Chapter Text
Simon has never flown before, but he figures this is a very good first experience.
After passing all the people in the airport who looked tired the moment they stepped into the security line – they were in the priority line, so basically no waiting – he figures his excitement is more on par with the children dragging around colourful animal shaped suitcases, going on their first vacation. It’s Simon’s first vacation too.
Well, not actually the first one, but the first one abroad, and technically it’s not even a vacation since John is going there for some conference meeting business thing that Simon never bothered to get a deeper understanding of, because for him it’s a vacation.
They’re seated side by side, a large armrest separating them. The seats are plush, not nearly as comfortable as the sofa or armchairs in John’s flat, but considering that Simon’s experience consists of second-hand accounts of other people flying, he figures being able to sink into his seat and stretch his legs out in front of him is good. He knows it’s the best on offer because John wouldn’t settle for anything less.
He has a clear line of sight to windows on both sides and even though the rest of the passengers behind them are still boarding, he stares out to watch other planes back up, trucks and shuttle buses driving around.
A heavy palm lands on his thigh. Simon snaps his head to the other side to meet John’s eyes.
“Nervous, doll?”
“No,” Simon says, but John soothingly rubs at his leg anyway.
“It’s a short flight.”
“I’m not nervous,” Simon repeats. And John must see the excitement in his eyes now since he leaves his thigh with one more squeeze before returning to his phone. Simon glimpses him emailing someone, a long paragraph of jargon he’s not interested in. What he is interested in is watching the airstrips pass by as they start moving.
It’s more exciting than scary, the take off, and once they’re in the air it’s just clouds – too bright to look at – so Simon turns back to John. He’s scrolling through some long document on his phone. Simon stops trying to catch a glimpse of it the moment he spots the heading Risk Analysis.
He knows it’s a work trip for him and Simon is just there as arm candy and entertainment. He knows his role. He knows he’s going to be at least a decade younger than everyone else there, that for half the time he’ll be left on his own, and that for the other half he’s going to have more than just John eyeing him up.
But at the same time, he googled the place. A fancy five-star resort that was booked for the whole event, and John told him he has free reign of all the amenities, which means he has more than enough entertainment to fill his free time for when John is in his meetings.
He had clicked through pictures of the place – the several pools and bars and restaurants, looked at all the rooms with plush carpets and large beds and wide open windows, until John had pointed out the suite they had to narrow down the pictures to only the best ones. It’s stupid how much room the suite has, even in just the pictures. A bunch of useless seats and tables and little stands that serve no purpose other than – Simon thinks, considering the reason he’s brought along – being bent over and fucked.
But there’s also a very nice beach just next to the pools and Simon thinks he could convince John to join him in the sea one of the evenings. Not that it’s too hard to convince him, Simon only has to drape himself over John’s front, bat his lashes up at him, and say pretty please. Then it’s just going down to the beach to find out how sex in water feels like.
The seat is more comfortable when he lowers the backrest. He shifts onto his side so he can see John’s profile and out of the window past him, look at the too-bright clouds. He squints, determined to keep staring at them, like a fluffy sea beneath the plane, briefly wishes he had his sunglasses on hand. Briefly fears he forgot his sunglasses at all – but John can just buy him a new pair if he did forget. Simon will let him pick new ones out for him anyway as a souvenir.
Simon perks up as the flight attendant brings both of them their pre-ordered meals, sliced chicken and a seasonal salad. He grabs for the fork and then hesitates. Glances to the side at John who takes another ten seconds before he puts the phone away.
“Sorry,” he says, sets his hand on Simon’s leg again. “Had to finish some things.”
And when John starts eating Simon feels comfortable enough to follow. Does a lot of things like this, waiting for John’s lead, since with most of the things John invites him to do he has no idea what the code of conduct is. Still remembers the anxiety he felt when he stepped into one of those posh restaurants for the first time, somehow certain he was going to fuck up the simple process of eating. Wore designer brand clothing for the first time and felt like there was a flashing neon sign attached to him, signalling to everyone that he wouldn’t have enough money in his life to buy something like that for himself.
