So I’m Not Horny On Main, Lol

Tucking is a bitch. Just getting it to sit right for a start, but then you have to make sure it doesn't all shift around, you have to periodically slip off to the privy to readjust everything which when you're wearing your false nails that's doubly unfun. Never mind the fact that it feels like you're constantly sat on your balls, because you kind of are. If only you could get away with not bothering, but then you catch sight of the bulge in your dress and that dull sickness rises in your gut. It's not like the pills weren't working, the miracles of modern medicine giving you curves like a real-life Jessica Rabbit and tits to match but you weren't seeing the advertised shrinkage.

You grinned to yourself, you've definitely seen pictures of Jessica Rabbit with a massive cock on the internet. Great if that's what you like, but it's not you.

You’d seen it on the internet, Creadle and Crabnuts industries, purveyors of fine reality-bending goods. Technically they sold sex toys, but really a pair of knickers with a portal in the gusset? If you're using that for sex you're extremely narrow-minded. Hell, if nothing else your clothes could finally have pockets worth a damn, even if it is one that's a little awkward to reach into.

You pulled them on, feeling the disc of cold metal pressing your flesh. It wasn't comfortable, not yet at least. A quick tap and swipe on an app, and the portal paired. You sighed, feeling your junk pass through the portal in your clothes and emerge somewhere else - in this case, a box in your wardrobe for specifically this purpose. You’d certainly heard some horror stories of these things going wrong but as long as you controlled both sides of the portal you’d be fine. Why wouldn't you?

Slipping on a pair of kitten heels, checking your fit in the full-length mirror in the hall, adding a pair of jangling bangles, because fuck Coco Chanel. Then you were off. The heat of the early-summer day painting your brow with a sheen of sweat as soon as you stepped out. The trees on either side of the road casting welcome shade on the way to the train station. At least the train had aircon, sitting down in the cold, dry air felt like heaven.

You were barely underway when you realised: something was very, very wrong. The sensation of movement, that concealed part of you hidden away elsewhere wasn't where you thought it would be. The suspicions confirmed when you felt a cool draft, then warm breath.

Soft lips pressed against your skin, maybe hundreds of miles away. A gentle shower of kisses, tender, affectionate bites on your foreskin, just enough to tease. A tongue, running from the underside of your balls, painfully slowly up the hardening shaft of your cock to end in a swirl around the head.

You gripped the seat, you’d chosen one near the bike racks - you like these seats, back to the window and facing into the aisle. You couldn't get trapped in by someone dozing off next to you. It also left you nowhere to hide. A deep blush burned up your face, you felt your cheeks turn scarlet.

Those lips sealed around you. Taking their time, tongue rolling around the head, probing the tip, rubbing against the underside of it, tasting your precum as it mixed in with the saliva coating the velvet-soft skin of your member.

The lips let go, the cold air caressing your sensitive, throbbing-hard cock. Your teeth grit, suppressing a gasp. The head pressed against hot wetness, before pulling back a moment. You felt yourself slapping against something soft, moist, oh-so-warm. You bit your lip, cock twitching in anticipation. You were being pressed against it again, rubbed up and down, coating you in slick. Then you entered. Powerless to stop whoever it was from using you however they liked.

They moved so slowly, taking their time. You felt your cock bury itself in the velvet softness of someone's cunt. They were quivering, in anticipation? The gentle stimulation of their walls tightening around you, gripping your disembodied cock, sliding it in and out, grinding the soft tip against a favourite spot. Already, they were clenching down. The soft walls gripping harder, rhythmic squeezing against your shaft. You bit your tongue, hard enough to draw blood. Knees squeezing together, grinding your thighs against one another, the other commuters trying their best not to stare at you desperately trying to hide what was happening. You could tell you were doing a bad job of it. Gentle sounds of pleasure escaping you, white knuckles holding your skirt down, and the deep red blush burning your face. Only by screwing your eyes shut and focusing hard could you stop the lewd bliss threatening to write itself across your face.

