#nou.fics

Muscle Memory

He fucks you slowly at first, like he's afraid of being too much. He knows how big he is, how your stomach bulges when he presses in just right. He sees the way your back arches, the way your mouth parts, trembling and breathless, already stuffed so full of him. And he still asks if you're okay. Always. Softly. A kiss at your temple, even while you're shaking. But then there's the moment he hears your breath hitch and sees you look down. Sees you watching your own belly stretch with the obscene outline of his cock. Something flips. That quiet awe in his chest turns into hunger. He rocks into you harder, the bed frame groaning under both your bodies. He watches your thighs start to quiver. Watches your hands scrabble for anything—him, the sheets, your own cock— and he doesn’t stop. Just breathes heavy and praises you, voice thick with arousal. “You take me so good, baby,” he whispers. “Every time, I swear, you fit around me like you were made to. Just perfect.”

Worship

Sometimes he’ll slow down just to admire you like this. Not during foreplay—no, during. When you're already panting under him, hips slick and hole drooling with the stretch, and his cock keeps pressing deeper. He palms your thighs with reverence, kisses down your chest like you’re some sacred thing. Big hands spreading your legs wider. Thumbs digging into the softest parts of you. He’ll murmur things under his breath that make your skin feel hot and holy. “Love your body,” he says. “So soft. So pretty. All mine. And when you clench around him at the praise, he fucking smiles.

Making His Mark

He cums too much. Always has. The first time he stayed the night, you woke up sore and leaking and still full—because you’d passed out before he’d even finished cleaning you up. Kryptonian stamina. He apologized with breakfast in bed and a guilty smile, but when you told him you liked it, he blushed so hard it reached his ears Now it’s become part of the routine. Every time he finishes, he stays inside, grinding in shallow, greedy circles like he’s trying to fuck it all in deeper. The sheets stained, your thighs sticky, your hole raw and red and dripping down the curve of your ass. He watches you try to crawl away, boneless and overstimulated “You can’t just… fill me like that,” you mutter, dizzy. “You’re right,” he says. “I should do it again.”

Spent

He loves looking at you after. Really looking. Your chest rising and falling in slow, wrecked rhythm. Your lips parted, your eyes glazed, your thighs still twitching from the aftershocks. His cum leaking from your hole in thick, messy ropes, all down your skin, soaking into the sheets. You always look ruined, used, perfect. He touches you like he’s not sure he deserves the sight. Just drags a hand down your chest, your thigh, breath caught in his throat. You’re gaping, still stretched wide around the memory of him, and he swears under his breath every time. He brings a hand between your legs and drags two fingers through the mess. Shudders when you whimper from the touch. “Jesus,” he whispers. “Look what I did to you.”

Muscle Memory II

Clark’s a big man. And when you worship him—really let your hands explore the stretch of his abs, the thick strength of his thighs, the wide expanse of his chest—he gets flustered. Because he doesn’t expect it. He doesn’t think you see him like that. But you do. You kiss the line of his stomach, trace your tongue up to the cleft between his pecs, and he sucks in a breath every time. “You’re beautiful,” you say. He huffs out a laugh, ducking his head. “You think so?” You palm him through his briefs—heavy, half-hard, already huge— and smile up at him. “I know so.” When you finally get him naked, you take your time. You kneel between his legs, run your hands across every inch of that body, skin warm and golden under your palms. You stroke his cock slow—long, thick, flushed pink at the tip—and tell him how good he looks like this, hard and wanting for you. “I want you inside me,” you whisper. “Want you to fuck me open with this big fucking thing. Want you to fill your boyfriend with all that cum until it’s dripping out of me.” His breath hitches. And then he gives you exactly what you asked for. "Sweet heaven."

Where You Go Softest

There’s something about your body that Clark loves with aching intensity. Your thighs, especially. He says they’re his favorite place to rest his head, his hands, his mouth. You’ve seen him fuck himself stupid just from the sight of you spread open, thighs trembling, your cock flushed and leaking against your belly. He grabs handfuls of your ass while he thrusts, steady and deep, burying his face in your neck to muffle the sounds he makes. Sometimes he just moans your name like a broken prayer. “Could stay inside you forever,” he pants. “You feel so fucking good, sweetheart. Squeezing me like that, fuck.” And when he’s just eating you out? Forget it. He’s obsessed. Tongue buried in your hole, big hands pinning your hips down, leaving finger-shaped bruises across your ass as he devours you like he’s starved. He doesn’t stop until your cock’s twitching untouched on your stomach and your thighs are shaking around his ears.

Without Harm

When he holds you down, it’s not with force. It’s with care. Clark cradles your waist with one hand, the other under your ass to angle your hips up, and it’s almost absurd how easy it is for him to manhandle you. He could bend you in half with one arm, pin your wrists above your head with a single hand, keep you in place while his cock drills deep. But he never rushes. Even when he’s fucking you hard: sweat beading at his temples, his broad chest slick and flexing over yours—he checks in. A hand brushing your cheek. A kiss between thrusts. A question, murmured against your throat. “Still good, baby? Can you take more?” You always say yes. Even when your body’s shaking. Even when your hole is raw and stretched wide open, swallowing him deeper than you ever thought you could take. He presses a hand to your lower belly and moans when he feels himself inside you. “God. That’s me.”

Overflow

Clark doesn’t need toys. Doesn’t need anything but you on your back, legs spread, begging him to go slow while your body contradicts you and sucks him in. He’s thick from tip to base, flushed and heavy, the kind of cock that curves just enough to ruin you. You’ve never been able to take him all at once, not without working up to it. He helps; spit, fingers, gentle coaxing—and still, every time, your body trembles when he breaches you. “You’re doing so good,” he whispers, rocking his hips. “Let me in. Let me fill you up.” And he does. You feel him for hours after. His cum drips out of you long after he’s pulled out—thick, cloudy, sticky strings that leave you ruined between the legs. Sometimes you can’t even close your thighs properly. Sometimes he doesn’t pull out at all. You’ll feel it trickle out when you’re washing dishes or putting on pants, and he’ll catch you pausing with a faraway look in your eyes and murmur, “Still leaking?”

Evidence of Him

He never tires of seeing you like this. Sprawled out beneath him, wrecked. Limbs slack. Hole gaping. His come dripping out in slow, shiny streaks down the curve of your ass and the inside of your thighs. Clark watches. He runs his hand down your spine, dips his fingers between your cheeks, and hums at the sight of your trembling rim, twitching open, pink and raw and leaking. He never says much. Just soft sounds of awe. A whispered “Christ,” maybe, or “You look perfect like this.” Sometimes he spreads you open again just to see it. To see how loose you are. How thoroughly he’s fucked you. How your hole flutters like it misses him already. “You need me again?” he asks, almost innocent. Thumb still dragging through the mess he left. You nod. Of course you do. He’s already hard again.

The Unravel

It doesn’t take long to unravel. Clark can take you standing up, bent over the sink, pressed against the wall, or face down in bed with a pillow under your hips. Every angle stretches you in new ways. Every time feels like the first time. Sometimes it’s fast. You’re soaked already, hungry for him, and he’s in you with one smooth thrust. Sometimes it’s slower. Long strokes, deep grinding, his hand around your cock while he fills you. Your body doesn’t know what to do with him. It tries to reject the stretch, even as your moans get louder, your back arches, your legs shake. And when you come: ruined, overstimulated, voice cracking from how hard you cry out. Clark follows with a deep, full groan. He never pulls out.

Rest, Ripe, and Heavy

Afterward, he’s always starving. You’re still trying to catch your breath, still aching and loose and wrecked, and Clark’s already pulling on a pair of sweats, padding barefoot into the kitchen. You call after him. “Can you give me like five minutes before you start making dinner?” He pops his head back in, cheeks pink, curls messy. “I wasn’t gonna make dinner,” he says. “Just a snack.” You laugh, rubbing your stomach. “You just blew my back out.” He shrugs, sheepish. “I’m still a growing boy.” You roll your eyes and tell him to come back to bed, and he does, climbing under the sheets with you, hand pressed to your belly, whispering he’s sorry for how sore you’ll be tomorrow. He’s not sorry.

He’s in his slippers, feet flat against the linoleum like he doesn’t care how cold it is. His hair is still damp, darker than usual, curling slightly at the nape of his neck. A towel is slung low on his hips, tied lazily, the knot sitting just off-center like it was done without much thought.

Your eyes snag anyway.

His shoulders are broad enough to fill the doorway, muscle carved clean beneath skin still flushed from heat. His chest is bare; solid, defined, faintly dusted with hair that darkens where water beads and trails down. It’s not something sculpted for show; it looks used. Lived in. Like he carries his strength without thinking about it.

You forget to breathe.

For a beat, neither of you says anything.

“Oh—” You clear your throat, the sound rougher than you expect. “Hey. Sorry. I didn’t think anyone else was down here.”

“It’s fine,” he says easily, already stepping farther inside. The door clicks shut behind him, sealing the room. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

He smiles like this is normal. Like he isn’t standing there half-naked under fluorescent lights at midnight.

You force your eyes back to the washer, pretend very hard that you’re invested in detergent measurements. Your pulse is loud in your ears.

“Late-night laundry?” you ask, mostly to fill the space.

“Yeah.” You hear fabric shift as he sets his basket down. “Figured it was safer than fighting everyone earlier.”

“Same,” you say. “Only time it’s ever empty.”

“Guess not tonight.”

You glance over despite yourself.

He’s closer now, leaning back against one of the washers, arms crossed loosely over his chest. The movement makes everything worse. His biceps flex subtly where they rest, muscle defined without strain. When he shifts his weight, his calves tighten; thick, strong, built like he uses them.

The towel rides even lower when he leans. Just enough to expose the sharp V cutting down toward his hips. You catch a glimpse of it before you can stop yourself, heat curling low in your stomach.

You look away immediately.

“Sorry,” you say, though you’re not sure what for.

“For what?” he asks.

You shrug, pretending to focus on the washer. “Didn’t realize you were… coming from the shower.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Bad timing.”

It doesn’t sound like he means it.

You straighten, risk another look—and this time, you register it: the way the towel doesn’t hang flat. The subtle, undeniable weight pressing forward beneath the fabric when he shifts. It’s not exaggerated. It’s just… there. Heavy enough that your eyes want to track it before your brain tells them not to.

His gaze catches you mid-thought.

Not accusatory. Not smug.

Just observant.

“So,” he says, eyes flicking briefly to your basket, then back to your face. “You’re in 3B, right?”

You blink. “Yeah. You’re… 3C.”

“Mailboxes give it away.”

“Hard not to notice when we keep grabbing them at the same time.”

“Yeah,” he says. There’s a pause. Then, quieter, “I’ve noticed.”

The machines hum between you. A dryer thumps unevenly down the row. The room feels warmer than it did a minute ago, air thick enough that you’re suddenly aware of your own body: how you’re standing, where your hands are, the way your shirt clings a little at the back.

Your washer clicks, lid locking into place.

The sound feels loud.

