#foxy

He chokes on his beer. The can creaks under his fingers, bends. To hide the pitiful coughs and save his face, he pulls the balaclava over his mouth.

Your statement is clinical, as if you’re listing the tactical equipment needed for the next op. Plate carriers, chest rigs, back panels, a fuck to kill some time, thigh holsters, magazine pouches.

“’Scuse me?” 

You roll your head idly, turning your focus to him. You’ve got a dullness in your eyes, that hazy veil of alcohol and boredom, but somehow you still manage to slither under his mask. Your thumb draws slow lines on the condensation built on your can of beer, the corners of your lips quirk boldly—satisfied, in a way, to have left him speechless.

“Sometimes, two consenting adults can find ways to be close to one another in order to share—”

“Yeah, I got tha’,” he blurts, suddenly irritated. Then, with a resigned sigh, “Fuckin’ hell yer definitely somethin’.”

You snort. "Ah, ya love it."

Three divots indent the can of beer, welcoming his fingers, still contracted enough to push into the tin. His eyes turn ahead, staring at a crack in the wall.

“So?”

“Can’t believe yer even askin’.”

You chuckle. “Oh piss off, you’re a grown man—”

“Not bitin’.”

“Just see it as a Christmas celebration.”

“Fuckin’ hell—”

“A feast.”

“Oi. Pack it in, will ya?”

You bite down a smile. “You can keep the mask on.”

Fuck’s sake.

There is a plethora of reasons why he should tell you no, starting from mere regulations—but he’s broken plenty of those plenty of times, hence they weigh very little on his decision. He does, however, still care about harmony in the team, and while you might not be directly involved in it, you still have your own role in the task force.

On the other hand, he’s bored, and you’re hot. If he had a third hand, he’d add that the thought of fucking you stupid came to mind a couple of times. Maybe three, or four, or five—

And isn’t he just a man—even if dead inside and whatnot?

It’s fucking Christmas after all, for fuck’s sake.

“My room, 22 hundred.” He orders as he stands. A long finger points your way. “Not a fuckin’ second late, y’ hear?”

Your smile is surprised, genuine, and he swears, almost quivering.

“Yes, sir.”

Ah, now he’s heard that plenty.

Always yes, sir, always bowing your head, lending a hand. A pawn in a game whose work turned undeniably inestimable, and now you bear the crown—queen of the chessboard. You’re always clad in that perfect uniform, steamed flat with no wrinkles in sight. Always with your straight back, with your hand palming your knuckles behind your back.

But fuck him—he’s never thought he’d get the chance to see you like this.

Skin of velvet, sweat embroidered like pearls. If he touches your chest, right there in between your breasts, he’d feel your heartbeat. Thunderous, crazed.

And what strikes him is that he can. He can touch you, he can explore you, and you’d let him—perhaps you’d even enjoy it, judging by how much you’re enjoying everything else about him, fuck if he knows why.

Undeterred by the battlefield on his body, thighs spread like butter, open wide to welcome the girth of his hips. Your palm finds his stomach for balance, as his own finds your breast. He thumbs your nipple, watches you drag your slit along his shaft, flattened to his belly. Pearls of precum bead the crown of his cock—it weeps for you, waits to have you.

How long has he waited? Weeks, months. He’s watched you march across HQ with a confidence about you, enough to make heads turn—or at least, his sure did.

Every. Fucking. Time.

From the moment Price introduced you, you had him smitten. How you stared into his eyes, burning holes into the hollows of his mask—the fear he was so used to seeing billow from others, completely torn asunder within you. Not even the hard shell of that skull could keep you out: you had him on his knees from the first word you spoke, from the first yes, sir.

Metaphorically, sure.

Physically, too, since he found himself fisting his cock at the thought of you mere hours later. An orgasm so strong it knocked him off his feet, ropes of cum painting the toilet seat of the bathroom where he hid.

Fucking hell, he didn’t know he still had it in him.

It’s the confidence, he thinks. How you never cower, how you meet the harsh looks of less talented peers with sharp eyes and just a hint of a cheeky smirk—I did it, you fucking cunts. Those who think they deserve your spot in one of the most elite task forces in the bloody army just because they have a cock and you don’t.

Or maybe it’s your voice. Steady, charged, roaring like thunder. Orders, answers, remarks. Wit sharp enough to cut. Cut him you do, because there are times in which he’s the one rendered speechless, when he’s so used to it being the other way around.

