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Chapter Text

Cold wind drifts through his cracked window, brushing over his bare skin and making him shiver. It’s freezing out. Late into the year with a frost in the air that makes his hair stand. It’s pleasant, in a roundabout way, something to soothe his mind.

Something to feel outside of the rumbling nothing that resides in his head.

His ceiling- tile counted and memorized with each dent and interesting stain- has nothing new to give him. No more tales to form from thoughtless pinpricks of material or bumps in thick white paint.

He huffs. Lungs expanding around profound boredom that rushes out of him and puffs in the air, an invisible testament to his inability.

Simon can’t sleep.

Correction, Simon can never sleep.

Insomnia too kind a word for the restlessness that shakes in his body, a constant buzz in his skull that refuses to give him even a moments reprieve.

He’s grown used to it, he thinks, in the later years of his life. Becoming comfortable in the darkness his eyes have attuned to. Finding a solace in the silence that overcomes the city in it’s vulnerable state.

When the lights go out and the wind rustles in the streets. When cars are few and chatter is muffled behind thick walls and an eerie sense of solitude.

He likes it, most of the time, the stillness it grants. The moments to breathe. Time to explore the confines he’s restricted to without bumping into strangers or attracting the eye of those who step away.

Then, there are other nights.

Like tonight.

When all he wants to do is go to fucking sleep.

He’s exhausted. Mentally, physically, emotionally- however many words he need s to tack on to explain the weariness that whittles away at his bones and makes his skin peel around his joints.

He’s cold.

And he’s tired.

It’s as close to dead as he can get these days.

Simon glances at his phone- a muted crimson in the darkness that rests upon his mediocre nightstand, thick charger protruding from the bottom and slipping off the side into the abyss beneath his bed.

He stopped thinking about what’s under there about three years ago.

He’s kinda too scared to check.

He thinks to reach for it, a fleeting thought that sticks out among the rumbling chatter that fills the space between his ears.

Text someone, maybe.

Skim through his pitiful contacts list for someone to fill his thoughts.

Guide him to sleep or coax him out of his bed and into the freezing streets of Stockholm in search of cheap food or warm company.

He’s been doing that a lot more lately.

Sneaking out. Spending more and more time out on the streets, pressing the urgency of his mother farther and farther. Most nights leading to her on the front porch, clad in her signature robe she’s had since he was a kid and waiting up for him to return home.

He always feels bad.

She always worries.

It’s how they’ve always done things.

He hadn’t meant to start the habit of coming home so late , he doesn’t think, but he has.

Encouraged and egged on by a voice he feels himself tense with the recollection of. One that’s new, a friendly face found in a crowd of drunk flushes and strange circumstance.

He hadn’t planned on meeting anyone new either .

He wanted to. He always did. But he never planned on it.

And then you happened.

And he’s had a hard time pulling away.

It’s your voice, more often than not, that tugs him from his sheets and into the cold. Into the warmth of a convenience store past dark or the cozy atmosphere of a living room stocked with shit movies and endless conversation.

Simon hadn’t meant to meet you.

But he’s glad he did.

It was Sophie’s idea, as is customary, to drag him to a party he hadn’t even heard about and play normal. Lean into the normalcy that both craved, both yearned so deeply for that he could see the pleading in her eyes the moment he sat down their roof edge.

H e’ d been apprehensive at first. Nervous in his ability to mimic social interaction. But it was hard to say no to her. It always has been. So he went. And then you happened.

Alone on the back porch and kind enough to offer him the space for a smoke he desperately needed.

It was so easy talking to you that night. Discussing classes, reasons for being in the presence of the obnoxious people inside, familiarity in the silence of that backyard that you both were drawn to.

Easy conversation spoke around swirling wisps of smoke that clung to his breath and mingled with your own as you took a hesitant drag, coughing up the dusty taste and grimacing as he laughed.

It was so easy.

Losing you in the crowd afterward wasn’t as much.

So when Simon got your number sprawled on his arm in frantic chicken scratch as you bumped into him between classes days later, he was terrified of smudging it. Keeping his sleeve rolled up and arm adrift from his body until he could write it down, scribbled in his horrible handwriting on one of Sophie’s textbooks so he would remember it.

He wonders if it’s still there.

He thinks about texting you.

Pulling up the bursting conversation and scrolling through it with the same hopelessness he looks at everything with. But he stops himself.

Maybe out of embarrassment. Maybe out of respect. Maybe fear. Either way, he doesn’t text you.

But he can’t stop thinking about you.

He doesn’t know when it happened, truthfully . When thoughts of jean jackets and a gentle laugh become the shine in your eyes when you smiled, or the way your laugh made his heart race, or the feeling of your arms around him when the shaking wouldn’t stop.

He doesn’t know when the Polaroid he kept of Sophie became yours. When the idea of holding her became you. When his thoughts drifted from a quiet life in a small house to the rush of excitement that courses through him every time you pop open his bedroom window and tug him out, a map stuck in your brain and a can of bright paint in your hand.

He doesn’t know when it happened. But it did.

And he can’t stop thinking about you.

It was strange, to him at the time, when his thoughts raced around you. When he couldn’t bare to look at you for too long without shaking. When talking to you became all he wanted to do.

Now, he barely questions it. So long into your friendship, into him confiding in Sophie, into him wanting to know how your hand feels around his and what you sound like in the morning.

He’s gotten used to thoughts about you.

Catching on the clothes you wear, the music you insist he listens to even if he’ll never admit he likes it, the shows you recommend him and the sight of you sitting beside him in class. So focused on the mindless doodles in your margins you barely notice him staring.

He has a hard time pulling his eyes away from you.

Pulling his mind from the feeling of your hand on his arm, you leaned against him as you sit on his bed hunched over his old laptop watching the newest horror of the week, the sound of your voice so soft under the blanket of darkness that envelopes most of your time together.

He scrubs a hand over his face. Feeling the way his heart picks up. The speed of his thoughts and the way they twist.

Churning in his brain to the warmth of you against him when you spend the night and insist on sleeping in the same bed. When you wear his hoodie to bite off the chill, forgetting your own at home for the millionth time that week, and it fits you so well. When you pull your shirt off your back and toss it mindlessly somewhere in your room when he visits, when he presses at the boundary of what’s okay for friends to do, when he sleeps on your couch and your room is nothing but a tantalizing glance away.

When you crawl from your bed in the morning and your hair is messy and voice deep. When you run your hand over his side to wake him up for cereal and burnt toast and it electrifies his skin. When smoke curls around your teeth and into the air and all he can think is breathing it into his own lungs, feeling it fill him up and claim his insides as something you’ve touched.

Simon really, really has a hard time not thinking about you.

He sits up, blanket wrapped around his legs and pooled in his lap as he runs his hands through his hair, attempting to clear his thoughts. Rid them of pressed heat and the idea of your lips against his skin. Pressed to his throat and smiling against his heartbeat.

Phantom hands that run down his body and grip his legs, squeezing the meat of them and pulling them apart to fit between. He struggles to rip himself away. To smack the thoughts from a laugh above his waistband and a hand in his that feels heavy and warm.

His fist tightens in the sheets, an attempt at solution, at driving the fantasies he’s been plagued with away- all it does is make them worse.

His flimsy sheets becoming hair that s lips between his fingers and pulls your head back, a smug smile on your face as your red beaten lips glisten with spit . A challenge in your eyes that he’s come to love.

He draws into himself, head in his hands as he cusses under his breath, skin alight with a shameful neediness he despises.

The first time, he’d been horrified.

At himself, at you, at what his brain was capable of.

At the mere concept his brain had latched onto.

The imagined heat of you pressed against him, somewhere deep in a subway he’d never learned the name of, the walls dark gray and disgusting as you ground against him.

Hardness in your jeans rutting against his own, legs locked and faces inches apart, breaths mingling and breathy laughs making his head dizzy.

It was the fastest he’d ever finished.

Evidence coating his hand as he heaved, chest flushed and face burning hot as he clung to the ghost of you holding him, joined in his fist and kissed a pretty red that he can still taste on his tongue.

He’d stood in the shower for an hour.

His mom eventually got worried.

He called Sophie two hours later. She’d been less surprised than him at his sudden revelation.

Simon had been offended, at first, at her immediate look of ‘are you shocked?’ but it’d faded with some introspection .

Then came the shame.

Then came seeing you at school again.

Then came being unable to think about anything other than knees on concrete and spit in his hand.

The thoughts changed, as your friendship grew, as he knew you more, as you trusted him more. As simple conversation became confession, as subtle jokes became tears wiped away by hoodie sleeves, and your apartment became just as much his bedroom as his did to you .

The thoughts never went away. Never dwindled or faded. But t hey changed. Morphed and prodded at him from the shadows that lace his bedroom walls.

They got worse.

It was bad enough in the beginning, when the thoughts of your hardness pressed against his ass was enough to make him lose precious hours of unconsciousness. When he couldn’t stop thinking about having a sore jaw and knowing what it’ d be like to feel you get hard under his hands.

But t hen it became something else.

Something heavier.

Nights of drunken lust becoming limitless. Restrictions in his mind crumbling to a dust he can still feel in his fingers. Could grind between his teeth if he was brave enough to bite.

Dirty subways becoming abandoned buildings. Pressure on his back becoming a wetness on his fingers. The needy ache for an abused throat bleeding into an arousal for taste. The need for legs around his shoulders and a twitch in his hips that he curses.

Needing you on top of him. Needing you on his tongue or stretched around his fingers. His fist not good enough a mockery of what his body demanded. Not wet enough, not warm enough, not moaning his name or breathing life into his lungs as he loses himself to you.

Another huff leaves Simon’s lips, this one pitiful, pathetic in a way he hates, the sound quiet and terrified.

He needs to stop thinking about you. About his hands on your body and slipping beneath your clothes. Hidden beneath desks or around corners as he ruts against you, feeling the heat of you aching for his own.

Fuck , he has to stop thinking.

He falls backward, feeling the bounce of his mattress and cringing at the squeak it echoes throughout the chill of his bedroom. He needs to stop.

But he knows he can’t.

Knows he was in to deep the moment he saw you that night. Under those dark lights and illuminated by the moon that framed your face beautifully. He knows he was screwed the moment you grabbed his arm and scribbled your number in blue ink that he mourned washing away.

Simon knew he was fucked the second he wanted to kiss you.

When it was the first thought he had seeing you in his bed, in his clothes with controller in hand and eyes focused on something distant. When it was all he could focus on.

Feeling your lips against his, your tongue against his own. Teeth on his neck and sunk into the meat of his shoulder, leaving painful indents he wants to press down on. Bruises he wants to frame in pictures he’d hide under his mattress. Marks and evidence and sticky disgust he wants to remember the taste of.

He knows, in this moment, just how screwed he is by how hard he is.

How much his body throbs for a hand around himself or something to fuck into, mind lost to thoughts of you pressed to his pillows and eyes locked on him.

“Fuck. . .” Simon groans, voice rumbling through him, a heavy weight in his chest as he thumbs the line of his waistband.

He could ignore it.

He should ignore it.

Roll over and force himself to go to sleep.

Have another middle of the night shower and force it away with thoughts of molded walls and wailing monsters.

But his fingertips are already inching towards heated skin and he’s never been a man known for his self control.

Flannel, blood red and patterned with soft blacks and whites, are pushed down his thighs and caught around his knees. Boxers shimmied low enough to raise the band and feel the slide of his cock hitting his stomach, abandoning reason and any semblance of tact as he blindly reaches for his nightstand and pulls open his drawer.

The contents are laughable under the right circumstance. A handful of useless wires, a collection of junk batteries and CD cases piled around a small bottle of lubricant he’d snagged from a shop across the city that he never went back to.

It felt better, he reasoned with the price, and he wanted to be prepared. Hilarious, considering his circumstance- that being Simon being horrifically alone with no relationship experience outside of an embarrassing crush he harbored since high school.

 Nevertheless, he still has it, and has yet to use it with anyone else. Still. It comes in handy. And he’d be lying if he said he regretted the impulse purchase.

It’s lid clicks in his hand, pushed back with an expert thumb much too used to the action of flipping it around to drizzle clear globs of pleasure onto his fingers. It’s cold and too much and he feels it slick down the side of the bottle.

He smears it over his index and middle with his thumb, catching the way the low light from outside forms crystalline stars in the string that connects them.

It’s obscene.

He wishes it was cum instead.

Wishes it was yours instead.

Stained on his hand and strung across his entire palm as it drips down his wrist, so worked up you don’t notice the mess until he’s cleaning it with his tongue. Gathering the sweet dew from his arm and between your legs, swallowing it with a prayer stuck in his throat that sings your name under his breath.

He nearly misses his nightstand when he sets the small bottle back, fumbling with it as he pushes it away blindly, all focus centered entirely on his fingers spreading the slick around his head, coating it in tacky bad decisions down his shaft and to the base.

H e bites his hand to stifle the noise that escapes him at the feeling. The tightness of his fist co vering his cock in what he wishes was your spit. Your mouth around him as he buries himself in your throat, feeling it constrict as you swallow around him. Gagging on the mediocre length he hides with brushed off comments and the hope that you wouldn’t notice.

It’s not heavenly. Not a Godsend or particularly exciting as Simon fucks into his fist- slowly at first then too aroused to care- but it’s enough. Enough to imagine it’s your hand instead of his own, stroking him fast and ruthless as you whisper in his ear, sitting on his lap and keeping him trapped between your bodies.

Cock weeping at it bumps against the front of your hoodie, the roughness of the fabric teasing the skin that pulls back with each thrust. A distant feeling he chases, the friction making his hips twitch, slamming his fist around himself. His teeth sink into the knuckle of his clean hand, tasting the sweaty skin and bruised knuckles that pop white with tension.

You squeeze the head and hum when he gasps, when he throws his head back and tenses, you slip to the floor and press your lips to his dick . Kissing up it’s length and back down to the crease of his hips. Lips pressed to the junction between shaft and stomach, so close to what he wants and yet so horrifically far.

Your tongue traces shapes, mind-numbing and erotic, along his body. Sucking him off with soft licks to his sensitive slit, warm, wet, and searching under his foreskin as he groans. You’d do it so well. He knows. He knows and he’s thought about and he’s obsessed over.

How you’d suck on his head and sink down to his balls, tongue wrapped around him and cheeks hollowed out as you grip his thighs and keep them from tightening around your head. How you’d run them up his back and press them into the dips at his waist. How you’d sink your teeth into his skin and watch him come apart under you.

He’s thought about it all.

Feeling your throat bulge around him, in his wildest fantasies, your nose buried in the hair that travels up his stomach and spreads over his chest. He’d fuck your throat as you moan around him, hand in your boxers as you jerk yourself off, clit trapped between your fingers and rock hard just from having him in your mouth.

Your head bobbing up and down between his legs, the same that would shake around you and tense with each obscene squelch that would drool from your bruised face. Lips red and swollen with abuse you’d pull away to breath, heavy hot air gasping on his sensitive cock and making his stomach tense.

You’d laugh- so broken sounding and aroused- and he’d pull you up into a kiss that has teeth banging together and tongues wrapped around one another. He’d taste himself on you and deny how much it turns him on.