The food is decent, somewhere between the quality he grew up with and the decadence John gluts him on. Helps that Simon’s hungry by now, breakfast only taking him this far.
He could watch a movie or something, brought a book and his laptop with him, but he doesn’t feel like it. Watches instead as the flight attendant walks by with a champagne bottle and pours them both a glass. A plastic glass that’s lighter than the real thing and only vaguely transparent, but the champagne is nice enough.
Simon knows there’s really no reason to hurry with drinking it except to see whether he can coax a reaction out of John for downing it like a shot. The stewardess refills it almost instantly, and John is back to his emails.
He shouldn’t get drunk. Maybe only tipsy at best, especially considering his alcohol tolerance, but John isn’t paying him any attention even though Simon knows he notices it when he finishes the second glass as well.
John finally puts his phone down after Simon’s halfway into the third. Small glasses, but Simon can feel the tingle of it anyway, the fizziness an aftertaste on his tongue.
“What are you looking at, doll?” John turns to him, meets Simon’s gaze.
“Hm?” he hums innocently. Pretends he hasn’t been glancing at John every two seconds.
John huffs something like a laugh, then pulls him closer despite the armrest between them so their shoulders are pressed together. He drops that hand to Simon’s leg, moves it to the inside of his thigh, and Simon subtly shifts his legs apart to make more room for John’s hand. It’s not high enough, yet the faint buzz of alcohol and the aftershave John always wears has Simon wishing it would be. He has a book and his laptop and could watch a movie, but the edge of John’s palm being nearly against his crotch is much better entertainment.
“You aren’t bored yet, are you?” John asks, something like a tease.
“No,” Simon confirms with a smile, even though they’re thirty minutes into a several hours long flight and Simon has already resorted to bothering him.
“Sure?”
Simon hums another confirmation and nods. Shifts a little more, ostensibly to move onto his side and look at John more comfortably, adjusts his legs with the movement and just happens to nudge John’s hand a little higher with the motion.
There wasn’t ever any chance that John wouldn’t catch it.
He leans closer to him to tease, breath fanning over the shell of Simon’s ear. “Not bored, yet you’re squirming like this for me?”
“No,” Simon denies. Simpers at him, though both of them know that’s not quite true.
“No?” John cups his jaw with his free hand, taps at his bottom lip with his thumb, and if Simon parts his lips, then it’s because John nudges at his mouth and not because Simon opens it himself. John’s practically smirking at him, thumb halfway between his lips. “Took so many things for you to play with on the flight, but you just want daddy’s attention, huh?”
Simon smiles and nods then, happy to play into it, especially when it gets John chuckling at him. Especially when it gets him a deep kiss, John’s tongue in his mouth and nearly down his throat, despite the flight attendant walking by.
John uses his mouth to muffle the involuntary sound he knows Simon will make when he purposefully nudges his hand up, pointedly drags his fingers over where his thigh meets his body, before pulling away completely, their lips separating with a wet sound.
“I’m not going to fuck you on the plane, doll, stop looking at me like that.”
Simon wasn’t aiming for that, actually. He’s wearing red lace underneath his trousers and he doesn’t want to ruin the surprise before John can take full advantage of it. He isn’t quite sure what he is aiming for here, really, but that’s beside the point – can’t help the way he looks.
John rubs at his thigh with his thumb, still leaned close to murmur, “I’ll fuck you first thing when we get to our hotel, aye? Fuck all that boredom out of your pretty little head.”
He taps at his mouth again, and Simon feels a momentary flutter in his stomach, a sudden tightness and release that has him shifting his legs again. His eyes are blown wide and firmly locked onto John’s.
“I’ll leave you to rest for a couple hours after that,” John continues in a low, rumbling voice, “and when I come back from my meeting, we’ll see whether you can still walk. Fix that little mistake if you can. Understood?”
Simon smiles around his thumb, only barely into his mouth, not even touching his teeth, and nods. But John quirks a brow at him, so Simon murmurs against the pad of his thumb, “Yes, daddy.”
