Fidelis in Mortem

“no!” you whine, ass clapping down onto his hairy thighs. the slick sound fills the otherwise quiet room.

sweat drips from the nape of your neck, you can feel it rolling hot down your spine. each drop onto his cock bullies your cervix and punches strangled puffs of air from your lungs. you dare to reach forward again to brace yourself on his tee shirt clad chest, but, like each time before, he bats your hands away.

“at least i know y’haven’t been off practicin’ while i was away, yeah?”

you roll your eyes at that and he smirks to himself behind his mask. he loves you like this — all flustered. hot flesh and flushed skin, sticky and wet, hair damp and clinging to your cheeks. it’s his favorite fucking sight, one of them anyway.

of course what you’re doing to him is driving him fuckin mad, his hands are only at his sides because he needs to bury and crank them into the fabric of the sofa just keep up the unamused charade.

his cell pings twice in his pocket. “should i get that, y’think?” he grunts out, voice rougher as he starts to lose the control he’s had until now. “could be more thrilling than this.”

“si—!” you whine again, lips puckering in a pout as your rhythm stutters. your legs are like static, falling numb and vibrating with exertion. your own weight begins to fold in on itself, hands once again reaching out for purchase.

your palms press to his chest and in one startlingly quick motion, simon sits up straight, scooping both wrists into one of his tremendous and calloused hands. he holds them between your bodies tight enough to bruise, yanking you down until your forehead cracks against his. only then does he start moving his own hips, driving his cock up into you with a fervor that has your face pinched and mouth agape, drool pooling under your tongue like a dog in heat.

“fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck—!”

the energy shifts gradually. his hand releases your wrists and they smooth over your damp thighs, grabbing on to your hips. he growls into your neck when you push down to meet his thrusts. his bottom lip dragging a wet line up the side of your throat until he’s breathing hot against your ear.

“guess i gotta do all the work, huh?”

your own arms crawl around his neck, both of you pulling the other closer and closer until your chests are pressed together.

you twist your fingers into the back of his balaclava, yanking it off and tossing it like it’s offended you. his sandy brown hair sticks up and out every which way.

“fuck you,” you breathe, grinning lazily against the corner of his mouth.

“Would love t’have dinner with yer folks, birdie. You know tha’.”

You string your lower lip between your teeth, dull ivory piercing through sensitive skin. Sucking and pulling on the inside of your lip now gives way for a raised, itchy ulcer-like bump. “Yeah,” you mutter, perfunctorily. You keep your gaze intentionally off his own keen one, instead pretending to be riveted by the brutalist specimen his stacked red brick ‘night table’ is.

He sighs, the bed dipping under his weight as he shifts closer to you. “Gonna ask you one more time.” His fingers reach up to your skin, and you feel the projection of calluses on his thumb. He tilts your chin so your gaze has escape no longer. “An’ I wan’ it straight, got tha’?”

The slightest furrow creases the middle of your brows, the bone of your jaw setting in a tense clench. Your molars grind and grate against each other. All you can manage is a feeble nod.

“Wha’s wrong?”

The box in your throat bobs with your gulp, and for a moment it feels as though you’re swallowing your worries. Your stresses.

It’s not gonna be like that anymore, you remind yourself. Baselessly, but you don't need a base. They’re your parents. You don’t clock the voice in your head as your own. It’s older. Brittle. Weathered like old rope left out in the rain—the voice you hear when you come home soaked through, hair dripping, and shame curling behind your ears. Mud splattered across your new yellow raincoat and cheeks. Fetid moppet.

You’re grown. You’re too grown to feel like that.

“Nothing.” A perfect smile graces your features. One you flash when there’s relatives coming over. One you muster when you’re promised a bar of chocolate for after, because no matter how much they yell at you—Mummy and Daddy will always love you. One you keep even though your cheeks start to ache within mere minutes, because you’ll be told about it after if it drops.

Something flashes in his eyes. A tempest of respect and care. He wants to keep you safe. He wants to make sure you’re okay. But why can’t he do it?

“Okay.” His voice is quieter. It lacks the edge it usually does when he’s dealing with a difficult interrogation subject. The unsaid hangs heavy and thick between the two of you, and the fog separates him from the core of it.

//

The bump has grown on your lips. When you close your mouth, your smile is a little tilted. You continue biting it regardless.

“Parked it,” he says, coming up behind you. He climbs the stairs to your parents’ front porch, hands now resting on the sides of your arms. “You didn’t ring?”

You blink away emotion, your vision now infinitely blurrier. “I was waiting for you,” you squeak, a response riddled with cracks. Uneven.

