honey-on-your-tongue - Tumblr blog

honey-on-your-tongue · 16 hours ago

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SOMETHING TENDER. ONESHOT

It’s something tender, aching pitifully in his chest like an untended bruise... but pain is so easily drowned by indulgence.

TAGS: fluff/smut, mild angst in the beginning, soft dom/sub dynamics, penetration, consent checks, keeping quiet, fucking in the childhood bedroom, brief inserts of reader's parents, female reader with female parts, canon!simon, mutual indulgence, edging, dacryphilia.

4.5k words. - happy birthday, @avgdestitute

⠀ ⠀⠀ `· . send an ask! .ᐟ masterlist .ᐟ find this fic on ao3

The room is well-furnished, walls plastered with some tacky wallpaper and decorated with family photos. It’s not small, but it’s not extravagant either–it’s homey. It’s enough for Simon to gather some understanding of how your childhood went.

His eyes focus on the tablecloth. It’s faded from years of wear, the patterns succumbing to an off-white. It feels stuck in a time he hasn’t ever experienced, a childhood he wishes he had. But he has you, and you’re his taste of joy, a sweet burst on his tongue he’d forgotten the taste of. Compared to you? Simon was ruinous, a catastrophic blend of desecrated skin and emotional stagnancy.

You made him feel less like an amalgamation of trouble and more like a quietly fading scar.

Relationships tend to shift, when Simon is added to the mix. They fall apart when he pulls away, and he’s used to it. You’re the only one that has stayed, and he’s thankful–it doesn’t stop the nerves from bubbling up and eating at his stomach.

Especially now, in your childhood home, your parents sat across from the two of you. The meal prepared in front of you is nothing short of delicious, flavours melting into Simon’s tongue. It’s a far cry from the harsh tastes of the MREs he eats on missions.

The food on the table is straight from England. He supposes they’d tried to make him feel welcome–he’s antsy despite it, his hands fidgeting with your fingers in his lap. It’s something tender, aching pitifully in his chest like an untended bruise.

It’s not you or your family. It’s him, and his inability to find peace in the aggressive roaring of his mind. You seem to sense his unsettled twitching, offering his fingers a gentle squeeze, a reminder that it’s at his own pace. And it is, really–he was the one who had suggested meeting your parents, though he’d only done it because he thought it would make you happy.

It does, and he’s proud that he’s managing to keep up with you, somewhat. Your parents are kind to him. Your mother is doting on him like he’s a wounded puppy, constantly peppering him with, “Oh, Simon, dear, you must be hungry, the drive was long. Here, have more–you’re a man, after all. You must eat a lot to keep your muscles.”

And Simon is happy to oblige, too used to counting rations and measuring the food in his pantry.

They don’t push his military career, or ask what he’s done, instead they goad him on his hobbies, his favourite drinks, what kind of animals he likes. It’s good, for once, not having to dodge prying questions with carefully structured answers. Maybe you’d asked your parents to go easy on him. It’s just another reason why he can’t seem to let you go.

Eventually, conversation dwindles. Simon is sucked into cleaning the dishes with you, a chore he is happy to complete–it fixes his urge to do something with his hands. You’re leant against his side, ear pressed to the bulk of his shoulder, drying off the plates that he hands to you.

He runs each plate under the water, rubs the soapy sponge over the dish and removes the residue left from the meal, before passing it to you. It’s methodical and mindless, a pleasure to his usually chaotic mind.

The night quiets. You’re all herded into the living room, sat down on a large, worn brown sofa, piled side-to-side while some romcom blasts in the background. You’re pressed to Simon, his hand a comforting warmth against your thigh. Your own hands are gently wrapped over his hand, feeling the way his fingertips twitch and tense as he subconsciously reacts to the show.

He’s relaxed, two fingers pressed up against the soft skin of your wrist where he can feel your heartbeat. It’s a grounding motion, something that he finds himself doing more often, as of late.

Outside, the sun slinks slowly over the horizon like a cat preparing for rest. It ends the night in a graceful pink flush, before descending into quiet blackness. The lamp beside the television is the only thing illuminating the room, casting it in a dim yellow glow. The scent of your shampoo wafts into Simon’s nose, his chapped lips pressing absent-minded kisses to the soft strands.

Your breathing slows. He knows because he counts the seconds in between each exhale and inhale, something he’s learned to do when he lies awake at night, sandwiched between the bed and your body. It’s meditative, a sort of calm sinking into his bones. He sits up slightly, pressing you closer.

You sigh in your sleep at that, head falling into the crook of his neck, squeezed between the line of his jaw and the muscles of his shoulder. Your hand flexes against his pec, and it brings a soft curl to the corner of his lips, stretching the white scar that runs across the side of his mouth.

