──⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

He presses you down against the bed, kissing you. You hold his face, scratch your fingers through his beard, as he turns you, stretches out alongside you. He hooks his arm behind your head to keep you close and only pulls away long enough to tell you, "takin' these off," it that way that feels like half a question. You're quick to help him get your panties down, quick to shiver and spread your legs when he rubs his finger along your slit, stopping to circle your clit. He gives it a light tap and trails his finger back down to your hole.

You raise your hips a little, just enough to entice him to press his finger into you, and you feel yourself make a soft noise against his lips as he pushes in. He licks the noise out of your mouth, his tongue twisting with soft movements against your own. You half expect him to start in on you, but he eases you open with his finger, the gentle in and out as he strokes your walls makes you shiver and try to follow the movement with you hips. You can feel him smile against your lips when he brushes over your sweet spot and you let out a quiet whine.

It's enough encouragement for him to add a second finger. When you attempt to break the kiss to watch him, Price pulls you back in, licks his broad tongue over your lips and tips your head back. You're dizzy trying to keep up. He jabs you sweet spot and you moan against his lips, his fingers twist and you whimper. You feel your hips buck, and your back arch off the bed to try and keep up with the jab, jab, twist of his thick digits. Each time he works you up, hits the right spot, he pulls back to stroke your gummy walls. Teasing until you moan with each thrust of his fingers, and your own grip his shirt so tightly you worry it might rip. You're hardly kissing him, panting against his lips as you arch against his chest, your head tipping back as your eyes roll. Price nips at your throat, his fingers focused on hitting the soft spongey spot that makes your stomach tighten. You could light a fire with the heat he fucks into you, the pleasure that zips up your spine is unlike anything else.

His fingers work you faster, more precisely, and the sound changes. The wet smack of his fingers is different, doesn't need his palm to hit you to be loud and noticeable, and it is loud. You'd be more concerned if it didn't feel so good, everything just keeps getting hotter and tighter in the pit of your stomach. Price groans, his lips just brushing your ear, "Fuck that is a good girl." You clench on his fingers, feel him pull back to add a third, twisting them in and out of your cunt, giving you a burn so delicious it almost makes up for the coil in your stomach. He draws back, rubs his wet fingers up over your clit. "Little break sweetheart, then back to it," he tells you, kissing your cheek. Break from what you don't know, but the attention to your clit adds a new tension to your spine that tingles over your skin. He doesn't stay there long before pushing two fingers back into your cunt.

Again. The work up to those loud squishing noises is shorter this time, his fingers are more precise, they give you less time to get used to the short jabs of pleasure. The pressure doesn't stop building, and you can't do anything but pant and moan. Price kisses you, and murmurs sweetness that you hardly understand. He asks you a question, you think. You try to get a word out, any word, but you feel too scrambled to talk, his fingers don't stop. Your everything feels tight enough to break, like you're holding something back. You nearly cry when he pulls out his fingers to play with your clit again. You want nothing more than for him to fuck you right now, his fingers aren't enough to break whatever dam he's beating at.

Again. He kisses you until you can't hold it anymore, until your eyes are squeezed shut and you're arching off the bed. Price's teeth tease your neck, you dig your nails into his shirt and bemoan the fact that they aren't digging into his skin. His fingers- you are going to ban him from fingering you- his fingers jab, hard and fast, up and down, in and out, until you are writhing, begging (with no words, "Can't even talk, can you?" Price coos) for a release. "Come on," Price encourages, the deep rumble of his voice in your ear as you sob and moan for him gives you little comfort, "come on, give it to me sweetheart, one more."

Something breaks. The pressure doesn't release, but something does, something warm and wet. You feel it when it leaves you, feel it soak the bed under you, feel it soak your thighs, hear Price moan and feel his hard cock press against your leg as he holds you open. He pulls back and watches your pussy, pulls his fingers from you and rubs them over the slit. You heave in a breath, look down at him between your legs, watch him studying you with rapt attention. His shirt is sprayed with drops of wet, and you can see it glistening on his forearm. You shudder when he drags his fingers over your clit. You feel boneless.