“Alrigh’,” he nods slowly, but his eyes tell a different story. Deep brown urging you, coaxing you, lulling you. Tell me what’s wrong. I’ll fix it.

I’ll fix anything for you.

Not this.

The ring of the bell is jarring, loud enough that it gives you an infinitesimal moment of silence in your head. A hard wired reset.

“Simon!” Her voice is like lambskin over a hollow drum. It doesn’t belong. It’s not real. She stretches out the middle of his name in her greeting, and her smile doesn’t reach her eyes.

They talk the same shite they always do. We’ve heard so much about you (they really haven’t), we love to see her happy (they don’t see you), we just want what’s best for her (you’ve been hearing that one for ages now).

You get the sense he feels a disconnect. Something off. Something that churns in your guts like milk gone bad, rising acrid like the surface of bread. Boiling and steaming until it’s all you can feel and all you can hear and all you can see.

But he holds off on saying anything.

“So, how’s the job going?” starts your father, and you know he’s really only trying to fill the gaps between food.

The prongs of your fork trace the ridges of the bread on your plate. “Not a good fit for me.”

Your mother releases a chuckle, and the cruelty of it really shouldn't serve to phase you as much as it does. “What is?”

You bite the inside of your cheek hard. The corner of your mouth quirks up in what’s more a grimace than a smile. Your father adds to her cursory laughter, but the man sitting beside you has an indiscernible expression.

“A bit finicky, this one,” your mother continues, shaking her head as though discussing weeds in a garden, “very unstable.”

Simon clears his throat, and you feel a sudden warmth land over your thigh. “She was at tha’ place for a year an’ a half, so,” he thumbs the flat part of his fork, “... she stuck it out longer than she should’ve.”

Your father looks up from his roasted potatoes, a glint of something challenging playing in his glare. “That so? You think it’s good to leave the moment something gets difficult?”

Inadvertently, you flinch. It’s brief, almost imperceptible. A short-lived jerk of your body, tilted reflexively away from the general direction from which your father’s voice booms. You wish you didn’t, if only because you know Simon’s caught it. In the corner of his eye. Nothing goes amiss.

It’s near poetic the way the realisation now settles on him. Like nimbostratus over a beautiful July sky. Dark and heavy and soggy. 

It hasn’t just been him. 

Simon wipes his mouth with his napkin, slow and deliberate. "Don’ reckon it’s abou’ things gettin’ difficult. Sometimes it’s abou’ knowin’ when a place don’ deserve ‘er."

He glances at your plate, then back at your father.

"Takes guts t’leave when you ain’t treated right. Most folks jus’ stay and rot."

A white hot burning prickles over your skin, a small tremor overcoming your hands. Your cutlery hits the plate with a sharp clang, but none of it cuts through you quite as much as Simon's words do.

“Matter o’fact,” he continues, and you near wince at what you can imagine is a scowl etched in stone on your parents’ faces, “she’s got more backbone than most folk I’ve met in the field. And I’ve met lads who’ve stared down RPGs.”

A beat. Then another.

Your mother’s fork clinks softly against her china. Your father’s jaw ticks with an audible grind, like flint to steel.

Simon doesn’t care. He leans back just slightly, one arm thrown over the back of your chair in a gesture so territorial it might as well be a declaration.

“You’ve got a good one,” he adds, quieter. “Don’ mean ya get t’treat ‘er like a faulty appliance.”

You don’t look at them. You can’t. You just stare at your plate, eyes stinging, throat hot. There's a split-second where the air feels too thin, too thick, too much.

And then—

Your father scoffs. “This is our house.”

Simon looks up slowly, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. It’s sharp. Vicious in the way only someone with righteous fury can be. “Then maybe you should’ve made it feel like a home.”

The silence that follows is so absolute, you think you can hear your heartbeat pounding behind your ears. And it’s in that stretch of nothingness, in the stunned, gaping void of their stunned silence, that something inside you breathes. Just a little. Just enough.

You reach under the table and find his hand. It's already open, waiting.

//

Your teeth sink into the bread, and molten cheese runs down the corner of your lips. The patty is cooked well, and you can feel the seasoned juices running into your mouth. It tastes like something you’ve never had before.

A key to a cage.

The soft, light sounds of his chewing pause. “Wanna talk abou’ it?” He tears open a sachet of ketchup that looks comically small in his hands, keeping his gaze on you. You can tell he’s trying to stay calm, keep this nonchalant. But beneath that exterior, something quivers. Something shakes—a young boy with hair blonde like bleach and cheeks sunken like trenches.

Not pity. Never that.

The memory of the night stings, like cold water splashing unwelcome onto your face. “No.”

There’s a faint rustle as he reaches behind, pawing around at the brown paper bag. He brings a napkin to your mouth, carefully wiping away the cheese.