It’s how you got him here, that tongue of yours.

He wonders what it can do also. What else do you have in store?

It’s the mystery shrouding you. A girl from a small town of a handful of souls, charging like a mad horse through ranks and throngs of men, until she’s finally seen and her work appreciated. 

It’s the stubbornness, maybe. What brought you here, in Hereford, being heard without the need of raising your voice. Fighting smarter, rising higher.

Straddling his hips, cheeks puffed, shaky limbs.

Where’s that confidence gone now, uh? Where’s that voice of yours?

Not even a mewl, a cry. Quiet like the dead, breathless like one too.

Your nipple turns puffy the more he rolls it between his fingers. Pinching, pulling, thinking how good it would taste if he were to bite it. Gently, just a graze of his teeth—watch you squirm and pant. Maybe it’s what you need, a little push to make you speak. Would you beg? Would you ask, kindly? Or would you match the same fire—bite harder, enough to draw blood?

God, the possibilities of you. 

Doe eyes stare at the head of his cock and widen each time it disappears between the folds of your cunt. You’re so wet that you’re dripping on him, biting down your lip whenever the strokes catch your clit.

And if you keep stroking yourself like that, he’s surely going to cum on his stomach before the fun even begins. While the view is different from the usual one, definitely more pleasing, it’s a fuck you offered and a fuck he’s accepted to have.

Lord help him if he’s not getting one.

“Gonna keep yer word?” He drawls.

Wide eyes snap to him. It’s like he brought you back to this world while you were lost in another one.

You cock your head. “Got somewhere to be?”

Ah, there’s that tongue.

He’s got one too.

“Got someone to fuck.”

You stiffen, back straighter and hips stalling. It’s just a second in which he sees you wither, and it feels like his own chest might cave in. But before you can make him interject, you’re lifting yourself off of him and gliding your hand around his cock.

Simon’s head collapses on the pillow as his lips give in to a breathless fuck. 

"Arrogant as usual, I see," you snark. "Didn’t know we were in a rush."

He blinks his eyes open. 

That cheek of yours is often welcome, but right now all his blood is collected down below, and his head is not in the best state. All he wants is to get his cock wet as you offered—call it a primordial need, awakening the most embarrassingly prehistoric chunk of his brain.

His hand curls around your wrist and snatches it away from him. 

“Be good and let me do my thing, now.”

You’re wide-eyed and speechless again. Simon doesn’t know if he likes you more when you’ve got that bite, or when you lack one—you sure are a sight like this, though.

You gulp. “Yes, sir.”

Fucking hell.

His nostrils flare, cock twitching against his stomach. The head bobs, trying to get your attention, but he has it directed to his face instead. Piercing inside the eyehole of his mask, as if you could see his expression underneath.

He softens it just in case, but your active compliance and that sweet, sweet Yes, sir, have him fighting to keep his eye from twitching and his cock from coming.

He breathes. Guides your hand to rest on his belly again. Then, his own travels downwards, until the tips of his fingers skim the knot of your clit.

And God, don’t they glide smoothly.

You’re so wet that it has Simon bite down on his cheek. The moan catching down your throat and the muscles tightening your stomach are what does him in, iron flooding his tongue.

He draws slow circles around your clit, teasing its hood instead of directly touching it to avoid overstimulation. As much as he wants to see you mewl and keen above him, you already look way too agitated, and his current goal isn’t to make you cum, but to make you relax.

“Yer a good listener, righ’?” He rasps. “Know y’are. Seen ya out there.”

Your head bobs in a nod, jaw slack and eyes hooded.

“Words, pet.”

“Mh—” You gulp. “Yes.”

Simon’s lips twitch. “Yes, what?”

Between pants, you murmur it—fucking sweet.

“Yes, sir.”

“Fuck—” He curses himself—not you, never you. Not when you look like this. “That’s it. Listen to me.”

Two fingers line your slit, leaving your clit unattended. Downwards, they find your hole. The tip of his middle finger circles it, and when he prods inside, he can feel you pulse around it.

“Relax,” he breathes. “Take it easy. We’ll do it like ye said—no rush.”

But when he tries to stick two of them inside, you lift your hips away.

And fucking Christ, are you hard to read. 

“Alrigh’?” He asks with a sigh.

You look like he’s caught you red-handed doing something illegal. Your mouth parts to speak, but for the first few tries, it babbles nothing but heavy breaths.