Glen pushes off the washer, taking one slow step closer. Not crowding you. Just closing the distance enough that you feel it. His heat. His presence. The solid reality of him in a space that suddenly feels too small.

“You always do laundry this late?” he asks.

“Usually.” Your breath stutters.

Glen’s eyes flick down. Brief and almost careless, then lift back to your face. It’s quick enough that you could pretend you imagined it, if not for the way his mouth curves, faintly amused, like he’s just confirmed something.

“Relax,” he says quietly. “I’m not gonna bite.”

The pause that follows stretches, heavy and deliberate.

“Not tonight, anyway.”

He eases back then, slow, unhurried, reclaiming the space inch by inch like he knows exactly what leaving it behind does to you. He adjusts the towel at his hips, the motion casual, practiced, like it was never in danger of slipping. Like he hasn’t just had you pinned there by proximity alone.

“Guess I’ll let you finish,” he adds, glancing at the washer. “Wouldn’t want to distract you.”

It’s almost polite.

He grabs his basket and turns toward the door, broad shoulders rolling as he moves. At the threshold, he pauses. Not long enough to make a show of it, just long enough to matter.

“See you around,” he says.

The door clicks shut behind him.

The machines keep humming. The lights keep buzzing.

And you’re left standing there, heart racing, body still buzzing, knowing one thing with uncomfortable certainty—

That wasn’t accidental.

And it wasn’t over.

Steam drifts lazily from the dryer vents, curling in the fluorescent light that makes the room feel smaller, heavier. The machines hum steadily, a soft vibration through the linoleum beneath your feet. You set your basket down and start measuring detergent, trying to focus on something ordinary.

The door opens, and Glen steps in, towel low at his hips once again. He leans casually against a dryer, one arm resting on the edge, muscles flexing subtly as he shifts weight. Broad shoulders, defined biceps, faint veins along his forearms, abs sharply cut under damp skin, calves taut with every micro-movement. The V-cut of his hips beneath the towel is impossible to ignore, taunting you like it’s an arrow directing it towards…

You break out of the spellbound that is the sight of Glen’s body from a cough.

Glen clears his throat and tilts his head slightly, eyes catching yours, a small, knowing smirk playing across his lips.

“You catch the new Thai place opening down the street?” he asks, nodding toward the window. “Supposedly the chef came from that place downtown everyone raves about.”

“Yeah, I walked past it yesterday,” you say. “Smelled something amazing. I might have to check it out next week.”

He smirks, glancing at you as he shifts his weight, towel brushing lightly against his thigh. Biceps flex faintly, veins standing out along his forearms. “You’ll let me know if it’s worth it, right?”

You grin. “Only if you promise not to steal all the good dishes before I get there.”

“Deal,” he says smoothly, leaning slightly on the dryer beside you. The movement flexes his chest and shoulders subtly, catching the fluorescent light just so. You notice the faint line of his abs, the curve of his calves, and the low edge of the towel teasing your vision. Heat pools in your stomach.

“You notice the construction on Maple?” you ask, deciding to keep the conversation casual. “They’re finally putting in that crosswalk, but it looks like they’re just digging holes for fun.”

He chuckles, eyes flicking toward the street before returning to you. “It’s a little ridiculous. I don’t know who they expect to cross there safely anytime soon.” He shifts, leaning his shoulder against the dryer again, towel brushing lightly, biceps flexing. “I guess we’ll have to keep an eye on it ourselves.”

You smirk, feeling bold. “Two vigilant neighbors. We could start a watch group.”

Glen laughs softly, the sound low and warm. He tilts his head, letting his gaze linger just a moment longer than necessary. The curl of damp hair at his nape, the taut muscles along his arms, the faintly glistening veins in his forearms, the edge of the towel all tug at your attention. He shifts again, adjusting stance, calves flexing slightly, and you realize every movement is deliberate, even if it looks casual.

“I think I’d like that,” he says, voice smooth and playful. “A watch group. I might have to make sure my favorite neighbor is paying attention.”

Your pulse skips. You grin, leaning a little closer to the washer. “Well, I am paying attention,” you say, letting the words hang in the warm, humid air.

Glen smirks faintly, stepping lightly toward the door, broad shoulders rolling with the motion, towel hanging low, muscles relaxed but impossible to ignore. He pauses at the threshold, glancing back once, that same small, knowing smirk in place. “Catch you later,” he says.

The door clicks shut behind him. The machines hum louder now, steam rising in lazy spirals. You stand there, basket in hand, chest tight, acutely aware of every subtle flex, every curve, and the tension between you both that is only growing.

You pause just inside the laundry room, catching Glen mid-stretch against a dryer. Towel hangs low at his hips, one arm draped casually over the machine, fingers brushing its edge. The motion sets the muscles along his shoulder and bicep into subtle, fluid ripples. Veins run faintly along his forearms, catching the light. His chest glistens faintly with dampness, abs taut and defined, obliques curving sharply down toward the towel. Even the swell of his waist beneath it is impossible to ignore.

Your pajamas cling slightly from your shower, fabric soft against your warm skin, and you notice the contrast between your covered form and his bare, sculpted body. You shift your weight, adjusting your grip on the basket, feeling the hum of your own pulse as his gaze flickers your way. The brief touch of his eyes makes your chest tighten, stomach knot, a heat you can’t ignore.

“You’re early tonight,” you say lightly, teasing as you set the basket down. “Thought I’d have the place to myself.”

Glen tilts his head, smirk curling his lips, eyes glinting with mischief. He shifts his weight, towel brushing ever so slightly against the dryer. “I like the company,” he murmurs. “Makes the night… more interesting.”

Your lips twitch into a grin. “Interesting how?”

He steps a fraction closer, broad shoulders relaxed but deliberate, calves flexing just enough to catch your eye. “Depends on what you notice first,” he says, tone casual yet deliberate, letting the words hang between you. The warmth radiating from him is tangible, magnetic.

You glance down at his arms, over the sweep of his shoulders, the ridges of his abs and the faint line of chest hair, and feel your breath catch. “Oh really?” you murmur, tilting your head, daring him with your gaze.

Glen’s eyes follow, slow and deliberate, lingering just long enough to make the space between you charged. He leans lightly against the dryer, towel edge brushing subtly against the machine, biceps flexing with the smallest adjustment of weight. “Yes,” he says softly. “There’s a lot to notice.”

Heat curls low, pulse quickening. You shift your stance, subtly leaning toward the machine, letting your forearms brush lightly against the edge, feeling the tautness of your own muscles. You catch his eyes flicking over your form, just long enough for awareness to ripple between you without a word.

“You’re enjoying this far too much,” you tease, voice low, playful.

Glen laughs softly, the sound warm in the humid air. “Maybe,” he says, smirk lingering. “Or maybe I just like watching you.”

You can’t help the shiver that runs through you, the way his presence draws your attention to every subtle movement he makes—the roll of his shoulders, the flex of his forearms, the taut sweep of his obliques, the teasing swell beneath the towel. He steps back just slightly, broad shoulders rolling, leaving the space between you heated and electric.

“You have a nice night,” he murmurs, voice low, playful, eyes sparkling with genuine interest. He glances back at you once, letting the smirk linger, before finally moving toward the door.

The click of the latch echoes softly in the charged silence. You stand there, basket in hand, heart hammering, fully aware of every shift, every subtle movement, every glance, and the slow, undeniable pull threading between you. The room feels impossibly small, the tension between you heavier than the humid air, and you know this is only the beginning.

The laundry room is thick with warm air, machines humming steadily, but it feels quieter than usual. You set your basket down and glance up. Glen is leaning against a dryer, towel low at his hips, hair damp and curling slightly at the edges. He doesn’t greet you with his usual wide grin. Instead, there’s a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, and his eyes are sharper, lingering on you longer than usual.

“Hey,” he says softly, Texan drawl low and smooth, just enough charm in it to make your chest tighten.

“Hey,” you reply, letting your gaze roam over him, taking in the subtle lines of his chest, the curve of his abs, the taut sweep of his obliques, the swell beneath the towel. The way his muscles flex as he shifts weight, forearms corded and veins faintly tracing, makes it impossible to look away. His thick fingers have been drumming an expeditious rhythm over the rim of the dryer.

Glen adjusts slightly, leaning more casually against the dryer, shoulder brushing yours ever so lightly. The touch is casual, but the heat it sends through you is immediate. He glances down at your hands on the basket, then back to your face, letting the brief silence stretch.

You try for a teasing tone. “Late night laundry again?”

He shrugs, smirk softening into something almost mischievous, but his body is alert, every movement deliberate. “You know me. Quiet hours, less chaos. Plus…” He lets the sentence hang, eyes flicking briefly down your chest before snapping back up with a half-smile. “…company’s better than I expected.”

Your pulse quickens at the casual delivery, the subtext humming in the air. He shifts again, towel brushing lightly against the dryer, calf flexing as he straightens just enough to occupy the space between you. You feel the warmth radiating off him, subtle but undeniable, the magnetic pull you’ve noticed before amplified tonight.

“Better than you expected?” you ask, voice low, letting the words hang like a challenge.

He tilts his head, smirk deepening faintly, curls of damp hair falling into his eyes. “Mmh,” he murmurs, voice smooth, playful, teasing but restrained. “Couldn’t have guessed.” He leans slightly closer under the pretense of reaching for detergent, shoulder grazing yours, thigh brushing the side of your leg. The touches are small, deliberate, and they make your stomach coil.

You adjust slightly, letting the brush of his arm linger. His eyes flick over you with that faint gleam you’ve come to recognize, lingering on your chest and hips, then back to your face. There’s no comment, no overt teasing. Just a quiet heat in his gaze that makes it impossible not to respond.

He shifts again, forearm brushing lightly against yours as he moves a basket aside, biceps flexing subtly, shoulder rolling. You notice the smooth sweep of his obliques, the corded ridges of his abs, the slight roll of his calves. Each movement feels intentional, even under the guise of normal motion, and your body tightens with awareness.

You glance at him, voice teasing softly. “You’re awfully quiet tonight. Not your usual self.”

He smiles faintly, a flash of charm returning, eyes locking with yours, his voice softening each word. “Maybe I’m just… appreciating the moment,” he murmurs, voice low, carrying both mischief and a subtle intensity. He steps a fraction closer, towel brushing your hip for the briefest instant, letting the heat linger.

You shift too, drawn in, heart racing, every subtle movement between you magnifying the tension. Shoulder brushes, thigh grazes, fingertips trailing briefly over the dryer edge, all become part of a slow, magnetic push and pull.

Glen tilts his head again, letting his gaze linger on your chest and then back to your eyes, lips parting slightly. “You know,” he murmurs, voice husky, teasing but deliberate, “…I don’t think I can wait forever.” The words are casual, but the heat behind them is palpable.

You inhale sharply, pulse quickening, feeling the warmth of him close, the deliberate brush of his body, the faint, intoxicating scent of his skin, the weight of every glance and micro-movement pressing in. The air feels heavy, charged, and the pull between you is undeniable.