And that earns him a pleased smile and another tap to his bottom lip, a squeeze to his thigh. “Good boy.”
John tries to pull his hand away then, but Simon tightens his legs around it, keeps his palm stuck between his thighs. He meets John’s amused glance with an innocuous smile, makes a show of resting his head on his shoulder and settling in, something like comfy with how he’s curled up, his seat leaned back. He briefly grinds against the side of his palm with how he shifts, and, finally in position, bats his lashes up at John.
“You can type with your left hand, can’t you?” Because he isn’t letting the right go from between his legs, not when John huffs a laugh and not when the stewardess comes back to refill their glasses.
John does end up typing with his left hand. It’s slow-going, as far as Simon can tell, but that’s not his problem.
It’s only midday, but Simon still naps on his shoulder, not quite sleeping and not quite awake, and when he’ll wake up it’ll still be midday, except a lot warmer, sunny – according to the weather forecast – and he’ll have a new room and resort to explore.
After his daddy fucks his ability to walk away, of course.
John isn’t the type to spend a Thursday evening prowling the pubs, yet he ends up walking down the street lined by them anyway. It’s dark already and apparently late enough for the chatter and noise to be irritating even from the outside. He dodges a group of what seems like university students as they stumble out of a door, arms around each other, as they badly sing along to some song John may or may not have heard on the radio recently.
He usually prefers avoiding these types of crowds. Not like the upper class is any better with their hushed whispers behinds champagne glasses, but John’s outgrown his pub-crawling days. Now, the noise is mildly infuriating and only adding to the stress already making itself shown in the tense line of his shoulders. He consciously reminds himself to roll them and straighten his back. Focuses on the click of his shoes not the smell of cheap beer.
The only reason he’s even here is because his driver apparently hadn’t managed to find a parking spot any closer.
John lets his lip curl into a sneer as he watches a man stumble out of a pub, talking far too loudly into the phone at his ear. He doesn’t need to hear about how I left her, not the other way around, goddammit, when he’s supposed to be figuring out the schedule for his next month. Too many meetings, a flight overseas, charity auction, the merger, new projects he has to sign off on, the budget needs to be confirmed, his secretary’s been rapidly emailing him about something for the past five hours and–
John looks up at a loud sob, accompanied by a door being harshly shoved open. He’s already scowling at the figure that comes out of the pub and plops down on the pavement, shoulders shaking as they hiccup between cries. John is about to dodge to the side to take a wider arc around the man when he looks up at the sky, red teary face bare to the world, his hiccup loud as his hands fall to his lap. Yet it’s his eyes that catch John’s attention.
Blue red-rimmed eyes, long lashes wet with tears, fluttering as the man – kid, really, can’t be any older than twenty – tries to stabilise his breath before breaking into sobs again. He curls up to hide his face in his knees, wipes it into his sleeves, and it’s the fact that he can’t see those pretty eyes anymore that suddenly bothers John the most.
It’s only when someone bumps into him that he realises he’s stopped in the middle of the road.
The woman rushes out an apology before jogging ahead to catch up with another group, and John returns his attention to the crying young beaut. His face is in his hands, hidden from view, though there’s a really simple solution to fix that.
“Hey, doll.” John keeps his voice light, crouches beside him. The kid sucks in a breath and turns to look at him after a moment of hesitation. His brows are furrowed, nose scrunched up, and after he’s hastily wiped the tear tracks from his cheeks they don’t return again, crying momentarily on the backburner due to bewilderment.
“What?”
He blinks to clear his vision and seems more confused that anyone would speak to him than anything, narrowed eyes flickering over John’s face. John merely smiles at him.
“You alone here?”
The kid huffs something like a laugh. The look he gives John is somewhere between perplexed and amused. “Is this a kidnapping plot?”
“Nae.” John lets his smile grow; easy to, what with the kid staring right at him now, trying to figure him out. “Pretty thing like you, sitting here all alone…” He goes for a cliché, but the way the corners of the kid’s lips twitch – despite the eyeroll – makes it worth it. “’Least I assume you’re alone. No one back there waiting for you?”