“Yeah—yeah, I am,” you clear your throat. “Why?”

Now that’s a weird fucking question, if you ask him.

“Yer runnin’ away,” he states flatly. “That’s why. If you want me t’ stop, say so.”

You stiffen, there.

“No, no—” Out of breath. “God no—I asked this, for fuck’s sake. I want it. I do.”

Simon is glad you offered to let him keep the mask on, because he cannot, for the life of him, control the baffled expression on his face.

“Don’t look like it, love.”

You puff. “I do. I just,” you rub your chest in discomfort. “Wasn’t expecting your fingers is all.”

He cocks his brow. “No fingers, then?”

“No, I mean—”

“You were the one moanin’ we were rushin’,” he says. “Figured I’d put you in a good mood so you’d stop whinin’.”

You splutter. “Put me in a good mood?!”

He rolls his eyes. “Oh, fuckin’ hell—it’s a figure o’ speech.”

“Oh wow, didn’t know you were a poet, Riley. Forgive me—”

Ah, bite him. Keep fucking biting and he’ll bite you too.

“You wanna fuck or not?” He interrupts.

Your mouth closes, and you sigh. “Yes.”

“Then do as I say an’ shut it,” he bites. Will you?

You gulp, searching his eyes.

“Yes, sir.”

No. You won’t. Uncharacteristic of you, in a way that has his stomach drop. Though he catches it easily, because when you say those words so pliantly he forgets how to use his own head to think.

His hand settles on the crease of your hips and guides you down. The tips of his fingers prod against your entrance again, as you lay your weight on the top of his thighs.

“Sink on ‘em,” he murmurs. “Go on.”

Your breathing trembles, but you follow his order and slide down until he’s got two of them wrapped to the first knuckle. And fucking hell, you’re tight. 

“Relax, pet,” he whispers. “S’gotta feel good, alrigh’? Not gonna hurt ya, jus’ need to stretch ya out.”

You nod dumbly, closing your eyes and exhaling, taking another knuckle of him. You’re scorching hot, and Simon salivates at the thought of having his cock in there, later.

And you keep going, down and down, until he’s got his palm flattened to your pussy. You’re still stiff around him, but he blames it on the fact that you two have just finished quarrelling like an old couple, and that isn’t exactly the nicest flavour of foreplay.

He helps.

His fingers move gently at first, pressing against the front of your walls. He watches you squirm and then soften when he does it a second time. Then a third has you choke on a cry, a fourth has you keel over him, holding yourself up with your hands on his chest.

Bent over like that, eventually your hips start grinding on his palm, and your breathing stutters whenever your clit rubs against the heel of his hand.

“There we go,” he murmurs, throat dry. “That’s it. Knew y’could listen.”

His cock twitches on his stomach for each breathy moan you allow to escape. You sound so unbelievably broken that he wonders what you’ll do when he’s fucking that attitude out of you, even if it’s nowhere to be seen now.

He knows it’s there. He’d bet his fucking left kidney on it making an appearance in a handful of minutes.

His hand is soaked. He keeps his eyes on the bounce of your tits as he grinds his teeth to dust to stave off an orgasm that might as well hit him with just a glance to your face, pent up as he is.

Your movements become more erratic. His forearm is sore and tired of holding you up, but he’ll be damned if he loses sight of your orgasm just as it’s about to strike.

“Fuck—fuck,” you pant, squeezing your eyes closed.

Simon bites down on his tongue.

“Atta girl,” he drawls slowly. “Go on—follow tha’.”

“Shit,” you heave, right before he watches you shatter.

You collapse on him, sandwiching his cock between your stomach and his. Your face is nestled in the crook of his neck, and the only thing Simon can see like this is the delicious curve of your spine tipping at your ass, as your hips roll to chase his hand.

Granted, it’s a hassle to keep it in place, so instead, he pulls out of you and lets his fingers glide over your clit to prolong your ecstasy. 

With your face so close, he can hear every pitch of your voice. When it rises and when it catches in your throat. He can feel every time you choke on a breath and every damp puff you release on the bare skin of his neck.

Fucking hell. 

His hands find your hips. A yelp is all you manage before he has you on your back, the breadth of him snug between your thighs. His cock slides smoothly between your folds, and because he wants to hear more of that voice, he snakes his thumb to your clit.

It still throbs under the pad of his finger.

You go rigid beneath him, neck corded and teeth bared. He hears you, finally. Not those little mewls or choked-up breaths. You crack a loud groan that bullies itself inside his head and settles there, perpetually etched.

