Sophiaaa

Clark Kent is a big guy.

The years of manual labor from working on the farm have sculpted his muscles, making him a piece of stone derived from the most hard-cut marble. His full 6’3 frame swallows you whole– far too easily. 

And his powers? He’s inhumanly strong– allowing him to take down anyone and anything in sight. He could toss around a grown man with his pinky.

So having him beneath you like this? Hands running all over your hips like he’s unsure of what to do? Watching as breathy grunts and moans leave his lips, you can forget all about his abilities.

Because right now, his hips are jerking up towards yours. Every time you drag your clothed cunt over the hardness in his jeans, his breath hitches. He’s whining. Like he’s never done this.

His large hands sprawl over your hips, his grip almost bruising. His voice comes out in a high pitched breath, trying his best to be quiet. “fuck, baby.. s-so good.”

Your knees are bracketing his hips. Your hips twitch, pleasure shooting through your skin. Every breath comes out as a pant, the seam of his jeans catching your clit just right. 

His breath comes out hot against your neck. Clark tries to silence himself, tucking his face into the crook of his neck and inhaling your scent.

“Shh, Clarkie.” You whine softly, speaking low against his ear.

He responds with gripping your hips harder, grinding you down onto the hard imprint of his cock. “m’tryin’..” 

Going to the barn— or Clark’s ‘fortress of solitude’, since it probably  would have given you both some more privacy— had seemed like too much work earlier. But now, knowing that his parents were just downstairs, was proving to be very annoying.

Your hands grasp onto his shoulders as you grind yourself on him, totally using him for your pleasure. 

“makin’ a mess all over me..” Clark mumbles, pressing kisses to your neck.

The bed creaks softly under your combined weight, the headboard tapping against the wall. You can feel your slickness ruining your panties. If you were to look down, there was no doubt there would be a big wet spot on his jeans.

“Look so pretty, baby. Gettin’ yourself off.. ungh, please.” He whimpers, voice barely a whisper as his hips rut upwards.

His mouth attacks your neck, peppering kisses and whimpering against your skin. “wait.. s-slow down, shit. m’gonna cream my jeans.”

A soft laugh leaves your lips but you don’t stop. In fact, your grasp moves from his shoulders down to his wrist, moving his hands from your hips down to the mattress. And he can easily get out of your grasp— he’ll, he could toss you around the bed in a blink of an eye if he wanted to.

But he doesn’t.

“Fuck, cum for me Clark.” You breathe out, rutting yourself against him. “make a mess for me.”

Every time your hips move forward, your clit rubs up against his clothed cock just right. Your insides clench around absolutely nothing and the idea of him coming from just this has your head fuzzy. 

Clark tries his best but he’s just so loud. Whining and whimpering as he ruts his hips like a puppy. He’s not even inside you but he’s already pussydrunk. The sheets are rumpled beneath his fingers from grasping onto them, trying to hold onto the last shred of his control.

The tension builds and coils in your abdomen, ready to explode at any moment. Every noise that falls from Clark’s mouth throws you closer to the edge, heat running burning through your blood.

“fuck, fuck, fuck, fuuuuck..” Clark whines out, loudly. His hands fly up, super strength easily over powering your light hold. His hands find themselves back to your hips. 

He’s coming, spurts of warm cum filling his boxers and jeans. One of your hands comes up to clamp over his mouth, a chuckle leaving your own.

His cock twitches beneath his boxers, yet he keeps your hips moving against him. Even if the pleasure is quickly becoming overstimulating.

“need.. need you to feel good, baby.” He whines, bucking his hips up against yours. “c’mon cum on me.” He pleads, grinding you down onto him perfectly. “need it so bad, please.”

The combination of your clit dragging, his whines and pleas, and the way he’s so needy makes your orgasm crash down on you. Every muscle in your body draws tight as fireworks shoot through your nervous system.

“Clark!” You whine, face falling into his shoulder as you try to muffle yourself.

“oh, thank you, baby.. god y’look so perfect.”

“For science!” Adrian chimes in, “you are first humans we’ve known, we want to study everything.”

“You watch Rocky eat, this seems like fair trade,” Rocky states, tapping a claw against the sand. You choke out a laugh, willing the heat in your cheeks to dissipate. “Sorry,” you start, glancing at Ryland to see the pink dusting his cheeks, “you want to watch us… have sex?”

“Yes, observe sex,” Adrian settles a little further down, tilting their carapace toward Rocky. “I know is private ritual,” he hums, “but could be good data to have.”

Ryland nods slowly, staring at his knees while he thinks. Finally, he sighs and faces you, “we would ask the same thing if we were in their position.” He purses his lips, biting back a grin at the shocked look you shoot him. “You’re thinking about it?” You ask, disbelief coating your words. 

He laughs, throwing himself back to lay in the sand. “I’m just saying I don’t think it’s such a crazy thing to ask.” He gestures to the aliens next to him, “like, they’re hundreds of years old, they’re intelligent beings, they’ve got a brand new species of equally intelligent life living in a terrarium on their planet, surely they’d want to know.” He lifts his head just enough to look at you, trying to gauge your reaction to his thoughts. 

Before you can form a response, Rocky stands proudly. “Rocky already heard all noises on ship, human mating very loud.”

You groan, kicking Ryland’s leg when he lets out a belly laugh at that. “Can’t you just like, watch porn on your laptop?” You’re grasping at straws at this point. “No,” Rocky says immediately, “Grace said porn isn’t realistic. Rocky want to see real thing.” Ryland laughs again, covering his face with his hands, “I did say that.” He peeks at you over his fingers, snorting when you roll your eyes and flop into the sand beside him. 

“Hey,” he turns his head to you, “only if you’re comfortable with it.” You think for a moment, trying to find a reason to deny the advancement of science other than sheer embarrassment. “It does feel a little like we’re zoo animals,” you sigh.

“We are zoo animals,” he whispers, hand finding yours, “but we have a choice.” His thumb strokes over your knuckles, “besides, they could learn so much about our biology, think of the studies they’ll be able to do with a few samples from us.” 

“Samples?!” Your eyes go wide, “you’re already thinking about jerking off in a cup for them?” He turns away with a cackle, “they’re already studying our bodies,” a quick point to a bruise on his arm from the most recent blood draw, “why wouldn’t they want to learn about reproduction? They already know how it works, we tag-teamed so many of those conversations on Mary.”

You groan, squeezing your eyes shut like you can make the conversation end if you can’t see any of them. “Come on,” Ryland whispers against your cheek, “let’s be guinea pigs.” The grin he cracks is thrilling, like he’s finally living out a fantasy he didn’t know he had. “You’re a fucking nerd,” you breathe quietly, smiling when he buries his face in your neck. “Is that a yes?” 

“Yes, fine, we can do it,” you mumble, laughing when he throws a fist in the air and turns to Rocky and Adrian, still sitting quietly beside him. “Okay, we’re in,” he’s all business suddenly, “how do you want this to work?” 

“Just want to watch, we go now?” Rocky stands and starts heading in the direction of your little house. “Wha - now, now?” You stammer out, eyes flying to Ryland when he stands and offers a hand to help you up. “Yes, now,” Adrian answers, launching into a list of positions they researched and ranking which ones they wanted to see the most. 

—-------

The house is quiet, late afternoon light filling the space with a nice glow. You stand nervously in the bedroom, watching as Rocky and Adrian make themselves comfortable on a bench Ryland dragged in. You set your boundaries on the walk back: the Eridians wouldn’t talk, if either of you were uncomfortable at any point you’d stop, Ryland wasn’t allowed to teach while actively fucking you. All the normal stuff.

He sidles up to you slowly, hands coming to rest on your waist. “Really? A cuck bench?” You laugh, gesturing to the other side of the room. He laughs too, winking while he draws closer, “a scientific, observational cuck bench.” He stops before he kisses you, “just focus on me,” he breathes against your lips, feeling your body release a little tension at his proximity. 