He motions to the pub he ran out of, a horse as the logo and the name in a too-cursive font. The kid looks back at the door too before wrinkling his nose and wiping it on his sleeve again.
“No. I’m alone.”
John hums. Tilts his head to get a better look at his face now that he’s taken to glaring at the pavement. “Just drowning your sorrows, then?”
The kid huffs again, a forced, bittersweet laugh. “Something like that.”
He blinks, and even though he isn’t sobbing anymore, the motion still pushes a few stray tears over his waterline. He wipes them away far too soon.
John thinks he could get used to this face. Already likes it quite a bit. Pretty pink lips and ruddy cheeks, long lashes fanning over his cheekbones – look so good wet and dark with tears – and the small scars and pockmarks over his chin, just above his lip, a thin straight one near his hairline.
“What do you say,” John starts, “I’ll take you home.”
His mouth jumps into a smile as he lets out a shaky laugh. Those pretty blues flick to John before returning to the pavement. “My father would try to fight you.”
“I meant my home.”
The laughter is wiped from his face. He does a doubletake before his eyes settle fully onto John. Lips parted on an answer he hasn’t decided on yet, and John lets his intentions be clear as he explicitly lets his gaze drop onto the pink mouth.
“Me?” he asks, as if there’s anyone else as pretty on this whole street. Lifts his hand to point at himself like it’s so outlandish.
“Aye, you.” John has a feeling the redness of his cheeks isn’t all crying now. The kid almost visibly shivers as John lets his eyes rove over the entirety of him – or at least most of what he can see, curled up as he is. “So, what d’you say, doll?”
It seems like he surprises himself when he agrees. Hesitates before nodding, then wipes the wetness from his eyes, blinks at John as if to check whether he’s still there, before nodding again. John offers his hand to help him rise. He holds onto it as he leads him to the car.
His driver his a professional, so he barely quirks a brow as John opens the door for the kid, sliding into the backseat after him. He wipes his face on his sleeves again, keeps his hands clasped in his lap as if he’s afraid to sully the leather seats or something, peers curiously at the driver. John sets his palm on his thigh and revels in the moment those blue eyes flick to him, before the kid steadies himself with a conscious breath and stares at the passing scenery.
He’s pretty but doesn’t seem to realise it. Probably thinks the crying is a turn off, though for John it’s quite the opposite. He lets his thumb caress over the kid’s thigh, uses the jostling of the car as they turn sharply as an excuse to hitch his hand just a little higher. The kid seems surprised when he glances over and sees John already looking at him. Quickly looks away when he realises John isn’t going to, not embarrassed about being caught.
John would almost like the drive to be longer to watch the kid squirm under his touch, but the car rolls to a stop and John watches the kid’s eyes widen slightly as he takes in the building they’re parked in front of.
John leaves his thigh with a squeeze before climbing out of the backseat. He rounds the car before the kid can get his bearings, opens the door to his wide-eyed stare.
“C’mon, doll.” He holds his hand out for him. He takes it, lets John hold it as he leads him inside.
“You live here?” he asks in the lobby. He’s studying the minimalist modern design though it’s not much to look at, and wipes his nose like he wants to seem presentable. John’s gut feeling tells him he looks far better debauched.
“Aye.” John pulls him into the lift. His lips quirk up when he sees the kid’s attention linger on the keypad after John presses the button for the topmost floor. “Up to your expectations?” Because he can’t help but tease.
The kid lets out a laugh, a little self-deprecating, a little disbelieving. He wipes his face again, though the flush of his cheeks hasn’t lessened one bit, despite the lack of tears.
“Don’t think I have any expectations. Wasn’t really planning on… this.” He gestures vaguely to their surroundings as the doors open up. John has to let go of his hand to hold the door to his flat open for him. “People don’t usually proposition someone who’s crying.”
“Their mistake. You look pretty when you cry.” John sidles up right behind him, sets his hand on the dip of his waist. It fits so perfectly there, thumb resting in the divot at the small of his back, fingertips just teasing to reach under the layers.