“She’s asleep,” he murmurs to your father, who had long sent your mother off to bed, now only here on the basis of making sure you didn’t fuck on the couch, or something. That, and he seemed to really enjoy what was on the screen, even as he pretended to be disinterested.

Your father waves him off with a nod, something about getting you to bed. Simon hoists you up in his arms, your legs hooked around his hips. He murmurs sweet nothings against your forehead, his head craned down to watch his steps as he makes his way to the staircase. He moves with precision, making a conscious effort to not jostle your sleeping form.

Your bedroom is easy to find, with the help of your dad.

Simon offers a whispered ‘good night’ over the top of your head to your father, who retreats into the master bedroom with a wave and a half-smile. He flicks on the nightstand lamp, illuminating the room. Your room remains as he’d seen it in childhood photos of you. Pictures hang on the walls, some more dignified than others–a few are drawings made by a younger version of yourself, awkward looking animals and stick-figures of you and family.

Your bed sits in the corner of the room, a double bed–enough to fit the two of you, though he supposed you’d make it fit if it were any smaller. It was often that your clingy self would wake up on top of him in the mornings regardless.

He sits on the bed, sinking into the soft sheets. A soft ache blooms in his heart, the sweet innocence of the room blocking his arteries–his chest hurts with warmth. He sits, absorbing the nostalgia of a childhood he never had. It hurts more than he’d like to admit, knowing that he’d missed out on being normal.

He pulls back the covers and places you into the sheets, crawling in behind you. He wraps an arm across your chest, his leg hooking over yours. He sighs, sheets rumpled around where his arm displaces the edge of the Hello-Kitty themed duvet.

Time ticks by slowly. He counts in intervals of sixty, counting every minute that slips past. It’s a tactic he uses when he’s bored, or when he’s trying to keep still on a mission. He counts until he gets restless. He’s unable to find sleep as usual, the sheep he’s trying to catch slipping from his grip.

His limbs are starting to go numb, especially where your head has shifted to rest against his bicep. He was sure that his arm was going to fall off, if he left you to it for a few more hours.

He pulls himself from you. In the quiet of the night, it feels like every rustle of the sheets and twitch of his muscles is exaggerated, like it might wake you from your rest. He slips out from the bed, socks meeting the hardwood floor.

His arms raise over his head, muscles tensing and stretching as he arches his back in a catlike stretch. His shoulder pops at that, to which his head immediately darts to examine if you’d woken up yet. Of course you hadn’t–you’re not nearly as light of a sleeper as the Lieutenant.

He takes a moment to watch you whilst you sleep, studies the hair that’s fallen over your face that moves with every exhale you take. He moves from your side then, deciding to busy himself with looking around your childhood room. He’s not snooping, he’s just… admiring.

He moves silent, every bit the ghosts he’s named after. It doesn’t stop you from rousing at the lack of a pillow, or rather bicep. You stir, rolling so that your arm hangs off the bed, your face pressed firmly into the soft of your actual pillow. You stay there for a moment before you need to breathe, dropping off the bed and leaning against the bedframe.

Simon watches you with an amused quirk of his lips, sighing at your awkward attempt at slipping out of bed. “Ain’t much of a way to get out of bed, love. Y’know, y’ve got legs for a reason.”

“Mph. You’re the one still awake,” you murmur into the dark, your arm reaching behind you to steady yourself on the bedframe. You push upwards, fingers reaching blindly for the cord on the lamp, eyes squinting through the dark. You catch a glimpse of the moonlight reflecting on the metal cord, tugging on it triumphantly.

It brightens the room immediately, and you wince back at the light that floods your vision. The lamp isn’t strong enough to cast the whole room in glow, but it’s enough to emphasize shadows, furniture, and Simon’s shape, leant over your desk.

“What time s’it?” you mumble, plucking at hair that had decided to crawl into your mouth when you’d smothered yourself into the pillow.

Simon’s head tilts downwards to squint at his watch in the low light. “It’s four in the morning, baby. Go back to sleep, ey? We’ve gotta drive back in the morning, and I don’t want you grumpy when you’re in my car.”

You huff, glaring at his back, “You’re the one who’s up.”

He can’t really refute that. He is the one awake now, but you’re the one who’s drawing attention to it. You should know by now the soldier can run on two hours of sleep for a night and still behave the same in the morning. He watches as you stand, dusting off your pants for no reason other than habit.

You come up behind him, his eyes watching you with genuine adoration, following you as you sleepily stumble until your warm cheek meets the cool fabric of his t-shirt. A huff of air escapes his lungs as you drape yourself over his lower back, arms wrapping around his midsection like a sleepy koala to a tree.

