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pathologicalreid · 2 months ago

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defrost | s.r.

in which the heat goes out in your apartment and Spencer comes up with a creative idea to keep warm

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: smut (18+ mdni) content warnings: fingering, hand job, good old fashioned dry humping, softdom!spencer, masturbation is referenced, unprotected p in v sex, sex on the floor (!!!), kissing, established relationship word count: 2.8k a/n: smut? havent seen that word since october. well past due if you ask me :-) hope you enjoy

It took entirely too much of your focus not to trip on the comforter that you were hauling from your bedroom, adding it to the heap of linens that you’d collected. The heat had gone out in the entire apartment complex earlier that afternoon, and while it was originally supposed to be fixed by five, the time was pushed back until the gas company finally just told you the issue wouldn’t be resolved until the morning.

Luckily, Spencer had managed to light the fireplace while you gathered every linen from the apartment and arranged a makeshift bed in front of the hearth, but even when you sat in front of the crackling flames, you were still cold. Pulling the cuffs of your sweatshirt over your hands, you tucked them beneath your thighs in an attempt to defrost yourself, you looked up at your boyfriend in desperation, “When did they say the gas would be back on?”

“They said eight, but before that, they said six, so there’s really no accurate measurement that they could provide. I hope we’ll know more in the morning,” he told you, taking a seat next to you and draping a blanket over your shoulders, making sure you were cozy before grabbing one for himself.

You sighed, admiring the way the movement of the fire reflected in his eyes. The two of you had ordered out for dinner, discarded takeout containers were in organized chaos on the coffee table, and two mugs were sitting on coasters filled with warm tea. Your range was out of commission, but thankfully, you had electricity. Admittedly, you were milking the situation, opting for candles over your lamps.

Spencer leaned over and nudged you gently with his blanket-covered elbow, “Are you warm enough?” He asked, looking around for another blanket to hand off to you, but coming up empty.

“If the gas isn’t back on by tomorrow afternoon, we should book a hotel,” you suggested, though, with your luck, Spencer would probably be called on a case tomorrow, leaving you to freeze on your own.

He furrowed his brows in response, “You were the one who didn’t want to stay in a hotel tonight, though?”

Shrugging, you looked at the thermostat on the wall, too far away to read, but you imagined it telling you that the apartment was becoming an industrial-sized icebox. “I don’t like staying in hotels if I can help it, I like having my things and my routine,” you responded as if he didn’t already know this about you.

“But?” He pressed.

“But I’m cold,” you told him, wrapping your blanket tighter around yourself and smiling when he opened his blanket cocoon. Gratefully, you obliged, shuffling yourself over to him and settling into his lap, sighing in contentment when he closed the blanket around you, “Oh, you’re warm.”

You rested your head on his shoulder, and Spencer took the opportunity to press a tiny kiss to the tip of your nose. “Is this better?”

Nodding, you closed your eyes and let your body relax into his, his arms wrapped around you, adding a reinforcement—a border of warmth, if you will. “Yeah, much better,” you murmured, trying to think warm thoughts.

“You know, it would be easier to share body heat if we weren’t wearing clothes,” Spencer told you, shifting one of his arms until his hand was on your waist, giving it a slight squeeze.

A shy smile bloomed on your face, turning your face to bury it in his neck, though the warm glow of your cheeks was a welcome sensation, “Are you trying to get in my pants right now?”

Spencer hummed, shifting beneath you slightly—a telltale sign that he was turned on—and gripping both of your hips, “Technically, I’m trying to get you out of them.”

Now grinning, you leaned forward, pressing your torso against Spencer’s until his back was against the blankets you’d stacked for your makeshift mattress. You took a moment to adjust the fabric that surrounded you, removing the layers of separation between you and Spencer when you finally reached his sweater. Carefully, you slipped your fingers beneath his layers of clothes, pausing abruptly when he inhaled sharply, “Are you okay?”

“Your hands are freezing, honey,” he told you; a lightness was present in his tone as if he was trying not to laugh.

Withdrawing your hands, you instead stuck them beneath his back, hoping to warm them up while you craned your head up to his, placing your lips on his and immediately sighing into him. You settled the rest of your body across his, bringing your knees up to his hips and grinding your core against his hardening length. The layers of clothing between you were proving to be a hindrance, but you weren’t ready to rid yourself of any insulation just yet.

You bunched up the wool of Spencer’s sweater in your hands, finding a rhythm between your rocking hips and moving lips, patiently waiting for the opportunity to slip your tongue into his mouth and hoping your hands were sufficiently warm when you moved your dominant hand back to his torso. Slowly, you lifted your hips from his and tucked your fingers beneath the waistband of both his flannel pajama pants and briefs, making sure he didn’t flinch at the temperature of your fingers when you wrapped them around his cock.

His mouth opened against yours at the contact, a low moan vibrating in his throat as you kept your hand in his pants. This was your opening, leaving you to slip your tongue in his mouth, deepening the kiss and speeding up your heart rate.

Moaning against his lips, you needed to sacrifice your kiss for the sake of a hand job, ducking your head so that you could focus on the flick of your wrist, the elastic waistbands working against you.

Spencer craned his head, dropping a kiss on the crown of your head, you could feel his abdomen tensing under your arm as you reached your other hand down to try and push his pants over his hips. “You wanna take my clothes off, don’t you?”

Your ministrations slowed as you peered up at him through your eyelashes and nodded, taking your cheek between your molars.

You hummed as Spencer used his grip on your waist to pull you up until your faces were close enough to meet again, he kissed you again, chastely this time, before whispering, “You first.”

Bracing yourself for the cold apartment air to brush against your skin, you assisted Spencer by pulling your arms through the sleeves of your sweater, gritting your teeth while he tugged it over your head. You were pleasantly surprised when the air surrounding you remained insulated, too distracted by the heat to think about the way Spencer was pushing your pants down.

While you regained your focus, you helped him discard your pants, kicking them off into the abyss of blankets that you were still cocooned in. “Are you still warm enough?” Spencer asked, dragging his knuckles up and down your bare waist as he looked up at you.

“Yeah,” you asked, the way he was so concentrated on keeping you warm and comfortable sent a flurry of butterflies to your stomach, making you all the more needier. “Spence,” you whispered, thinking about all of the layers of fabric that still separated the two of you.

He pulled you close to him, looking to the side before rolling you both over until he was on top of you. You quickly got to work, tugging at the hem of his sweater and relishing in every inch of exposed skin that touched yours. The inherent eroticism of skin-to-skin contact was beginning to drive you crazy, and Spencer noticed. He tossed his sweater off to the side, laughing lightly as you disappeared beneath the covers, finally pulling his flannel pajama pants off until it was up to him to get them off the rest of the way. Once you peeked your head back above the covers, you saw the lovesick grin on his face. “Hi,” he whispered, reaching a hand up to cup your face.

You reflected his smile back at him, “Hi,” you murmured, studying his face while he kept his every attention on you.

“You look so pretty like this,” he said, moving his hand down to grip your thigh, parting your legs around his waist while you kept your eyes on him.

Raising your eyebrows, your face warmed at his claim, “What? Beneath you?” You teased, grinning so broadly that you stuck your tongue beneath your teeth to try and tame the smile.

He didn’t falter. Instead, he tilted his head to the side and nodded, “Well, yes,” he admitted. “It gives me the opportunity to do things like this,” he said, dropping his hand down to your core, his eyes on yours as your mouth parted in anticipation. “It’s much easier to see your face while I touch you when you’re beneath me.”

As he spoke, his index finger slipped between your folds, causing your stomach to twist even as he was just barely grazing your clit with his knuckle. “And here I thought it was a control thing,” you challenged, your voice weaker than you’d originally hoped, practically breaking off into a whimper.

“That certainly doesn’t hurt,” he whispered, using his finger to spread your slick over your pussy, any sounds muffled by the blankets that still surrounded you. “But nothing will ever beat the look on your face when I slip my finger inside of you,” he teased, but his words didn’t reflect his actions, leaving you slightly disappointed.

You hummed, leaning your head back and checking on the fire before looking back up at Spencer, “You have an eidetic memory, don’t you have enough of me in your spank bank at this point?”

Spencer shook his head, watching you with an undying interest as he slipped his index finger into you tantalizingly slowly. Your eyes fluttered shut, your mouth parted, and a small, choked noise escaped your lips. “There it is, honey,” he cooed. “No memory will ever do that justice.”

Nodding, you forced yourself to open your eyes and meet his, studying the ring of gold surrounding his irises while his hand found a rhythm. Lifting your hips as his thumb applied pressure to your clit, you gasped at the sensation, your cunt clenching around his finger while his ministrations refused to cease. “Spence,” you breathed, “feels good.”

“Yeah?” He asked, taking your reassurance as a hint to add a second finger to his ministrations, “I like it when you let me take care of you, you spend too many nights alone in our bed for my liking.”

You lifted your hands up, just barely peeking over the blankets so you could place them on his shoulders, “I’ve never minded,” you reminded him. He always comes back to you, albeit in various states of disarray sometimes, but he always comes home.

He groaned, burying his face in your neck and leaving gentle kisses on the soft skin, never sucking long enough to leave a mark, but he paused once he reached your collarbone, “I mind,” he muttered against your skin, kissing down your chest until his lips were level with your breasts, taking the opportunity to take your nipple in his mouth.

As he sucked gently on the sensitive bud, you became all too aware of the familiar knot building in your lower belly, “Oh,” you gasped, your hips bucking up when he hummed against your chest in response, the vibrations going straight to your core, tightening the knot.

Spencer switched nipples, latching onto your other breast while he continued the pressure on your clit. A strangled moan made its way through your throat as the rubber band in your stomach snapped, and your orgasm rippled through you, sending wave after wave of pleasure through your entire body while Spencer continued to work you through it. He separated himself from your chest, leaving tender kisses on your jawline while you tried to remember how to breathe.

Your orgasm ebbed into a dull ache between your thighs, and you let your head fall back against the blankets, wincing when Spencer withdrew his fingers from your cunt. You caught your breath while Spencer adjusted himself, bringing his fingers to his mouth and sucking your juices from them—it made your walls clench around nothing. “Please,” you found yourself saying, looking up at him with wide, lust-blown eyes.

“Patience,” he cajoled, pinching your hip lightly as you squirmed beneath him. “Are you feeling okay?”

You nodded, taking your bottom lip between your teeth and trying to practice the virtuous trait, “I feel really good,” you assured him, your breath hitching when you felt his tip aligned with your entrance. “We should have sex on the floor more often,” you told him.

He smiled dropping a small kiss on your nose and deciding to adjust the blankets around you. Although, funny enough, you were beginning to get too warm. “You look gorgeous,” he told you, gently pressing into you, only part of the way.

Releasing a shuddering breath, you wrapped your arms around his shoulders and met his shining eyes, which he accepted as an okay for him to slide further into you. You were sure you did not look gorgeous, in fact, you could feel your hair sticking to the back of his neck while he sheathed himself inside of you, giving you time to adjust and smoothing your hair out of your face in the interim—as if he had read your mind.

Your walls clenched around him, and he dropped his head in the crook of your neck, “You feel so good,” he muttered, lifting his hips from yours before pushing back in.

“Honey,” you whispered up at him before he found a rhythm, “Will you kiss me?”

You only saw his look of incredulity for a moment before his lips were on yours, you hummed contentedly into his mouth, your breathing faltering as he continued to thrust in and out of your cunt, finding a rhythm.

One of your hands dropped to the side of his neck, cupping his jaw while you moved your mouth on his, taking control of the kiss while he focused on fucking you. Separating your lips only to take a breath, your other hand was on his back, nails lightly grazing his otherwise unmarred skin as you searched for any semblance of stability.

There had to have been something about the atmosphere, the various flames around you, or the heat of the blankets that covered you, that brought your orgasm on so quickly. You could already feel it building, and you gasped into Spencer as you felt it.

Using one hand to keep himself hovering just above you, he took his other hand and hooked it beneath your thigh, hoisting your leg up and opening your cunt even more to him. The change eased the pressure in your core, giving him more time to build up his own, but you had to separate your lips, “God, Spence,” you said, somewhere between overstimulated and overheated as your cunt clenched around his length.

He sighed, hot breath against your neck as he assured you, “I’ve got you.”

Just like that, you were a goner, head thrown back in complete bliss as your walls pulsed around Spencer’s cock, the sensation bringing on his own orgasm. You were trying to catch your breath while his cum spurted out inside of you. “Oh,” you sighed as he dropped your leg, letting your muscles stretch as Spencer’s hand massaged the inside of your thigh.

“Are you alright?” He murmured, dropping a soft kiss to your forehead.

You nodded, forcing yourself to open your eyes and look up at him, “Yeah,” you answered breathlessly, wincing slightly when he pulled out of you, more at the feeling of the fluid sliding out of you than anything else.

Spencer hummed, “Are you sure?” He brought a hand up, skimming his knuckles over your cheekbone, “It seems like something’s wrong.”

Shaking your head, you brought your hand up to hold his, leaving a soft kiss on his palm, “Promise,” you assured him. “I’m just warm, and I know I have to get up to go pee,” you told him, adjusting yourself on top of the rumpled blankets.

He gave you a lopsided smile in response, “What do you say you get up to pee, and I’ll get us some water while you’re gone?” He offered, bringing a smile to your face. “When we get back, we can watch a movie, your pick.”

Grinning up at him, you run a hand through his hair before ruffling it, “I say you’ve got yourself a deal.”

#spencer reid smut #criminal minds #spencer reid #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #criminal minds smut #spencer reid fanfiction #dr spencer reid #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds oneshot #written by margot #margot after hours #softdom!spencer

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melminli · 1 month ago

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Dirty Cash (Money Talks)

summary - you had nothing against your colleague, but you weren't stupid enough to be fooled by his innocent smile and appearance since you knew exactly what kind of corrupt person was hiding behind that costume. after all, you were wearing the same one.

pairing: (gong yoo/ji-cheol) the salesman x fem. recruiter reader

word count: 1.4k

contains: talk about gambling + death and murder, sexual tension?, crack and just evil morals tbh

a/n: i watched maybe the first fifteen minutes or so of bullet train, but i thought of the two funny dudes from it while writing this bcuz their dynamic was funny af. also, i will use the actor's name in this fic since the character itself doesn't really have an official one that was mentioned in the series!

You straightened your tie with your free hand while watching your train approach from the side. The station was always pretty empty at this hour, which saved you the jostling and squeezing as you entered. After that, you sat down comfortably with a light sigh - next to the free seat beside your devilishly handsome colleague. “Are you alright? Don't tell me that you had a exhausting day?” he asked you worriedly with his typical innocent smile on his face but you've known the guy for a while now and you knew exactly how dishonest he sounded right now.

You returned his gaze for a second, uninterested, before turning it back in front of you to observe your surroundings from the window. “Exhausting day? Don't make fun of me or I'll punch you in the face,” you replied monotone and Gong Yoo didn't doubt your statement for a second - or Ji-cheol as you preferred to call him since you weren't a big fan of nicknames. “I had a great time punching those bastards in the face one by one. It feels kinda therapeutic, so I'm actually feeling pretty good right now,” you told him, talking about the subject as if you were talking about the weather.

Your colleague grunted with delight at your good news. “And I would never disagree with you on that.” he said and then just watched your figure silently for a while before speaking up again. “Since you're in such a good mood, would you be willing to play a more private game between the two of us?” he suggested, making you look at him in utter disbelief.

“A private game? With you?” you repeated, amused and laughed in his face. “Hell, no. But don't worry, I'll let you know next time I want to get totally screwed by a freaky pervert,” you added, your voice dripping with sarcasm. Which will be, never.

“Come on, don't be like that,” he asked you sweetly. As sweet as the wolf who pretended to be the mother of the seven little goats before he ate them all one by one. “It's just a tiny, harmless game. It's been so long since we've played anything together.” he complained to you earnestly as if you actually cared, and you didn't.

