You really should not be awake at this ungodly hour. It’s still dark outside and the rain is hammering on the windowpanes. It’s not the warm rain that you get during the summer months that you’ve become so accustomed to after moving to London. No, this is British weather at its worst. You know it’s that icy, hard, almost hailstones type of rain that seems to be exclusively relegated to the autumn and winter months. The rain is louder than you would like it to be, the normally calming beat replaced with loud splats, and it makes you huff in frustration that the man next to you is so deeply asleep.
The lights in your room are off and the only source of light comes from the haze of the streetlamps outside, bathing everything in an orange glow. The blinds are half shut, allowing slivers of light to pattern the room and you turn to face your boyfriend’s content face, rolling your eyes because only Gwilym could fall so deeply asleep and not be disturbed by the rain. You’re fairly sure that he must have been a koala in another life, for all the sleep that he does.
But he does need it. Boy, does he need it. After having finished the gruelling circuit of constant press tours, premieres, and interviews you’re fairly sure that he’d fall asleep and wouldn’t wake up for a month. For all the constant tiredness, the months of barely seeing each other, and the incessant phone calls that you two made to each other – that you’re fairly sure have cost both of you a fortune what with the international charges – you swear you’ve never seen him be happier than when he went to Tokyo. The drawback of all of this, he had said jokingly to you over the phone, was that he wasn’t able to watch the rugby, “and that’s a crying shame, Cariad.” You’d laughed and had jokingly said that you thought that he loved the Welsh team more than he loved you, and you knew that he would be giving the phone receiver a look of exasperation.
Gwilym has shifted onto his side now, the rustle of the duvet alerting you to this as you snap out of your thoughts. He’s drawn you into his arms, tugging at your abdomen insistently until you get the message and allow yourself to be cocooned in his hold. Your back is against his bare chest and you can feel his body heat through your sleep shirt. He gives you a soft kiss on the shell of your ear and you’re certain that he isn’t asleep anymore. He groans, the sound reverberating in his chest, and you smile at him as he locks eyes with you.
“Hello,” he says. His breath is hot on your ear and his voice is gravellier than normal.
You turn towards him, the duvet tangling around your legs as you do before running a hand through his hair, admiring the softness of his locks, before smiling at him. “I see Sleeping Beauty’s finally awake.”
He huffs out a laugh as he rolls his eyes and bats your hand away.
“Hmm. Sadly yes, but it does mean that I get to see your pretty face, del.”
“Such a charmer, aren’t you, Gwil?” You fix him with a fond smile. You’re grateful for the fact that it’s still dark outside because he cannot see the blush on your cheeks.
He tilts his head down to meet yours, “I missed you.” And you’re fairly certain that he knows that you’re blushing now because you can hear the fondness in his voice when he says that.
“I missed you too,” you affirm.
“I bet you haven’t,” Gwilym jokes, “I bet you’ve been happy that I’ve been out of your hair for a bit, eh?”
You chuckle at your boyfriend’s words and roll your eyes good naturedly. “Well, I’m glad that I haven’t had to put up with you watching the rugby for three weeks, that’s just too much for me to handle.”
“I’m offended,” he huffs out, indignantly. “It’s only because I don’t agree with the TMO’s decisions.” You’re fairly sure that he’s pouting judging by his tone but you can’t be certain.
You snort, trying to conceal you laughter from him, even though it’s futile. “Gwil, the last time you did that I had to leave the house for three hours because you wouldn’t stop talking about Dan Biggar’s conversion. Who in their right mind talks for three hours about conversions? What even is a TMO?”
You can practically see Gwilym’s eyes bulge out of his sockets at your comments and you have to restrain yourself from laughing at the poor man’s hurt demeanour. He takes his rugby very seriously. “I am shocked, shocked, that you don’t even know what the TM-“
You kiss him to cut off his rant, rolling your eyes as you do. Gwilym cries out in surprise, the yelp high and strangled.
You love the big goof with all your heart but sometimes he can get a little overbearing on certain topics and you know that this is one of them. For all his eloquence in interviews, he can get incredibly jumbled in his thoughts when it’s something he loves dearly. You’ve gathered that kissing him is an excellent way to break him out of rants and have employed it to great affect before. His fingers slide from around your waist up towards your hair, long fingers tangling in the strands as his kisses you back. He moans, eyes shut, and his cheeks are cherry red. You’re laughing at him, you’re body shaking with mirth because he’s acting like a love struck teenager and, honestly, it’s adorable. His body melts into yours and you know he’s smiling into the kiss.
You stroke his cheeks with your hands as you pull away and giggle at him. His hair is mussed and his pupils are blown wide, the blue of his iris a ring around the black, and his breath is coming in short gasps as though he can’t quite believe what’s just occurred.
“Iesu Grist.” He says, running a hand through his hair, trying to calm his breathing down. His eyes are downcast, keeping you out of his eye line for a few moments so he can compose himself and he looks so bashful that it makes your heart constrict tightly with adoration. “I – I love you.”
“I love you too, you silly man. Now please put your mouth to good use.” You can’t help yourself. The plea is out of your mouth before your brain can process it and Gwilym’s face turns from an expression of contentment to one of utterly salacious intent.