“Fine by me,” and you can almost hear the way his jaw unclenches. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t pry. He just leans back slightly, like he’s making space for the weight to sit beside you instead of on your chest. There’s something in that silence—a quiet offering. Not a demand, not even a question. Just presence.

Simon’s pulse flutters like you’ve just given him the most heartfelt compliment. Truth is that you’re looking damn lovely like this, with half-lidded eyes and a wonky smile dimpling your cheeks, and that is enough for his heart to stutter just fine.

His lips twitch in a corner, softening his eyes. “Yer proper charming, aren’t ya?”

Your smile blooms, albeit a little crooked. “S’how I got ya.”

Simon scoffs, subtly shaking his head in case you take that action as an affront. Then, he bends down so his forearm bumps the back of your knees. “Jump up, c’mon.”

“Nuh uh!” You wiggle a finger in front of his face. “I can walk, thank you very much.”

But you can’t, not in those heels, and not with that amount of alcohol sloshing in your stomach. Simon can smell it wafting from your mouth, a mix of cherry sugar and pungent gin. Whatever it is, it has you absolutely pissed and frankly impossible to deal with.

Cute, amongst other things.

“Nah, you can’t.”

Just like that, you’re airborne. Giggles spill out of your lips, perhaps liking this much more than what you let on initially. Simon loves to hear it—fills the house with his favourite song. Plus, he’d much rather have you giggly-drunk than fussy-drunk. Fussy-drunk is cute, but she’s got quite a kick to her, especially when her hands start flying around.

“Why don’t you be—” Hic “—lieve in my walking skills.”

He takes the stairs one by one instead of two at a time. For caution purposes, obviously. Definitely not because you’re nuzzling the spot behind his ear with the cold tip of your nose and it’s sending shivers down his spine.

“’Cause I ain’t seen ‘em.”

A warm chuckle brushes his neck. “That’s ‘cause you aren’t looking carefully.”

As he walks upstairs with the goal of tucking you under the covers, a glass of water on the nightstand and a kiss to your cheek, your tongue forces his feet to fall to a standstill once he reaches the second floor of your flat. Just a lick at first, one he almost mistakes for his mind playing tricks. But then, your mouth opens and lands a wet kiss on the side of his throat.

“What—” He takes in a steadying breath. “—are you doing.”

“You smell so nice,” you say, breathy voice followed by a hot sigh.

“Not now, love—”

“I don’t tell you enough,” you interject, landing another slow, languid kiss just a little upwards, right below his lobe. “I should. You smell really nice.”

Simon huffs. Closes his eyes. Bad move, because now all he can feel is your tongue drawing the outline of his ear. It doesn’t help that your breath has that cloying scent of fruity cocktails. Doesn’t help that you smell of a night-out with friends: of cigarettes and strangers, sweat from the club and the petals of your perfume.

Doesn’t help that when his eyes open, he sees the strap of your dress giving in to gravity, caressing your bicep instead of your shoulder. He burns holes into it—fabric so thin he could rip it with a snap of his fingers.

He grits his teeth. “Yer drunk.”

“You’re hot,” you mouth to his skin.

“Jesus Christ,” he sighs, and resumes walking. But you make it hard, because you see right through his reluctance and twine your fingers at the nape of his neck.

“Why d’you have to play hard to get, Si?” You say, voice sultry and low. Soft teeth nibble his lobe. “I’m your girlfriend, I shouldn’t have to fight for it.”

“Cut it out, love,” he rumbles, frustrated and now obviously hard. He crosses the threshold of your bedroom, walks with purpose to the bed, and gentlylays you down on the covers.

“You’re such a killjoy, Simon Riley,” you pout.

“Yeah, yeah—m’a wet blanket, an’ yer pissed. Reckon we’re even.”

He kneels at your feet. Long fingers unclasp your heels and slide them off, only leaving your legs clad in sheer black tights. Lord help him, he fucking loves how you look in tights—his cock does too, suddenly awakened and throbbing in his briefs.

He hopes—begs some God who might listen—that the softness of the mattress and the warmth of the blankets will be comfortable enough to lull you into a deep, alcohol-induced slumber.

But you’re a menace, and he should know that by now.

You lift your foot, trace the line of his jaw with your toes. Your leg trembles in the effort, but you seem intent on pushing through, driving down the bump of his throat, the middle of his chest. And Simon, to your defence, is doing nothing to stop you, enamoured by the picture you paint right now.

Legs spread wide, little black dress riding up your hips. He can see the shimmer of the lace you’re wearing under those tights—hues of red and pink peeking through the cheap nylon.

God, you’re a vision.

