#ask for help

He's learned to school his expression into place; however, not even years of duty can mask the curious quirk of his brow. He shifts on the sofa, propping one ankle over the opposite knee. One arm rests on the backrest of the couch, fingers thrumming against the leather.

Your eyes fall onto his other hand, sitting atop his thigh. 

He nods with his chin. "Run tha' by me again?"

You stand barefoot on the carpet. Loose shorts and an old tank top that has stretched out from one too many washes. The nibble of your lip tells him that you're ready to eat your words as soon as he questions them. The same goes for the way you're tormenting the cuticle on your thumb.

But he's interested. Fucking hell, this is the most intrigued he's been in ages.

"Porn?" He inquires the moment you open your mouth to most likely take everything back.

You close your lips with a pop and look at the ceiling, trying to force the heat collected on your cheeks to dissipate—flow southward perhaps, where it's not a bother but a welcome feeling instead.

But then you clear your throat. Straighten your spine. "Yes, porn."

Simon echoes you, enunciating the word. "Porn."

"Porn."

He nods, the corners of his lips curving in a smirk.

"With me?"

You tongue your cheek, eyes sharp. "Did I stutter?"

He pinches the air in front of his face. "A little."

But he must have taken it a step too far, because you're suddenly rolling your eyes and huffing. 

"Right. I shouldn't have asked—" You mutter, turning on your heels.

Simon's got quick hands. One of them reaches forward and grabs your wrist, pulling you in. You stumble between his legs, big thighs now parted for you to stand comfortably before him. 

His eyes soften, then, only because he can tell you've taken pains to summon the courage to ask him such a curious thing.

Simon rests the back of his head against the couch to look up at you. Instead of finding your eyes, however, he sees your profile—stubbornly, you're forcing yourself to look at everything but him.

"M'sorry, alrigh'?" He rumbles. The tip of his finger finds your jaw, and he gently steers you to face him. "Took me off guard is all."

The line between your brows deepens, sudden worry branching through your features. Though when his finger on your jawline turns into a palm cradling your cheek, you sigh, leaning into his hand.

And as your body softens, your tongue loosens, too.

"I just—" You bite your lip, nibbling at the flecks of dry skin. Once again, your eyes dart around, as if the firmness you need is stuck somewhere in the furniture of the house.

He grounds you again, this time with a light tap of his fingers. 

You rub your forehead in frustration. "Ever since they upped the dosage of my meds, I—we—"

You don't need to finish the sentence for him to understand where you're getting at. 

Yes, you haven't fucked in months. He’d wager it’s been at least two, maybe three, and the last thoroughly satisfying fuck he’s had with you goes back to a couple of days prior to that fated doctor’s appointment. It’s not the longest break, and he’s aware. Fucking hell, before he met you, he could’ve gone years without getting his dick wet. He has gone through years of solitude, in fact.

Though it’s you that he misses. Fucking you senseless. Eating you out. It’s the taste of your skin, not the taste of skin itself. It’s the scent that nestles in the creases of your neck, not the smell of sex.

Most people would say that, in such cases, they don’t remember the last time they had sex. Simon, however, does. He remembers it quite vividly, actually. Nothing can erase from his mind the picture you paint when you’re feeling good—when he’s making you feel good.

He misses it. Misses you. He’s human, after all.

But he likes you with that smile. Likes you proper happy. Likes you healthy, hungry, and then sated. Likes you laughing at jokes, at life. Likes the fight that’s suddenly surged within you. The need for control in a life that left you without it. 

He misses it, true, but he likes you alive.

And nothing will ever change his stance on that.

His other hand brushes your thigh with the back of his knuckles.

“Go on,” he murmurs.

“Well, I—I can’t stop this—” You gesture vaguely at your stomach, as if it’s there where it all festers. “—Sense of guilt. I feel guilty, alright? I—I know you’ll say I shouldn’t—”

“Aye, you shouldn’t.”

“—But,” you interject, pointing a finger at him. “I still do.”

“Love,” he insists, but not unkindly. “Won’t fuck you outta guilt, yeah? You gotta want it.”

“I do!” You whine, lightly stomping your foot against the carpet in frustration. “I swear I do! I just—"

You rip your cheek out of his touch. His hand falls to your other thigh, then, no matter how reluctantly, just to give you space.