Yeah, you remembered the last time very clearly, even if you would much rather prefer that you didn't. You hummed. “Is that so? Huh. I mean, it could be because you almost killed me in a fucking game of tic-tac-toe the last time, but that's just a theory.” You said with a shrug, clearly still resenting him for that. However, he just rolled his eyes unaffected by your grudge. “But you didn't, right? It was the other guy who got the bullet in his head.” He replied, not even remembering his name. Not that he had to.

You just glared at him while you rubbed your forehead. “Yeah, maybe. But I'm tired of risking my life just because it makes you horny and you can jerk off to it.” You made your feelings on the matter clear. “You know that the whole living on the edge of death thing isn't really my cup of tea. At least try to understand me a bit here, too.”

I suppose she's not entirely wrong, I could give it a try. I never thought about it like that before, did I? He thought to himself in his head as he ran his tongue over the back of his teeth while he pondered. How selfish of me. “So what exactly do I have to do, to convince you?” He asked you while he already had a few ideas in mind.

You grinned. “You know that very well, don't play dumb.” You demanded as you leaned closer to him so that he could hear what you were singing softly. “Money talks, money talks - dirty cash, I want you, and dirty cash, I need you, oh ~”

He raised an eyebrow, not particularly surprised. “So you want to play for money?” He repeated it, not outright rejecting your request. “Don't you have enough of that already? You're really insatiable when it comes to cash and now you want mine, too?” he joked just to get you worked up.

Though, you didn't get the slightest bit offended by what he said. “Can you ever have enough money? Besides, I'm not forcing you to give it to me, am I?” you said with a smile, already knowing that he would agree to your terms. “But if you want me to play with you, I want eight million won for every round I win.”

She's so greedy for someone who is already more than wealthy. “Aren't you exaggerating a bit? Most people don't earn that much in a month,” he continued his act of - whatever this was - because he just loved arguing with you.

“So? We both have the same salary, I know you can afford it,” you said, holding a hand in the air as soon as you felt that he wanted to stretch this unnecessary conversation even more. “You have to decide now what you want to do or I withdraw my proposal again.”

Gong Yoo closed his mouth and started grinning even wider. “You don't even want to know what kind of game I want to play?” he asked curiously, nodding and accepting whatever you wanted as soon as he saw that you actually weren't interested. You couldn't even imagine how gladly he gave in to you at this moment. “All right, I agree with your request.”

You stood up with your briefcase in hand after your station was announced. “Good. Text me when you have something in mind, I'll be there as long as it fits timewise.”

Your colleague continued to watch you with a look on his face that used to make you more than just uncomfortable back in the day - though, it didn't even bother you in the slightest now. “You don't want to accompany me to the...office?”

You smiled while the train started to slow down. “Au revoir, Ji-cheol.” you just said your goodbye to him and stepped out of the doors. You didn't even spare the poor guy a second glance when he waved his hand at you from the window. She can be so heartless sometimes, he thought to himself, even if you were like this pretty much all the time. I'll have to think of something good to ask for in return should I win. I'm definitely not going to hold back when there's this much money at stake.

You didn't give a second thought to anything as you made your way home after a day's work like any normal citizen would do. However, your steps slowed considerably when you noticed a beggar in your field of vision and even though the rest of the crowd ignored the man and his entire existence, you couldn't help but focus your full attention on him. You looked at your watch, I've been off work for a while now. But even then, you couldn't help but notice that he was one of the people on your list to recruit for the game. He'll still be here tomorrow, but I don't mind another round of Ddakji. I love money more than anything - but I'm not doing this job for only that.

“Excuse me,” you spoke to the man with a polite smile on your face, and he only submissively avoided your gaze as he listened to you. After all, one rarely approached people like him and why would they? He held his cup of loose change out in front of him, probably expecting you to give him a small donation, but you wanted to give him so much more than that. Even if the guy didn't know it right now - you wanted to give him another chance in life, so that he wouldn't continue to be just a miserable failure.

You ignored his donation cup. “I was wondering if you might have a moment because I'd like to make you an offer,” you continued politely and the man met your gaze at that. Yeah, you were really looking forward to what was about to happen - after all, you were known for letting your opponent only win if you allowed them to.

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marblehazel · 2 months ago

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Sitter

dbf!Joel Miller x f!reader

You’re spending spring break alone at home while your father is five thousand miles away when all of sudden, you fall sick. Enter Joel Miller: your father’s buddy, sent by him to check on you.

Tags: Explicit MDNI, no outbreak, age gap, no mother in the picture but your father has a named girlfriend (sorry), no bra household, dry humping, footjob while watching SpongeBob, oral (m and f receiving)

Word count: 6.8k

“Dad,” your voice is hoarse like it has just come out from a dying goose, and you spend the next five seconds trying to clear your throat.

“So like, I’m… sick, kinda, but it’s not really bad, so—” A train of coughs that feels like they are going to tear your lungs apart. “—sorry about that. It’s nothing. Don’t worry too much, don’t even think about it. I just wanted to let you know.” Another coughing fit. “Okay. Have fun, I love you.”

You click your phone screen and let the voicemail find its way to your father’s ancient block of telecommunication. It’s 11 p.m. for you, 5 a.m. in Tuscany, you calculate with your fingers. You might be wrong. Either way, your father is probably asleep. He had been away for a couple of days with his girlfriend Amy for her nephew's wedding. And they plan to spend another week there, because it’s their anniversary, and Amy had always wanted to go to Italy.

“Will you be okay?” your father asked, apologetic. He leaned onto your bedroom door’s frame while you were unpacking your backpack.

“Yeah, Dad, what am I, eight? Go.” you laughed lightheartedly.

“It’s just you came down here from school and then I go, you know. I wish you’d said yes and come with us.”

“And third-wheeling you and Amy for ten days?” you giggled. “Dad, it’s okay. Come on. We’ll still have the weekend together when you come back.”

You heard Amy call for your father from downstairs, followed by a question about his dress shirt. You grinned, gesturing for him to go.

“Me and Amy will make sure the fridge is full, okay?” he says, voice fading as he steps down the stairs. You shook your head. You’ve survived on dry ramens and day-old coffees in college. You would be okay. Right?

Loud buzzer sound. The game show on the TV you put on to distract yourself from the fever is not doing a good job. You try to focus, but the noises coming out of it sound muffled, and the colors are just so bright and saturated that they make your head spin. You click on mute before slamming the remote on the coffee table, and it lands safely on some crumpled Kleenex. A thermometer is sitting next to the box, the tiny display screen blank. It’s broken, and you make a mental note to scold your father for always keeping faulty things around the house as if he’s going to fix them. A few bottles of pills you fished out of your father’s medicine cabinet to at least ease your aching muscles are toppled next to a half-empty Nyquil Nighttime Relief bottle with its cap screwed but crooked.

You second-guess your decision to let your father know that you’re unwell. But again, he hates surprises, so letting him know that he might find your rotting corpse in front of his TV when he gets back is, perhaps, doing him a favor.

It’s dark in the living room, and the leather couch is sticking to your sweaty leg. You should probably put sweatpants and a hoodie on instead of biker shorts and a stretched out shirt that looks more like a rag than a proper clothing item. But climbing the stairs now? No, thank you.

You shift your body, trying to find the best position to fall asleep in since the wrong angle seems to block your nasal passage. A groan leaves your throat when you can’t pull the fleece blanket to cover your body. You find out you are sitting on both ends of it. To hell with it.

You blink slowly. The Nyquil seems to start working. Can’t sneeze or cough if you’re knocked out, you think. You close your eyes, the colors from the TV somehow find their way in and flash washed-out red, white, yellow behind your eyelids. You’re too tired to reach for the remote.

Maybe you’ll feel better when you wake up.

You jolt when something cold makes contact with your forehead. Within microseconds, you yeet the thing away hysterically, hitting yourself in the process. The thing flies and lands on the wooden floor with a wet, thwap sound.

“Easy, easy,”

If it was just a little bit not so sudden and confusing and designed to constrict your blood vessels until your organs fail, you would have yelped. You nearly snap your neck trying to find the source of the voice, and your tense shoulders fall as quickly as they were raised when you notice the familiar face belonging to a broad frame standing next to the couch.

It’s Joel Miller.

Of course it’s him. Your father likely has him on speed dial.

He and your father go way back. Went to the same school, crushed on the same girls, hit the same bong, and so on. They were even in a band together. Your father has pictures of them from years ago, with greasy hair, earrings, bass and drumsticks in their hands. Cringe.

Well, just your father. Not Joel though.

You haven’t seen him in like, what, a year? And yet he looks good as ever. Well, Joel has always looked good his whole life. When you saw the pictures of him from high school you thought, Oh Fuck, I Would Totally Have A Crush On This Guy. And then you had to sit in silence and ponder, because, well, you are having a crush on this guy. Sort of. Maybe.

He bends over to pick up the thing you just yeeted on the floor, which is apparently a washcloth, and dunk it in a basin on the side table, which is now clean from all the stuff that was previously there.

“Joel,” you chirp. “Hi.”

“Hey.” he smiles as he squeezes the washcloth. Beads of water come trickling down his knuckles back to the basin, gleaming in front of the still-turned-on TV. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay. What time is this?” you straighten up, rummaging around the blanket to find your phone to no avail.

“One-thirty. Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. Your old man asked me to check on you." He folds the cloth in two and dab it before stepping closer and pressing it against your forehead, nice and cold. His other hand supports your head from the back, basically cradling your skull.

“Your front door was unlocked when I came in.” says Joel, as if you are capable of digesting any kind of information at the moment. “You shouldn’t do that.”

“Sorry,” you say sheepishly. “And sorry my Dad made you come here. You didn’t have to, it’s not so bad.”

“Come on, it’s only a ten minute drive. ‘S okay. I checked your forehead. Not too bad, but still a fever, y’know. You took the Nyquil?”

The thought of Joel Miller touching your forehead with his palm in the dark while you were asleep somehow makes the neurons in your brain stop interlinking for a second. Were you sleeping with your mouth open the whole time? You knew you did fall asleep that way since you couldn’t breathe through your nose. Man.

“I did.” you nod, shaking the thought away. You feel your lungs tighten, though. Another coughing fit incoming.

“Good,” Joel presses his hand to your forehead again as if trying to make sure the wet washcloth is properly glued onto your face. The soft pressure disrupts your composure and you cough like a machine gun submerged in a container full of Elmer’s glue, hacking up thick mucus up your throat. Joel leaves your side with hurried steps and, within seconds, somehow has a paper cup under your chin for you to spit into.

You try to grab the cup, flustered, but he doesn’t let go and instead helps you sit up straight, patting your back.

“Spit.” he says as you wheeze with phlegm in your mouth like an imbecile. You awkwardly grab his wrist for support and spit the mucus out into the cup. Soon you’ll realize how foolish it is to grab someone’s wrist using the same hand you used to cover your mouth while coughing. The string of saliva takes a ridiculously long time to break free from your lips, but Joel is unfazed. He takes a glance at the mucus, likely checking the color and consistency.

“Thanks,” you blink rapidly, still processing.

“You wanna go to urgent care?” Joel asks.

“Nu-uh,” you shake your head. “I’m okay, I promise. I feel a lot better already.”

“It’s probably just a bug,” he pats your back again before walking to the kitchen to dispose of the cup. “How long has it been going on?”

You wait until he comes back because you don’t think you can speak loud enough for him to be able to hear you from the kitchen without tearing your throat apart. Joel thinks you didn’t hear him the first time and is about to repeat his question when you say, “Uh, it got progressively worse last night.” you realize how serious that sounds and quickly add, “But not like, worse worse. I mean, compared to,”

“And before that?”

“Just a scratchy throat.”

He looks like he’s mentally taking notes with arms folded in front of his stomach. It’s the first time that night you take a full look at him under the glow of the muted TV. You can’t really make the colors out, but he’s wearing a dark t-shirt under an unbuttoned flannel shirt and jeans. He’s keeping his beard kind of thin compared to the last time you saw him, but still the same, well-tended mustache that makes a strong presence over his lips. You can’t help but notice the graying strands of hair that stick out among his dark, messy hair, complimenting him so well. You are pretty sure the ratio between light to dark hair has been shooting up this year. You like it.

And his eyes. They’re rich, and dark, and the fact that he furrows half of the time that it creates permanent dents between his eyebrows just makes him ridiculously hotter.

The mucus factory must be working overtime tonight because you can feel the slight slippery feeling of lubrication where you’re sitting. Fucking stupid, you think, read the room.

All of sudden, a lightning flashes, lighting up your surroundings before the grumbling roar of thunder follows through. For a second, you can make out the shapes and silhouettes of everything in the room like a photograph. Joel fits rightly in the left third of this main piece in your mind exhibition. You wish you could take screenshots with your eyes and keep it to admire later.

Joel glances out the window. Heat lightning reveals the blobs of clouds outside, and the strong wind is starting to blow debris to rattle the windows. He shifts his focus on you again. “Did you eat?”

“I’m okay,” you shrug. Storm is coming, Joel better go home before it gets worse.

He chuckles. “Yes or no?”

That chuckle tickles something deep inside of you. You smile shyly. “Yes, Joel. I’m okay.”

Joel stares at you, and you are pretty sure he senses that you did not, in fact, eat dinner. “I’m starvin’, actually,” he gets up and takes his flannel shirt off, and then tosses it on the couch before making his way towards the kitchen. You scream internally at the sight of his biceps like a deranged fangirl.

“Mind if I take a look in the fridge?” he yells while opening the fridge door. Just being polite. He knows your father will let him dismantle the house and take the pieces home if he wants to.

You free the tangled blanket from around your legs, only noticing now how under your old, sweat-dampened, Marlin Club shirt, your nipples are as erect as fireman’s poles. Was it the temperature, Joel, or both, you can’t conclude.

Joel whistles when he finds that the fridge is full. He grabs a can of beer and pops it open, studying the contents of the fridge and thinking of what he can cook for you as he gulps the beer down.

You follow him to the kitchen, jump to sit on the kitchen island as Joel grabs some produce off the fridge and sets them next to you. He looks at you, blinks a couple of times, then occupies himself with the food cabinet over the counter. You try to be helpful by unwrapping the basil and cherry tomatoes.

“So, how’s school?” Joel breaks the silence as he washes his hands. “And don’t just say okay, please.”

“You got me there,” you laugh. “Nothing really amusing, really.”

Then a few more superficial, classic-catching-up questions while you both prepare the pesto. Joel asks about the trip to Italy, how your father mentioned proposing to Amy soon, what do you think about that. You ask about his brother Tommy, work, and the average cost to renovate a room, to which Joel answers in detail really nicely. Then come the usual do-you-remember-when stories, melting down the strange and awkward atmosphere between the two of you. Laughters fill up the room. It’s fun and familiar.

“Did you remember when you used to call me Uncle Joel?” Joel sneers as he tosses a pan to the sink. “You used to be so nice and polite.”

“I was like six!” You snorted. “And you can’t even pay me to call you that again, Joel.”

Then, the once-your-pops-and-I anecdotes. You’ve heard some of them from your own father’s mouth, but you still listen to Joel’s versions eagerly anyway.

At one point, you start to cough again so Joel instructs you to just sit down on the counter. You don’t complain—it means you can just sit back and watch him from the back and imagine how it would feel to run your fingers through his hair.

When Joel stirs the pasta with the pesto sauce, the weather has gone full-blown insane out there.

“You should stay the night,” you try to sound as nonchalant as possible. His presence is sending arrays of erroneous signals to your reproductive organs, which will most likely result badly if he stays, but how can you let him drive home in this kind of weather?

Joel hands you a fork and pushes a plate of fusilli for you to eat. “Eh, we’ll see,” he shrugs. “I don’t mind drivin’ through a storm, but I can’t just leave you alone if you don’t feel well.”