"Fuck that is sexy," he breathes, leaning down to drag his tongue over your dripping cunt. It's a short but broad stroke, enough to wet his beard before he sits back again. Your hips jump away from his fingers as you try to get your bearings.

"What did-"

"Didn't think you'd squirt like that, should've gotten undressed," he fills in. Your eyes roll back as he pushes his fingers into you, he jabs your sweet spot with another few short quick thrusts and you feel another break of wet. It's strange, you've never- you didn't even know you could- it doesn't feel the same, but the release... you reach down to feel the slick coating your thighs as Price pulls his fingers free.

"Fuck," you whine, you can feel how soaked the bedspread is, your thighs aren't any better. Price sucks his fingers clean and opens his fly, pushing his pants down to pull his flushed cock free. You've never seen him so hard. You own fingers spread your pussy for him and you hear the growl deep in his chest as he strokes himself to the sight.

"That's my girl," he tells you, lining up his cock with your entrance, "always wanting more, greedy little-" whatever you are is lost to the loan groan he lets out as he fills you, lost to the soft gasp you draw in at the stretch. "Fuck, this pussy," he praises and you whimper.

"John, please."

He shakes his head and you watch his shoulders moving with the effort of drawing in each breath as he waits to move. "Never wanna hear anyone say my name but you," he says finally, pulling out to slam back into you, "so scream it loud sweetheart."

He took what he needed from you with primal, untamed desire, and when it was over, he was gone until the next late night call. And you were left angry and frustrated at yourself, at him.

You hated recalling your pathetic mewls and broken moans. The warmth of his skin pressed against your, slick with sweat, as he fucked you, burying his cock deeper into your needy cunt.

With your legs around his waist, your knees burned against the leather of his backseat with every sharp thrust that seemed to knock the air out of your lungs.

Times like those were when you wished you could steady yourself in his hair, silence your moans on his lips, but he never took his mask off. You called him Simon, but you only ever saw Ghost.

So, your hands were forced to find security in the meat of his bare shoulders as he gave you no choice but to sit and let him bounce you on cock.

You hated his voice, always mocking and dripping with venom that made your cunt flutter and chest ache.

“Desperate slut,” he grunted. His harsh breaths fanned over the shell of your ear. “You always take me so good.”

Simon’s hands squeezeed the flesh of your ass. His nails left their cresent marks on you the same way yours did on his shoulders. It would be the closest thing to declaring your ownership over the other. He dragged your hips closer, forcing you to grind down on him.

The stir of his cock inside you pulled a moan from you. You worked yourself against him, almost rutting, feeling him deep inside you.

“Go on. Show me what you can do.”

He went hands off and you did your best to take over. He'd already given you two orgasms before stretching you around his cock. His fingers did well enough to leave you exhausted.

You rose slow with your knees and allowed gravity to take you back down. The slick noises of your bodies meeting seemed to echo in his car. The windows had fogged hours ago from your combined breaths. You were completely consumed by him all around. Nothing mattered, but him and you.

Your stamina was no match for his and you were slowing your movements when your breath struggled to catch up.

He scoffed. His lids lowered as cold eyes focused on your sluggish movements, the wetness glistening on his cock and your cunt wrapped around his tip. “Fuckin’ pathetic. Tired already?”

“Make me come, Simon,” you begged, clawing down his chest. Your hips came down to a slow grind against his, urging him to take over.

Simon never took kindly to your orders. You assumed he got enough as it was from being a soldier.

“Wanted you to work for it, slut.”

He bucked his hips, filling you to the brim once again, kissing your cervix with the head of his cock. Your head fell back as you moaned and clenched around him.

“But I'll make you come,” he promised with each word after followed by a heavy thrust. “Again and again and again.”

Simon, if you recall his name correctly, is your neighbour. Though he never greets, barely even acknowledges your presence. An enigma that had begin haunting you with curiousity, like a trap leaving you for more and more. You had to admit that he was fun to watch despite his actions being nothing short of monotonous to many, simply leaning against the brick wall while he’d pull out a pack of cigarette, the street light falling onto him. It’d give him an almost eerie glow, like a lonesome ghost lurking in the quiet of the streets, unnoticed by everyone. You just happened to be observant enough to notice the hidden.