Your balls tightened, slapping against the thighs of a distant, anonymous lover. Your eyes rolled, still closed tight. You almost doubled over, leaning forwards, your focus slipping just enough for a moan of satisfaction to escape before being quashed. You shook. Moments passed, every throb of your aching cock a fresh jet of cum left you and another shaking wave of pleasure rumbled through your body, radiating from the root of your member out to your brain, clouding your thoughts with bliss.

Rope after rope of virile, potent spunk filled your partner, and she took every bit. She buried your entire length in her receptive quim, grinding your head against her cervix, letting you unload directly into her core.

You’d never seen her, you weren't even sure if she was a her, but she’d be carrying a little bit of you around for days now. At least.

That definitely beat tucking.

################################################

His jaw clenched, hands balling into fists at his sides. For a moment he just stood there, chest heaving, before he exhaled hard and dragged a hand through his mohawk. “I dinnae know, alright? I’m just- Christ, I’m so pent up. Buzzin’ out of my damn skin like I’m gonna crawl right out of it.”

The raw frustration in his voice made you pause. You’d seen him stressed before, seen him angry, but this was different. This was desperation.

You softened slightly, uncrossing your arms. “Johnny… you need a constructive outlet. Something to channel all that energy.”

“Like what?” His voice rose, accent thickening with frustration as he gestured wildly. “Drills? Exercise? Gettin’ angry at the heavy bag till my knuckles bleed? I already do all that shite. I run until I cannae feel my legs, I drill until the sergeants tell me to go home, I work out until I’m ready to collapse, and it’s still there. Still buzzin’ under my skin.”

You’d never heard him sound so lost. This was Johnny- your Johnny- who always had a plan, always had control. Seeing him like this made your chest ache.

You bit your lip, weighing your next words carefully. “What about… finding someone? You know. To blow off steam with. Sometimes physical release helps with- ”

“There isnae anyone.” He cut you off with a bitter laugh, dropping onto your couch and burying his face in his hands. “Had a few one night stands here and there, thought maybe that’d help. But even those aren’t doin’ it anymore. Wake up feelin’ worse than before, if I’m honest.”

You sat down beside him, close enough that your knees touched. The silence stretched between you, heavy with years of friendship and unspoken understanding. Your heart pounded as the idea formed, as you turned it over in your mind. Crazy. It was crazy.

But maybe crazy was exactly what he needed.

“Then… me.” Your voice came out quieter than you intended. “Whenever you need.”

His head snapped up so fast you heard his neck crack, blue eyes wide and searching your face like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard. “What?”

“No strings attached,” you continued, forcing yourself to hold his gaze even as heat crept up your neck. “We’ve already been there before, Johnny. We took each other’s virginity. And then that night after Harmond’s and the night after your mum’s funeral. You know it won’t destroy what we have. We’re too solid for that.”

He stared at you, processing, and you could practically see the wheels turning in his head. His oldest friend. The one person who’d never left, never judged, never expected anything from him except honesty.

“That was different,” he said roughly, voice barely above a whisper. “We were both grievin’, both drunk off our arses-”

“And we woke up the next morning still best friends,” you interrupted gently. “Nothing changed between us, Johnny. Not really.”

The air between you crackled with possibility. His eyes darkened as he studied your face, searching for any hint of doubt or uncertainty.

“Are ye sure?” His voice was rough, vulnerable in a way that made your breath catch. “Because once we cross that line again, knowin’ it’s not just… I cannae lose ye. You’re the only thing that keeps me sane.”

You reached out and took his hand, feeling the calluses on his palm, the familiar warmth of his skin. “You won’t lose me. I promise.”

He squeezed your hand, something shifting in his expression; relief mixed with something hungrier, more desperate. “Christ, hen. Ye have no idea what you’re offerin’.”

“Then show me,” you said softly, meeting his gaze steadily. “I’m sure, Johnny. I’m right here.”

He didn’t move for a breath. Then Johnny stood, hauling you up with him like gravity had shifted.

“C’mere,” he said, voice gone rough.

The kiss was hot, hungry, the scrape of his teeth when your mouth opened under his. He walked you backward until your calves hit the couch and pushed you down, crowding your knees apart with his thighs.

His hands were everywhere at once: jaw, throat, the hem of your shirt. Calluses caught on fabric; he swore softly against your mouth, then dragged your tee up and off, eyes darker than you’d ever seen them.