His fist tightens around his cock, drug up and down slowly, each touch zapping across his skin and making him feel dumb and woozy. Fuzzing everything out but pure pleasure, nothing but the sound of Simon’s cock fucking the wet mess of his fist, balls hitting his palm and soft breathy moans hidden behind his hand a messy concoction of lust in his ears that has him burning.

His cheeks hurt with the intensity, heart hammering and his body shivering. A horrid combination of the frigid air from outside and the sweat that makes his pants chafe his knees.

He feels delirious. Sex crazed and perverted.

He needs to fuck you so bad.

Fuck up into you and grip your hips so tight they bruise, leave indents behind that he can kiss after, can press his fingers into and watch as your eyes roll back. Wants to feel your clit on his tongue and feel the way you tense around his fingers. Needs to be lost in your scent and your taste, trapped in a haze of you that he can’t pull himself away from. That he wouldn’t want to pull away from.

Chase your warmth each time you try to pull away, each time you shudder and whine he wants to press deeper, move faster, feel the way you lose yourself around his hand and mouth.

Needs to fuck into you once you’re spread open, your cum on his lips and his cock against your hole. Hear you beg for it. Hear your breath hitch when your tips meet, when he rubs himself against you- teasing you, riling you up, annoying the absolute shit out of you.

Watching your face get red, your brows furrow and your mouth pull as he ruts his cock against your pussy, refusing to fuck you. Frotting your dicks together and pushing you closer and closer. Dragging it out as you whine for him.

As you beg for him.

He can hear it. Your voice. So sweet in his ears and thumping in his chest. Deep from panting, bruised from his cock down your throat, it cracks as you arch into him. So desperate for it, he catches a swear on his tongue as he stops, hand stilled on his dick and chest heaving.

It isn’t enough . It’s never enough when it’s you. When Simon needs you. When his body begs for it, to be engulfed by you, fully consumed and owned. Nothing is ever enough.

Pathetic and disgusting, were the words he used to describe it when it first crossed his mind. When he couldn’t handle it. When he was so close and so rock hard it hurt.

Now, it’s all that works. All Simon can think about doing when his thoughts drift to you. To your mouth and your cunt and the way he wants to see you fucked open around him.

He sits up, hand pulled from his dick and drenched in lube, he dares not touch anything with it.

Well.

In his right mind he wouldn’t.

Now, sex drunk and single minded, the thought of the load of laundry afterward means little to him.

He wonders if you’d like that.

If you like it messy, legs covered in semen and lube, pussy dripping and body hot with sweat.

He shivers with the thought.

Simon likes it.

Simon likes it a lot .

His hand reaches for his pillow without a second thought, covering it in the remains of what was on his hand, smearing it across the material and making it stick. He sits back on his heels, pants still wrapped around his legs and clinging to him with exertion.

He folds it in half, a plush firmness to it that he groans against, hips thrusting slow and heavy. Simon wastes no time in taking it- no foreplay or careful consideration that he’d implore with you. That he’d insist on and has spent hours thinking about. There’s nothing slow about the way he gets himself off. Nothing soft or loving like how he yearns for you.

Maybe he doesn’t think he deserves it. Maybe he doesn’t care as long as he gets off. Maybe he likes the sting.

Whatever it is, it’s addicting, cock pressed to the makeshift sex toy and twitching against it. His dick leaks pre-cum that stains the dark gray color, lines of his obsession that spells out your name, your eyes and every disgusting thought he’s ever had about your body. His mind drifts farther with each tentative thrust, each drag of his wet cock against his desperation, each soft sound that slips past chapped lines pierced with colored metal.

Drifts to images of you bent over in his bed, ass in the air and legs spread for him. Presented for him and looking over your shoulder with a plead in your eyes that he could never deny.

He imagines all the ways he’d take you. All the way he’s imagined before. All the ways he knows he will again.

Pulled back on his dick and pressed to his chest as he kisses your neck. On your side as he lifts your leg in the air and covers your mouth with his hoodie sleeve. Pressed to the back of his door or his wall or down against his pillows desperate to muffle the sweet moans you can’t hold back as his hips meet yours, burying himself deep in your pussy and feeling the way you gush around him.

Cock between your legs as he fucks your thighs, leaving behind trails of pre-cum and lube that glistens in the moonlight. It’s stunning, shining off your skin with a shimmer he can’t get out of his head.

His eyes fall closed as he slips between the folded cushion, hands gripping the sides creating a tight seal he can’t get enough of. He’s lost count of how many times he’s done this. So ashamed of it at first, stripping the bed and rushing them to the laundry, frantic to get rid of the evidence of his wrongdoing. Of his lust. His love for you and the horrific stains it leaves behind.

Disgusted with himself and desperate to feel it again, he barely hesitated when he thought to do it again. And then again. And then again. And then again until imagining it was your hips he was grabbing came easily to him. A second nature to the way he grips the pillow tight and humps into the mess he’s creating within.

It’s close enough. He concedes. To something more. Something wetter and more human. Something he craves.

It’s close enough to you. To you stretched around him and begging for more. For him to fuck you harder. Fuck you faster. Soft pants meeting Simon’s ears as he runs his hands over your body, feeling each dip, each curve, each roll and each soft press of your body that he yearns to kiss. To hold and feel beneath his teeth.

To memorize and capture.

Fuck.

His hips stutter on the thought, the fleeting image of you captured in the screen of his camera. Spread open and covered in him. Cum covering your body and dripping from you as you pose for the flash he’d try to hide. The one he’d shove a blanket to the base of his door to conceal.

He wonders if you’d take them for him. Steal his camera from under his nose and return it full of you. Of your face and your body and your beautiful smile he bleeds for.

Would you? For him? Let him paint your skin and keep it forever? Evidence of his cum on your body, your stomach and your face, his cock buried deep in your cunt and filling you up.

He wants to fill you up so bad.

See you leaking with his cum.

Watch it drip down your thighs as you shake.

He needs it so bad. Needs you. Simon needs you.

His arms shake, making him fall forward, face smashed against his unfucked pillow as his hips thrust into his fantasy. His hazy thoughts of being buried so deep you can’t get a word out, voice catching on each sound of pleasure and mounting with each thrust.

Hand covering your mouth to keep you quiet- keep you from getting in trouble, from getting caught- and feeling the way you struggle against it. Squeaks and drawn out groans leaking through the gaps in his fingers as he fucks you. As he takes you as his and presses apologizes to your neck, your cheek and down your chest.

Simon’s hips fuck faster, humping desperately into his pillow chasing that high he’s become so addicted to, “fuck, so good for me. Feel so good, can’t get enough of this- like your pussy was made for me” he mumbles, to himself and to his thoughts, voice low and croaking.

Your voice taunts him, airy and lust filled, gracing his mind with blurring moments of clarity.

“Just like that, baby- yeah, yeah- fuck, Simon, please-” rings in his head, behind his eyes and around his entire body, a whine escapes him. He wants to hear it for real. Hear the way your voice would really break, not the manufactured idea of it he’s crafted from hours of listening to you ramble on.

He wants to hear it for real. In front of him and under him. Through his phone speaker and in his headphones as your chat becomes a mess of misspelled cries for more and pleas for him. For his hands on you and him inside you.

Wants videos he can save. That he can cherish. Can re-watch and replay and re-experience that would never be close enough to the real thing but would leave him gasping for it.

His cock-head weeps, beaten red in the rough material and bordering on misery the longer he can’t cum. The longer he’s stuck in this limbo of his thoughts- you and you and nothing but you.

He wants to ruin you. Make a mess and clean it with his mouth afterward. Hold you gently and offer you his hoodie to cover the red flush of your skin. The purple fingerprints and drying cum that would stick between your thighs he’d still be begging to slip between. Cock still hard and butting against you as you’d grant him permission to rut against your leg, your ass, your hands or against your lips- anything.

All he’d want is to cum.

All Simon would want is you.

His hips speed up, feeling the tacky pull of lube and pre-cum sullying the hole he’s made himself, each thrust and whimper accented by vulgar sounds of his cock fucking into the mess he’s made to the thought of you. The one he always makes thinking of you.

His thoughts race, caught around your voice and your face, mouth hung open and teeth bitten into his name when his body stutters.

“Shit- shitshitfuck- such a good boy for me, fuck, yeah, yeah- gonna cum, gonna-” he swallows down a moan, burying a groan of your name into the soft plush of his bed as he cums, white hot obsession bursting behind his eyes as he thrusts his hips as deep as he can into his pillow and paints it’s insides, “that’s it- fuck, God- yes” he squeezes the pillow tight, knuckles white and brain fuzzy out as his hips twitch into the disgusting fabric.

His body racks with a pleasured shiver through his orgasm, centered in the base of his cock and burning up his back. His mouth feels dry and body heavy as he presses his face deeper into his pillow and groans.

You make him feel so good. So warm. Butterflies filling his stomach and imagination clinging to phantom kisses on his shoulders and down his arms. Lips pressed to his and uttering soft words of encouragement. Praise and comfort that he leans into.

He wishes it was real. That it was you he was crushing with his body weight. Beneath him and keeping him trapped in a bliss he struggles to find on good days. Your chest beneath him shaking with deep breaths that come out to the sound of laughter, tender and intimate he wants your hands in his hair, holding his face and kissing him pliant as a cold gust bursts through the room.

He shivers, this time unpleasantly, the chill stabbing into his skin with sharpened points of pain that pull him from his bundle of warmth to the window where he shoves it shut.

His cock twitches on his leg, dripping with slick and red with pleasure that still drums it’s fingers up his chest and into his brain, making his thoughts foggy. Glancing back towards his pillow- emotions strung out with embarrassment, shame, and horrific excitement- he grimaces at the sight that awaits him.

Now, in his right mind- sorta- he’s dreading that laundry trip.

Deep down, he always knew he would.

The pillow stays folded, hand prints left behind from where his nails had dug into the stuffing, deforming it into his own sick fuck toy. The hole he’d made with nothing but lust driven determination shines with thick globs of cum and strings of lube, an image that ignites a heat in his stomach just as much as it makes him cringe.

He wishes it was you. Wishes it was your legs he was holding apart. Your ruined hole and flushed skin that he was pressed to and watching twitch with aftershocks from your orgasm, still dripping and huffing out pleased sounds of exhaustion.

But it’s not.

And Simon didn’t text you.

He’s glad he didn’t.

He doesn’t know what he would have said.

What he would have ruined.

What he would have left slip and how hardly he would have ached for your voice.

He already has a bad habit of waking you up. This wasn’t your problem. Just his.

His and his alone. Like it’s always been.

He peels the cover from his pillow, turning it inside out and wrapping it into a tight ball that he tosses into his laundry basket before throwing the bare pillow back to where it rests on his headboard. Gross, maybe, but not worth his time.

He pulls his boxers back up, uncaring of the filth hidden within, before tugging his pants up and collapsing on his bed. Body and mind soothed, rough edges of his thoughts sanded away by slapping skin and clinging residue, Simon relaxes under his thin blanket and cozies himself in the small warmth his body provides.

He imagines you’re there with him, holding him, wrapped up in his arms and kissing his chest as he runs his hands down your back. Massaging sore muscles and patting down untamed hair, he finds himself in the ghost of something soft. Gentle and loving, the thought entangles his body and spears his thoughts.

He’s exhausted. More now than before.

But it’s a pleasant weariness, a comfort, body flooded with that cozy feeling he can only ever experience around you. Bundled up in your blankets on your couch or huddled together at the bus stop after class. The radiance only you can bring to his life.

Simon can feel his cum drying on the inside of his boxers, a chafing feeling that he chooses to ignore in favor of drifting off in your arms.

How is he going to look at you tomorrow? How is he only to stand sitting next to you knowing the heat of his thoughts from moments earlier? How is he ever going to bare seeing you without touching you?

Same as he always has, he reasons, with a longing in his chest that chokes him.

At least he can finally get some sleep.

He’ll deal with the rest tomorrow.

He can’t wait to see you.

Chapter Text

The apartments are quiet. Dead with a silence that seeps into your bones and makes them cold, stiff, each movement you make a crashing earthquake of noise that you grimace at. Creaking floorboards and tapping fingernails pierce the tranquil silence of your apartment as you pass, drumming your fingers on your shelves as you make your way through your living room. Lit only by the blanketing moonlight from outside, you follow the honeyed light that drips from the entrance to your kitchen, a gilded path of reprieve from the darkness of the rest of your apartment.

You’re not used to having neighbors so close. Being boxed in by people on all sides that move around you throughout the day, that drink in the noise you make and feel the vibrations as you move from room to room. It’s taken a bit of getting used to, even if it was your idea to get a place in a complex instead of someplace a bit more private.

It was what you could afford, and unfortunately, that means quieting your footsteps as you make your nightly trip to your fridge to find nothing has changed. You don’t mind, necessarily, your neighbors are nice enough and often times forgiving when your friends are too loud, or you have a movie too high, or on the off chance you find yourself at their doors with a grievance of your own. It’s still there though, a constant worry at the back of your mind that picks at each one of your uncoordinated movements.

Earlier in the day, you aren’t as worried, with most of the older people around you at work or otherwise, you don’t find it much of a concern. But- you glance at the clock on your microwave, retinas burning from the digital numbers that pierce bright in the soft darkness of midnight- this late? Yeah, you feel a bit more cautious.

The bulb above the stove, flickering with a quiet buzz that you’re convinced only you can hear, illuminates the tile flooring and cluttered counter tops of your small space.

Junk mail, dishes, any number of kitchen utensils, and wayward school books litter what should be your cooking area. Cleaning, you've found, is not really something you have time for nowadays. Nor is space for a dining room, leaving your kitchen counters often stuffed with remnants of your life outside these walls. Surfaces all the same in your mind, you pay little attention to any of it as you reach up and grab a glass from your cupboard. Smooth and indented on the sides, it chills your hand as it fills with water, your squeaky faucet a screeching sound that feels rusted nails against your eardrums.

It’s not really that loud, you know, but it’s hard not to be convinced when it spears through your thoughts, echoing around the small kitchen and stabbing back into you with a grit that hates you. If it had any semblance of sentience, it probably would with how frequently it wake it up in the middle of the night.

Winter, you’ve found very quickly, isn’t much different in Sweden than it is back home.

Dry and cold, it bites into your bones, leaving them aching as you walk to and from your classes. Kissing your face red with frost each time you step out from the crowded diner and onto the sidewalk for your much deserved break, your fingertips frozen rigid and tense by the time you come back in, leading to fumbled handwriting and holding customer’s cups of steaming coffee for just a moment longer than you probably should.

You’ve learned, somewhat, and have started going to work prepared. Tugging on the same matching pair of knitted mittens and hat each and every day before jumping in your car or making the walk to the bus station. Sophie had made them for you, something simple she said she threw together because she felt bad. Because she just, cared enough to notice.

You’ve worn them everyday since.

Naturally.

You weren’t even the type of guy to wear hats before, but now? The thought of leaving it at home is unfathomable.

Before, you never really left if it was this cold. Happy to stay bundled up in your heated bedroom and under your covers, leaving the heavy snow fall to blanket the streets without you.

Watching it wistfully from your living room window when the lights got low, when you’re own flipped off and you drank up the stunning beauty of the streetlights on fresh sparkling powder. The gentle sway of your neighbors decorations or how the ice shimmered in the moonlight.

Now, you don’t have much of a choice.