He travels lower, gently wrapping his fingers around his cock to prep it for you, using the wetness soaking his palm. You look fucked out already, fluttering lashes and spit-slick lips.

He finds his fingers properly fisting the pillow next to your head to keep himself sane.

“Now tha’ wasn’t hard, was it?” He quips.

“Fuck,” a pant. “Off.”

Ah, his left kidney is safe.

Simon slaps your clit a few times with the head of his cock in retaliation, pleased to see the twitch of your eye for each hit, before aligning himself with you.

“Mh,” he chuckles lowly. “I like it when ya bite.”

Your hands tremble as they grip his shoulders, but the sudden warmth enveloping him is enough to turn his thoughts into syrup and briefly forget about it.

“Nice an’ easy,” he croaks, mostly to you but also to himself. Then, breathlessly, “Fuck, yer wet.”

It’s been a while—months, maybe, in which the only warmth that’s ever held him was the callous one of his hands. And sure, his memories of a good fuck might be murky, but he doesn’t remember it being so breathtakingly tight.

And to think he did all that just to turn you softer.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” he cracks. His forehead drops to the slope of your neck, the fabric of the balaclava absorbing the dampness collected there. “Yer tight, princess—”

“Don’t—” You choke, sounding like you haven’t been breathing right. “Don’t call me that.”

Simon would laugh and remark about it. He’d definitely call you princess again, just to get a rise out of you—see that fire he’s so used to. That defiance he swears by.

But he’s drunk already. Doesn’t think he can quite follow through with his plan on having the spitfire ride him until dawn—he’s lucky if he lasts a couple minutes more, with how bloody tight you’re squeezing him.

“Can ya relax, pet?” He huffs, sliding another inch inside. 

Your reply is not made of words, but instead it translates into your pussy tightening even more. This time, it’s no pleasure at all—it’s actually hurting him too, but he bets it might be even worse for you, so he tries to be accommodating even though it feels like you’re going to melt the skin off his cock. 

“Need you to—Jesus,” he huffs. “Need ya to open up. Tell me what ya need—”

Your breath is shallow, and he can taste each stutter when he nuzzles your neck. Then, his mouth finds your ear, sighs heavily against it as he dreams of having a taste, but he’s got the mask in the way.

“Need feedback, sarge,” he whispers. “Gotta give me somethin’ t’ work with.”

“Jesusfuckingchristfuck—” curses tumble under your breath, irked and winded. “Right. Right. Okay. Yes. Like that. Just—sl-slower.”

Definitely not the feedback he was expecting, but feedback, nonetheless. Still, a somewhat concerning one, so he lifts his head to meet your face. He finds you crisscrossed with wrinkles: the curl of your nose, the divot between your brows, your mouth tightened in a knot.

“Fuck, you alrigh’?” He feels compelled to ask again. This time, there’s less frustration in it and more of a genuine concern.

Your eyes blink open. They worry, in a way he can’t quite pinpoint, but it’s like he’s breached a space that’s been exclusively yours for a long time. He knows that feeling.

He’s not the only one sauntering around base with a mask, apparently. 

And as you saw right through his, that first day, he’s seeing right through yours now, for the first time. He’s known you for a bloody long time, and he’s seeing it only now for the first fucking time.

Everything clicks, slowly, and the concern progressively growing on your face is the last missing piece of the puzzle you’ve been all night.

“Listen,” he heaves, gulping down a stone in his throat. All his strength now focuses on keeping his voice as gentle as a bastard like him can manage. “Are ya—is this—”

The mask cracks, lashes fluttering anxiously. Then, it hardens again. The frown he's so used to see, the stern line of your lips. Anger blossoms—a veil to hide the apprehension lying underneath.

“Oh, fucking hell—” You groan and push him off of you.

He watches you wither as you clam up on his bed, bringing your knees to your chest and burying your face in there—a wall he's not sure how to climb.

For a moment, it’s quiet. Really quiet. That silence that strangles windpipes and crushes down chests. Simon is usually a lover of those; he thrives in that environment, but he’d hate for them to shatter you.

He thought you unbreakable, and he wants to keep it that way.

He sits up, throwing his legs off the bed. The sharp inhale you take has him wondering if you’re worried he’ll leave. He’s pondered it for a second, sure, but just because you’re wrapped in a cocoon of your own, and maybe you need space to metabolise the events. Plus, he really isn’t the best fit for situations like these, since he can barely deal with his own feelings—doesn’t know how to put up with other people’s, too.

