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When the alarm rings, he rises with agility already; she, on the other hand, follows him out of the bed with lethargic movements, lingers on the bed for a little longer until the second, and then the third alarm rings. When she does finally get out of bed, it is with a sleepy groan, almost pulling the sheets down with her.
Dragging her feet, she moves to the ensuite, where he's halfway done with his bathroom morning routine – face washed, moisturized and applying sunscreen. On the second sink, she washes her face as well, hoping to further wake up with the help of cold water. She ties her hair in an undistinguished thing, a messy ponytail-bun that ultimately misses a bunch of strands.
It is usually then that he places a kiss on her nape, whispering a still husky "good morning, babe", and the roughness of his voice sends shivers to her skin, instantly makes her want to crawl back in bed with him. But he moves with the diligence of a consolidated routine and, after that, he's out of the bathroom.
When she follows him back to the bedroom, he's already in his running attire, and she vows to wake up with the first alarm the next morning, just to be able to watch him strip.
From an ever growing pile of books on her bedside table, she grabs her glasses and puts them on, taking both the book on top and a mechanical pencil lying there. They leave the room together, she still in one of his oversized t-shirts, turned sleepwear, and in desperate need of coffee and he towards the front door to put on sneakers, grabbing keys and airpods on his way out.
The first cup of coffee is drowned on the couch, checking emails and casually cursing her advisor at his incessant asking about her upcoming article. Moving to sit in front of the computer, the second one she sips with a pastry, those puffy, gently sweet ones she loves and he buys without fail. It’s how he finds her when he’s back from running, folded in odd, can’t-be-good-for-your-back positions on the leather chair of their home office, typing away rapidly, empty mug and plate by her side.
His greeting comes in the form of a kiss; he collects the miserable remnants of powdered sugar on her lips and tells her she should join him for his run someday.
She scoffs, “as if I could keep up.”
“Besides, I’m doing yoga kinda consistently now. And you know how bad I am with mornings.” She argues with a smile, pulling him down for another kiss and tasting the saltiness of sweat on his heated skin. He’s such a sight after exercising, flushed with bangs plastered on his forehead, black tank top exposing lean muscles and clinging to his torso-
“Tell me if you ever want to expand that workout routine of yours, I can show you the ropes.”
“Yeah, yeah, sure you can, you jock.”
He laughs at their usual banther, boyish and oh so pretty, she promptly steals another kiss. Because he’s hunched, he sees a drop of sweat fall on her bare legs, so he cleans it swiftly with his thumb and announces he’ll hop in the shower to freshen up.
“Want company?” She asks, wriggling her eyebrows comically.
“Ha! As if you’ll drop that to join me.” He replies, pointing to the computer and the mess of books splayed over the table. “Bookworm.”
She hears first the water running and then him in the kitchen, preparing his breakfast. He shows up in the office after a while, telling her he made bowls of fruit for them. She joins him on the table, munching on the variety of fruits and chatting with him while he eats that healthy, athlete-ideal breakfast.
It’s a portion of the day that is unrushed and utterly comfortable, and she wishes time would suspend for a bit – stretch this instant in which sunlight catches on his midnight blue eyes. And they stay on her, following the movement of her lips even when she occasionally rambles about the fucked up intricacies of contemporary architecture in late-stage capitalism.
At times, it's crazy to her how willing he is to listen, but when he talks about football with that devoted look on his face and she can't take her eyes off him, she kind of gets it.
Then, he leaves for practice and she goes back to her stack of books and to all the complicated notes she needs to shape into a proper text.
When it's time to have lunch, he comes back home and finds her splayed weirdly on the couch, the constant academic chaos of the office now extended to their living room as well. "Can I drop everything and become your trophy wife?"
"Anytime you want." He chuckles, moving to the kitchen with the food he picked on the way. It's often that she feels like quitting – theory-induced pessimism and deadline anxiety always makes her whine childishly –, but he knows she's passionate about this stuff and she pushes through every time. "Though I don't think you will."
"Unfortunately for you, huh?" She jokes, rolling off the couch and joining him in the kitchen to grab a couple of plates and cups.
"Oh, no! My utmost fantasy!" He plays along, making her laugh and lean into him for comfort.
They share lunch like their little breakfast; she asks about practice and he asks about what pissed her off particularly today. She waves her hands in the air and groans through her jumbled words but no, tell me more about your practice please, it's more interesting than this.
After they're done eating, she finds her eyes lost in observing the thick books she's been revisiting for so long now. Over and over. "Ugh, I'm so tired of this shit."
And then-
"Hey," she suddenly turns to ask, meeting the relaxed form of him watching her. "How much time do you have?"
He checks his phone over the table and hums. "I have to leave in about twenty. Why?"
"Wanna fuck me on the couch before that?"
His answer is loud and clear in the way she's suddenly back on the couch, him hovering above her with a predatory, hungry look in his eyes.
"Damn sweetheart, and you ask me like that, like it's nothing."