He steps back slightly, towel edge shifting, muscles rolling under damp skin, but the tension remains taut, vibrating in the space between you. Eyes meet, unspoken need threading through every small brush, every glance, every subtle, teasing motion. The room, the machines, the warm air; they all fade into the background. 

There is only you, him, and the slow-burning, feral desire that has built between you over weeks.

He shifts subtly, towel riding just a fraction higher as he adjusts, and for the first time tonight, you notice the undeniable swell beneath it. A thick, heavy line pressing against the fabric, straining slightly as if it’s been waiting for this moment as much as you have. Your pulse spikes instantly, heat pooling low, stomach tightening in anticipation. The small, deliberate touches before; shoulder grazes, thigh brushes, the casual linger of his hand near yours, suddenly take on a sharper edge, each one charged with intent.

His eyes flick down at the movement, just for a heartbeat, before meeting yours again. There’s a glint there, something teasing yet feral, a quiet acknowledgment of what’s growing between you. The faint curve of his lips, the flex of his biceps as he shifts weight, the subtle roll of his obliques, even the taut sweep of his calves; every line, every muscle seems accentuated, magnetic.

You swallow, awareness sharpening. The warmth of him close, the scent of his damp skin, the soft brush of his towel against your hip when he shifts just slightly, it’s all designed to pull you in, to make it impossible to look away.

He steps closer again, chest brushing against yours, just barely, and you feel the swell of him pressing against the thin fabric of your pajamas. His fingers graze the edge of your hip, almost absentmindedly, but the effect is electric. His eyes hold yours, dark and intent, letting you trace the line of his jaw, the curl of his damp hair, the faint tremble of his forearms as he moves.

A soft, low sound escapes his throat, almost a hum, as if he’s trying to steady himself. The smirk tugs at the corner of his lips again, but it’s tempered now with something raw, urgent. Every subtle shift, every muscle flex, every tilt of his head is a silent invitation, a wordless declaration of need.

You lean a little closer, drawn in by the gravity of him, pulse hammering, chest tight. Your hand brushes lightly over the edge of the basket, fingers trailing near his hand as if by accident. He doesn’t pull away; his thumb grazes yours in a fleeting contact, lingering just long enough to set nerves alight.

The heat between you coils tighter, unspoken, unavoidable. His towel shifts again, the swell beneath it pressing more insistently, undeniable now, a promise of the raw, feral desire that’s been simmering beneath the surface of these encounters. Every glance you trade, every brush of skin, every fraction of space between you seems to pulse with the inevitability of what’s coming.

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly, voice low, smooth, drawl curling around each word. “Can’t lie,” he murmurs, “I’ve been thinkin’ about this… about you… for weeks.” The words are slow, deliberate, vibrating through the tension like a spark in dry grass.

Your breath catches. The machines hum around you, the warm, humid air heavy and intimate, but they’re background now. All that exists is him, you, the weight of his presence, the growing, undeniable press beneath the towel, and the slow-burning need threading through every glance, every brush, every subtle movement that has led to this moment.

He shifts just enough that the swell presses against your hip, a deliberate, teasing contact, and you can feel it through your pajamas. His eyes track yours, dark and intent, lips parting slightly as if he’s testing himself, measuring restraint against impulse. And in that suspended moment, every small touch, every fleeting brush, every quiet glance converges into something feral, raw, and urgent. Something that will no longer be contained.

Your own fingers twitch near him, unaware, but ready. Heat coils low, pulse hammering, stomach tight. The slow, careful teasing of previous encounters collapses into a tension too thick to ignore. And just like that, the line between restraint and release snaps.

Your chest hammers as he shifts closer, shoulder pressing into yours, warmth radiating through the thin fabric of your pajamas. The machines hum steadily, but it all fades into the background. Glen’s towel edge nudges against your hip again, and you feel it. The thick, heavy swell pressing insistently, unmistakable.

He tilts his head slightly, eyes dark, lips parting just enough to reveal the flash of his teeth, and his warm breath brushes over yours. You catch the faint scent of soap and him, musky and intoxicating. Your own breathing quickens without thinking, shallow and hot, drawn into the space between you.

Slowly, he presses you back against the edge of the dryer, his chest close enough that you can feel every ridge of muscle through the towel. One hand rests lightly on the machine beside your head, the other near your hip, fingers brushing your pajamas in a subtle, deliberate sweep. You can feel the weight of his body, the heat pressing against yours, the strong line of his biceps and forearms.

Your gaze flicks down, just for a second, and your stomach twists. Glen’s other hand is moving over his own body beneath the towel, sliding over the thick length straining against the fabric. He swallows, and you catch him licking his lips, eyes flicking back up to yours. The swell beneath the towel is impossible to ignore, already hard and insistent, and it pulls at something deep inside you.

The silence stretches, broken only by your ragged breathing and the hum of the machines. He leans closer, chest nearly touching yours now, lips hovering a hair’s breadth from yours. His warm breath brushes across your mouth, teasing, hot, and the tiny movements; the tilt of his jaw, the dip of his shoulder, the deliberate brush of thigh against yours; send shivers down your spine.

“God…” he murmurs softly, voice thick, husky, almost lost under the weight of his own need. His tongue darts out quickly, licking his lips again, and you feel the small shift of his towel edge against your hip, the heat, the hardness of his cock pressing.

You can’t resist the pull. Your fingers rise slightly, brushing along the edge of his forearm, feeling the cords of muscle beneath, the tension rolling through him. Every subtle movement of his body: shoulders rolling, abs flexing, towel teasing; pulls at you, makes it impossible to think, impossible to stop the craving building between you.

Glen leans even closer, pressing you fully against the dryer now, fingers brushing the curve of your hip, chest warm and hard against yours. The air between your lips is thick, heavy, each inhale a soft caress, each exhale sending warmth onto his. His eyes stay locked on yours, dark and magnetic, and the slightest tilt of his head seems to say more than words ever could.

The subtle, slow strokes of his hand beneath the towel, the press of his thigh, the warm breaths ghosting across your lips, all coil together into a tension so tight it almost hurts. Your heart races, stomach twisting low, pulse thundering. You’re acutely aware of every ridge of muscle, every vein along his forearms, every teasing ripple along his abs, and the swell beneath the towel pressing insistently against you.

The space between your lips shrinks, hovering, trembling, and the air feels electric, every heartbeat, every breath, every brush of skin amplifying the need building between you. The suspense stretches, taut and unbearable, until it feels like one small movement, one flicker of lips, could ignite the entire room.

Glen hesitates for a heartbeat, eyes flicking to yours, apprehensive and deciding, and then finally leans in. Your lips brush lightly at first, a tentative, feathered contact, and the air seems to catch between you. The warmth of his mouth, the soft press of his lips, the subtle pressure of his body against yours; it feels like a release of everything that’s been simmering, every stolen glance, every brushed shoulder, every teasing graze.

You respond instinctively, tilting your head, letting your lips melt against his, and the world shrinks to nothing but the press of him, the heat radiating through every inch of his damp, sculpted body. His hand slides along your hip, trailing lower for a moment, the heat and weight of him pressing into you in ways that leave you trembling.

The kiss deepens, slow at first, almost reverent. Your mouths move together, lips exploring, tasting, soft moans escaping against each other. His thumb brushes along the curve of your waist, teasing lightly, sending shivers down your spine. You feel the pleading, deliberate bulge pressing insistently beneath his towel, and a pulse of need shoots straight through you.

Then it shifts. Glen tilts his head, pushing forward with a quiet, commanding force that pulls you fully into him. His mouth opens slightly, teeth grazing your lower lip before his tongue slides over yours in a slow, deliberate, wet exploration. Your own hands rise, brushing over his chest, tangling in his damp hair, and then hesitantly moving lower, fingers finding the thick swell of him straining against the towel.

“Drivin’ me insane,” he growls between kisses, voice low, hoarse, Texan drawl thick with desire. His hand drifts lower, brushing over your hip and teasing the curve of your ass, pressing you impossibly tight against him.

You moan softly against his mouth, fingers sliding beneath the towel to wrap around the thick swell pressing insistently in your palm. He shivers at the contact, hips pressing forward slightly, letting you stroke him through the fabric. A low, guttural sound vibrates through his chest and into yours, making your stomach coil.

“You feel too good,” he murmurs roughly, teasing and feral all at once, lips brushing your jaw as he speaks. “I’ve wanted this… wanted you… for so long.”

Your breath hitches as his other hand grips the dryer beside your head, holding you in place. His body presses flush against yours, every ridge of muscle taut, every line of him sculpted and straining with desire. The smell of him, the warmth, the heat of his skin and sweat, the faint rustle of the towel. 

All of it coils tight inside you.

“Then don’t stop me,” you whisper against his lips, letting your tongue push against his briefly before pulling back to breathe. Your hand continues its movements along his thick cock, stroking slowly, testing, teasing, feeling the weight of him pulse beneath your palm.

He groans, hips pressing harder, towel shifting, cock pressing insistently against your palm. “Oh, you’re killing me,” he rasps, teeth grazing your lower lip, tongue dueling yours in a messy, wet rhythm. “I’ve been imagining this… imagining you… everything about you.”

Your moans mingle, breaths hitching, hearts hammering, as his hands roam over your body: shoulder, hip, ass, waist—claiming, testing, grounding you in him. 

Every movement is deliberate, but raw, feral, impossible to ignore. His lips move over yours, tongue tracing yours with a heated dominance, pressing, dragging, claiming, while his cock stiffens further in your hand, heavy and hard.

“You’re too… perfect,” he mutters between gasps, voice thick and ragged. “God, I need… I need you.”

You tilt your head, letting your tongue slide against his, hand moving faster, teasing harder, and the groan that rumbles through him makes your chest tighten even more. The slow, deliberate teasing of weeks collapses into urgent, primal energy. Mouths, hands, heat, and need colliding.

He leans back slightly just to pull you flush against him, pressing you impossibly close, and whispers, lips grazing yours: “I swear… you’re mine tonight.”

You can feel the weight of him against you, chest pressed impossibly close, every ridge of muscle taut, corded, alive beneath your palms. His lips brush yours again, softer this time, almost teasing, and you shiver at the warmth and heat radiating from his body. Every small movement, the tilt of his head, the brush of his shoulder, the way his hips press lightly into yours, sends sparks of want coiling through your stomach.

Glen’s hands move slowly at first, trailing down your sides, brushing over your hips, fingers teasing the curve of your ass, and you instinctively arch into him as you have your pajama top and bottom undone by him. His breath fans over your ear, hot and ragged, teasing your neck as he murmurs low, almost in a growl: “Been waitin’ for this… been wantin’ every inch of you.”

Your fingers twitch, wanting, needing to touch him, to feel him fully. You shift your hands to his waist, brushing the damp hair at the nape of his neck, letting your touch wander over the warmth of his skin, down the line of his abs, the subtle swell of his cock pressing through the towel. His body shudders under your fingertips, hips flexing slightly, veins standing out along the length of him, and the sharp, delicious swell makes you ache to take him fully into your hands.