“Anything for you, Cariad,” His voice is a husky whisper against your ear and you honestly did not expect this at this time of night. Not today, at least. Not when he’d been complaining of not getting enough sleep. You make a mental note to tease him about it later. “Let it never be said that I’m not a gentleman.”
Your laugh gets lost in his mouth when he presses your lips together, far more heatedly than in the first kiss, and shifts you around. You can feel the softness of the mattress press into your back as Gwilym is silhouetted by the haze of the street lamps, his nose and cheek bones thrown into sharp relief as his eyes glimmer. You can hear the blood rushing in your ears; your heart is pounding in your ribcage and you’re very aware of the slow molten heat of arousal that is running through your body.
Gwilym moves down to your neck and you bare it in submission as he nibbles your tender flesh with the flat of his teeth before he licks at the abused spot with his tongue, the coolness a welcome contrast against the heat that is raging within you. His breath is warm against your skin, tickling the hairs that are hanging by your face until he wisps them away with his thumb, and you feel yourself arch up as he gives your collarbones the tiniest of nips making you squeal. You know that he’s going to leave bruises even if he is trying to be tender. He likes the contrast the deep mauve of the bruises and the flush of your skin as it deepens in colour. You buck slightly, gasping in delight, as he hits your sweet spot with his teeth and makes you moan, deep and sultry, back flattening further into the mattress. Your breathing is laboured and you feel as though you have tunnel vision.
“Oh fuck – I – Gwil please!” Your brain is jumbled, your words useless so you take to stroking his hair, grabbing it tightly when he bites down particularly hard. You know he hasn’t broken the skin but damn if that bruise won’t be a bugger to conceal.
He hums in question against your skin and you can feel him smirk against the hollow of your throat – the absolute bastard! – before he pulls his head back and observes his ministrations with an air of positive delight.
“Yes, bach?” his voice is saccharine and if he were anyone else and you weren’t in the position that you currently are in you would slap him six ways to Sunday.
“Fuck me, please fuck me,” You’re babbling, your body’s practically melted into his, and you know Gwilym’s face is one of triumph.
“You’re so greedy,” he admonishes. There is a twinkle in his eyes and he’s stroking your sides with feather light touches in an effort to either ground you or frustrate you. You’re not sure which but it’s working. “If I had my way I’d let you squirm for a little bit longer but I’m afraid if I did you’d just combust in front of me.” You mumble something and he laughs, breaks into a toothy grin and gives you a peck on the cheek. “I won’t do that. I’m not that cruel.”
It’s at that moment that he removes your sleep shirt from your body. You’re far too out of it to be of any help yet he fixes you a fond look as he does his eyes liquid soft in the light. Gwilym’s hands are warm as he touches your skin with reverence, feeling the yielding softness of your curves with affection. You feel his cock stirring to life against your thigh, blood hot and pre-cum dripping from the tip.
You squeal in shock as he slides down your body, pressing open mouthed kisses onto the valley of your breasts, the plush softness of your stomach, down onto your thighs. You spread your legs for him, body sparking with anticipation as he presses butterfly kisses onto your sensitive inner thighs. They’re so light that you barely feel them; your brain thinks you might be imagining it. You can feel yourself grow wet, juices sticky on your thighs, as a faint buzz of pleasure courses through your entire being. His hands meanwhile are occupied with your breasts. His long fingers are pinching your nipples, making you yelp at the painful sensation, before he soothes it with soft caresses.
He flicks his hair out of his eyes as though he is swatting at a fly before coming to rest at your cunt. There is a hint of impatience in his movements now and you aren’t sure if that’s because he wants his fill of you or because he knows that you really, really want this.
“Gwilym for Christ’s sake-” Your voice cracks with frustration as you clench your hands into fists.
“Shh. It’s alright. You’ll get what you want, Cariad. Let me enjoy this, I haven’t seen you in ages.” His tone is tender and you almost sob with joy.
“Please I want this so badly.” You whine, raising your head a little to look at him. “I want you so much, Gwil.” Your chest is heaving before he removes his hands from your breasts to rest at your sides again.
“You will. It’s just I wanna taste you so badly.” His voice breaks on the last word and his eyes are pleading. Gwilym does not normally plead, it must be said. In all your relationship he has never ever pleaded or begged with you. He’s the one in control normally and you’ve accepted that. “Lemme taste you, please.”
You think he might cry. The thought overwhelms you somewhat but you give a small nod of assent. Honestly, pleading or not, you would allow this man to do anything to you. He gives your sides a soft squeeze of thanks before he lowers his head again and presses a hot, wet kiss to your cunt. He moans at the salty sweet taste of your juices on his tongue and you groan, shivering in delight as he sucks on your clit. You huff out a breath as your chest tightens, feeling the heat in your belly pulse.
Your hips roll as you try to get to some friction, desperate for your release, your eyes scrunched up in pleasure but Gwilym rests his hands on your abdomen, negating that particular tactic. The waves of pleasure are beginning to build and you gasp as he kisses your cunt again, licking a strip down it, running his tongue up and down your folds and you swear to God you’ve never felt anything like it.