“Fuckin’ crushing me,” he mutters, his hands moving from the desk to cover yours around his waist.

“Mmph, shouldn’t have… gotten up then,” your words are muffled by his shirt as you press yourself into him, head nuzzling into where his spine dips between the planes of his back.

He sighs at that, tugs your arms off him enough for him to be able to turn so that he’s facing you. He cups your cheeks, and peers into your tired eyes, the pretty way you blink up at him slowly like a sleep-drunken cat.

“You’re…” he sighs, breath fanning over your face, “Stubborn.”

“Romantic,” you reply, your voice carrying a teasing lilt.

“Go back t’bed, love. M’just not tired, but you are,” his back hunches, his neck craning forward to come close enough to you to press his forehead against yours.

You lick his nose. He blinks in mild surprise, the skin on the bridge of his nose scrunching in mild distaste. He pulls back, his palm smoothing over his nosebridge to wipe off the saliva you’d left on him. “Bratty fucker.”

You rest your cheek on his left pectoral with a cheeky grin on your lips. He sighs, almost as if he was disappointed by your actions, but the way his heart picks up its pace under his skin tells you all that you need to know.

“Go to bed,” he insists again, his fingers lacing through your hair. His other hand slips down your back, finds purchase where your back dips slightly.

“I’m not tired,” you mutter, biting into your lip. You tug at his shirt with a hand, blinking up at him with sweet, pleading eyes.

He sighs, his head falling back slightly. “You’re trying to provoke me,” he accuses, his fingers tensing against your skin.

“Provoke you?” you huff softly, nose pressing into the cotton.

His hand in your hair tugs a little harder, tilting your head back so that you look up at him. You inhale a deep breath, both out of knowing you’re probably getting yourself in trouble, and also from the lack of oxygen from suffocating yourself in the scent of his body wash. “Reckon you’re tryin’ ta rile me up.”

“Pfft, I’d never–”

He tugs on your hair again, and you stop. While you’re keen on getting in trouble, you’re not exactly keen on the kinds of punishments he’s given you in the past–while they were hot, they most definitely weren’t meant for your parents to overhear. “Well…” you swallow, saliva settling thickly in your throat, “I’m not going to bed.”

Strike three. He stiffens at that, blinks at you, interest in his eyes. “We’ll fuckin’ see about that.”

He lifts you up gently, carrying you to the bed with a strong arm under your thighs, his other arm bracing your back in case you decide to make any sharp movements. He’d never dropped you before, and he was most definitely never going to have a first. He places you on the bed gently, tugging away the rumpled sheets and piling them up towards the foot of the bed. It’s just enough space for him to crawl on top of you, an arm bracing himself over your head.

He looks down at you with a clever smile. “You’re not sleeping, huh love? Guess I could tire y’out, if you asked nicely.”

“You’re a fucking tease,” you grumble, a flush spreading up the back of your neck and flooding your ears a pretty pink.

“Did I say I was teasin’? Ain’t teasing you, love. I’m offering,” he straddles you, both knees pressed into the bed beside your waist, careful not to lean any of his weight against you. His hand trails down your cheek, smearing against your lower lip.

Your tongue darts out to taste him, the salt of his skin settling heavily in your taste buds. He bites his tongue at that, his jaw shifting with his teeth as they grind together. You’re such a damn tease.

He’s pretty like this, illuminated by the lamp post and nothing more. You want to suck his thumb into your mouth, blink up at him prettily and coax him into pulling his cock from his pants, tease him into stuffing it down your throat. To your dismay, he pulls his thumb back, patting your cheek condescendingly.

A rush of cold ran over you as he drew back completely. Maybe it was a mixture of his words and his condescension, but you could vaguely feel the soaked fabric between your legs as a chill ran down your spine.

He ran his fingers down your neck, to your chest–were you breathing heavily? He was ruinous, in all of the good ways. Goosebumps erupted from where his fingertips drew gentle touches down the curve of your breasts, pinching at your nipples through your cotton sleepshirt. “You be fuckin’ glad we ain’t home,” he murmured breathily, “Would fuck your brains out, but y’ve gotta be quiet, don’t you?”

“Quiet,” you repeated. You could be quiet if he behaved himself, and knowing Simon… he rarely did.

“That’s right,” his eyes shifted from where your nipples peeked from under your shirt to your eyes, “You can be quiet, can’t you?” it doubles as a check-in, with the concerned pinch between his eyebrows, and how he studies your facial expressions as if they might give any negative indication.