“You sure?” he asked, voice low. It wasn’t a hesitation so much as a key turned in a well oiled lock.

“Yeah,” you said. “All of it.”

His exhale shuddered. “Aye. Then I’m takin’ it.”

He palmed your breast through your bra, thumb catching the peak until your back bowed. The other hand slid straight into your waistband, blunt fingertips seeking heat.

You’d been sixteen and clumsy together once, eighteen the night before his first deployment and a long time till you’d see him again, twenty two and drunk, twenty four and grieving, and now you were older and meaner and still fit like the space made for each other.

He found you slick and swore again, filthy under his breath. “Been thinkin’ about this for years,” he muttered, dragging two fingers through and circling lazily against your clit until your breath hitched. “You, right here, lettin’ me-”

“Less talk,” you bit out, hips chasing him. “More-”

He pushed two fingers inside your cunt and the stretch hit sweet and sudden; your thighs opened on instinct and he crowded closer, mouth at your jaw, his breath a rough stutter against your skin. He set a pace that wasn’t gentle, the heel of his palm grinding your clit every stroke. Your head went back; he followed and took your throat with his mouth, tongue hot, teeth just shy of a bite.

“Jesus- Johnny-”

“Aye? That right?” He latched to the hollow under your ear and sucked, a mean, slow pull you’d feel tomorrow. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

“Don’t,” you said, almost a laugh, almost a plea. “Not ever.”

He groaned like that did something to him and sped up. The rhythm turned your spine to a live wire, each curl of his fingers hitting perfectly, your body answering with a need you’d been holding for him without knowing.

You reached for his belt with shaking hands. He caught your wrist, pinned it to the cushion beside your head for a breath, and looked at you- really looked- like he needed to see the sanity in your eyes before he went the rest of the way off the rails.

Your gaze didn’t waver. “What part of ‘whenever you need’ sounded complicated?”

His mouth bent in something like a grin gone feral. He let your wrist go and you had his belt open in three angry tugs, button, zip, the hot press of him freed to your palm. He was hard enough to ache, heavy and hot; you stroked him once, slow, and felt his control yelp.

“Fuckin’- you’ll be the death of me,” he rasped. “Turn.”

You did, quick as breathing, palms braced on the couch back, knees digging into the cushion. He hooked his fingers in your waistband and wrenched your leggings and panties down in one rough shove, swore at the sight of you, and covered you; chest to your back, heartbeat slamming, the blunt head of his cock nudging where you were open and ready.

He pushed in slow enough to feel every vein and ridge against the soft pliant walls of your cunt. You swore, forehead hitting your elbow, the stretch spreading through you like a shockwave. He bottomed out with a helpless sound that punched heat low in your belly and stayed there a heartbeat, shuddering.

Then he moved.

It was not sweet. It didn’t need to be. His hands banded your hips and he drove, hips snapping, the wet slap of skin a steady counterpoint to your breath going ragged. Each thrust was a download of everything he couldn’t say: lonely nights, white hot adrenaline with nowhere to go, the ride back where he’d sat on your porch steps and stared at his hands like they were weapons he couldn’t put down, covered in blood he couldn’t wash away. You took it all and gave it back, meeting him, pushing, biting your own forearm to stay tethered while pleasure sprinted your nerves.

“Good girl,” he growled when your hips tilted to chase angle, accent thick, praise rough as a palm. “That’s it. You take me so- Christ.”

He reached, found your clit with callused fingers, and circled in messy, perfect time with his body. Heat spiraled tight, hot, mean. The couch creaked; the coffee table rattled. You laughed, wrecked, at the thought you’d tried to fight him over takeout and now he was fucking you into the cushions like you were the only thing keeping the ground under his feet.

“Johnny.” Your voice broke cleanly. “I’m-”

“Aye, hen. Let go.” He sounded wrecked and reverent at once, pace stuttering as your walls fluttered around him. “I’ve got you.”

You came hard, the kind that yanked sound out of you you didn’t plan. He rode you through it, fucking you right into the center of it, fingers never leaving your clit until you were shaking and swearing and shoving at his wrist.