Your home, warmed with thicker walls and a sturdy heater, keeps away most of the frigid temperatures that your phone warns you of, but you can still feel the seeping cold that squeezes it’s bony fingers through the small gaps in your windows and under your front door. That runs along the floor and bites into your ankles when you step off your carpet onto the unforgiving hardwood. That clings to your curtains and frosts your bedroom windows, obscuring your view of the gardens beyond.

Of the long fall to the street and the sprawling view of the city.

It also stops you from hanging out on the roof, which you hate. Cuts off half the reason you like this apartment.

It’s still kinda cold in your house, is your point, even with the added padding from the outside world.

And with the cold, comes the quiet.

The natural sound compression that comes with snowfall, the same that ghosts your home white and freezes your car door handle shut. It dampens the sounds of the world, leaving each breath a crack of sound in the silence.

That, or maybe, and just maybe, you’re overthinking. A habit of your overactive mind that struggles to grasp at the flitting edges of sleep.

You’d tried, to be fair to yourself. You had tried.

Had laid their for hours, each second ticking away a minute longer than the last. No amount of staring up at your ceiling, counting sheep, or calming music could wrangle your mind off to a restless slumber.

And you had tried them all. Each one more annoying and convoluted than the last, all working for everyone else but you.

So, like always, you’re still awake while the rest of the world sleeps. While your neighbors pass the time till work or school or family matters and you tiptoe around your own home afraid of tipping the social balance you struggle to upkeep on days you have slept. Because nothing had worked. And nothing usually does.

The water is cold against your lips, freezing down your throat and barely refreshing. A sensation of temperature that stings your teeth and makes your gums hurt, barely doing anything for the dryness that inhabits your tongue.

Ripoff.

You fill the glass again.

This time it's more effective.

The glass sits with the rest of the dirty dishes as you make your way back to bed, passing through your living room and into the similarly cluttered space that is your bedroom.

Your bed is piled high with a thick blanket and pillows, a cozy cocoon for you to hide yourself within, even with your mind and body as restless as they are. Your thoughts a mile a minute as you pull the covers back and crawl under, resigned to your fate of another all nighter followed by a day of work and school and every other pointless thing you’ve found yourself entangled in since your move.

Well, it’s not all pointless, you think, wrapping the thick covers around yourself and cuddling up to your pillow. Not as pointless as it used to be, anyhow, bearable, almost.

As bearable as minimum wage and boring course work can be.

Propped up on your stomach with your chin on your pillow, you reach for your phone on your nightstand. An old thing that you’ve had since high school with a crack down the middle, it’s case is thick and decorated, charms hanging off the side and butting against one another as it moves.

Unplugging it and dropping the cord off somewhere unimportant- and most likely stepped on later- you click it onto the notification of said person who’s made it bearable.

Sent hours ago, and with no reply, sits the simple message of an attached file from your friend. One you meant to open at the time and forgot about, lost to the million other things you had to get done. Guilt pangs in you for a second, heavy in your gut and making your cheeks feel fuzzy.

It’s a song he’d sent you, enthusiastically recommending the entire band but starting you off small with his favorite, and one he thought you’d like. The thought makes you smile.

When you first met Simon, nearly a year ago now, at some random party you can’t even remember the reason for going to, you weren’t the biggest fan of his kind of music.

Of the dramatic vocals and spiraling forum posts, but steadily over time you’ve grown to enjoy it. Something clicking in your head when he’d sent over something random one day while sitting beside you on the bus. Searching through his phone with a spark in his eyes that you so infrequently get to see, and something about it sounded different, all of a sudden. Richer, maybe, more pronounced.

You started liking his music a long time ago- but as if you’d ever admit it to his face. So he still sends you things. And you still listen, even if you’ve already heard them.

It’s the norm for the two of you, to recommend each other things from your own sides of taste. Of preference and bordering on obsession. You forget, sometimes, that it wasn’t always like this.

You two had clicked so fast. Sat together on that shitty back porch and complaining about whatever came to mind for hours until Sophie had called him back inside and you’d lost him in the crowd, to stumbling into him in a hallway at school and talking nearly everyday after, it’s weird to think there was a time he wasn’t there.

That there was a time when his CDs didn’t end up in your car, or your movies at his, or his hoodie left on your couch and initials not carved into the side of your car door.

A time before badly cut black hair and deep brown eyes, before bad horror movie nights and a warm body against yours when he falls asleep without meaning to. Before late night break ins to spray brightly colored nonsense on walls and three am convenience store food that always makes you sick for hours afterward.

It’s hard to imagine, but it’s there.

In fleeting memories of loneliness.

Of the chill of winters you didn’t like. Quiet that was eerie. That was sacred and safe. Earlier nights and messy fights, you can remember a time when you needed a friend.

And now, it’s hard to think of life without one.

You’ll listen to it in the morning.

Saving it to the mile long list of every other song he’s ever sent you, you catch glimpses of the handful you remember, melodies and screaming vocals and soft melancholic guitar fluttering through your mind.

You do like a lot of what Simon sends you, to be fair, his understanding of your taste a carefully crafted skill he spent weeks perfecting when you were first getting to know each other.

It makes you feel good. Warm. Even with your skin still exposed to the air and the chill still seeping into the cracks of your frequently knife cracked open window, you feel warm with thoughts of him.

Thoughts of his messy bedroom floor and the sound of his mom’s voice calling you two for dinner, of his busted controller that he always insists on using because he knows how annoying the drift is, of the smell of his shampoo and the chopping sound of his laugh that never fails to make your heart skip.

Truthfully, you aren’t surprised you caught feelings as fast as you did. Hard not to with him. With his soft smile and kind eyes highlighted with specks of gold, the way he talks to you so tenderly. Soft spoken and light, his voice ghosts over your mind with a gentle comfort you miss.

You haven’t seen him in a few weeks.

Well, at school, sure, and when he and Sophie had stopped by the diner for lunch after class had ended and you needed a distraction, but one on one? It’s been awhile.

A while that has dragged. That has pulled on you and sunk your feet in the freezing snow. That has dragged on your mind and made you irritable. He shares the same sentiment, you know, with the frequent plans you two have attempted to make that always seem to fall through.

That fester in your messages and tug at your annoyance when you look back at them. So close, and yet so horrifically far.

You’re tempted to leave.

To pack a bag and haul your ass downstairs and out into the cold. Into your car or onto the bus and across town to his window and into his bedroom. Slipping in through the busted frame and stepping so carefully onto his bed as to not wake his mother and coax him out into the night, into the shivering air and clouded breath with the promise of shitty gas station food and a night on the town.

Fizzed drinks shared between the two of you and sour citrus on your tongue, you can hear his laugh in your mind that you yearn to hear beside you. His deep voice and rambling stories you never tire of. Want to feel his hand in yours as you heave him up the broken levels of an abandoned building and feel the rush as you race to the top.

But you don’t.

For whatever reason, you don’t.

You ignore feeling that twitches in your legs to get up, to ask if he’s awake or find out once you get there. You keep yourself in place, buried beneath your blankets and with your phone laying limply in your grasp. You’re not sure why, but you don’t move, even with as often as you do.

It’s not weird for you to sneak over in the middle of the night. To knock on his wall and trace the nozzle of your can against the window sill until he pushes it open, looking disheveled and exhausted, and you smile- and he pulls on his shoes.

He stopped locking his window months ago, so it’s not like the invitation isn’t there, you’re just. . tired.

You guess.

Maybe.

And it’s cold.

And you have class tomorrow.

And he’s probably asleep.

And maybe the idea of seeing him makes your heart race and your hands feel weird and maybe you’re scared of embarrassing yourself.

You sigh, dropping your phone and resting your head on your pillow, eyes turned towards your window, watching the fluttering snow fall build on the small platform of the building.

It’s childish, you’re fully aware, but it’s difficult not to be around him. To not feel so carefree when he hands you a can of spray paint or tosses you a pack he bummed off a friend.

When the door to his room shuts and everything stops- time, responsibilities, everyone else pauses and it’s just the two of you.

The two of you and pirated movies on his laptop, scratched game discs and snacks that you both know you can’t afford.

It’s hard not to feel better around him.

So hard not to feel good when he’s there with you.

When he’s wrapped around you as he sleeps and you lay stiff as a board not to disturb the rest you know he barely gets, when his hands are on your arm as he passes or drifted over your back as he reaches for something, when he sits on your living room floor and complains about his problem of the week. When his eyes shine and everything feels richer. More pronounced.

When his touch is all you can focus on and his rumbling voice the only thing you want to hear.

When it’s hard not to imagine those hands drifting.

Those words getting heavier.

Those complaints morphing into muffled sounds or biting remarks.

It’s hard not to imagine him making you feel good, like he always does.

Those eyes looking up at you, lids down turned and dark, smeared with the messy eye shadow you always tease him for, trapped between your legs that shake where he grips them-

F uck.

Fuck, it’s hard to stop thinking.

This, also, has been a problem. No matter the feelings, the way your stomach twists around him, the hitch you get in your heart when he looks at you or the desperation you harbor for his mouth on yours- this has been the problem.

You can handle a crush. Fluttering thoughts and brighter days and all that cheesy sweet stuff you’ve always had a hard time believing in, but this, this heavy feeling in your chest that begs for him to touch you.

For him to groan your name and grip your hips as he pants in your ear- that’s much worse.

So, so much worse.

More difficult to hide, as well.

Glances, you can dismiss, can brush off if he ever questioned, but stares? Your mind slipping off to slapping skin and slick fingers in class as he fucks around on his phone while the professor talks or half-heatedly scribbles notes?

Those are a bit trickier to hide.

To explain away.

And you can’t stop having them.

Each time he looks at you for too long, when he offers you his hoodie or catches you with that smug look on his face that you get stuck on. That dumbfounds you and has your face burning. You can’t stop your mind from slipping from your grasp to gripped bed sheets and flushed skin.

To Simon whispering in your ear as his hand slips beneath the waistband of your pants, as his fingers slip between your cunt and presses to your clit. Thicker than your own, his hands would fill you out so nice, would look so good between your legs and dripping wet with your arousal.

You can’t stop it.

In a way, you don’t want to, and yet- embarrassment washes over you.

You groan into your pillow, feeling the throb beneath your pants, the pulsing feeling of need that centers in your pelvis and runs its hands up your back and around your mind.

Hands that are his. Hands that are rough and bigger than your own and gripping in your hair- ugh, no. No. You are not jacking off to your best friend.

. . .

Again.

You promised you wouldn’t do this again.

Not fall to the temptation of the Simon in your thoughts. The one that moans in your ear and kisses up your neck. That nestles his head between your thighs and presses his lips up your chest until he’s biting into your shoulder and covering your mouth with his hand so you don’t get caught.

The one that blows smoke into your mouth and tastes the embers on your tongue. The one that would kiss you so lovingly, would slip his hands under your clothes and grip the meat of your sides as he presses you against a wall and shuts you up the fun way.

The one you are determined to pretend doesn’t exist.

As hard as he makes that. Each time he flicks that lighter to life, hand covering the flame with soft lips perked around the addictive death you both indulge too much for either of your liking.

The one you never even considered before him.

The one you never indulge unless with him.

Unless he lights it for you, with that dumb red lighter you bought him when his old one got lost, not unless you can watch the flame dance on his face highlighting his round features and strong nose.

Where you can watch the smoke curl around his teeth and blow from his nose- when he does that dumb trick with his lighter, flipping it between his fingers with an expertise he has to show off every time and you hate it.

So cocky in his movements you want it to land and set his shoe on fire. Wanna see the embarrassment on his face afterward, the pretty pink to his cheeks that would darken his face and make him mumble a dumb excuse.

Of which you would absolutely be the cause of, as is most of his misfortune, he never forgets to remind you.

You swear as you sit up, body warm and stupidly worked up at the thought of him. Humming with a need you can’t provide it. Desire for hands on your body, feeling down you chest and over your legs, fingers leaving indents on your thighs and pressed to your clit as his mouth works your neck.

Leaving hickeys behind that you know you couldn’t hide, that you’d press into in the mirror and watch as you jump. That you’d return to him just as bad. That you’d bite into his pale flesh and watch the way he flushes with it.

Fuck, the thoughts you have had of ruining that man.

Of pushing his face down into your pillows as your silicone cock wrecks his insides, as it presses to his prostate and has his own dick weeping. Rutting against the sheets and desperate, you’ve thought of all the ways you’d pull him apart, that you’d pull each moan and whimper and stuttered sound of your name out as you fist his cock and fuck his ass.

God, have you thought about what a mess he’d make.

Whining for you as your fingers work him open and your mouth slips to the base of his cock, tasting him in the back of your throat and feeling the way it twitches against the roof of your mouth.

How you’ve wanted to see him on top of you, thighs straining as you rub your hands up and down them. Traveling up his chest and feeling the soft press of his stomach you’ve barely been graced with the sight of, gripping his sides and loving the way his eyes clench shut as he fucks himself on the cock you picked out just for him.

You huff, frustrated, clit throbbing and mind racing with the thoughts you just said you weren’t going to entertain.

That you weren’t going to obsess over like you have before, and before, and earlier than that, and even on the night you met him wondering how it’d feel to kiss him and see the way his face would heat.

A crush is simple. Desire is an entirely different beast. And one you aren’t well versed in fighting.

Fuck.

This is stupid.

. . .

This is it. This is the last time. You swear.

But, like always, as your hand runs down your stomach and to the waistband of your pajama pants, you know you’re lying.

Your skin is tacky with sweat as you lift the band of your pants, flannel and deep blue, they constrict your legs and stick to you as your hand slips beneath the line of your boxers. The fabric is damp, thin strings of arousal clinging to the rough texture as your hand finds your clit and slips a finger down the side of the hard bundle of nerves.

You jolt, a starvation in your gut for something more, of someone else’s hands working you open. Rock hard and soaking wet, your feel down the side of your dick and to your hole, sinking the tips of your fingers in just enough to feel the stretch. The feeling of a tongue prodding you and drinking itself full.

You push further, your entire two middle fingers slipped within yourself, feeling the soft, warm press of your pussy as you fuck into the spot nestled in your abdomen that has you throwing your head back.

You roll over, knees up and back flat to your bed, head poorly propped on your pillow as your free hand sinks back down to your clit. Feeling the heat of yourself waft in the contained space in your pants, you squeeze your eyes shut with ignorance as your hands speeds up, as you fuck yourself faster thinking it’s him instead.

That Simon is here with you instead, his thighs pressed to the back of your legs and keeping you pinned to the bed. A hand working you open and smearing your arousal across your cunt, feeling the way your get wetter and wetter, easier and easier for him to fuck.

For him to take and ruin and fill with his cock.

Split open on his dick, you want to feel the warmth of it as he fucks you, the tangle in your guts and the way he’d press against your stomach. How good it’d feel to have him stretching you open, leaned back and watching as his cock fucks into you, slow at first- slow and dragging and taunting, too slow for either of you, not enough and yet so much it’d drain your mind of anything but him.

Then he’d speed up. Cockhead hitting so deep inside you, bruising flesh gripped in his hands and bitten beneath his teeth, his hips would snap against yours. Brutal and rough, you choke around a moan that bubbles from your chest.

Your fingers slow, arm tensed up and tired, aching with the motions of lust that have them dripping as they slide out of you. You feel heat trickle from you, dripping down onto your sheets as you breathe, heavy and desperate for clean air.