You could sometimes see him stare quietly at that pack of cigarettes, as if trying to not take one out, almost in frustration. Maybe he hated it, maybe not. You were nothing but a silent watcher from afar, content enough with entertaining yourself with the sight of your neighbour, reading more and more into him, to uncover the truth behind that mask of his. Oh, that mask. You found it cheesy the first time you saw it, though now it was nothing but an obstacle.

You wondered if he knew of this routine of yours, if he could feel you looking at him, not with malic but undying curiousity, like a detective trying to uncover the impossible. It had even became a small agreement between you both at this point, not knowing if he was oblivious of it.

Your suspicions were proven true when you saw his eyes meeting yours one night, not even flinching. Both of you just stared at eachother, every fiber of yours begging to look away and not seem like a fool while he appeared to be nothing short of nonchalant, almost uninterested, dark eyes fixed on you intently, studying you.

Puffing out some smoke, he’d torture you with his mask resting above his nose, not letting you uncover the truth you yearned for. You felt mocked, embarrassed even.

ending up in between your legs while he kneeled on the ground with all your clothes scattered besides him, he didn’t even let you greet him properly after you saw him, silencing all your worried questions with his mouth that was busy with your cunt, his tongue dragging up and down your sensitive clit deliberately slow while applying just the right amount of pressing, two thick fingers gently thrusting in and out of your warm hole, curling up inside to hit that sweet spot that made you moan oh so deliciously.

“been so good f’me, hm? such a sweetheart, always doing an amazing job taking care of everything while m’gone for work.” he mumbled and pulled away for a second, letting you catch a glimpse of his beard glistening with your wetness, those blue eyes of his half open and soft, looking at you so fondly.

he hated leaving you all alone in this house in agonising suspense whenever he’d be gone for missions, even after all the promises he’d make of coming back safe to you, promises he never broke. still, all the time away from you was simply torture. he needed to make it up to you, show you how lucky of a man he is.

diving back into your cunt, his fingers continued to thrust into you while his mouth latched onto your clit, gently sucking onto it until you came apart on his fingers, letting him patiently taste you up, the moans leaving your lips sounding nothing less than the songs sung by angels.

“oh, john…” you breathed heavily softly, your orgasm leaving your body feeling tingly, eyes looking down at price who was still on his knees, beginning to press soft kisses on your thighs now, moving down to kiss both your knees and calves, kissing you over and over, mumbling sweet praises to you — he adored and worshiped you as if you were his very goddess, which you were. he’d even get on the ground and kiss it to show how much you meant to him, how you are the holy light comforting the filthiness etched within him.

“you’re beautiful.” the smile adorning his lips made your heart skip a bit, watching him get up on his feet once more before climbing on top of you, gently easing you down onto the mattress. “i love you. fuck- i love you, sweetheart.” with a groan, he moved down to press some more kisses on your neck, making you feel the rough edges of his beard scratching your skin. “can never tell you enough of that, y'know? never.”

he nearly melted right there and then when he felt your fingers gently scratching his scalp, your breathing soothing his nerves. “my baby, i love you.” he just couldn’t stop repeating it, it almost hurt. he didn’t deserve you, didn’t deserve someone so perfect who was still willing to put up with a wrecked mess like him hidden beneath all that sternness.

“i love you too…” your voice came out quiet yet assured, brimming with nothing but pure love.

soft rustles of clothes could be heard as price got rid of his own a bit too eagerly, eyes fixed on you. “oh, fuck.” he grunted under his breath once his hand held the base of his cock, all girthy and already leaking almost pathetically. he gently tapped the tip of his cock on your puffy clit a few times, grinning at the little whine that escaped you before he finally aligned it against your tight hole, gently pushing it into your cunt. your warmth enveloped him, his hips stuttering just a bit once he was overcome with emotions, poorly hiding them.