You melt into him when he finally presses his lips to yours, trying to push your nerves to the back of your mind. Ryland takes his time, kisses you slowly, passionately, like he’s trying to draw out every insecurity from your body, like he wants you to enjoy it with him. Gentle fingers slide under your shirt, spreading over the warm expanse of your back. He pulls you against him tighter, groaning quietly when you roll your hips against his. 

“That’s it, baby,” he whispers in your ear, teeth nipping the sensitive skin below it. You tilt your head to give him more access, breath hitching at the way he sucks marks on your neck. You can already feel his erection against you, pressing insistently as he sinks his hands under the waistband of your pants, fingers squeezing the plush flesh of your ass. You palm him through his sweatpants, feeling him shiver against you when you get the pressure just right. 

He chokes on a whine, pulling away from your neck just long enough to get his shirt off. Your hands trace over the expanse of his stomach, you can’t help but admire the extra weight he’s put on. He grins against your lips, big hands cupping your face before he’s moving to pull your shirt off too. 

The cool air against your skin suddenly reminds you that you’re not alone. Ryland feels the tension return to your frame, shifting so your back is to the aliens in the corner. He strokes your arms and kisses you soundly, his tongue claiming yours in an attempt to keep you in the moment with him. 

“So fuckin’ pretty,” he murmurs under his breath, feeling the goosebumps that raise under his fingers. “Cold, sweetheart?” His smile makes your heart skip again, he looks at you like you hung the moon. You nod and he twists his mouth like he’s thinking of the best way to warm you up. “Want me to help?” He’s teasing now, clearly getting a thrill out of making you grin despite yourself. 

“Lay down for me,” he kisses you again for good measure. You climb on the bed, laying against the pillows while he sheds his pants with a wink. “Love you,” he whispers into your skin as he works his way up your body. You arch enough to let him unhook your bra, accepting the deep kisses he gives you when he throws it to the ground. 

A soft moan makes its way out of your throat when he licks down your neck and chest, slowly working his way to your breasts. He looks up at you from under his lashes when he takes a nipple in his mouth, eyelids fluttering when you stroke a hand through his hair. He sucks on your breasts like it’s his job, drawing out sounds from you that are almost embarrassing in current company. 

When you tug his hair with a murmur of his name, he groans, tongue vibrating against your sensitive nub and pulling a whimper from you. He pulls off with a pop, a string of saliva connecting his lips to your nipple. The sight sends a shock to your core, your hips rolling against him and head tilting back. He smirks to himself, shifting so he can get your pants and underwear off. 

He sits back on his knees and takes you in. Soft hands lift your leg, his lips leaving sweet kisses from your ankle to your knee. He lays flat, dark eyes locked on your pussy, not even trying to hide the growl that claws its way out of him. Seconds tick by with no additional contact, you reach for him, tugging his hair again. 

“Please, Ry,” you whisper, moaning when he licks a stripe up your core like that’s all he was waiting for. The first taste has him groaning against you, his eyes rolling back and fingers flexing on your thighs. “S’ good,” he whines into you, pressing your legs further apart.

You throw your head back, grinding your hips when he bumps your clit with his nose. It’s a little exhilarating knowing that you’re being watched in such a vulnerable position. Ryland between your legs, slowly taking you apart with his tongue, encouraging you to take what you need. And it doesn’t help that Ryland seems to be working twice as hard as normal, like he’s trying to show off to aliens who don’t know any different.

You feel a hand leave your leg and soft fingers prod your entrance. He looks up at you without breaking his rhythm, waiting for permission that you give quickly, willingly. You feel more than see the smile that pulls at his lips, then he pushes in and squeezes his eyes shut. “Oh, baby,” he groans into your skin, “so tight, so warm. This all for me?” Your breath hitches, you love his mouth in these moments. 

“Just for you, Ryland,” you moan, back arching when he slides a second finger in. He growls again, speeding up his movements and chasing your release like it already belongs to him. A curl of his fingers has you bucking into his hand, spreading your slick against his chin and cheek. You clench down, guiding his head to exactly where you need him to tighten the coil in your stomach. 

He flicks his tongue and sucks just right, staring up at you with wide eyes as he feels you building. Little groans of, “mhm, mhm,” fall from his lips, spurring you towards the edge. A gasp pulls from your throat and your whole body tenses, heat rolling through you in waves. You grind against his face, feel him lick up your release as it spills around his fingers still nudging that spot inside you. 

You flop down in the bed, breath coming in harsh pants, and take a second to assess your body. Your legs were tingling, vision a little fuzzy, core spasming as Ryland slowly pulls out. He stays where he is, pressing kisses to your thighs and hips, whispering praise until he sees your face relax fully. When you reach for him, he moves quickly. 

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smiling when you let out a small sound. “Doing okay?” He asks against your jaw, fingers intertwining with yours and lifting above your head. “Yeah,” you breathe, “I could go for another one.” It’s your turn to wink at him.

“I can get back down there if you want,” he teases, licking into your mouth when you laugh. “Mm, Ry, I wanna come with you,” you hold his face with your free hand, thumb swiping against his cheek gently. That sweet pink shows itself on his skin again, making you giggle as he drops his weight into you. 

“I think we can make that happen,” he groans, shoving his boxers off with one hand and kneeing your legs farther apart. You spread easily, so wrapped up in the man above you that you forget there’s been an audience here the whole time. 

He wastes no time, slotting his tip against your entrance with a whimper against your shoulder. You roll your hips just right, feeling him slip in. He shudders above you, “sl-slow baby,” he begs, “y’ got me so worked up.” A sharp nip lands on your neck, causing your head to drop back again with a moan.

“Love those noises you make, so sexy,” he’s talking to distract from the fact that he’s not moving. “Can feel you squeezing me already, god, you’re amazing,” he slides in another inch, gasping and groaning when he feels your walls give way for him. “Oh- oh baby, fuck.”

You try to relax, try to make it easier for him, but the sounds falling from him are so hot, you can’t help the occasional clench that rocks you both. It takes him a while to push all the way in, he does everything he can to keep it together when he bottoms out and you gasp right in his ear. He’s not usually so sensitive, you briefly wonder if being watched is doing it for him that much. He did agree to it pretty quickly, after all. 

He gives a testing thrust, panting above you with the effort. You roll your hips when he finds a rhythm, feeling how he squeezes your hand still in his above your head. He builds speed, practically fucking you into the mattress with the depth of each thrust. You’re a mess beneath him, moaning and gasping, head tossing and turning, free hand sinking nails into his back and neck. 

A steady string of “yes, yes, yes,” punches out of him, like he couldn’t keep the words in if he tried. Without breaking his pace, his big hand grabs the back of your thigh, heaving it up towards your chest. The new angle makes your eyes roll back, his cock reaching deeper and deeper. A growl rips from his throat, low tones vibrating against your chest. You hug him to you tighter, taking everything he gave you with barely concealed elation. 

He feels you clench around him particularly hard, feels how close you’re getting. He releases your hand to grab your other leg, pushing it up to match the other one. The position pushes the air out of your lungs, your legs shaking under his hold. “Give it to me, sweet girl,” he rumbles, “come on my cock, baby.”

You slip a hand down to where you’re connected, gathering some slick and rubbing your clit in rough circles. Your fingers brushing against his length almost makes him cum, he whimpers into the air and grits hit teeth to stave it off. 

The sensations build, your body going taut as you finally crest the wave. A broken cry rips from your throat, legs shaking against his strong hold. It shatters through your whole body, heat and sparks for what feels like an eternity before you can suck in a breath. You clamp down on him and it tips him right over, a loud groan signalling his end before you feel warmth flood your walls. 