He eased off at once, grabbed the couch back for leverage, and chased his own finish with three deep, brutal thrusts that dragged a groan up from his chest like it had been locked there for months. He buried with a guttural curse, breath crushed out of him against your shoulder, hips grinding through the last hot pulses until everything went quiet but your heartbeats.

Silence soaked in. Johnny’s forehead stayed pressed between your shoulder blades while he caught himself; when he eased out, he did it slow, one hand at your hip to steady you.

You turned just in time for him to flop his sweaty body onto yours, head against your breasts, arms banded around your waist. You carded your fingers through the mohawk you’d trimmed last week; he huffed and kissed the inside of your wrist, a shy, thoughtless thing that said more than either of you knew what to do with.

“You alright?” he asked, softer now, the buzz damped to a satisfied hum.

You smiled at him, loose and lazy. “Better than alright.”

He sagged against you, tension draining free. The live wire edge in him had gone quiet. For the first time in weeks, he looked like your Johnny.

—

You were chopping peppers in your kitchen when the front door opened and shut on a familiar cadence. He didn’t say hello. He didn’t need to. You set the knife down and wiped your hands on a towel, heat curling low at the sound of him.

He reached the doorway, eyes already on you like he’d been starving. There was dust on his sleeves and a red mark along his jaw where a rifle sling had ridden too long and you turned, bracing your palms on the counter.

He came apart with relief. Hands on your hips, kiss at the back of your neck that was more bite than thanks, leggings down, your cunt wet for him easy and open. He pushed his cock in with a groan that sounded like coming home and took what he needed quickly, honestly, forehead to your shoulder, muttering your name into the cotton of your shirt like a prayer. You fed him your breath and your body and let him lay something heavy down.

He cleaned you up with a paper towel and a sheepish grin, stole a slice of pepper, then sat on a stool while you finished dinner, knees knocking yours, the buzz in him smoothed to a warm purr.

—

It happened in the car, too, the far corner of the deserted Tesco lot with rain drumming the roof. Johnny slid the seat back and hauled you across his lap, the windows fogging in seconds, his hands under your coat and your skirt up around your hips.

You laughed into his mouth as he swore at the angle like he hadn’t thought past getting to you. You rode him with your palms braced, his hand at your throat for balance, both of you biting back noise while headlights stitched the wet tarmac outside.

When you were done, he pulled your tights up for you with careful fingers, tucked your hair behind your ear, and kissed your knuckles before guiding your fingers back to the seat heater dial. “Warm,” he said, fond and bossy. “You’re shiverin’.”

—

The flat is dead quiet when the lock clicks. You’re already sitting up, covers pooled at your waist, the echo of a sound you didn’t hear still thrumming through the walls of your bedroom.

He fills the doorway: hoodie half zipped, hair damp at the temples, breathing wrong. “Hen?” he asks, voice sanded down to the nerve, his eyes wild.

“‘M here,” you say, lifting the duvet.

The mattress dips. He’s on you without ceremony, the kiss rough and grateful, the way a drowning man grabs a rung. His knee spreads your thigh; his palm slides under your shirt, flat and hot against your stomach like he’s grounding himself, he sinks into you with a broken exhale, forearm under your shoulders, face buried at your neck.

He moves like he’s been running; steady, driving, the cadence of survival still in his hips. You match him, fingers in his hair, letting him pace the noise out of his blood. When he shudders apart, he stays deep in your cunt, heavy, quiet, ribs easing one by one. “Aye,” he mutters against your skin, calmer now. “That’s better.”

—

Steam curls under the bathroom door when the latch clicks and two soft knocks land on the frame. You slide the curtain back to find him already tugging his joggers down, rain glittering on his mohawk. His eyes drop, then drag up. “Room fer one more?”

You brace your palms on the tile ledge. “Yeah.”

He steps in, shower pounding his shoulders, and turns you to the wall. His hand locks at your hip and he pushes in slow, the wet heat making both of you gasp. Water drums your shoulder blades while he takes you there, one forearm braced above your head, the other grinding your clit in small, maddening circles when your knees start to tremble.

He soaps you gently after, rinses your hair when your hands shake, and kisses the water off your eyelids.