“my sweet, sweet love.” slowly caging his strong arms around your head, he felt your legs wrap around his hips while he began to slowly thrust his girthy cock into you, fully pressed down on you. your hands dug into his back while his face was aligned with yours, giving him the perfect chance to press loving kisses on your forehead and nose.

his embrace felt like a prayer of its own, his thrusts not losing their momentum despite his body aching to go a bit faster. no, not today. it was all about you today, to give you all the gentle love he held deep within him. you could feel his bushy happy trail rubbing against your clit, making it a bit achy in a good way. he probably didn’t have time to trim it properly during deployment, and oh were you grateful.

“j-john, feels so good.” you moaned blissfully into his ear, pleasure coursing through every fiber of yours, your walls clenching around him with every kiss he gave to your face, drowning your moans once he pressed his lips to yours.

it wasn’t long until your orgasm came crashing down on you once again, washing over you pleasantly while you drenched his cock. he twitched inside you, grunting as his arms came down to wrap around you and pull you impossibly close, his head burying into your sweaty neck while he continued to fuck you until he felt his balls tighten, filling you up with his warm cum.

He pulls you into a crushing hug, shaking like an ebullient dog that’s unaware of how big it is. His jersey, a royal blue, turns cobalt with his sweat. It sticks to his skin and outlines his chest, peeling off of your shirt when you sheepishly pull away. 

The pitch is glutted with celebrating teammates and their loved ones, but the broadcast camera is raptly focused on you and Johnny. On the grudging hold he has on your waist and the unwieldy trophy he’s just won for his team. 

Johnny grins like it’s a challenge. Like he wants to make the camera turn away. He forestalls the protests on your tongue by sinking into you for a hard kiss, bruising, and almost brutal in its force. It’s like he hasn’t separated himself from the game yet. Like he doesn’t want to compartmentalise you from the barbarous sport he plays. 

The scruff of Johnny’s stubble tickles you as you try pushing him back, try twisting out of his hands. But his fingers, as bandaged and torn as they are, press dimples into your jawbone and keep you in place. Keeps you squirming and shameful beneath the dissonance of celebration. 

He peels away with a kitten lick, pressing a wet smooch to the corner of your mouth. He’s smiling, pulling your jeans against the bulge beneath his spandex-like shorts, chuckling.

“Scored that last try for you, hen,” he pants. Spits out his mouthguard and passes his tongue over his bloodied teeth. “Did’ja see it?”

Johnny stinks of iron musk and sweat. He hands the trophy away and uses both hands to pull you close, clemently kissing your jaw. 

“I did,” you hum. You consciously lilt your voice upwards, telling it to Johnny how he always needs to hear it. “You did so well, Johnny. So good.” 

He whimpers into your neck. Just barely gyroscopes his hips against you. 

“Did it for you,” he slurs. Johnny’s words are all soft, melting on his tongue as if he’s drunk. As if his brain is belated and stuck in the grip of your praise. “Did so good, right? A’practiced so hard.”

You take the bait that Johnny has given you, petting him, because if not, he’ll get ratty and make a scene. You pull back and cup his face, preening under the cornflower blue of his eyes and the puppy-like dip of his lips. You smile. “So good. I’m so proud of you.”

Johnny is half-lidded and dizzy, nodding to himself, swallowing your praise like an empty-headed dog. Impatience and lust are written into him—you can tell by the darkened shade of his eyes and how hard he clutches your hand. 

“Let’s go,” he says, leading you through the stadium entrance, shouldering past fans asking him for autographs and photos. “We’ve time before the team goes for dinner. Nobody’ll be in the change room.”

Your cheeks flare with the implication of Johnny’s words and how purposeful they are. Marked by firm determination, leaving no room for objection. 

He tugs you like a puppy pulling its owner. Excited, working against its leash, your feet struggling to catch up. Johnny pulls you into his team's changing room, slamming the door shut behind you. The sound of you getting pressed against the lockers is thin, tinny, and fleetingly impairs you. When you reorient, Johnny has his skinned knee between your legs and against your pussy. His hand palming his cock through the tight material of his rugby shorts.

