Notes from Mama Lobster: There's a 110% chance of fucking in this chapter.


The Bad Touch

A.K.A sex is a Texas drought

== Be Simone

Okay, this is a little nicer than you thought. Casey's gone for the night and you've had a lot of time to build expectations, but it's only just now that your doubts are starting to ease.

You really can't believe you agreed to try this again, not after last time, but here you are, bare backed with his breath on your neck and your hands against the wall. He's behind you, running a hand down your skin, smooth along your thigh, and when he breathes into your ear it's all you can do to contain a smirk.

Your balance isn't going to last long like this, you know. He tries to scoot you to the bed, but you can't even turn around while he does. You can't risk it. It's not going to happen. You're not going to look, you're not going to look, you're not going to look…

"Hey there hummin'bird. Move a little to the left." He's got the most terrible southern drawl you think you've ever heard, and you sneak just the tiniest backwards glance.

Nope. The wife beater is too much. You're done.

You collapse laughing on the bed, and he falls next to you. Seeing him straight on is almost more than you can handle. Between the undersized wife beater, the slicked-back hair, and the ridiculous borderline-pubescent stubble you think he might be the saddest Nic Cage impersonator in existence. You're just glad he couldn't find a mullet wig at the last minute.

"Come on, Simone! You promised you would at least try to play along…" He's got his best serious face on, but his eye is twitching enough for you to know that the contacts are bothering him and holy Sufferer's obscenity gargling protein chute, you just can't stop laughing.

"John, no. You have to put that away." You manage to gasp it out between laughs, and you're starting to worry that you might puke.

"Put what away?"

"That." You wave your hand in gesture to his entire person. "I just can't do it."

"Can't as in won't enjoy it, or can't as in can't deal with my incredibly sexy roleplaying scenario that will leave you weak-kneed for the rest of forever?"

"Can't as in what are you even doing? This is ridiculous!"

"Simone." He is trying so, so hard to keep the strain out of his face, but you're sure that contact is one poorly timed blink away from falling out. "You promised me you would let me try something, and see if it made things better for you. If it doesn't, we can stop, but these are the conditions."

You can't look at him any longer without laughing, and you can't laugh without getting nauseous, so you do the only thing you can think of. His lips are soft on yours, and even with his patchy stubble on your cheek you can't help but find this slightly pleasant.

His hand finds the small of your back, pulling you ever so slightly closer while he smiles into the kiss. You ignore the slip of sweat, the bandage on his arm, the smell of motor oil on his neck…

Um.

"Honey, why do you smell like a mechanic?"

"Mmm… just for you, hummin'bird." He rolls on top of you, hand playing gently against the waistband of your panties, and you nudge away some of the hair that's tickling at your nose.

"No, really. Where did you get motor oil? You don't have any."

You can feel him tense under your fingers for just one second before continuing his work on your neck. In silence.

"John. Did you go out and buy motor oil just to use for this?"

"…Maybe."

"And then rub it on yourself like cologne?"

"Don't judge me, Simone. I am a veteran and a convict with a heart of gold. You have to cut me a break."

Fifty points for commitment and another negative five hundred for the laundry he is going to have to do after this. Both of you are going to smell like an auto shop before the night is out. Of course, his fingers are sneaking past the waist of your panties and that's making it a little harder to care.

Well, except for one thing. "You did wash your hands afterward, right?"

He rolls his eyes, and sure enough, there goes the contact. "Ouch! Goddamn… yes, I washed my hands, I'm not going to get you sick…" He fishes the other one out in frustration, and you have his glasses at the ready. "I thought it might be manly and romantic."

Oh this sweet, stupid man-child that you have somehow found yourself caring for.

"It sort of is, I guess? I just like to check. Now come on," your tongue finds your lower lip, teasing it slightly, "don't you want to touch my pussy?"

He frowns. "No porn talk either. Not allowed."

You raise an eyebrow at him as he steadies his hand in place. Funny. You never thought you would ask him to move faster and mean it.

He covers his hand with yours, taking your fingers and gently guiding them over his own. "Why don't you show me what you like? What you actually like, not the camera stuff with the crazy splits and everything."

His breath is warm and even against your neck, his thumb tracing circles over your stomach while you run your fingers over his. They're long and soft, definite piano influence, and you think… you think you might be able to make some wonderful things happen with them.

His middle and ring finger bend easily under your touch, moving smoothly under your elastic and finding some resistance when they reach your lips. It takes a moment to ease him around your clit, but a few quick pulses of pressure and moving becomes slick and effortless. You weren't wrong; his fingers are powerful, but controlled enough to bend just right to your will.

His breath is quicker in your ear now, chest tense, lips so close to your neck you're sure he must be able to taste your heartbeat. You find he's learning quickly, moving just right without your touch to guide him. His cheek meets your jaw as you gasp and twist your hips, and… shit, you're laughing again.