He lets out a low hum, a sound vibrating against your chest, before leaning down just enough to press a sloppy, wet kiss to your mouth. Your lips melt together, tongue brushing in a slow, teasing dance, the heat between you thick and electric. The faint scrape of teeth, the slick press of tongues, the way he shifts closer, pressing harder, teasing and demanding, makes your body coil tight with want.

Your hand drifts instinctively to the edge of his towel, hesitating only for a heartbeat before tugging it down completely, letting your eyes drink in him fully: chest glistening with sweat, abs taut, arms flexing slightly with the effort of just holding himself near you, cock hard and heavy, already throbbing with need. His breath catches when he sees the look in your eyes, and a low groan escapes him, deep and hungry, as he presses forward, hips nudging insistently against you.

You smirk against his lips, tilting your head to tease, brushing your palm over his cock, slick with pre-cum, and whispering teasingly, “Was this all part of the plan? Had this lube ready for me all along?”

Glen groans, a ragged, guttural sound that vibrates through your chest, tilting his head back slightly, eyes half-lidded and molten. “Damn straight I did,” he hisses, voice low and thick with need. “Been thinkin’ about this, dreamin’ ‘bout it every night.”

You slide your hand down over his thick cock, slick with pre-cum, and adding a thin layer of lube as your fingers wrap around him. The first slow stroke makes him shiver, lean forward into you, and let out a guttural groan. His lips crash against yours again, wet, sloppy, tongue wrestling yours as he presses his body flush against yours. You coat your palm with spit, dragging it over the head and down the length of him, and he hisses, deep in his throat, curling his fingers into your hair as your hand slides faster, heavier.

“Feel too good,” he rasps between kisses, hips nudging forward just enough to remind you of his hardness. His balls slap lightly against your palm with each pulse, thick and heavy, and every time you wrap your fingers fully around him, the slick sound makes a wet echo in the small room. You tease him, flicking the tip, letting your hand slide back down, and he groans, tilting his head to press a sloppy kiss to your jaw. “Too… good.”

You move more aggressively now, thumb stroking the sensitive underside, fingers tightening just slightly as you drag upward. He growls into your mouth, muffled, rolling his hips with yours, letting you feel every swell, every vein pulsing under your grip. “Damn… keep that up,” he murmurs, “Don’t stop till I tell you.”

He steps back slightly, just enough to grip your hips and tilt you against the edge of the machine, cock heavy and throbbing in your hand. Your fingers drag over his veins, slick and pulsing, thumb brushing the glistening tip. Every hiss and groan, every small tug of your palm along his length, draws a low, feral rumble from deep in his chest. He presses his mouth to yours again, tongue sliding over yours in a wet, sloppy claim.

Your strokes grow heavier, wetter, the sound of slick fingers dragging up and down his cock mixing with his ragged breathing, his teeth grazing your lips, his tongue sliding over yours in messy, desperate kisses. Heat coils between you, muscles tensed, and the tension snaps tighter with every pulse of him beneath your palm.

A low groan vibrates from his chest as his hands wander over your back and sides, tilting your head, tugging gently at your hair, drawing a shiver from your spine. “You feel too good,” he utters, voice thick with want. “The way you move… it drives me insane.”

Your hand tightens around him, thumb brushing the sensitive tip, while he presses forward into your palm, letting his pelvis roll just enough to urge you onward. He tilts his head back, pressing sloppy kisses along your jaw, dragging his tongue over yours, teeth grazing softly, heat and slick friction building between you.

Glen shifts slightly, pressing you against the edge of the machine, letting you feel his full length in your grip. “Can’t wait any longer…” he mutters, voice rough and low, lips trailing over your neck, tasting the mix of sweat and lube. You squeeze him, sliding your palm faster, wet sounds echoing in the room as his breathing deepens, groans rolling from his chest with each pulse.

Leaning closer, you press sloppy kisses along his jaw, dragging your tongue over him, teeth grazing lightly, and he groans, pressing back against you. His hands thread into your hair, holding you as your strokes grow firmer, slick sounds mixing with ragged moans and the vibration of his chest against yours.

Heat coils between you, feral and unrelenting. His hands drift lower, brushing over your thighs, teasing the line of skin slick from your shower. His humming groan vibrates through your body, and he shifts, pressing you more firmly against the machine, drawing you forward with subtle but insistent motions.

With a low, throaty growl, Glen drops to his knees, spreading your thighs and tilting your hips so his tongue brushes over your entrance. A shiver races through you, toes curling, spine arching, as he teases you with soft, wet flicks, spreading slick warmth across your skin. Fingers trail upward, sliding inside slowly, testing and preparing you. The deep hum of his voice mixes with the slick sounds and your sharp breaths, anchoring you in the intensity building between you.

Glen drops to his knees, pressing your thighs apart slightly, and tilts your hips so you can feel his tongue brush over your entrance. You shiver, toes curling, spine arching, as he teases you with soft, wet flicks, spreading slick warmth over you. Fingers trail upward to tease the sensitive rim, slipping inside slowly, testing, pressing, preparing you. Every groan from him vibrates through your pelvis.

“You taste so good,” he murmurs, pressing a wet kiss to the curve of your ass. His tongue drags over the slick center, finger sliding inside, stretching and teasing. You moan, pressing your chest into the machine, letting him explore, and he groans again, thumb brushing your clenching hole.

You bite your lip, sliding your hand over your cock as he laps and presses, “Damn, you’ve been imagining this, haven’t you?” He hums low, rough, pressing his tongue harder, fingers curling inside you, coating you slick. “Every night. Every moment,” he rasps, tugging your hair lightly, commanding, possessive.

Glen presses his forehead against your back for leverage, fingers pumping inside you as his tongue and mouth explore, licking, sucking, tasting every inch. Your breathing accelerates, moans escaping in a messy rhythm with his low, guttural sounds. The lube and saliva mix, slick and wet, dripping, coating you both as he continues teasing and fingering you.

“You ready for me?” Glen murmurs, pulling back slightly, eyes gleaming, cock glistening, balls pressing against your ass with each pulse. You arch, answering with a soft moan, and he growls low, dragging a hand over your back, then the nape of your neck, pressing you flush against him.

His fingers curl around your wrists briefly, pressing lightly as he positions you, bent over the washing machine, legs trembling slightly under the anticipation. He leans close, lips brushing your ear, voice low and feral. “Gonna take you so hard… gonna make you mine right here.”

Glen’s hands stay firm on your wrists for a moment longer before turning you in place, pressing you against the edge of the machine and bending you over. You can feel the warmth of his body behind you, the heat radiating off his damp skin, muscles flexing as he leans closer. It contrasts sharply to the cold steel platform. His breath brushes your neck, warm and heavy, carrying the faint tang of sweat and lube from earlier, and your chest rises and falls in quickened anticipation.

He shifts slightly, hands sliding down your arms to your elbows, fingers curling lightly, testing, teasing, brushing the backs of your thighs. The tension coils tighter with each small touch, every inch of him pressed so close behind you that you can feel the outline of his cock against the curve of your ass, pulsing in eager anticipation.

Glen’s lips trail along the side of your neck, teeth grazing lightly, tongue flicking across the warm skin. “Damn… you smell so good,” he groans. “Makes it hard to wait…” His voice drops lower, thickening slightly with desire, and you feel his cock shifting against your body, hardening further with each breath.

Your hips press back slightly, brushing against him, testing, teasing, and he groans, hand moving to the curve of your hip, pressing you flush against him. “Little teaser,” he mutters, thumb brushing over your slickened entrance. You bite your lip, moaning softly, “I’m not teasing… I’m ready for you.”

He shifts closer, pressing his chest into your back, fingers grazing your ass, thumbs spreading lightly, warming your skin, making your stomach tighten in nervous anticipation. “Gonna feel so good inside you,” he murmurs, voice rough, low. His hips brush against yours, cock teasing, pulsing insistently as he aligns himself, letting you feel the weight and heat of him.

Glen presses lightly into your back with his hands, tilting his pelvis, letting you feel the tip of him nudging at your entrance. The anticipation makes your legs tremble, hips arching slightly as you catch a slick glimpse of what’s waiting. You inhale sharply, gripping the machine harder, voice trembling, “Glen… please… now…”

He hums against your neck, cock pressing insistently, fingers kneading your hips firmly, flexing muscles guiding you closer, until with a slow, deliberate push, he slides the tip of his cock against your slick entrance. The first push slides in with a wet, squelching sound that makes your stomach clench and your toes curl, the stretch pulling tight around him. You gasp sharply, gripping the edge of the machine as your body arches instinctively, spine bending under the new sensation.

Glen leans over your back, nipping lightly at your shoulder, murmuring low, “Fuck, you’re so tight… so perfect for me.” His hands grip your hips firmly, pressing you down just enough to keep your chest against the machine, cock sinking deeper inch by inch. The wet squelch echoes in the small room as he shifts slightly, testing, making sure you’re stretched fully around him.

Your breathing quickens, sharp and uneven, hips rolling back reflexively to meet him as his hands knead your hips, flexing muscles guiding each movement. “Feels so good,” you breathe, words coming in broken moans, “Glen… Shit, it’s so big… I can feel all of you.”

He growls low in response, cock pulsing deep, balls slapping wetly against your ass with every measured push. “Mine,” he hisses, voice thick with need. “Mine to fill, mine to fuck till you scream.” He presses a hand to the small of your back, dragging you flush against him as he begins slow, deliberate strokes, letting the slick sound of skin sliding against skin fill the air.

Each thrust stretches you wider, muscles clenching around him, ass bouncing slightly with the wet slaps of his cock. You moan, fingers gripping the machine, hips pressing back, stroking yourself in time with him. “Glen… please… harder,” you gasp, arching further, body trembling with desire.

His voice is rough and demanding. “Oh, I’m just getting started,” he mutters, tugging your hair lightly, letting his hand roam down to press against the curve of your ass, teasing and slapping with calculated force. “Gonna make you mine so deep… you won’t even remember your own name.”

With a sharp groan, he shifts, planting one foot beside your head on the floor, pressing lightly, keeping your face angled as he drives in harder. The squelch of your slick and his lube fills the room, each slap and thrust thundering through your core. He grips your hips and your hair with his toes, tugging you flush against his thigh, holding you in place while his thick, juicy cock slides deep, stretching and filling you completely to the brim.

You whimper, voice high, body trembling, and manage, “Glen… I can’t… it’s too much… fuck…” He hums low in satisfaction, pressing his hand into the small of your back to keep you steady, each drive deeper and sharper, balls smacking wetly against your ass.

He keeps one foot pressed against your face, weight shifting as he flexes, cock sliding with wet, sticky sounds, dragging your lips over the floor slightly, pulling you closer, and groaning, “That’s it… take it all… mine.” Your tongue flicks against the arch of his foot involuntarily, tasting sweat and the faint metallic tang of exertion, and he growls, cock twitching deeper inside you.

Your nails dig into the edge of the machine as his hips snap harder, skin slapping, veins pulsing along his thick cock. “Glen… I… I’m gonna cum soon,” you gasp, voice ragged, body jerking with each thrust.