“Dad told me you got a folded chair smashed through your windshield last summer.” You take a bite, the thick sauce coats your tastebuds and you groan in satisfaction, even though you can’t really taste it to the fullest because of your stuffy nose.

“Oh, yeah, that.” Joel chuckles. “I was lucky it aimed for the shotgun.”

He eats standing up across you, one elbow on the counter. When you both finish the meal, he takes your plate and starts washing the dishes. You tell him to do it later, and then offer your help, and he says no to both. You insist on drying the dishes anyway, standing side by side with him.

After the very late dinner, the two of you retreat to the living room. Joel asks you to take some medication again and you decline, stating that you feel better already.

“Headstrong, ain’t ya?” Joel sighs. “Okay, sleep then. Wanna sleep in your bed?”

“Not really sleepy,” you shake your head. “Feel free to take Dad’s bed, by the way. You have work in the morning, right?”

“Nah, I’m alright by the couch.” Joel scoots to make room for his legs and lies on his back, groaning like every other old person when they finally get to be horizontal. His feet are dangling on one side, his head on the opposite armrest. You take the old recliner that doesn’t even recline anymore near Joel’s feet, facing both the TV and Joel at an angle.

The TV is still on, showing the same game show but already on a later season. You unmute it and watch it together with Joel for five minutes before you realize that none of you has laughed yet, and you ask Joel if he wants to watch a movie instead. He says why not.

You open a streaming service and browse for movies on the home page. Joel probably likes action and other classic old man genre types. You pretend to read some of the summaries and see if Joel perks up at one of them, but he doesn’t seem to really care about the TV.

“I don’t know what to watch,” you admit. “Do you wanna pick the movie?”

Truth is, Joel can’t give a single shit about no goddamn movie. He’s been distracted by so many thoughts in his mind. But he gestures for you to scroll back up anyway. “Let’s see the trending ones.”

You stop at a tally of newly released and currently popular films at the top of the page, giving Joel a chance to read about them before moving to the next one.

“This one looks excitin’.” Joel points at the screen. The poster shows a man in classic Viking attire, staring intently at the viewer with striking blue eyes. Some kind of pelt is draped over his shoulders. His hands are on top of each other, resting on a sword handle, the blade facing the earth. Dried mud and blood are splattered over his face and armor. The Conquest, it says. You don’t recognize the actors listed. The summary says something about revenge, passion, blood, power, blah blah. You click play.

The movie opens with a battle scene. The movie looks like it runs out of lighting budget, and you need to squint to be able to tell what they are actually doing. Nothing can be heard except grunts and blades clashing. You look over at Joel to see his expression, but he’s looking at you. He quickly averts his gaze back to the screen.

Twenty minutes pass, and none of you are really paying attention to the plot. Not until the main guy enters a wooden tub filled with steaming hot water with his asscheeks out, and then a woman enters the scene with nothing but a thin white veil covering her body. She drops the cloth and joins him. The warm light from the torches is highlighting her breasts.

“Woah,” you look at Joel again, but he says nothing, but you can see his Adam’s apple moving awkwardly.

They kiss, and he grabs her bosom with his humongous palms and knead them. Then he buries his face between them, with the woman kissing the top of his head. After what feels like a millenia, he lifts her lower half from the water, and then puts her down to sit on the edge of the tub before performing cunnilingus. She moans.

You start to feel a pool of heat brewing inside of you. This feels invasive of their privacy, somehow, with no soundtrack added, just fire crackling and water splashing and erotic moaning.

Joel clears his throat. “Uh, maybe we shouldn’t watch this,”

“You’re the one who picked the movie.” you say, eyes fixated on the screen.

“Well, it didn’t say nothin’ about eatin’ a lady out in the summary.”

He reaches for the remote and turns the TV off, leaving only the sound of rain hitting your window in your eardrums.

“Hey,” you whine. “That’s not nice. I didn’t say yes.”

“It’s late. Go to sleep.” Joel folds his arms over his chest, partly staying warm, partly because he’s so flustered he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He then closes his eyes, knowing damn well he’s far from feeling tired let alone fall asleep.

“We’re both adults anyways,” you mutter, but Joel doesn’t move. He’s probably actually tired.

Your gaze is affixed on him. He surely doesn’t look like he’s sleeping in peace right now but he’s still handsome nonetheless. His old shirt is a tad bit too tight around his biceps. You can see the protruding veins beautifully decorating his arms and hands. His legs are slightly crossing with one ankle on top of another, and his breath is steady. He’s gorgeous.

In your wildest dreams, you would jump to straddle Joel, and he would grab your hips and fuck you to death. Is it bad that your immune system is fighting one of the worst battles in your life, and yet your number one priority is somehow to get laid, by this man specifically? It’s both excruciating and foolish.

The movie you just saw doesn’t help, either. In fact, it makes everything worse. Your mind keeps wandering back to it, the way the man eats the woman out, and then back to Joel, imagining the top of his head would look like when he eats you out. Fuck. You know that if you don’t get to touch this man in the next 30 minutes, you are either going to combust or burn everything in the vicinity.

You close your eyes, try to do the mindfulness practice you once saw in a magazine. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. You repeat “Release me from this earthly desire” in your head like a rookie buddhist wizard trying to cast a spell with a broken wand. You ball your fists in your lap so hard the joints start to hurt.

It’s not working.

Your mind keeps wandering back to different scenarios, different positions, different spots around the house. Low grunts, fingertips pressing your sides, tongue between your lips…

You can’t do it anymore. You need release. You need to at least be able to feel something, a little reward for your throbbing clit. Trying your best to be as casual as possible, you pull your folded legs closer to your body, your left heel even closer to your biker-short-covered cunt, and shift your body weight on it.

The pleasure that has been building up there bursts like a balloon. You sigh.

There are two things that Joel is not: young, and oblivious.

Oh, he is totally aware of what’s happening. You are not doing a good job trying to be subtle. From the non-stop staring, to the constant fidgeting, to the borderline sexual sighs, to the hard nipples, Joel knows you are going through something that is completely different from just being ill.

And he totally understands. He’s been there, done that. There was a time when his back wasn’t hurting and his face hadn’t been ‘graced’ with crow’s feet and age spots yet, when his hormones were at all-time high and his blood liked nothing more than flowing to his cock recklessly at the slightest inducement. He understands what you are going through.

So when you start grinding yourself onto your left heel followed by soft moans, he is not exactly surprised, just mostly in awe of your debauched audacity.

That is too much, even for him. He clears his throat, hoping you’d catch the hint and stop for good. But you don’t, and your eyes are closed and your eyebrows are knitted together in concentration, and your hips are moving slowly, sensually, chasing something, the sight of it stirs something up in his guts.

It is vulgar, and most importantly indecent in every way, but Joel can feel his own arousal creeping up no matter how hard he tries to convince himself that it is not happening.

He calls your name. Your body responds faster than the critically thinking part of your brain and you stop like you just got cursed by Medusa.

You can physically feel your heart drop to your ass. Your neck moves stiffly to find his eyes like a broken animatronic. “Yeah?” you croak.

“Do you think I don’t know what you’re doin’?”

You blink. Deny? Act stupid? Admit? Deny, deny. Wait, deny? No, act stupid.

“What… Do you mean?” you say, and you realize that you chose the dialogue option that actually sounds the dumbest.

Joel clicks his tongue. “Might as well hump me if you want it that much.”

Wait, what? Your eyes light up. “Really?”

Joel stares at you in genuine perplexity before lifting one hand up to massage his temples. He takes a deep breath, and in the softest way possible—like telling a puppy she can’t eat electronic parts—sighs, “No.”

“Oh,” you cover your mouth. “I thought you meant—“

“Yeah, yeah. My bad.” he sighs again, sounding significantly more frustrated. He then uses his hands to support himself to a sitting position, composing himself.

Silence. You don’t dare to look at Joel, but your cunt keeps pulsing like a metal detector. You understand that the beeping—desire—will not die down unless you get the valuable artefact from the bronze age—Joel—in your hand. Is this time to be bold and brash?

“Joel,” you call, and you can swear that was not a sober decision, but the stage curtains have been pulled back, and you are pushed to the stage to play your part.

“Hm?”

“What if… I hump you anyway?” you stand up, and your knees are slightly buckling but you act tough and bold regardless.

Joel’s jaws opens and stays slightly agape for a while before he says, “That fever is really messin’ with your brain, huh? Sit down.”

“You’re bricked up, Joel.” you accuse. You don’t actually know for sure since Joel keeps a hand on his lap to cover his crotch, but Joel gulps. Gotcha.

“Unrelated to you.” he hisses in defense.

You scoff.

“Joel, please,” you grouse, voice cracking and desperate. “I want this so bad.” you whisper as you take slow, threatening steps towards Joel until your crotch is not even an inch away from his knee. “I want you so bad.”

“This ain’t right, kid.” Joel puts a hand on the outer side of your arm, and it’s worth pointing out that he’s shaking. “You know that.”

Joel doesn’t tell you that he’s battling demons in his head, and he’s currently losing. A million impulses are catapulting burning boulders onto the gate of his conscience, and all he got is one bleeding, sickly troop with a chipped wooden sword. But he puts his best stern expression despite the fact that his body is betraying him.

He could leave now. Push you away. Clear his head. Come back later. Or not come back at all.

But he knows he doesn’t want to. He can hear his blood rushing and his heart singing battle cry. Not to mention his cock, hard and nearly burns a hole through his jeans.

A long pause. You want to push him further, but you know you don’t need to. The black marlin printed on your shirt does a worthless attempt at distracting Joel from your hard nipples, putting him into a trance.

Joel takes a deep breath. He knows he has lost. “You can help yourself, that’s all,” he nods, more trying to convince himself rather than talking to you. “Just to make you shut up and get rest. That’s it.”

That’s an unenthusiastic barf-colored green light, but it is a green light nonetheless.

You put your hands on Joel’s shoulder before putting your left knee next to his right leg and lower yourself down onto his thigh, while your other knee rests in front of his crotch and presses onto his raging hard-on. Your cunt pulsates in pleasure upon contact, and you let out a gasp. Joel anxiously places his hands on your sides to keep you steady, one thumb ‘accidentally’ brushing your nipple, earning a whine. You lock gaze with him, and start moving.

The friction sends buzzes up your head. You make each grind count, and every single one feels like heaven despite the layers of fabric between your cunt and his beefy thigh. Moans and Joel’s name spill from your lips indeliberately, and he tightens his grip on your body until his fingertips turn white as if you would fly away with a gust of wind if he doesn’t. If you weren’t so absorbed in your own pleasure, you would’ve noticed how shallow and rapid Joel’s breath has become. It turns him on watching you getting off because of him, using him, how your eyelids flutter and your pupils are having a hard time staying in place.

Joel wants to break free from his denim, badly. While he consciously thought, planned, and stated that he’s doing what he’s doing only for your satisfaction and be done with it, it isn’t exactly nice having your kneecap pushing button-flies shaped caves on his crotch repeatedly. Especially not when his cock, which probably has its own brain, has been begging to be taken care of, too.

You, on the other side, are having the best time of your life. As your climax is building up in your south region, you smile at Joel, who smiles back. His hand leaves your ribs briefly to brush the hair that is sticking to your sweaty forehead away from your face.

“That feels good, doesn’t it?”

You nod weakly. “So good, Joel, so good,”

For a moment there you consider kissing him. His face is merely two inches away from you, and he looks ravishing, all sweaty and blushing. And how you just want to have your tongue inside his mouth, his lips all over yours sloppily. But that feels like overstepping boundaries, like a whole uncharted area you can’t cross, spreading the flu aside. You opt to put your chin on his shoulder instead, trying to focus on your orgasm.

“I want to see your face,” Joel says in your ear, his beard grazing your cheek. Takes you three whole seconds to process that, and when you do, it tingles your core. Before you can answer, he continues, “You’re so beautiful like this.”

You pull back, meeting his gaze with flushing cheeks. You don’t know what to say, and maybe you don’t have to. You continue to be dumbfounded when Joel stops your motion and helps you to stand up.

“Hold on,” he says as he undoes the buttons of his jeans. “I need to take these off.”

He quickly kicks the jeans off his legs, revealing a dark gray boxer briefs under. A wet patch adorns the bulge right in the center. He then manspreads and gestures for you to come back onto him, to which you comply. “C’mere,” he says, “I need to feel you on me.”

You straddle him, positioning your cunt right on his cock, and on everybody and their mother, it feels good. No, it feels right. Joel lets out a groan that cuts into a gasp when you start to grind. “Fuck, yeah,” he grabs your ass, helping you settle on a rhythm.

The contour of Joel’s cock, albeit still covered by the fabric of his boxer briefs, touches every last nerve ending of your cunt in such a different way that his thigh did. You pick your pace up, getting the pleasure to build up again.

“Joel, I’m gonna come,” you moan, voice quivering. You rake your fingers through his hair, your noses almost touching.

“Keep going, baby,” he says through a smile. “Don’t hold back. You sound so pretty.”

The encouragement is shooting up fireworks in your lower belly, and you start making more sounds. You’re close. So close.

“Makin’ me so hard all night, you,”

You whimper as you come, hips convulsing. Time slows down, and it feels like your cunt is pulled towards a strong gravitational force within your own body as you are sinking down a quicksand, all while pleasure forces your brain to reboot itself.

“That’s it, that’s it. There you go. You’re so good.”

Joel holds the back of your head while you’re laying on his chest, limp. When you pull yourself away from him, he presses a palm to your cheek, smiling. “Attagirl.”

When you finally gather yourself, you pull away from Joel, leaving a huge wet spot on where you just had your cunt on, and scoot to the spot next to him on the couch. You are about to lean onto his shoulder when he stands up and picks his jeans up from the floor. He sees the wet trail of arousal you left on the fabric in the thigh area and snickers.

“Damn, kid, you’re practically a snail,” he points to it. “Poor thing.”

You wince. “What are you doing?”

“Puttin’ my pants on?” he answers in the exact same tone, fixing the position of his boxer briefs.

“But you haven’t even come yet!” you protest. “What the fuck? Take them off!”

“That’s not what I agreed to, remember? I help you come so you’ll shut up and sleep. You’ve come, now shut up, and go to sleep.” he lays it out like basic math while you press the base of your palms onto your eyelids, confounded.

“You’re a sick person,” you shake your head, and then point to his crotch. “You’re literally still hard.”

“That has nothin’ to do with anythin’.”

You stare at the open space, like you’re trying to break the fourth wall in a sitcom. Can you believe this guy?

“Joel, your line is ‘I’m going to fuck you so hard.’ Now let’s start again from the top.”

Joel, who’s struggling trying to fit his bulge back in the jeans without hurting it, stops fussing with his button-fly shortly to push your head back—softly—to the couch. “Sleep,” he drags his palm over your face to close your eyelids.

“Joooooel,”

“Your line is ‘Yes, Joel, good night.’”

“Yes, Uncle Joel, good night, Uncle Joel,” you mock as you swiftly jump from the couch and pull his jeans down to his ankle and force him to step out of it. You hear Joel yelling hey, hey, hey as he tries to simultaneously fight you and not hurt you. You throw the pair of pants across the room with all your might and it lands with a loud thud.

“What are your pants made of, steel?”

“What is wrong with you?” he takes a step to fetch it, but you stand up and push him back to the couch. Joel is for sure going easy on you, because if he wanted to, he could definitely launch you through the walls. Instead, he just accepts his fate and stares at the ceiling, defeated.

“Nobody sleeps with jeans on, Joel,” you reach for the TV remote again. “Now let’s watch something again and then sleep.”

“We’re not watching the viking movie again.”

“We’re not watching the viking movie again,” you repeat. “We’re watching SpongeBob.”

Joel groans.

“What, you don’t like SpongeBob?”