—

The mat room smells like rubber and disinfectant. The overheads are off; exit signs paint the floor with red slashes. He’s already stripped to training shorts, wrist wraps still on, chest heaving from drills that didn’t cut it. You toe off your shoes; he’s on you in three strides, hauling you into the far corner where the camera doesn’t reach.

It’s quick by necessity: lift, your back to the wall and his hands under your thighs, forearms bracketing your shoulders. He fucks you like a sprint, silent but for ragged breath and the sticky thud of skin. When you lock your ankles behind him and go tight around him, he swears into your throat and grinds deep through the last shudders, eyes shut like he’s finally seeing black instead of static.

He wipes the floor with a towel after, checks your knees for burn, tapes a raw knuckle you hadn’t noticed, then bumps his forehead to yours and laughs- quiet, relieved. “You’re a miracle, hen.”

—

He’s crouched between your knees before the door even clicks fully shut behind him, shoulders wedged under you desk, and your chair squeaks as he drags you forward.

He pushes your skirt up and your panties aside with the blunt certainty of a man who knows your map by heart. Two fingers slide in and curl; his mouth covers you, hungry and single minded. You clamp both hands over your mouth. He works you patiently, insistently, until your thighs clamp his ears and your spine bows and you bite your palm to keep from praying his name into the office air.

When you’re shaking, he eases off, licks his fingers clean with a ruined grin, then kisses the inside of your knee and disappears as fast as he came. Ten minutes later he texts a photo of his clean plate: ate. You threaten to block him; he sends you a heart.

—

Halfway through a film you’ve both seen a dozen times, his leg starts bouncing, jaw tight, and slide to your knees on the rug.

He leans back, hips already lifting to your hands. You free him and take him into your mouth; slow, wet, unhurried, your cheek against his thigh, one hand around the base and the other splayed over his stomach to feel the way his breath stutters. He threads his fingers into your hair and doesn’t push, just holds, eyes on the ceiling like he’s praying. When he says your name you hum around him and he breaks, groaning low, palm flattening grateful against the back of your head as he cums down your throat.

He pulls you up, kisses your tongue like thanks, and tucks you under his arm with a blanket and a bowl of popcorn.

—

Friends in the lounge, music too loud, laughter spilling through the hall. You’re topping up a tray of drinks when two quick knocks rap the doorframe and he slips into the narrow kitchen like a secret.

His pupils are blown and he has you turned and braced in the sliver of wall between the fridge and the pantry in a heartbeat, dress pushed up, panties to your knee. You barely register it before his cock bullies inside your cunt, one hand over your mouth, the other under your thigh to hike you open. The bass thumps through the wall; he uses it as cover, thrusts controlled and quiet, breath hot at your ear.

You come first; silent, vicious, nails in the paint. He follows in a low, strangled exhale and rests there a second, forehead to the cupboard door. When he eases out, he pulls your panties back up with careful fingers, wipes you with a folded paper towel, and steals a cherry from the tray with a grin before walking out to hand drinks round like he didn’t just rearrange your soul.

—

The reunion crowd is loud in that soft, nostalgic way, everybody shouting over 00s hits while pretending they aren’t judging each other’s hairlines. A glittery banner says WELCOME BACK, CLASS OF WHATEVER, and your table is a still life of empty cocktail glasses, a graveyard of lime wedges, and three phones face down like you all promised.

“Okay, but look at Hannah’s rock,” Tasha says, tilting her screen anyway. “He proposed in Santorini. Sunset. Drone footage.”

Priya fans herself. “My man just booked a brunch for my birthday. I think that’s romance.” She bites her straw, smug. “What about you?”

You make a face at your drink and whine, dramatic because it’s easier than honest. “I’m the only single one here.”

Three pairs of eyes blink at you like you’ve spoken in whale song.

“…Babe,” Priya says carefully, “aren’t you dating Johnny?”

You choke. “What? No. That’s not- We’re- ” Your hands do unhelpful jazz. “Friends.”

Tasha laughs like you told a joke. “Friends who basically live together.”

“We do not live together.”

“His toothbrush is in your bathroom,” Kristen says, counting on her fingers. “He has a drawer. You have a key to his place and he has one to yours. He keeps almond milk in his fridge for you and drinks it even though he hates it.”