“Not yet,” he hisses, pressing the back of your head with his foot, tilting it down slightly, and then shifting to tug your hair to control you. “Gonna make you beg, make you feel every inch of me.” His hand presses into your ass, fingers digging in as he slaps, rolls his hips hard, driving in a deep, rhythmic cadence that sends shivers down your spine.

You cry out, mouth opening around the foot when it returns back to stamping you against the machine, toes curling, body shivering with overstimulation as his cock drives in wet, slick strokes, stretching you thoroughly, ass bouncing under his firm grip. “Yes… oh, God… Glen… harder… please…”

He leans forward once he releases his foot off your face, teeth grazing your shoulder, hips snapping relentlessly. “You like it rough, huh? Like a good little whore for me?” His voice is low, guttural, and the sound of skin slapping and slick squelches echo in the small room, blending with your moans.

“Yeah… oh, fuck, yes…” you moan, clinging around him, hips grinding back slightly to meet his thrusts, slick heat coating your bodies, fingers digging into the machine and the curve of his ass.

He shifts slightly, pressing one hand into the small of your back, the other twisting gently around your wrist, yanking one behind your back, keeping you completely under his control. You’re beginning to lose grip on the laundry machine, fingertips stained with budding sweat. “Mine,” he hisses, cock pounding relentlessly, balls slapping, veins throbbing. “All mine.”

You gasp, moaning against the contained hum of the laundry machine, trembling, hips rocking instinctively back, slipping your hand down to stroke your own cock, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. “Glen… I’m… gonna—”

He groans, snapping hips hard, cock plunging deep, and mutters, “Let go. Cum for me, slut. Mine to ruin.” The machine rocks under the force, slick sounds mixing with groans, skin slapping, and the wet slide of cock inside ass.

Your back arches, toes curling, body trembling, voice cracking with pleasure as you hit the edge, hips jerking, fingers curling around the machine and your own cock, cum spilling, hot and sticky all over the public utility machine.

Glen keeps driving, slow and deliberate now, letting you ride out your release before he shifts, thrusting deep and hard again, cock pulsing, balls slapping wetly, voice low and ragged. “So fucking good… mine… all mine…”

You whimper, body exhausted but still quivering, ass clenching tightly around him, slick dripping down both of you. His thrusts become rougher, more feral, pulling you flush against him, cock plunging with force, hands controlling your hair, back, wrists.

“Fuck.”

Glen groans low, cock pulsing violently as he bottoms out deep inside you, hips shuddering, his release spilling thick and hot, filling you completely. Your body quivers, pressed hard against the machine, ass clenching reflexively around him as the first ropes of his cum press deep into you. He groans, voice ragged, teeth grazing your shoulder as his cock twitches, pumping more deep inside, coating your inner walls with every violent pulse.

The heat of him inside you is relentless, cock throbbing, veins standing out sharply as he continues to breed you, the wet, sticky mess filling you so thoroughly it leaks down your thighs in thick, glistening strands. You moan, body shaking uncontrollably, legs trembling as his cum runs down your slickened skin, dripping in rivulets, leaving a shiny trail along your thighs and calves.

Glen leans closer, pressing his chest against your back and slumping himself over fully, nose brushing your neck, hands gripping your hips tightly, cock still twitching and pulsing inside you. He pants in your ear, beads of sweat, either from yours or his rolling down your body as the two of you catch your breath, “Mine… all of it… all inside you.” His voice was rough with exhaustion and raw pleasure. You gasp, back arching, toes curling, fingers digging into the machine as the thick, sticky heat continues to coat you from the inside out, pooling and dripping down in warm, wet streams.

Finally, he slows, cock heavy and softening only slightly but still filling you, hips rocking slowly to spread every last drop of cum inside. You tremble, utterly spent, legs slick and coated, ass dripping with warmth, chest pressed into the machine, completely overwhelmed by the mess and fullness. He hums against your neck, hot breath mingling with yours, every inch of his feral release leaving its mark on your body, leaving you drenched, coated, and utterly his.

Glen keeps you bent over the edge of the washing machine, cock still nestled deep inside, one hand pressing your hip to steady you, the other braced on the machine. Your legs wobble under you, thighs slick with his cum dripping in thick strings down to the floor. He shifts slightly, letting the last pulses of his release fill you completely, coating you from the inside out.

You gasp, gripping the machine edge, ass quivering as he rocks gently, still pressing into you to spread the warmth. “God… you’re full,” he mutters, teeth brushing the curve of your shoulder in a brief, sharp nip, just enough to make you shiver. Thick, sticky cum runs down your thighs, and you can feel it glistening along the backs of your legs, pooling slightly where you’re bent over.

You press back slightly, still trembling, cum and sweat slick across your thighs. “You really didn’t hold back, did you?” you manage to gasp, voice ragged but playful.

Glen smirks against the curve of your shoulder, one hand still on your hip, thumb brushing lightly over the slick sheen. “Damn right… didn’t figure I’d let you get away clean,” he murmurs, voice low but teasing.

You moan softly, breath uneven, slick skin pressing against his, feeling the last remnants of him ooze out in thick, warm strings. His hands knead lightly over your hips and ass, pressing you down, spreading the mess over your skin, marking you completely.

You let out a shaky laugh, shivering, “Guess I should’ve known you’d come prepared for this.”

He grins, pressing a quick, rough kiss to the back of your neck. “Prepared? Hell, I always know what I want… and I never let it go,” he says, eyes glinting as he shifts slightly, keeping you bent over the machine, the mess still dripping between you.

You nudge him lightly with your hip, teasing, “You’re lucky I like a little chaos in my life.”

“Chaos suits you,” he replies, tone playful, almost approving, a smirk tugging at his lips. “But don’t think this is the last time…”

You catch his gaze, heat still thrumming through your body, and let out a soft laugh. “Yeah? I think I might just hold you to that.”

He hums in agreement, fingers still lingering on your hip, chest pressing against your back, and the small, charged pause between you leaves the promise of more. 

Feral, messy, and thrillingly unspoken.

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.

You barely moved beneath him, a mixture of desire and awe flooding you as his steady gaze locked onto yours. His clothed cock pressed heavily against your thigh, rock hard and thick, aching from the long day without release. Just the thought of finally having you beneath him, your body open and vulnerable, made his pulse race faster.

He traced his fingertips along your jawline, eyes darkening with want and something softer,something like worship. “God, you look so good for me,” Clark growled quietly, voice rough with need. His tongue flicked out, wet and warm, licking the shell of your ear as his hands slid under your shirt, palms flattening against your back.

Your breath hitched when his mouth found the sensitive hollow of your neck, teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you shiver. The scent of your skin—your sweat, your natural musk—flooded his senses, fueling the fire growing between his legs. His bulge twitched insistently, aching to be buried deep inside you, to feel your tight heat clenching around him.

He kissed down your collarbone, lips lingering over the delicate skin, before lowering himself until his mouth hovered just above your chest. His tongue circled a nipple, sucking it hard, the sharp sting mixing with the pleasure like electricity racing through your veins. Your hips lifted without thought, grinding up against his mouth as he teased you mercilessly.

“Clark…” you gasped, fingers tangling in his dark hair, pulling him closer.

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, full of dark promise and a deep, unwavering love. “Not yet,” he whispered, voice rough but patient. “I want to taste every inch of you.”

His hands roamed lower, sliding beneath your pants and underwear, palms warm and sure as they wrapped around your cock after he stripped the undergarments off. His thumb circled the sensitive head, slick with precum, sending jolts of pleasure through your body. Clark’s mouth descended slowly, lips parting to take you in, the heat of his breath making you moan deep in your chest.

His tongue worked expertly along your shaft, flicking over the frenulum with teasing flicks, then taking more of you in, his throat flexing as he swallowed your length. His hands squeezed your hips, anchoring you as he bobbed his head, the wet, hollow sounds of his mouth working you filling the quiet room.

Your body trembled, heat pooling deep in your belly, your fingers clutching the sheets as pleasure built to a desperate crescendo. Clark pulled back with a gasp, lips swollen and glistening. “You’re so beautiful,” he growled, voice thick with lust.

He stripped off his own shirt, revealing his broad, chiseled chest slick with sweat. His skin gleamed under the low light, muscles rippling as he shifted his weight in continuing to undress himself from top to bottom.

Clark’s mouth lingered against your skin a moment longer before he slowly pulled away, leaving your entrance slick and burning with need. You shifted, breath ragged, eyes dark with hunger, reaching eagerly for the thick length already standing proud and heavy against his lower abdomen.

Clark knelt on the bed, his muscular thighs spread just enough to balance the heavy weight pressing between them. His cock was impossibly large, long and thick, veins pulsing like rivers of raw electricity beneath the taut skin. The swollen, glistening head oozed with precum, slick and shining in the soft light. It wasn’t just the size that demanded attention; there was a primal urgency in its heavy swell, a heat that radiated off his skin in waves.

Beneath it, his balls hung low and full, swollen with need and thick with the promise of release. The skin was taut but velvety, the weight pulling slightly at his thighs as they shifted with every breath he took. You watched as the heavy sacks swung slowly, brushing against the smooth planes of his legs, the slightest movement sending them teasingly bouncing—so full they looked like they could burst.

Each subtle motion made his cock sway, a pendulum of desire that your eyes couldn’t leave. When he shifted forward, you could see the thick length stretching, pressing insistently toward you, begging for your mouth. The warmth from his skin was intoxicating, mixing with the faint scent of sweat and musk that clung to him after a long day.

Your own breath caught as you reached out, fingers trembling, the anticipation knotting in your stomach. Your mouth watered as you leaned closer, lips parting slowly like a soft invitation, your tongue already aching to taste that immense hardness. The weight of him pressed into your senses, too much, and yet not nearly enough.

Around you, the quiet of the room seemed to shrink, the only sounds were your quickening breath and the subtle slick noises of his arousal. The bed creaked faintly beneath him, the shifting of muscles taut with desire drawing you in deeper.

You could feel the heat of his body before your lips even touched him, that heavy weight of his cock and balls swinging just enough to brush teasingly against your chin. It was a promise; the promise of all the fire and strength and tenderness that Clark held inside, and the unspoken invitation to take it all.

At first, you managed only the head, your lips stretched impossibly wide around the thick crown, tongue swirling at the sensitive ridge beneath the rim. The heat radiating from him was fierce, almost overwhelming, and you could taste the salty musk, the rawness of him that made your heart pound.

You tried to slide farther down, to take more of him, but his girth was relentless, so thick it stretched your jaw beyond comfort. Drool pooled at the corners of your mouth, escaping and trailing wet streaks down your chin. Your jaw ached fiercely from the stretch, muscles tight and trembling, but you refused to stop.

Clark groaned, his hands threading through your hair, holding your head steady and encouraging you wordlessly. His cock throbbed against your tongue, the length so heavy it brushed the back of your throat when you tried to take him deeper. Gagging softly, you pulled back a fraction, breath hitching, but your lips never lost contact.

You swallowed hard, working your mouth with slow, deliberate strokes; lips sliding down, tongue flicking over the swollen veins, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just enough to send shivers through both of you. Every inch of him filled your senses, the overwhelming size a delicious challenge you were determined to meet.