With your dirty hand, you grip your own thigh, squeezing it tight- jolts of pleasure zap up your leg and into your chest, around your stomach and down to your clit.

You imagine it being him instead.

Imagine Simon over top you and panting.

Imagine his cock fucking into you, fractured words dying on his lips as he groans with the feeling of you, eyes pleading with lust and body flush against yours.

His cum on your thighs and dripping from you. Cock weeping on your stomach and covering you in him.

The hand on your clit works faster, small jerking motions and circular drags igniting flames in your stomach. A heat that builds in your hands and eats through your core, boiling you from the inside and shaking through your limbs.

It’s good and not enough and too much and nothing at all. It’s dragging and slow and too fast that you stop to let yourself breathe.

You kick off your pants and peel off your boxers, leaving yourself exposed to the cool air of your bedroom and the striking moonlight that paints your hardwood floor. That shines across your carpet and kisses over your skin with the feather light touches of Simon’s lips.

He’s there, with you, in thought and in voice and in hands that never leave you. They replace your own, jacking your cock just right, pinched between his fingers and squeezed with a torturous love.

Your other hand returns, two fingers pressed to your hole and teasing the tense ring of muscle, feeling the slick that coats your fingertips and drips from you. They slip in with the imagined heat of a tongue.

A tongue pressed to you and hot, he hums against you, a vibration you can feel the desire of. That you’ve imagined enough to smile into, to seek out and lose yourself to. Thumb caught on the inside of your thigh and soothing circles into the heated skin as he holds you open for his mouth, his searching desire that he can’t help but sate.

That he’d beg for. Desperate for his mouth on you, to taste your arousal and tongue-fuck you until you’re shaking, your hand in his hair that keeps him close, unable to breathe and moaning into you.

Keeping you pinned in place as his tongue fills you, as it kisses that spot just at your entrance that has you panting. That has you gripping the sheets and moaning for more. For something bigger, heavier, thicker in your cunt and twisting your insides.

Something you actually can provide.

Your fingers, reluctantly, pull from your clit, leaving you in a limb of desperation. Forced to pull away but distraught with the loss. You’re flushed and sweaty, your cunt twitching in need.

The need to be touched, to be filled, to be fucked and licked clean.

To be claimed and ruined.

To be filled and left dripping with cum, evidence of his hands on you that would drip down your thighs and stain your underwear. Forced to put it back on and feel how disgusting you are, how ruined you are and how desperate you are for more. For him to finger you or bend you over a table, cock inside you and hand on your throat.

His tongue leaves you- just as your fingers remove once more- as you sit up, your shirt covering the evidence of your- great- decision as you fumble for your nightstand. Pulling open the top drawer, you scrounge through junk and forgotten reminders, a small notebook and one million cords to things you don’t even think you own anymore. In the back, nestled in darkness and obscurity, you grab for and pull out a small bottle of lube and a silk drawstring bag.

Or, that’s what you think the material is? You aren’t actually sure. It isn’t even for this. It was an old bag for a pair of headphones you no longer have that you’re now repurposing to hold your sex toys, mainly because the original box it came in was a pain to open and kept getting stuck in whatever drawer you put it in.

So, bag. Which may or may not be silk but probably isn’t.

Whatever it is, it’s holding what you want, and you want it now.

Pulling the ring, the bag opens and you roll out the thick, four to five inch, curved best friend that you’ve made on these kind of nights.

There’s nothing special to it, no intricate design or special flair, a standard fair dildo that rests heavy in your palm as you chuck the bag somewhere to be searched for frantically tomorrow. Right now? You don’t care. You really, really don’t care.

Holding it in one hand, you grab the lube with the other- a small bottle with barely a dent in it that you got as an ‘extra’ when you ordered the toy- and click the top with your thumb, drooling the clear liquid down the side of the toy and watching it drip down the base.

It pools on the balls and you discard the lube back to your nightstand as you wrap your hand around it, pumping it slick and hard, humoring yourself with the thought of doing the same to Simon. Drizzling the cold liquid onto the head of his cock and smearing it down the rest of his shaft, watching the way his face pinches, the pretty shade of red on his cheeks and the way his hips twitch for more.

For you to hurry up, for you to stroke him faster, for you to fuck him already. To let him fill you up and bounce you on his cock, hands on your hips and mouth on yours as he fucks into you, hips meeting yours as he hits against clusters of stars that burst behind your eyes and kiss moans from your lungs.

Punching them out with each thrust, they’d fall out from your lips and meet his own, his mumbles of praise and begs for more- to be able to fuck you faster, to be able to cum, to be able to finish inside and paint you as his and his alone.

His voice begs pretty in your ear. Broken and raw it gasps as you lay back down- and the head of your toy pushes past your entrance and stretches you open around him.

It’s a burn that hurts so good, a force behind it that shakes in your hand.

“Fuck” you gasp out, feeling the head press into the deepest part of yourself, the girth forcing you open, slipped in so easily and so snug.

It fucks you perfectly, like it always does.

Like he always does, “Simon please” you beg to open air, the chilling bite to it waded off by heated lust that clouds your brain as you pull the toy out, slow and purposeful, before fucking it back into yourself and setting a pace that has your eyes fluttering shut and your mouth falling open.

He kisses up your chest and bites hickies into your neck, staining the expanse with his presence, with his love for you as his hips snap against your own. As they stutter and his thrusts become shallower, pulling out less and less, humping himself into you with whimpered pleasure that graces your ears with a gentle plea. A begging to cum, to make you feel good. Loving hands that hold you close and pull you back onto his cock each time he manages to reign himself in- contain himself to something manageable.

You fuck the toy deeper, feeling the bite of pain that has you whining, each tug of release and push of entrance tipping you closer and closer to cumming. To covering your toy with thoughts of him, with desperation for him. His hands in your hair and you on your knees.

Pressed down to your bed as he fucks into you fast and begging, in his bed with his hand over your mouth as he works you open slow and torturous, cock teasing your hole and barely slipping in as he chides you for making noise- for almost getting you in trouble. For being so wet for him over nothing and how desperate he is to have you. In the back of your car and against the wall of your shower- a million thoughts of how you want him flash in your brain.

Each dirtier, gritty and tangible- each with his cock fucking your throat or your cunt, praising you as you take him so well, as you do so good for him, as he begs for permission. Taking him, being taken by him, they flip in your head and twist around one another.

You pull the dildo out, catching sight of the glistening slick that coats it’s entirety, and rub it against your clit. Simon’s cock humping against your bare cunt, teasing you as he runs it over your folds and kisses your clit with the head of his cock, beaten red by his hand and your bruised lips- you hear his laugh that comes out breathless.

You fuck it back into yourself, just as he does, and you both groan, “Please, Simon, don’t stop- don’t stop, please don’t stop, I’m-” you struggle, feeling the tightening in your body, the rising feeling of adrenaline and lust that drives your movements faster.

“Fuck, just like that, baby- so good for me, so fucking wet for me” his voice, imagined and groaned around the sounds of numbing pleasure, taunts you with him. With tangibility. With his body atop yours and his cock filling you up.

“Mhm” your need driven brain replies to nothing, an empty room filled only with the sounds of you being fucked. The slick sounds of your hand fucking your toy deeper and deeper inside yourself, pushed in and pulled out and pushed in and pulled out as your other finds your clit, “fuck, fuck- shitshit­- gonna cum, gonna-” toy pressed into your stomach, you cum around it, clenching tight around the silicone shaft as your legs shake and your mind goes blank.

Please, centered in your pelvis and spreading up your chest, explodes behind your eyes. Euphoric and exhausting, it milks you for all your worth, white globs of slick dripping from you and down your toy to the sheets. Staining them with acidic evidence of Simon’s existence, the thoughts of him that tumble around your head and vibrate in your hands.

Your pussy twitches with pleasured aftershocks that make you jolt, oversensitive and giddy, your hands pulls from your clit and falls beside you on the bed. You feel good, warm and fuzzy, your mouth is dry and head finally clear.

It’s weird, but a good weird. The one you’ve come to associate with him.

The cold, same as before, seeps back into your bones. Skin erupting in goosebumps, you grumble, annoyed, as you snap back to your unfortunate reality. One without Simon there with you, crushing you with his body and huffing on your chest, amusement filtering into the air as he kisses over your pecs and up to your cheeks. Over your nose and down to your lips, he kisses you soft and sweet, feeling down your sides and around your ass.

You wish it were real. That the warmth was heavier. That he was here to clean you up, a gentle cloth against you and tender fingers working shampoo into your hair. But he isn’t. And you sit up alone, in your cold bed, with a discomfort in your abdomen that has you immediately laying back down with a groan, “. . .this is stupid”

You pull the dildo from yourself, coming free with a wet pop that has cum and lube leaking down your ass and into your sheets, drenching them in sweat and slick. It’s coated with streaking white and dried lube, splattering patterns of arousal discoloring the tip and shaft. You toss it off to the side, discarded and mourned just the same.

You want it to be him. Him pulling out with a pinch on his face and a flush to his cheeks as he watches you drip, hands around your thighs as he holds you open and watches the shining cum leak down your ass and onto his thighs.

Want to feel him fuck into you still, slipping fingers into the mess that you’d lick clean, sucked into your mouth and melted against your tongue. You want to taste yourself on his lips and feel the way he relaxes against you, lost under the covers together and exhausted, you want to sleep beside him afterward.

But he isn’t here.

Because you didn’t move.

Didn’t leave when you wanted and seek out his company when you needed it most.

Maybe it’s better you didn’t. Who knows what you would’ve done. What you would’ve said and how much you would’ve ruined.

You plug your phone back in, grimacing at how wet your hands are as you roll over and make yourself comfortable, lube and repurposed bags and drying toys left to the other side as you pull your blanket over yourself and wrap your arms around your pillow.

Warm, and cozy, and finally able to sleep, you can feel the creeping hands of darkness. Of blank dreams and restless slumber. You can feel yourself drifting.

You cling to him, in your thoughts, in your whisping awareness. To his arms around you, your head on his chest and the rise and fall of his breathing. The beat of his heart and the gentle fingertips running down your side that trace thoughtless patterns into your skin, delved beneath the thin fabric of your shirt you should really take off but don’t have the energy to.

You stay here, in this warmth, the comfort of him, drifting with him into a comforting dark that hangs heavy from your eyes. One thought, above the rest, sticks with your sleeping form. You’re cooling skin and the relaxation that has you collapsing against Simon.

This definitely, absolutely will not be the last time.

And maybe, you’re okay with that.

Chapter Text

It’s late when Simon texts you.

When his abbreviated speech and lovingly chosen screen name pop up on your phone, vibrating on the couch next to you as you shuffle through channels and attempt to fight off your semester typical insomnia.

It’s late when you toss off your blanket and stand to get dressed, pulling on half-thought out clothing and tugging on your winter boots that thunk as you step into them.

It’s late when you jog down the winding steps of your apartment building, greeting the guard at the front desk as you do, the front doors pushed open against the wind as you wave him a goodbye and a promise to be back soon.

Even later are you sitting on the bus, fingers clacking across your keyboard as you let him know you’re on the way.

Later still when he responds simply with a typed out smiley face, and you step into his neighborhood, ready to take the winding path to his house at the end.

It’s a longer walk than you like, admittedly, but one you’re accustomed to all the same. You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve made the trip out here, houses bathed in shimmering sunlight or drowned in graceful moonlight, you memorized the path to his house awhile ago.

There’s a longer way around, dodging through cramped together houses and around haphazardly parked cars that you’re certain would cause a wreck anywhere else. But you haven’t taken that way in awhile. At least, not willingly.

You duck between two of the houses, pastel pink and pale yellow, they stand either side you cushioned in with tall hedges and the sounds of a barking dog. You blend in the darkness, slipped between the commonality of nighttime normalcy. Overflowing trash bins and tossed out boxes molded with water damage and animal prints line the path of the back alley. Or, that’s sort’ve what you’d call it? A sheltered in walkway that leads behind a row of houses, exposing the chain link fence beyond that flimsily keeps the peace between suburbia and woodland.

A corner of the fence, gnarled and cut crudely, curls upward in a welcoming hand of familiarity. You duck beneath it, pushing it up just enough to crawl beneath, effectively cutting the time it takes to get to Simon’s house in half.

He’d shown it to you a few months back, when sneaking to and from his house became commonplace for the two of you. When late night visits became standard and he needed a break from the pressing expectation of his mother’s presence.

You humored him, most nights, crawling beneath the fence alongside him and onto the streets of Stockholm. Abandoned of people and loud with the sound of crickets, you two have carved out your place among it’s wildlife. It’s serenity and booming nothing.

It’s sort’ve your thing.

It’s nice to have a thing with someone.

Conveniently, this shortcut also leads you more to the back of his house, nestled under Simon’s frequently popped open window much to the ignorance of his mother.

You have a feeling tonight, same as always, depends entirely on her not knowing you’re in the house.

You, in the months you’ve known Simon, have kind of become a pro at hiding from his mom. As bad as it makes you feel at times, especially with how welcoming she’s been since having been introduced. Inviting you to dinner and over for movie nights, gushing about the new friend her son has made to her friends and insisting on you spending the night on days when going home seems so much farther away than a hasty train ride, but it's a necessary evil.

You wonder, absently, as you kick through the shrubbery and flattened grass of your makeshift path, if she’d feel as warm to you if she knew just how bad of an influence you are on her son.

It’s not like Simon left his window open before he met you.

You think she’d still be okay with it.

At least you’re getting him out of the house.

And that sorta seems to be her main priority.

It’s sweet, you think, the way she looks out for him. But you can also see how quickly that can become. . overbearing.

One of the many reasons your late night visits are kept away from her awareness. Hidden under the blanket of midnight and kept to hush tones and blankets shoved to the base of doors to muffle the smell of smoke and the laughter of late night TV.

You open up into his side of the neighborhood, the familiar line of cars and scuffed bikes coming into view through the tangled mesh of thin wire, lines of houses with snuffed out lights or flickering candles left on window sills drawing your eyes through the silent night.

There’s a chill in the air, nipping under your clothes and biting pricks into your skin, it ghosts over you as you keep alongside the fence line looking for the break in the metal. It comes in the form of an abrupt end, where the blunt end of the fence sits curled back around fishnet wire frame, pushed back on itself in the mocking form of a mouth that welcomes you forward.

You curl around it to the backside of houses that lead to the blood red exterior of Simon’s. It stands out in the dark, stark against the gripping ink of the night and the fresh green shrubbery.

You’ve made your way there enough times to step around the thick hedges that surround it, slipping between it and the house beside them, locked shut and eerily quiet, you sneak around it’s side. The crimson streaks of paint peeling at the base of the home and drenched with frozen sheets of rain that have clung to it’s harsh edges and stiff wooden boards.

The yard bends around the side of the house, leading to the back caged in with a thick fence and dense bushes that bite at your pant legs and muffles the sound of your boots on the crunching autumn leaves left behind by winter’s passing interest.

His window, mere feet away and inches from your hands, sits cracked just enough for you to tap your knuckle against it’s snow frosted glass. The wood grain is patchy and knife-nicked, either from your own prying or his, evidence of cigarettes hastily put out against the white paint staining down the side and besmirching it with delinquency.