“He doesn’t hate it,” you say, automatically defensive. “He just- okay, he calls it ‘sad milk,’ but- ”

“And he picks you up when you call,” Priya adds, unconcerned. “Like… in twenty minutes. Because he always does, no matter where you are or what you’re doing or what time of day it is, he picks you up.”

“That’s logistics,” you insist. “Safety.”

Tasha tilts her head. “You meal plan together.”

You open your mouth, then close it.

“You do,” she barrels on. “He texts you from Tesco like, ‘crispy or soft tacos,’ and you answer in under ten seconds flat.”

Kristen leans in, relentless in the kind way only a friend can be. “You have Sunday routines. Farmers’ market when he’s not on duty. He carries your stupid heavy tote and pretends the heirloom tomatoes are a mission objective.”

“It’s a good tote,” you say, faint.

Priya taps her nails against her glass. “He also took you to that tiny cinema that only plays black and white films, bought the back row tickets, and brought you a blanket. That was a date.”

“It was cold,” you protest. “And he likes-”

“He calls them dates,” she says. “To us. ‘Can’t, I’ve got a date with her.’”

Your jaw forgets how to work.

Tasha is merciless. “He fixed your curtain rods. He assembled your bookshelf and refused to let you lift the heavy bits. He changed your tire in the rain and came in soaked and still made you tea.”

“That’s just…Johnny,” you say, weakly. It’s true. It is.

Kristen gives you the gentlest look. “He lists you as his emergency contact.”

Your stomach flips. “He… asked if he could. It made sense.”

“And you list him as yours,” Priya says, not a question. “He has your favorite snacks in his car. He brings your gran flowers on holidays and calls your mum ‘Mum’ and she lets him.”

The music shifts. Someone’s slideshow starts up on a TV over the bar: class picture, field day, a trip to the aquarium when everyone had braces.

You stare at the condensation ring your glass has left on the table. Two perfect circles, one inside the other. Your friends keep going because you haven’t said stop.

“He looks at you,” Kristen says softly, “like he’s been living in grayscale and just saw color for the first time.”

Your throat gets tight. You think about the way his mouth finds your shoulder in the dark and his breath evens, the way the live wire in him goes quiet.

“He’s been like this since we were kids,” Tasha says, fond and exasperated. “Remember Mrs. Dunn’s class? He put that stupid paper crown on and told the whole reading circle he was going to marry you. He got detention for fighting when Brandon called you weird. He gave you his scarf the winter your dad got sick because you ‘didn’t look warm enough.’”

Priya grins. “He told me at prom that if we lost you to some college guy, he’d join the Navy just so he could swim across the ocean and punch him.”

“Marines punch,” Kristen says. “Navy… rows? I don’t know, I don’t date men in uniforms. You do.”

You’re laughing, except your chest is doing that soft, vertiginous thing like an elevator starting. You think about the night he slept fourteen hours with his face in the curve of your neck. You think about the way he says your name when he’s looking for home, and how you answer the door.

“Guys,” you say, faint, “we have… an arrangement.”

“Baby,” Priya says, kind as a blade, “you have a relationship.”

Your phone lights up on the table: On my way. Ten?

Below it, because he’s learned your brain, another: You good?

Tasha watches your face soften. “He always asks that first.”

You type blindly: I’m good. Your thumb hovers, then lands: Hurry.

Kristen taps her straw against your glass. “He loves you. Has. Since he was eight and you beat him at dodgeball like it was the easiest thing in the world.”

You try to remember when it stopped being easy to see it. Maybe the night after the funeral. Maybe the first time he knocked. Maybe tonight, under a bar full of people who will go home to their high school sweethearts and their LinkedIn husbands.

You hear boots before you see him, that familiar rhythm threaded through a hundred other footfalls. He’s in the doorway like he always is, hood up against drizzle, hands in his jacket pockets, scanning until he finds you the way he always does. When your eyes meet, his mouth does that quick, stupid smile he swears he doesn’t have. It hits you, in the noise and the neon and the photographs of children who once shared your playground:

“Oh,” you say.