Typical Tuesday morning.
He knows the reason for the emptiness that aches within him.
The nights, the nights are always spent at Daphne's.
This morning, Daphne wakes up before him to hold him in place and thwart his escape.
"What would you like to eat?" she whispers close to his ear with a mischievous smirk. She is rubbing slowly against him, warm skin against warm skin, a leg draped around his waist, a hand roaming across his chest.
Fred exhales noisily, the last remnants of sleep leaving him as her warmth surrounds him and he feels the stirrings of arousal low in his stomach. He rolls around to face her. She comes sliding into his arms, soft, naked.
His hand roams across her arm, her back; warm silk under his palm.
"You." he says it against her neck, nipping lightly as he comes up. He feels the shiver that goes through her, her heart that flutters fast like a hummingbird's...
She tries to chuckle, to try and dilute some of that raw intensity that Fred always manages to send flaming through her. But then she finds those long fingers skimming across somewhere so intimate and dirty that her mind goes blank and her heart drums a violent beat...
No one. No one other than him. She'd let no one else other than him to do this to her.
She only gasps as Fred flips her around with one effortless push. She presses the side of her face to the pillow, closes her eyes, and braces herself. She knows what's to follow: a pleasure so overwhelming that it almost frightens her.
Fred gazes down at her prone form.
Pale, smooth back...
Short, red hair...
He had asked her to dye her hair, go for a length like his own, and she did it for him.
Fred appreciates it deeply, that she could be so selfless for him, that she could do things he'd ask of her. He is grateful that there are no ridiculous discussions on fetishes.
She lays herself completely defenceless and bare for him, no questions asked, and he, in return, feels a love that's pure for her; a love that's almost non-physical...
Almost as if she's his own blood.
He goes down, closes his mouth around where she's quivering, and hears her gasp. Her eyes might've rolled back, her mouth might've fallen open. He looks up to witness the sight, to see her arms tensed and her hands gripping fistfuls of the sheets.
He returns, breaching her with his tongue, his breaths going rough and laboured.
And when he feels she is ready, when he is sure that she could take all of him through that tight place, he enters in one quick slide.
And then it's the same, unforgiving, rough rhythm...
With his face buried in her short hair, with the stray red strands dancing before his eyes, blurring his vision, emptying his head...
Hard, relentless, no breather given. Not a second to let her heart catch up to the pace.
"Fred!"
No breather. Not a second to let him fight back.
And it will be rougher. Uglier.
Because there is no other way he'd get the chance to hold him, feel him.
Feel him alive. Feel all of him.
He drives into him, his name a repetitive hymn inside his head, hears him scream, weep, try to escape from the blinding pleasure that Fred gives him.
When he comes, it's with the smooth, red strands and the pale skin fading in and out of his sight.