Work Text:
Maybe this isn't what you imagined that your life would turn out like. But things rarely pan out the way they've been planned, and him turning up at your doorstep right after a hunt looking like he just crawled out of a ditch has basically become par for the course at this point. If nothing else, the stack of cheap disposable clothes that's occupying the corner of a dresser drawer is certainly testament to that. You can tell straight away that something is different tonight, though. The smell of blood is so thick in the air that your weak human senses pick up on it before he even sets foot on the back porch, and knowing that he's more durable than he looks isn't enough to keep a stab of worry at bay when he comes into the light.
"Gods, Rem, what the hell did you do?" Some of the blood covering him has to be his, you're sure of it. His pants are a muddy, torn mess and his shirt is ripped in multiple places. From the look of things he's been stabbed more than once, and despite how quickly he heals you can tell that there had been a nasty cut across his cheek as well, though not much but drying blood and dirt remains to tell the tale.
"What's it look like I've been doin'?" Not waiting for an answer he steps onto the porch proper, clearly expecting you to quietly go along with it as he moves towards the still open door. With the steady light spilling through the doorway, you end up getting a better look at him than you really want to.
"Hold on..." Putting a hand on his chest, you can't keep from grimacing at how the ruined shirt sticks to your fingers, the smell of blood so strong that you can taste it at the back of your throat. "Is that…actual pieces of someone in your damn hair?" Frowning, you crane your neck before quickly deciding you're better off not knowing. "Actually, don't tell me, just… get cleaned up."
"Gon' need to get inside to do that, sugar."
"The garden hose is right there." With the chill in the autumn air it feels a bit mean to suggest it, but it's a damn sight better than the alternative. He frowns and takes a half step closer, perhaps in the hope that you're just bluffing. You and him both know that he could just waltz right in whenever he likes, but when you refuse to move out of the way he takes a small step back all the same.
"You're shittin' me." When the only response he gets is a glare, he gives the door a longing look. Being what he is you know damn well that he's in no danger of freezing and he knows it too, but that doesn't stop him from aiming some weapons-grade puppy-eyes your way. "Seems a shame when you've got all o' that perfectly good hot water, is all..."
"And let you smear whoever you're wearing all over my damn house?" Crossing your arms, you do your best to sound stern even though he's making it more difficult than it should be by looking so pitiful, and the worry that's twisting through your gut certainly isn't helping any. "You can either hose yourself down or I'll do it for you."
"Alright, you damn harridan. No need gettin' your panties in a bunch over nothin'." Reluctantly stepping off the porch he gives you one last pleading look as he paws at the mess in his hair, but when all it earns him is another glare he heaves a put upon sigh and starts to strip out of his ruined clothes. It's a quick process, nothing showy or flirty about it, and the entire time he eyes the garden hose in its holder as if it's a snake all coiled and ready to strike. Once bare, he gathers the discarded garments, his frustration palpable as he wads them into a ball and carelessly throws them into the back corner of the porch.
"Just so you know, I'm burning those."
"Don't you worry none," he grumbles, reaching for the hose. "I'll handle it." It's not exactly snippy, but you can tell that he's none too pleased about you not letting him walk right in the way you usually might have. "'Sides, don't need you doin' me any favors—" Maybe you should feel worse about watching him swearing up a storm under the freezing spray but the fact that you're not the one turning up at his door looking like an extra from a bad horror-movie does a good job of nipping any sympathy right in the bud.
Could've at least tried to clean himself up instead of coming straight here.
It ends up being a perfunctory cleaning at best and while not completely effective, at least there's thankfully nothing solid left when he's finished. Tossing the hose aside he shakes himself off, shivering in a way that's a shade too exaggerated to be wholly genuine.
"Y'happy now?"
"I don't know." Stepping off the porch, you make a show out of inspecting him, walking around him in a slow circle. Just looking but not touching, not that you even want to with how filthy he still is. He looks so wretched under your searching gaze that it's difficult to keep laughter out of your voice. "I suppose it'll have to do."
