Consciousness, as consciousness always does, came as a surprise. Blinking lights, until he realised it wasnât the lights blinking but his eyes. Morning brain brought a specific kind of stupid to the plate, but it faded soon enough. His hand stretched out and slide across the face of his phone, silencing the racket of his alarm.
He felt himself twitch between his legs, and he groaned. The sheets were running over him, an annoyance, the pressuring pulling down what wanted to go up. He pulled at it, tugging the material away from himself, throwing it to the side in the kind of irrational rage reserved for mornings.Â
The cold air against it was the most immediate sensation. The skin was pulled back ever so slightly, just the smallest medallion of lurid pink flesh showing from underneath it. He considered it, for a moment, before his hand went down and wrapped around the base, lightly stroking it with an idle thumb.Â
He heard her before he saw her, a quick intake of breath at seeing him like that, simultaneously vulnerable and utterly in power. There was a mug in each hand, languid steam rising off their contents. He glanced up, the tip of him still in the corner of his eye.
âYouâre going to take care of this for me, pet.â His voice was all gravel and cement, lungs not quite used to this unwelcome state of wakefulness. The thumb kept stroking.
She narrowed her eyes, as if she was considering a refusal. But the way heâd said it, so ridiculously fucking assured, brokered no space for such petty rebellion. The mugs were set down on the beside table, and she slunk onto the bed, morning glory in a pair of boyshorts.Â
His thumb relinquished in the presence of her mouth. He growled as she took him past those lips.
Slutty Yorick 