He lets out that laugh again, bites his lip as he takes in the flat. It’s not all that great, the housing market was a mess when he bought it, but at least the view’s decent, when the weather decides to clear up.
“Pretty?” he repeats disbelievingly. Stands nice and still as John sets his palms on his hips, pulls him backwards against his chest. “It’s messy.”
John lowers his head to brush his mouth over the shell of his ear, revels in the shiver he gets.
“Didn’t say it was clean, said it was pretty.” The skin of his neck is warm beneath his lips, a little clammy, but the kid takes a shuddering breath in and tilts his head so John gets a better angle to nip at his collarbone. “But I think I could make you cry for a better reason.”
“Uh-huh?”
He sounds a mix of anxious and hesitant, so John spins him around, pulls him close with one hand on his waist, cups his cheek with the other. The kid’s wet lashes flutter as he blinks up at him.
“What’s your name, doll?”
He swallows, blinks, says, “Simon.”
“Simon,” he repeats. Simon nods, as if confirming it, and he really is just precious, isn’t he. John lets Simon see his smile for just a brief moment before he’s leaning in to kiss him. Simon gasps, parts his lips beautifully to let John in, and he licks over Simon’s teeth, his tongue, tastes the cheap beer he must have been drinking. Simon fists his blazer, fingers digging into the fabric like he doesn’t know what to do, and isn’t that just sweet.
John leaves his bottom lip with a gentle nip before pulling away. Swipes his thumb over Simon’s wet lip, a little pouty – most likely unintentional, considering how he’s staring up at John, all doe-eyed and cute.
“Bedroom, aye?” John takes mercy on him, gives the kid a little direction, smiles as Simon hums in agreement.
He moves Simon to his front, keeps his hands on his waist and his chest pressed to Simon’s back, dips his head to kiss at his neck, scrape his teeth over a rapid pulse. Nudges him in the right direction and delights maybe a little too much in the small breathy gasps Simon lets out. Tightens his hold on Simon’s waist as he stumbles, keeps him upright and walks them to the bedroom.
With his face pressed into the crook of Simon’s neck, he can’t see his expression at the room nor the bed, but he can definitely feel the full-body shudder as he presses his cock to Simon’s arse. Grinds forwards in a slow roll, a tease of what’s to come, and Simon leans most his weight on him, head falling back onto his shoulder.
He lets himself enjoy the weight of Simon leaning against him before he’s spinning him around and pushing him onto the bed. He bounces on the mattress, looks up at John with his pupils blown wide open, and pushes himself up the bed so he can lay his head on the pillow – on one of several pillows.
“These smell good,” he mutters, tilts his nose into it.
“You look good,” John responds. And he does. Like a fucking feast, spread out on his bed, rumpling the straightened covers and making himself comfortable on his pillows. He pulls the blanket off the bed, lets it fall into a heap on the floor; doesn’t need it getting in the way.
Simon turns his gaze back onto him when he crawls on top of him, cages him in. Feels the flutter of his lashes as he kisses him, harsh and deep, and shoves his hands under Simon’s shirt. He arches into it, tries to press his mouth against John’s just as fervently, gasps wetly when John pulls away instead.
Simon falls back, panting, lips glistening. He lifts himself up to let John shove his jacket off, then push his shirt over his head. They end up dumped over the side of the bed, abandoned in favour of the expanse of skin bared to John’s mouth.
He descends on Simon’s clavicle, scrapes his teeth over his collarbone, mouths a path down his chest. There’s a dark bruise on his side that he avoids – looks too genuinely painful and he doesn’t want Simon to back out of this – but he kisses the various small scars across his torso, cuts and nicks that he doesn’t consider the origin of for any longer than it takes to lave his tongue over them. His chest heaves with strained moans beneath his mouth.
Simon bruises easily, he discovers. Realises that with a fucking amazed wonder, watching as a hickey turns a blooming shade of red. His skin feels soft and thin under his fingers, and caged beneath him like this, Simon looks small. It’s delightful.