"Glad you fuckin' approve," he snarks, shivering again in another transparent attempt to draw your pity. It doesn't work, but it still has your lips pulling into a reluctant smile. "Now let me in 'fore I freeze my damn cock off, will you." He doesn't wait for a response before sidestepping you and scrambling up the porch steps, passing over the threshold as if it's not even there. Which you suppose it isn't, anymore. The sound of his bare feet wetly slapping the floorboards with every step has you biting back another grin, but to his dubious credit he does head straight for the bathroom, albeit dripping dirty water the entire way. Deciding to leave the mess for later you follow behind him, careful not to step in the trail of small puddles in his wake. While he darts into the shower without even bothering to pull it shut you lean against the doorjamb, watching him fumble with the knobs in his rush to get the water going. As the pipes grumble and the shower hisses to life he ducks under the spray with a relieved groan, scrubbing at his face and turning the heat up until the small room starts to fill with steam. You're not entirely sure if he's pissed off about you standing your ground or if he's just so absorbed by soaking up every bit of warmth that he's forgotten that you're even there, but nearly a minute passes before he finally speaks.
"You plannin' on standin' there all night?"
"That's a lot of attitude for someone who just turned up on my doorstep looking like a dog that's been rolling around in roadkill." Your thoughts go unbidden to the meaty piece of something you'd seen in his hair, and you have to suppress a small shudder.
"Now, that's a mite unfair." Pulling a face, he reaches over and carelessly plucks the washcloth from its hook, nearly dropping it in the process as he gesticulates. "Feller was the size o' a damn ox is all, an' he put up a bit o' a fight."
"So you had fun, then." Perhaps that shouldn't be your first response, and in the past it certainly wouldn't have been. But after spending so much time around him it's proven impossible not to get pulled into the dark, step by tiny step, until everything feels a lot more gray than it used to. Besides, you know where he's been hunting lately. Even if he hasn't outright told you, the gruesome gift he'd left on your doorstep a few weeks ago had made it clear enough; a piece of ripped skin bearing a tattoo, every angular, hate-filled line a little too crisp to be anything but fairly fresh.
Let him have his fun. It's no loss.
"Could say that." Shooting you a toothy grin, he wrings the washcloth out before picking a seemingly random smear of dirt at his side to scrub ineffectually at. "You're starin', sugar."
"Just making sure you're not missing any spots." And you're not really staring, at least not just for the sake of it. While he's definitely easy on the eyes that's not the only reason why you watch him so closely, not that you're going to tell him that. He already teases you enough without you offering up free ammunition in the form of concern, whether there's reason for it or not. Tonight, it's perhaps not entirely unfounded; he's definitely been stabbed. There's a long, jagged gash right between his shoulder blades, still sluggishly seeping blood. You can see a few other marks here and there, but with him freshly fed the speed at which they're fading is almost visible to the naked eye, even through the layers of grime.
"Be a bit more convincin' if you weren't oglin' me like a piece of meat."
"You mind it?" It's not really a question; being alive for as long as he has you can't imagine that he wouldn't be used to being looked at by now, in that way or in any other. He's certainly never had any complaints about it before.
"Nah. Y'might have an easier time overseein' things from in here, though..." Despite the rinsing off he's still absolutely filthy, the steam carrying the smell of copper and wet earth a little too well. Wrinkling your nose, you watch the murky water swirl down the drain.
"That's really not as tempting an offer as you think it is." It's not entirely true; the dirt isn't nearly enough to keep your eyes from wandering, gaze lingering on the way the muscles in his back and arms move as he washes himself.
"Suit yourself." Shrugging, he picks a new spot to scrub at. It's at least as haphazard and sloppy as before, and you and him both know that he can do it a damn sight better than that, but apparently he's decided to try and get on your nerves tonight. "Wager it'll be a while 'fore I'm up to those exactin' standards o' yours, though."
"You're absolutely ridiculous," you snort, unable to keep the fondness out of your voice. Ridiculous though he might be, at least he's yours, as much as something like him can belong to anyone. You refuse to acknowledge the victorious smile on his face or the low whistle he lets out as you start pulling your clothes off. Leaving them folded in a neat pile on top of the toilet, you lean over and prod the top of his chest with a pointed finger. "Come on, scoot." He steps back easily, eagerly, barely giving you time to step into the shower and pull the door properly closed behind you before winding his arms around your waist with a pleased sound.
"Maybe lettin' things get messy ain't such a bad thing," he murmurs, pulling you so close that the tips of your breasts rub against his bare chest. Perhaps it shouldn't surprise you that he's flirting with you even though he still looks like he just crawled out of a ditch, but that's probably on you since it's not like his lack of manners have been much of a problem before. With the temperature of the water turned up it's uncomfortably hot but it's not unbearable, at least not after the chill of the evening air. His usually cool skin turned warm and slippery is more distracting pressed against you than it has any right to be, dirt or no dirt, and the smile on his face is damn near boyish. Or at least, it would be if it wasn't for the blood stubbornly clinging to his hair and you knowing better than to believe it. As he leans in to steal a kiss you quickly lean away, reaching up to push at his chin with a grimace.