“You look so good on your knees, baby,” you say, voice dripping like honey. “And I’m so wet.”

Simon gulps. No.

“Dry yerself,” he mutters, pushing your foot away.

You’re proper sloshed, have been babbling nonsense ever since he came to pick you up and bring the other girls home. Not a single person in that car, him excluded, had the faculties to entertain a conversation—especially Ellie, who was bawling her eyes out in the backseat.

He’s a gentleman. He likes to think he is, at least around you. When you’re klicks away, and he’s padded in Kevlar and neoprene, he can be the beast he was born to be. But here, when you’re within reach, he promises to shed the pelt his family has sewn on his skin.

He stands up, knees clicking. His eyes try their damned hardest to avoid the pouty look you’re giving him as he walks around the bed.

“Come on, Simon!” You whine, turning around to get on your fours on the bed.

Instead, Simon sits at the opposite side, giving you his back. Bends to unlace his trainers, kicks them off his feet. All he can think about is that glimpse of a cherry hue mocking him from between your legs. He knows those knickers there. They’re crotchless. Got beads of fake crystals embroidered on the silk tracing your lower stomach. He’s gotten them for you on a Valentine’s Day. They came with a pink card with hearts all over it—you’re my favourite present, and presents should have beautiful wrapping. He thought about ripping it off because it was too cheesy, but you giggled like a schoolgirl when you read it, so maybe it wasn’t that bad.

And you only wear that flimsy thing whenever you have sex, uncomfortable as it is. Which means this is all a ploy you’ve concocted even before leaving the house. Your little tactic. You’ve prepped yourself specifically for this—specifically to be his little present, wrapped in lace and imbued with cherry and gin.

He can imagine how wet those tights are, right between your legs. With nothing to cover you, you must’ve soaked through the nylon, and he could eat you out directly through your tights.

This honour thing—fuck off, since when was he an honourable man?

But he perseveres.

You’re not being subtle. Perhaps you’d be, were you sober, but you’re breathing a little heavier, stumbling even on your fours on the bed. He can feel the warmth of your presence press against his back. Lithe fingers tickle his back, tracing the lines of his shoulder blades, nails scraping where his muscles coil on his shoulders.

Your mouth, curled in a smile he can feel, breathes heavy against the shell of his ear. Alcohol and cherries. Fuck you’re a devil, especially when you threaten to taste so good.

“I need you, baby,” you whisper wantonly, still slurring through your vowels. “You haven’t touched me in so long.”

That’s a lie. He touched you yesterday. Pretty thoroughly, if you asked him. There’s also proof, somewhere in the laundry, where you put the by-then unusable sheets.

“Playin’ with fire, girl,” he rumbles, eyes closed and fists collected on his thighs.

Your nails rake over his chest, catching onto the folds of his t-shirt—sliding up leisurely, with only the tips of your fingers drawing parallel lines from his pecs up to his shoulders.

“Oh, but I like to rile you up,” you mouth to his neck.

And then your tongue joins in the mix, licking the curve of his ear. He swears you’re breathing heavier on purpose, now—mimicking the sounds he’d steal with a couple of fingers and his mouth latched on your clit. It does the trick, and although he’s still got a resolve of steel, his cock definitely doesn’t. 

Strained in there, pushing against the zipper of his jeans. He feels it jump whenever you draw your teeth along the shell of his ear. He also feels the weight of your eyes, peering over his shoulder and spotting the bulge in his jeans.

“I bet you’d feel so good,” you whisper, hands now sliding down his arms. “Don’t you remember, Si?”

You sneak to his side. In his peripherals, he sees your tits essentially spilling from the cleavage of your dress. Scooting closer, you press them to his biceps. Simon’s jaw hurts from how hard he’s gritting his teeth, his own eyes deciding to instead focus on the dresser pushed against the wall ahead. 

Then, he feels your fingers touch his jaw—soft, so fucking soft. Palm to his cheek, you turn his head your way.

You’re breathtaking. Glossy pupils, makeup lightly smudged under your eyes and the top of your lip. The straps of your dress slipping down your arms, tits strained underneath all that stupid fabric. He can see the line where it digs in. It must hurt, right, sweetheart? So uncomfortable.

You lean in, sinuous like a siren underwater. Your lips brush his, sweet like cherries. “I cum so easily when I’m drunk.”

Fucking hell.

Honour is such a fleeting concept, isn’t it?

Simon’s body reacts before his mind can conceive it. Callous hands grab your waist, and, with little effort, he brings you over his thigh, one leg on either side. Then, his fingers curl around your jaw, pushing in your cheeks. 

