appropriate either. He's watching your face with the happiest grin on his, from one ear to the other, as he increases the speed of his finger and adds a second one.
"Any plans for t-today?", you repeat, barely able to talk anymore. The problem, or the good thing, you've never decided on that was, that after you've broken the metaphorical wall and reached your first orgasm, it never took you much time or effort to cum again and again and again. Not as intense as before, you still good. So now, you're on the edge to your fourth climax for the morning, with your mum telling you "Yes, like I said three times now", and Niall, who heard how you repeated her question, mumbling "Your plan for today's getting fucked till you're sore, tell her, huh?"
You slap him for that and he snaps at your hand. He plays the perfect son in law for your family whenever they're around. If only they knew what he does to you.
"I'm- gonna spend the day with Ni-aaall!", you moan his name and can't help but burst out laughing, hoping your mum mistakes the enrapt call of his name as laughter, too.
"Are you okay, hun?", she asks in a concerned voice.
"Yeah, sure.", you lie, unable to breathe for the moment your next orgasm overpowers you. With his raw, blistered guitar player fingers only, he managed to mentally knock you flat out.
"Hun?" your mother asks again.
"Mum, I gotta hang up now-", you stutter as you're trying fill your burning lungs with the stuffy bedroom air. "Niall needs me in the k-kitchen."
Before you can hear the familar "Take care, I love you", you hang up, throw the phone to the floor and roll on Niall's lap. Now it's you who pins him him down. You slap him and act like you're proper mad at him.
"She knows exactly what you did!", you hiss and punch him on the arm.
He just laughs. "So what!"
"You are gross. Just look at your damn face. You look like a five year old on christmas. I fucking hate you."
You get off him again and decide to get dressed and do anything in the household because you don't want to grant him more of your attention.
He watches you go, yelling "Don't act like you didn't like it! Don't act like it doesn't awe you how fucking good Daddy makes you cum! All the time babe, all the time!"
He's laughing his fucking ass off back in the bedroom and you're glad he can't see you're smiling, too, as you decide to put on the TV and watch the last episode of Games Of Thrones, which you've missed but recorded on the expensive smartTV Niall got for your flat.
You've got about twenty minutes for your own, then he walks in with a toothbrush in his mouth, still in his boxers, scratching his balls like a proper dad, and you snort as you try to contain your laughter.
"Games Of Thrones?" he asks, toothpaste running down his chin.
"Yep."
"That's basically porn, too, (Y/N). You're disgusting. All they do is fuck, yell at each other, fuck, have little sword fights, fuck and do weird shit with dragons." He walks out again, to spit out the toothpaste and wash his face in the bathroom. You hear the water run, his quiet humming, a Beatles song. He walks back into the bedroom and then returns to you, in sweatpants and a black tanktop.
"Did you bring me something to wear, too?", you ask. You're still in your PJs and the sweat's dried, so they're all cold now.