“Not my era,” Joel says. “I watched Gumby. Tom and Jerry. The Muppet Show.”

“No wonder you act like the heckling old guys.”

“I don’t, but, sure,”

“Oh, you’re more like the eagle. So serious all the time.”

Joel rolls his eyes. You play the first episode of the first season of SpongeBob Squarepants, and the familiar intro begins. You take a look at Joel in the corner of your eyes, how he has one of his forearm on the top of his head, bicep almost as thick as his head. The other hand is resting on his thigh, and you can tell that he’s at least still half-hard. You wonder how he looks under those boxer briefs.

On the screen, Squidward and Mr. Krabs are climbing a post with a sea of raging anchovies under them. Joel’s lips slightly turn upward. Ha, eat that, Mr. Old Cartoon Head.

You shift so that you’re on your back, legs resting on Joel’s lap. He gives you a look, but doesn’t say anything. Minutes later, totally absorbed with SpongeBob pestering his neighbor with a reef blower, he has a hand on your ankle, caressing it without much thought.

They would have written about you in a Greek tragedy the way you’re consumed by greed and lust. When your toes stroke Joel’s bulge, totally by accident and not precalculated at all, you pretend like you’re captivated by the TV. It’s hard and you can definitely discern the ridge of possible veins and the head of his cock.

Joel exhales, sounding so done and tired. “I know you were going to do this,”

But he doesn’t push you away. And that excites you.

You don’t say anything or look away from the screen, but you keep rubbing the outline of his cock, which is now more visible and grows slightly larger, with the space between your big and index toe. Your brain automatically puts the ice clinking in a vase while SpongeBob is getting dry under Sandy’s treedome as background noise to amplify Joel’s restrained grunts.

You like this. You like having Joel wrapped around your finger. Soon after, you withdraw your legs and sit up, causing him to open his eyes over the sudden halt.

You stare at him, bold. “Would you like my mouth?”

Joel nods.

You don’t even wait for a second. Joel helps you take off his boxer briefs, the length of his hard-on springs out like jack-in-the-box. You admire how it looks, how the tip is totally sticky and glistening, before lowering your tongue. Joal lets out a sound akin to a whimper as you let your saliva ooze down the underside of his cock and quickly retrieve it into your mouth using your tongue. He tastes slightly salty, like sweat. And if you could smell better you’d see how hypnotizing his scent is, like calling you to stick his cock down your throat until the world collapses.

“That’s it,” Joel says, out of breath. His cock is now grazing the soft wall of your cheek, and he wonders how experienced you actually are because you definitely don’t act like an amateur. You use one elbow to support yourself, the other one taking turns massaging his balls and the base of his cock.

The only downside of this is that Joel can’t really look at your face. He craves the sight of you, how your lips are wrapped around his cock, and how your cheek is bulging like a squirrel full of him. One of his hands crawls up your back under your shirt, rubbing it before it finds a new target: your breasts. He kneads on one, thumb flicking the bud. You can’t help but moan and take him deeper, sending vibrations from your throat to his cock.

Joel knows he won’t last much longer, and he would very much like to keep this thing going as long as possible. So he asks you to stop, averting your disappointment by lifting up your shirt and sucking on one nipple. He’s surprisingly tender with it, taking his time. You reach a hand to his cock again, trying to at least get him off with your hand, but he pulls your wrists back and locks them on your sides.

“Joel,” you whine. “Fuck me. Please.”

“No can do,” Joel answers as his lips are trailing down to your stomach, where he peppers kisses all over. You scoot backwards and like reading your mind, he tugs the hem of your shorts down to your ankle before yanking it away, revealing your throbbing, desperate cunt. He then dives down, nose pressing against your mound as his tongue explores the new treasure island.

Just like in the movie.

You try to grab on something, anything, but the leather couch does nothing but squeaks, and Joel instinctively laces his fingers with yours. The view of the top of your head is exactly how you imagined it would be. The moans released from your lips are rather loud, especially when Joel creates a suction cup with his lips right on your clit.

“Joel, Joel,” you grasp his hands with all your might. “This is fucking unfair, I’m so— I’m gonna—”

Before you get to finish your sentence, your body already decides that it’s time for another release. Your heels are planted firmly against the couch as your hips lift to the air, and Joel lets go. He kneels before your cunt, pumps himself to oblivion and comes all over you before you get to collect yourself, staining your stomach and breasts. Later you’ll realize that the first spurt went a little bit rogue and landed on your hair.

“Fuck you, man,” you complain, sticking out a middle finger at him. “I was supposed to make you come.”

Joel rests his head on the couch armrest, eyes closed. “You did.”

“I meant technically,” you attempt to nudge him with your leg, but he dodges and stands up to grab the washcloth he used to compress you with earlier. He then wipes your stomach and breasts with it, the cold water making you squirm.

“What now?” you ask when he hands you your clothes.

“Sleep. It’s four in the mornin’.” he says as he puts his stained, sticky, wet boxer briefs on and sits on the recliner. So you can’t drive me mad anymore, he says.

You whine, but you realize that your eyelids are actually very heavy. “Blowjob first time in the morning?” you offer before letting yourself drift off.

“Thought you were s’pposed to be sick.” Joel shakes his head. But he grins.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller #dbf!joel #dbf!joel x reader #dbf!joel miller x reader #tlou #the last of us #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #dbf!joel miller

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girlygguk · 2 months ago

Text

WIT IT THIS CHRISTMAS ⋆ JJK

you’re done watching girls shoot their shot with your man. this time, you let them know. or, better yet, hear.

🦌⋆⁺₊❅. christmas & chill: instalment 2 of 6

pairing drummer!jk x secret situationship fem!reader

genre fwb2l, angst, fluff, smut 18+ mdni

content jk 25 | yn 22, bratty oc, jk knows how to handle her, jk is in an alt rock band with jinnie and yoongs, tae is jk's best friend & oc's confidant, vmin are bfs, jk spoils oc, babygirl just wants to be cuffed, ruined christmas plans, oc whines a bit, oc gives jk the cold shoulder for approx 7 mins before folding bc… idk dick too good i guess, jealousy (both parties, more so oc's side), neither of them entertain it tho, fwb but like exclusive ones because cmawn… it's me, kissing, grinding, groping, big tiddy reader, big tiddy sucking, sm dirty talk & praise, quick bj, cunnilingus, choking if u blink, oc gets fucked w his drumsticks, and then his cock, condomless p in v sex, oc is on birth control, clothed sex, sub dom dynamics, daddy kink, a little tiny bit of squirting i think, creampie, happy but very abrupt ending sorryyy

word count 8.9k

banner by the lovely @awrkive ⟡ ݁₊ .

North Star Pavilion, Seoul

Christmas lights twinkle across the city, their warm glow mocking the chill in your chest. Everything feels like too much—too cold, too noisy, too far from what you actually wanted today. What you were promised.

The van door slams shut behind you, the biting breeze nipping at your skin as your boots crunch against the icy gravel.

Jungkook follows close behind, his shoes scuffing against the ground as he jogs to catch up.

“Baby,” he calls softly, reaching for your hand. But you shrug him off, your arms folding tightly over your chest as you keep moving toward the back entrance of the venue.

Jungkook lets out a heavy sigh, his breath visible in the icy air. “Come on, baby,” he murmurs, his tone dipping into that pleading softness that always makes you want to fold. “Y/n, I had to—”

“I’ll see you after the show, J.”

Your voice comes clipped and cold as you cut him off, not bothering to look back. His soft footsteps falter, and you can feel his eyes fixed on you.

For a brief, brief moment, something in you threatens to crack.

But you don’t let it.

The angry stomp of your boots against frozen pebbles drowns out anything he might have said as you disappear through the back, weaving through the venue without so much as a glance in Jungkook’s direction.

The warmth of the building barely registers. It isn’t enough to thaw the stubborn frost clinging to your chest as you move down the hall, barely nodding at the familiar faces of the staff who greet you in passing.

Eventually, you find an empty corridor, the hum of the growing crowd muffled by the walls. Leaning back against the cool tile, you tip your head back and let out a bitter scoff.

This isn’t how today is supposed to fucking go.

Rolling your eyes, you dig your hand into your pocket and pull out your phone, desperate for a distraction. But the memory you’ve been avoiding all day slips in anyway—very vivid and very unwelcome.

Yesterday, you’d been curled up on your couch, your legs draped lazily over Jungkook’s lap as the soft glow of the tiny Christmas tree on your coffee table lit up the room. It had become a routine of sorts—the quiet calm after his shows, a pocket of peace that felt like yours and his alone.

Jungkook’s tattooed fingers traced idle patterns over your calf, the gentle pressure soothing against your bare skin. You were warm and sleepy from the shower you’d shared earlier, your body clad in a little sleep shirt and panties. Jungkook, in his sweats and no shirt, smelled faintly of your shampoo, his long, damp hair falling loose around his face.

It was all so soft, so cozy, so domestic.

So fucking stupid.

You caught him staring, his gaze steady and quiet, that intensity in his dark eyes making your stomach do that stupid flippy thing.

“Watcha lookin’ at, creepy?” you squinted, nudging his stomach with your foot.

Jungkook’s lips twitched as he shook his head, his fingers still lazily stroking your leg. “Nothing,” he hummed, but his gaze lingered a moment longer before he dropped it back to his phone.

You tossed your own phone to the side, crawling onto his lap with a light shove to his shoulder. He grunted softly as you shifted over him when he lay down, his hands instinctively finding your thighs as you flopped against his chest.

“You okay?” you murmured into his neck, your fingers brushing softly over his collarbone.

“Very,” he replied, his voice low, his big hand sliding up to smooth over and cup your ass.

You smiled into his skin, pressing a kiss to his neck. “I bought us Christmas pajamas,” you mumbled, your lips brushing against his pulse.

Jungkook paused for a moment, then let out a quiet laugh, his fingers stilling briefly before resuming their lazy path. “Did you?”

“Yup,” you said, smirking. “Try not to wear them, and your ass is spending Christmas alone.”

His laugh deepened, his hand slipping beneath the hem of your panties to rub slow, little circles over the curve of your skin. “I’ll wear them, baby,” he promised.

“Know you will,” you whispered, your teeth grazing lightly against his neck.

His head tilted, granting you more access as a low, soft grunt rumbled from his throat, the sound enough to make you press closer.

You were ready to tease him further, your tongue lazily flicking over his pulse, when his phone buzzed loudly on the couch beside you.

He shifted, reaching for it with one hand while his other stayed firmly on your thigh, absently stroking your skin. You pressed your cheek against his shoulder, eyes closed, soothed by the soft, lispy cadence of his voice.

Until you heard it.

“North Star fucking Pavilion, bro! On Christmas Day!” The Spine Breakers’ lead singer’s voice crackled through the speaker. “The check is insane, JK!”

Jungkook sighed heavily, his grip tightening slightly on your thigh. “I already have plans, Jin-hyung—”

“We need you, man,” Yoongi, his bass player, cut in. “You’re our drummer. We can’t do this without you, dude...”

The air shifted. You felt it before you even opened your eyes.

“Fuck,” Jungkook groaned. You could feel his gaze on you, hesitant, like he was waiting for you to intervene. But you didn’t. You stayed still, letting him make his choice.

“Fuckin—okay, okay, hyung,” he muttered into the phone, his voice resigned as he cut off Jin’s begging. “I’ll do it.”

The second the call ended, you climbed off him, ignoring the hand that reached for you, brushing off the way he called your name. The bedroom door slammed angrily behind you.

He followed, of course.

Jungkook dropped down on the bed beside you, his arm wrapping around your waist as he tried to apologize, his voice soft and pleading. But you didn’t respond. Didn’t even look at him. You fell asleep facing the wall, his hand still resting on your stomach.

And now, here you are.

Not curled up on the couch, watching a stupid Christmas movie like you had planned. Not eating takeout, because neither of you can cook for shit. Not sneaking up to the roof to get holiday high together.

No. Instead, you’re standing in a cold, empty hallway of one of Seoul’s biggest holiday locales, the muffled roar of the crowd growing louder behind the door to your left.

The hem of your winter dress shifts as you fidget, the festive vibe of your outfit doing little to match the storm in your chest. At least it’s black. That’s, like, emo, right?

Whatever.

Merry fucking Christmas. And fuck Jeon Jungkook.

The crowd thickens as you weave through, the bass of the background music vibrating under your boots with every step. People press in on all sides, the noise a tangled mess of cheers and shuffling feet. You don’t let it faze you, your eyes scanning the mass for a familiar figure.

The closer you get to the side stage, the more recognizable faces appear—crew members rushing around, regular staff you’ve seen countless times at past shows. But it’s not until your gaze catches on a mop of black hair that some of the tension in your shoulders finally lifts.

You spot your boy...friend’s best friend leaning against a speaker, his ear piercings glinting under the scattered lights. A plastic Christmas wreath headband sits snugly atop his neatly straightened curls, and the corner of your lips quirks up despite yourself.

He notices you before you reach him, a grin spreading across his face as he lifts the beer bottle in his hand in greeting.

By the time you push through the last cluster of people, your gaze flicking over his ripped jeans and the artful layering of his black shirts, he’s already stepping forward to wrap you in a hug.

“Ah,” Taehyung says, giving you a once-over, his brows wiggling as he pulls back. “We’re matching.”

You glance down at your black-on-black outfit, then at his. “I’m in a mood,” you roll your eyes, though a quiet laugh escapes.

Taehyung hums knowingly, offering you the spare beer in his other hand. You take it, cracking the cap before taking a long sip. Your gaze flicks toward the stage, where crew members scurry to finish sound checks and tune the equipment.

“It’s fucking packed,” he comments, nodding toward the crowd, which seems to grow thicker by the second. “J said tickets sold out in minutes.”

You hum noncommittally, your focus still fixed on the stage. “Of course they did. It’s Christmas, and these emos don’t have anything better to do.”

Taehyung snickers, leaning in to nudge your shoulder. “And your excuse? No Christmas plans…?”

You shoot him a glare, taking another sip of beer as he raises his hands in mock defense.

“Still haven’t made up yet?” he prods, his tone teasing, knowing.

“Nope,” you huff, the sound bratty as your gaze flicks around the venue. “I’m ignoring him until Valentine’s Day. And if I’m not cuffed by then, I’m castrating the motherfucker.”

He shakes his head, laughing under his breath. “Why not just ask him to go steady again?”

“Because,” you grumble, pointing the neck of your beer bottle at him, “he’s the one who doesn’t want me seeing other guys. So, he can ask me.”

Taehyung arches a brow, taking a slow sip of his drink. “Didn’t you also say you didn’t want him fucking with other chicks?”

“Shut up,” you huff, giving him a halfhearted shove as he laughs again.

The minutes pass as the venue comes alive, the energy thickening the air around you with heat. The chatter grows louder, the crowd swelling until it feels like the walls are pulsing. You and Taehyung stand shoulder to shoulder, unfazed by the chaos. You’ve done this too many times before—waiting at the edge of the stage, watching the lights dim as the band take their places.

You hadn’t met Jungkook through Taehyung, though. You’d met Taehyung first at one of their early performances, back when The Spine Breakers were barely on anyone’s radar.

It had been a little bar in the city, the kind of place where the beer was watered down and the sound system was a half-step away from blowing out. You’d gone with your friend Marcy, both of you already knowing a good chunk of TSB's songs before the first chord even played.

Most of the crowd back then hadn’t been as familiar, more there for the vibe than the band. You’d been a few rows back, swaying to the music, when Taehyung walked by and stumbled into you, spilling half his beer onto your skirt.

He’d been flustered, apologizing immediately and offering to buy you another drink as yours dropped on the ground. When you’d rolled your eyes and waved him off, turning back to Marcy without much more than a shrug, he hadn’t used it as an excuse to keep bothering you. Sad as it might sound, that had caught your attention—guys who actually took a hint were fucking rare.