Your smile is triumphant even with puckered lips. He can see it. You’ve got a twinkle in your eyes, shrouded by all that makeup that he will melt off your face and transfer onto the fucking comforter.

“You wanna cum?” He barks like he would an order.

Your hips reply before your mouth does, dragging your cunt against the taut muscle of his thigh. 

“Yes.” Breathless. Excited.

An admonishing hand lands on your ass as a punishment of sorts. It isn’t received as one at all, instead spurring your hips to sway once again. Obviously frustrated, he bites on his tongue—though Simon is nothing but a curious man, and he wants to find proof of that thought ruining his mind.

The hand on your ass finds your front. Roughly, he tugs your dress upward, letting it coil around your waist. Then, two fingers dip between your legs, and yes, God yes, he was right. You’re soaked, dripping through those cheap tights and directly onto his jeans. The crystals on the top hem of your lingerie twinkle through see-through nylon. Fucking mouthwatering.

“Wore this for me, uh?” His jaw jumps. “Thought I’d fuck the drinks outta you, did ya?”

Your nails dig into his shoulder. 

“Yes, yes I did—”

“Too fuckin’ bad.”

It must be hard to speak if he keeps pushing your cheeks together, you poor thing. 

“Please, baby—”

But you still manage to plead like you’re begging for forgiveness from your god.

“Nuh uh.” Simon tongues his cheek, watching how you shamelessly grind your pussy against those two fingers he still keeps there. “Not fuckin’ you.”

You whine. He can’t tell whether it’s from his fingers dragging along your clit, or if it’s your disappointment. Too fucking bad, alright—if you insist like that a bit longer, you might even convince him.

He nods his chin at you. “Cum, then. Since it’s so easy, uh?”

“What?”

“What?” He parrots, smirk wide.

“Simon, don’t be mean—”

“Oh, I’ll be cruel love.” He nudges your head back, leaving the grip on your cheeks. That same hand finds your hips, guiding them down to grind your cunt against his thigh. 

“Said you cum easily when yer drunk, no?” He coos. “Show me how fuckin’ easy tha’ is.”

You know he’s not going to give in unless you give him a win, first. He likes you ruined. He likes it when you plead with a little voice after he’s done roughing it up for you. Loves you wrecked with makeup drooling down your cheeks. You’re smart and decide which battles are worth fighting and which ones you should hand to him.

He likes this thing with you, where you two fuck with your brains as well. Tactical on the field and in the sheets. Although you seem a bit dopier than usual, glossy eyes and teeth nibbling your lower lip, he knows you’re thinking, even as your mind swims in alcohol.

Obviously, you don’t respond. Some questions don’t need a verbal answer, especially when they’re clearly not waiting for one. His was an order, and you decide this is a battle not worth fighting, since the outcome will be a win anyway.

“Thank you,” you sigh sweetly. “I’ll—mmh—show you.”

Simon gets a firm grip on your waist. Your soles are planted on the floor for leverage, slipping against the wooden tiles whenever you push your hips to swing. He helps, merciful, guiding your movements with his hands. Then, as soon as you find your balance, you start riding his thigh.

Sight for sore eyes, you are. 

Head thrown back as your cunt drags along his jeans, straddling his leg. The friction must burn, but you don’t seem to mind. In fact, he’d wager that you like that slight pinch of pain, maybe because it’s softened by how wet you are. You’re right, though—you do cum easily when you’re drunk, or at least you get aroused faster, because it hasn’t been long and yet he can already feel wetness dampening the skin of his thigh, all the way through his denim.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, attempting to hide the awe in his tone and remain condescending. “Needed this, didn’t ya.”

“Yeah.” Dreamy, breathy. Fucking hell, he can’t wait to have you say that with your face slammed into the pillow.

He looks at the rest of you as you grind your cunt against his thigh. Looks at the curves of your body as it undulates like it would if you were fucking his cock. He deprived you of that, but it doesn’t seem to deter you—he knows the game you’re playing. Getting off while making him regret what you could do, what he could feel, if only he weren’t as stubborn as you are.

The dress you’re wearing is tight, leaving very little to the imagination. Your nipples are perked, but the stretchy fabric strains them. It’s served on a silver platter, honestly, and Simon has always been one hungry dog. 

Immediately, his hand leaves your hip, snatching down the V of your cleavage. Your tits spill out with the sound of fabric tearing in the background. 

You whine. One of the straps of your dress hangs on by a thread that he decides to snap with a second tug.

Just like he predicted, uh?

“Simon!”

“Quit whinin’.”

His mouth lands greedily and opens on your nipple. You tremble above him, hips stuttering when he sucks in and bites with soft teeth. His thumb brushes over your other nipple, flicks until it hardens again, and he can tug it between two fingers.

