thinking about chibs telford refer to himself as old man during sex.. 18+
fem!reader, mdni. cw. implied age gap. 'old man' in the dirty, dilfy way, not club way
the position he’s got you in is simple, quite comfortable really: laid flat on your stomach, side of your face resting in tightly crossed arms. a scrunched pillow sits under your stomach, acting as a prop of elevation for chibs.
he cages over you from behind, arms bent beside yours, lips ghosting the shell of your ear from the closeness. his slow and laboured rhythmic breathing matches the pace of his leisure fucking — the focus on depth and feel rather than the speed. every small, half wind of his hips produces the faintest of exhales from you both, your blissed sounds merging and muffling.
every slight bump of his cock into your cunt moves you, the pair of you fluid in motion, moving like tiny waves against the bed. your ankles cross and lift as your knees bend, another point of elevation tightening your pussy’s hold on chibs.
“aye, wee lassie,” he murmurs at the new feel, muttering into the patch of skin behind your ear. “not gon’ last,” he adds between a couple pumps, pressing a needy littler of kisses to where he just spoke — beard skimming the sensitive spots along the back of your bare shoulder.
his pace quickens ever so slightly, barely noticeable really. but it’s as if he’s chasing the edge. his chest brushes up against your back with the subtle increase of speed, strands of his greying hair falling from the pushed back position and mixing with yours below.
“you gon’ come with your old man?” he asks, the question practically rhetorical — no need for a vocal answer. voice low and accent thick as he whispers directly into your ear. “aye?” he hums, waiting for acknowledgement and nipping at the lobe of your ear.
you muster a nod, the motion rather haste. a measly whine accompanies the action and your eyes flutter closed. with his hands planted just in your view, his fingers only a short couple inches away — you reach for his hand. and when he feels your touch, he’s lifting a palm to place atop the back of your hand, fingers lacing into yours.
you clench around him intermittently, your breathing hitching and growing all the more strained with every rock of his cock.
“yer right there, aren’t yer, lovie?” he muffles into your hair, his forehead resting on the side of your head — strength in his neck seeming to be lost.
“yeah,” you murmur, the whinge following the word is rather pathetic.
his grip tightens on your hand, knuckles whitening atop of yours. “then let go.”
id actually give my last £7.42 to spend a night with this man. pls man you’re my fav scot PLS. fully prepared for no one to read this bc have never spoken about him on my page before
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