You nod. You really weren’t sure if you could, but you were too desperate, too needy for the slightly visible bulge under his sweats.

With your consent, he cooed at you, “That so, baby? Wish I could gag you… mh, but you need your panties, don’t you? Y’didn’t bring a spare for your overnight stay? Silly girl. So absent-minded.”

You whine at that. Your hips twitch under them, rutting up against the apex of his thighs. He raises an eyebrow, as if to ask you if you were sure of what you were doing–you were already in trouble. You wouldn’t want to push him further.

You still. He clicks his tongue approvingly, shifting off of you. His hands are gentle as he shifts you out of your clothes, folding your t-shirt and pants into a neat pile for the morning. He places it on the nightstand beside the lamp, before watching you for a moment. You’ve wrapped your arms around yourself, shivering.

You’re not shivering from the cold, you’re shivering under his scrutinising gaze, cheeks flushing pinker when he doesn’t move to take his own clothes off. Humiliation burns at your ears, creating a soft buzz in the back of your mind.

He sits back against the headboard, patting his thigh. You’ll sit on his lap all nice and pretty, like he wants. It’s one of his favourite ways to take you, when you’re straddling his lap, your chest pressed to his. It gives him a pretty view of the way your tits bounce, and how your cunt swallows his cock greedily.

Not to mention that when he demands you ride him, offering no help, it’s a gorgeous sight to have you crying into the crook of his neck about how he’s so big and you ‘just need his help.’

He smiles, hands gripping your hips to shift you over the bulge in his sweatpants, now slowly growing as his blood rushes southward. He tips your head back, kissing down the column of your throat. He leaves a bite just under the neckline of where most of your shirts will be, knowing it’ll be covered enough for your parents to never see it.

“So fucking pretty f’me,” he mutters into your skin, his blunt nails slipping lower and digging into the plush of your ass.

You mewl against him, your fingers twitching at your sides. As much as you’d like to tug at his scruffy hair, bury your fingers in the blond strands and force him lower, you knew it’d be futile. You’d be good for him if he gave you what you wanted.

His arms guide you against him, rutting you against his sweatpants. It takes a moment for your brain to register what’s happening, as he pairs it with a firm suck to your perky nipples, teeth scraping against the soft skin.

A choked whimper crawls from your vocal cords and remains suspended on your tongue.

“Keep quiet,” he reminds, “Or I’ll stop, and y’can go to bed like this, aye?”

You shake your head adamantly at that. You don’t want him to stop. He can’t stop. You don’t want to imagine the feeling of how you’d probably stay worked up until you eventually got home. It wasn’t a risk you were willing to take.

“Gonna make you feel good, pretty,” he grits out between clenched teeth, jaw welded with the effort of not chasing his own wants. He wants to drag it out as long as possible, encourage your pleasure until he has you malleable as soft clay.

The effort your nod takes should be studied. Your body is strung tight, muscles taut with anticipation. Your nod is jerky and uncoordinated, stumbling like your fingertips over the base of his abs through his shirt.

Simon is no better. He leans forwards, kissing you to stop the way his brain seems to follow his blood, straight to his cock. He sucks the air from your lungs, and it leaves you pliant, desperate for more as he steals your breath from your chest.

His hands guide you against him as he does, his mouth swallowing your keen mewls. Your hands rest on his chest, right above where his heart thuds painfully against his ribcage. He pulls away, letting you sink into him as you catch your breath.

Your head thuds against his shoulder, your hips stuttering through his guided motions. Despite your ragged tempo, you seem to be holding yourself up well enough to grind yourself against him–he can feel your wetness through the fabric of his pants. He’s no better, panting into your hair as he grips at you. His fingers are greedy, one of his hands slipping from the curve of your ass, over your thigh and between your legs, seeking out where you’re most desperate.

Your clit calls out to his selfish desire, fingertips pressing into you in voracious circles, encouraging the stifled mewls from your throat. You muffle yourself by biting into his shoulder–he would’ve winced if it weren’t for the adrenaline biting through his veins.

When your legs tremble with the effort of holding you up, he knows he’s found your limit. He pulls his fingers back, shushing your whine–you were so close, and he was cutting you off. You choke on a pained cry when he leaves you still, waiting, wanting. He doesn’t even let you try to rut against him, his palm firm against your hip.

It seems rapture falls victim to desperation rather quickly.

Your pleas for him to continue fall on a stagnant tongue as he lifts you, pressing you down into the pillows beneath you. He presses you face down, buries your face in the soft fleece that feels suffocating. But you’d rather suffocate than let him slip by, so you twist your head slightly, enough to suck in air through your nose.

“Quiet,” he reminds, and you bite down on the pillow. “Good girl.”