He fucks you through it, dropping your legs in favor of leaning forward and kissing you messily. It's all teeth and tongue, he’s practically drooling into your open mouth. Your body relaxes against the sheets again, letting him press you into the mattress with grounding weight. He places sloppy kisses all over your face and neck, eyes half lidded in his own daze. 

“Jesus, okay,” he laughs with his face hidden, “I was really into that.” A surprised laugh bubbles out of you, your hands cupping his cheeks to lift him up where you can see him. “I could tell,” you smile at his blush, “it’s been a while since you went for a mating press.” He grins into your palm, “Adrian mentioned it and I couldn’t stop thinking about it,” he sighs, pressing a sweet kiss to the tip of your thumb.

He rubs your side soothingly, turning his head to Rocky and Adrian, “you guys, uh - you got what you needed?” You look over to see them stand, stepping off the bench like normal. “Rocky has questions, statement.” 

You and Ryland burst into giggles, “yeah, of course. Just give us a few minutes to clean up?” They amble towards the door, “Rocky, Adrian wait on beach, have much to discuss.”

You don’t have a chance to ask what that means before they’re gone. Ryland turns back to you slowly, “I know they don’t have anything to compare that to, but is it weird I wanted to impress them?” He looks shy, like he can’t believe that just happened. “They’re actually talking right now about how much of a beast Grace is in bed,” you laugh, squeezing his cheeks when he goes bright red. 

He groans and rolls off of you, covering his face with a pillow. “You’re never gonna let me live this down,” it comes out muffled but you hear it anyway. You shift to lay against his side, “hey, I was as much of an eager participant as you were.”

“Besides,” you skim your fingers over his chest, “it was kinda hot, seeing you so lost in it.”

“Lost in it?” He snorts, pulling the pillow away. “Mhm,” you hum, “like you were drunk on me.” He grips you tightly with both hands, sliding you up his body until he can kiss you properly. 

“We should ask them to make alcohol so we can do that again tipsy,” he whispers against your lips, smiling when you push his head away with a laugh. “Adrian’s got more positions they want to see, anyway.”

-------------

“Baby, baby, baby—” Holland hangs his head as you grind it against the ashtray on the kitchen counter. He eases up his grip on you as you go to throw the cigarette butt straight into the trash bin. You win. Holland throws his head back with a sigh; you’ve been doing this more, lately, trying to get him off smoking. He lets you, aiming to please. The only caveat, really, is when you use it against him as punishment for when you’re mad.

And now, you’re mad. “You’re pissing me off, March.” You’re not trying to be too loud about it, not wanting to rouse too great of a suspicion from Holly or Healy. But Holland can see the way that you’re glaring at him. It isn’t an over-exaggeration.

“Honey, I’m just trying to give you options.” Holland frowns, “Maybe, you don’t want to go and you’re just too polite to say so. I don’t know many hot, twenty-somethings who’re opting to spend their Friday night attending middle-school productions of The Sound of Music.”

“I’m trying to be supportive!” You hiss, “Now, stop being a wuss and let me attend Holly’s show.” You can see the hair hanging over Holland’s forehead swaying as he looks you up and down. He’s getting distracted. Clearly, he’s enjoying the sight of you pissy a little bit too much. So not the time. You’re inclined to snap your fingers at him; the sound jolts his attention back up to your face.

“Okay. Fine,” Holland yields. He’s trying to run through the night in his head. The two of you in the car, enjoying each other’s company up until the top-of-show, where you’re watching those stupid, little middle-schoolers perform and suddenly find yourself wanting to break up with him. Holland, the perpetual single father. He grits his teeth, “If you want to go, then we can go. I’ll pick you up after I drop her off, and we’ll watch it front-row.” 

“Good.” You stand up straighter, expression much brighter than before. Even if he’s so terrified by the thought of you coming to Holly’s play, Holland can only really aim to please you. If this is what he has to do, then so be it.

“Happy?” Holland asks cautiously, glancing over your features with a tilt of his head. You’re much more touchy now, a good sign, hands coming up to fix his collar.

“You’re in the safe-zone for now,” you tell Holland. Without further delay, he’s bending down to give you a sloppy kiss—pointer-fingers pulling you by the belt loops. You’re grinning wide as he moves upwards, laying a kiss on your nose, and then your forehead. All is right in the world.

Healy’s muttering carries over into the kitchen. “Jesus. It’s like they can’t go a minute without touchin’ each other.” His acute observation causes Holly to begin twisting her head with naive curiosity—but he stops her with a tap to the shoulder and a shake of his head. “Don’t look, kid. S’gross.”

—

On Friday night, Holland’s five minutes early—double-parked on the street of your apartment with the convertible roof down. The two of you are already well-agreed on the attire for tonight. Not too casual, not too formal, just charming enough to impress. As soon as you’re outside and locking the door behind you, Holland is beaming. “Hon, you look perfect.” But, as soon as you turn around, he’s dead quiet. Holland’s very caught off-guard, you think, by the large bunch of carnations cradled in your arms, all wrapped up in cellophane and ribbon. Holland gawks as you approach the car, open the side-door, and plop yourself onto the seat behind him. “Is that a bouquet?”

You shut the door and adjust the carnations carefully above your lap. It’s difficult to navigate where to put them exactly; the petals are rising out of the plastic film in generous bunches of off-white and fuschia. The bouquet’s big; you don’t know where to put it. “It’s for Holly. Opening night’s always a big deal, and I’m sure that all the parents are gonna have these kinds of things, too.”

Holland’s looking down at your lap like you’re carrying some kind of contraband. “Did you buy it? When?” He’s acting absolutely clueless, as if he’s never even seen a flower before in his life.

“There’s a florist a few blocks down,” you explain to Holland, half-distracted. “Would you hold it for me?”

He ushers the bouquet towards him with his hands. “Of course, baby. Give it here.” As soon as Holland takes the bouquet off your hands, he’s glancing down at your hands. You’re pulling a 35mm Canon from your side, pulling the thin leather strap over your head and placing it gently for a moment on the dash. “And you brought a camera. Of course.” Once the camera’s secure enough, you’re taking the bouquet out of Holland’s hands and putting it gently in the backseat. You can feel Holland watching you—particularly, the backside of you—as you make an exerted effort to secure them with a seatbelt. His entertainment is cut short as you sit back down in the shotgun with him. He’s restless, hand coming down to adjust his pant leg.

“You really need to keep up, March. Momentous occasion calls for momentous effort. Once I get them developed, they can go up on your fridge or something.”

Holland revs his car up a little bit, before rolling the car slowly down the block. “You’re running laps around me. I’m being… bested,” he says, palm hitting the steering wheel softly. As stumped as he sounds, you can see right through the facade.

You lean over for a quick second to kiss Holland soft on the cheek. “That’s how you like me, right?” And, unfazed, you slide back to plug your seatbelt in. Though Holland’s making a grand show of checking both sides of the street before he turns, you can see the way his lips twitch up into a smile.

—

This middle-school performance of The Sound of Music, though prepubescent in nature, has its charm. During the intermission, you spend a resolute amount of time conversing with Holland about Holly’s lighting prowess. He can only listen and nod, seeing as he doesn’t understand anything about the technical. But he is happy to be there—has a little bit of a frame of reference with the Christmas show—and just knows that his daughter’s somewhere in this auditorium, behind the handlebars of a giant spotlight, buzzing with excitement.

After the bows, it’s very easy to find Holly. She’s all the way up in the lighting booth, first. Then, skipping down the stairs, she’s running her way down to the two of you. Dressed in all show-blacks, Holly’s light blonde hair pops. She sticks out like a sore thumb amidst all the other families, bouncing around, hand shot straight in the air to flag you. She’s practically hopping up and down at the sight of you and her dad, shoulder-to-shoulder. “You came!” Holly exclaims, hand reaching to squeeze yours.