You’re never really quiet during sex, but you’re loud when you’re tipsy, and even louder when you’re drunk. A waterfall of yes and please and more drowns him, while you shudder and gasp shallow breaths—a threat to his sanity, honestly. Also a threat to his cock, bobbing every time your hips drive forward and grind against his thigh.

He looks up at your face through his lashes. You meet his eyes with your glassy ones, cheeks puffed and irritated. He’s tiring you out with all this movement, when you’re so used to him doing the heavy lifting. Poor girl.

“What.” He mouths around your tit.

“I’m tired,” you mewl, confirming his suspicions. “I wanna cum.”

“Said you could cum easily when you’re drunk,” he reiterates. “Then do it, no?”

“Simon.”

He hums. It buzzes around your nipple, making you arch your spine. Then, he pulls back with a pop, spit lining his mouth and your breast.

“Some perfect tits you got,” he rumbles, giving one a light slap to watch it bounce. 

Go on, girl. Lay out your plan.

“Simon, please.” Phase one. 

Both his hands return to your hips. He throws his head back just to look at the effort you’re putting into remaining level-headed while getting off on his thigh. Admirable. It was never your intention to cum like this, was it?

“Yeah, bird?”

“Simon, baby.” Phase two— “Please fuck me.”

You skipped a few phases. No build-up to your request. No gentle moans and breathy pleases, no bending to submission so that his blood would rush to his cock and leave his brain defenceless.

A new tactic. You clawed your way to his cock before he decided to fight. Up the stairs with your dopey smile and garbled accent. With your tongue licking his neck and your tits pressed to his arm. Or maybe even earlier, when you slid on those knickers under your tights.

Clever, clever little thing.

Alright, then. He’s been craving to see that makeup smeared down the duvet for quite some time, after all.

He smirks. “Yer a dirty fuckin’ slag, aren’t ya?”

You nod. If he didn’t know you, he’d have missed the twitch of your eye—the one preceding celebration. You won, even as you’re willing to debase yourself to reach that high.

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I’m a fucking slag.”

He chuckles low, grating. “Lemme treat ya like one, then.”

“Fuck—God, yes—”

Whatever you say next, he doesn’t hear. He grabs you and lifts you off of him, unceremoniously tossing you on the bed. You bounce there, scrambling towards the centre. He kneels at the edge and reaches for you, one big hand curling around your wrist.

He nods at you, lightly tugging at your arm. “On your front—go on.”

Doe eyes light up like he’s offered you a goldmine to sift through. Your head bobs in a yes so vigorous he thinks you might fucking snap your neck if you do it any faster. He chortles under his breath, and there it dies when you present your ass to him.

Pretty thing you are, spread open. A wet patch between your legs, the globes of your ass slick and tight as the nylon reflects the soft rays of light coming from the window—pale moonlight and the foggy yellow of lampposts. 

Further confirming what he already knew: he fucking loves it when you’re wearing tights.

The arch of your back is delicious and deep. He settles his palm there, at the base of your spine, just to make you bend further. You comply, soft like clay.

As he unbuckles his belt and zips down his jeans with one hand, he zeroes in on your face. Cheek flat to the bed, eyes hooded and pointed at him in anticipation. And when he finally manages to spring his cock free of its restraints, he sees your tongue slowly drawing the line of your lips—famished.

He smears his precum down his shaft. Looks down at the perfect picture you paint, and also at the annoying layer of fabric separating your cunt from him.

“Got somethin’ in the way, mh?” He drawls, languid and calm. 

With his hand, he slaps the head of his cock on your ass. You clench around nothing—he sees it clearly, since that pathetic string he gifted you barely covers a thing, even there at your backside. He could get his mouth there and make you cum with nothing else.

“Just pull it down—r-rip it,” you mumble. “Don’t care. Rip it.”

“’right, ma’am,” he slaps your ass. Watches it bounce in recoil. Then, Simon settles both hands on the inseam of your tights. “Someone’s fuckin’ greedy.”

And pulls. They rip so easily, he should tell you to file a complaint with the website you bought them from, but now he couldn’t be more grateful for their poor quality.

Because that’s the last of his obstacles, since you wore this pretty lingerie. 

Your cunt glistens with the wetness collected there. The thin straps of your knickers frame your pussy and pinch it in the centre, leaving it constricted and puffy—clit just as swollen by the continuous friction and need for release. He wishes to wrap his mouth around it, lavish it with his tongue and feel it throb when you’ll inevitably cum into his mouth. It’d be so easy, too. You said it yourself, and he’s tried it firsthand. 

But you asked him to fuck you, didn’t you? And he is nothing but a loyal soldier, following orders to a T when it’s you dispensing them.