“I—I don’t think I remember how to feel like I do anymore,” your voice cracks. “I hate it. I hate how I can’t control it anymore.”

Simon falls still. Stays silent, waiting for you to get to the point of your reasoning. No sense in stopping you when, clearly, you’ve been trying so hard to tell him what feelings have been festering inside you.

You take in a steadying breath, smoothing your hands down your shirt. 

“And I thought, you know, maybe porn can help me. Maybe it can make me horny.”

He nods, urging you to go on. His hands on you, slow and grounding, draw mindless shapes.

“But it’s weird to… get ready for it.” You cinch your shoulders. “I don’t want to watch some porn in the bathroom waiting to get wet only to find you after, because—because it literally takes a walk from the loo to the bedroom that it’s just… gone.”

Simon thinks about it. 

It would be odd, he doesn’t deny that. Doesn’t know what you like to watch when he’s deployed. Then, it feels wrong to look at another person while he’s fucking you. Doesn’t care much about other people and those fake moans, or selfish ones and their plastic performances. 

You’ve got a few videos you both took when drunk or when trying to spice it up a little. Perhaps those? 

He knows he’s got one of you that he can’t get tired of. 

You’re lying on your front as he pounds into you, pretty ass wiggling against his crotch whenever he stops. The phone is propped up on the pillow, its back leaning against the headboard. The shot shows your face first, then the curve of your spine. Your ass pressed to the V of his stomach, bouncing round and soft.

He put the phone there, even as you insisted it’d be better if both of you were in the frame. But he was stubborn, asked to have something to look at when he’s away, and he joked about how he’s not a fan of his ugly mug.

“Can’t have a wank an’ look at this mug now, can I.”

Your face, mainly. That’s what he likes to watch. Brows pulled tight, eyes hooded, mouth agape. White paints the knuckle of his hand as it fists your hair, forcing your head back. Then, there’s you. The uncomfortable and jagged curve of your neck, your tendons bulging at the sides, the veins that branch out from your collarbones and find root at your jawline.

Fuck, the sounds you make. Those strained breaths that stroke your vocal cords like you’re an instrument—moans clipped and sharp, rhythmic with the pistoning of his hips. 

Oh, the groan of your first orgasm. The whites of your eyes eating up your pupils. The curve of your mouth, a pained smile that trembles, unsure whether to cry out or laugh blissfully. 

It’s your voice that brings him back. His eyes focus on you once again, redefining the lines of your shape.

He must have stayed quiet for a bit too long, because the worried look on your face starts withering into something even worse, something like rejection.

“We could watch anything,” you provide nervously, rubbing your palms against your thighs. “Your favourites, maybe? Do you have any? I don’t know, you can take the lead on that—on everything, actually. I—I need to—”

With a frustrated sigh, you run a hand down the back of your neck. “I need to feel like you want to fuck me. I—I want to feel like I want to have sex again. I want to be in control of it.”

Your chest heaves. “Please tell me I’m making sense.”

Fucking hell. It would be odd, true, but fuck odd.

Your brows pinch. “It’s okay if you don’t wa—"

“I got an idea.”

“This isn’t what I had in mind,” you blabber breathlessly.

Simon’s fingers are buried inside you. The video is muted because you asked. 

“Met you halfway, didn’t I?”

His phone sits propped against the headboard, the lower margin hidden beneath the hills and curls of the pillowcase. The light is dim in the bedroom, similarly to how it looks on his phone. He’s got you with your stomach pressed against the mattress, just like in that video. The only thing keeping your head from slipping against the bed is his fist, holding firmly onto your locks.

“But I—” You choke when his knuckles brush your clit. “—I don’t like to look at myself.”

Simon cracks his neck, tilting it side to side. 

“S’porn, innit?” 

You groan. “God, Simon—”

“You asked for my favourite,” he rumbles. “There y’go.”

There’s a slow, accommodating fashion in the movements of his hand. Languid strokes given with two fingers, sometimes slipping out to smear your wetness down your slit, brushing featherlight on your clit. 

“But this won’t make me horny,” you whine, though there’s a telltale weakness in your statement that doesn’t manage to mask the lie.