“Of course I came. I said I would come, didn’t I?” you tell her. Then, you’re tugging soft on Holland’s sleeve. “Flowers, baby.” Holland pulls the bouquet out from behind his back with a soft “ta-da,” holding them right in front of Holly’s face. She takes them heartily, looking straight down into the carnelians with a giddy look on her face.

“That’s for being the best kid offstage tonight.” Holly won’t stop saying ‘thank you’ over and over, and so, you’ve got to wave your hand and nudge her towards Holland. “Go stand next to your dad with those. I wanna shoot a picture of the both of you.”

The sight before you in the viewfinder is lovely. Holland is standing just behind Holly with both his hands on his shoulders; she’s holding the bouquet up for you to get a clearer shot. There’s the same wide grin shared between the two of them, and you can feel your heart just swelling at the sight. As soon as the camera clicks, Holly’s peeling off of Holland in an instant. “I’m supposed to go help put the spotlights back in the storage, and I’ve got to say bye to Jess. Can I meet you outside?” she asks you, bright-blue eyes blinking rapidly.

Holland decides, maybe too eagerly, to respond on behalf of both of you. “We’ll go warm up the car. You take your time.” You cast him a sidelong glance—the tone alone telling you that he’s too excited to rush out of the auditorium.

Upon further inspection, Holland is jumpy. He’s checking for his keys in his trouser pockets, fixing his already-straight tie. It’s like watching an old German Shepherd wag its tail. His daughter can only narrow her eyes with a scrunch of her nose. “Gross,” Holly says. “Meet me in twenty minutes near the flagpole.” Holly’s always getting dropped off there in the mornings; it’s a solid landmark. The two of you watch as she skitters away from the both of you to go close up for the night. Holland is turning to face you, hand finding the small of your back with a feathery, brush of your spine. It’s going to be a very short walk to the car.

—

Holland insists on bringing the roof up on his convertible for the sake of privacy, though his windows are fish-bowled and you’re sure that anyone within a couple of yards can see you both. Still, he seems very urgent about ushering you into the shotgun and the both of you sitting there for a moment before swinging the car around to grab Holly. Once he’s able to toss the bouquet in the back, he’s taking your hand up; his mustache brushes against your knuckles as he kisses them. “You’re getting sappy on me.”

“I’m not used to bringing anyone to these things,” Holland tells you, “Besides Healy, maybe.” Not the time. He shakes his head and tries again, placing your hand back down onto your lap. “It’s pretty nice having you come and support Holly. You, uh… make great backup.”

You’re turning to face him. In the dimly-lit lot of the middle school, you can only barely see the antsy look on his face. Softly, you chuckle, “It isn’t a case, Holland.” He nods. You’re right, as per usual.

“Right.” He finally cracks. “I’m not used to this. And I love it, baby, I do. It’s more than I could possibly ask for.” Holland had only been burning through the occasional one-night stand before he met you. And before that, there’d only been his wife. You’re steady, and it’s not what he’s used to. It’s really all as new to you as it is to him. That last thing you want is to impose on the March’s home life—but the closer you get to Holland… It's starting to resemble a family.

“I just want to make sure that you know that you’re not running it alone. It takes a village, or whatever.” Warily, you confess to him, “And I wanna be good for you and Holly.”

“Oh, honey.” He’s giving that same old look that he always does, pupils blown, lips parted. He just can’t help it. “You’re perfect,” Holland assures you earnestly. There’s an irresistible urge for you to plant a tender kiss on his jaw. As soon as you do, he doesn’t let you get much further away from him. Holland tilts your chin up with his thumb, leaving a gentle peck on your lips. He’s always impatient when it comes to you, never able to keep it short and sweet. Quickly, Holland is bringing his hand up to your neck, calloused fingers pushing against your pulse point. He’s following the trace of his fingers with hard kisses, then capturing your lips again with a fluttery groan.

“Holland,” you whisper. You have to pull back from him, though you’d really kill to carry on. He’s muttering “already?” under his breath and you have to insist with a squeeze of his knee. “She’s going to be out any minute now.” Holland drops his head onto your shoulder, taking in a deep breath. Then, he grabs for your seatbelt, clicks it into the lock, and gives you one last smooch on the cheek.

“Okay. I’m gonna treat the kid and you out to a nice dinner tonight. Ice cream after. She can’t go without ,” Holland nods. He sits up straight, raising his arm over the back of your seat to pull out of his parking space. “And next weekend, we’re gonna go take a drive, you and me—find a hotel room and make good use of that film camera of yours.”

With a swift swat to the arm, you mutter, “You’re such a perv. Go pull up to the flagpole.”

He realizes that your nipples are so sensitive that you might be able to get off with them alone, so he spends an evening just licking and sucking and pulling and tweaking until he has you moaning and writhing under him. He's patient, waiting your body out instead of trying to rush anything. Your chest is covered in his drool, his warm breath rushing over the wet spots and making goosebumps rise.

A harsh bite and sharp tug make your hips roll, and you feel the slow build of your release heating up your core. Your whine is familiar to him, he knows you're close. He bites again and flicks his tongue over the tip of your nipple, nimble fingers pinching and pulling the other one until your back arches.

You come with a cry, gentle waves of pleasure rolling through your body. When you open your eyes, he's looking at you with an annoying mix of awe and smugness. "That's a crazy party trick," he mumbles, flattening his tongue and soothing over your sore bud.

“Yeah? Right there, sweetheart?” He coos, voice all breathy and syrupy sweet as he watches your reactions to his fingers working you open. Jaw slack, your hand is gripping his bicep tightly and your eyes are half closed in pure bliss as he hits that spot over and over again with ease.

One surprisingly deep push of his fingers has you gasping, fingernails pressing crescents into the soft skin that covers his muscle as you try to ground yourself. “Yeah, that’s it, baby. Right there, that’s what I thought.” He’s absolutely beaming as he watches you begin to fall apart just from his fingers alone, pride curling up deep in his chest as he sees how good he can make you feel.

His lips curl up into a permanent smile and love dances around in his eyes—he doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything this beautiful before. You’re completely relaxed in his hold, fully open and giving yourself to him. The connection he feels with you at this point is so deep that he’s sure he’s never felt it with anyone else before.

He can’t help himself, before he knows it he’s leaning in and littering kisses across your face. “My pretty girl.” He whispers between the pecks, lips moving from your cheek up to your eyelid, pressing a soft kiss against the delicate skin. Your eyelashes tickle him as they flutter under his lips. He continues working you up to your climax, fingers pumping in and out of you with purpose.

“You’re doing so good for me.” He hums, lips making their way back down to your own. The direct press of his thumb to your clit has you arching into him, soft cries leaving your lips as he rubs tight circles against the sensitive bundle of nerves. He swallows your cries down like they’re holy—he thinks that maybe if he captures all of them, they can purify him from the inside out. It’s worth a shot.

He knows you’re getting close. He knows you like the back of his hand at this point, what tells your body unknowingly gives him. He can feel it in the way your walls tighten around his fingers, in the way your breaths become shallow and quicker. It pushes him to work harder, to become more focused on pleasing you.

The pumping of his fingers becomes quicker, working to bring you to the edge of that cliff you’re on and throw you over.

Ryland will be there to catch you. He always is.

He pulls away from your face, wanting to be able to take it all in as that coil in your belly finally snaps.

“Come for me. Please, baby? Give it to me. I wanna hear those sweet little sounds you make.” He coaxes you, voice borderline begging now. His thumb continues to press against your clit, the circles he’s drawing against it becoming quicker and more precise, just the way he knows you like it. He watches as your jaw falls open and your body tenses, a high pitched cry clawing its way from your throat as you finally tip over the edge.