Clark’s hips jerked lightly with need, his breath ragged as he moaned low in your ear. “Fuck, you’re so good at this,” he gasped, fingers tightening in your hair.

You pushed through the ache in your jaw, eyes locked on his face, watching the raw desire flicker in his gaze. You wanted to show him how much you needed him, how much you worshiped every inch.

Your jaw stretched, aching deliciously as you tried to take more, but the sheer girth was relentless, too thick to fit comfortably, yet you didn’t want to stop. Drool pooled at the corners of your mouth, slick and warm, dripping down your chin in slow rivulets. You swallowed hard, your tongue working tirelessly, tracing the swollen veins that throbbed beneath the sensitive skin.

Your hands wrapped around the base, stroking slow and sure as your mouth continued its relentless worship. Clark’s cock throbbed and twitched in your mouth, each pulse sending jolts through your lips and tongue.

Clark groaned low and deep, hips pressing forward, cock throbbing against your tongue. “Driving me crazy,” he murmured, voice thick with need. His hands tightened in your hair, anchoring you close even as his body trembled with effort. He had been at work all day, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, but now—here, in this moment—he was yours entirely.

You gave him a teasing smile, a low hum to send vibrations to his cock, pulling back just enough to catch your breath before diving back in, lips stretched impossibly wide around his cock, swallowing every inch you could manage, utterly lost in the sweet, overwhelming sensation of taking him in.

You pulled back just enough to gasp for breath, lips swollen and slick, eyes locked on his face where raw desire flickered. The sight of his flushed cheeks, the slight sheen of sweat on his brow, the dark glint in his eyes; it all made your pulse race.

“You’re killing me,” Clark groaned, voice rough. “Nearly came right then and there...”

“Wouldn’t be the first time, y’know.” You laughed, wiping some drool off with the back of your hand.

Before you could say another word, Clark’s hands slid up your sides, steadying you as he pulled you closer. His lips brushed over yours, then dipped down to your chin, his tongue flicking out to lick the stray drool from your skin with a slow, teasing lick.

The warmth of his mouth followed, soft and hungry, as he captured your lips in a deep, possessive kiss. His breath mingled with yours, rough and sweet, as he held your bare body tightly, an unspoken promise that this night was only just beginning.

Clark broke the kiss reluctantly, his eyes dark and molten with need as he cupped your jaw, slowly easing you down onto your stomach. His hands slid to your hips, pressing firmly to lift your ass, angling it up just right. Your back arched instinctively, pressing your chest into the mattress as you spread yourself open for him.

The soft curve of your spine, the smooth swell of your ass elevated and exposed; it was a perfect invitation. Clark’s cock throbbed heavily against your thigh, veins pulsing with urgent heat as his breath ghosted over your slick entrance.

Then, with slow reverence, he lowered his mouth to your entrance. His tongue flicked out tentatively at first, teasing the rim with gentle, deliberate strokes; each movement setting your nerves ablaze and pulling a soft moan from your lips.

The wet heat of his mouth pressed against your sensitive walls made you gasp, hips twitching as his tongue traced deep inside your tight hole, exploring with careful insistence.

“Fuck, you taste so good,” Clark murmured against your skin, voice thick and husky with need. Licking again, flattening his tongue, slower with deliberate tease, over your crack. “So good…”

You shivered beneath him, fingers digging into the sheets as his tongue traced slow circles over the crown, inching deeper with exquisite patience. “God, Clark…” you breathed, the sound barely more than a whisper, desperate and raw.

Your muscles clenched and released, responding to the thick, curling pressure of his fingers slipping inside alongside his tongue. The combination of wet heat and firm touch sent waves of sharp pleasure shooting through you. Your body arched higher, pressing into his touch as your breath hitched with each slick, pulsing stroke.

“You feel so good like this,” Clark whispered against your skin, lips brushing over the curve of your ass, “all open for me.”

Your fingers clenched the sheets beneath you, body trembling with every slow curl of his three thick fingers digging deep, stretching you gently while his tongue danced in delicious, maddening patterns. The slick friction mixed with the steady push of his fingers made your vision blur with heat.

“I want to taste all of you,” he murmured, voice thick with hunger. “I want to feel you shudder around me.”

Your hips gave a desperate, involuntary push against him, needing more, craving that relentless worship. Clark’s cock twitched hard, pressing heavier against your thigh as the slick warmth of your body wrapped him, and his breath grew ragged with the mounting ache.

“You’re mine,” he breathed, voice rough as he swallowed the low moan you let slip. “Every inch.”

Catching your breath, you muffled into the pillow as you felt Clark pull his fingers out of you, “Stole my line, asshole.”

You both chuckled as Clark’s hands slid from your hips to the curve of your waist, fingers curling gently but possessively. With a slow, deliberate motion, he shifted his weight and pressed into the bed beside you, the heat of his muscular body warming your skin. He carefully flipped you over, easing you back until your spine met the mattress and your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer.

The sudden shift sent a delicious flush of vulnerability and excitement coursing through you. Your raised thighs framed him perfectly, hips tilting up as your breath caught at the sight of him: his broad chest rising and falling, muscles taut from the day’s stress now softened in the quiet intimacy between you.

Clark’s eyes darkened as he looked down at you, admiration and hunger burning in their depths. He brushed a damp lock of hair from your forehead, his touch tender despite the fire building inside him.

He paused a moment, savoring the connection, the slick heat pooling between your bodies. His cock twitched, heavy and aching, the thick length pressed against your wet entrance. Clark let out a low groan, the sound vibrating deep in his chest.

His hands settled firmly on your hips, anchoring you, steadying both of you as he traced slow, teasing circles with the tip of his cock over your tight, slick rim. You arched your back, pressing into him, silently begging.

Clark’s breath hitched, and he looked down at you with a softness that made your heart ache. “You know,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, “no matter how long my day is… coming home to you like this… it makes everything better.”

You smiled, breathless. “I’ve been waiting for this all day too.”

He leaned down, capturing your lips in a slow, deep kiss. His mouth was warm and gentle, full of promise and reassurance, grounding you amidst the heat and longing.

When he pulled back just enough to whisper against your skin, his voice was thick with affection and need: “I want you to feel safe with me. Always.”

You nodded, your voice a soft whisper. “I do. With you, I’m home.”

Clark’s eyes held yours, shimmering with something deeper than desire; a fierce, unwavering love. He pressed one last lingering kiss to your forehead before lowering himself again, ready to join you fully.

“Ready for me?” His voice was low and thick, laced with longing and care.

You nodded, breath hitching, legs tightening around his waist as you lifted your hips to meet him.

Clark’s cock pressed heavy against your slick entrance, the swollen head teasing the delicate rim with agonizing patience. The tight heat of your muscles contracted around him, a delicious, fiery grip that made every nerve scream. Your body quivered, hips instinctively pressing up to meet him, welcoming the impossible stretch.

The slickness coated him like silk, but the tension of your tight, unyielding flesh was a slow-burning fire. Clark’s hands dug into your hips, steady and sure, as he fought the urge to slam in hard and fast. Instead, he pushed forward with slow, excruciating care—his cockhead pressing past your tight ring, stretching you wide, inch by agonizing inch.

The room was thick with heat, the scent of sweat and sex hanging heavy in the air. Clark’s muscles flexed visibly beneath his skin, veins pulsing along his thick arms and broad shoulders as he anchored himself above you. The primal power of his body coiled like a spring, every movement deliberate, restrained, fueled by pure need.

Your breath hitched with the exquisite burn of being filled so completely, your back arching as the stretch deepened, cock buried to the hilt inside you. The overwhelming fullness was at once breathtaking and overwhelming. Every inch a delicious ache that left you trembling, skin slick and flushed.

Clark’s chest rose and fell in ragged breaths, his strong jaw clenched tight as he slowly sank deeper, the thick length of him filling you with a punishing, agonizing stretch. The hot friction of your tight walls clenching around his shaft sent shivers of raw, unfiltered pleasure straight to his cock, making it pulse and throb with urgent need.

“You’re so fucking tight,” Clark growled, voice low and ragged, a dark hunger flickering in his eyes. “Damn, you take me so well. You’re perfect.”

Your fingers dug into the sheets, nails scraping the fabric as you surrendered to the overwhelming sensation. Your hole stretched impossibly wide, every muscle trembling around his cock like a vice. The heat pooling between your bodies was unbearable, sweat slicking your skin, mixing with the taste of each other.

Clark’s hands gripped your hips harder, flexing his powerful arms as he slowly began to move, the slow, steady push of his cock sliding in and out of your tight, burning heat creating a relentless rhythm that stole your breath and stole your mind.

“Fuck,” he hissed, voice thick with desperation and awe, veins pulsing beneath the surface as his thrusts gained strength. “You feel so good. So fucking good.”

You gasped, voice breaking under the pressure and pleasure. “Clark—oh, fuck—don’t stop. It hurts so fucking—fuck!”

The wet slap of skin meeting skin filled the room as he set a brutal, punishing pace, muscles pumping, cock throbbing, the stretch still aching but melting into searing, overwhelming bliss.

Every inch of you was alive, every nerve firing, every breath stolen by the relentless pounding of his thick cock driving deep inside you. You clung to him, breathless and shaking, utterly consumed by the raw, carnal heat between you.

Clark’s cock drove deeper with every brutal thrust. Thick, swollen, hot; stretching your hole beyond its limits, past the line between pain and pleasure until they were indistinguishable. Your rim clung to him desperately, spit-slick and flushed raw, the edges fluttering helplessly as his girth dragged through your tender channel, ruining you. Every withdrawal left your hole gaping open around air for a split second, flushed and twitching, before his cock forced it wide again with a slick, wet pop of resistance giving way.

“Christ,” Clark groaned, one hand sliding from your hip to your bare chest, pressing you deeper into the mattress as he adjusted the angle. “You’re gripping me like you don’t wanna let go.”

His voice was hoarse, dripping with reverence and restraint, but his body was anything but. His cock was a steel-thick monster inside you, heat-flushed and veined, every inch slick with your wetness and the precum he kept spilling into you. You could feel it pulse, twitch, throb with need inside your stretched heat like it was alive. His heavy balls slammed against your taint with each thrust, the wet smack echoing through the thick, humid air, overlaid with your own ragged cries and the low, guttural sounds he made as he fucked you deeper.

Clark’s body radiated heat. Not just from the exertion of moving that massive frame, but because he willed it hotter. His sweat poured in rivulets down the ridges of his chest, beading between his pecs, running down the sharp cut of his abs. His skin burned where it pressed against yours—feverish, slick—and the air around you shimmered with it, suffocating and intimate. It clung to you like a second skin.

Your fingers scrambled blindly for purchase, first clawing at the sheets, then sliding helplessly over his sweat-slicked back. When you found his skin—his wide, muscular shoulders, the tight flex of his lat as he rocked into you—you clung. Digging your nails into him like a man drowning, dragging red lines across the bulging muscles that carved his back and arms like sculpted marble.