"You feel like a Brillo pad, honey."

"Stubble is sexy, Simone. Come on, it can't be that bad."

"It's pretty bad." He rubs his scratchy chin across your neck, fingers never stopping their motion, and somehow the sensory overload is so wonderfully horrible that you end up a writhing, hysterical mess.

He pulls away, the damn tease, and you find yourself rolling on top of him. God, one more look at that hair is all it takes to send you spiraling into another fit of giggles. You can feel him hard between your legs with every laugh, but it barely even matters for the moment.

"No, honey, look, I tried, I can't do this, I will literally die of suffocation."

"But Hummingbird, does that mean you're giving up on me?" There's something heartbreaking layering his disappointment, but you just need him to wait you out for a minute.

"It means this is going a little differently."

Before he has the time to object, you're yanking that awful wife beater over his head and pulling it over your own. The smell of motor oil is overwhelming, and you wonder for a second if he dunked the entire shirt in it before putting it on.

The transformation doesn't take too much longer. You brush your bangs out of your eyes as best you can, smearing your makeup on the way down. It takes you a couple of more seconds to hijack his bandage and two tries to get the accent just right.

"Hey there hummin'bird." You manage your best impression of a crooked smile, ruffling his hair as you go.

He stares at you in complete silence, jaw hanging open and eyes wide. It takes you a couple of seconds to register that something is pressing a little harder between your legs.

"Oh my god, this is totally doing it for you!"

"No! Shut up! Okay, maybe a little, but still shut up!"

"I am not going to shut up, hummin'bird." Your drawl gets better with practice, you've noticed, and his eyes roll back slightly when you grind your hips into his. "I am going to make you understand how much I missed you while I was in prison."

He practically quivers under your touch, and you lower your voice to the barest whisper. "How would you like to steal my Declaration of Independence?"

It doesn't take him long to fumble with his belt, rip off his jeans, and have you pressed to his chest in a rough, desperate kiss. His stubble still scratches and he still reeks like a busted car, but the way he strokes your back through the thin fabric puts your mind at ease.

He's inside you, and you wonder whether or not you should have checked your account balance before you bought that new dress yesterday. You're getting another paycheck tomorrow, though, so it shouldn't be an-

He moves, and you hear him whimper in your ear. "Can you call me hummingbird again?"

You have to snort into his shoulder, your stomach sick and aching from the stress of laughter and wow, that feels pretty good.

He moves again, and money and numbers and fear all leave your mind. His mouth is gentle on your neck, hips rolling with you pulled tight into his lap, mouth permanently plastered in a goofy grin, eyes glazed and stupidly sentimental.

It takes you a couple more giggle fits before you can speak again. "Seven years is a long time without you, hummin'bird."

He clings to you a little bit tighter, groaning your name in the most absurd voice you might have ever heard. Something that he's hitting down there feels like fireworks and sunshine, you can feel his heart beating faster under your fingertips…

And then there's that familiar shuddering feeling, where your toes curl and your stomach is too tight to breathe, but it's not the same one you're used to. It takes so much energy, moving all the way down to your fingers and through your neck until your breath hitches into one simple, quiet gasp.

"John…"

His pace picks up and all of a sudden you feel so much you don't know if you can even handle it. Everything is on fire, everything is beautiful, you're laughing so loud in his ear and his nails rake down your back, his stubble scratching your neck, his voice getting louder with every failed attempt to hold it back.

He's a puddle of mush when he's done, and weirdly enough so are you. Your face hurts from smiling and your stomach is sore from laughter, and you find yourself wondering why all of those aches and pains feel so goddamn amazing. You've sure as hell had sex before, and a lot, a lot, of orgasms, but nothing like that. You kind of wish you had been present for a couple more of them, because apparently they can feel fucking fantastic.

John turns to his side, lazy and sprawled out, that stupid, sentimental look marred with slight concern.

"Are you okay?"

You run another hand through the scruff on his jaw, savoring the steel wool scratch before he cuts it off in the bathroom sink.

"Yeah."

"Really? And you were…"

"Enjoying myself, yes. Go to sleep, honey."

His grin spreads just a little bit wider, but you can see his blinking starting to slow down, chest rising and falling with a gentle rhythm.

"I'm glad." He murmurs into your shoulder. He's barely got his glasses off before he starts fading, and you're still trying to cling to that last tingle in your toes.

"Me too." You don't know if he was awake to hear it, but that's okay. It was more important for you to admit it to yourself. Something in you still feels the warm glow, and all you want to do for a while is embrace it.


More notes from Mama Lobster: There is also a 110% chance that sex is a lot more ridiculous than people give it credit for.