“Johnny,” you pant, “what if someone comes in?”

“Let ‘em,” he huffs out a laugh. “What’re they gonna do? Ban me from the league? I just won us a trophy. ’m on top of the fuckin’ world, baby.”

Annoyance cycles in your stomach at his lack of consideration. You try wiggling out and mewling, but the thigh between your legs is an immovable object. Your clothed clit catches on his sinews at every angle, pushing a gasp out of you regardless of how you twist and turn. 

“Haud y’r wheesht,” he barks. A hint of aggression bleeds into Johnny’s words, and that makes you pliant. “We’re just celebratin’, hen, no need ta ruin my win.”

Your eyes are on the door while Johnny shucks down his shorts. It rolls down his thighs and he leaves it at his knees, too eager to toe off his cleats and pull it all the way off. He stands awkwardly now, a little stilted because he can’t stretch his legs all the way, but that doesn’t stop him from bevelling his thigh into you and flexing, grinding into you. 

Johnny peels your shirt—a replica of his jersey—off of you, and kisses you deeply. You can taste the salt and blood crusted against his lips, feel his small smile. 

Johnny spins you around and folds you over the bench. Your knees bruise against the rubber flooring and your chest flattens against the cold wood, your brain reeling in the gross implications of it, whatever Johnny and his friends get up to in this locker room. 

He rips down your jeans, almost popping the buttons off, almost burns your skin with the denim, and settles himself behind you. Johnny grabs a fistful of your ass and spreads you open, swatting your pussy with his other hand.

“Johnny…” you mewl, and he chuckles. Gives you a waggle, slipping his large hand over and thumbing your clit.

“Thought you were feart of bein’ found?” He asks, lowering to his knees and kissing your dewy folds. “Why’re y’being so loud?”

Johnny waits for a second, giving you time to think of a reply, but with the first sound to leave your mouth he’s licking a fat stripe up your pussy, collapsing your words. 

He laughs at himself and it sends vibrations up your spine. Your bones are grinding together, your nerves filaments of live wire under Johnny’s hands that dig divots into your thighs and his mouth that sucks on your clit, tonguing your sticky folds. 

He spits on your cunt, spreads the wad of saliva around with his tongue. He pulls you into his mouth and suckles, moving his wet lips against your dewy ones. 

You stretch your arm back and tug on Johnny’s fleecy mohawk, scratching your fingers against the dew-skinned, shaved parts of his head. He expels a groan against your clit and you mewl, pushing into him, wiggling so his nose buries further, his tongue plunging into you and licking a stroke up your walls. 

You’re quivering now, shaking against the cold bench and Johnny’s hot mouth. A knot of energy crackles in your stomach as he wraps his lips around your clit and slurps.

“Gonna come on my mouth, hen?” Johnny pants, but pulls away before you reply. Punches a whine out of you by spinning you onto your back against the bench, pulling his cock out and giving it a few tugs, his dick so hard it droops with laden weight and a slaver of precum.  

“Or would’ya rather do it on here?” He asks, stroking himself. His balls low-hanging in front of you, the fat head of his cock all ruddy and red and flaring as he pinches it. 

You stare, dull-headed, with your mouth hanging open and a hazy film behind your eyes. Johnny giggles. 

“Cannae think with this in front of ye?” He smears his cockhead on your lips. “Sweet girl. So cute.” 

Johnny winces and pulls away. He swings one leg over the bench, settling himself on top of you. His cock is a heavy mass of muscle between him. Swinging, bobbing in place. Dumb and drooling with precum that drops onto your navel. 

He slips himself between your puffy folds, panting like a dog. Equally as impatient as one, squeezing his cockhead past your first ring of muscle, writing off your small cries of pain. He thinks cupping your cheek offsets the burn—still, Johnny’s cock is so heavy and so big inside you. Spreading you open, stretching you out. Making a home inside your belly. 

You hic his name, and he shushes you with a kiss. Johnny weaves into short, quick thrusts, because pulling himself to the tip means losing most of your warmth, and he can’t have that. He settles on barely rolling his hips, focusing on burying himself deep, folding himself into a frog position if that means fucking you meaner.