The tip of his cock is of a furious red, leaks against your cunt as he drags it slowly along your slit. It glides on smoothly, seamless. Makes you fist the sheets and drool on them, too. You might be drunk on alcohol, but he’s drunk on you—he’d wager the latter is stronger, especially considering that you know how much power you hold over him.

Bent over like that. Lord help him keep his cool.

The first inch of him doesn’t enter you as smoothly as he was hoping. His fault for not prepping you right, your fault for being so damn insistent on him skipping the steps. 

“Ah fuck yer tight,” he mumbles, feeling his eyes roll back.

There’s no need to roughen up your voice; you’ve already lost it. Maybe screaming at the club, singing over the overwhelmingly loud volume of the music. You mewl and babble nonsense, squeezing your thighs together in the discomfort of being ripped open.

But he manages. Fit like a glove, you do. Perfectly tight and soft, wrapped around his every ridge and dent, welcoming like it’s what you were born to do—to take him just right, just right there to the hilt.

He’s adamant on staying frozen stock-still for the next handful of seconds; he’ll cum then and there, with how pretty you look. Your skin peeks through the rip he opened barehanded, framed by the jagged perimeter of the fabric that wraps around you from toe to waist. It cinches you there, where your skin begins again, folding softly at the hem of your tights. Dress rucked up just above, like a cheap rag he’s already torn.

Maybe he’s got a kink for those. Next Valentine’s Day, he’s gifting you a stack of tights of all shapes and colours, just so he can rip them once on you. Maybe ask for the website you ordered these from, because the quality is cheap and easy to break.

You curse and wiggle your hips, inciting him to move. The barest friction has him see stars; the urgency in your voice does him in.

“Fuck me, Simon—” You groan. “Just fuck me—”

He obliges, because he’s an honourable man, and what kind of cunt wouldn’t fold at the polite request of such a gem.

Simon pulls back his hips and slams back inside. It takes him a couple of thrusts, and your knees give out, until your whole body is flattened to the mattress. He doesn’t want that, not now. Pulls you up with an arm around your waist and demands that you stay still.

“Don’t fuckin’ move, ya hear?”

“Yes,” you babble, probably not having heard a single word. “Yes, yes, yes—”

It’s alright, though. He’ll keep you steady.

“I got you, love,” he rumbles. “Got you right ‘ere.”

Both hands grab your hips, and suddenly, he’s not fucking you, he’s fucking you on him. You move like a ragdoll, abandoned in his clutch because that’s what you need, isn’t it? For him to fuck you until that’s the only thing you can think about.

“Show me how easy it is, swee’heart.”

And you show him, alright. 

While the sight of your ass bouncing against him is one to swear by, it’s your face that has him breathless. Your eyes are rolled back, there’s a puddle of tears and drool under your face, soaked up by the bed sheets. And there he sees it, that blissful expression when he hits a spot just right, and your mouth twitches in a smile—involuntary, just like that. Tugging at the corners of your mouth because that’s what ecstasy does to your body once it has a taste of it.

The first time you cum is loudand almost petty, like you’re not doing it for yourself but to show him—a sort of that’s all you needed to do, see? Though no matter the reason why you’re putting on a show, it still has your cunt clenching around him tight enough to rob him of his reason, of the air in his lungs.

You gasp and moan, push back your hips for more, knowing he’ll give it to you. He does, not because he’s an honourable man, but because when you look like this, he’s only a slave to your whims.

His chuckle is a breathless one. “Now that’s a sight, yeah?”

“Told you,” you mumble, panting just like him. “It’d beeasy.”

He likes you like this: looking like a doll, with ripped tights and rucked-up dress, with makeup smudged down your cheeks and onto the bed, but still mouthy, still hellbent on proving your point.

He smirks. That’s my girl.

“Then keep comin’, love.” He gives a firm slap to your ass. “Give it t’ me.”

Simon fucks you until he’s the one on the verge of an orgasm. He bites his own teeth and keeps it in, focusing on anything that isn’t the filthy squelch of your pussy whenever he bottoms out. He bends down, wraps his arm around your waist and skims your clit with the tips of his fingers. You clench around him, so he does it again—just brushes at first, with his cock barely leaving your cunt. 

Then, he finds a steady rhythm. Slow circles over the hood of your clit, then directly onto it, where you’re most sensitive. He doesn’t bother pulling out at all, instead rolling his hips to hit deeper inside you.

Your moans are drowned in the sheets, and while he’d love to hear you scream, he knows these are the sounds that precede earth-shattering bliss—the ones uttered in privacy, the ones that punch the air out of your lungs.

“Oh—Oh my G—” Can’t even manage to finish it, can you?