You don’t know what he’s doing until you feel it. There’s the firm press of his hips against yours, of skin where fabric had once separated you. His cock throbs against the curve of your ass, and he smears the tip across your flesh, leaving the mark of his pre-cum on your skin.

The underside of his cock drags against the dip between your asscheeks when you push your hips up towards him, earning you a stifled, breathy groan from the soldier. You almost tell him to keep quiet too, a snarky murmur that would’ve gotten you punished further, but he pinches at your thigh in reprimand anyways.

He is gentle, dragging himself through your folds and running his length through his fist until he feels like he’s wet enough for you. He intends to be gentle, but when the head of his cock breaches past your entrance, and the heady moan that slips from you reaches his ears, his hand twists into your hair. He presses you down, face first into the pillow with just enough give for you to suck air through your lips.

“Quiet,” he repeats. His hips start slow, much to the dismay of his cock, which throbs desperately, craving to be seated deep into you.

Your walls are soft and warm, hugging at his cock like a vice–his vision nearly goes white, and he steels himself with a tense grip against your hip. He curses under his breath. It doesn’t take much for him to slip inside you–since you’d gotten together, your sex life had been anything but dry.

He runs into you like an animal in heat, his teeth worrying at his lip where he too struggles to remain quiet. He can feel his head nudging against your cervix, can feel how you pulse around him like you intend to milk him dry.

He registers that you’re crying when he looks down, the fabric of the pillow darkened where your tears have steeped into the polyester, your saliva no better as you bite into the pillow to keep your sounds quiet. It’s the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, having you cry around his cock.

It only encourages him further, when your muffled moans reach his ears. He pulls out of you and slams back in, his own ears wincing at the loud slap of skin that follows. Sure, it was loud, but your choked cry made it worth it.

“Hush,” he soothes placatingly, a hand rubbing over your skin.

He flattens himself over your back, fucking into you with more leverage. It’s nasty and quick, but he murmurs against the back of your head sweet words that suck at your heart regardless–he’s loving in speech and rough in manner. “You’re so… fuckin’ perfect for me, aren’t you? Best fucking girl I could’ve asked for. No one better than you, sweet.”

Hot, blinding waves of pleasure spread through his body through his veins. It ignites his nerves, setting him on the brink of a catastrophic waterfall. His cock twitches inside of you, nudging against your walls. His hand moves under you, pressing between your legs just before where his cock splits you open. He rubs against your clit again, feeling you throb against him–it inflates his ego.

You rut back against him before stilling, your limbs tensing up. Another circle of his slick fingertips against your clit and you’re spasming around his cock, clenching at him so desperately he thinks you might be trying to overstimulate him. You come apart so deliciously under him, tears squeezing out of the corners of your eyes as your eyes roll backwards.

He’s not so far behind, muttering half-assed phrases against your skin, “Fuckin’... squeeze ‘round me like that again, ah…” His accent seems to thicken around his words, disintegrating into soft balms that coat your brain–you’re cockdrunk, and he knows it.

The aftershocks of your orgasm leave you clinging around his cock, and it’s enough for him to force himself against your cervix harshly, his cock pulsing with waves of his spend that seems not to end. It spills out around him when he pulls back slightly, his chest heaving. He waits a moment before he can collect himself, pulling himself out. You barely move, aside from collapsing further into the sheets without his hands to hold you up.

He collects you into his arms like a wounded animal, his eyes tracing over your form, the tear tracks down your cheeks and the come that dribbles from between your thighs. You shake in his arms, glassy eyes staring up at him with reverence. “You did good,” he murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

He leans against the headboard with you, before following up his short praise with a modicum of concern, “Did I hurt you?”

The shake of your head sends relief through his bones. He nods at that, holding you tighter, “Sleepy now, aren’t you?”

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honey-on-your-tongue · 17 hours ago

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Drowning in You

pairing: Frankie Morales x f! reader

tags: MDNI 18+, straight up pwp, bodily fluids, face sitting, Frankie talks you through, filth, praise, male masturbation, we love whimpering men

notes: Inspired by this reblog.

word count: ~ 670

You blinked at him, half-laughing, half-disbelieving, when he tilted his head back against the couch and said it.

“Go on. Take a seat on my face.”

You’d thought he was joking. The crooked grin, the casual shrug. But then his dark eyes pinned you in place, the gravel in his voice leaving no room for teasing.