His chest is a mess of marks and drying saliva by the time John’s attention shifts to the zip of his jeans. He caresses his hands down the curve of his waist before settling them on the button, pops it open and slides the zipper down, and Simon suddenly pushes himself up onto his elbows–
“Wait– I don’t–”
John yanks his trousers and pants down in one go and, for a wondrous moment, is stunned. Simon sucks in a breath and holds it, keeps himself completely, utterly still.
“Look at you, doll,” John murmurs. He gently sets his hands on Simon’s thighs and eases his legs open again. Rubs little circles into the insides of his thighs to coax the tension from them. “Prettiest cunt I’ve seen.”
Simon releases the breath he’s been holding. John cups his hand over the pretty pink cunt, wet and shiny with slick, muscles twitching beneath his touch before relaxing into it. He brushes his thumb over the tip of his small dick peeking out and Simon falls back onto the mattress with a groan. When John lifts one of his legs to the side, it goes easily, allows John a better view.
He drags his middle finger through the folds, coats it in slick, and presses it against Simon’s entrance. He earns a moan for it. Gets a louder one when he pushes that finger in. Pumps it in and out at a leisurely pace, draws circles over his clit, revels in the wet noises it creates.
“Relax for me, baby,” he murmurs. Drags his finger against the walls of Simon’s cunt, feels them flutter around his digit, tight and hot. He uses the slick to lubricate his index finger too and eases two digits into him.
Simon takes a deep breath, lets his legs fall open. Lounged on the satin sheets as he is, gasping at the ceiling, he already looks out of it, overwhelmed at just two fingers. John can’t fucking wait to get his cock inside him.
It almost feels like he gushes out more slick with every groan, and John wonders how he hadn’t noticed before, how he hadn’t made a wet spot in his trousers with the way he’s leaking. Though, at the time, John had been distracted by that pretty face. He thinks he’s found a contender for it.
Simon reaches out for him with his hand, more flailing than really aiming. Motions at John’s shirt. “Take it off.”
The noise his cunt makes when John shoves his fingers into it is loud and wet; the noise Simon makes is high and whiny. John smiles at him, just a little mean, and moves closer to him.
“Take it off yourself.”
That smile grows at Simon’s deepening blush. He pushes himself up into a sitting position, his legs give a twitch when John rubs his thumb over his clit. Simon’s hands are unsteady and shaky as they undo the buttons of his shirt; John makes it worse with his hand in his cunt.
Simon’s gaze flickers between John’s face and the shirt buttons as if looking for assurance. His eyes are still red-rimmed, the blue of his iris almost wholly swallowed by black. His lashes flutter as he focuses his vision. John rewards him with a flick to his clit as Simon gets the last button undone.
He sets his hands on John’s bare shoulders to push the shirt off, and he hadn’t really thought of Simon’s hands before, but they feel good on his skin, soft and a little hesitant, so John shakes the sleeves off his wrists and cups Simon’s face to kiss him, lowering him back onto the bed. Pushes his tongue past his lips, the taste of alcohol almost gone from his mouth, when he gets a thought, simultaneously worrying and exciting.
John breaks the kiss to look at him, brows furrowed. “This isn’t your first time, right?”
Simon frowns at him. Narrows his eyes, like he’s offended. “No,” he says, even though he’s tight like a virgin and gasps like one too.
“Get like this just for me, then?” John grins at him. Crooks his fingers just as Simon is about to reply and his words devolve into a keen. John grins wider. “Must be.”
Simon bends one knee to press his heel into the mattress, angles his hips up and into the motion of John’s hand. He nudges the tip of a third finger to his hole. Can’t decide whether to look at how his cunt swallows his hand up or at Simon’s face, a furrow of pleasure scrunching his brows.
“C’mon already,” he groans out, curls his fingers into the pillow he’s gripping. “Jus’ fuck me.”
“Don’t want to hurt you, doll.”
Simon blinks before his vision focuses on John. He licks his lips and John can see his eyes widen at the insinuation. The breath he lets out is shaky and ends on a whine. His cunt is so tight around three digits that he can’t imagine what it will feel like around his cock.