"Absolutely not, you're filthy!" The scandalized tone does little to deter him and he easily dodges your hand to bury his face in the crook of your neck, dragging his teeth over the sensitive skin with a grin that you that can feel and hear rather than see.
"An' here I thought you loved me filthy."
"What was that? You don't actually want my help?" It's shaky, broken up by the laughter that you have to fight to keep down as you push at his chest in an effort to pull away. Whatever he's doing with his mouth tickles. "Maybe I should just leave you to it then—"
"Oh no, you fuckin' don't," he laughs and tightens his grip, with an extra squeeze for emphasis that makes the air rush from your lungs in a squeaky little wheeze.
"Will you stop it, you're getting—ugh— all over me!" You shudder, sending a quiet prayer to the god of small mercies that the worst of it has gone down the drain already.
"Oh, quit your whinin', it's gon' wash right off." It's reluctant, but at least he lets you go. Stepping away you duck under the water with a disgusted noise, frantically scrubbing at the dirt and whatever else he just smeared all over you. It goes easily enough but it's revolting all the same, making you glare at him once it's gone. "Don't go lookin' at me like that, sugar." He doesn't sound sorry in the slightest and he doesn't exactly look it either, even with his hands raised in a mockery of surrender. "Gon' keep my hands to myself from now on, swear it on my—"
"Just give me that." When he goes to offer the washcloth with a smirk you quickly snatch it out of his hand before plucking a brightly colored bottle from the shower caddy.
Initially the sweet scent of the soap does little to drown out the smell of mud and blood that's filling the cramped space, but as you start to work up a lather it at least tempers it into something more tolerable, and if the prospect of smelling like a piece of candied fruit bothers him at all he doesn't show it. In fact he's suspiciously well behaved, at least if you don't count the hands that stubbornly creep to your hips, clearly eager to pull you close again as they start to not so sneakily wander back and down. But as much as you usually enjoy his touch, your patience is starting to run low.
"If you're trying to make me regret coming in here, you're doing a great job." That has him reluctantly pulling away, giving you space to move.
"There's that cruel streak o' yours again."
"Cruel?" Running the washcloth over one of his shoulders has the suds almost instantly turning an unpleasant rusty color. "Cleaning up your mess, aren't I? If anything I'm being too damn nice." He just hums in response, but at least he doesn't argue as you methodically scrub at his shoulders and chest. Aside from a huge bruise over his ribs that's already fading into a blotchy shade of green he looks mostly unscathed now, at least from the front. You can tell that there's been a fair few cuts and scrapes littering his body though, even if the only evidence of it is quickly vanishing down the drain.
"Let me guess," you trace the edge of the bruise, already looking slightly more faded than when you first laid eyes on it. "I should see the other guy?"
"Maybe. Don't reckon you'd like it much, though." He grins, sharp and self-satisfied. You can't really argue with that, so instead you turn your attention back to the task at hand. Between the scent of the soap and the grime being slowly rinsed off the smell of copper and wet earth lessens little by little until it's completely drowned out, and for a short while it all feels frighteningly domestic, making it dangerously easy to forget precisely what you're helping wash away.
You let yourself forget anyway, focusing on the warmed up skin under your hands and the way he relaxes into your touch as you work. And it is work. While the initial grime had rinsed off fairly easily the layers beneath are downright stubborn, requiring some real effort on your part. It's not without reward, though; every pass with the washcloth reveals another patch of clean skin, tinged faintly pink from the heat of the water and the blood he's gorged himself on tonight. With nothing but the hiss of the water between you the silence is surprisingly comfortable. It doesn't last, of course.
"What did you even get hit with?" Grimacing, you trace the jagged edges of the wound that's marring the usually smooth expanse of his back. Whatever it was, the initial blow must've hit bone in order for it to still look this bad. "A fucking ax?"
"Spare me the lecturin'," he mutters, pushing his soaked hair away from his eyes. "Been huntin' since long 'fore your great-great grandpa was a twinkle in his pa's eye, an' I can damn well handle myself."
"Must be getting careless in your old age, then."