He captures her lips in a frenzied kiss, all tongue and lengthy, she's already panting by the end of it. With his knee applying pressure in between her legs, he kisses her again, groaning when he feels her hand rubbing his clothed dick.
"C'mon" she pleads, feeling how heavy he already is on her palm.
"Ok, let's make this quick, baby."
They are both rushing through it, hands fumbling over clothes and limbs bumping, and there's a certain appeal to that pragmatism – getting each other off quickly before schedule gets in the way. He isn't going to be gentle and she doesn't want him to. Like the proper boy that he seems to be, he's gonna go back to practice as if he didn't leave her feeling the burn he caused for the rest of the day.
He grabs her hips and effortlessly flips her body so that she's on all fours, knees spread wide apart for him. Without ceremony, like he's doing the most mundane task, he pulls her shorts and underwear down and touches her pussy. He circles its wet folds and spreads them with two fingers, no particular attention given to her clit or anywhere else, before pushing them deep inside.
She chokes on a breath and pushes back on the thickness of his fingers, yearning for more. It's pure desperation, she needs to empty her mind of all academic stress circling her, and the best course of action is to overwhelm herself on his dick.
“Goddamn, you’re dripping for me.” He whispers, marveled. It’s fast paced, the movement of his fingers, burning in all the good ways, and she feels the wet trickle of her arousal running down her thighs.
“I’m good, put it in already.”
“Just cause you need it so bad, darling.”
Harshly, he pulls his fingers out and she cries, cunt clenching pathetically around nothing. He steadies his hand on her ass to pull his cock from his pants and, impatient, she looks back to see it painfully hard, curving up and dripping too – so ready to make her forget her own name and only leave his on her tongue.
As soon as he pushes inside, the rhythm he sets is relentless; the force of his thrusts drives her body forward on the couch each time. Her arms give out and, ass up face down, she moans against the cushions, aborted and repetitive ahs and yeahs and his name, again and again. Air becomes scarce for her, but its necessity suddenly seems irrelevant in the wake of how hard he fucks her. Drunk on her pussy, he fucks her as if she isn’t even there, a mere tool for his pleasure, and it’s good, so so good, she’s happy to simply take it.
“Always so good, such a perfect cocksleeve for me.” He rambles. “Wish I could take you around to fuck whenever we pleased.”
He pounds into her so deep, consistent and almost machine-like with that endless stamina of his, all she says sounds punched out, forced out of her. It’s barely coherent, the words mingled and chopped, but she moans loud and agrees right away; yes, I want it so bad .
“You could sit on it anytime you wanted, baby.” He continues, his arms guiding her hips back in sync with his thrusts. As if she weighs nothing. She feels like a ragdoll, limbs boneless and moving completely per his will. “Ask for my cock and I’ll give it to you. It’s all yours.”
The way his balls slap the back of her thighs brings her a roundabout pleasure and it’s a lot, it’s too much-
“ ah - please, love”
As if what he gives her isn’t enough already, he grows rougher, fast and concise in his movements. All the possessive, loving little things he likes to say during sex turn into groans; he presses her head down and moans low and hoarse by her ears.
She snakes one of her hands in between her legs to touch her much sensitive, taunt clit, and muffles her screams on the fabric by her mouth. Her voice is lost to herself, she hears his voice much better, close by, and the sound of his thighs slapping against the back of hers, the filthy wet that fills their apartment, the barely distinguishable praise he keeps giving-
But then, as an orgasm creeps up to her, all of it fades away – she becomes all touch and her other senses pale in comparison – and she comes hard on his cock, breathing heavily and feeling her pussy burn in the best of ways, her limbs tingle in that everlasting manner only he is able to cause.
As the peak of her pleasure washes over her body, her cunt squeezes his dick, his voice acquiring a high pitched note as he keeps fucking her in earnest. She spasms in overstimulation, legs trembling and drooling on the couch, and lets him chase his own release as he pleases. There's no pause and, even when it seems like he can keep going for long still (which, probably accurate), she takes it proudly.
When he grows erratic and desperate, she knows he's close. When he cums, it is through those adorable little moans of his… He chants her name, low and reverent, and stuffs his cum deep into her.
His solid weight on top of her, the warmth of his breathing, the slight sweaty-sticky quality of their skins, all of it just emphasizes the sex induced lethargy clinging to her body. She could stay under him for hours on end. But it's possible that he's running late, and it isn't long until he's shifting.
She rolls to the side when, eventually, he pulls out; she can feel it leaking out already – until he scoops it up with his thumb and pushes it back inside, that is.
"You look so cute, fucked stupid like that." There's tears on her lashes and one side of her face acquired a reddish tone, almost chafed, given its relentless friction against the couch. Her hair is a mess and her eyes are heavy. The t-shirt she's wearing is wrinkled and bunched up on her torso, revealing the gentle curve of her underboob. She's winded, chest moving up and down, and, from where he looks, the mess he made on her pussy is clearly visible and oh, if that isn’t the prettiest sight.
She smiles at him, kinda loopy and beyond satisfied, with nothing on her mind, "feels amazing too."