Greedy eyes eat what his mouth still can’t. The sweat collecting on your temples, the slope of your nose and the curve of your mouth—lips pouting, teeth sinking into the flesh to silence yourself. Shy thing. You’ve never been one, but he reckons there’s nothing wrong with a change of pace, every once in a while.

He parts your folds with his fingers and gulps harshly when the thick sound of your wetness reaches his ears. Proved yourself wrong, there.

“Won’t it?”

He’s kneeling on top of you, knees digging into the mattress on either side of your thighs. The video is not what he focuses on, though. He’s got better things to admire. The angles of your shoulder blades, the indents of your muscles as they tense, and the sweet dip of your spine. Where it hollows and where it ends—two tiny dimples crowning the plump of your ass. 

Fuck you’re a painting, aren’t you?

“Look at yourself,” he drawls, forcing your eyes to the screen with a tug of your hair. “Look at how good you were feelin’, mh?”

The little whine that escapes you matches the clench of your pussy around his fingers. Gladly, he realises that you’re not cutting off the blood flow of his hand, but instead you’re opening up to him, feeling much softer than when he first entered you.

For a brief second, his eyes flicker to the screen.

There’s the pretty curl of your lips as you look up at him, subjecting your neck to bend in an uncomfortable arch, though his face is out of frame. You go a little cross-eyed, right there, as your smirk turns into a beautiful smile—all teeth and wrinkled nose. 

The video keeps rolling, and after a heartbeat, you offer your tongue. From the top of the screen, a rope of spit falls and lands directly on it, and he watches as you drink it down. 

The soft bob of your throat, the delighted grin it follows, the mouthed “thank you”.

Simon’s cock sits above your ass. It hangs heavy with blood and gleaming at the tip, aching to be touched. His balls feel painfully tight, and if he ventures and grinds down between your cheeks, he might finish before this thing even starts.

His fingers switch, moving from inside you to lightly tap at your clit. Deliberately slow, circling around your clit to unsheathe it and leave the most sensitive part to his mercy whenever he glides down.

You suck in a breath.

Gentle touches wake up your body, skin rushing with waves of shivers that tiptoe up your spine. 

“Can—can you do that?”

Simon’s pads slide forward, from your clit to the curls on your pelvis, slipping easily with the wetness collected on his pads. Back and forth, until the tautness in your thighs melts away into the sheets underneath.

“Do what, swee’heart?” 

Shyly, you look up. Your neck cranes backwards in a mimicry of that same painful curve he’s witnessed time and time again.

Your lashes flutter up to him. “Can you spit in my mouth like that?”

And it goes straight to his cock.

Don’t need to tell him twice.

The hand in your hair slowly releases its grip, and by the way your moan comes, breathless and aching, he can tell the sting it left must have added to your pleasure. His fingers grasp your jaw, digging into your cheeks. 

Shifting forward, Simon aligns his mouth with yours from above.

“Open up.”

You blink, doe-eyed and bashful. Lick your lips and nibble at the flakes of dry skin, pondering for a moment, before you heed his order and part your mouth for him, letting your tongue loll down your chin.

Simon’s eyes roll back. 

His throat is parched, and he wonders how the fuck he will spit in your mouth when you managed to dry out his tongue with just a look.

Nevertheless, he summons the strength and purses his lips, letting a rope of spit fall slowly onto your tongue.

He watches your nostrils flare in anticipation. Your brows as they flutter when it lands. How you seem to savour it when you swallow. How you find his face again in your stupor, with your eyes smothered under the dark veil of lust.

His cock grows tighter when you smile.

“Thank you,” you mouth, licking your lips as if you might taste more of him again.

Simon’s left breathless as you repeat your own words, and he has to summon all his strength not to spear you with his cock right then and there. He genuinely wants to pace himself, but you look so fucking appetising that he just craves to have a taste. He should give you time to adjust, space to settle—he shouldn’t devour you with his mouth.

He should, should, should. Should be better. Should be softer. Should be—

I need to feel like you want to fuck me.

Simon’s heart comes to an abrupt stop.

He should, should, should—

—give you more. 

Show you how he wants to fuck you, like you asked, instead of going at a slow, far-fetched pace. He was never one to sit down and have a feast patiently. Simon’s hungry, he’s always been. To merely nibble on supper would feel artificial, plainly wrong.

And above everything, Simon wants you. 

He leans down and smashes his lips to yours. 