You hear shuffling on the other side as you stand there, slouched against the wall of his house and casual in your tossing looks around the woods beyond, the skittering animals and the subtle wind that rustles the remaining bundles of green. The thick branches that sway with the weight of their life, the overabundance of arbor green that drips off in swaths of orange and yellow.

The window pushes up with the soft force of a friendly face, pulling your attention from the sprawling wilderness to your friend who hangs his upper body from his window, smiling at you.

It makes your heart twist.

You haven’t seen him like this in weeks.

You really, really missed it.

The soft ruffle of his hair, the loose fit of his half unzipped hoodie and the tired warmth that smolders in his dark eyes.

You missed seeing him in the dark, how no one else gets to.

“Took you long enough” Simon jokes, extending a hand for you to take. You do, noting his warmth compared to the frigid rigidness of your own hands, the tense muscles in your fingers that struggle momentarily to grip his own.

“I don’t see you walking all the way across town in this weather”

“You didn’t drive here?”

“Told you last week that my car was acting up, that and I didn’t wanna wake your mom up. Or would you want to deal with her asking why your only guy friend is parked outside her house at two am?”

“Tsk” he scowls, pulling you up with a heft you salivate with. That you want to feel on your back and pushing your head down, want to feel on top of you and keeping you in place. Your boot grips to the side of his house as he hauls you up and through the frame of his window into his bedroom, landing on his bed with a squeak both of you wince at, “fair point”

“I mean, unless you’re ready to have that conversation with her” you jest, teasing him with a scrunched nose and smug grin, “we are getting pretty serious”

“Shut up” he pushes at your arm, amusement betraying him as it fights on his face, lips pulled into a smile that presses at his eyes, his face bright and his usual tiredness melting into sweet softness that eats away in your gut. That has your mind twisting and body feeling warm just by being near him. By seeing him happy.

Ugh, he’s made you soft.

You hate it.

You love it just as much.

You sit at the foot of his bed, criss crossed and leaning on your knees as he leans against his wall, just beside his window and letting the gentle breeze waft over his scruffy hair. He cut it recently, tired of it’s constant drift into his vision or curl down his neck, leaving it jagged and shorter than usual. He looks handsome, you feel your chest lurk, his bright red piercings that cut through his bottom lip and through his eyebrow standing out against his skin. His dark stubble and smeared makeup, all left over from a packed day of school and work and him being too lazy to scrub it off.

You were surprised, admittedly, when you first noticed he wore it at all. Black shadows adoring his eyes and messy eyeliner staining his waterline.

You’d teased him for it, gently, unsure of the feeling that sparked in your mind when you thought of it running. Of it messy and tear tracked down his cheeks.

The first time you saw him in his corpse paint, you were stumbled into silence, feeling your face heat and your attention drawing more and more to how easily it’d be to transfer. How it’d smear if you got to it soon enough. Before it dried and wiped off dry on your hands, how it’d feel on your own face and the imagined proximity of him helping you apply it.

Simon, in his contagious excitement, had been too preoccupied with explaining the stage lineup of the show he and Sophie were going to to notice your dusted face and stammering nod.

It’d been hard to stop thinking about.

Still is, some days. When he wears that jet black hoodie to class and you can still see the white staining on the sleeve where he’d smudged it off his hands on accident.

He turns to you, subtly, dark eyes reflecting shimmering pearl from the moon outside- and your heart skips.

You lean into the feeling, instead of away from him, and it consumes you.

You let it, “thanks. For coming. You didn’t have to”

“Course, why wouldn’t I?” he shrugs.

“It’s late”

“It always is with us”

“Guess so- I dunno, still. Thanks” you smile, and he tries, you think, to mirror it.

The effort is still appreciated.

You look around, drinking in the gradually fading in environment of his room. The messy shelves and stuffed full nightstand, the rickety desk in the corner and shabby closet cracked open with spilling hoodie sleeves and the pressure of tossed away t-shirts.

His laptop sits on his desk, pulled open barely enough for light to spill from it’s screen, a movie half finished bleeding blue light into the room and across the floor. It lights up the shorter half of the small space, splashed up the walls and conforming to the shadows of his chair and thick bag hanging from it’s side. His room is small, cramped and cluttered, it’s comfortable. A cozy sense of place that has you sighing, content and at home, tired.

You’re always tired when you’re here, just as Simon is at yours. An endless battle at staying awake when by each other’s sides, an endless battle at falling asleep when miles apart.

You hear him shifting, leaning over the tiny width of his bed to his nightstand and tugging open the drawer to fish around for the small carton both of you are well accustomed to. He pulls it out with one hand, pushing the drawer closed with the other, rather hastily, you notice in his pinched brow.

You can only imagine it’s state is similar to your own.

The thought curls in your stomach, sending shivers up your spine and filthy images to your brain. You push them away, watching him snatch his lighter from next to his busted lamp and smacking a cigarette into his open palm.

He tosses the box off to the head of his bed, near his pillows- interestingly, one of which is missing a case, left bare next to the others- you think to ask him of it’s significance but are distracted by the wavering light that flicks to life in his hands. Covered by his gloved hand, he lights his smoking gun and breathes it in deep, flicking off his lighter and flipping it between his fingers.

You huff, corner of your mouth perked into a smile- like clockwork.

Probably his first of the day, maybe the last couple, you figure, his eyes slipping closed with the smoke that drinks down his throat and out through his nose. Dripping down his chin, it dissipates to the cold air outside, his arm resting along the sill and keeping the burning wick away from the soaking walls or flammable bed sheets.

He usually doesn’t smoke inside, but stress colors his face, deepens the bags beneath his eyes and sinks him into the spot. He seems tired. Joyful youthfulness drained from him as he sighs, a soft cough on his lips that dies in his throat and has him frowning.

“Tough day?” he hums with a small nod, a distant look on his face, lost to thought and avoidant, you pick at the frayed threads of his expression, “figured there was a reason you wanted to hang out- everything. . alright?” he shrugs, brows furrowed.

“My aunt came to visit today”

“And how’d that go?” you know little about his family, small tidbits he’s told you over your friendship. Things he feels comfortable enough to say and things you can infer by the picture frames in the hallway. The too large bed in his mom’s room and the fireplace mantel stained with candle wax and adorned with dusty imprints of memories. You can pick apart pieces of his childhood from the thickness of the dust. Lodged between each grain, you’ve seen through them enough to know the monthly visits from his aunt aren’t only friendly.

You haven’t asked more than that.

You haven’t had a reason to.

He’ll tell you if he wants, just as you will to him.

“Fine. The usual” he grimaces, “forced to play happy family like always. Like she doesn’t know I’m fucked up, that all of this is fucked” he gestures around the two of you. The state of his room and himself, disheveled and exhausted, “but mom wants to ‘keep up appearances’ I guess, so, I sit at the table and tell her about school and Sophie and you and all the other friends I totally have” he drags out the word, a tight aggression on his face that dissipates with another strong inhale that has his chest rising and falling with the effort, “but it went fine. Got woken up at damn near six in the morning but it went fine”

“Shit, is she trying to kill you?” you laugh, Simon grants you a smile.

“Feels like it sometimes” he reaches for his phone, discarded to the sheets beside him, it slips into his hand with the tune of his words. Flipped over in one hand and replacing his lighter, he clicks it on, the small screen illuminating his face for a moment before he’s turning it back off and setting it aside, conflict on his face.

“Waiting for someone? Those other friends of yours?” he flicks his cigarette at you.

“Sophie”

“So, sort’ve” your heart twists around the simple word, the admission, the soft longing in his voice that constricts around your gut. That shreds through reason and into sickly ink that colors your insides. Paints them mild jealousy and putrid aversion.

You know.

You’ve sorta always known.

Everyone kinda does.

Other than Sophie, it seems, as is always the way.

It’s no secret the way he looks at her, the way he always has, the way his voice softens when she’s mentioned, the way his voice quickens and his lips twitch upward at the mere mention. You aren’t an idiot. You can see it in him just as you see it in yourself.

As your own inflection changes when Simon enters the room, when he drifts through your thoughts or ghosts across your phone screen. You’re aware of your own feelings just as you are his. Just as you are pained to hear them, “left you hanging?” you attempt, voice weak. You hope he doesn’t notice.

He doesn’t. As usual.

“You could call it that. She had a date tonight. Some guy she met in her forensics class, I told her to tell me when she got home but. . she hasn’t yet” oh.

Sophie. . got a date.

Before you. Before either of you.

. . .

No, that checks out.

Simon has the approachability of a wild animal and you’re known around campus as the guy who willing sits with said animal. If anyone was to have a chance getting asked out, it was her.

You brush off the obvious explanation as to why she might not be getting back to him, maybe for respect of her privacy or possibly your sneaking suspicion it would send him into a crisis, and instead circle back to his thundering expression.

The storm that crackles on his face and has him watching the embers of his cigarette fall to the ground beneath, paved with stepping stones and metal trash cans, it fluttering to the air silently.

The flame kisses up his face, honey dew affection that frames his soft cheeks and shines in his eyes, painting them a sunset of amber that has your breath catching in your chest.

You feel lightheaded.

You push through it.

“Damn, good for her” okay that probably wasn’t the best thing to say. Simon laughs anyway, a small chuckle that barely leaves his lips, but it’s there nonetheless. It eases you a bit, “how are you. . feeling? With that?” you’re unsure how else to phrase it. It comes out clunky and awkward. He doesn’t judge you for it.

He never has.

His eyes are distant, for a moment, mulling over the weighted question with a silence that pulls.

“I feel. . . happy, for her” your brows raise, he flicks the end of the smoldering flame, “I think that’s what this is. When she told me it was, odd. It felt weird, not being. . upset? I was for a second, I think, but she looked so excited. And I was excited for her. I think. . .I think I’m happy for her” he seems at ease. Comfortable.

It’s weird.

But a good weird.

He seems more content than he would have been when you first met.

You knock a gentle fist to his side, jostling him.

“Good, now you can stop stalking her” he avoids your eyes, skin flushing.

“I wasn’t that bad” wasn’t. It’s simple. Quiet and simple yet it draws all your attention. Wasn’t.

“You were. . .pretty bad”

“Ugh, shut up” he sucks in another breath, letting it fill his lungs and seep from his lips. It drips down his face, blown out slowly and wisping over his cheeks, ghosting him in the soft haze of fog. Of heated breath that captures him perfectly, bleeding into the color of his hoodie and staining it with the potent stench of ash.

The same you can’t help but associate with him.

Cigarette smoke and cheap shampoo, he smells of rainwater from the night you ran home in the downpour and liquor from the night you met. He shines of the neon lights of the convenience store you frequent with the VHS static of his favorite movies he’s fallen asleep to countless times.

Feels like the soft material of his hoodie around your shoulders on a night when you’d forgotten your own. Like the feeling of his couch and fluffed pillows when the two of you share a blanket and whisper meaningless jokes and tired laughter in the quiet of your stays. Of your insisted upon appearance at the dinner table and saved number on his phone.

Simon watches you, the way your eyes trail the smoke that lines his lips, that seeps outside and into the open air. The way they train to his tongue that peeks out gently to wet the chapped expanse, as they flutter and move to his own. He watches as you watch him, as you engrave every detail and every movement.

He feels warm.

Entranced with the sight of you he feels foolish and crazed, impulsive and dumb- he feels brave. Dangerous as it is, stupid as it is, he feels desperate.

He offers his hand, cigarette pinched between his index and middle, extending the still smoking decision out to you.

You stare at it, for a moment, stunned.

He feels himself rush with the thought of your lips against it. Taking it from his hand with your mouth instead of your own hand, bringing it to your teeth and feeling the soft press against the pads of his hand. He feels himself shiver with the thought of your mouth on him.

On his own and trailing down his neck, “it’s my last one” he explains, and your eyes flick to his, forcefully pulled from his hand. He wants you to take it. Wants his smoke to fill your lungs and expand around your organs, fill your chest and bleed from your nose. He’s bad at hiding it, “I don’t mind sharing”

“That’s unlike you” he shrugs, a minuscule movement, as you take it from his hands. Slow and tentative, it slips between his grip to your own. He aches with the pain of rejection. A sickly familiar feeling, it sinks in his gut and bites in his brain, craving the feeling of his hands in you.

On.

He meant on.

Fuck.

“I’m feeling generous tonight” good, he thinks rather, he feels good tonight. Maybe not earlier, when left alone in the silence of his bedroom. The drilling sounds of a film he barely cared about carving away at his resolve. When he sat in his bed and contemplated senseless pleasure or biting numbness. Forced sleep or screaming music, he’d texted you instead, hands on his keyboard before he could think better of it.

Before he could think anything outside of seeing you again.

Of you in his bed and all his again.

Buried in the dark and highlighted by stars, he needed this. The quiet. The chill. The taste of smoke on his tongue and the sound of you sucking in a breath as the cigarette meets your lips, and he feels his hand twitch.

“Mm, that can’t mean anything good” the taste scratches in the back of your throat, you enjoy it anyways, a bitter residue left behind on your tongue that swallows with the weight of that dumb ‘wasn’t’.

Brown eyes watch your every movement, trail them with a heaviness you can feel, one that grips at the meat of your thighs and up your stomach until it’s a hand over your mouth and a heat inside you.

You feel warm. Jittery.

You hand it back.

He takes it, closer than before, both of you huddled under the small opening of his window. A cloud of fog, of dense smoke and heat, burns between you as he blows his drag out the window, the wafting gray sinking into the bed between you. How little of that exists.

The rustling wind ghosts over you, making you shiver, skin broken out with bumps that feel overwhelming and all consuming.

You take it back. It tastes like desperation. You weren’t sure that even had a taste until now, until it drenched your tongue and pooled between you. A river of smoke that wraps around your heads and blankets the small distance between you.

You make a mistake here, you’re sure of it, because when your view drops from his backyard to his room, you look at him.

You look at him and he’s already looking at you.

Deep brown eyes highlighted by the wavering cyan that paints his walls, that drenches them in a neon darkness and his striking features in color, that paints them in shining light that has your heart hammering.

You feel the pulse in your fingertips, roaring in your ears and running down your back into your core that twists with heat. That thrums with it.

You take a second drag, feeling the fluttering addiction on your lips that you’re starting to think has nothing to do with the nicotine at all, and everything with the man who you insists lights it for you.

Simon’s eyes shift, just enough, barely enough to notice, but it’s all you can focus on, all you can see. They shift from your own to your lips, to where the smoke lingers and where his attention seems to pool, dark eyes heavy.

Maybe not a mistake, maybe the first one you’ve ever made, and maybe what you’ve been craving since that rickety porch and too loud music- you lean forward into him, and to the tune of your beating heart, he does too.

Your lips meet and tension bleeds from your shoulders, from your body and from your mind, bursting to nothing behind your eyes. Such a tender thing, it bleeds with a barely restrained desperation, a fighting urge to push farther, pull deeper.

Reach out and come back bloody, it aches in you with the desire to be consumed.

You press further, turning your head with the way he melts to you, lips parting and tongue slipping into his mouth- you can feel him shudder.

Simon tastes like stale smoke and high contrast carbonation, the aftershocks of canned caffeine that sparks in his system and has his heart ticking faster- well, that and everything else. He tastes like cheap food and long nights, talking on the phone and the crisp night air that wafts through the old mental asylum the two of you have made yours.

He tastes heavy and heavenly. Fresh rain and morning coffee.