And that’s how you ended up here—knees planted on either side of his head, thighs trembling as you lowered yourself until his stubble grazed your most sensitive skin. He peppered the inside of your thighs with soft kisses, before his nose pressed against your clit. His breath fanned hot and filthy against you as he groaned into you like you were the only air he’d ever need. You hesitated at first, afraid you might crush him with your weight, but he only shook his head, voice rough as he said, “I’m a grown man, I can handle that.” Somehow, the words made you feel lighter and you lowered yourself down until you were literally sitting on his handsome face.

His hands clamped to your hips, not to guide you—no, he let you move—but to keep you there. “You okay?” he asked, voice muffled between your thighs and you nodded. The coarse drag of his beard was maddening, wet tongue flattening and circling around your clit until you couldn’t tell if you wanted to grind down harder or run from the overstimulation.

Every time your hips rocked, you felt the hard ridge of his nose where you needed it most, saw his eyes roll back like he was the one being undone. And god, he was—his cock straining thick against his sweats, twitching as he moaned into your heat.

“Please—fuck—I need—” his voice broke, desperate, muted against you. “Let me—just let me touch myself, baby, please.”

You looked down at him, blinking, hands still fisting his curls. The way he begged, ragged and wrecked, nearly undid you right there. He was trembling, holding himself back like it was torture, like the only thing in the world that mattered was you riding his face until you broke, like your pleasure was a prize to be won.

When you finally gave him permission, the low, guttural sound he made vibrated straight through you too. His hand flew down, pulling his sweats down, groaning when he finally freed himself. You didn’t even have to look, you could feel it in the way his hips bucked, the way his moan broke against your pussy when his fist wrapped around his cock. A sharp, broken whimper escaped him and it made your stomach twist tight with heat.

“Fuck, baby… you’re so good to me,” he gasped, his nose grinding against you as his tongue dove deeper, messy, desperate. “Taste so fucking sweet—ride my face, come on, give it to me. Wanna feel you soak me while I jerk off like a pathetic fuckin’ man under you.”

Your fingers tangled in his curls, tugging when he pressed harder, seemingly burying his face in you. “You’re everything, baby. God, I’m so hard for you… gonna come all over myself if you keep grinding down like that.”

The obscene sounds of his fist working his cock mixed with the wet, hungry slurps of his mouth between your thighs was dizzying. He didn’t stop, not even when your hips shook, not even when you whimpered his name like a prayer. He was relentless, driven. Every reaction of you just seemed to spur him on more.

“That’s it, fuck, that’s my girl. Make a mess on me.” His voice was wrecked, trembling. Then, low and urgent, “Come with me, please. Wanna feel you fall apart while I ruin myself for you.”

You were already teetering on the edge, thighs trembling around his head, his nose and beard rubbing you raw as you finally shattered, thighs squeezing his beautiful face tight. Seconds later he followed, whimpering into your cunt as hot streaks painted his soft belly and you were catching your breath.

It was that moment you realized there was nothing sweeter than Francisco Morales begging to come while worshipping you like this.

thanks for reading 💌

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honey-on-your-tongue · 20 hours ago

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NORMAL PERSON: Hey, whatchadoin? ME: Um… writing. NORMAL PERSON: What are you writing? ME: A story. NORMAL PERSON: A story about what? ME:

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honey-on-your-tongue · 21 hours ago

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OH GOD

sick and twisted breeding fantasy of older farmer convincing a pretty young thing to be his wife. h

she blushes and twitters under his attention, but denies him, claiming "papa would never let me!"

and the farmer thinks that her pa cant refuse if theres a bump growing....

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honey-on-your-tongue · 22 hours ago

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Heyyyy honey! I just had an idea and I was thrilled for my favorite writer to give it shape <3

Okay. Imagine. A tattoo artist reader who, on a normal day at work, serves Simon. Okay? He wants THIS ESPECIFIC TATTOO.

Just... Yeah. Bye.

-🦇💜

DON'T DO THIS TO ME I'm going feral. oh my god I'm supposed to be doing assignments buuut I can't get this out of my head aaaah (also calling me your favorite writer??!!! I'M SQUEALING AND KICKING MY FEET HEHE ilyyy 💛💛💛💛)

I went overboard lol and uh we've ended up with 2k words

cw: smut, oral (m!receiving), dubcon, coercion, unprotected p in v, creampie!!!, mean!Simon

You've done all kinds of tattoos on all kinds of body parts and on all kinds of people.

No one like him, though. No, your new client is tall, broad, ridiculously attractive by his mere presence. He's got a skull balaclava on, but the way he carries himself is hotter than any face could be. His sharp eyes feel like fire as they study you while you sterilize your tools and prepare your work place.

You can see him from the corner of your eye, already lying on the tattoo bed and staring right at the side of your face like he thinks you don't notice. Or maybe like he hopes you do.

“Okay,” you say eventually, turning to him. “What do you want?”