“There we go. That’s my girl.” He praises, voice low as he watches in complete awe at the way you fall apart so easily for him, all over his fingers. His dick twitches against his thigh as he takes you in. He thinks he could come in his pants, completely untouched, just from watching you.

He works you through it, his digits continuing to pump into you as you ride down your high. He continues the movements until your thighs begin to twitch from overstimulation, then he slows, fingers and thumb coming to a halt as he makes sure you’ve given him all that you can give.

You’re leaning into him now, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. He catches you, one hand coming around to rub circles against your back as the other finds its way to your head, wiping the sweaty hair from your forehead.

“I’m so proud of you. You did so good for me.” He presses a kiss against the side of your head as he gives you a moment to come back down to him. The room is quiet now, except for the sounds of your breathing that’s beginning to slow.

The two of you sit together in the comfortable silence for a few minutes.

Then,

his hands are shaking when he cups your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks like you’re made of glass.

is this okay?

tell me if it’s too much, please

we dont have to if you dont want

he kisses you so soft it makes your chest ache, slow rolls of his hips. you can feel every tremble in his arms where they’re braced beside your head, the way his breath stutters hot against your ear.

you feel… god, you feel incredible.

all sweet, pressing these tiny little kisses along your jaw while he pushes in slowly, letting you adjust, forehead dropped to yours as he tells you how well you are doing.

but the second you moan and roll your hips up to meet him?

ask him for more?

tell him that you want to feel him tomorrow?

it's game over.

he blames it on biology taking over, his eyes squeezing shut as he processes what youre asking, that sweet boyish expression twisting into something desperate. he lets out this broken, wrecked sound and suddenly he’s driving into you hard, hips snapping forward with zero warning

he’s fucking you like he’s starving for it now, deep and rough, the slap of skin on skin loud and filthy in the room. he feels bad for how little control he has, it's been far too long since he has touched someone like this.

touched someone, and loved them like this.

sweetheart—god, l'm sorry, you just—

it makes his movements sloppy as he can't get enough, he needs to take you over and over and over til neither of you can forget this feeling

shaky hands gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise as he folds you practically in half. he’s panting into your neck, sweat dripping from his messy hair onto your skin, every thrust punching the air out of you as he apologises against your skin, but he needs this, he needs you.

eyes wet and wild, his cock is so deep and he’s hitting that spot over and over like he was made for it. the gentle boy from five minutes ago is gone; now it’s just him completely lost in you, muttering filthy broken praises between gritted teeth:

baby—i'm sorry, god—just feel so good—

His arm was starting to tingle slightly, and he was itching to reach for his glasses on the bedside table, but he remained still. He could see you well enough like this—soft around the edges, a tad blurry. It was almost like a photograph on film, one that had not quite come into focus. It was an image that would be burned into his brain for mornings to come, and afternoons, and evenings, for that matter. 

He feared that if he moved to sharpen the image, it might break the moment entirely. He remained still. 

You’d probably tell him off, catching him in the act. He would probably think it was odd if the roles were reversed, watching one sleep, but he couldn’t feel guilt if he tried. 

His attention always seemed to bend toward you; the rest of the world would have to wait a while. 

The sunlight caught your face just right, tracing along your cheekbone, softening at the curve of your mouth. You were wearing one of his old t-shirts, and it swallowed you slightly, slipping off one shoulder as he tried not to stare at the bare skin.

He thought, not for the first time, that you might be the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. 

Which, scientifically speaking, was ridiculous. He could list a dozen scientific phenomena that objectively outclassed a sleepy human in borrowed clothing. Mitoses. Photosyntheses. The rings of Saturn.

But you being here was slowly dismantling his entire sense of scale on the matter. 

He exhaled slowly through his nose, careful not to shift the mattress, as he recalled the previous night. 

The previous night. 

He had been so damn nervous. 

Months of careful courting, getting to know you piece by piece and always eager for more. ​​Shared dinners that stretched far too long because neither of you wanted to leave. Walking you home under streetlights, where conversations continued to flow so easily.

Sometimes you let him steal a kiss—or three—with him always pulling away at the last minute, insisting that he wanted to take his time. He wanted to do it right. 

He was old-fashioned—not in the way people tend to mean now—but in that he believed in taking his time.

You just mattered to him. More than he cared to admit. That, tied with the fact that he was years out of practise, meant that this was even more rare. 

He could not mess this up by rushing anything. 

Not when the first girl he had the guts to ask out in years laughed at his terrible jokes, let him ramble through every scientific theory that caught his interest, not when your cheeks warmed at his soft compliments—especially not when his did the exact same. 

He was a goner from day one. Every time he got home, he felt like he was floating. In high school all over again, with the pretty girl deciding to sit next to him in class for a change. You didn’t shy away from his personality, didn’t shrink. The knowledge that he had not ruined anything by just being himself. 

He knew how easily it could happen. It had before—people brushing him off as distant, too lost in his own head to be taken seriously. He’d be damned if he let you slip through his fingers, not when you understood him so effortlessly.

So he hadn’t rushed, hadn’t pushed. There was no assumption of anything physical, no reaching for more than you were willing to give. But he couldn’t stop last night, not when you had been so certain, so soft. 

It was natural with you, easy in ways intimacy never quite came to him. 

All the nerves he had been holding in his stomach seemed to quiet. How could he be nervous when your legs pulled him deeper? Looking up at him with those eyes of yours as you asked him so nicely? 

He knew he would give you anything you asked for in that moment—everything, actually. He’d be a fool not to. 

You shifted then, barely more than a breath, but it pulled his attention back instantly. Your hand slid across his chest, fingers curling slightly in the fabric of his shirt as you turned, instinctively, toward him.

He froze, every muscle going still on instinct, like any movement might break whatever delicate, unconscious decision you were making. He could feel your weight against him, solid and comfortable. Like this wasn’t new for you, even if it was for him. 

He hoped that, in time, it would no longer feel so novel to him. The fact that you were still here come morning was all the reassurance he’d done his job right.

You moved slightly against his arm again. Though it wasn’t like before, your unconscious shift still shrouded in sleep. Now you move with purpose, slowly stretching your limbs as you surface, waking in layers. Your hand slid across, your body pressing a little closer as you relaxed, settling into him once more. 

He was perfectly still, not wanting to disturb you further. 

Your eyes blinked open, still heavy with sleep. It only took you a few seconds of looking at him before your expression softened. 

There you are. 

“Hi,” you murmured, almost shy, not fully awake just yet.

“Hi,” he echoed, just as soft. 

His eyes traced your face again, before he finally moved his hand. His fingers traced gently along your shoulder as you began to focus on him. Your gaze sharpened slightly as you assessed him. He seemed far more cognizant, and your lips curved into a gentle smile. 

“...were you watching me sleep?”

The question, entirely fair and completely reasonable. The answer, however, deeply incriminating.

“…no?” he tried, failing miserably. 

You uhuffed out a sleepy laugh, barely more than a breath as you nudged him with your foot, your smile widening. “Liar.”

You got him there. 

He offered you a helpless shrug before leaning over, trying to salvage his dignity. He reached blindly for the bedside table before his fingers found his glasses. He slipped them on, pushing them up the bridge of his nose, the soft image of you coming in a little clearer. Both were equally lovely to wake to. 

“Well,” he said, “in my defence—you weren’t exactly in focus.”

You laughed properly at that, your nose scrunching as you gave up on berating him. You curled yourself into his collarbone, forehead brushing lightly against his skin as you nuzzled closer to him, still amused. His arms enveloped you as they were itching to do all morning. 

“Did you sleep okay?” you asked, voice slightly muffled. 

“Perfectly,” he replied, although to him, it was a silly question. Even if he’d barely slept, the simple act of you being right beside him would have been perfection. 

“Good,” you hummed. 