You cup his face with your hand, feeling his rough stubble and greasy hair, feel the texture of his hoodie as you press closer, sink deeper, need more- and he’s pulling away with breathless words that come out tangled on the tongue that should be feeling along the ridges of your mouth and wrapped around your own.

“Waitwait- hold on” he rushes, face flushed as he moves away- a strike of panic courses through you. A mistake, more likely. And then, just as quickly as it was there, it’s gone as he reaches over and plucks the, very much still lit, cigarette from your hand and takes one more long drag off of it before putting it out against his window sill and flicking it off to the darkness.

Oh.

Right.

“Whoops” you laugh, and he joins you, softly, coughing through the sound with puffs of gray air that stain his lungs and color the surroundings.

“Best we don’t burn my house down, yeah?” his breathing is still heavy, eyes half-lidded and body thrumming with an energy unmatched. A shakiness in the hands that rest behind him on the bed to keep him upright as you lean over him, shifting just enough to be crowding him.

It makes his head race.

He likes it.

A lot.

“Would be a bit easier to make out in a normal, not on fire, bed, wouldn’t it?” you joke, and he meets your eyes again, still nervous, embarrassment painting him a stunning red that kisses down his neck and beneath the collar of his shirt.

You want to follow it.

“Fuck” he whispers, and it sinks straight to beneath your waistband, sinking into your gut and kindling a raging fire that burns everywhere your bodies are touching, “fuck, we were making out, huh?” he almost seems disbelieving, you have trouble deciphering as to why.

“Yeah” you cup his face again, he looks between your palm and you, “we were” and then you are again. Heated breathes and heavy smoke on your tongue as it sinks against his own. As you breathe him in and as your body heats beneath your clothes.

As you feel yourself growing hot and stiff under his hands, his hands that hover awkwardly on where to go, on what to do, until your own meet them and guide them to your hips. To the low hang of your pajama pants that reveal the brand of your boxers.

You feel him twitch, an unsure and desperate need in his hands that loosely grip at your body- too scared to squeeze too hard, too nervous to, maybe, unskilled and sloppy you feel him press into you. Chest puffing up into your own, he grows bold, for a moment, attempting to pull you forward.

Closer.

You pull away, face burnt red and lungs heaving for air that he steals with his own drowning gulps of salvation. You slide forward without comment, spoken aloud only with the pleading look in your eyes, the hunger that starves you. You seat yourself in his lap and his hands fall to your thighs almost instinctively.

Needingly, you tell yourself, feeling the thought warm up the back of your mind and invade your thoughts with the sounds of his imagined whines. His broken moans you’ve fallen asleep to. His whimpered pleas and whispered words that have set you alight countless times.

“Is this. . .” Simon swallows around his words, forcing them out with a delirious boldness that feels like rushing blood and smells like sweat, “is this okay?” his hands slide up your thighs, gently squeezing them as you adjust, straddling his lap and towering above his flushed form.

You feel his body shiver beneath you. You want to feel it twitch and thrust and break.

You nod.

“Yeah” it comes out breathless. Just as worked up as he seems to be.

It’s embarrassing.

Feeling that familiar pulsing need over something so small.

So innocuous.

You’re this worked up over kissing him? How are you going to handle it when his cock is in your mouth? When his hands are on more skin then they are flannel? When his teeth sink into your neck and you can feel his name being punched out of your lungs with the force of him fucking you?, “please, touch me” but maybe you don’t care. Maybe you’re tired of waiting.

“Fuck” it’s barely there under his breath, it echoes around your head and your blood rushes as you sink into him again, as you press your lips to his and feel the way his tongue moves against yours.

His hands run up your thighs, slipping beneath the material of your shirt and against your skin. Flushed and kissed with goosebumps, his hands roam your back and pull you to him. You shift- God, closer- on his lap, chests pressed together and feeling so near to what you want.

What you’ve been fantasizing about for months.

What you’ve lost sleep over and what you find yourself indulging much too often with a hand down your pants and guilt on your lips.

Simon groans into your mouth, subconsciously pressing upward as you do, seeking you out. His hips grinding against yours and making your hands slip from his cheeks to the back of his hair, gripping the short strands and feeling the jolt he gives at the action. The small pain that shocks in the back of his mind and numbs into his temples.

His hands move down your back as his mouth drifts from yours, lips trailing down your neck and over your throat, lust burned into the curve of your collarbone and up the left side of your neck as he grabs your ass.

It makes you laugh, a thing caught in your throat and rumbled through the tight line of your teeth sunk into your lip, as your head rolls back. His hips move as he moves yours, as he grips the meat of your ass and grinds you against himself. Against the feeling of his steadily hardening dick.

Your voice catches on the sound of a gasp, on arousal that spikes through you with the feeling of his cock against your own. Barely kept apart by stiff jeans and flimsy sleepwear.

You feel dizzy.

Hungry after starving for months. Years. You can’t remember the last time someone held you like this. The last time your head was shoved into a pillow or a hard cock was rubbed against your cunt. The last time someone’s lips were on yours or when you wanted something this badly.

It all faded when you met Simon. When he became all you could think about. When he was all you wanted.

You lean back, arms supporting you against the mattress as Simon takes control of the movement of your hips, rolling them against his own with a heavy groan on his red lips and a heat in his eyes that sinks in your gut.

It feels unreal, absurd, dreamlike and overwhelming. Hard to focus on anything but the pleasure emanating from your hips, the heat against your own that presses into your clit and has your eyes squeezing shut.

It’s not enough, you mourn, a whine stuck in your throat as you assist Simon’s- admittedly clumsy- movement. You wouldn’t be surprised, entirely, if this was his first experience with something so debauched. With something so animistic. If you’re the first guy he’s ever had in his lap and if he’s acting more off enthusiasm than he is technique. You aren’t going to fault him. You aren’t doing much better yourself.

You feel him stutter, falter in his movements and his breathes quicken, hands shaking where they indent fingerprints into your hips and his rolling hips slow to a stop.

He keeps you close. Still a hard pressure on your cunt, a dragging, dry heat that feels horrid through your clothes yet just as euphoric. You peek your eyes open, and- fuck, he looks stunning.

His hair is messy, eyes dark and face flushed as he pants, mouth hanging open and brows pinched. He looks embarrassed, and it burns in your stomach.

“Too much?” you tease him, unable to stop yourself, unable to stop the small roll of your hips that has his eyes rolling back and lids squeezing shut. Messy makeup scrunched on his face as his hands grab your hips harder.

“Mhm” he grits out, “just, a second” he concedes, looking disheveled and desperate. You hum, leaning back into his personal space, breathing in his air and feeling the heat from his skin. The lust that bleeds from him and taints the air with the smell of sweat and obsession.

You guide him to your lips, feeling him relax under you, hands working their way up your back and away from where you need them most. Where you have needed them since you met him. You slip his hoodie off the rest of the way, the gray fabric pooling at his elbows and exposing the deep black band tee he barely ever takes off.

He shivers when your affection trails down his neck, when you kiss heat into the bump of his Adam’s apple and when your tongue traces the curve of his collarbone. Dozens cover his neck, trailed up one side and across to the other, open mouthed and hot, you bite into his pale skin and he suppresses a moan.

You’ll work harder for the next one, “fuck- nothing my mom can see” he rushes out, pulling from your mouth.

“You’re no fun”

“Do you want to have that conversation?”

“Fair enough” you decide on another day, then, another day to bite up his neck and leave it deep purple and red with evidence of your teeth. Of your mouth on him and how badly you want him. You push at his chest, he looks at you with confusion for a moment, “lay back” he does as told, arms at his sides and hands splayed on the only part of your thighs he can reach.

His thumb wanders circles into the meat of your knee, and you keep one hand on his chest and the other on the bed, keeping you in place, and then you’re rolling your hips again. A curse catches in his throat, some horrific mix of English and Swedish that dies on his tongue into the muffled sound of a groan as he smacks a hand against his mouth.

You pull the hand away nearly as fast as it appears, you’ve waited too long for this to miss out on what you want most, and he looks up at you- mildly horrified- as you press harder to him, “I wanna hear you” his eyelashes flutter with your request, your aching voice as you drag your pussy against his covered cock, “I want to hear every pretty noise you make as I ride you”

Simon chokes, eyes wide and disbelieving as you focus your efforts, letting go of holding him down and instead leaned back against his thighs as you hump against his cock. As you grind your clit against the head of his dick and feel the way he twitches under you, the heat of his arousal that bleeds through your clothes and makes your brain feel fuzzy.

His jeans feel tight and constrictive, and he pants under your movements, your soft moans that flutter from your lips as your face screws up, you look beautiful. Captured by the moonlight outside and the blue light that seeps up his walls, you’re haloed in bright blues and pearlescent excellence.

Pre-cum wets his boxers under your hips, under the feel of your cunt against him that bites stars into his nervous system and has his hands shaking.

He’s never felt this before.

This overbearing heat.

This need.

This pure delirium for pleasure.

He’s never felt anything like you before.

He’s had sex before, sure, a quick blowjob at a concert he can’t even remember the face of, a girl he’d met near the stage and followed around the back when she’d pulled him along.

But it wasn’t this.

Wasn’t you.

Wasn’t heavy and begging. Quick and embarrassing he’d never even caught her name, but yours falls like a pray from his lips. Over and over he feels it engrave itself on his tongue with the love that it strangles from him. That it stains him with.

Simon melts into it when you kiss him. And only sorta barely whines when you stop grinding against him.

You laugh, and it shoots straight to his dick. Makes him twitch in his pants and his blood rush.

He loves it.

You catch the zipper of his hoodie between your fingers, pulling it down as you lick back into his mouth, feeling him huff on your tongue as you push the annoying fabric off of him. He helps, where he can, tugging it off his arms and tossing it to his floor, leaving him in the baggy and torn up shirt he’s been sleeping in for the past three days. Not his best look. But you can’t stop staring so, maybe he doesn’t look as bad as he thinks.

You continue down his chest, kissing over the black material and worn away logo, hands slipping under his shirt and riding it up his stomach that he feels the urge to hide. The knee jerk response to cover himself up entirely, push you off and rip his blanket from under him as safety.

But he doesn’t.

Because your lips against his skin and your hands at his belt have his brain shutting off.

Fuck.

Simon’s stomach is tense under your hands, honestly, all of him is. You’re hoping to remedy a bit of that. His happy trail is thick and colors up the pudge of his stomach, disappearing beneath his shirt you kiss along the line of it to his waistband. Fingers wrapped around belt loops and thumb pressed to the buckle, you gaze up at him, eyes lidded and cheek pressed just close enough to his bulge to feel the heat, you blink up at him sweetly.

He swallows thickly, looking down at you with his eyes blown wide and his stomach rising and falling with the beat of his dick. Or his heart. Or whatever. You have your attention elsewhere at the moment.

“Is this okay?” it’s your turn, with the tantalizing question, the earnest request and sultry voice. He nods. You slide a hand down, cupping him in your palm, “say it”

“Yeah, fuck- please” he breathes out, and you feel yourself drip with the words.

His belt jostles as it’s undone, as it’s fumbled out of place and slipped from the first few rings before his fly is in your hands and you’re pulling it open to reveal the tent beneath.

His boxers hide very little, the black material thin and bulging, it wafts heat and leaks with pre-cum. You kiss the head through the fabric, feeling the way his hips twitch to your lips, needing closer, needing more, needing down your throat and covered in your spit.

You run your tongue up it’s length, stimulation barely there with the heat of your mouth, your hot breath ghosting over the tip as he stifles another moan. His hand grips the sheets below him, knuckles cracked white and shaking, he brings the other to his mouth, biting into his palm. You cup him in your hand, rubbing your fingers up and down his shaft and pressing to the base of the head. He pants for you to go faster, move more, take him out already and shove him down your throat.

At least, that’s what you think he wants.

It’s the best you can imagine with the way he’s whining. Short puffs of air that barely break through the tight bite he has on his hand, low in his throat and desperate, he sounds miserable. Unbearably horny, maybe.

That’s probably a better descriptor.

Desperate to have your mouth on him. To have any sort of relief. To be free from the confines of his pants that cinch around his knees and restrict his movement. You jerk him off through his boxers, rounding your hand around the tip and squeezing it with a smooth rhythm before sliding down the shaft and kissing at the transition at his base.

His hand leaves his mouth and slides into your hair, pressing your face closer to him, hips rising from the bed to press his cockhead to your lips. A plea. You let him. Let him rut against your mouth and feel the way his hips jerk to get what they need and it boils in your abdomen.

It has your cunt dripping and aching around nothing, around the need for him to fuck you. To pin you down and leave you ruined. Leave your thighs painted white and your hole bruised and twitching.

You want him to hold you down and have his way with you. Hump against your clothed pussy or slip inside and fill you to brimming. Watch as his cum leaks from you and down the curve of your ass or lick it up himself to not make a mess.

You want him to ruin you.

You jerk him off faster, the wet material of his boxers catching on his dick and pulling it down just enough to expose the tip. It dribbles on his stomach, creating a sticky mess that you lick up, that salivates your tongue and has you humming against the rock hard heat of his cock in your hand.

You catch a finger in his waistband, tugging it down horrifically slow. He hates you for it. He loves you for it. It drags, caught on his ass and stuck to the sweat that pools on his hips- and there’s a noise.

A noise that has both of you pausing and Simon to tense.

Shuffling, you register, past the wall and buried in the dark of the house.

In the monotony of night, the ritualistic practice of a house decades old, both of you still with the sound of footsteps descending down the long hallway towards the front of the house. A nightly walk commonplace for his mother, who seeks out the fluorescent buzz of their bathroom at the same time nearly every night.

You laugh, softly, and he curses you for it.

“Whoops”

“Shut up”

“I mean, thank God for the asinine way your house is built, huh?” you keep up your movements, much to his squeaked surprise that has him scowling.

“Ugh, yeah, whatever- just, be quiet” he eyes toward his door, worry creasing his brow and flagging his excitement in your hand. You frown. You’ll be doubling your efforts, then.

You know, nearly for sure now, that his mother definitely would not be as warm to you if she knew what you had turned her son into.

For some odd reason, you can’t bring yourself to care.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m gonna have my mouth full in no time” you joke, he doesn’t grant you a laugh. You know he wants to. The smile on his face gives him away.

“Bastard”

“You love me for it” you kiss his hip, just above the line of his boxers, and up the side of his stomach. One hand still slowly squeezing and rubbing on his cock while the other holds his thigh, tenderly pressing your thumb into messy shapes and abstract thoughts. He relaxes, when the sounds stop, when they teeter off into nothing. Into late night stillness and the wafting chill from outside. And his hips rolls, and you smile against it, “eager” a swallow clicks in his throat.

You’d be cruel to deny him. And yourself.

So you don’t.

You peel down his boxers, revealing the expanse of his cock inch by inch, hot with anticipation. It stands modestly, nestled in dark hair and twitching with need, it drips with pearled desire.

Simon looks away, as if there’s something to hide, something to be embarrassed by. You kiss the tip, and his breathing gets heavier.

Gently, with eyes meeting his own and a flutter in your stomach, you lick up his length, suckling at his tip. It tastes like sweat and water, salty and addicting in your mouth, you hum around him and his hand flies to your hair.

He grips your scalp, tugging softly at you as you sink down. As you suck at what you can fit in your mouth and slide your hands under his thighs to keep him in place.