"Careful, sugar." As far as warnings go it's not exactly convincing, mostly on account of him reaching back and giving the top of your thigh a pinch. "Keep that up an' you gon' find out I ain't too old to be puttin' you over my knee jus' yet." If the washcloth ends up scraping over the wound hard enough to make him twitch away with a sour look over his shoulder, it's almost completely by accident.
"Sorry." Grinning, you run the washcloth over the wound again, a shade gentler this time. You're pretty sure he's just playing it up for sympathy anyway; it's barely even bleeding anymore and you can feel the torn flesh knitting together right under your fingertips. Wringing the washcloth out, you give his bicep a quick poke. "Come on, arms up."
"'m not a damn invalid," he grouses, giving you another one of those grumpy looks. You're not sure what it would actually take for that to be the case, but whatever happened tonight clearly doesn't come anywhere close. Ignoring his indignant noises, you give him another impatient prod.
"I know, but let me anyway."
"Bossy thing." Grumbling under his breath he reluctantly raises his arms, lacing his fingers together behind his head with a huff. "You jus' watch those fingers o' yours, I've had enough damn holes poked in me for one night."
"I can see that." Eyes lingering appreciatively on the curve of his shoulders and the width of his back you dispense some more of the sweet-smelling shower gel, discarding the mostly useless washcloth. With the water starting to run mostly clear and the air less fouled by the scent of copper and damp earth it's downright pleasant, letting you focus on the feel of his skin and the tickle of soft hair against your palms. If the way he's all but melting under your hands is any indication he seems to think so too, despite him muttering under his breath that you can't quite make out as you move down his sides. "Not going to become an annoying new habit, I hope."
"Not plannin' on it." It's not an apology, but at least it's something.
"Better not." Playfully smearing a generous glob of lather across his backside, you let your hands linger there for a moment before wrapping your arms around his waist, giving him a quick squeeze. "Much prefer you intact, anyway."
"That right?" Another glance over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth twitching up in a wry half-smile. It's a not at all subtle attempt at getting you to elaborate further, but you press your lips together in a stubborn line.
"Mm-hm." A few seconds tick by and when the anticipated stroke to his ego doesn't come he sighs, gently encircling one of your wrists with his fingers.
"…Gon' try keepin' that in mind." The soft way he says it has something pinching in your chest but rather than letting yourself dwell on it you clear your throat, pulling away.
"Good." Reaching for the soap again, you turn your focus back on getting him at least somewhat presentable. At this point it's more out of stubbornness rather than anything else; with the water finally running all but perfectly clear there's not much left to actually do, but you've always been thorough so you see no reason to stop now. Especially not when you're enjoying it so much. While he doesn't say anything at first, the tense set of his shoulders speaks louder than words as your soaped up hands glide over his sides, following the downy trail of hair down the plane of his stomach, letting your hands fan out over the angle of his hips. It's when you move lower, dropping down into a crouch to gently massage the thick muscle of his thighs that the facade starts cracking.
"You plannin' on lettin me out o' here sometime this century?" Patience clearly doesn't come with age, and as he turns around it's a challenge to keep a straight face. Ancient and inhuman though he may be, he's still a man in the ways that matter. The proof of it is all but impossible to ignore when it's right in front of your nose, half-hard and tempting as you finish washing his legs.
"You're the one that wanted me in here." Flicking your eyes further up, you have to fight to keep from laughing at his sour expression. "But I'm kind of getting the impression that you don't mind this all that much."
"View ain't too bad, I suppose…"
"You suppose?"
"Can think of a few ways of makin' it better, is all." He grins down at you, sharp and playful and infuriatingly perfect, even in his sorry state.
"I'm sure you can." Preempting any helpful suggestions you straighten back up, reaching for the shower gel again.
"If you're expectin' me to get any cleaner…" He trails off, unneeded breath catching as you wrap your newly soaped up fingers around his length.
"You were saying?"
"…Nothin'."
"Thought so." It's mostly meant to be just another step in the cleaning process but it turns out to be a surprisingly effective at shutting him up, if only for the moment. Massaging the soap into the wiry patch of hair at the base of his cock has his hips eagerly tilting to meet your hand, and you can't resist giving his stiffening cock a little squeeze, watching the bobbing of his throat as he swallows. There's something almost hypnotic about how impossibly soft his skin is, how smoothly it glides against your palm as you lazily stroke him from root to tip.
"Darlin'—" Cradling his balls in your free hand and letting your fingers rub over the sensitive spot behind them as you work up a lather has him letting out a choked noise, so quiet and small that the hissing of the shower-head all but drowns it out.
