Work Text:
He has you on his lap, your spine acquainted with the rigid pane of his chest as he plays between your legs like a ceramicist molding clay.
You’re his sweet, amenable little love, keening and gasping as the sloppy schlick schlick of your cunt salts the air, intermingling with the tranquil tap of the rain against your windowpane.
“That’s it, baby. Let go for me.”
You feel so good, swallowing him up to his knuckles like that. Greedy, so pleasantly warm, so wet, so eager. And when you say his name like that—Sylus, Sylus, please—he can’t help but lose himself a little more to you. Surrender to the pretty sweep of your lashes, the uneven hitch of your breath, the thrum of your pulse between his fingers clasped around your throat, your sexy body undulating like waves lazily licking the shore against him.
He’s so hard, pressed hot and intimidating against the stitching of his trousers, the notch of your tailbone, pre-spend staining his pants wet. And he twitches, burning to feel you bearing down on him in place of his fingers. He’s an afterthought to your pleasure. He derives his own ecstasy from it, watching you fall apart at the seams. Watching you so deliciously out of your mind, letting him have you, aching to be filled, and it’s a maddening pressure only he can assuage.
He slots his chin into the crook of your neck, ingesting your warm scent, nuzzling your pulse point with his nose as the back of your head finds his shoulder. His fingers twitch around your neck, eyes smoldering like coals dying out while your lips part around a whine, and he hastens the tempo of his fingers into the warm clench of your pussy.
You’re close if how you quake around him is any gauge. How your voice comes out all broken and strained. How you desperately hump against his fingers, your clit bumping his palm, and fucking hell, when he twists and scissors and crooks them upwards to find that devastating, gummy clump of nerves inside…
It’s too much. So good. So fucking good.
He’s panting with you. Drawing the outer shell of your ear between his teeth for something to bite, murmuring encouragement against it—so good for me. Look how she takes me, how she weeps for me—undoing you with the maddening cadence of his fingers, rubbing his palm against your muff to drive you closer towards that slurry edge.
He curls his arm around your neck to keep you anchored to him. Flexes his bicep with enough pressure to bring your pulse thrumming wildly against it, but not enough to choke you. Not unless you beg him to.
You’re fighting him. Trying to clamp your thighs shut around his hand, the pleasure overwhelming, your tongue lolling about in your mouth. But the soft whisper of his Evol curls around your thighs, prying them apart for him to continue his sweet torture.
“Sylus, I can’t—” you sob, your fingernails imprinting waning moons into his forearm, head thrashing about. “—I can’t—”
“You can,” he rasps, the texture of his voice—soft, doting, encouraging—shooting straight to your core. “You can take it because you’re such a good girl. My little love. Don’t hold back.”
It’s something like a game between you. An unofficial one where you try to stave off your ecstasy like you’re unworthy of it. Like you don’t have a right to feel good, to free yourself of the burden coiling in your stomach. But he always proves otherwise, because no one is more deserving of finding rapture than you.
“Cum for me, sweetheart,” he breathes, ragged and wet, that carefully-crafted composure thrown to the wind. “Give it to me.”
He peers down your body to watch his fingers disappear inside you each time, the sight pulling a desperate sound from his throat. And he throbs, thick and wanton against the cleft of your ass, dropping his forehead against your shoulder, biting back a noise as he rolls his hips in tandem with the erratic grind of yours.
The bite of your nails into his flesh borders on pain. You throw your head back, your eyes screwed shut, your chest brimming with a moan, mouth spilling open. He holds you to him, a firm, comforting pressure keeping you afloat as that sparkling rush spills over you.
“There she is. So fucking sweet. So filthy.”
You shake and writhe against him, your walls hiccuping around his knuckles, and you’re groaning and spasming with each curl of his fingers as if he’s dragging your orgasm from you. And it’s such a relief, feeling that tight coil unravel in the form of your essence splattering against his hand and the couch and the floor.
Fuck.
He bites your shoulder, eyes fastening shut as his slacks warm with the hot spill of his cum. A groan is ripped from him, seemingly against his will, and he’s shaking with you. Holding your hips to keep you steady on his lap as those pleasant tremors ricochet through him, turning his mind to smog.
You lean against him, snaking an arm around his neck and burying your fingers in his hair to ride out the storm alongside him. The soft threads of his Evol dissipate, drawing away like a reluctant breath in. Your breaths intermingle, traded for soft laughter rivaled by the rain outside, by the steady hum of your air conditioner clicking to life in your home.
He writes the sweetest things of all via his thumbs, rubbing meticulous circles into your hips, blistering your neck and shoulder with languid kisses. You smile like the cat who caught the cream, eyes still shut as if you’ll shatter the dream if you open them.
For a moment, you sit in comfortable silence, his heart thumping a mollifying rhythm against your back, pants uncomfortably wet and sticky against your ass.
“What’s so funny?” he husks around a smile, luring you in for a kiss over your shoulder.
You pour something unrestrained into his body, kissing him over and over again, drunk off the taste of his mouth. Off the curl of his tongue around yours, the abrasive vibration of his voice. “You came in your pants like a teenager.”
He releases an indignant sound, pulling back from you slightly to give you a mock, offended look. You bite your lip to ward off another smile.
“It’s your fault for looking so beautiful when you cum.”
You playfully roll your eyes, snorting. “You’re so poetic, it makes me sick.”
His smirk should be enough of a warning. But you’re unprepared when a hand drops from your hip to drag down the inner cut of your thigh, fingers tapping against the sticky seam of your cunt. Your hips surge up, a gasp wrenched from your throat.
He strokes your swollen, overstimulated pussy, suckling on the dip of your shoulder. You rock against him as if you could go another round, but he’s a patient, generous lover, well aware that your refractory period is much longer than his. Doesn’t mean he can’t tease you a little.
“From the sound of it, someone’s ready for another round.”
He taps you once, twice when you’re wordless, sighing hot and approving when you prop your feet up on his quads, chasing the pressure of his fingers. You peer back to blink at him innocently, the impish curl to your lips divulging your intentions. You’re teasing him. Provoking him. But he’s always loved playing your games, knowing full well he always emerges victor.
“Careful, sweetheart,” he rasps, undulating his hips against you, his girth already at half-mast, burning through the layers of his clothing. His unoccupied hand smooths up the ridges of your ribcage to mold around your breast, and you’re like warm wax in his hand when he tweaks your sensitive nipple, reveling in the pathetic keen pinched from your throat. “Don’t start something you’re not prepared to finish.”
You seem to weigh his threat in your mind, realizing that he has every intention fucking you boneless. So, you dart up, scrambling for your panties on the floor with a giggle, making a beeline for the hallway. He follows you close behind with measured strides, a fond smile crooking his lips when he snatches you up by the waist with one arm, effortlessly carrying your tittering, squealing, kicking self to the bathroom to clean up—
—and hopefully, to have another romp, this time, with less clothes in the way.