“Fuck, baby—harder,” you gasped, voice cracking. Your thighs trembled, calves kicking uselessly against the mattress as you were driven down onto his cock again and again. “Don’t stop, don’t you dare fucking stop—”

“I’m not gonna,” he growled, voice gravel and smoke. “You’re gonna take it. All of me. Gonna keep taking this cock until I make you forget your own name.”

He punctuated it with a thrust so deep it punched a cry from your lungs, your whole body seizing beneath him. Your mouth dropped open, no sound coming out for a moment except the choked hitch of breath and the obscene gluck-gluck of his cock pistoning into your soaked hole.

Clark withdrew all at once, your hole clenching around emptiness, fluttering, desperate. Before you could beg, he was already manhandling you into a new position; hands strong, but never cruel. He flipped you onto your stomach in one smooth motion, pressing a kiss between your shoulder blades as his hands gripped your hips and lifted your ass. You barely had time to brace yourself. Cheek pressed to the damp sheets, arms trembling; before he lined himself back up and fed his cock into you again, slow and brutal, like he wanted you to feel every inch of it burrow back inside. The new angle drove him deeper, thicker, his cockhead now punching right into the soft bundle of nerves inside you with surgical precision.

He reached up, palmed the back of your neck, pushing your face into the mattress as he angled his hips again, thrusting with a brutal precision, tip grinding up against your prostate with every pass.

You were sobbing now, not from pain but from being so full, so utterly destroyed. Your rim burned, stretched around him wide and red, swollen and shiny from the unrelenting assault. You felt him everywhere: inside your guts, in your stomach, in your chest. It was like he’d moved your organs just to make space for his cock.

“Look at you,” Clark panted, bending over you now, chest dragging over your slick back. His voice came hot against your ear, laced with something wicked. “Look how pretty you stretch around me. You love this, don’t you?”

You could barely nod. Your hands came up again, reaching back and straining your back and shoulders muscles to slide over his sweat-drenched chest this time—touching the thick, solid wall of his pecs, then scratching down as you moaned through clenched teeth.

His body tensed as you clawed. “Shit—keep doing that. Fuck—mark me, baby.”

And you did. Scratches bloomed down the curves of his chest, over the bulge of his biceps as he bore down harder. His thrusts turned ragged, pace violent, wet slaps echoing as his balls smacked your taint again and again, your ass clapping back against his hips with each bounce.

The slick mess between your thighs grew worse. Your cock leaking untouched against the sheets, Clark’s precum pouring into you, squelching with every plunge.

The room was drenched in noise. Moaning, panting, slapping, the squelch of ruined slick, the guttural growl of a man on the edge.

Then:

“Mine,” Clark said, voice thick and trembling. “Every inch of this sweet hole—mine.”

Your hole spasmed around him in reply.

You didn’t know how long he kept you like that: face pressed into the mattress, arms sprawled and limp, ass in the air like an offering. Time warped under the weight of him, his cock sawing in and out with a relentless, punishing rhythm that left your hole raw and weeping around him. The squelch of it, the obscene slap of his hips against your ass, the slick drag of your walls failing to close around his girth—it all melted into one deafening symphony of filth.

Clark’s body trembled above you now. You could feel it—his breath faltering, rhythm stuttering, muscles twitching like he was holding back a goddamn earthquake. He was drenched in sweat, drops falling from his brow onto your back, his grip on your hips bruising.

“Fuck,” he growled, voice unraveling. “You’re so—tight, baby. Taking all of me—gonna fill you up, I’m gonna—shit, I’m gonna cum.”

You cried out, voice wrecked. “Please. Do it. Give it to me. Fill me up, Clark—please, please—”

That broke him.

With a final, punishing thrust that drove his cockhead flush against the deepest part of you, Clark buried himself to the hilt and held. His whole body locked up—thighs flexed, ass clenched, chest rising in a trembling gasp—before he let out a guttural, almost wounded moan.

“Damn—”

Then you felt it.

His cock twitched violently inside you as the first rope of cum shot deep into your guts—hot, thick, and seemingly endless. It hit you like a brand, flooding your already ruined hole, filling you so fast it pushed a wave of his seed back out around the seal of your rim. He didn’t pull out. He couldn’t. He just stayed there, cock throbbing inside you, releasing in heavy, wet spurts that made your stomach cramp from how full you were getting.

You were moaning incoherently, clenching down on him with every pulse, your own cock untouched and leaking against the sheets. Your body was shaking now, pushed over the edge just from the pressure and the sheer, brutal warmth of being used like that. You didn’t need to be touched.

You came without warning. Your whole body lurching forward, ass still high, cock spurting messily beneath you in helpless spurts. You moaned his name into the mattress, eyes rolling back as your hole squeezed around him, milking the last of his orgasm right out of his still-hard cock. It was too much. You felt overstuffed, the creamy slick of both your cum and his pouring down your thighs, pooling beneath you.

Clark collapsed over your back, chest heaving, still twitching inside you. He didn’t pull out. Not yet. His arms wrapped around your waist like a lifeline, mouth pressed to your spine.

“I got you,” he whispered hoarsely. “You did so good for me. So fucking perfect.”

You could only whimper in reply, your body limp, hole leaking, still stretched wide and stuffed full of him. You didn’t want him to move. You wanted to stay plugged, branded, marked.

And Clark—he stayed.

Clark’s breath was ragged as he stayed buried inside you, hips still twitching with soft aftershocks of his release. His heavy cock, still thick and slick, pulsed deep in your wrecked hole, hot seed dripping freely inside you, pooling in the depths where only he could reach.

He rolled onto his side, but didn’t pull out; deliberately keeping you full, his swollen cockhead coated in his own warmth, nestled in your tight, stretched channel. Every slight move sent waves of his cum splashing deeper into you, a heavy, slick flood that made your guts clench and pulse in response.

I’m so full. So fucking full of him, your mind spun, hazy with pleasure and exhaustion. Like I could burst, but I don’t want to. I want this—want all of him buried inside me, filling me completely.

“You’re mine like this,” Clark whispered against the back of your neck, voice low and possessive, fingers tracing slow, lazy patterns down your spine. “I’m breeding you, filling you up—making sure every drop stays where it belongs.”

You shivered, heat blooming beneath his touch, breath catching. “I… I don’t wanna lose it,” you admitted, voice cracked and small, fingertips curling into the sheets. “I want it all. I want to feel it inside me.”

Clark’s lips curved against your skin, his chest warm and heavy over your back. “Then you’ll have it,” he promised, voice rough with want and satisfaction. His hips nudged imperceptibly, spreading his hot seed in deep, glutinous waves inside you. “Every last drop. Nobody else gets this. Nobody else touches you like I do.”

Your body trembled, overwhelmed by the sensation of being so utterly taken, so thoroughly marked by him. His cum was a heavy, delicious weight inside you; proof of possession, intimacy too raw and fierce for words. Your cock twitched helplessly, slick and leaking, but Clark’s presence grounded you, steady and relentless.

“I’m yours,” you whispered back, breath hitching, “all of me. Always.”

Clark groaned softly, fingers digging lightly into your skin, marking you like the prize you were. The air hung thick with sweat and heat and the scent of your mingled arousal—a heady, suffocating mix.

You couldn’t do anything but let your breath catch and fall with his, tangled together in the quiet aftermath, filled to the brim with him.

The first time you felt it, a faint flutter of nausea, you shrugged it off. Maybe it was something you ate, or just exhaustion from the long days filled with too much to do and too little rest. You told yourself it was nothing—just a passing thing that would fade away with a good night’s sleep.

But the mornings came harder than expected, the sour twist in your stomach growing sharper, more persistent. Coffee, once a comfort, now turned bitter and burned your throat. You found yourself clutching the bathroom sink, trying to ward away the wave of dizziness that made your knees weak.

Clark noticed. Always attentive, but cautious not to push too hard. He brushed your hair back one morning as you sat pale and quiet on the edge of the bed.

“You look off,” he said softly. “Maybe you’re just worn down.”

You nodded, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Probably just stress.”

But stress didn’t explain the way your muscles ached without cause, or how fatigue seeped into your bones no matter how much you rested. Some nights you woke drenched in sweat, your heart pounding like it was trying to break free from your chest. You’d lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to pin down the strange heaviness pressing low in your belly.

Clark had his own theories, quiet and tentative. “Maybe some weird reaction to that alien virus I fought last month,” he offered one evening, watching you pick at your dinner without appetite. “It’s been raining a lot too…maybe allergies?”

You appreciated his effort to find answers, even if they didn’t feel quite right. The idea of your body betraying you like this unsettled you more than you wanted to admit.

Days stretched into weeks, and the symptoms deepened. The nausea became a fixture in your mornings, sneaking into afternoons and sometimes evenings. Your clothes started to fit tighter around your waist, and the occasional sharp pang left you gasping for breath. You found yourself hesitating before movement, afraid of what might come next.

Clark’s watchfulness never wavered, but the questions remained unspoken. You both seemed to dance around the truth neither wanted to voice—not yet. Instead, you talked in fragments, theories swirling but never landing on the impossible.

“Maybe it’s something we haven’t seen before,” Clark mused quietly one night, the weight of the unknown pressing between you. “Something new, something… strange.”

You swallowed hard, not trusting your voice. “Yeah. Strange.”

In the quiet spaces between, your mind wrestled with the mounting evidence your body couldn’t hide. You knew something was happening. Something beyond sickness or stress, but the answer was still out of reach.

Mornings grew heavier, the nausea settling in like an uninvited guest who refused to leave. You caught yourself laughing quietly at your own grimace while stirring the coffee you barely drank. You skimped out on the half-and-half today; no bueno.

“I swear, if this is some cosmic joke, I’m sending a strongly worded letter,” you joked, though your voice lacked its usual spark.

Clark watched you from the doorway, concern etched in his features. “You really don’t look well,” he said, voice low. “Maybe you should take it easy today. Call off work?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” you said, waving him off with a weak grin. “Just auditioning for a new role: ‘The Human Barf Machine.’ Think I’ll nail it. But—I’ll be fine. Took a pill.”

He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to brush your temple with the gentlest touch, then flattened the back of his hand over your forehead, testing your body temperature. “This isn’t like you. You’re not fine.”

You shrugged, trying to keep the mood light even as your stomach twisted again. “Maybe I’m turning into a toddler. You know, like a baby with tantrums. Just missing the diapers.”

Clark’s brow furrowed deeper, and he hesitated before speaking. “You’re not tired like this because you’re just ‘turning into a toddler.’ Something’s wrong. Have you been keeping track? The nausea, the dizziness, the sweating…”

You sighed, the humor fading for a moment. “Yeah, I’ve noticed. You’re the expert on alien physiology, right? Got any theories?”

He shook his head, voice careful. “Nothing that fits. It’s like your body’s fighting something, but I can’t tell what.”

That night, you both sat on the couch, the air heavy with things unsaid. You toyed with the hem of your shirt, trying to find distraction in the fabric. “Maybe I’m just allergic to adulting,” you quipped, but your smile didn’t reach your eyes.