"Sorry." Snatching your hands away, you blink at him as innocently as you can. "Guess I forgot all about watching my fingers."
"Not what I meant, an' you know it." You've half a mind to give in and put your hands on him again, but after what he's put you through tonight he certainly hasn't deserved it, though the need plastered all over his face makes it obvious that he's got a very different idea about what he deserves right now. Perhaps that's why it feels so good to make him wait for it a little while longer.
"Well, right now I know only one thing…" Moving in close, you stop just short of brushing your lips against his.
"Yeah?" It's quick, rough, barely more than a breath. "Tell me, sugar."
"Close your eyes, first." Maybe it's trust or perhaps he's just indulging you, but his eyelids slide shut downright eagerly all the same.
He's clearly not expecting the shampoo.
"Oh, you treacherous little—" It's dangerously close to a snarl, though there's not enough heat to it to stop you from dropping a quick kiss to his lips, cutting him off.
"Now who's whining?" Your cheeks are nearly burning from the effort it takes not to laugh. "I'm nearly done, anyway."
"Better fuckin' be." After a moment of blind fumbling his hands settle at your hips again, and this time you don't bother pushing them off. Instead you turn your attention to tackling the sopping mess on top of his head, doing your best not to think about what you might find. Thankfully there's nothing too alarming there and the last of the caked on grime barely tints the nest of bubbles a muted shade of eggshell. He actually takes it surprisingly well, leaning into your touch with a contented noise as your fingers massage his scalp, and when you direct him back under the water it's met with nothing more than something muttered under his breath in a language you don't speak. As he ducks into the spray you've half a mind to ask what he said, but the notion is quickly discarded. He'd probably just lie again, anyway.
"You gon' polish my damn teeth next, or we done?" For all that it sounds gruff he doesn't look it, hair a soggy mess and lips stretching into another one of those almost boyish smiles that has your heart trying to climb your ribs like a set of monkey-bars.
"All done." Taking a small step backwards, you half turn around to leave. "So I'll just—"
"Jus' nothin', that's what." He's fast, gathering you to him easily and tightening his grip until you're all but trapped against his body. In another life it might have been a source of panic and by rights it still should be, but all it makes you feel is safe. Kept. You've half a mind to try and wiggle free anyway but then he's nosing at your cheek, pressed in so close that the words reverberate through your chest. "All that fussin', I'd say I've earned myself a kiss and then some."
"Alright." Pretending to look for some stray speck of dirt somewhere, you push at the wet curls that are stubbornly sticking to his forehead. This close and with barely a whisper of red in their depths, his eyes are almost impossibly blue. "But only because you clearly hated it the whole time."
"Was startin' to think you were gon' keep me in here 'til mornin', is a—" It's only meant to be a quick peck but this time he's ready for it, steady hand at the back of your neck to stop you from pulling away as he deepens the kiss. The taste of copper and salt and him coats your tongue until your knees threaten to buckle, and there's nothing rushed about it. It's too slow, as if he's tasting you for the first time all over again, and between the hot water and being freshly fed his mouth feels feverish against yours. As far as distractions go it's not a terrible one. But if he thinks a half-assed seduction attempt is enough to get him off the hook for making you worry and nearly turning your house into a damn bio-hazard to boot, he's got another thing coming. At some point, anyway.
"…Don't think that I don't know what you're doing."
"Do you, now?" Tilting his head with a disarming smile, he gives you a tiny nudge backwards. Another small push and you follow without even thinking, attention entirely taken up by his lips brushing against yours and the erection that's digging into your stomach. Or at least it is until you hit the tile, making you arch into him with a yelp.
"That's cold!"
"Oh, I bet it is." Caged in by his arms there's nowhere for you to go, and it's embarrassingly easy for him to flatten your back against the freezing wall. "Goose an' gander, sweet thing." Gasping for air you clumsily slap at his chest, throat seizing somewhere between laughter and a shriek.
"Get o-mmf!" It's an underhanded tactic, cutting you off with a kiss, and maybe it would work less well if he wasn't so clearly enjoying it. As he shamelessly rubs against you, his cock sliding along the crease of your thigh nearly makes you forget all about the cold.
"Quit squirmin', damn you—"
"No-o!" Laughing despite yourself you give him another useless little shove, but it only makes him grin into the kiss and push back harder, grinding his cock into you more purposefully.