He blinks at you a moment, his eyes lingering too long on your lips. “‘s just simple script,” he replies, and retrieves a wrinkled piece of paper from the pocket of his pants.

He hands it to you and you open it. Written in neat cursive: it won't suck itself.

You take a tiny moment to calm the racing of your heart and the threat of a wobbly voice before saying, “And you want it...?”

He places his hand on his lower abdomen, right between his belly button and his groin. “Right here, hon,” he tells you, voice rough, thick.

You'd expected that would be the chosen place. It doesn't really help the blush that inevitably takes over you.

“Right. Makes sense,” you say, suddenly feeling like you're being silly, and force yourself back to a professional stance. “I need you to lift your shirt and—” a tiny breath for courage— “push your pants down a little.”

He says nothing, just stares at you as he pushes his pants to his hip bones and then pulls his shirt up over his stomach.

You try very hard not to stare at the muscles on his abdomen, to not let your eyes follow the coarse hairs of his happy trail down to where you see the beginning of his v-line, and then where it disappears under the edge of his pants.

You force your mind away from what's under his pants as you get about cleaning the area where he wants the tattoo. You don't miss the way goosebumps rise on his skin when you touch him, and it only makes you more nervous.

Steady hand, steady hand, you think to yourself. Don't mess this up.

You place the reference paper on his abdomen and get to work. It doesn't take long for you to finish the tattoo, but it feels eternal. Especially with that searing gaze on you.

When it's done, you look up at him and find he's not even glanced at the tattoo. He's just focused on you.

“Do you like it?” you ask finally, voice a little breathless.

He gives the tattoo an uninterested glance before meeting your eyes again. “You did a great job, hon.”

The word echoes in your mind.

Hon, hon, hon.

God, his voice is so deep, so rough. And that accent? Jesus.

You nod softly, politely, cheeks burning. “Anything else I can do for you?”

He chuckles softly. “Well, if you're offering...”

⊹₊ ˚‧ ⊹₊ ˚‧ ⊹₊ ˚‧ ⊹₊ ˚‧ ⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹ ‧ ˚ ₊⊹ ‧ ˚ ₊⊹ ‧ ˚ ₊⊹ ‧ ˚

You have to admit, you hadn't expected to end up on your knees in front of him, the tattoo you just made inches from your nose while you choke on his cock.

His cock is enormous, which is what you'd expected for a man his size. Still, it took you by surprise when you pulled it out of his pants and felt how heavy it was.

Now, you're realizing how long it is, too. You can't really fit all of him in your mouth, no matter how much you try.

The hunger in his eyes had been unmistakable and, really, you'd been all too willing.

“Gotta see if the tattoo has the desired reaction.” His words had been spoken lowly, somewhere between a plead and a challenge.

“What do you mean?” you asked quietly.

“Just wondering if you could get on your knees, see it from down there?” He'd stood up then, and you'd wanted nothing more than to comply.

So you did.

And he just couldn't help himself. Such a gorgeous girl, on her knees, face level with his crotch? He'd already been fighting an erection when he saw you, when you touched him so you could get the tattoo on him. But seeing you down there had been the last straw.

You'd noticed he was hard. Of course, you had. The bulge in his pants was inches from your face, how were you not going to notice? You'd turned pink then and glanced up at him. “You've, uh, got a situation going,” you'd joked, somewhere between embarrassed and wanting.

He'd risked it then. He either got kicked out of the parlor or he got his way, he'd figured.

“Think you could help fix that?”

You pretty thing, eager and easy, you just undid his pants and got to work like you'd been thinking of doing it anyway.

He can't not poke fun at you for it. You're just so pretty when you're embarrassed.

“Such a dirty thing, aren't ya?” he murmurs now, pushing some of your hair off your face and bunching it at the back of your head. “Look at you, suckin’ on a stranger's cock ‘cause he asked. Are you that desperate?”

You blush, closing your eyes; your eyelashes, wet with tears, brushing against your pink cheeks.

He pulls your hair a little too hard, making you open your eyes wide. “Don't you look away from me when I'm talkin’ to ya,” he growls, his cock twitching when you whimper.

Your gaze meets his, big fat tears rolling down your pretty face.

“Yeah, that's right. Cry, hon. You look so pretty when you cry on my cock.” He pushes your head further, but you shake your head, hands grabbing onto his thighs to stop him.

Simon chuckles, a dark, low sound.

“Don't be afraid, hon, you can take it. Just relax, deep breaths through your nose,” he says, inching his cock further down your throat.

You whine, trying to pull away, but he doesn't relent.

“You gotta trust me, I know you can do it,” he tells you, and his tone leaves no room for dispute.