“Takin’ so much cock, bonnie,” he moans into your neck. “So good. So good.” 

Johnny’s ears turn pink and his eyes turn glassy. He keeps rocking inside you, his cock filling you out so well, so full, your thighs shaking and damp with slick. He fingers your clit, and in his pace, wild and unfettered, you wrap your legs around his waist like a cobbled together leash that you use to pull him closer.

Johnny grows feral at that. He slaps his balls harder against you, biting your shoulder. Sweat and blood rolls down his cheek and onto your face, augmenting the icy gold of his first place medal. It drags along your chest with each of his thrusts, turning into a ball of liquid fire as your body saturates with sweat. Johnny leans down, his lips slick as he kisses you, the push and pull of his hips ripening into a more jagged, desperate rhythm.

“Gonna fill y’up, hen,” he pants. There’s a strong dissonance that impairs you, echoing within the locker room. Johnny’s degenerate moans and the slap of skin against skin. The pitched sound of the wind being knocked out of you, the sticky sound of your cunt getting spread open on his big cock. 

Something else poises itself on Johnny’s tongue, something impure, but it gets shaved-off as he cuts himself off with a long, flinty moan. Johnny quivers as he comes, and that pushes him deeper as he fills you with his warm ropes.

He presses down on your clit, pushing the rise of your orgasm out of you. Your spine curls off the bench, your nails digging divots into Johnny’s arms, your mouth hanging open and a rough wave of pleasure curling over you and breaking into your skin. Your orgasm is so consuming it burns, eating you whole.  

It chews you up and spits you out. You tremble around Johnny’s softening cock as he peppers kisses down your sternum, and while you reorient, you see an unearthly spot of colour in the corner of your eye. It isn’t composed of matter—it’s big and blurry and hides between two rows of lockers. 

Then, you realise the drapery England flag, the absence of a Scottish one. 

The man who stands in the corner is blonde and huge and has his fat cock out, curling his fist around it, pumping. He’s so quiet, an ambush predator as he just stands there, continuing to beat his dick even after you make eye contact with him. 

He turns to Johnny, grotesquely smiling.

his appearance in your apartment is comparable to the appearance of a ghost, silent, the room seems to suddenly become quiet and you can’t even hear his steps, you can’t hear how he inhales through his nostrils under the balaclava with zeal, as if on adrenaline, and all attention is focused on him, the walls narrow until you are looking only at him — not even at the dirt stains left from his boots, at the huge thick bag, obviously filled with his things and which you have never seen before

you only watch as he rips the gloves off his hands, throwing them somewhere randomly, before his bare hands, covered with scars and once washed from blood, cling with bending fingers to the edges of his balaclava to throw it away, exposing disheveled blond strands, a sharp face, lips compressed into an even thinner line than they actually are, and you look, look even when he closes the distance between you with a practical roar, pressing into your lips and licking them with his tongue, pushing inside and slotting up, while his hands explore and squeeze uncontrollably, and yours stroke his face and cling to his dirty strands.

a few steps back along the parquet until your back meets some surface, allowing simon to take full initiative and pick you up in his strong arms, he shakes slightly, he squeezes you until there are marks on the skin under your clothes, turns around with you on hands, navigating the darkness as if in his temple, before catching onto the image of dim light through the slightly open door of your bedroom, paving a new path, a few more steps until you appear naked before him, on rumpled sheets.

you serve as his temple, the center of his peace when his hips snap with unrestrained zeal, thrusting them into your quivering and warm pussy with shallow thrusts, his thighs tremble with tension, his face is buried in the curve of your neck, the heat and sweat between you only turns you on even more, making everything more intimate.

simon kisses and licks the skin under his lips, leaving wet and warm marks on your neck, his nose rubbing against the soft flesh, reaching for your hair as he inhales deeply, inhaling your scent, greedily, as if you were about to slip away, as the depth of his thrusts knocks the air out of your lungs, his cock thrusts deep inside you, hitting your spongy spot, the sensation is both intense and satisfying, stretching warmth of your hole as he takes you completely.

