#relationshlick

[hardcoreprocess]

[KO-FI REWARD] BATCH 1 // SLOT 3: Bro and Mom had an unhappy attempt at marriage, but some time apart might have done them and their libidos some good.

There is comfort in a full stomach. Meals are good for clarity, for decluttering the mind of hunger. Not all types of hunger, but— most. Some. Other types are fulfilled by the hand spread across her soft thighs, slipping to her belly, and higher still. Handsome touches— Can fingers be handsome? —distract from intentional kisses just below the curve of her earlobe. It's her turn to touch, to turn in place until his hands rest on the small of her back and hers curl behind his neck to stroke down the nape. Held, like something gracious; there's no choice to make besides gifts of more kisses smeared lower and lower.

Lips to pulse, to clavicle, parting around wet exhales to warm skin. Everything is put on hold by that beautiful face, tipping up to meet eyes. Touches sweep fringe back from a brow full of lines, age she hasn't been present for, and it leads to wonderings.

Why did they come apart? Were the seams too loose, the words too bitter, the love too stale? It doesn't feel that way, not when every splay of his fingers feels all-consuming, encompassing, eager to hold where once they let go. Their closeness is magnetic, drawn to each other despite impossible opposites. His temper, her temptation. His raised hand, her raised glass. Never speaking, always babbling.

Doubt pours out in wet exhales, leaves her bones hollow and cold, only to be immediately soothed by a firm grip to her hips. Missing-you aches bloom between her thighs like flowers. He used to plant seeds in that garden, delve his tongue and fingers until she arched, long ago.

They're older, they're wiser, they're sprawling together as though time away hasn't mattered. She's missed the way his kisses sear to her breasts, the way everything actually feels right for once, the way his eyes fall shut when bedsheets and comforters are mussed impossibly. Once upon a time he loved her, and oh how she loved him. Cherished their sunrises. Admired the stars hung in the sky for her. All torn it into pieces with grasping, greedy, ungrateful words and cruelty.

Legs fall apart around the pair, welcoming home and begging and a reminder that they had fun before. Off-black jeans hit the floor, kicked free of his body, eager to meet her at the middle. A celebration, wet and tacky, kissing below as scarred knuckles tear at the bedsheets. Hips writhe in tandem, catching the heat of his dick, grinding it into her swollen folds. Airy groans escape him, as though he's never had anyone but her.

"Never," he whispers, sincere, meaningful, honest in reply to her whispered question, "Just you."

And she believes him, with each piece of her old broken heart. The way their hips slot together again and again and again until her chest hitches with trembling cries is proof enough. Trading the taste of expensive cigarettes, his cheap cologne, her drugstore lipgloss. Her gut goes hot, tight, an orgasm creeping up just as his gruff sob of her name filters through the haze.

Their limbs tangle together in afterglow, cores warm with sore thighs. Slick seeps into the mattress topper, mixed like a slurred prayer. In five— ten years, will she be allowed to have it this way forever? To spend her mornings in his arms? She has to ask. Gently, quietly, against the curve of his unshaven jaw, "Do you think we could ever do it over?"

"What." Nervous. Felt in the thud of his heart, pounding under her hand between post-orgasmic tremors.

"This," she clarifies, meaning so much more. Every way their bodies touch, all the times their minds connect. They mull it over, slightly undignified. Weighing a hundred sins against the feathers of hope unfurling in empty birdcage chests. His heartrate jumps; a conclusion reached at last.

He inhales to reply.

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