“’S alright,” Simon says. Nudges his hips up into his hands to coax them deeper. “I can take it.”
It’s the breathiness of his voice and the almost-desperation he says it with that tips John off.
“Are you close?”
Simon presses his lips together into a thin line. He shakes his head and hums a no, but the twitch of his hips says otherwise. John takes his cock between the knuckles of his free hand, jerks him just twice before Simon’s body arches off the bed, his cunt pulsing around his fingers, coating them in a new wave of slick. He bites off his gasp, digs his teeth into his bottom lip as John works him through it, feels his cock straining against the seam of his trousers at the sight he makes.
He slows the pace at which his fingers pump into him, takes it easier to let Simon come down from the high. His entire palm is drenched. He keeps his gaze on Simon’s face as it relaxes bit by bit, sucks in a deep breath before meeting John’s eyes.
“Didn’t even fuck me,” he mutters, mouth twisted into a wry kind of smile, as if he thinks it’s over already.
“Still time yet.” He crooks his fingers and gets a jolt out of Simon. “Promised I’d get you crying.”
It’s like Simon only now realises that he meant it seriously. And it’s that innocent, surprised look he wears that has John’s self-control waning, finally pulling his hand away to get his belt buckle open and shuck his trousers.
When he turns back to Simon, those pretty eyes dip down, and John can follow the motion as he swallows. He bites his lip, slowly trails his eyes back up to meet John’s gaze, and lies back, inviting and fucking irresistible.
John settles between his legs, eases them open and wider to fit between them. He wraps his hand around the base of his cock, slides it over Simon’s slick cunt. It looks small beneath his cock, fucking sopping wet and ready, and for a thrilling moment John thinks he won’t fit.
He rolls his hips and watches the wetness stick to his cock, teases the head against Simon’s clit before he pauses, looks up at Simon.
“I don’t have condoms. That a problem?”
Simon huffs an out-of-breath laugh. Definitely caught on that John isn’t the least bit sorry about it. “You tell that to all the guys you bring home?”
“If I brought people home, I’d have condoms.”
“What’s so special now, then?”
“Couldn’t let a pretty thing like you pass me by,” he says, grinds against him pointedly. Simon laughs at that like he’s amused, flattered.
“’S alright. Just fuck me.”
John smiles at him, rewards him with a harsh grind against his clit. He lifts Simon’s legs to sit higher up around his waist. “Deep breath for me, kid.”
Simon looks like he wants to argue at the nickname, but it devolves into a moan as John presses in. He’s just as delicious and wet as he’d imagined – fucking more so – and he’s trying to press his thighs together, squeezing John’s body between them, unintentionally pulling him farther in.
John works his cock deeper and deeper with gentle thrusts, holds onto Simon’s hips, angles his palms so he can squeeze at his arse. A groan rumbles out deep from his chest as his hips grind against Simon’s, his walls clenching around the entire length of him. John has fucked a fair few cunts in his life, but this one has to be his favourite. Been balls deep in it for only one second, but he’s sure of it already.
He starts an easy pace, though the kiss is anything but. He hates the taste of whatever Simon had been drinking, just bitter water than anything worthwhile, yet he licks it all from his mouth. Adjusts the angle he has Simon at until he gets a jolt out of him. Smiles into the mess of a kiss as he keeps aiming for that spot, grinding in as deep as he can.
Simon’s just lying there, taking it so well, lets John position him how he wants. He reciprocates belatedly, like he needs to consciously think about what to do with his tongue, simply keeps his mouth open for John to lick into. His hands are gripping the sheets and pillows, hold on tighter until his knuckles turn white as John picks up the pace.
John reaches down to play with his clit again, wants to feel him clenching around him as hard as he can, wants to feel his cunt pulse as he comes on his cock. Simon mewls at the ceiling, slightly choked and very breathy, meaningless little noises over the lewd slap of skin on skin.
“Just the perfect pillow princess, aren’t you,” John coos at him, smiles at him overly sweetly and pinches his clit a little meanly. He isn’t sure whether Simon even hears him, his eyes half-lidded and unfocused. Guesses drunkenness makes him more sensitive, probably more emotional too, given the earlier sobbing.