You fall forward, just like before, but now he keeps you there. His chest is flush to your back, yours to the mattress. One finger turns into two, then three, gliding smoothly from side to side over the tight knot of your clit.

“Like tha’ love,” he grunts, sinking his teeth into your shoulder. “Fuckin’ hell cum for me, go on—”

“Shit—shit, shit, sh—”

Simon feels it—he feels it before he hears you. You gush around him, a dribble falling onto his fingers, soaking his hand. That is enough to push him over the edge, too. The tightness that wrapped around his balls wrenches loose, like a waterfall traveling backward, tingling through his spine and tipping at the base of his skull. Simon cums inside you with a groan muffled by the skin of your back.

“Take it—"

His hips stutter only an inch, if not less, because he knows you’re still drowning in your own high and he doesn’t want to disrupt it—but God, it feels good to ram inside you, watch you shiver as he fills you.

“Fuckin’ take it.”

You’re quiet, only yielding high-pitched breaths as he ruts his hips one last time. Eyes rolled back and mouth open—just there, within his reach. And when you’re within reach, he sheds that pelt, doesn’t he?

Gentle kisses land on the corner of your lips. You flood his senses with the taste of gin and cherries, with the filth of sex you now both reek of—and he loves that scent, his and yours, mingling into one.

“Fuck yer perfect,” he rumbles. “Fuckin’ lucky bastard I am.”

You mouth something unintelligible, something trying to crack through this dizzy shell of bliss and alcohol that shrouds you. He waits for you to regain your senses, slowing down with his hand and his hips to make the comedown less harsh.

“Breathe, love,” he rumbles slowly, steering you to clarity. “Slow an’ easy.”

“Oh my God that was insane,” you rush in one breath. “That was fucking insane and I love you.”

Simon’s chest rumbles above you, a laugh breathed to your lips. “Right. Love you too, swee’heart.”

Gently, he lifts himself off of you. He’s pleased to see that the comforter has streaks of red lipstick and black mascara. Simon pulls out of you slowly, catching on to the slight wince of your brow as he does. The mess flooding the sheets is something he’ll think about after he’s taken care of the other mess before him.

“Shower?” He offers.

“Sleep.” You mumble.

He hums, wrinkling his mouth. “Not like this.”

“Yes like this.”

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ll take it with ya.”

You pop one eye open. “Yeah? Scrub my back and hold my hair when I’ll inevitably throw up because fucking hell, Simon, I drank too much, I’m queasy as f—”

“Yes.” He grunts. “Yes, the whole package, alrigh’?”

You open your other eye, too—lips softening in a smile. “Thank you,” you say fondly.

You know the power you hold. Keep smiling at him like that, and he’ll wash your hair, too—even now, in the dead of night.

He peels the clothes off of you. Tosses them blindly on the floor until they’re a problem to deal with tomorrow. Kneels before you as you sit on the toilet. Helps you clean up in the shower, as your brain dissipates the fog under the soft drizzle of lukewarm water—you insisted on sizzling hot, but he refused to have the skin peel off his bones. 

And your sluggish attempts at chatting from before now turn into a flurry of stories he hums and nods along to. He brushes your hair back as you brush your teeth, slips into a pair of clean briefs as you ramble on and on about how much of a bastard Ellie’s now-ex-boyfriend is.

Pelt shed on the floor, something to grab again when he’ll be deployed to dispense death. He realises, however, that you might like it sometimes—that grizzly fur, spiky with blood and gore. His callous hands and his guttural growls. That you might even brush your fingers through his hackles as they rise.

Perhaps you love all of him. Pelt on or off. You do love his mug, after all, even if it isn’t a pretty sight—brutalised by merciless hands. 

Tough thing to digest, love. Maybe he’ll think about it tomorrow, when he’s less drunk on you—and you on Cherry Gin Fizz, as you called it.

For now, though, he just listens. Internalises. Watches how you stumble in the attempt to insert a foot in the hole of a pair of sweats. You didn’t throw up—yet. So, he grabs a basin from the bathroom cabinet and places it next to your side of the bed while you tuck yourself under the covers.

You curl up against him, press your cold toes onto his much warmer legs. Arm draped over his stomach, you babble yourself to sleep, saying he should come once or twice to the club with you and the girls, that they like him already, and they think he’d be a good deterrent for all the pervs that sneak up on them when they’re on the floor.

Simon nods blindly, face soft and occasionally rolling his eyes. Though you lost him, somewhere along your chatter, because you still smell of cherries, less of gin. 

He hopes he won’t sound like a lunatic when tomorrow he’ll ask the clerk at Boots to find him a perfume that smells like Cherry Gin Fizz.