Your body pressed more firmly against his, your leg sliding up just enough to tangle with his, your hand tracing absently along his chest in the soft morning glow

His breath hitched. 

The warm feel of you, the way your soft thighs slide higher between his, the press of your breasts against his ribs under that oversized t-shirt…

His mind was already dipping into the memories of last night. 

Images flickered behind his eyes in vivid flashes: the way you’d pulled him in with your legs wrapped tight around his hips, the breathy little sound you’d made when he finally sank into you, the way you’d looked up at him with those same sleepy, trusting eyes. 

He’d tried so hard to be gentle, to take his time as he’d promised himself, but you’d been so warm and wet and eager, rocking up to meet every careful thrust until his control had frayed at the edges.

He needed to get his mind out the gutter—fast. There was no way you’d be up for that so early, but his mind circled back to your skin in the pale moonlight. 

Your draping over him was not helping the situation; his body was reacting faster than his brain could. His cock stiffened fast, thickening against the soft give of your thigh, the thin fabric of his boxers doing nothing to hide how quickly he was hardening for you.

Oh, come on—seriously?

He tried to distract himself, but you felt it immediately. He knew you did, because the corner of your mouth curved against his skin in the tiniest, most wicked little smirk.

Whatever he was in for, he didn’t know, but that expression didn’t put him at ease at all. 

Your lips brushed his jaw first—deliberate kisses that trailed down to the sensitive spot just under his ear. Then lower, along the line of his collarbone, slow and open-mouthed, like you were tasting the morning on him. When you pushed your knee up even higher, pressing right against the hard line of his cock, he twitched visibly beneath you. 

A helpless sound slipped out of his throat before he could stop it. 

You breathed a quiet laugh against the side of his neck, warm air ghosting over skin, and it did terrible, wonderful things to him. His hips jerked once, involuntarily, chasing the pressure of your thigh; he couldn’t help himself.

“Excited this morning, hm?” you teased, voice still husky with sleep but laced with mischief.

This was cruel. 

He huffed, but it melted straight into a groan when your mouth found the side of his neck again—this time harder, lips and teeth and tongue working over the same spot until his toes curled against the sheets.

“I—it’s biology,” he managed, voice rough, “waking up in bed next to a pretty girl, it’s not—”

Your teeth sank gently into his neck, right where his pulse hammered, and the rest of the sentence shattered. His arm shot out across your back, hand gripping your shoulder hard. 

In one smooth movement, you swung a leg over and straddled him, settling your weight right over the aching ridge of him. The thin layers between you doing absolutely nothing to dull the sensation. 

You looked down at him, all doe-eyed and teasing and absolutely loving how flustered he was getting. You were still laced with sleep, but your lips curled as you knew exactly what your were doing to him. 

“You think I’m pretty?”

God, you were gonna be the death of him. 

His head was so foggy as you grinned down at him, loving the reaction he was giving you. Last night was all chaste kisses and whispered words.

Now, you were looking at him like you wanted to devour him. 

All he could do was nod up at you, glasses slightly crooked, hair a mess against the pillow. 

“Sweetheart,” he breathed, voice wrecked already, “like you—like you even have to ask.”

The flush that bloomed across his cheeks was beautiful and your grin grew even wider. You wasted no time in rewarding him with a slow drag of your hips against his, rubbing along his full length through the fabric, the friction pulled a sharp groan out of his chest. 

You took the opportunity to lean down, lips brushing the shell of his ear. 

“Ry…” you teased as you rocked against him again. 

His hips bucked up into you, trying to chase the heat and pressure like his body had a mind of its own. 

He could barely think when your thighs pressed against his hips so deliciously. He didn’t trust himself to speak clearly, worried his voice would crack further. 

“T—top drawer,” he managed, his words stumbling out between quick breaths. 

You pulled back with the proudest smile, clearly pleased with yourself. You pressed a gentle kiss against his lips as you leaned over to grab your reward. You stretched toward the bedside table, letting the hem of his t-shirt ride up your thighs, allowing him the devastating view of your bare skin. 

You chuckled when his breath hitched at the display. He was far too easy to rile up—you loved it. 

The drawer slid open with a quiet rattle. You reached in, fingers closing around the familiar box of condoms before giving it a small shake. 

His stomach dropped. 

Goddamn it. 

He groaned, cursing himself repeatedly in his head. This was mortifying. One hand dragged down his face as reality hit him. 

After so long without anyone, he barely touched the damn things. Not like he was getting anything close to action these days. 

He should have remembered—there had only been two left yesterday, and you’d made such sweet, perfect use of both of them last night. You’d asked so sweetly if you could say, if that was alright, and then one thing led to another in the glow of the bedside lamp. 

He should have been better prepared—god, if only—but he had been selfish last night. He gave in. He wanted to memorise every sound you made, every way your body fit against his, every breathless call of his name that was suddenly flashing through his mind once more. 

Now, he would be facing the consequences. 

“I–I’m sorry,” he started immediately, voice thick with apology, eyes wide behind his glasses. “I should have—I wasn’t expecting—I’m an idiot, I—”

You shushed him gently, stopping his rambling. You leaned down close again, forehead almost resting against his. 

You didn’t look upset, which was a good thing? 

With a gentle voice, so filled with affection despite its teasing edge, so much so that he never would have guessed the filthy words that left your mouth. 

“I’m protected, Ry,” you placed one hand on his jaw, keeping your lips to his ear. “If you want… we can still…”

Surely you didn’t mean….

It took every single scrap of willpower not to combust right then and there. His brain scrambled as he caught your insinuation. 

He’d be lying if he said he’d never thought about it—of course he had. 

He was a man, and he was stupidly, helplessly in love with you. And, at the end of the day, biology was biology. Late at night after those long dinners, goodnight kisses that left him aching in his car, his mind wandered to the most primal thought: what it would be like to feel you. All of you. 

No barriers—nothing. Just the soft and slick feeling of your skin against his. 

He’d always shoved the thought away, called himself delusional, told himself it was far too big of an ask to impose on anyone, let alone you. 

He’d never done that before. Not once. Not with the handful of careful, cautious flings he’d had years ago. Nothing this intimate. Nothing that held like handing you every last piece of him. 

But you were offering it so willingly. Sitting all pretty on his lap like it would be a pleasure for not just him. His cock gave a helpless throb against you at the mere idea. 

You chuckled at his reaction, you knew the effect you had on him. 

He was nodding before he could stop himself—quick, frantic bobs of his head, glasses struggling to stay still, mouth dry. 

You smiled that little smile and placed two fingers under his chin, tilting his head and forcing his dazed eyes to meet yours. 

“I need words, Ry,” you whispered as your thumb brushed his bottom lip. “Can’t do it unless you tell me yes.”

You were going to be the absolute death of him. 

“Yes,” he rasped, voice cracking. “Yes, I want—but only if you do. Please don’t feel as though—I would never—”

You quieted him with a kiss to the corner of his mouth, cutting off the rambling before it could spiral. 

“I want to,” you murmured against his lips. “Wanna feel you everywhere.”

The groan that tore out of him was completely broken and involuntary. If that’s what you wanted, that’s what he’ll give you. Gladly. 

“I’m gonna be on top, okay?” you ask, but it isn’t really a question. 

He forces himself back to reality, to the fact that you are going to be on top of him. That the fantasy of you riding him is unfolding right in front of his eyes. You give him a second, a small window to object as you pull your underwear down slowly—like you think he might. Like that’s even remotely a possibility right now. 

You smiled down at him as you hooked your fingers into the waistband of his boxers, eyes locked on his, a knowing smile playing on your lips that made his stomach flip. 

He watched, utterly transfixed, as you tugged the fabric down his hips with aching slowness. His cock sprang free, painfully hard and already leaking at the tip. The cool morning air hit his overheated skin, he hissed through his teeth. 