He never even bothered learning, before today.

But then he’s reminded that this is his room. And there’s an annoying hunch inside his chest hooking at his ribs, telling him that he couldn’t leave you like this if he tried.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he sighs, thumbing the middle of his brow through the mask. “Ya could’ve told me, I woulda—”

“You’d what,” you snap, lifting your head. 

He tongues his cheek. Decides that facing fire with fire, tonight, wouldn’t lead to the best outcome.

“—been gentler,” he finishes.

You snort in a self-deprecating way that could rival his own.

“Oh, fuck off, Riley,” you sniffle. “You wouldn’t be here at all if I told you, that’s what.”

Your eyes dart around the room, trying to fixate on something that isn’t his face and his nakedness, or yours.

“How would I even ask something like that, uh?” You scoff. “Hi lieutenant, would you have sex with me since I never had it with anyone before—"

You sigh, burying your face in your hands. "Jesus Christ, I can’t believe I fucking said it out loud—God—This can't get any worse—"

You run your hand below your nose, placing your cheek on your knee while facing the opposite way. He watches you deflate, fold inwards, as if you could curl up even further within yourself.

“Just—This is already embarrassing as is,” you sigh. “Please give me a minute and then I’ll leave.”

That's what takes him aback. Maybe you are so focused on your work that you’ve become blind to everything else. He can’t blame you for it; this job chews you up and spits you out if you’re not careful.

But to think he’d have turned you down, as if this could’ve been a turn off at all, is pure insanity.

His eyes soften, though. So does his voice.

“Yer mad.”

Your breathing stutters. He can’t see your face, but the other tells are easy to recognise: attention perked, convictions shattered.

He scoots forward, resting a hand on your shin. Thankfully, you don’t flinch from his touch. It rises upwards, clasping your knee. Then, his thumb brushes the skin there, as he takes stock of the tremble rippling up your legs in the throes of your agitation. 

However, even as you refuse to look at him, you’re still soft as butter.

He parts your legs, spreading you open again.

It catches you off guard enough to grant him the sight of your face.

There’s that doe look again, not at all like the sharp eyes he’s used to seeing whenever you strut around HQ. It makes his stomach churn.

Fuck, you’re trouble, turning him soft like that.

“M’gonna ask again,” he murmurs. “Wan’ me to stop?”

Your throat bobs. A flickering gaze searches for a hidden agenda on his face, but the mask is in the way, and that seems to trouble you—unable, as of now, to slither underneath it in that effortless way that is so characteristically you.

Two of his fingers hook at the hem of the balaclava cinching his neck, and he pulls it up and off. It falls on the floor, next to your clothes.

Not the first time you’ve seen his ugly mug, but it still has your eyes widening, and those angry wrinkles soften. One vulnerability in front of the other.

“No," you breathe.

He licks his teeth. Bites down the corner of his mouth.

Slowly, he moves closer, guiding you to lie down again. His palm cups the back of your head, as if to protect it from touching the pillows. As if that’s needed at all, but he’s got this worm in his brain yelling to keep you as comfortable as can be.

“Can ya listen, sarge?” He asks, dropping his face to yours until your noses touch.

His offhand wraps around his cock, stroking the embarrassing amount of precum down his shaft. Each touch translates into ache, but he swallows the grunts to favour you.

You nod softly, still with wide open eyes and lip tucked between your teeth—so fucking appetising that he wants to eat you whole.

“Mh.” The corner of his lips quirks. “Words.”

That has your nose curl. A glimpse of the you he knows cracking the shell you’re hiding in.

“Yes, sir.”

He groans. “Fuckin’ love it when ya say it like tha’.”

Then, he kisses you. 

He’s fucked more than he’s kissed.

In fact, he’s even more hesitant than you were moments before, all tucked within yourself. But you take the lead here. Your fingers find the back of his head, threading through the hair all mussed up by the balaclava.

Soft tongue dancing with his, that’s what else it can do. Malleable lips meshing with his own, scarred and thin, hardened by years spent barely using them—whether to kiss, speak, or smile.

You got him doing all that in one evening.

“Alrigh’?” He asks into your mouth.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Alrigh’. You?”

“Peachy. Wanna ‘ave a chat?”

You breathe a laugh. “You’re fucking impossible.”