He’d genuinely seemed sorry, even offering to hold your place if you wanted to head to the bathroom to clean up. You’d given him a once-over, told him it didn’t bother you, and pulled him into your little huddle instead.

By the end of the night, Taehyung was dancing to the music beside you and Marcy, and when the set ended, he asked if you wanted to come backstage to meet the band. You’d told him to shut the fuck up, convinced he was joking.

He wasn’t.

That was the first time you’d seen Jungkook up close. The first time you’d stared a little too long at the drummer with the intriguingly quiet intensity and ink-covered arms that you wanted to run your tongue along.

While Marcy hit it off immediately with Tae—bonding over their matching daith piercings or whatever—the pull between you and Jungkook had been something else entirely.

Maybe you’ve been to every single one of his shows since then. Maybe you took a gap year from college, picking up shifts at a club in town to cover your rent while Jungkook paid for everything else. Maybe you’ve only been with one other guy in the 449 days you’ve known him—and that was way back, in the early days, before it all started to feel like this.

Maybe.

Taehyung’s voice cuts through your thoughts, his tone casual but his smile teasing. “You’re doing it again,” he quips, nudging you lightly with his elbow.

“Sorry,” you say quickly, clearing your throat as your gaze flickers back to the stage. Jungkook’s seated behind his drum set now, a crew member leaning in close as she adjusts his mic stand.

“S’okay,” Taehyung replies with a quiet laugh, raising his bottle to his lips. He leans back against the speaker, his grin softening. “You guys wanna come over for drinks after the show? Jiminie made Christmas pudding.”

You blink, your focus still trained on Jungkook as the staff member smiles at him, her mouth moving—maybe asking if he was okay, if he needed anything else. His tongue flicks over his lip rings, his head tilting slightly as he shakes it in response.

She lingers.

He gives her a dismissive, doe-eyed look from under his lashes, his dimple peeking out as he shakes his head again. Finally, she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, glances around quickly, and scurries backstage.

Slut. The both of them.

Your lips press into a line, your eyes narrowing as you take another sip of beer. “Sure, I’ll come,” you mutter half-heartedly to Taehyung without taking your eyes off Jungkook.

His gaze catches yours from the stage.

You look away.

The crowd roars as Jin takes the mic, yelling out a quick greeting before launching right into their set.

The music is electric, Yoongi's smooth, heavy bass and Jungkook’s crisp, pounding drumming vibrating through your chest as the band plays. You can’t help but let your body move with Jin's voice, nodding your head along as Taehyung sways beside you, the beer in his hand getting lower by the minute.

Halfway through the third song, a guy squeezes his way through the crowd toward you and Taehyung. At first, you don’t think much of it—packed shows like this always mean a little too much physical closeness. But when he stops right next to you, leaning in far closer than necessary, his intentions become annoyingly clear.

“Hey,” he shouts, his voice barely cutting through the music.

You glance at him briefly, tilting your head and pursing your lips before looking back at the stage.

The guy doesn’t get the message—or maybe he doesn’t care. “You here alone?”

You shake your head shortly, keeping your eyes fixed on the stage. “Nope.”

Taehyung notices the exchange but doesn’t intervene, his gaze flicking between you and the guy as he sips his drink.

The guy leans in again, louder this time, more insistent. “You want another drink?”

You roll your eyes, stepping closer to Taehyung. “I’m good,” you say flatly, your tone leaving no room for interpretation.

From the stage, you notice Jungkook’s playing start to shift. His drumming grows heavier, each strike more intense than usual. Your gaze flicks to him, catching the way his eyes keep darting toward your spot in the crowd.

Exhaling through your nose, you swap places with Taehyung in an attempt to move out of the guy’s line of sight. Taehyung’s grin fades into something firmer when he notices.

Taehyung lowers his beer, turning to the guy, his taller frame blocking the dude’s view of you entirely. “You good, man?”

The guy hesitates, visibly weighing his options. He looks like he wants to argue but ultimately decides against it, laughing under his breath before slipping back into the crowd.

Taehyung watches him walk off, shaking his head before leaning closer. “You alright, Y/n?”

You nod, offering a light rub on his arm in thanks, but your attention is already back on Jungkook. He’s still looking, his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek as he watches you.

The last notes of the set fade into a wave of screams as the stage becomes a field of tossed roses and stray undergarments. Jin, as always, makes a show of it, crouching to pick up a red lace bra and biting down on the strap with a cheeky grin. His bandmates laugh as the crowd loses their shit, Yoongi shaking his head as Jin winks into the audience.

They bask in the chaos for a moment longer, waving to the crowd before the elder two begin to slip offstage. Jungkook lingers behind, his hands braced on his knees as he catches his breath. He drags a hand through his damp hair, pushing it back as he straightens to his full height, chest rising and falling in exertion.

Just before he steps off, his eyes find yours. His gaze drags, a quick once-over, a slow run of his tongue over his lip rings, a subtle sniff of his nose. Then he’s gone, following his bandmates backstage.

Taehyung nudges your arm lightly. “Ready?”

You hum, nodding as you start making your way through the crowd, the buzz of energy still heavy in the air. The hallway to the dressing rooms is dim, much quieter than the rest of the venue.

Up ahead, you spot Jin and Yoongi walking a few steps ahead of Jungkook. They’re laughing at something, their figures disappearing around the corner. Jungkook trails behind them, dragging his hand through his hair again, the motion automatic.

Then you see her.

The staff girl from earlier is struggling with a speaker, her grip tight on the handle as she drags it down the hallway. When she glances up and spots Jungkook, her face lights up instantly.

Your steps slow without thinking, your gaze locking on her as she stops beside him. There’s a shy tilt to her smile as she offers him the water bottle balanced on top of the speaker. Jungkook takes it with a murmured thank you, cracking the seal and tipping it back, like he’s barely aware of her lingering.

But she doesn’t move.

She starts talking instead, her pace quickening to match his as he walks. Her cheeks flush slightly as she speaks, her eyes flicking up at him now and then like she’s gauging his mood.

Taehyung shifts beside you, his gaze flickering between you and the scene unfolding a few feet ahead. You can feel his curiosity, but you don’t acknowledge it. Your eyes stay glued to Jungkook.

Jungkook, whose head tilts slightly as he glances back at the girl, then forward at his bandmates. You catch the faintest crease in his brow before he slows his steps and eventually stops altogether.

The girl stumbles slightly at his sudden halt, her grip on the speaker slipping. Jungkook’s hands dart out instinctively, but she catches herself before he touches her. He pulls back quickly, murmuring, “You okay?”

“Yeah, uh, yeah. Sorry, I’m such a klutz sometimes,” she replies, her voice flustered.

Your lips press into a thin line as you watch, something sharp curling in your stomach.

He’s not doing anything, you tell yourself. He didn’t even touch her.

But he would’ve if she hadn’t caught herself, a snide voice in the back of your head sneers, cutting through your logic.

You shake off the thought, ignoring the way your chest tightens as Jungkook shifts. His hand brushes over his jaw while she continues speaking, her words softer now.

You don’t hear much after that. It’s not because the hallway is loud—it’s not. It’s the pounding of your pulse in your ears, drowning out everything else.

Jungkook finishes the bottle of water, twisting the cap back on with a quick flick of his wrist. “I gotta go,” he says, lifting the empty bottle as a gesture of thanks before brushing past her.

She hesitates, her hand still on the speaker’s handle as she watches him walk away. Her face burns red, and she fidgets slightly, but eventually, she turns back to her task, dragging the speaker further down the hall.

Your eyes stay fixed on Jungkook as he reaches the dressing room door. His free hand lifts to wipe the sweat from his face with the bottom hem of his shirt, the toned lines of his stomach flashing briefly before the fabric falls back into place. The drumsticks clutched in his other hand tap lightly against the now-empty bottle as he disappears inside.

Taehyung pulls your attention back, rubbing your arm soothingly before nodding toward the door. “You coming?”

You nod quickly, shaking off the haze that lingers as you follow him down the hall.

The dressing room is warm and noisy, Jin and Yoongi sprawled out like they’ve been there for hours. Yoongi greets you with a rare smile, handing you a can of seltzer as you lean down to hug them both. Jin, already halfway through his beer, ruffles your hair affectionately before leaning back into the couch like he’s clocking out for the night.

You drop down beside Jungkook, your usual spot on his lap notably left empty. His brow furrows immediately, the arm around your waist tightening slightly as he tries to pull you closer to him.

“No, J,” you mutter, giving him a pointed look.

He grumbles under his breath, clearly displeased, but his hand slips down to link with yours instead. His thumb brushes idly over your knuckles, and for now, he settles.

The conversation flows around you as Taehyung throws out an invitation to his place. “Jimin’s been baking all day,” he says. “And we’ve still got drinks leftover from the other night.”

It’s an easy yes from everyone. The energy in the room shifts, a slow wind-down as cans and bottles are finished and the band starts getting ready to head out.

When you stand, Taehyung catches your arm, pulling you aside as Jungkook follows, his arm still firmly around your waist. “Hey, just wanna make sure you’re okay,” he says, his head tilted in slight concern.

Jungkook frowns, his gaze falling to your face. “Why wouldn’t she be? Did something happen?”

Taehyung glances at you, waiting for permission before answering. After you shrug and turn to Jungkook, Taehyung speaks. “Some dude wouldn’t leave her alone earlier,” he says simply.

Jungkook’s jaw tightens, his grip around your waist firming. Your hand squeezes his as you tilt your head at Taehyung. “I’m really okay, Tae, but thank you for looking out for me.”

Taehyung studies you for a moment longer, then nods. “Always.” He pulls you into a quick hug before doing the same with Jungkook. “Jimin’s waiting outside. You guys need a ride back to our place?”

Your gaze shifts to Jungkook. He stays quiet, his tongue working the inside of his cheek, eyes unfocused.

“We’ll come together,” you answer after a beat.

Taehyung nods, flashing you both a smile before heading for the door. The room empties out slowly after that, the others trailing behind Taehyung until it’s just you and Jungkook left in the quiet.

You glance at Jungkook as you shift on your feet. “Do you want me to order an Ub—”

“What did he do?”

You look up, his jaw tight as he stares at you. “That guy,” he starts again, quieter now, his words laced with tension. “Did he do something to you? Are you okay? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“J,” you sigh, shaking your head. “It was nothing. Just some loser.”

He watches you carefully, his eyes searching for something you’re not sure he’ll find. “And you’re okay?”

“I’m okay,” you nod.

His frown doesn’t relent as he closes the space between you in a few slow steps. His voice dips lower as he murmurs, “Fucking hate seeing guys trying to get with you, Y/n… not knowing you’re mine—”

Your eyes roll before you can stop yourself. “Let’s not do this right now, J.”

His brows pinch. “Really?”

“Yeah, really,” you bite back, your tone a little sharper. “Especially not when you’ve got bitches crawling all over you, and I can’t do anything about it.”

“Baby—”

“No, like this is so fucked, Jungkook. I’m tired of it. You promised me a cute night tonight, and I didn't get it. Fuck you.”

His teeth tug at his lip ring as he shakes his head, ready to apologize again, but you’re not done.

“And what about her? That slutty mic tech or whatever the fuck she is, leaning down with her tits all in your face? Or just so happening to have a fresh bottle of water ready for you backstage? God, don’t.”

“Fuck, you’re so hot when you’re jealous—”

“And then you do this!” you whine, throwing your hands up. “I’m tired of it, J. If I’m just another one of your groupies, what the fuck ever. But don’t be surprised when I go find someone who—”

His voice cuts through your rant with a hum. “Someone who what?”

He’s right in front of you now, so close that you have to tilt your head back to meet his gaze. His eyes flick between yours, waiting for an answer you don’t fucking have.

“You want someone else, baby?” he presses, his voice dropping even further.

Your lips twist, a bratty huff escaping as your frustration crumbles under his intensity. “No, you fucking asshole.”

His head tilts, his lips quirking into something between a smirk and a grin. “No?” he mocks lightly, his tone teasing, coaxing.

“No,” you mumble, quieter this time.

He hums, leaning closer, his hand lifting to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger, grazing the side of your face as his gaze softens, his teasing edge dissolving into something heavier.

“And what do you want, baby?”

You blink, your eyes flicking to the thick line of his arm beside your face, his cologne and sweat mixing into something intoxicating. It fills your lungs, dizzying you more than you want to admit.

“You, idiot,” you mumble. “Want you.”

His lips twitch as he leans down, his voice a low hum against your mouth. “Y’wanna be mine, baby?”

Your eyes flutter shut, your body tilting toward him like it’s instinctual. His mouth grazes yours, soft and teasing, like he’s pretending to give you a choice.

But you know better.

There is no choice. It’s him. It’s always been him.

His lips press fully against yours, damp and plush from the way he’s been licking over them all night between backing vocals. You melt into the kiss, your hands slipping under the hem of his shirt to press against the warm, slightly sticky skin of his back. He leans in closer, jaw tilting as his tongue coaxes your mouth open. You keen softly, sucking the muscle between your lips and savoring the low groan he gives in return.

Then you pull back.

His eyes blink open slowly, a haze clouding his dark irises as he stares down at you.

“Do you want that?” you ask softly, tilting your head.

“Do I want you to be mine?” he echoes, his brows lifting slightly, his head shaking like the question is absurd.

You give him a pointed look, nodding just enough to make it bratty.

“I thought you were already mine,” he murmurs, his hands sliding down your dress. His touch is reverent, his gaze dipping over you as a satisfied grunt escapes his lips. “I’m already yours, baby..”

“Just mine,” you lean into his hold, your words brushing against his skin, “nobody else’s…”

“Just yours,” he nods firmly, leaning down to nudge his nose against yours, the softest smile tugging at his lips. “There’s been no one else since you, baby.”

The back of your neck tingles as his pretty nose drags along yours, his lips pressing a soft kiss to your pout before trailing down to nuzzle into the crook of your neck. His breath is warm, his lips brushing against your skin as he mumbles, “I just didn’t think you wanted the title…”

Your brows pull together, and your hands slide up to cup his face, tugging him back so you can look him in the eye. “I want the title.”

One corner of his mouth lifts into a crooked little smile, his head tilting just enough to press a kiss to your palm. “Okay,” he murmurs, his voice quiet but sure. “Then you can have it, angel.”

A hum of satisfaction escapes you, your hands squeezing his cheeks with a smile. He chuckles softly, leaning back down to steal another kiss, but you pull away before he can reach you.

“Oi,” he grumbles, the faintest pout forming on his lips. “Why? I want a kiss.”

Your hands drop from his face, crossing over your chest as you fix him with a look. “Ask me.”

His eyebrows shoot up, amusement flickering across his features. “What—? I thought we just—”

“No.” You huff, squinting at him as you take a step back, dodging his hands when he reaches for you. “I want the proper thing. I’ve been waiting so long for the girlfriend title. Ask me properly.”

Jungkook stares at you for a moment, his lips twitching as he fights back a groan at your cuteness. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” Your squint sharpens, your stance firm despite the way your heart jumps when his lips curve into a grin.

“Aishh,” he chuckles under his breath, shaking his head slightly before stepping closer. “Y/n,” he starts, voice soft but teasing, “will you be my girlf—”

“Yes!”

You don’t let him finish, grabbing the front of his shirt and yanking him down to meet your lips, cutting off the surprised huff he lets out. Your arms loop around his neck as you pull him in, tilting your head to deepen the kiss. His hands find your waist, steadying you, but you’re already slipping your tongue past his lips, swallowing the low groan he gives.

When you finally pull back for air, your breath is shaky, your lips humming. You stare at him, taking in his swollen mouth and the mess of his hair, his pupils blown wide they almost swallow the brown of his irises. He looks so good it’s almost fucking devastating.

“God, yes,” you murmur, your fingers brushing over his jaw before tugging him back down.