“Eager, hm?” you murmured as your fingers brushed against his thigh. 

He opened his mouth, some half-formed protest already forming, but your hand wrapped around him before he could get a single syllable out. The sudden pressure of your palm stole every thought. His hips jerked up into your grip on instinct, and all that came out was a broken, breathless babble.

“Never—never done it like this before,” he managed, the words tumbling out in a rush. “Not—not bare, I mean—”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your expression softening in a heartbeat. 

Your hand stayed right where it was, stroking him, thumb circling the slick head in a way that made his vision blur at the edges. For one terrifying second he thought you were going to stop, that the weight of being someone’s first for something this intimate might be too much. 

That maybe you’d decide he was too much.

But your cheeks flushed darker, your eyes gleaming with something possessive, and your fingers tightened just a fraction around his shaft.

“Does this mean… I’m the first?”

The thought was dizzying. You were going to be the first one to give this to him, the ultimate trust. The idea sent a jolt down to your lower belly, your breath getting heavier in your lungs as you looked at his dishevelled expression. 

You stroked him again, base to tip, torturously unhurried. 

“Y–yes,” he nodded. “You’re the first.”

He could barely get the words out, your hand distracting him from anything coherent. 

“Hm,” you hummed, low and fond. You leaned over him until your breath ghosted over his lips. Your hand never stopped its slow, devastating rhythm on his cock. 

“Better make it worth it then, don’t I?”

He was gone. 

Helplessly gone.

A wrecked sound tore out of his throat and his hands flew up to grip your thighs, fingers digging. His cock throbbed hard in your fist at the words, another bead of pre-cum sliding over your knuckles. He couldn’t even form a reply—just nodded frantically, cheeks burning crimson.

You sat up and peeled his old t-shirt up and over your head in one smooth motion. It dropped somewhere off the side of the bed. Ryland’s eyes went wide, pupils blown behind the lenses as he drank in the sight of you—bare, soft, perfect—straddling his hips. His mouth went dry. He stared at the swell of your breasts, the way your nipples had already tightened in the cool air, the gentle curve of your stomach, the place where your thighs pressed warm against his.

You caught the way he hesitated, his hands hovering like he was afraid to ruin the view, and you laughed again.

“You can touch me,” you said, voice warm. “I want you to touch me.”

Gladly. 

His hands found you instantly, reverent and greedy. Palms sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts, then cupping them, feeling the goosebumps rise across your skin. 

He leaned up on his elbows, mouth following the path of his hands—open-mouthed kisses pressed to your sternum, your ribs, the soft underside of one breast before he dragged his tongue over your nipple and sucked gently. 

It was clumsy with his adrenaline, but you still sighed, arching into him. Your hand threading into his messy hair and scratching at his scalp in that way that made his eyes flutter shut.

He kept going, lost in the taste of your skin, the little sounds you made, even as his cock ached and leaked against you. 

He could have stayed there forever, worshipping every inch of you, but you gently tugged his head back by the hair. He hissed at the sting, glasses fogged and crooked, eyes dazed and glassy as he stared up at you.

Please, do that again. 

You cupped his face with both hands, thumbs stroking his flushed cheeks. 

“Lie back.” 

He obeyed quickly, falling back against the pillows, hands still locked on your hips.

He almost felt bad, the way you took over so easily. Surely he could be doing more, giving you more. But the thought faltered under the weight of the look in your eyes.

There was something in your expression that made his stomach flip, something that felt almost dangerous in the gentlest way. Like you were about to take him apart piece by piece.

The moment he was flat, you wrapped your fingers around the base of his cock again and gave him one long, torturously slow stroke. 

“Please—” he squirmed beneath you, hips twitching.

You smiled down at him, wicked and sweet. 

“If I’m the first one to have you like this, Ry,” you purred, stroking him again, even slower, “I gotta take my time.”

The look on his face must have been devastating, because your eyes darkened with pure satisfaction. He whined when you kept teasing him, thumb pressing right under the head on every upstroke, spreading the slickness until his cock glistened.

“This is cruel,” he gasped, voice cracking, head tipping back against the pillow. His thighs trembled under you. “Sweetheart, please—I can’t—”

He needed to feel you—now. 

You took pity on him then, because he looked so desperate, so beautifully wrecked beneath you. 

“Only because you asked so nicely.” 

Thank God. 

You shifted your weight, guiding the flushed, angry tip of his cock to your entrance. The first brush of wet heat against him made his breath stutter.

“Oh—God—” he choked out as you started to sink down.

The slide was slow, deliberate, and devastating. Nothing between you. Just slick, perfect heat enveloping him inch by inch until you were seated fully on his cock, your ass flush against his hips, nothing separating you at all.

“Baby—I—” 

He could feel everything. Every flutter of your walls, every tiny twitch and clench as you adjusted around him. The way your body welcomed him completely, hot and wet and so tight it made his head spin. His hands spasmed at your sides, fingers digging into the soft give of your hips. He watched, transfixed, as your eyes fluttered and rolled back for a second when you rocked your hips experimentally, your walls rippling around his bare cock.

“You feel that?” you asked, voice husky, one hand braced on his chest as you rolled your hips again, taking him even deeper.

“Yes—yes, I feel it,” he gritted out, the words ragged. “I feel all of you—it’s—”

Every nerve in his body was lit up, oversensitive and raw. Nothing could have prepared him for this. 

All those nights he was alone, his cock in his hand as he felt guilty about what he was doing. Images racing through his head of you like this, raw, so beautiful on top of him. 

All those half-hearted imitations didn’t come close to this bliss. 

“I need you to move,” he begged. “Need you to move, sweetheart, please—”

He sounded almost pathetic as he pleaded with you. 

You began to ride him, rising up until just the head of his cock kissed your entrance before sinking back down, taking every thick inch again. The wet, filthy sound of it filled the quiet room. His head fell back, a moan tearing from his throat as pleasure exploded behind his eyes like fireworks. Sparks shot down his spine, pooling hot and heavy in his gut. 

He watched you through half-lidded eyes, completely blissed out—your head tipped back, lips parted on soft little gasps and moans that made his cock throb inside you, the way your breasts bounced with every roll of your hips, the way your thighs flexed as you rode him like you owned him.

And you did. In that moment, you absolutely did.

“Fuck, Ry,” you breathed, leaning forward so your hands braced on his chest, nails digging in just enough to sting. “You’re so deep—”

Fuck, he knew. He could feel it. 

Every thick inch of him buried to the hilt inside you, the slick, velvety drag of your walls hugging him so perfectly with nothing between you. It was overwhelming, obscene, the wet heat of your pussy swallowing him whole and clenching like it never wanted to let go. His hips snapped up on pure instinct, chasing that devastating friction, but you were the one in control, grinding down slow, making sure he felt every single flutter.

You picked up the pace then, rising and sinking with purpose. He whimpered, the sound punched out of his chest as pleasure coiled tighter in his gut. His glasses were completely fogged now, the lenses useless, but he didn’t care. He could barely see straight anyway, too lost in the sight of you above him: flushed cheeks, lips parted. 

You looked like sin in the morning sunlight, and he was helpless beneath you.

“Does it feel good?” you teased, voice breathy but dripping with satisfaction as you clenched around him on purpose, a rippling squeeze that made his cock throb hard inside you. “Can you feel it?”

Can he feel it? 

You were killing him. 

He didn’t know where this new, wicked confidence had come from—last night you’d been soft and sweet and letting him set the pace, but now you were riding him like you owned every inch of his body. 

He wasn’t complaining. Not even a little. If anything, the contrast made his head spin faster.