The sound of clacking teeth almost swallows your gasp, but the surprise is short-lived—promptly replaced with the same kind of hunger, only delivered more tentatively.

His kiss is hungry and unrestrained. His teeth sink into your lip before launching again, smearing spit down your chin. You taste like you. Of mint and sugar. Herbs from the tea you shared, sweet because of the biscuits you dipped in yours, even as he grimaced at the sight. 

It’s the taste of you. The feel of your skin.

The growing warmth of your cheeks as his stubble irritates them, the slick of your tongue as it dances with his.

Your palm lands harshly at the nape of his neck, grasping blindly until it clutches around a handful of hair. Your fingers wander and grab, nails scratching his scalp and sending shivers down his spine. Now that your hand isn’t supporting your weight anymore, you’re using him as leverage—pulling down his head and further smashing his mouth against yours.

Simon’s hand around your throat tightens just slightly.

“Remember tha’?” He purrs, lips to lips. Then, he steers your face to look ahead, where the video keeps rolling.

And you’re so diligent, following his lead. “Yes.” 

“Mh,” he rumbles. “Felt good, didn’t it?”

The swell of your ass grinds against his cock. Simon kisses his teeth, jaw tight in the effort to keep himself sane.

“Yes.”

His offhand reaches down to the base of his cock. Slaps the head against the curve of your ass once, twice.

“Wanna cum on my cock like that?” He murmurs, reaching down to lick the shell of your ear. You shiver. “Wanna feel like tha’ again?”

You wiggle underneath him, letting out the smallest whine. Shy thing, you. That’s one of the things that has changed. He’s always loved the bite of your teeth, the cut of your tongue. Loved the leash you put on him, how it revealed his need for control for what it truly was—mere, unfettered fear. Shackles he thought were keeping him safe, when they were only locking him up in a cage of his own making.

He recognises that same trait within you, now. Recognises, also, how you’re trying to be rid of it. 

It’s why he’s more than delighted to understand that you're fighting against those chains—forever his clever, clever girl.

He narrowly misses your hand reaching forward to press the buttons on the side of his phone.

Your voice fills the room.

“Oh fuck,” you groan.

Simon’s hand has your hair in a brutal grip, pulling you back until all the phone can record are the angles of your jaw and the sharpness of your collarbones. His chest peeks from above, glistening with sweat and ruddy in blotches.

Your ragged moans are punched out of your lips by the rhythmic snap of his hips. Thrust after thrust framed by the slap of skin and his voice—some raucous, crackling thing that rips from his chest, claws and all.

“Like tha’, pet,” he snarls. “Fuckin’ take it.”

And you nod, sweet thing. You nod dumbly as you smile up at him. Your tits hang and bounce as the raw force of his hold lifts your chest from the bed. One last pull, tight and strong, turns those moans into one sharp yell. 

His grin is unseen but clearly plastered in his tone. “Y’liked that, uh?”

Another tug, another helpless moan. 

“Ah fuck, yer close,” he chuckles. The wet squelches of your pussy ratchet up in volume as he thrusts in, over and over, picking up the pace. “Listen to tha’. Yer gonna cum, love?”

The lower half of his face pops into frame from above, only to land a kiss on the crown of your head.

“Can feel ya getting’ tight.” His lips brush your skin. “Go on, sweet girl.”

Before leaving the grip in your hair. 

“Cum on my fuckin’ cock—"

Your face hits the pillow with a groan that drowns in linen. The phone falls, now recording the ceiling. No one bothers to pick it up again.

“Fuck me,” you heave. “Fuck me like that again, baby.”

Simon has to close his eyes and inhale to get himself back in line.

“Fuckin’ hell.” He kisses his teeth. “C’mere.”

He pulls your head back once again. Kisses you until his lips feel numb. Right beneath him, you keep chanting your plea like he isn’t about to give in already.

“Fuck me, baby,” you mumble to his mouth, on and on without rest. “Please fuck me. I—I want to feel you inside me, please. Please.”

I want to feel like I want to have sex again.

“I want it,” you whimper. “I want you.”

Blood pulses from the base of his cock all the way to the tip. He can feel the shockwaves seizing his limbs when he presses it to your cunt, sliding it up and down your slick until he’s drenched in it.

He kisses your temple. Moves upwards to the back of your head, safely cradling your jaw in his palm.