“You’re—okay with this—” Jungkook murmurs between heated kisses, his words coming in low breaths. “Your gap year’s almost over, baby—mmf—the distance… me being gone all the time?”

You pull back just enough to see his face, his dark eyes locking onto yours. His words hit you, and for a moment, all you can do is blink, your mind racing to keep up with the weight of what he’s asking.

“I can do my studies remotely,” you say finally, your voice soft but sure. Your hands slide up his shoulders as you tilt your head, searching his gaze for a hint of doubt. “I can…” You pause, swallowing as your heartbeat kicks up. “Like… travel with you, if you wanted—”

Jungkook surges forward, his lips claiming yours in a kiss that feels like he’s pouring every unspoken thought straight into your mouth. His hands grip your thighs, tugging you closer until your soft body’s pressed tight against him.

“Fuck,” Jungkook mutters, voice rough as his mouth moves against yours. The groan he lets out vibrates through you when you catch his bottom lip between your teeth, tugging lightly before letting it slip free. “I had no fucking idea, baby. I would’ve...”

You hum softly, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze, your breath coming in quick. “Would’ve what?”

His fingers tighten on the curve of your ass, holding you steady as he leans in, his lips brushing yours. “Would’ve made you mine the first time I fucking took you, baby,” he murmurs, his tongue slipping back into your mouth.

A breathy laugh escapes as you lean into him, your hands threading through the damp strands of his hair. “So... the first night we met?” you tease, your voice swallowed by his eager mouth.

“Pretty much,” he chuckles against your lips, his tone low and sinful as his hands drop to the backs of your thighs, hoisting you up easily. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, and he carries you the few steps to the couch, dropping down with you prettily perched in his lap.

His lips find yours again, hungrier, wetter. His tongue pushes into your mouth, licking deep into you, chasing the tang of raspberry seltzer still lingering on your tongue. His hands roam higher, sliding over the fabric of your dress, fingertips pressing as they search for skin.

Without breaking the kiss, your fingers fumble with the little zip at the front of your jacket, the metallic sound making him pause. Jungkook leans back just slightly, his gaze dropping to your hands as you slide the zipper down. His tongue darts over his lip as the fabric falls away, leaving your corset-top barely holding your tits in place.

“Fuck,” he breathes, the word guttural. His eyes trail over your exposed skin, his hands moving on instinct to pull the hem of your dress down. The fabric drops, and your breasts spill free into his waiting hands, his thumbs eagerly brushing over your hardened nipples.

His mouth surges forward, latching onto your left nipple with a deep groan. He exhales through his nose, the sound almost a sigh, like his whole body just relaxed the second he had you in his mouth.

“God,” you whimper, your hips rolling against the bulge in his jeans, your hands gripping the back of his neck as you tilt your head back in pleasure.

“Fuck,” he grunts around your nipple, his wide tongue swirling over the peak before sucking gently. “These fucking tits,” he mutters, his voice thick as his hands knead the soft flesh. “Big, juicy fucking tits. All fucking mine, yeah?”

“Mmmh,” you whine, grinding harder as your fingers tug at the ends of his long hair, your thighs tightening around his hips. “All yours, Jungkookie. Always been yours.”

His cock twitches beneath you at the nickname, and his eyes flick up to your face. He coos through his mouthful before gently switching to your other bud.

“All mine,” he mumbles, the words muffled as he chews softly on your hard nipple, pulling a breathy moan from your lips. His big hands press your tits together, bringing them closer to his face, and he pulls back slightly to hum. “All daddy’s, isn’t that right, angel?”

“Nnnm,” you whine, your hips stuttering against him as the teasing tone has you clenching around nothing. “Yes, daddy. All yours. No one else’s.”

“Mm, that’s my girl.” His tongue flicks over your nipple one last time, pulling a soft gasp from your lips before his hand slides up to the front of your throat.

He brings you back down to his mouth, your tongues meeting immediately, wet and eager. His grip stays steady on your neck, thumb brushing softly along the sides as your hands bury deeper into his hair. The roll of your hips against his lap matches the rhythm of the kiss, each grind pulling a quiet groan from his throat that vibrates into your mouth.

The room is silent save for the wet, slick sounds of your lips and the rustle of your dampening panties against his jeans. Jungkook’s fingers tighten slightly around your neck, and you lean into it, moaning lowly when he catches your tongue between his teeth.

You pull back, your breaths uneven as you take hold of the wrist still resting at your throat, guiding it away. Your eyes meet his as you bring his hand to your lips, your tongue flicking over the tips of his middle fingers before sucking them into your mouth. No reason, really. Because you want to. Becaue you can.

Jungkook’s gaze stays heavy on you, his lids low as his tongue drags over his lip. You release his fingers with a soft pop, and he licks the remnants of your saliva from his hand when you let go.

Sliding off his lap, you reach for the zipper of his jeans, pulling it down with haste. You shimmy the denim over his hips, just far enough to bare his briefs. His cock presses against the black fabric, hard and thick, the sight alone making your stomach rumble.

Leaning down, you brush your lips over the length of him, the heat of his cock radiating through the cotton. A soft, hungry hum slips from you, and Jungkook groans quietly, his head tipping back against the couch.

One of his hands moves to the cushion beside him, the other slipping into your hair, brushing it back as you mouth over his covered cock.

Your hand slides under the waistband of his briefs, your lip catching between your teeth as his warm, hard length pulses against your palm. You pull him free, savoring the low curse that slips from his lips when you guide it to your lips and take the thick tip into your mouth.

“Shit, baby,” he huffs, his hips lifting slightly as your tongue swirls over the head.

“That’s it,” he mutters, his voice rough and breathy. “Get it nice and wet for daddy. Go on, baby.”

Your eyelids feel heavy as you obey, pushing spit to the front of your mouth and soaking his tip in it. The slick sound fill the quiet room, mixing with Jungkook’s sharp breaths and the low grunts slipping from his lips.

Your tongue moves slowly, wetting him nice and thoroughly, and his fingers twitch where they hold your hair out of your face. His head tips back further, a deep groan escaping as his hips up rock into your mouth on instinct.

Your lips work sloppily over his length as you take him deeper, your hand pumping the base as he groans low in his chest. “Good girl, baby,” he mutters, his fingers brushing the curve of your jaw as he watches you, his lashes heavy. “Such a good fucking girl.”

The praise makes you ache, the wetness pooling between your legs unbearable. Jungkook seems to sense it, his hand wrapping around your arm to pull you off him with a wet pop. His lips are on yours the moment you’re upright, licking into your mouth like he’s chasing his own taste on your tongue.

You melt against him, humming softly as his hands cup your waist, guiding you back until your spine presses into the couch. He hovers over you, his bigger frame warm between your parted thighs. Your boots dig into the cushions on either side of him, but he doesn’t care. Neither do you.

Jungkook’s hands are hasty as he pushes the fabric of your dress up your thighs, exposing the black lace stretched over your dripping core. His adam’s apple bobs as he hums, his thumb brushing over the darkened patch where your slick has seeped through.

“So pretty, baby,” he murmurs, pressing his tattooed thumb firmly against you. The friction makes you gasp, your hips jerking toward his hand.

The lace doesn’t last long. He hooks his fingers into the waistband and pulls it down just enough to expose you, wasting no time before dipping down. His mouth latches onto your pussy in one go, his wide tongue licking a slow, filthy stripe over your slit.

“Fuck,” you breathe, your hands flying to his hair. The heat of his mouth is overwhelming, his tongue teasing your swollen clit before dragging down to press at your entrance. He groans as he tastes you, sucking your folds into his mouth like a greedy fuck.

You whimper when his teeth graze your clit, his tongue circling the bud before flicking over it repeatedly. The wet, sloppy sounds of his lips and tongue working against your pussy fills the room, and your hips buck against his face—

“Uh… J-Jungkook?”

You freeze, your eyes snapping to the door as your blood runs cold.

There is no fucking way.

Jungkook doesn’t stop. If anything, his movements grow greedier, his mouth slurping noisily at your cunt as though he didn’t hear a thing.

You bite back a moan when the bitch's voice comes again, shaky and hesitant. “Sorry, uh… your friends got you a driver, and it’s—uh—can you hear me? Should I come in?”

Your hand tightens in Jungkook’s hair as his tongue presses deep into your dripping hole. “Tell her to fuck off,” you gasp, your voice pitching higher when his lips close around your clit. “Jung- fuck- Jungkook.”

He hums into your pussy, the vibration shooting through you as his tongue drags lower. “You do it, baby,” he murmurs, the words muffled by your slick folds. His lips press deeper you as he mumbles. “Tell her your boyfriend’s busy, hm?”

Jungkook’s mouth doesn’t falter, his jaw working as he fits as much of you into his mouth as he can, lips wrapping around your folds while his tongue drags over your clit. His jaw moves, sucking and licking, pulling sinful sounds from your throat like it’s his final fucking mission.

His hand fumbles to the side of the couch, searching for something, but you barely register it through the haze of pleasure. “Jungkook, seriously—”

The girl’s voice cuts through again, louder this time. “Uh, I don’t know if you can hear me, so I’m going to come in—”

Before the words fully register, you feel it. The slick, cool tip of a drumstick sliding into your cunt.

“Fuck!” The cry rips from your throat, loud and uncontrollable as your back arches off the couch. The stretch is sharp, sudden, but it has your toes curling, pleasure overtaking every thought as your grip tightens on his hair.

The sound outside the door ceases instantly, but you couldn’t give a fuck less.

Jungkook doesn’t stop, his tongue relentless as it flicks over your clit, fast and precise, his lips drenched as they lap at your soaked pussy. He glances up, watching you through his lashes, his big eyes dark as he gauges your reaction.

He’s slipped plenty of things inside you before—his fingers, his cock, even the handle of a vibrator… but never this. He’d be lying if he said it wasn’t a fantasy of his, something he’d thought about during one too many late-night practices when you were at home and he was missing you.

“That okay, baby?” he murmurs with a mouth full of pussy. His long fingers grip the drumstick firmly, holding it still, not pushing deeper until you give the green light. His thumb brushes the edge of your clit, adding another layer of friction as his tongue continues its work. “Gonna let daddy fuck you with it, baby?”

“Yesss,” you whine, your head lolling against the couch. Your thighs tremble around his head as you pant, the word spilling from your lips like a fucking prayer. “Yes, please, daddy. God, I fucking want it, baby, please.”

Jungkook groans into your cunt as he presses the drumstick deeper, the slick glide making your legs quake. His tongue continues it's soft, wet work against your clit, a little slower as he eases the stick into your hole.

He works it in deeper, his pace quickening with every breathy moan that falls from your lips. The smooth wood glides in and out of your pussy with ease, covered in your juices everytime it pulls out, and the angle he’s hitting has your back arching into his mouth, your thighs trembling around his head.

“Fuckk,” you gasp, your nails scratching into the couch, desperate for something to hold onto as the thin stick brushes your g-spot. “Fuck, daddy—”

He groans against you, his lips dragging over your clit before his tongue flicks faster and faster. “That good, baby?” He hums, “daddy making you feel good, hm?”

“So fucking gooodd,” you cry, your chest heaving, your hips chasing the movements of his hand as he thrusts the drumstick faster. Your walls clamp around it as your head spins, tears welling in your eyes.

Jungkook gives one more slurp before pulling back just enough to catch your fucked-out expression. His lips glisten with your slick, hair messy from your tugging. “Want the other one, baby?” he asks, voice honeyed with mockery as his thumb brushes over your clit.

You whimper without hesitation, your thighs clenching around his head. “Fuck, please, daddy. Please.”

“Mmm,” he hums in satisfaction, his tongue dragging a long, wet stripe over your clit as he reaches for the second stick.

You barely have a moment to prepare before the second one presses into you, your toes curling as he works it in beside the first. “Oh my fuck,” you choke, your head falling back against the couch.

Jungkook’s jaw clenches as he watches you, his hands tight around the sticks as he thrusts them together, slow at first, then faster. And faster.

His greedy mouth is back on you, his tongue lapping at your clit, wet and messy, the dirty, soppy sounds of his lips and the squelch of your pussy taking the drumsticks echoing in the room.

“Fuck,” you moan, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps as your hips buck into his mouth. “Gonna fucking cum, daddy. So—fuck, uhhhhh!”

“That’s it, baby,” he growls, his lips wrapping around your swollen bud, sucking hard as he thrusts the drumsticks relentlessly into you. “Show that bitch who’s daddy’s girl, huh? Gonna cum on my tongue? On my drumsticks? ‘Cause only you can, huh baby? My fucking baby.”

Your whole body seizes at his words, your head snapping back as a strangled cry rips from your throat. Your vision blacks out, your body trembling violently as the orgasm rips through you.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” you sob, your walls clenching hard around the sticks as wetness gushes out, soaking his hand, his mouth, the couch beneath you. Jungkook groans loudly, his lips glued to your clit as he sucks you through it, his tongue flicking over the nub as you writhe beneath him.

“That’s my fucking girl,” Jungkook groans, his voice thick as he leans in for one last lick, dragging his tongue slowly up your pretty slit. He pulls back just enough to watch your pussy twitch, glistening and flushed, clenching around the sticks as you whimper weakly.

“Jungkookie,” you manage through trembling breaths, your body trembling under his heavy gaze. “Th-thank you, fuck.”

He hums against you, his big eyes darting up to meet yours as his lips curl into a satisfied smirk. “Any fucking time, baby, shitt.”

You shudder as he finally eases the drumsticks out of you, slick dripping from the tips as your thighs twitch. You watch through hooded eyes as he raises them to his lips, sucking your wetness off, the hollow of his throat bobbing at the sweet taste. Once clean, he tosses them carelessly to the side, licking over his lips as his gaze drops back down to your wrecked cunt.

“Messy girl,” he murmurs, voice low and teasing as his fingers trace over the sticky mess between your thighs.

Your eyes fall lower, catching the tip of his cock peeking out from the waistband of his briefs, red and dripping. Your breath catches, your hands instinctively sliding up his arms, tracing the ink there as your gaze stays locked on it.

Jungkook notices, his tongue running over his swollen lips as he chuckles. “You want it, baby?”

You swallow hard, your eyes flicking up to meet his through your lashes. “Please, daddy.”

He groans softly at the way you look at him, nodding before leaning down to capture your lips in a kiss. It’s so wet, everything is wet as your lips part to welcome his tongue when he licks into your mouth, giving you every bit of the taste of yourself. You suck greedily on his tongue, and he groans low in his chest, his hands finding your waist as he pulls you closer.

Your hands slide up to wrap around his neck, holding him as he reaches down between you, adjusting his briefs and pulling himself free. He pulls back slightly to look down as he drags the tip of his cock through your soaking folds, catching on your clit.

“Need to fuck you so bad, baby,” he mutters, his voice rasping with need. “Need you to feel how much I fucking love you.”

Your breath hitches, your hands tightening around his neck as his words hang between you. His cock stills against your entrance once he realizes what he just said, his head snapping up.

“You love me?” you whisper, your voice quiet as your gaze flicks between his eyes.

He blinks, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard. Then, with a soft nod, he admits it. "So much, baby."

You beam, your face breaking into the brightest smile, and it’s enough to make his chest swell. You tug him down to you, pressing your lips to his in a wet, giddy kiss.

His lips are soft against yours, but the way he kisses you is anything but. It’s raw as his tongue slides against yours, his hands tightening around your waist, pouring himself into you.“I love you, J. Holy shittt, baby!!”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes scanning your face as he smiles, his lips red and swollen. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, so fucking giddy, your hands cradling his face as you lean up to kiss him again. “Now fuck me, please.”

He chuckles, the sound low and sweet before leaning down to press a kiss to your neck. His lips brush against your skin as he shifts, lining himself back up with your entrance.