all the words die on your tongues at the same time, after he drowns in the wetness of your cunt, picking up the pace with slightly faster thrusts, somehow randomly pounding and pursuing the feeling of your velvety walls wrapping and squeezing his meaty girth, sucking him deeper, until your wheezing and moaning is interrupted by the vulgar squelching of your slick, enveloping his cock down to the very balls and leaking down your folds, thighs, leaving a wet spot on the sheet.

he continues to penetrate deeper, his movements make you choke on your moans and sighs, as if piercing you, while simon lowers his face, lifting himself up slightly on tense, shaking hands, just to watch how your cunt swallows him to the brim.

wet, squelching sounds fill the room as your hole spasms and clenches around him, perfectly in sync with the throbbing and kick of his cock against your spongy spot, and he bites his tight lips, swallowing a satisfied growl, digging his fingers into his palms on either side from your head without touching you.

the feeling of an approaching orgasm twists and tightens in your lower abdomen, and your walls squeeze him tighter, pulsating non stop in time with your muffled moans, and your hands intuitively reach out to cup his face, urging him to look at you, the connection between your eyes is electric, tense as if a string that is about to break, and his light eyelashes flutter, his gaze softens spontaneously, as if the abyss is dissolving, letting you in with a desperate wheeze, like a wounded animal

— “i can't„

in front of you is a wounded doe, begging for mercy, asking not to look at her with such eyes, full of trepidation, full of tenderness, love that he is afraid that he cannot return, cannot repay in full, so he begs, hoarsely, desperately, he is shaking all over, and the thrusts grow in intensity, driving him deeper, hitting your cervix, knocking out all the sounds from you, not allowing you to connect a word while he chants again and again

— “i can't, you know i can't, stop.. stop looking at me like that„

the unspoken “please„ curls on his tongue and dies deep in his throat, but is silently reflected in his eyes, he doesn’t know that he has long been completely naked in front of you, body and soul, with readable emotions in his habitually bottomless eyes, which are now open only to you alone, as you part your lips, only to end up with a muffled cry and flare up.

your body tenses and trembles, a scream escapes your lips, choked with pleasure as you throw your head back slightly and your eyes roll back, lost in the sudden, overwhelming sensation.

coil inside you snaps, causing a powerful wave of orgasm emanate from the pit of your stomach, as your hips buck uncontrollably, your thighs tremble as you are consumed by intense pleasure, fire like liquid flows in waves from the pit of your stomach and to your core, mixing with the slickness and cum that coat his cock.

your spasming walls clench around him, sucking him in and milking him as you ride waves of ecstasy, the pulsating, vice like gripping sensation triggering his own release and he gives in with a sudden loud, strangled moan, as your vision snaps back to see the way his body tenses, his spine arches and he's assaulted by small tremors, making him bend over you, trembling, as his cock throbs and he spills his thick, hot cum deep inside you.

his tip kicks and spurts rope after rope of milky liquid, painting your walls until the last wheeze from his lips, the last drop of sweat from his sharp chin, before he goes limp, his body is still trembling, muscles are gradually going limp, but he does not have time to hide his nose in the arch of your neck when you, with slightly trembling hands, through the haze of a gradually receding orgasm, cup his face, hoarsely uttering those accumulated words that he did not allow you to say to him all this time, knowing that then, he would definitely break

— “i'm going to fall in love with you again and again, simon„

simon's gaze waver's, his lower lip visibly trembles and compresses into a line again, you feel him trying to lower his head, hide, to block himself from the words that he doesn't think he deserves, but your hands are squeezing slightly, and his is completely limp, so there is nothing left for him but continue to listen, even when his eyes become wet and his throat burns, holding back bubbling sobs, closing his eyelids tightly when you press his face to your lips, kissing a path from the corner of his mouth to his ear with warmth and tenderness, letting his hands slide over the sheets, curl and clench them into a white fist, before his rough, tingling fingertips touch your waist and squeeze, gradually wrapping them around you, as your whisper caress his ear

— “and you don't have to love me back„