blinding you, you can't have died you think, and you're pulled back to reality when you notice a weight on your left side. A man with a scarred face, sleeping upright in a chair whilst holding your hand. He senses you stir and is awake in seconds. A light in his eyes that he hasn't had for days returning.

"Do i know you?" You ask quietly. You don't recognise this man at all, so youre confused as to why you're in his company.

"Don't mess aroun' with me Darlin' please." His voice is quiet, and youre just even more confused. You notice how he scans your face in utter disbelief and you stare at him