The moment he pushes in, your breath catches. The stretch burns so good as he sinks into you slowly, his cock thick and pulsing, the loud, slick sound of your arousal filling the room as he bottoms out.

“Fuck,” Jungkook groans, his head falling forward as his hands grip your thighs. “So fucking wet, baby. You fucking feel that?”

“Y-yeah,” you stammer, your fingers digging into his shoulders as you adjust to the fullness. “So full, Jungkookie.”

He groans at the sound of his name, his hips pulling back before thrusting forward, a little harder this time. You gasp, your back arching into him as he sets a slow, deep pace, every thrust hitting you delicious and deep.

“So fucking good, baby,” he mutters, his voice thick with praise. “So perfect for me. Take me so well, always.”

Your hands find his hair, tugging at the strands as your head falls back, exposing your neck to him. He takes the opportunity, his lips finding your skin, sucking at the flesh as his thrusts grow faster.

The wet sounds of your bodies moving together, the squelch of your pussy soaking him, his breathy groans and your desperate moans— they drown out every other thought.

“Fuck, Jungkookie,” you cry out, your legs locking tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper. “Y-yes, yes, oh my goddd.”

He grunts low in his chest, his pace quickening as he chases your high, each thrust hitting your g-spot with reckless precision. “That’s it, baby,” he rasps, his voice rough and wrecked, eyes glued to the way your tits bounce with every snap of his hips. “Cum for your boyfriend. C'mon. Show me how much you fucking love me.”

“Fuck, baby—fuck!” your voice breaks into a high-pitched whine, the sound desperate as your nails dig into the sweaty shirt stretched over his back. “Gonna fuckingg cummm, baby. God, fuck—fuck—”

You shatter around him, your orgasm crashing over you in a sore wave, your body shaking as your pussy clamps down on his cock. Jungkook groans, his lips finding yours to swallow your cries as his thrusts don’t relent, driving you through every pulse.

“Gonna take my cum, baby?” he grits out against your lips, your head tipping back as his breath fans over your sweaty skin. His hands tighten their hold on your thighs, keeping you locked in place. “Huh? Gonna take it all ‘cause you love me so fucking much, yeah?”

“Y-yes, baby,” you sob, your body jerking from the oversensitivity as he keeps pushing deeper and deeper. “I fucking love you, Jungkookie—please, give it to me. Give it, baby. Fucking give it!”

A deep, guttural curse spills from his lips as he stills, his cock buried deep as his release hits. Warmth floods your hole as he fills you, every drop making you whimper, your legs trembling around him. His forehead drops to your neck, his damp hair sticking to your skin as he pants heavily.

“God, I fucking love you,” he mutters, his voice thick as he presses his lips to your collarbone. “Never gonna get over saying that.”

“My sappy boyfriend,” you tease, your fingers threading through his sweaty hair, scratching softly at his scalp as he groans into your skin. “Who would’ve thought?”

Jungkook lifts his head, his dark eyes narrowing as he gives you a look. You smile sweetly, dragging a finger across his swollen lips as you snicker. “I love you too, daddy.”

sorry for the delay, i was having a mental breakdown bites lips

2K notes · View notes

nouearth · 2 months ago

Text

when the snow settles.

clark kent x male reader.

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘. clark’s busy spoiling his sick boyfriend with cookies and cuddles—until things heat up when someone decides a kiss (and more) is the real cure for a cold.

𝐅𝐋𝐔𝐅𝐅 & 𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓. one-shot [ 6.0k ].

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒. male reader 〳 corenswet!clark 〳 established relationship 〳 sick!reader 〳 christmas!au 〳 sexual content: top!clark, bottom!reader, belly-bulging, breeding, rimming (r!receiving), praising, body worship, clark can alter the temp of his body (and dick).

Snow fell softly outside the apartment, blanketing Metropolis in a serene hush that contrasted sharply with the sound of sniffling from the couch. Clark’s living room was cozy, aglow with the golden twinkle of Christmas lights strung up around the windows. The faint scent of pine mingled with the sweet aroma of gingerbread baking in the oven, though the stuffy haze of your cold dulled the sharpness of both.

You sat bundled in a mountain of blankets, a tissue box on one side and a half-empty mug of tea on the other. Despite the misery of a congested head and the scratchy soreness in your throat, you couldn’t help but watch Clark with a mix of amusement and adoration.

In the kitchen, he moved with a carefree confidence, humming along to Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas as it played softly on his phone. He had insisted on baking cookies for the evening, declaring it the perfect way to boost your holiday cheer. Not that you needed much help in that department—his reindeer antler headband, bouncing with every step he took, was doing most of the work.

His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing his strong forearms, and his glasses had fogged up slightly from the warmth of the oven. Even with the goofy apron he wore—a red and green monstrosity with “Santa’s Favorite Helper” embroidered across the front—he looked unfairly attractive.

Clark glanced over his shoulder at you, a soft smile spreading across his face as his gaze met yours. “You okay over there?” he asked, his voice gentle. “Need more tea? Another blanket? A better boyfriend?”

You groaned theatrically, flopping back into the throw pillows. “What I need is for my head to stop feeling like it’s stuffed with cotton.”

And stones—your flair for drama only worsened the throbbing ache from the sudden movement.

Setting down a tray of freshly baked cookies, Clark wiped his hands on a dishtowel and made his way over to you. He knelt beside the couch, one hand reaching up to take the temperature from your forehead while the other rested lightly on your knee through the blanket.

His touch was warm, steady, grounding.

“Still running hot. Sorry you’re feeling this way,” he said sincerely, his brow furrowing just a little. “If I could punch a cold in the face, you know I would.”

You laughed, but it quickly dissolved into a coughing fit. Clark was at your side in an instant, his hand rubbing gentle circles on your back until the worst of it passed. “It’s so unfair that you never get sick,” you rasped, your voice rough and strained. “You’re just… immune to everything. Meanwhile, I’m over here melting into a Christmas puddle.”

“Wow. This is the thanks I get for baking you cookies? My boyfriend wishing ill on me?” He chuckled, resting his elbows on the edge of the couch to stay level with your gaze. "If it makes you feel better, Krypto would probably be thrilled to drink you up if you were a puddle! Likes his water from the spring... spoiled dog."

His grin was boyish and a little smug, and you rolled your eyes at him, though the corners of your lips twitched upward.

“What I’m saying is… we could’ve been sick together,” you muttered, “But I can’t even enjoy them. Look here.” You picked up one of the gingerbread cookies Clark had carefully decorated earlier, the icing swirls and tiny candy buttons a testament to his painstaking attention to detail.

The cookie felt firm yet inviting in your hand, its edges slightly crisp and still warm from the oven. Breaking off a piece, you popped it into your mouth, hopeful that even through the fog of your cold, some of the sweetness might break through.

Instead, all you got was the texture—a faint crunch that dissolved into a soft crumble on your tongue. The spice you knew should be there, the warm bite of ginger and cinnamon that normally screamed Christmas, was muted to the point of nonexistence.

You frowned, swallowing the flavorless bite with effort. A sharp, scratchy sting flared in your throat, the dry irritation making each swallow feel more uncomfortable than the last. The lack of taste was almost offensive, a cruel reminder of how thoroughly your cold had robbed you of simple joys.

Clark’s eyes flicked over to you, catching your expression as you set the rest of the cookie down with a defeated sigh. “Nothing?” he asked, his voice tinged with sympathy.

“Absolutely nothing,” you muttered, your voice still scratchy. “I might as well be eating cardboard.”

Clark chuckled softly, getting up on his feet to sit beside you. “Guess that means more for me, huh?” He reached for a cookie, his teasing grin faltering when he saw your pout, but his craving persisted nonetheless. “Hey, don’t worry,” he added, nudging your shoulder gently. “Once you’re better, I’ll bake you a whole new batch. Extra ginger, just the way you like it.”

“Yeah…”

Clark bit into a gingerbread cookie with gusto, clearly enjoying his own handiwork as he snuggled beside you on the couch.

“Mmm,” he hummed dramatically, his eyes widening as he made a show of savoring the bite. “Oh, wow. These might be my best yet. Sweet, spicy, perfectly baked—chef’s kiss.” He gestured extravagantly, grinning like he’d just won a baking competition.

“Not saying these aren’t good, but I’m pretty sure the last time you made cookies, Krypto got more excited than I did."

You were about to roll your eyes at his antics when you noticed a speck of icing clinging to the corner of his mouth and a small crumb nestled in the dimple of his cheek. It was such a ridiculously human detail—charming in its imperfection—that you felt a sudden pang of affection bloom in your chest.

“Here,” you said, laughing softly as you reached up and brushed the crumb away with your thumb, your fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary. His skin was warm, and the bashful smile that tugged at his lips made your stomach flip.

“Didn't stop you from cleaning out the cookie tray...” he murmured, his cheeks pinking slightly as he quickly licked the icing from the corner of his mouth, completely oblivious to how endearing he looked. "Thanks."

You shook your head, biting back a grin. “You’re a mess,” you teased, but your voice was far softer than usual, betraying just how much the sight of him—unpolished, sweet, and so effortlessly Clark—had utterly disarmed you.

Clark’s smile softened, and he pressed a gentle kiss to your temple. His lips lingered for a moment, warm and impossibly tender against your fevered skin. When he pulled back, he looked at you with that impossibly earnest expression that always made your heart twist.

“It’s nice, though, isn’t it?” Clark murmured, his voice soft and warm, like the glow of the Christmas lights reflecting off his glasses. “The cookies, the Christmas specials, the decorations… being snowed in together. Like a Hallmark movie, but… not terrible?”

You could see the flicker of nostalgia in his eyes as he spoke, his tone carrying a quiet sincerity that made your heart ache in the best way. The soft crackle of the digital fireplace playing on the TV and the distant hum of holiday music only made the moment feel more intimate, as if the world outside had disappeared entirely.

A warmth spread through your chest that had nothing to do with fever. Clark had this infuriating knack for making everything—even being sick—feel like a kind of blessing, as long as he was beside you.

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, your voice rough but laced with affection. “Talking like I’ve got only two months left to live…” You tried for sarcasm, but the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you.

Clark’s grin softened into something more tender, his gaze unwavering as he watched you. “Yeah,” you admitted quietly, letting out a small sigh. “It’s nice. Really nice.”

The weight of your words hung between you for a moment, and the corners of Clark’s mouth twitched upward again, this time into a bashful little smile. He didn’t say anything more—he didn’t need to.

Instead, his hand found yours beneath the blanket, his thumb brushing softly against your knuckles, as if to say everything he didn’t put into words.

You knew he was the strongest man in the world, but it was these quiet moments—his sincerity, his kindness—that made you feel like you were the one holding something unbreakable.

Clark squeezed your hand gently, his expression melting into something tender and a little uncertain. He studied you for a long moment, his eyes scanning your face like he was trying to memorize every detail. “You’re sure you’re okay?” he asked softly. “I mean, really okay? I know I’m supposed to cheer you up, but I don’t want to push too much—especially if you’re not feeling great.”

You leaned your head back against the cushions, exhaling a soft sigh. “Clark, I’m fine,” you said, your voice still raspy but carrying enough exasperation to make your point. “I mean, yeah, I feel like I’ve been hit by a snowplow, but it’s not like I’m about to collapse.” Your lips quirked into a small, teasing smile as you tilted your head toward him.

“Besides, you’ve already gone above and beyond. The cookies, the mistletoe, the cozy speeches… you’re basically an elf on the shelf who magically transformed into the perfect boyfriend overnight.” You reached over, your other hand settling on Clark's broad shoulders as you gently rubbed them, a silent gesture of appreciation.

Clark chuckled at that, but the faint blush on his cheeks deepened. “Well, I don’t know about perfect…” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck in that adorably bashful way that made your chest tighten.

“Perfect,” you repeated, a little firmer this time, giving his hand a squeeze. “Even in that ridiculous apron.”

He let out a breathy laugh, and the sound sent a flutter through you. The way his smile lingered—soft and boyish, but edged with a quiet intensity—made your stomach flip. His thumb absentmindedly traced circles on the back of your hand, and though the gesture was small, it felt impossibly intimate.

“Clark,” you mumbled, leaning in slightly, the hoarseness of your voice making his name sound heavier, more charged. “Stop worrying so much.”

“I can’t help it,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a low murmur. His eyes flicked to your lips before darting away, a faint flicker of hesitation passing over his features. “You’re sick. I don’t want to… you know… make it worse.”

You couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled out of you, though it quickly turned into a cough. Clark’s expression immediately shifted to concern, but you waved him off, catching your breath as you gave him a lopsided grin.

“Clark, I’m not made of glass. And for the record,” you added, your voice softening as you leaned in just a little closer with the support of your elbows, “I think kissing you would make me feel a whole lot better. Best medicine and all that.”

His ears turned an impressive shade of red, and he ducked his head slightly, his grin both shy and disbelieving. “You’re trouble, you know that?” he said, his voice tinged with a mixture of exasperation and fondness.

You shrugged, your grin turning sly. “And yet, you’re still here.”

“I’m still here,” he echoed softly, his voice carrying a weight of affection that made your heart ache in the best way. His gaze lingered on you, and for a moment, the room seemed to shrink, the soft glow of the Christmas lights casting him in a golden halo.

Slowly, tentatively, Clark leaned in, his free hand coming up to cup your jaw. “If you wake up tomorrow feeling worse,” he whispered, his lips brushing against yours in the barest of touches, “I’m blaming you.”

“Noted,” you whispered back, your breath mingling with his as you tilted your head to close the distance between you.

Strange. You hadn’t noticed the scent of cinnamon when he first brought out the cookies, but now, with your lips inching closer to his—like two cookies spreading and melding into one—you could almost convince yourself you were cured. Almost, if not for the stubborn stuffiness in your nose.

The kiss was gentle at first, as if Clark was afraid you might shatter beneath him. But when you let out a soft, contented sigh and threaded your fingers through his hair, his restraint wavered.

He deepened the kiss, his lips moving against yours with a warmth and intensity that made you forget all about the congestion and sore throat. His hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer as his other hand pressed lightly against your waist beneath the blanket.

You tugged him closer still, your lips parting to let him in as the heat between you began to build. Clark’s kisses were like him—steady, powerful, and infused with an overwhelming tenderness that made your head spin. When he finally pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, both of you were breathing harder, the warmth of the moment erasing the chill of the winter night.

“Feeling better yet?” he asked, his voice teasing, though the worry flickering in his eyes betrayed him. It wasn’t just concern over your condition—it was something deeper, a quiet struggle to hold himself back. Not when you looked so effortlessly beautiful, your disheveled state a product of his presence.

“Better,” your voice came out in a whisper, your hand resting lightly on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm before traveling around his torso to untie his apron. “But I think I might need a few more rounds just to be sure.”

Clark let out a soft laugh as you tossed the fabric to the floor, his thumb grazing your cheek in a tender gesture. “You’re impossible,” he murmured, but this time the words were thick with affection. His teeth caught his lower lip as your hands lingered at the waistband of his pajama pants, your intentions unmistakable with the gentle tug at his drawstring.

“You sure?” he asked sincerely, large, calloused hands pressing all over your body, but mainly your bare stomach, where he began mapping out heat zones over the plane.You could feel the strength of his abdomen beneath the thickness of his sweater as your hand gently traced his body in admiration. Biting your lip, you reached up to remove his glasses and nodded.

"If you don’t mind taking care of me tonight.”

There was something about the way Clark watched you during moments like these. You couldn’t tell if it was the warmth of his touch or the intensity of his gaze that made you feel so small, so vulnerable. Either way, you savored it—the sensation of being his entire focus, the apple of his eye, and nothing else.

Your stomach sank when he slid his third finger inside of your tight hole, joining his twinned index and middle.

“I can never get tired of this…” you mumbled, unbuttoning the rest of your pajama top when the pressure below heightened your body temperature.