His cock is thick and heavy in your mouth, pressing on your tongue and warm against the roof of your mouth, you suck around him. Tongue wrapping around the bottom of his shaft as you drag back up, and push back down, feeling the way his hips jolt beneath you.

Warmth spreads up his stomach, his arms feeling heavy and his brain fuzzy. He feels like he’s dreaming. A haze around his thoughts that shimmer with the glittering hue of lust. Feels that any second he’s going to wake up with the wetness of your mouth replaced with the tight grip of his fist. The plush of your tongue against his cock melting to the cushion of his bed, of his fantasy or his depravity.

Convinced the sight of your head bobbing between his legs a delusion he’ll be ripped from, but the image stays, the heat stays, the shaking pleasure of feeling your throat squeeze around his dick as you swallow him down entirely, gagging on the length and pulling back with a kiss to his shaft and hot breathes over his balls stays.

It consumes him. Engulfing him whole and making his back arch, his legs shake and his mouth croak from his dry tongue that licks at his lips. Pleasure pools in his gut and electrifies his system, zapping through his veins and making him gasp out your name as you sink him back into your mouth.

You swallow around him, tears prickling to your eyes as you moan, feeling him thrust shallowly into your mouth. You jolt, eyes shooting open as he does, and he pulls back with an apology on his lips- but you stop him. Pulling off with a pop, you pant as you jack him off, hand sloppy with your spit and his pre-cum, as you feel yourself ache in your pants.

Clit rock hard and weeping, you’re overcome with the need for touch. To be fingered and spread open. You don’t have much time to think before you’re speaking, “fuck my throat” you rasp, a flutter in your stomach as you say it, as the need drips from your red beaten lips and you pulse with arousal.

“What?” he stammers, and you press your lips to his cock as you answer.

“I want you to fuck my throat so bad, fuck, I’ve cum to the thought of you doing that so much” you admit, squeezing around his head and dragging your fist back down, “the feeling of your cock in the back of my throat, spit down my chin, how you’d sound moaning out my name as I let you use me- I’ve touched myself to it so much, I want it so bad” you whine, and he looks like he’s going to pass out.

He looks shocked. Surprise coloring away some of his flushed skin, brown eyes staring at you in complete disbelief.

Okay.

Maybe that was a bit much.

A silence, not too long yet horrifically too forever, finds itself in the time between when your fist is tight around the head of his cock to when it grips at his base.

“You’ve jacked off thinking about me?” or maybe not.

Maybe that was just the right bit of crazy for someone like Simon.

“Yeah” you confess, it feels shameful leaving your lungs, a shame that settles in your gut and has you squirming, “a lot”

“That’s. . .so fucking hot” he groans, sitting up and pulling you up with him. He kisses you, heavy and heated, his tongue tastes himself on yours. Licks off his own cum from his lips and watches his spit glisten on yours.

He wonders how you sounded when you did. How you looked. If you fingered yourself while moaning his name or fucked yourself on a toy while imagining it was him. If you humped a pillow and pretended it was his face instead, if you jerked your cock and told yourself it was his mouth.

If you ever wanted to show him. To tell him. To record your moans or the slick sound of you getting fucked to send him.

He feels sick. Perverted and rotten, he wants to make you tell him. Not touch you until you recount each time your hand drifted towards your pants thinking about him. If anything specific caused it. If he could do it again, just to bother you, just to know you’d go home bothered. Go home wet and aching to be filled.

How happy he’d be to get the evidence after. Pictures of your cunt stretched around silicone or lube dripping from your hole.

He kisses you harder, stealing the breath from your lungs, and then he’s pulling away and guiding you back toward his cock, “I can do that, I can so do that” he’s almost giddy with his excitement.

It’d be cute if the look in his eyes wasn’t so hot, if the idea of him taking your throat didn’t have you tightening around nothing and feeling your clit twitch in your pants.

Fuck, this is actually happening. Holy shit.

He rests his cock on your lips, smearing the drying spit and cum there before pressing in softly, almost tenderly, letting you adjust, letting you get comfortable on the edge of his bed before he’s grabbing your head and easing you down. More and more, he sinks you down to the base, feeling the way you gag, the way your throat constricts around him. Lungs battling with the intrusion, your eyes flutter shut, and he pulls out- then thrusts back in.

He’s slow, at first, setting a comfortable pace of sinking you up and down his cock. It’s pleasant, numbing and creating a gentle buzz in your head that tingles down your arms. You relax, as much you can hanging half off the bed, allowing his hands to guide you. Either side of your head and gentle, they cradle you tenderly, gingerly, so carefully as his cock works in and out of your mouth. Pressed to your tongue it stains you with him, drooling spit down your chin and conforming your lips to the shape of him.

He sinks back in, gagging you around him, nose barely brushing his stomach that rolls over his hips. Everything smells, tastes, exists only of him.

Of Simon.

Of him atop you and him inside you.

He thrusts forward, forcefully, just once. And bliss erupts in your stomach. Curled around the panic, the need to breathe, is a euphoric arousal that drools from your mouth and snaps in your abdomen. That heats your skin and has your eyes slipping closed as he speeds up. Maybe unable to stop himself, maybe because he wants to, maybe because he sees the way your hand trails down you stomach to the line of your pants and his hips move before his mind can.

Your fingers find your clit, pussy dripping wet and boxers clinging to you, you pull the fabric from yourself and cringe with the globs of arousal that string between your fingers. Slipped between your folds, you gather slick on your fingers before rubbing them against your clit. His cock thrusts into your throat, coated with spit it slips in between your lips easily, fucking your mouth with a groan on his lips that growls your name.

That praises the tight seal of your mouth and the heat that scalds your throat. That tempts him forward. Tempts him faster. Harder. Hands gripping the sides of your head as he uses you, keeping you stuck in place on his dirty floor as his hips thrust against your face.

His belt clinking with each movement, it melts into the wet sound of your fingers in your cunt, jacking yourself off with quick, frenzied movements and long dragging punishments, “fuck, you feel so good, baby” he moans above you, each word tingling in your stomach and into your clit, making your fingers work faster.

Each constriction of your throat around his cock shoots pleasure up his chest, under his flimsy shirt and into his brain. Clouding it with the sounds of him fucking you, of his breathy pants and your muffled moans that hum around his length.

It’s bliss.

A manufactured pleasure straight from his dreams. From his wildest fantasies and his only desire, “bet it feels good to touch yourself, doesn’t it? Kneeled in front of me with my cock down your throat” he pulls you up for air, and you choke for it.

It feels like heaven in your lungs. Your hand moves quicker, dipping down to press to your hole, fingertips barely inside but stretching you open around their girth.

“Mhm” you swallow, thick spit and pre-cum, it tastes like fresh air, “so good” you kiss up his shaft, you’d jerk him off if you could, but unfortunately you need that hand to keep yourself up and the other is a little busy. You settle for this. For the strings that connect the two of you and the heat the burns against your face.

“Shit” some of that boldness, the one that possessed his movements and had his balls slapping against the mess of your chin, seems to dissipate. You mourn with it’s loss, resting your head on his thigh as he pants, as his hand comes to his mouth and he’s pulling his glove off with his teeth, “do you really think about that? Me. . .using you?” you’re confused, for barely a moment, until his hand is wrapped around his dick and he’s slowly jerking himself off with his cock to your lips.

Fuck.

Yeah, okay, you can work with that.

You can really work with that.

“Yeah” you mouth the words against him, his teeth sinking into the plush meat of his bottom lip as you do.

“Tell me” you shudder, feeling lightheaded with the rush of blood straight to your cunt. This is insane. You feel insane, “tell me how you get yourself off thinking about me”

You are so, so fucking glad he texted you.

“I have to hide my face in the pillows, I get too loud sometimes” his breath gets heavy as he leans back, dragging in his lungs, his fingers kiss your lips each time they pass over the head of his cock, “fingering myself open pretending it’s you instead, that you’re stretching me out to take your cock. So you can just slip inside, hold me down and have your way with me” your voice teeters into a moan, “fill me up and make me yours. I wish it was you, all the time, each night when I’m fucking myself, I want it to be you above me. Holding me legs apart and whispering in my ear, it’s so hard to stop thinking about you”

“Yeah?” his hand speeds up, the wet sound of his fist collides with the slick of your own arousal that coats your hands, making a mess of your pants.

“Wanna ride your face, feel your mouth around my cock” his eagerness, once more, you think would win out over inexperience.

Keeping your hips pinned and his tongue deep inside you, running up your folds and circling around your clit, you think his excitement to feel the squeeze of your legs around his head would outweigh any trepidation, any hesitation in swallowing down your arousal and easing heavier and heavier moans out of you with his tongue, “want you to leave bruises that’ll last days, feel your teeth in my neck as you fuck me. Sometimes I’ll ride my dildo on my couch, tease myself that maybe you’ll walk in. That you’ll catch me and finish the job, maybe that you’ll watch and touch yourself instead, make me get myself off. Watch me as I cum saying your name” his cock slips back into your mouth will little warning, nothing more than a thumb stuck between your lips that forces your jaw open and his cock to the back of your throat.

You choke around him, a wave of arousal crashing through you as your hand stills, so close to cumming yet not wanting to, wanting this feeling to go on forever, the curling euphoria in your stomach fluttering into a warmth in your chest as he fucks your face. As his hips thrust against you, pelvis pressed to your nose and hands gripping your hair.

“Fuck, that’s so hot” his head falls back, hips a mind of their own as they piston in and out of you, slapping on your chin and clouding your eyes, tears slip down your cheeks and that punching feeling of bliss gags in your lungs, “doing so well for me- God, you feel so good, shit- you look so pretty like this. So fuckin’ pretty with your mouth around my cock-” he hisses, pushing you down as far he can before letting up for you to gasp, pulled back and sitting on your thighs, you cough against his leg, “sorry, sorry- fuck, I’m so sorry I didn’t-” you whine, looking up at him, pleading- and he pauses.

“Simon” you moan, and he stops completely. Lungs halted around the drum of his heart, eyes wide as they meet yours, as you nuzzle his inner thigh and beg, “please fuck me” your hand slips from your boxers and holds onto his leg, staining his pants with slick.

He swears, heavy on his tongue and breathless, something thick in Swedish that dies in your ears as he pulls you back up toward him, lips pressed to yours and searching. Tongue wrapped around yours and lead lined, he brings you into his lap, body drunk as he moves. As he tangles around you and drinks the taste of himself on your lips.

You semi-expect it, when you’re picked up from his lap and flipped on your back against his pillows. A whoosh in your lungs that has your head swimming and your legs falling open over his lap- but what you aren’t expecting is when he turns you on your side, facing the door, and slips in behind you.

The two of you back to front on his small mattress as his arms snake around your waist and pull you flush to him, the heat of his still leaking cock grazing the ass of your pajama pants, “what’re you-?” you start, but he cuts you off, a gentle shush in your ear with his mouth at your neck that has bumps erupting over your skin.

“We have to be quiet” your heart hammers in your chest, his arm around your chest and hand over your mouth as he positions you just over his crotch. His other, ungloved and thick, runs over your stomach. Lifting your shirt and pulling at the band of your pants, slowly, so fucking slowly, pulling them down to expose your wet boxers to the air.

It rushes over you, making you tremble in his arms, cool air clinging to the damp fabric.

It’s horrid.

It zaps in your system as his fingertips dip below the tight band. He hooks his thumb to drag them down, over the curve of your ass and halfway down your thighs when you’re stopping him, pulling at the hand on your mouth. He relents, descent stopping and hand snapping itself away. He looks to you, confusion and worry swirling in the brown depths, you lick your lips, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Finger me first” he groans, softly and quietly, against your shoulder with a nod. Hand twitching back to you with a feverish need, a want so heavy it emboldens his actions, hand slipping down your cunt much faster now. More assured. Confident in the way his fingers drip into your folds, coming back sticky and hot.

It feels surreal, finally having another person’s hands on you after so long without it. Fingers encircling your clit and squeezing it softly, questioningly, maybe. You guide him along. Sinking your hands down to his, you push him further, drifting his fingertips over your hole and back up to your clit.

You lean into him, his chin on your shoulder and your eyes slipping shut as you move him into a rhythm, one that mimics your own hands, your own pleasure, the way you find yourself beneath your blankets with thoughts of him now replaced with his hands on you instead. With him jerking you off fast and precise, motions quickening with your labored breathing that breaks into a gentle moan when his middle finger finds your entrance and he grinds his palm to your clit.

He covers your mouth again, and you stifle yourself with a bitten tongue that drools blood between your molars.

“Shh” he chastises, softly, with all the loving in the world and a kiss to your shoulder, “don’t want to get us caught, do you?” you leg lifts with his words, with their effect, allowing him closer, deeper, hand slipping inside you with ease. He laughs, a smug smile on his face that you feel press to your skin. You twitch with the wave of excitement it washes over you, that it drowns you with, “and you called me eager”

“Shut up” you mumble into his palm, and he sinks in more, pulls out, then pushes back in, then again and then again until he’s found a pace he likes and you can feel yourself melting in his hands.

A quick learner, you lament, when one turns to two and your feel your legs shaking with the stretch. With the feeling of him thrusting his fingers right into the spot that has you gripping his arm and breathing heavy with the fabric of his glove.

Through the stained smell of smoke and the heat of his body against yours. You move his arm faster, urging him on, encouraging him with a roll of your hips and with your arms trembling with the need for him to go faster.

Deeper.

Harder.

Whatever works.

Whatever will unravel the tension in your stomach and pop the cluster of stars in your head all over his fingers and your own boxers, “Faster, please, mmplease, faster” you gasp into him.

“Fuck, you’re so wet” he mumbles, fingers pulled away with clinging strings of arousal that reek of desperation, “all from getting your throat fucked? From my hands on your clit?”

“All for you- because of you” you moan, still trying to move his hand faster, still trying to cum, but he pulls away entirely and you whine.

“I’m sorry, but I need to fuck you so bad- can’t help it anymore, need to be inside you”

“Please” he pushes your pants down the rest of the way, you kick them off and lose them to the darkness below the bed, followed soon by your boxers that hang off the side, the head of his cock butting against the slick of your cunt.

He shimmies his pants down more, giving himself a bit more room, but finds himself too impatient to pull them off completely. Leaving him still mostly dressed and you exposed to the air, dripping wet and feverish, shame fills your stomach.

It feels much too like desire for your liking.

He lifts one of your legs, hand bigger than your own and thick as it grips the meat of your thigh, each nerve shocking with the contact. With the affection you’ve only ever imagined now all you can feel. All you can focus on. He moves it over his hip and grabs his cock, lining himself up with you.

He drags himself over your folds, head pressed between them and lapping up still drooling lube, and kisses his length to your clit. Rutting your cocks together, you both groan with the feeling, “tease” you bite, and you feel his mouth twitch into the smug line of a smile.

Pure liquid pleasure melts through your stomach and into your chest with the feeling of his blunt cockhead against your clit, the length of his dick sliding over the expanse of your pussy. So close yet so horrifically far. As all things are with the two of you. It feels awful. It feels amazing. You feel conflicted and horny beyond reason.

You nudge your head against his, a whine in your throat that he muffles with a heavy kiss, you pant into it, trying to urge him on to get what you want. To finally get what you want. You think you’ve waited long enough. And you don’t have to wait much longer as he draws back, hand on his dick guiding it to you, tip of his cock pressed to your hole and then- you grip his arm as you moan.