“Missed it, haven’t ya,” he purrs by your ear. His cock enters an inch. “Feel tha’?”

He’s never been this hard in his life—never been this turned on either. 

You must realise it too. Words fail you, but your voice doesn’t. It crackles through your lips with a moan that shatters on his palm.

“Missed you too, pet.”

He’s barely been inside you, and if he doesn’t truly, really, focus, he’ll ram his cock and come so fucking deep you’ll drip for days.

Suddenly, the thought feels more tempting than wrong. 

“Yer gonna take it, yeah?” He grunts, moving forward with his hips. “Gonna take it like a good fuckin’ girl.”

A pleasing sob. “Please.”

With a groan, Simon gives in.

Not a sound leaves your lips. He can feel them open up against his hand, choking on air, and that is all you yield as he pushes in. The rest tightens into one euphoric knot at the base of his throat, cutting off each intake of air. 

In a swift motion, Simon buries his cock to the hilt, hips flush to your ass. His head collapses against you, mouth to your shoulder, and peppers kisses all over its curve. When he pulls back, the first stroke after months sends his brain into a frenzy. His teeth sink into your neck, growling like the famished beast that he is—

One you tame with your hand in his hair, tightening the grip to settle him.

“Oh my fucking—" Words tumble out of your mouth in a strained whimper. “Fuck it feels so good. Move. Move, please move—”

Simon’s mouth opens against your neck. His tongue licks a path from your thundering heart to the shell of your ear, where he tries to focus. 

It’s the smell of you. The floral of your shampoo and the sourness of sweat. The butter of your face cream and the ginger of perfume.

“I got you, pet,” he croaks, as his heart suddenly ties itself in a knot. “I got you.”

You’re incomparable. Fit like a glove, you do. Adjusting to him in the blink of an eye, already heaving like he stole the air from your lungs—though he’s just started, and considering the desperation of your hands, he reckons you’re far from done, too.

He’s deliberately slow, savouring each second that passes—but sometimes he slips, and thrusts in a little harder. Apologises with his lips down your neck, turning your hiss into the softest sigh. Thumbs your waist with the hand fisting the sheets, also the only thing preventing him from collapsing on top of you. 

You find his fingers and twine them with yours. 

The only sound he hears is the one coming from the video, the screen now flush to the pillow. It fell at some point. He never bothered to check when.

His groans, the slap of skin, your pleas as you come—

“Fuck,” you pant, hissing through your teeth. “Ngh—keep going. God, plea—keep going—”

“Yeah?” His voice purrs. “Fuckin’ feel that—Christ yer dripping.”

Your breath picks up, ricochets in the bedroom as another orgasm stalks closer.

“M’gonna come again—”

“Go on then,” he rumbles. “Do it, love. Cum all over me.”

Abruptly, your fingers reach for his phone and lock it. The echo of your moans is cut short, and so are his grunts. For a second, his tinnitus manages to shroud the lack of sounds.  

But then, there’s the quiet stagger of your breathing that breaches past, poking a hole through the cotton stuffing his ears. The creaking of the bedframe follows. How his movements make the springs moan under his weight. 

The wet of your nose nuzzles his cheek. “I missed you.” 

Your fingers relent the grip in his hair, hand falling down to cup his cheek instead. 

“I missed you.”

It’s said so wistfully that Simon, for a moment, feels entirely out of his depth.

He kisses the shell of your ear before guiding your gaze to point his way. Glossy eyes find him, thinly veiled with gratitude. He almost melts then and there. You got him wrapped around your finger, bow and all.

“I love you,” you say, placing your lips on his. “I love you so much.”

Simon’s chest grows tight.

He can feel those words take hold of his heart. Squeeze it bloody, only to travel southward and tighten around the base of his cock, too. In a stutter, his hips falter, and he has to come to a standstill if he doesn’t want this to end so abruptly.

“Christ,” he mutters, “Yer killing me, pet.”

The smoothness of your teeth brushes his lips as you smile. “Mh. And we don’t want that.”

He buries his nose in the crook of your neck and inhales the flowers, the butter and the herbs. The ginger, the sweat and the biscuits.

“Aye, we don’t,” he sighs.

Your tongue licks a stripe across his mouth. “But I love you.”