You're not even thinking as you go to hook a leg around his hip, completely losing your footing. While chivalrous is not a word you'd ever use to describe him but somehow the way he catches you still is, despite how his fingers hungrily grasp at the soft flesh of your thighs and the way he holds you up with a deceptive kind of strength that definitely isn't natural. Every lazy rock of his hips has the broad head skidding over your entrance, equal parts tease and promise. Angling your own hips just slightly rewards you with a quick intake of breath as he catches there, just on the edge of slipping inside. Except with the rushing water turning everything the wrong kind of slick, it's not so much slipping as it is pushing.
And he does; panting all the while as he works his cock into you. With the heat making the steam stick in your lungs like wet cotton, his mouth on yours becomes your only anchor as the world threatens to tilt on its axis. There's effort behind every inch, so much so that it has him nearly trembling, as if it's costing him something to hold back, do it slowly.
"Gods, lass," he groans, breath hitting your lips in shaky bursts, "d'you have any fuckin' idea what you—" Voice cracking he breaks off, face twisting up in something like relief as he bottoms out. Even though he's stopped moving, just the merciless pressure of him being buried so deep has you fumbling for words, for thought, for anything at all, but with your head starting to spin everything that isn't him feels out of reach. "What you do to me," another slow thrust, the delicious drag of it making a moan stick in your throat, "what you fuckin' feel like."
"…Tell me?"
"Warm…" There's something almost sweet about it, how messy he's getting even though he's clearly trying to be careful in his own clumsy way. How he can't help himself. How he tries anyway, panting and frantically swallowing to keep saliva from spilling over. "A-alive…an' so damn soft I could—" Despite being freshly fed you can see his teeth sharpen, a split second before they prick the crook of your neck. The words turn garbled as he sucks a patch of skin into his mouth, moaning low and raw at your blood eagerly rushing to the surface as he suckles there, breath hot against your ear. "Like home." The thing that lurches inside your chest at that is foolish, sentimental, and above all things, possessive. You couldn't sum it up with mere words even if you'd been clearminded enough to try, so you don't. Instead you drag your nails over the nape of his neck, pulling him close.
"Good." That's foolish too, but you don't care. Can't care, not when he's still holding onto you as if you're the only sustenance he'll ever need. Not when he's looking at you with a hunger that has blue bleeding into red so dark that it's nearly black, all carefulness forgotten. As he crashes his mouth to yours in a consuming kiss the scrape of his fangs leaves your lips swollen. Being trapped between his body and the chilly tile isn't exactly comfortable, but for the moment you can't think of anywhere you'd rather be than right here. Part of him might even be right there with you.
The rest of him is lost to instinct, fixated on pushing his cock into you as if he could brand you with it if he only tries hard enough. Even though he does it slowly every thrust is claiming, leaving you gasping desperately for air, scrambling for any part of him you can reach. The solid curve of his shoulder, the thick muscle of his bicep, the back of his neck.
In the haziness of it all, it's easy to imagine that he's something you can keep. That this is not some fleeting thing, that it won't all end so incredibly badly. End in blood. Yours, by the odds of it. So you cling right back, holding on to him almost as much as he's holding onto you, as if the moment will last longer that way.
It doesn't, of course. Even without purposefully trying to every rock of his hips has the tension at your core winding tighter, driving the breath from you in reedy gasps.
"Rem—" It's nearly lost in the rush of water and your shattered breaths but if course he hears anyway.
"I know—" He's no better off; you can feel him swell and twitch, barely holding on as the rhythm threatens to falter. As your cunt clenches around him, he whines. "Fuck, that's it, go on—" Still stubbornly hanging on his thrusts are almost frantic, bringing you right up to the edge that he's already teetering on. Every desperate, ragged moan pushes you closer to the point of no return.
He breaks before you do, capturing you in a greedy kiss as he swells and spills with a broken noise, grinding himself into you as if as if nothing he does can ever get him close enough to you, as if he'd crawl under your skin if you'd only let him. In that moment it feels as if you would, and then you're lost. Spent and oversensitive, he groans as your cunt convulses around his still twitching cock, release washing over you in waves that almost choke you. It leaves you wrung out, gasping for air until he's the only thing holding you up.
And he doesn't let go. For a few moments you simply let yourself be held, cocooned in the safety of his arms and the rushing of the water as he leans his forehead to yours with a satisfied grin.
"Knew you'd not stay cross at me for long," he murmurs, nosing at your cheek. "You never do."
And perhaps the worst part is that he's right. What does that say about you?