“Oh fuck.” You breathe out, eyes rolling back. You put your hand over your mouth in effort to ensure that you do not scream. Gwilym however, shakes his head at that and you know he’d move it if he could.
“Lemme hear you.” His voice is laced with sex, low and guttural and it goes straight to your core.
You obey. You remove your hand, placing it on your belly. You can feel the pleasure tightening, your back bending unbidden, and you have to tug at Gwilym’s hair with your other hand to ground yourself again. Your breath is coming in pants and you want to sob as he works his tongue inside and closes his mouth against your clit. He grips your thighs harder – you can already see the bruises in your mind – as he moves one of his hands to your clit.
“You taste so good.” He says earnestly, raising his head. He’s breathing hard. His lips are red, your juices smeared there and you blush hotly as his tongue snakes out to taste you. “So sweet,” He kisses your thighs again and you shiver once more. “Christ, you’re so good, Cariad.”
“Oh my fucking god,” You whisper, chanting it like a prayer. “Let me come, please let me come.”
Gwilym nods. “You’re so wet.” He says, massaging your clit with his thumb and forefinger. The bud is red and swollen with blood and you vibrate with pleasure as he does this, occasionally flicking the little pearl with his tongue.
“Ahhhh fuck.” You hiss, twisting your hand in his hair violently.
He gives out a cry of pain and you almost scream as he gives a particularly rough lick to your clit before he eases a finger inside of you. You’re so wet that he doesn’t need to use lube, the slickness of your juices allowing him to ease another finger in after that. You can feel the motion that he is makes as he searches for your g-spot. You can feel the pads of his fingers brush over the textured skin and you nearly bolt off the bed. Christ, you weren’t expecting that.
He’s massaging it gently with circular motions, making your head dizzy and your limbs feel like lead as Gwilym presses the front of your pubis bone with his chin. You can hardly speak now, only able to make unintelligible sounds and sighs. Your legs are shaking as you feel your cunt clench. Your breath is stuttering, short, staccato gasps.
Your body is aching with anticipation, your head is swimming and you can only concentrate on the feel of his tongue as he eats you out again, the feel of his fingers crooking just right, brushing ever so slightly over your g-spot once more.
It’s enough to make you come. The slow burning ache that you’ve felt intensifies into a fire and your hips canter against his fingers, against his mouth and you can hear him moan, see the unspoken delight animating off of him as your body is wracked with tremors. Your whole being is shaking as the waves of pleasure intensify and yesthat’s it-
and your cunt spasms, tightens around Gwilym’s fingers as the digits fuck you to completion. You haven’t had an orgasm like it for quite some time and the intensity of it shocks you. You’re aware that you’re repeating his name like a prayer as you come, the rush making you feel like you’ve just had the best high of your life.
Your breathing is ragged. You’re sweaty. You’re vaguely aware of the fact that there are tendrils of hair sticking to your forehead but you cannot summon the energy to flick them away. You feel as though you could melt through the mattress and into the floorboards with how pliable your body feels.
Gwilym hasn’t taken any notice however, so intent on making you come that he doesn’t register that you have. He has not lifted his head from your cunt and you have to grip his hair and tilt his head up with your palm to tell him to stop, stop, stop.
“Please, enough, enough.” You gasp, as you try to calm your breathing.
Gwilym finally takes notice and nods, giving your cunt one final lick to collect any of your cum that he might have missed before crawling up the bed back up to you.
“Are you alright?” His voice is full of concern and his eyes, dilated though they may be, are full of love.
“I – I’m fine.” You whisper. You’re utterly wrecked, you can hardly move your legs, and your mind is still spinning with all the sensations but he doesn’t need to know that.
He licks his lips unconsciously and gives you a brief smile.
“I’m glad.” He says, carding his hands through your hair fondly before twining his legs around yours, “For a moment I thought you were going to pass out.”
You giggle, “D – did you want me to repay the favour?”
Your voice is unsure and he regards the question the way someone regards a piece of garbage thrown on the floor. He gives a vehement shake of his head, drawing you to him as he does; your bodies fitting together like a delicate and intricate lock. You snuggle into his chest giving a contented sigh as you do. You can smell his shampoo and the nearly faded musky scent of his cologne that you’d bought him for his birthday last year.
“No, no. As long as you’re happy that’s good enough for me.”
You smile at him tiredly, giving a hum of ascent before giving his cheek a kiss. You know that he is smiling because you can feel the dip of his dimple on your lip.
The mattress is wet. You know that both of you should strip it off, root around in the wardrobe to find some fresh sheets and have showers but you’re too tired, to content to care.
“I love you, Gwil.” You say, shutting your eyes, ready to let sleep consume you.
“I love you too, Cariad.” You hear him reply, giving you a fleeting kiss on your forehead as he does.
The dawn chorus is starting to sing outside, pretty tunes to serenade any early risers but you don’t care. Neither of you have to work today so the opportunity of more sleep is too good for either of you to pass up.
The rain continues to hammer on the window but neither of you care as you drift off, satisfied and content.
Broke Bohemian 