Simon groans. “Yer a cheeky fuckin’—”

He pulls back and slams in again, as if to chastise you, but it isn’t received as punishment at all. In fact, it spurs you on—you moan into his mouth and put him under your spell. A chant, continuous, of endless I love yous that peel off the layers that make him.

Simon finally gives in. He’s missed you, too.

He collapses on top of you, punching a gasp from your mouth as your whole body is enveloped by his. His arm snakes under your belly, and you favour him by lifting your hips. The angle has him hit somewhere deeper, and you shatter beneath him. Your throat cracks a groan, soaked by the pillow, and finally, you let go when his fingers find your clit.

“Missed you,” he croaks in your ear. 

His pace picks up. 

“Missed this voice ‘ere.” His mouth latches onto your neck. “Missed yer fuckin’ taste. Missed this fuckin’ cunt.”

Doesn’t care about the strain in his spine and the burn of his calves, not when your moans start growing louder and wetter.

“Fuckin’—” He stutters. “Love ya. Wanna fuck you every day—”

Your slick rolls out of you thick as liquor for each thrust, coating his fingers. Two, at first. Then three, gliding smoothly from side to side over the tight knot of your clit. 

“When yer knackered, when yer cooking, when yer in the fucking shop an’ bend over to pick up some shite—”

“Oh fuck, Simon—keep going—”

“—Fuck, yer made f’me. Naked or not. I always want you. I do.”

“I’m—oh fuck—I’m gonna come—”

And he can fucking feel it. 

“That’s it, pet. Give it to me.”

Your body seizes at first, taut as a bowstring. And then, you bloom. 

Wave after wave, rippling against him with your whole being. Even as cramped as you are, crowded under the weight of him, you fuck him through your ecstasy. Push your ass backwards to ride him for all his worth. 

And Simon is entirely helpless, so entranced by the pulsing of your cunt around his cock that he barely realises how he’s coming, too. It’s all it took, really. To feel you clutch at his hair with your fingers, to have you fight for control—steal it from the tight grip of his hands. 

His teeth sink into the soft flesh of your neck, groaning when his release wrecks him from within. Feels your pulse ratchet up under his tongue, your stutters as they bubble up your throat as you wordlessly beg for him to want you, to love you.

As he silently gives it all to you. All you ask, and more.

Eventually, you fall still. The tightness of your muscles melts. All the effort of your movement turns into mere, occasional twitching as adrenaline leaves your bloodstream.

You’re soft again. Turning your head on the pillow to find him, resting with his cheek right by your side. 

“I missed you,” you say wetly. “I’m sorry.”

Simon brushes his nose against yours. 

He knows how that type of guilt feels—the misplaced one, the one with no reason to be there at all. It festers within your stomach and doesn’t care about the damage it yields, because it’s not how it operates. 

It’s unfounded. Still, he knows words won’t be able to quell the heartache.

But Simon sees what you still can’t. It takes balls to survive a life you don’t want anymore. He knows a thing or two about that. Swam in his own ocean of shit. 

Still, he watched you take control back in your hands. You asked for help and crafted a new life that fits you better and patched the wounds left by the one you once led. You witnessed yourself burst at the seams and decided that it was time to pick up the needle.

That requires an incomparable amount of courage.

Simon knows it well. Still bears the scars to prove it.

“Don’t gotta be,” he whispers. “Proud of ya.”

Your eyes widen. Open the faucet, too. The glittering rim left by your orgasm turns into a river. Tears cascade from the corners of your eyes and branch above the bridge of your nose, down your temple, into your hair.

“For what?” You chuckle dismissively. “Having sex?”

But Simon kisses your nose instead. Offers a lovely smile he hasn’t granted in a while. 

“Yeah,” he concedes, because you need time. “Tha’ too.”

Your giggle is refreshing and genuine, though a bit strangled. He realises only then that you’ve been crushed underneath his weight all this time, so he props himself on his elbows. You sigh, wiggling to turn around in the cramped space between his chest and the bedsheets, until your eyes are aligned with his.

Your lashes are clumped, sticking to one another with dewdrops of happiness. They flutter when you look up at his face.

“Thank you,” you say. “For being here. For being proud of me.”

Always. 

Simon leans down and breathes a kiss on your forehead.

“There ain’t a day that goes by that I’m not.”