I don't get cute, I get drop dead gorgeous.

He’s been thinking about it all day—longer than all day, he’s been thinking about it ever since he was dead asleep the night before, dreaming of being buried where he belongs between your thighs. His face, his cock, his fingers somehow all at once, feeling you every-goddamn-where.

Woke up so hard it fucking hurt.

Barely took him two full strokes before he sprayed cum all over his chest and belly, and feels almost sad amongst the euphoria because he knows it was all meant to go inside you.

He fires off a text en route to the shower, knowing you won’t get it for a couple more hours. He’s just relieved he didn’t slip in a Freudian ‘u.’

coming over 2nite.

No question mark, nothing up for interpretation. You guys talked about “maybe” doing something tonight, but he’s turned it from a vague possibility into an absolute mathematical certainty.

By the time you write back, he’s well into his day at the garage and you’re just getting up.

someone’s decisive ;)

He chuckles to himself when he reads it.

You have no idea what you’re in for.

You still don’t until he knocks on your door at 6:00 sharp and by 6:01, he’s kissing you. Kicking the door shut behind him, backing you down the hallway. Devouring your laugh and tugging at your clothes, leaving a trail of his and yours across the apartment and all the way to your bedroom.

And then he’s on top of you and pressing his lips wherever they can reach, his hands gripping and groping like he’s forgotten what you feel like. But how could he? Who could forget how smooth you are, how your flesh yields to his touch, how you fill up his palms with heat and softness that feels so right against the roughness of his skin. Built up with callouses and guitar string scars he lost count of decades ago, they shouldn’t fit with you so well but they do.

It’s like you’re clay he was born to mold, a sculpture he sees take shape a little more each time you’re together. Turning into something more beautiful than he ever imagined.

He worships you with his mouth, tastes the implumbable depths of the well at the center of you and drinks from it like it’s the fountain of youth—quenching a thirst he’s had since birth.

Your fingers weave into his curls, less to guide his movements and more to hold on for dear life. You ride out two, three highs before he even makes a move to enter you. But god, when he does…

Something switches.

Some long-buried, purely animal part of his brain takes over. Some sweaty, wild, feral thing that’s only concerned with you. Feeling you, holding you, fucking you—owning you.

He’s rougher with you than he means to be, digging his fingers into your thighs to push them up and flush with your chest, squeezing your breath out of you so the only way you can tell him to keep going is by nodding as hard as you can when he looks to you with those lust blown eyes.

Wet as you are, you’re afraid he’ll slip out he’s thrusting so hard and so fast. But if he does, you don’t feel it. All you can feel is him, his arms caging you in, his biceps bulging and flexing through the layer of fat that covers them. The same fat that covers his thick thighs and his stomach and his ass and his broad, wide shoulders. The fat that makes him feel so big and solid around you, that lets him cover you like a blanket and smother you in the smell of sweat and woodsy cologne.

He huffs and grunts and groans and whines in your ear, a symphony of struggling to keep himself under control. Breathing getting heavier with every buck of his hips, the impact making his ass jiggle harder each time. Your hand like a claw clutching one cheek, the other wrapped around the back of his neck to keep his face close, safe in the little world between your jaw and collarbone.

He speaks softly, broken choked-off words just barely above a whisper. More like a sigh.

“Baby, I c-can’t—I can’t stop, m’so…mmmph—fuck…”

The words simmer in your ear, coupled with the wet slaps of skin on skin that fill the room with your moans and his, the slippery mess you’re making so noisy it’s obscene. You are gushing around him, your body pulsing and clenching trying to hold him inside as long as possible.

“M’sorry, I’m so sorry, I can’t help it, I need you so fucking bad—”

He’s coming apart at the seams. You can feel it in the way his body unspools into pleasure, the way all the tension he’s been carrying is leeched from every muscle and ligament. How his voice unfurls into this wanton plea, so loose and languid in stark contrast to the tightness of his limbs.

“S-so…so good… so nnngh, so good for me…oh shh…shit…”

One last clench, one last powerful thrust, one last deep and resonant groan that reverberates through your chest that’s pressed so tight to his. One last desperate clutch at his crown of sweaty curls, one last gasp as you throw your head back. One last squeeze of your legs stretched as wide as they can go, ankles crossed at the small of his back to hold him close.

The last noise he makes is veneration, a final holy sacrament to his altar of you.

He stays buried inside, steeping in his own spend, feeling the slow trickle of it around the base of his cock. You should probably find it gross. You should probably take offense at being folded in half and getting pounded out like a piece of meat. And yet, you can’t find the will for either.

“Hey,” he whispers when he’s back in his body, and while he’s still in yours. “You okay?”

You just nod, sleepy and lazy and dazed, a little smile creeping across your lips he doesn’t see because he’s shaking his head, letting it hang like it’s hard to hold up all of a sudden.

“I didn’t…I didn’t mean for it to be so—”

You take his chin in your hand and turn him into a kiss. A good one. A thought-erasing one.

“I loved it,” you whisper back, and clench around him for good measure. His hand grapples at your waist, his body jerking with a violent shudder.

“Don’t you– ffffuck…”

The barely-there threat dissolves into laughter before he can even make it, his face smothered in the crook of your neck again so he can breathe in the smell of your drying sweat.