And he follows suit. Glad you’ve relented, even if just a little.

He aligns himself with you again, nudging the head of his cock to your entrance.

“We’re gonna go slow, yeah?” He whispers, taking hold of your jaw to redirect your focus to his eyes. “Slow ‘n easy. S'not gonna hurt—won't let it. But you gotta relax f'me—can ya do tha', pet?”

Your head shifts on the pillow, cocked sideways. You’ve got this glow on you now, one that ripens your cheeks and blossoms in the loveliest of smiles. Your hand cups the side of his face, thumb brushing his cheekbone—ridges and bumps of pockmarks and scars with more gruesome stories to tell.

Yeah. Yeah, you’re fucking trouble, alright.

“Got it, lieutenant.”

This time, as he slowly enters you again, he brushes his lips down your jaw.

You mould for him, throwing your head back and drowning it in the pillow. He goes down, meeting the smooth skin of your neck. Just pecks at first, left on the line of your throat. But when your nails dig into his back just a tad harshly, his mouth opens.

“Yer alrigh’,” he murmurs. “Doin’ good. Relax f’me.”

You don’t reply, but instead take in slow, deep breaths.

“Like tha’,” he whispers, sliding another inch. “Just like tha’.”

He can feel you softening around him, growing wetter for each word he breathes. His voice must help you, or his guidance does at least, so he murmurs it right into you.

Easy, he says. Deep breaths.

He kisses your throat. Feels each inhale that flows, each exhale you yield. Listening, complying. As if every intake of air is a sweet, silent yes, sir.

It takes him a minute, filled with your stutters and the rumble of his voice, and then you’re completely wrapped around him. Heels digging in the back of his thighs, arms coiled around his neck, cock snug inside of you.

Your teeth sink into the muscle of his shoulder when he finally bottoms out.

He likes it, when you bite. 

“Fuck,” you croak.

He lifts his head and meets your eyes. “Breathe,” he drawls, slow and steady.

You heed him. He watches your chest fill, gooseflesh rising up your stomach, pebbling your nipples. Your eyes are closed, now, as you focus on welcoming the girth of him, so unfamiliar, inside you.

He takes that time to study you. The focused wrinkle between your brows, the oval of your mouth as you push out air, the tip of your nose as you take in more of it.

It lights something warm inside him, the tiniest flame. It grows brighter when it hits him, that no one else has ever seen you like this. That no one, out there, knows this side of you. That they only know the confident sergeant who never takes no for an answer, who grits her teeth and spits orders when the respect she deserves is not given.

That they don’t know how much more of you there is to discover.

And call him selfish if you like, but he hopes they’ll never find out.

“You broken?” He murmurs after a moment.

You crack your eyes open. “Not broken. Stuffed.”

“Aye, that’s the point o’ it.”

Your lips pull in a smile. “Oh, so that’s it? That’s the whole deal? Pretty disappointing if you ask me.”

He snorts. “Glad t’ see you still got it in ya.”

That has you laughing, however soft. It glows on your face, put those wrinkles back, but they’re of different shapes. He reaches for them, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

Then, his hips pull back. The stroke of your pussy has him see stars, but he tries to focus on you instead. Your smile falters, and your chuckle wanes, lodged in the middle of your throat.

“Oh,” is all you say. 

It’s enough for him, as he pushes back in.

“Oh,” you croak. “Oh f-fuck—”

His voice cracks, too. “Not all tha’, mh?”

No remarks to his joke, no little quip of your own. Just the roll of your eyes, the scratch of your moans, the cut of your nails as they pierce his shoulder blades.

He fucks you slowly at first, kissing the skin of your neck and rising upwards. His belly fills with each breath you yield into his mouth, but instead of feeling sated, his hunger for you only grows.

He snakes his arm underneath the hollow of your spine. Your back arches as he lifts you, the plush of your tits pushing against the coarse hair running up his chest.

And Christ, you’re soft. It’s undoing him.

“You close?” He asks, breathless—hopeful, too. 

Because his cock has been aching for a while now, like everything else about him, and if he doesn’t come soon, he’ll lose a marble or two—of the few he’s got left, that is.

“N-no, but—” A whimper breaks your sentence. “—don’t stop, please don’t stop, don’t stop—”

Asking him like that will most likely achieve the opposite effect. You're unaware, though, it’s why you repeat it over and over—a litany that rises in pitch and cracks at the edges.