He pounds into that tight cunt of his and rubs at his clit and wonders if it has him coming harder as well, since Simon suddenly clenches around him so impossibly tight, cunt pulsing in time with his rapid heartbeat. Simon gasps wetly, eyes pressed shut and brows furrowed, nose scrunched adorably, and John doesn’t let up, keeps fucking into him to overstimulate him.
Simon’s legs twitch at his sides, squeezing, trying to pull back. John holds him still, looks down to glimpse the deluge of slick that accompanies each time he pulls out, making the squelch that much louder when he thrusts back in.
Simon twists, turns his head into the pillow, and only when he lets out a sob and John can finally see those tears does he ease up. He takes in a steadying breath, listens to Simon hiccup, gasp in air that he lets out in a choked cry. Tears roll over his flushed cheeks.
He’s loose and wet beneath him, gasping and shivering and crying even better than he imagined. John keeps his eyes on those tears, his attention on the pretty little noises he makes as he chases his own orgasm. The lewd slap of his balls against Simon’s arse is a delightful contrast to his face, young and innocuous, cheeks dark red and a little squishy, like the baby fat isn’t all gone.
Simon blinks his eyes open, squeezes a couple more tears over his waterline, and clenches down on John’s cock when he hears him groan. He’s a fucking dream, looking up at him with those hazy eyes.
John dips his head and presses his mouth to Simon’s neck, leaves bites and hickeys over the entire length of it. Chases his peak as his rhythm gets sloppy, fast and hurried and impatient, thrusting into Simon’s cunt as hard and fast as he can. Licks up the salty taste of tears where they trailed down to his chin. Feels his throat reverberate against his lips as Simon moans.
He pulls out just as he comes. Grips his cock as he shoots white ropes over Simon’s cunt, hips jerking forwards into his fist. His seed covers his cunt, his clit, reaches all the way up to his navel, and it looks fucking perfect on him. Simon is stretched out like he’s on display, showing it off.
John swipes his thumb through his spend, then leans onto an elbow to rest next to Simon. He pushes his thumb to his mouth, lips already parted. It takes a moment for Simon to lick it off, tongue lazily swiping over the pad of his finger.
“Good boy,” John says, and Simon sucks his thumb harder at that. John pulls it from his mouth with a pop. Simon lets his head sink into the pillow, his eyes falling shut.
John lets himself admire him for a while longer. Red-rimmed eyes and lashes dark with tears, cheeks ruddy and lips wet with saliva. A trail of hickeys leads down his jaw all the way to his chest. His hairline is glistening with a sheen of sweat.
He takes a deep breath before he makes himself get up to fetch a towel from the en suite. Has to treat the kid nice, even though Simon jumps at the contact, seems surprised when John wipes him clean. But he lets it happen, lets John move him around to wipe the worst of the sweat and cum from him. The towel gets abandoned on the floor right next to the rest of their clothes.
John picks the blanket back up before he lays down next to him, drags it up to their waists and sets his palm on Simon’s sternum. Simon’s laying on the pillow he usually sleeps on, so it takes him a moment to find an angle that won’t leave a crick in his neck come morning.
Simon goes stiff under his hand. He’s chewing his lip, tilts his head and tries to act inconspicuous as he checks where his clothes have ended up. He hesitatingly glances over at John.
“Think I should go home.”
John quirks a brow. “You sure?”
“I mean…” Simon hesitates. Lifts himself up onto his elbows and looks the other way.
“Anyone expect you back home?” John asks.
Simon’s gaze turns back to him. He bites his lip, pauses. “No.”
“Then stay.” He pushes him back down by the hand on his chest. Simon falls onto his back with a small grunt. He holds eye contact, seems like he wants to say something, yet changes his mind.
He turns onto his side, back to John’s chest, and seemingly falls asleep the moment he finds a good enough position. He lets John’s arm stay slung over him, and he uses that to pull their bodies closer.
John doesn’t consider himself a cuddler. Just possessive.