“Fuck” he swears, English a dead thought in the back of his mind as his words slur into his birth tongue, Swedish curses and mumbled praises drooling into your shoulder, hidden in the fibers of your shirt as he presses inside. So slowly, he sinks into you. Cock stretching you out so good, so well, exactly how you imagined and just what you needed.

Simon isn’t too big, just enough girth to notice a tension and a sizable length for your hands to wrap around, but it all bleeds into fuzzy white noise in the back of your brain when he’s deep inside you and making your stomach clench.

He bottoms out, face pressed to your shoulder as he kisses soft spoken words in a language you can’t understand into your skin. Into your neck and on your cheek, his sweet nothings soothe over your mind as you hum around him, as you stretch open around him and your body relaxes into the feeling. To him above you. To him on your back and griping your legs. To him so deep inside you, it feels like he was meant to be there.

You flinch, when he starts to pull out, and he stops- but your frustrated huff has him moving again just as fast.

Barely inside, a hint of feeling and a warmth that constricts your entire pelvis, he stills for barely a moment before he’s thrusting back in. Just as slow. Just as careful. It fills you just as nice. As good and as heavenly as his words make you feel.

Simon feels hot. Sweaty and weighed down, his head a fog of pleasure and scrambled words that he can’t tell if he’s actually saying or not.

Warm and dripping wet, he barely can bring himself to pull out, to drag himself away just to push himself back in. Body desperate for more. Shaking with the effort of his restraint, of his need to stay slow, stay calm, stay here and not end this too soon.

He can’t trust himself not to. Not with you. He’s never been able to with you.

Fuck, you feel so good.

He thinks he said that. He thinks he said that a lot. Lost to the sea of his thoughts, of praise and love and obsession and need all burning hot on his tongue and scorching his throat as he thrusts into you. As he feels you open around him, so tight and perfect for him. Wrapped so snugly around him and dragging him in, he sinks as far he can, drowning in the smell of you, the feel of you, your thigh in his hand and your mouth weeping his name.

He drinks you up, lips finding yours as his hips speed up, hand moving to your chin and keeping you there as he swallows the soft breathy moans that your voice brims with. It sounds so much better in person. No longer faded, no longer in the distance or a fleeting thought he can’t focus on for too long without losing it to the friction on his dick.

Now, it’s here, it’s beneath him and against his pillows as he fucks into you. As he fucks those pretty sounds out of you and tastes them on his tongue as they get heavier, as his thrusts get faster and he loses himself to the wet sound of himself inside you.

Of him taking you and filling you up. Ruining you and making you his. Taking what he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about for months. What he hasn’t been able to stop himself from cumming to. The videos he’s seeked out of men like you split open on toys or men bigger than him, gagging on men off camera or moaning into microphones pale in comparison to you. To you in his hands and on his cock.

Simon moans into your shoulder, thrusting deep and forcing soft sounds from your lips, filling your stomach with fluttering wings and making your head spin around the thick cotton that fills your thoughts. Every attempted word or strung out sentence fuzzy and meaningless around his cock, around the feeling of him fucking you. Around the bliss that settles in your gut and keeps you feeling warm. Pleasant and full, it consumes every movement and every thought.

His hips slap against yours, rhythmic and deep, fast and just hard enough to feel that pressure you need. The pressure that kisses at your core, popping stars behind your eyes and a tremor in your hands that grip to his arm.

Nothing your hands could ever attempt would ever compare to the real thing, to the real feeling of him here, with you, inside you and all around you. No matter how fast, how practiced, how commonplace you find it to slip your toy between your folds and slide down it’s silicone- nothing is Simon’s hot breath on the back of your neck, his voice in your ear and his hands holding you open as he takes you.

As he grinds his hips into you, rolling them against your own and feeling the bubbling moan it drags from your throat, “you feel so good, so wet for me. So tight around my cock- fucking shit- God-” Simon rambles, imprinting the words into your skin, into your brain. He’s careful to whisper, his voice soft and rumbling, rolling over your thoughts.

Deep and hot, his voice drools into your gut, making you feel warm. Making your mind alight with arousal that spikes in pace with his labored breathes and quick paced thrusts. His cock hits into that sensitive bundle of pleasure hidden from your hands and your head falls back onto his shoulder, moans and begs and pleads for him to go faster lost to the thick black of his glove, “yeah? Just like that?” he seems to get to gist, though, and you nod, lost to the pleasure of popping lights behind your eyelids.

Clenched in your teeth and tight in your chest, it burns under your skin and makes you tremble. You can feel how smug he is about it, his smile kissed into the line of your throat and hummed into your ear. You’d be annoyed if you didn’t feel so good.

If his cock wasn’t hitting you just right and melting your thoughts to a haze of cigarette smoke and winter wind.

The sound is obscene, wet and messy he barely pulls out, fucking into you with small thrusts that punch air from your lungs, barely giving you time to adjust before he’s thrusting back in and rolling his hips against you. The bed creaks beneath the two of you, the only sound in the dark house beside that of your heavy breathing and quiet moans, the clinking of his belt around his legs a distant chill that makes you shiver.

Simon groans, stilling inside you, pausing for barely a moment before he’s moving again. A curse slips from his lips, his hand tightening around your thigh, it fades from your thoughts as his tongue fits back around English, “God, you’re perfect. Such a good boy, taking me so well- fuck, thought about this so much. Wanted to have you for so long” he whispers, the confession tingling down your spine.

Your brain spins around the thoughts of his hand on his dick, of him moaning your name and rutting against his bed, in his fist or against his pillows. Simon fucking into a fleshlight and wishing it was you, the plush of his mattress and mourning it’s stiffness compared to the meat of your ass, hidden in his bathroom or beneath the covers late at night you can’t stop thinking about him losing himself over his fist to the thought of you.

You want to make him tell you, same as he did to you, same as he forced the words from your lips- you want to force them from his.

This time, you don’t have to ask.

Simon’s eyes squeezed shut and brows furrowed, his hips stutter as he fucks into you, biting fantasies into your shoulder, “wanna mark you up. See you walking around campus in my hoodie knowing what I left beneath, need to see you covered in my cum and dripping with it. Still used and soaking wet in your boxers and no one knows but me” he shifts, sitting up with his hands on your shoulders, holding you down to his pillows as he pins you down beneath him, his hips thrusting harder- faster- into you with his knees either side your own. The angle drives him deeper, making you gasp, sucking in lungfuls of air now without his hand blocking your airway, “want to ruin you- fuck- please, please let me. I’m so close- please” he begs, and it goes straight to your clit.

Far from your brain, it wraps around your stomach and flutters around slick red hot arousal. You perk your ass up into him, and he leans into it, rutting into you with nothing but senseless pleasure. All tact and rhythm to his movements lost to a desperate chase for release. A desperation to claim you. To fill you and make you his.

You make a blind grab for his hand, and he slips his fingers between yours with ease. Much more than you’re having. With jostled movements, you move his hand back to your clit- he gets the message, jerking you off between your stomach and the mattress, cock trapped between his fingers that move fast and erratic, inching you closer and closer to cumming.

“Shit- yeah, yeah baby, just like that” you moan, “Simon- mhm, want you to cum inside me, wanna feel you fill me up” he groans, dropping his head between your shoulder blades, hand not working your clit gripping your hip like his life depends on it.

Indenting his fingertips into the meat of your body, he holds you tight, pulling you back to fuck you on his cock, feeling the way you clench around him.

“Say that again. Say my name again” he whines, quiet, ashamed, so close and strung tight. His shoulders are tense and his mind frantic, clinging to the winding pleasure in his gut that tightens with each soft exhale of your voice and debauched moan that he pulls from your lips.

“Simon” he shivers, “Simon, please don’t stop, I’m so close- wanna cum around your cock, wanna feel you- don’t stopdon’tstop- Simon-”

“Fuck” your eyes roll back, stomach tightens and cunt clenches around him as he tips your head back, kissing you- breathing into you- centering your entire attention on him as you cum. As the tension snaps and you feel yourself gush around him, slick dripping from you and down onto the sheets. Seeping down the inside of your thighs it clings to his cock, a mess of slick and heat.

His hips stutter, cock bottoming out completely as he follows soon after, moaning into your mouth as white pumps your insides. As warmth blooms in your stomach and fills you to brimming, cum leaking out around his cock and mixing with your own.

A pure buzzing bliss statics behind your eyes, pops of color and easing comfort bleeding into your muscles as you relax against his bed, released from his hold you pant against his pillows.

You both pause. Panting in tandem to try and catch your breaths, pleasure rippling through your systems and making your minds foggy. Your thoughts entangled and words dying on teetering moans, the two of you collapse in exhaustion.

“Holy shit” you laugh, rolling your hips back into him and making him choke, both hands tight around your waist and keeping you still. You peek at him over your shoulder, swimming in the euphoric afterglow that melts and molds in your system, making your limbs feel heavy and your heart hammer in your chest.

Simon reels from his orgasm, swaying with the waves of pleasure coursing through his dick. Still twitching inside you, he bites his lips each time you move, each time your body clenches around him and a zinging bolt of over-stimulation shoots up his chest and into his brain. He feels awesome. His arms are heavy and his brain a hazy mess of jumbled thoughts and swaying blues. Serene quiet interrupted only by the loving sound of your voice that hums beneath him.

He leans forward, kissing up your spine and to your shoulder blades, languid and slow, he drags his affection up your body. Hands feeling over your sides, they slip beneath your sweat soaked shirt and kiss every inch of skin exposed, feeling the heat of your still pulsing arousal under his lips. It’s addicting. He never wants to let it go.

Fuck.

He never wants to let it go.

He comes to your neck, the same heavy affection counting the space between your shoulder and your chin, memorizing the way your breath hitches with each press of him against you. He never wants to forget it.

Simon pulls back, sat on his heels he swears at the obscene image of his cock still nestled inside you, coated with spit and dripping slick, it shines in the light from his laptop.

He needs to learn to think before he speaks, he’s quickly learning, when he isn’t fast enough to catch himself from-

“Fuck, I wish I had my camera on me. You look so good like this” he balks at himself, and watches your eyes widen. Fuck. Shit. That was weird. You can’t fuck one of your only two friends and then say something like that. That’s not normal. But then your lashes are fluttering, a flush coming to your face, and he feels his stomach twist around the sight.

“Maybe next time” God. How the hell did he find you?

Fresh water and salvation, your lips taste against his, soft and loving, he hates to pull away.

Simon pulls out slow, a pinch on his face with the dragging sensation, face still flushed as you flinch with the movement. He soothes over your bare hip, a comforting pressure into your tense muscles that pinch as his cock slips from you, cum drooling from you. It feels obscene. It feels amazing.

He curses once more at the sight, cock twitching as he watches white paint down the inside of your leg, sticky evidence of his obsession. His love for you that drips onto his sheets and makes your eyes pinch.

The feeling is hot and electric, feeling empty but so unbelievably sated. Satisfied and spent, you roll over onto your back, stretching your arms above your head and feeling the way the waves work through you. The heat that spreads over you, twisted around your heart and heavy in your cunt, it feels pleasant.

You’re exhausted.

You’ve never felt better.

Your eyes meet, brown and stunning they melt with the sight of you. Spread out in his bed, barely dressed and drunk with bliss, the moonlight casts your beauty in shimmering rays of pearl. He really wishes he had his camera.

“Shouldn’t we- uh. . .clean up?” he tries, cock drying on his thigh, still pulled from his pants and within your eye sight of which it barely strays from, “especially with the. . .” he trails off, eyes glued to between your thighs, “the mess?” he coughs, embarrassed. Cute.

“And walk all the way to the front of your house to take a shower? Past your mom’s room? Hell no. I’m not even supposed to be here” you remind him, “plus I feel too good to move, and I’ve been waiting forever for you to finally fuck me, let me enjoy the afterglow for a bit- come here” you reach out to him. He’d be a fool to deny you. Or himself.

So he doesn't.

He can’t stop himself from kissing you. And then again. And then again.

Softer, now, no longer desperate hunger guiding your movements. Now, a slow build of affection that fumbles around Simon tugging his pants off and losing them to the darkness beneath his bed, soon followed by his second glove before he’s collapsing next to you and pulling you close.

His room reeks of sex and sweat, the heat of lust and the frantic actions of obsession. Of long held conviction and too long glances.

Simon is warm in your hands. Warm and real, body tired and satisfied, he’s perfect wrapped around you. His arms hugged around your waist as your arms loop around his neck, keeping him close as he kisses over your cheeks, the bridge of your nose and up your forehead to your hairline.

“You’re beautiful” he whispers, lips pressed to your forehead, and you feel yourself relax with the weight of it.

Love, as foolish as it seems, bubbles in your chest. Feather-light and all too overpowering, it crushes you with it’s weight.

It feels perfect, “absolutely stunning” he lays it on thick, and you laugh.

“Oh, now you’re all flattery, huh?”

“Was it not good enough earlier? Telling you how good you felt around my cock? How much I wanted you? How badly I wanted to see you covered in my cum and red with bite marks?” he whispers low in your ear, hands slipping down to the curve of your ass, the meat of your thighs, and you soak it all up. The attention. The lust. The adoration that bleeds in his eyes that meet your own with clouded irises full of love. Full of need.

“Mm, could’ve been a bit better” you joke, and he bites your shoulder, “maybe next time you can tell me what else you’ve thought about”

“Next time” he repeats your words from earlier, still strung between them and giddy.

“Maybe the time after that too, and after that, and even after that- we’re gonna run out of material eventually”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm, but I’m sure we can come up with some more. Maybe see what sounds I could pull out of you, instead. Y'know, I’ve got an interesting set of toys back home that might just have your name on ‘em, if you were interested” you wish you were lying when you say that you can see his eyes visibly darken at the image. At the implication. The idea of you above him instead, cock stretching him open instead, left weeping in your pillows and begging for more.

It makes a pretty sight.

He makes a pretty sight.

“God, I fucking love you” Simon confesses, and you feel yourself buzz with the admission. The words that ground in your head and make you feel dizzy.

Caffeine and cigarettes, lust lays on his tongue that kisses your own, that rests in your mouth and makes you feel lightheaded. You can’t get enough of it.

“You’re not so bad yourself” you joke, and he smiles, and it’s beautiful. Tired and accented with a poorly shaved stubble and deep eye bags, he smiles, and you know it’s true.

You know you do.

He curls to your chest, slipping further down the bed and laying his head above your heart that beats in tune with his name. With his scent and the color of his eyes and the feeling of his body against yours. You wonder if he can hear it. You wonder if his beats the same for you.

You’d like to think it does.

You’d like to think you know it does.

The chilly night air isn’t as bad, beneath his covers and wrapped around him, doesn’t slice at your skin or fester under your clothes. Locked out by windows and shut doors, you feel warm and comfortable.

Safe.

You feel safe. Here, in Simon’s arms, in his bed, blissful from his lips on yours and his body entwined with your own, you feel loved. Protected.

Curled around him, you feel good. A weird good.

The one you’ve come to associate with him.

With his weight on your chest, and your hands in his hair, it’s easy now. Beneath the moonlight and atop his plush mattress, to sleep. To slip to easy darkness and wavering thoughts.

It’s easy, with Simon, to finally sleep.