“I’ll say,” Clark hummed, a growing mass forming large in his pants as he was knelt on the bed, gently working you open. The sound of his lubed fingers twisting and curling deep inside of you made his cock jolt, your cheeks reddening as a result of his attraction.

Clark had always been patient, but when it came to having you submit under his touch, he seemed to relish every second. His hands moved slowly, pressing and kneading at just the right spots, his fingers curling deep and slow to the rhythm of your heart while his other hand rubbed small and smooth circles over your stomach.

It wasn’t just about easing your tension—it was about watching you. The way your breath hitched when he found a tender spot, the subtle flutter of your lashes, the way your lips parted with a moan when he spread his three digits—it all captivated him.

He couldn’t help but grin softly as his hands worked their magic, savoring the reactions that only he could coax from you. For Clark, the real reward wasn’t just in soothing your aches—it was in seeing your face completely melt under his touch, your body reacting wantonly because you craved for more.

And with that, Clark went on to give you more. Knowing how sensitive your body’s condition was in the moment, he carefully pushed your legs up, his large hands stabilizing you by the thighs, and replaced the fill of his fingers with his inquisitive tongue.

Like his fingers, he started out slow and deliberate, tracing the swollen ring of muscle to sample the fresh layer of artificially-flavored lube dripping out of your hole. He licked you with a casual ease, but the look in his eyes was anything but.

“Smells like coconut,” you sniffled softly as he lifted his head to press a few kisses to your inner thighs. The warmth of his breath lingered on your skin, but your attention caught on the sticky sheen smeared across his cheek, a glistening trace of slick that made your cock twitch.

“Close… coconut cream pie. More vanilla than I was expecting, if I had to be honest…”

A tender smile curved your lips as your fingers found their way into his hair, the soft strands slipping through your fingertips. You began to pet his head gingerly, your touch slow and soothing, grounding both of you in the moment.

“Love you.”

Clark leaned into your hand instinctively, a low hum of contentment rumbling from his chest. His eyes fluttered shut briefly, the tension in his broad shoulders melting under your touch, and for a moment, the world outside seemed to fade away entirely.

“I love you too, (M/N).”

His gaze flicked to yours, a sudden spark of mischief between the blinds of his eyelashes, before he paused for a moment, letting the anticipation build, and kept a watchful eye on you while he slowly pushed out his spit to drizzle it over your wet hole.

Then, with agonizing precision, he pushed the remainder of the saliva into the center of your opening, the wet, methodical slck of the motion sending a jolt of heat down your spine.

“Fuck…” Your fingers curled into his hair until they were grasping, pushing him and his tongue deeper into you while simultaneously rutting your hips against him.

Clark was a hungry man. He made sure to clean up any traces of his spit and lube with that thick tongue of his, slurping the remnants before adding onto it again with a generous amount of spit. Every time you thought the trail of saliva was dripping dangerously close to the bed sheets, Clark’s intuition was strong enough to blindly guide him to the leak, deftly licking it back up and kissing your flesh in passing.

He would never waste a single drop.

A quiet, satisfied moan escaped him, low and drawn out, as if savoring the sweetness of the lube and your flesh was a private indulgence. His eyes never left yours as his nose rubbed at your taint in midst of his devouring, The smile that curled at his lips—glazed and glistening—was a challenge, a silent dare that made the air between you feel heavy.

Heavier, when he found the right rhythm of flicking his tongue to make your body writhe under him.

“Clark, please…” you whined, one hand massaging your loose balls while the other toyed with your nipple, pleasuring yourself not only to the sight of Clark indulging in the warmth and taste of your flesh, but also his naked torso.

His chest rose and fell steadily, each inhale making his broad shoulders flex, the faint sheen of sweat catching the light. The planes of his abdomen looked carved, every ridge and dip inviting your eyes to linger, compelling your cock to leak out of sheer astonishment.

His arms were just as mesmerizing—thick and powerful, with veins running along his forearms that seemed to pulse with quiet authority, especially so when he’d alternative between working your hole open with his fingers and tongue again.

The strength they promised wasn’t just physical but protective. Those arms of his were built to shield and hold you.

When he finally pulled away, his gaze lingered, watching as you panted breathlessly, your chest rising and falling, desperate for him to finish what he had so teasingly begun. The tension hung there, thick and electric, like the moment itself had slowed just for the two of you.

He took off the remainder of his clothes before sprawling himself over you, his broad frame hovering just above yours while you seized the opportunity to thank him of his service. Between gentle kisses that Clark needed to get out of his system before he would lose himself in your body, you generously applied a glorious amount of lube on his large cock, though not letting Clark’s kisses answer to nobody.

His muscles pressed gently against you, the solid strength of his chest rising and falling with each breath when you took a couple of moments to thoroughly layer him in slick—to silently appreciate him for his efforts in lifting your spirits throughout the week with firm strokes.

The weight of his cock in your hands was satisfying, hefty enough to make you pause and marvel at the sheer size of it. You couldn’t get used to it, nor did you want to.

“You comfortable? Need more pillows? Tell me if your body starts hurting, okay?” Clark asked, suppressing his moans by showering your neck and face in small, lithe kisses.

His hands roamed your body at their own free-will before they began fixating on your arms, where your goosebumps were discernible. His brows furrowed in concern.

“Little cold…” One arm looped around to caress Clark by the nape, holding his forehead flushed to your own, while your other hand continued to stroke him between your collective hip grinds. You shivered again, despite being nestled so close to him, the draft still biting at your skin.

“Give me a moment,” he murmured softly, the heat of his breath brushing your ear.

You looked up at him, puzzled, but before you could ask what he meant, Clark pulled back just slightly, enough to give himself space to move. Without a word, he began to shift, his body warm and powerful as he adjusted his position. A flicker of surprise passed through you when you saw the subtle concentration on his face, but before you could ask again, you felt it when he pressed himself on top of you again, lowering his hips.

Clark’s body temperature seemed to rise—slowly, but steadily, until you could feel a gentle heat radiating off him. It was as if he was adjusting his own internal warmth, shifting it just for you. Your eyes widened in disbelief, but the shiver running through your body eased, the cold gradually melting away as his warmth enveloped you.

“You should be good now,” he said, his voice low and calm while he pulled you back into his arms, his skin now perfectly heated against yours.

You nestled against him again, finally able to relax as the cold left you entirely. “Not even going to ask,” you graced him with a kiss, reaching between your pelvis and his to adjust his cock against your hole and nodded. “I’m good to go.”

“Love you so much…” He took you by the jaw and slotted his lips into yours once more, grounding the wavering of your breath with his protection before he pushed his hips forth.

“It’s so… big, C-Clark—“ you groaned, clenching your eyes shut through the bittersweet tension of his large cock opening you up.

Clark whispered several I know’s over your lips, a strong effort in placating the pain surging beneath you, while taking a few pauses for you to catch your breath, for Clark to catch his because—you were so tight.

"You're so tight..." Clark seemed to have admitted in a whisper without realizing.

You felt yourself swell within seconds, the crown of your insides clenching him and pushing him out all at the same time, but Clark remained resilient, pushing, and pushing, allowing you to feel the slow, deliberate pressure inside of you, until he was finally deeply rooted inside of you to the hilt, earning himself a deep guttural groan from you as a reward.

“You feel so good, baby. So, so good. Taking me so well…” He peppered your whimpers with soft kisses, his words soothing you as his boyish smile remained, warm and comforting, easing you with each gentle touch and praise.

“You’re so warm too…” you muttered into the palm of his hand, kissing him at the calloused skin before you returned back to his plush lips.

Your breath caught in your throat as you shifted, the feeling of being filled growing deeper, fuller with every inch of Clark’s large cock moving inside of you. Clark’s large palm rested on your stomach, caressing over the bulge that seemed to move in conjunction with his slow, methodical thrusts.

He had never mentioned it, but you knew it was a sight that he secretly loved. Clark's eyes softened with admiration as he watched, his gaze lingering on the subtle curve of your stomach. It was unmistakable, the way it had begun to gently bulge with every rut of his hips, becoming more prominent depending on the strength, the fullness a natural sign of the way your body had been affected by what you’d taken.

And what you had taken was Clark’s love and devotion to you—his thick cock making you gape and swell from beneath.

It wasn’t easy, not by any means, but there was an undeniable pull in watching your stomach swell from his cock—an almost desperate craving for the mixture of pain and pleasure, for the way it made your body react even though your mind wavered between wanting to resist and wanting to surrender completely.

He couldn’t help but marvel at it, his fingertips lightly grazing the curve, tracing its outline with a reverent touch. The way your body had responded to him, the way it molded to the shape of the intimate moment, filled him with a quiet awe. He leaned in, brushing a soft kiss against your skin, his voice low and hushed. “You’re perfect,” he murmured, a hint of wonder in his tone, as if he couldn’t quite believe the sight before him.

Clark was never one to boast, but in this moment, the glint in his eyes spoke volumes. He’d never been so proud of having someone like you—someone so determined—take all of his girth with such unwavering focus despite the tears in your eyes. Happy tears, to which he’d only create more of, when he gently pressed on the bulge in your stomach and sandwiched his cock within your insides, plunging himself deep inside of you until the only sounds that came out of your throat were guttural.

“C-Clark—oh, god…” your cock was dripping in pre-cum, throbbing to the weight of his cock hollowing you out as he sped up his hips and pushed you deeper into the bed on instinct. You held onto his muscular shoulders as he clutched onto your waist and rocked you back and forth along to his deep thrusts.

“God, I’m so deep inside of you. Is this okay, baby? Is it okay that I’m making love to you like this? I’m being selfish, aren’t I?”

“No-please! I l-love it so much, Clark. Fuck. Keep fucking me like that… wouldn’t want anything more—”

“Like this? You like how I’m so deep inside of you to the point where your tummy’s swelling? So… good. You look so good for me…”

His forehead connected to yours again, panting over your mouth and taking a moment to marvel over how he had rendered you speechless before he could muster up the energy to kiss you again, to draw out another sound from you with his tongue.

The warmth of his mouth was almost feverish, his breath mingling with yours in a tangled, wet dance. Each movement was smooth and sensual, your tongues exploring, tasting, tracing the contours of each other’s mouths with growing eagerness. The wetness of it—the gentle press of his lips, the slick glide of your tongues—made the kiss feel all the more intoxicating, as if every flick and sweep brought you deeper into him.

Clark’s body temperature only seemed to have gotten warmer, affecting you from the inside and out as his cock was synchronous.

You could feel Clark’s dick heat you up from the inside, seemingly softening your guts to make the ease of fully wrecking you all the more easier. With each kiss, praise, and thrust, your body melted further, feeling as soft and pliable as butter left out in the warmth. The tension in your muscles faded, replaced by a liquid sensation that spread through you, leaving you entirely at ease and whimpering in his hot embrace.

The faint sheen of sweat gave him an undeniable rawness, a physicality that made your heart race. You were mesmerized by the way it clung to him, the way the droplets caught the light before sliding slowly down his torso.

Each movement he made only seemed to draw you in more, the heat radiating from his body intensifying the pull you felt. You couldn’t tear your eyes away, infatuated not just by his strength, but by the way he looked so alive, so real—like the sweat was proof of his effort, his focus, and the raw intensity of how he was making love to you and that tantalizing hole of yours.

“You’re fucking me so good, Clark. I could come like this, baby—just like this…”

“And when you make a mess—not if, but when—I’ll treat you like the prince you are. I’ll clean you up with my mouth, let you watch me lick every drop away with my tongue, and then I’ll kiss you, giving you a taste of your love for me.”

His skin, damp with the effort of his keen need to wreck you, left a trail of warmth and moisture as he pounded you, a strong, animalistic friction that made every touch feel more intimate and passionate, that made the current position of him mounting you and bending your knees till they touched your chest despite your condition well worthwhile and all the more rewarding.

It was a sound that matched the intensity of the connection between you both—no words needed, just the symphony of his sweaty skin meeting yours, and his cock hollowing you out until you two had made a permanent imprint on the mattress.

Clark’s breath hitched as he watched you, his eyes soft and filled with admiration contrasting with his hardened thrusts. “You look so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick with awe. “Just… so perfect.”

His hand moved to your stomach again, evidently in love with the way you swelled from his cock, the weight of the moment sinking in with the aid of the bed creaking, and Clark’s sweaty skin slapping against you.

Every word he spoke, every gentle press of his lips, seemed to soften you, coaxing out of the cold that had been restricting you. It was as though you were being molded by his touch, the heat of his affection spreading through your veins, leaving you pliant, relaxed, and willing to give yourself entirely to him.

All sensation coursing through you was a tangled mess of pleasure and overwhelming intensity. Your body was on the verge of unraveling with every deep thrust of Clark’s. You could feel him swell, veins throbbing inside of you, his balls twitching as he was nearing his high just as you were.

Your eyes fluttered closed, the edges of your vision blurring the harder he pounded into you like an animal, like he was beating away at your cold, and you could feel yourself slipping into a blissful madness.

It was almost too much, yet it felt like the most real thing you’d ever known. Your body trembled from the weight of his body on you, from the girth that Clark was destroying you open with. Every muscle was tight with anticipation, yet you managed to hold onto a smile, the corners of your lips twitching despite the storm raging inside you, your cock throbbing and leaking in overdrive in warning.

“C-Clark..!“

Your hands instinctively found their way around Clark's neck, pulling him closer as if to anchor yourself in the moment. The kiss you pressed against his lips was desperate, full of need and grounding, a silent plea for him to steady you in the chaos as your balls tightened up into your core.

With each breathless press of your mouth to his, you found a sliver of control, a tether to the reality of his presence, even as the pleasure threatened to send you into pure blissful madness.

“I know—me too—“

Your smile lingered, your mind teetered on the edge, savoring every second, every touch, every thrust, and every heartbeat that connected you both, until the very moment where Clark’s name slipped from your lips in a breathless gasp.

“Clark—“

The tension had reached its peak, and when it finally broke, it was like a wave crashing over you, overwhelming and all-consuming. You came in a shared, fervent release. All muscles in your body was taut with desire, the culmination of your love for him unraveling in the form of thick white ropes shooting out of your cock, decorating your bulging stomach with layers upon layers, some splattering onto Clark’s body from the sheer amount of power and arousal.

Clark’s grip on you tightened, his body shuddering against yours as he gave into the same release, his breath ragged in the wake of it. His name left your lips in a soft, trembling sigh as he spilled his warm, thick seed deep inside of your raw hole. He left you breathless, thick, and steady, flooding you in ropes that seemed to never end. It was a powerful, consuming feeling, filling you completely, each pulse of his cock deep and unwavering, decorating your insides with a thickness that left you in awe of how much he had to give, like his body had held nothing back.

Your bodies moved together in those final moments, each thrust and touch sending shock waves through your system as Clark rode out his orgasm. You could feel every inch of him, raw and exposed. The warmth spread through you with each movement, the thick fluid of his cum filling you to the brim, a steady stream that didn’t seem to have an end leaking out of you that would surely have your flesh glued together with his.

Nothing else listed but the two of you—completely undone, unraveling together and leaving behind nothing but the sweet, tender echo of your love for each other.

The room was still, save for your breathing, as Clark’s forehead rested against yours, both of you catching your breath, tangled together in the beautiful, but sweaty aftermath.

“Are you… feeling better?”

His fingers traced along your skin, over the mess that you made of your stomach to let the sticky substance seep into his own palm, while he caught the remainder of his breath in the crook of your neck, fully collapsing on top of you.

“I…” You groaned, the lingering sensation of pleasure making it hard to find words. But despite the exhaustion, a sly smile tugged at your lips.

You rubbed his broad back in soothing circles, whispering in his ear, “I think I might need another prescription, Doctor.” Your voice was breathless, a mischievous glint in your eyes as the desire still simmered beneath the surface.

nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works. if you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!

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