Your eyes beg him to stop, beg him to let you go, but his gaze is hard and expectant, and you don't want to let him down.

You can hear your heart beating loudly in your ears as you let him push your head down, his cock sliding to the back of your throat.

“Juuust like that,” he says thickly, groaning. “Take it, take it.”

The thick head presses against the back of your throat, your nose right under the tattoo you just made, and Simon grins down at you.

“Go on, be good to me. It won't suck itself.”

So you obey. You suck his cock as best you can, bobbing your head back and forth, taking him all the way in even though you gag every time and cry more.

He's fine with you taking it slow, enjoying how you struggle to fit him, loving how eager you are to please him.

“That's right, like that. Such a pretty mouth, perfect for my cock to fill, hm?” he murmurs, caressing the back of your head.

You keep crying, sobbing softly through the exhilarating sensation of fitting all of him in your mouth. Your spit is dribbling out of your mouth, down your chin, and it's coated his cock. You look so beautiful.

“You got anythin’ else for me to fill, hon? Other pretty wet places I can fuck?” he asks, voice low, and he doesn't miss the way you press your thighs together.

He pulls you off his cock, smirking as you gasp for breath. He picks you up with ease, setting you down on the tattoo bed.

He tugs your pants and panties off, almost ripping them in his haste. You gasp softly, lifting your hips to help him undress you.

“Now you gonna let me fuck you ‘cause I wanna, huh? Not an ounce of self-respect. You're just so fuckin’ dirty,” he accuses, pushing your legs apart.

His hand finds your cunt, already wet, and he pushes two fingers into you. You moan, eyes fluttering shut, your hand grabbing onto his wrist when he starts fucking his fingers into you.

“Full enough?” he asks. “Or do you want more?”

“More,” you gasp, trying to push his fingers deeper into you even though they're in to the knuckles.

“Yeah? You think this tight pussy can fit me?”

You nod, gasping. “Please.”

“Mm. Alright.” He pulls his fingers out of you and shoves them into your mouth, pressing them down on your tongue.

He grins when your eyes snap open to meet his.

“Don't want you getting too loud, 's all,” he offers as a form of explanation, before pressing the tip of his cock to your opening. He slowly inches in, though it's a very tight fit and he's not sure you can take it.

You moan against his fingers at the intrusion, the sound muffled, and more tears prick at your eyes at the delicious stretch.

Simon watches you, unable to look away from how pretty you look as he fills you. He pushes his cock into you as much as he can, though he meets resistance about halfway.

He grabs one of your legs and moves it over his shoulder, and then thrusts the rest of himself into you.

You squeak, body squirming as he fills you completely, the tip of him brushing against your cervix.

He stays there a moment, gasping for breath, his muscles tense. “You're real fuckin’ tight, hon. Ain't gonna last, y’hear me?”

You don't. You're too caught up in the feeling of being so ridiculously full, and all you can do is mewl against his fingers.

He chuckles softly and starts moving. Gentle thrusts that slowly grow fast and hard until he's pounding you, your body bouncing, legs shaking.

He reaches for your chest, grabbing the neckline of your shirt and wrenching it down, your bra going with it, your tits now free for him to grope and squeeze and suck on.

He leaves hickeys all over them, murmuring, “Gorgeous. Fuckin’ perfect tits. Shoulda let you suck me off until I covered these beauties in my cum.”

You're trembling under him, hands scratching at his shoulders and his back, leaving marks as they drag down his arms. You lead one of his hands between your thighs, placing it right against the apex of your mound.

He takes the hint, fingers deftly rubbing at your clit in sync with his thrusts.

You were already close, and his fingers on the needy nub push you right over the edge. You come hard, back arching, cunt sucking him in hard enough that he can't move anymore. Which is kind of an issue because he can't last longer and he comes in you, spurting thick ropes of sticky white cum into your pussy.

“Aw, fuck,” he grunts, gasping. “Jesus. Warn a man, hon. Almost killed me there.”

You're shivering, half silly, and he pulls his fingers from your mouth. You gasp for breath, body flushed, skin sheen with sweat.

He kisses your neck, making his way up until his mouth meets yours. He kisses you slowly, languidly, and pulls away after a while. He pulls out of you, his cum starting to dribble out. He grins at the sight.

“Thanks for the tattoo, hon. And the quickie.” He pats the side of your thigh gently before tucking himself back into his pants and walking out of the room, shutting the door after himself. And you just stay there, fucked dumb, his cum dripping out of you.

♡ please comment and reblog my work, it means so much to me and inspires me to keep writing

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honey-on-your-tongue · 22 hours ago

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