“Yes—yes, god, yes,” he babbled, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush. “Feels so good—been thinking about it for weeks—”

The confession slipped out before he could stop it. Your movements slowed instantly, dragging to an aching crawl until you were barely rocking on his cock, just enough to keep him throbbing and leaking inside you but nowhere near enough to satisfy. 

You looked down at him, one hand sliding up to cup his jaw, fingers firm as you forced his blue, glassy eyes to meet yours.

“Weeks?” you echoed, voice soft but edged with pure delight.

He was panting, chest heaving, sweat already beading at his temples. He nodded frantically, too far gone to lie. His cock gave a helpless twitch inside you at the way you were looking at him—like you wanted to devour every filthy secret he’d ever had.

You leaned in closer, lips brushing the shell of his ear as you rolled your hips with excruciating slowness. 

“Come on, don’t be shy now,” you whispered, voice dripping honey and sin. “How much have you thought about this? Be honest.”

This was mortifying. 

He groaned, cheeks burning hotter than he thought possible. This wasn’t fair. This was cruel. You were sitting so pretty on his cock, pussy wrapped tight around him, and now you were pulling dirty confessions out of him like it was nothing. 

He wasn’t good at this—words always tangled on his tongue around you at the best of times, and now, with you clenching around him on every slow drag, it was torture. Pure torture.

“I—I don’t know, I just—ugh, please move faster,” he begged, voice cracking, hips twitching uselessly beneath you in a desperate attempt to get more friction.

You stopped moving completely. Just sat there, warm and full of him, smiling down at him with that innocent little tilt of your head that did not match the filthy way you were keeping him buried inside you.

“I’m not moving until you tell me,” you said sweetly, like you were asking him about the weather instead of demanding he spill every desperate fantasy he’d had about filling you up bare. "

His brain short-circuited. The contrast—your soft, almost shy tone against the way your pussy was still fluttering around his aching cock—was going to end him. He was so sensitive, every tiny shift of your body sending sparks shooting up his spine, his body drawing tight with the need to cum.

“Ah—okay—since the second date,” he gasped in a humiliated rush. “Just—please, honey—don’t stop—you’re killing me here—”

You had the nerve to giggle, the sound vibrating through your body and straight into his length. For a second, he thought you were going to lean back and finally ride him properly, but you just stayed there, smiling down at him like he was the most adorable thing you’d ever seen.

Just take pity on him already.

“Long time, huh?” you murmured, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Well, now we can do this whenever you want, Ry. Just gotta ask.”

Whenever he wants? 

Christ. 

He swore he was going to die. The casual promise in your voice sent a fresh wave of heat crashing through him. 

You owned him. Completely.

You finally took mercy and started moving again, you rode him with purpose. You moaned his name, and he could barely contain himself. 

He was so sensitive, every drag of your pussy around his bare cock sending him spiralling higher, the heat of you with nothing between you driving him out of his mind. He could feel everything—the way your walls squeezed, the slick slide of your arousal mixing with his, the way your thighs trembled against his hips.

“Fuck—” you groaned, voice so gone it broke him. You leaned down, pressing your forehead to his, eyes locked on his as you kept riding him deep and perfect. “Please, Ry?—Wanna feel you.”

The polite little plea combined with the filthy request shattered what was left of his control. He came with a shattered cry of your name, hips jerking up hard as he gripped your waist. 

“Baby, I'm—” 

The words tumbled out, even as his cock pulsed and throbbed, spilling thick, hot ropes of cum deep inside you. Wave after wave, more than he thought he had in him, flooding you until he could feel the slick mess of it already starting to leak out around where you were joined. 

His whole body shook with it, oversensitive and wrecked, glasses slipping down his nose as his head tipped back against the pillow.

You kept moving through every pulse, milking him for everything he had, whispering soft praises against his mouth until the last weak spurt finally faded and he was left trembling beneath you, spent and panting and so full of love and lust he couldn’t even form words.

Slowly, the world came back into focus. His heartbeat thundered in his ears while the rest of him felt loose and heavy. You were still straddling him, full of him, but your movements had gentled into lazy little rocks that sent aftershocks rippling through his oversensitive cock. He was still buried deep inside you, the mess of his release already starting to leak out around where your bodies were joined, warm and obscene and impossibly intimate.

Your lips were on him, sweet kisses scattered across his flushed face. One to the corner of his eye where his glasses had slipped, one to the bridge of his nose, one to the corner of his mouth that was still parted on a shaky exhale. You kissed his forehead, his temple, the flushed shell of his ear, murmuring little nothings between each press of your lips. 

He was still floating somewhere outside his own body, chest heaving, but the sweetness of it pulled him back down gently. His hands, which had been locked in a death grip on your hips, loosened and slid up your back in a dazed caress.

When his eyes finally fluttered open, hair a complete disaster against the pillow, he looked up at you with pure, raw apology written all over his face.

“I’m so sorry,” he rasped. “I’m so sorry, I—I didn’t mean to—”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. 

“What?” you asked, genuinely confused, one hand brushing damp strands of hair off his forehead. “Ry, I asked for this. I wanted it. There’s no need to apologise.”

He huffed out a half-frustrated groan, and let his head fall back against the pillow. His cheeks burned hotter. 

Of course you’d say that. Of course you’d be sweet about it. But the guilt still twisted in his gut like a live wire.

He’d come so fast. Like a damn teenager who’d never touched a girl before. He hadn’t even lasted long enough to get you off, and that was the part that stung the worst. 

He was supposed to take care of you—had promised himself he would, after all the careful, patient months of waiting. He was the one who was supposed to make you fall apart, not the other way around. 

He’d spilled inside you like he had zero control, like the bare feel of you around him had short-circuited every rational thought he’d ever had. 

Pathetic. 

He could already feel the scientific part of his brain cataloguing the humiliation: refractory period probably shot, ego thoroughly demolished.

“What about you?” His voice was still shaky, but the concern was there.

You blinked down at him, all innocent again, like you hadn’t just ridden him into oblivion. 

“What about me?”

“You didn’t even—” He gestured vaguely between you, cheeks flaming. “I didn’t get you there. I couldn’t even last long enough to—”

You chuckled, as you slowly lifted yourself off his cock. The wet drag pulling off him made him twitch hard, a broken sound escaping his throat as the air hit his oversensitive length. You flopped down beside him on the mattress, curling into his side, one leg sliding over his thigh.

“Well,” you said, propping your chin on his chest and looking up at him with sparkling eyes, “we have the rest of the day. I’m sure you can make it up to me later.” Your smile turned just a little wicked. “Or maybe in the shower?”

He groaned, already turned on again, and pulled you closer, arms wrapping around you. 

You were unbelievable. 

The way you could go from filthy and commanding to soft and playful in the space of a heartbeat left him dizzy.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?” he muttered against your hair, pressing a kiss to the top of your head even as his body still hummed with aftershocks.

You laughed softly and tilted your face up, catching his mouth in a deep kiss that tasted like morning and sex and everything he’d been dreaming about for months. When you pulled back, your lips brushed his one last time.

“I’m gonna hop in the shower,” you whispered, voice warm against his mouth. “You’re more than welcome to join me.”

You slipped out of bed and he watched as you padded toward the bathroom. His eyes dropped to your thighs, where the evidence of what you’d just done together glistened in the sunlight: a slow, shiny trail down your skin. The sight hit him like a punch to the chest, possessive and so fucking beautiful it short-circuited whatever was left of his brain.

He was out of bed in an instant, nearly tangling himself in the sheets in his rush, cock already half-hard again just from the sight of you. You glanced over your shoulder and giggled and he followed without a second thought, trailing after you like a man who had already accepted his fate.

Yeah. He was definitely going to make it up to you in the shower. 

a/n: im ovulating idk i think i blacked out when writing this. two people have asked me about creampies and this is where my mind immediately went

also sub ryland is real to me and i'll do anything to write about him being pathetic <3