#yep.

How long until this cool new artist I found does something antisemitic

what a thrill........ not just big boss and johnny but also naked snake...??!!

You had his blunt, scarred finger hooked into your mouth - teeth biting down until you nearly drew blood - when Simon finally, finally let his tongue slide over you in a full, wet stripe. Your knees buckled against his square, thick shoulders, heels digging deeper into the small of his back as if that could anchor you against the relentless, microscopic precision of his mouth. He was fucking military about it, hype focused and efficient, but he was also Simon: a bastard for control, a glutton for soft whimpers, and, apparently, obsessed with making you beg.

He hummed against your clit like he was testing the timbre of a tuning fork. Every ripple of sound vibrated through you, multiplied by the way his calloused thumb angled just below - right at the place where too much friction made your thighs flinch around his head. He held you there: tense, shuddering, strung out like a bow, while he watched the flex of your abs and catalogued every micro-expression you made. "S-Si- please.." His tongue didn't move until your voice broke; then he drew away, slow and deliberate, leaving you cold, empty, heart clawing up your throat. He cocked his head, lips glossed, and tutted you gently, as if you were a disobedient pet who’d chewed through something valuable.

"No' yet, pet," he drawled, the words rolling low from a chest that caged you as surely as his arms did minutes ago. His voice was a hand around your throat, hot and teasing, a leash you'd gladly knelt for. And you hated him for it, the way he could leave you stranded in half-orgasm, more raw from the denial than the pleasure. You hated him for the way his big hands splayed over you, pressing you into the mattress, making escape laughably impossible. But mostly you hated yourself for how badly you wanted to hear him say your name again, the way he made it sound like a command. He traced the seam of your thigh with his tongue, slow and indecent, brushing your pulse with pointed little kisses. His mouth moved to your hip, teeth finding that ache of bruise already forming from the last time he pinned you here. "You like tha', don't ya?" he murmured, feathering the words over nerves already banded tight as wire. "All desperate fer it." A nip, then a lazy flick of his tongue that left you shivering; and when he ducked back to your center, he pressed his face in with the same stubbornness he brought to anything that mattered.

He put his face back between your legs then, quietly, almost amused, he said, "You'll cum when I tell ya. Not a fuckin' second before."

Talalay asks herself if she subconsciously made the bookshop doors look like tardis