“Swee’heart,” he reasons quietly. “M'not made o’ plastic—won’t last much lon—”

“Then cum inside just don’t stop—”

Jesus Christ.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he croaks. “Yer gonna kill me.”

Simon fucks you at that same pace even though his body yearns to ram into you until you’re babbling nonsense. But you seem to love it, this tenderness—maybe it’s what you seek, to have a soft place to fall onto.

And who is he to deny you, really, when you’re pleading like that?

He wishes he had it in him to go on for longer, if not for your sake, then for his, because he craves to feel your cunt tightening around his cock as it did on his fingers—but he’s so close that he can barely put two coherent words together.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he grunts. “Fuck, pet—”

You catch the back of his head and swiftly guide his lips to yours.

Simon cums as you kiss him, messy and wet, and Christ, enough to triple the intensity of his ecstasy.

He ruts his hips with deep, slow thrusts that have a trembling quality to them. He never pulls out, preferring the warmth of you to milk him dry for all it’s worth. And just like he ate up your moans, you’re now drinking in his, as he comes down from his own high.

He stays buried inside you as he catches his breath, with your nails gently raking the indent of his spine. Perhaps he’s putting too much weight on you, but you haven’t whispered a single thing yet, so he decides to be selfish and bask in the warmth you exude, in the softness of your body.

Then, a kiss to his temple forces him to recollect his bearings.

“Merry Christmas,” you whisper.

Simon huffs into your neck, exchanging the gesture with his lips on your shoulder.

“Aye.” He shakes his head with mirth. “Happy fuckin’ holidays.”

Your chest bubbles with a laugh so soft he can feel it thrum against his skin before he actually hears it. It prompts him to lift himself up enough to catch it with his eyes, too.

Your smile finds him. A soft curve that drips with thankfulness.

“Alrigh’?” He breathes.

“Alright,” you nod.

His forehead drops to yours. You’re both sticky with sweat, but none of you tries to move away. Silence fills the room once again. It has a different taste.

He’s not used to this. He leaves when it’s over, yet now he doesn’t know how. He likes it—this quiet, this comfort he suddenly found with you.

And there's that mouth of yours, now running up the side of his neck. The clicks of your kisses rising upwards, the sting of your teeth as they drag down his lobe. Your tongue drawing the outline of the shell of his ear, breath wanton and hot against his skin.

Your voice, a whisper. “I wanna cum again."

No ifs or buts. Just blurted out with the same bluntness you used to ask him to fuck you that evening. He’s still got his cock inside you, still has your cum and his own mixing in a mess between your legs, and you’re asking for more.

Oh, it's still you alright.

Confident, proud, inevitable. Never one to back down—it’s how you got him here, after all.

“Jesus—” He chuckles quietly, “Yer definitely somethin’.”

You tut playfully. “Ya love it.”

And what if, uh?

“Right—love it,” he huffs sarcastically—thought the knot in his throat says otherwise. “A Christmas miracle, tha’.”

Then, he props himself on his knees.

He watches your eyes fall on where you two join, and he follows the trajectory. Wetness wraps around the base of him, glistening in the dim light. His hips experimentally push inside, and the crown of his cock burns at the friction—definitely not ready for a second round.

But then he looks at you. Soft teeth sink into your lip as if the sight of him buried inside you makes you hungry.

He’s the one to blame for that. He made you hungry, it’s only fair that he satiates the ache.

“You sure ‘bout this, yeah?”

You look at him. Eyes heavy with lust and challenge. His throat goes dry. 

A nod.

He kisses his teeth. “Wha’ did I say?”

It’s then that your mouth curls. A wicked smile framed by sharp eyes. There’s no mask to burn holes into, now, so instead you’re effortlessly slithering under his skin.

There you are.

“Oh, you like it, don’t you?” 

His eyes narrow. “Yer gettin’ too comfortable.”

“Says the one buried in my guts.”

He clicks his tongue.

Simon matches your energy, hooking his elbows under your knees. Palms to your thighs, ass lifted off the bed. You’re locked in place; there’s nowhere you can go if he doesn’t release you first—and you don’t seem to mind.

Actually, you encourage him, slipping two fingers into your mouth and heading for your clit. Slow circles that have him hypnotised, before your voice brings his focus back on your face.

“Will you fuck me again?” You bat your lashes. “Please, Sir?”

Simon releases a long, resigned sigh from his nose

“Oh, yer trouble,” he breathes. “Yer trouble alrigh'.”