Clark reached out, fingers curling around yours. “I want to help, but I don’t know how. Just tell me if it gets worse, okay?”

You nodded, biting back the growing worry that was slowly replacing the humor. “I’ll try.”

The days that followed brought sharper waves of exhaustion, your body moving slower despite your best efforts. You caught Clark’s glance more often; that mixture of helplessness and determination to find answers.

One afternoon, after you nearly toppled trying to stand, Clark was quick to steady you. “Okay, that’s new,” he said, voice firm but worried. “You’re not just tired. We need to figure this out.”

You forced a laugh, leaning into him for support. “At least I’m consistent,” you murmured.

He shook his head, the joke falling flat. “This isn’t just fatigue. Something’s happening. I’m going to do some tests, run some scans.”

You hesitated, not wanting to admit how scared you were. “Fine. But only if you promise not to tell me I’m dying every five minutes.”

Clark smiled faintly, squeezing your hand. “Deal. But seriously, we’ll figure this out. Together.”

The days blurred, each morning greeting you with a fresh wave of nausea that tightened your throat and made your limbs feel leaden. You caught yourself rubbing your belly absently, a strange weight pressing there—not just physical, but something intangible that set your nerves on edge. You hated how little control you had over your own body lately.

Clark noticed every change, even the ones you tried to hide. One evening, after you had sunk onto the couch, drained and pale, he knelt before you, his eyes searching for clues.

“You’re barely eating,” he said softly, brushing a stray hair from your forehead. “You’re losing weight. This isn’t just stress…or-or a flu!”

You swallowed hard, shaking your head. “I don’t know what it is. None of it makes sense.” The words tasted bitter. “Maybe… maybe it’s something to do with your biology. I mean, you’re Kryptonian! Maybe I’m… affected by that somehow?”

Clark gave you a small, tired smile. “That’s the best guess I have too. But nothing I’ve seen before explains this.” His hand lingered on your shoulder, firm and grounding.

Nights were the hardest. Your body betrayed you with sudden chills and sweats, and the heaviness in your belly pulsed like a silent drumbeat. You avoided mirrors; your reflection showed tired eyes shadowed with worry, a body subtly changing in ways you couldn’t name.

You’d try to joke about it sometimes, masking your fear. “Maybe I’m turning into one of those aliens you always fight,” you said once, voice cracking. “You know, with weird powers and random health problems.”

Clark laughed softly but didn’t press. “If that were true, I’d have figured it out by now.”

As the weeks wore on, you found yourself avoiding physical activity altogether, drained after even the smallest exertion. The occasional sharp pain caught you off guard, stealing your breath. Clark’s concern grew more visible, the usual confident protector replaced by a quiet worry.

One afternoon, you were halfway through a light workout when your legs buckled. Clark caught you easily but the alarm in his eyes was unmistakable.

“This can’t keep happening,” he said, voice low but firm. “We need answers. I’ll run more scans tomorrow.”

You nodded, too tired to argue. “Thanks,” you whispered.

Clark’s support was steady, but you could tell he was holding back his own fears. Neither of you spoke of pregnancy. It felt impossible, a fantasy that didn’t belong in your reality. Yet the symptoms kept mounting, pressing on your sanity, forcing both of you to question what you thought you knew.

The dull ache in your belly had deepened into something more insistent, a pressure you could no longer ignore. The nausea wasn’t just morning’s visitor anymore; it lingered, a constant hum beneath your skin. Your clothes strained against a slowly rounding waistline, and you caught yourself tracing the curve with trembling fingers, unsure what to make of it.

Clark noticed first. One evening, as you sat quietly, absentmindedly rubbing your stomach, he cleared his throat, eyes searching yours for permission to say the thing neither of you wanted to say.

“This is going to sound crazy,” he began, voice low, “but… have you thought about the possibility that you might be… pregnant?”

You blinked, the words hitting like a thunderclap. Your mind scrambled—no, that couldn’t be. It had to be something else. “Clark,” you said slowly, “I don’t have a uterus—that’s… no. I mean… and you’re a man! Kryptonian man, sure, but also—again, I’m a man… with no uterus! How would that even be possible?! AGAIN, you’re a man! I’m—”

He shrugged, looking both embarrassed and serious, but took your hand in his to ground you back to reality. “I don’t know. I’m just saying… maybe your body is doing something we’ve never seen before. Something biological, something… beyond what we understand.”

The silence between you stretched, heavy and full of questions neither could answer.

You swallowed hard, the reality settling in with a strange mixture of fear and awe. “If that’s true,” you whispered, “then what… what happens next?”

Clark reached for your hand, squeezing it firmly. “Then we face it. Together. Whatever comes, we’ll figure it out. Like always.”

Your breath caught as tears pricked your eyes. Not just from fear, but from the weight of sharing this impossible secret. The weeks of sickness, the exhaustion, the pain; it all made sense now, tangled up in this surreal truth.

And despite it all, a fierce, stubborn hope blossomed inside you. Maybe this unexpected journey wasn’t just something to survive. Maybe it was something to cherish.

The days after that conversation carried a new kind of weight—not just the physical heaviness pressing against your body, but the gravity of the truth you now shared. You and Clark moved carefully through the world, an unspoken pact woven between you.

Clark’s presence was a steady comfort, his hand warm around yours as you navigated doctor visits and late-night talks filled with questions neither of you could fully answer. His strength, once so clearly physical, now revealed itself in patience and gentle reassurance.

You leaned against Clark’s chest, the quiet hum of the evening wrapping around you like a soft blanket. The fear and confusion still lingered, but beneath it all was something steadier—a shared resolve, a partnership forged in the unexpected.

“I’m scared,” you whispered, voice barely more than a breath.

Clark’s fingers threaded through your hair, his touch gentle and sure. “Me too. But whatever comes, we face it together.”

You lifted your head to meet his eyes, finding in them that unwavering calm you’d always depended on. “You think we should start thinking about names?”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Already? We haven’t even figured out how this is possible, and you want to name it?”

You grinned, playful despite yourself. “Hey, you said ‘whatever comes,’ so I’m holding you to it.”

Clark gave a small, reluctant smile. “Okay, but let’s keep the names simple. No family names, and definitely nothing too… out there.”

You smirked. “No promises. I’m sure Jimmy would be jumping for joy if we named a boy after him.”

He shook his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. “I’m guessing he’d also want dibs on picking the middle name.”

You rested your forehead against his, the weight of everything between you feeling a little lighter. For the first time in weeks, the future didn’t seem so uncertain.

You grinned. “You know, if we’re really doing this whole ‘parent’ thing, maybe you should think about making it official. You know… marriage and all that.”

Clark’s brow lifted, a slow smile spreading. “Jumping ahead a little, aren’t we?”

“Hey,” you said with mock seriousness, “it’s the logical next step.”

It starts with a fight. It always does.

You say something smart. "Still trying to play hero, huh?" Tossed over your shoulder as you walk past, catching sight of him hunched over the holo-screen, scrubbing through mission footage like he’s about to rewrite history. A little jab, just enough to sting.

The words hang in the air like smoke, curling under John’s skin. He grits his teeth, shoulders tensing beneath the weight of your voice.

It’s not just the tone. It’s the timing. The way you tilt your head, half-daring, half-knowing. Like you want him to crack. Like you know he will.

The lights are low in the common room. Most of the team’s retired for the night, and there’s a cold cup of coffee sweating on the counter, forgotten. The TV plays some late-night rerun, volume down, casting restless flashes across the metal walls. The hallway to the private quarters starts just behind you, but neither of you’s moved.

The air’s too tight.

John scoffs, finally looking up. “You ever stop running your mouth, or do you just like hearing yourself talk?”

You hum, smile sharpening. “Please. If I wanted to hear something hollow, I’d bang on that tin star strapped to your chest.”

John’s eyes flick over you: lips curled into that infuriating smirk, eyes glittering with something that feels too close to understanding. His stomach twists. His hands flex at his sides.

You look too proud. Too sure. Like you're trying to make him angry. And worse, you’re succeeding.

He steps forward.

“I swear to God,” he mutters, voice low and rough, “You just can’t help yourself.” Your mouth is a loaded weapon, and the moment you smirk, he knows he’s already lost.

“Careful, soldier,” you say, leaning in just close enough to test him. “You might bruise something delicate.”

His jaw ticks. Hands on his hips, he stares you down. “You think I give a damn?”

He doesn’t. Not once his hand is fisted in your collar, shoving you back until your spine hits the door, and his mouth is on yours. Bruising, furious.

There’s spit on your lips, your teeth clash, and still, he kisses you like he hates you.

And maybe he does. 

Maybe that’s why his hand rises, slow but certain, wrapping around your throat—not enough to cut air, not yet. Just to feel it. To feel your pulse stutter under his palm. To remind you who’s in control.

Like he’s angry at himself for liking it. His forehead presses to yours, hot and damp, and for a second he just breathes—like he’s trying to ground himself, like the feeling of your throat under his hand is the only thing tethering him to the moment.

“You think this is a game?” he mutters against your mouth, lips slick with spit. His thumb presses just under your jaw, tilting your head up, forcing you to hold his gaze. His eyes are wild: hurt, furious, starved. “You think you can look at me like that, run your mouth, and not pay for it?”

His grip tightens deliberately.

A warning.

A promise.

You let out a shaky sound, something caught between a gasp and a whimper, and he groans, like the noise cuts straight through him.

You manage a breath, your voice raw around it. “I didn’t know it’d take so little to—”

But you don’t get to finish.

His fingers clamp tighter around your throat, and whatever was left of your sentence dies in your mouth. His pupils blow wide watching your lips falter, eyes flutter, jaw tense beneath his palm. There’s a flush creeping up his neck, one he doesn’t bother to hide.

His other hand twitches at his side like he doesn’t trust himself to touch you with it.

And then you feel it.

His hips twitch forward. Instinctive, hungry.

The thick press of his cock through his pants, shameless and heavy, grinding into your hip like he couldn’t stop it if he tried. The fabric’s stretched taut over it, obscene in how hard he is—how deprived.

A brutal kind of want, swelling by the second.

“You don’t get to talk,” he growls, breath hitching. “Not like that. Not when you’re looking at me like you want this.”

And God, the way your expression shifts under him. That flicker of defiance melting into something desperate, your lips parting soundlessly—it nearly undoes him.

His grip stays firm, but his hand trembles, just slightly. Not from hesitation.

From restraint.

Then his other hand shoves your leg up, grinding into you hard, like punishment. Like penance.

“Mine,” he says again, quieter this time. Almost desperate. His palm flexes where it grips your neck. “Say it.”

You smirk, even through the mess. “If you want a pretty little yes, you’re gonna have to do a hell of a lot better than this.”

He hates how you look at him like you know him. Really know him. Like you see the parts he tries to bury: the longing, the fear, the twisted thing inside him that wants to ruin you.

His grip is rough. Shoving you back onto the bed, dragging your clothes off in angry, fumbling bursts. His hands tremble. Not with fear, but with the rage of wanting something so badly it terrifies him.

He yanks your pants down with a sharpness that says he's already lost the argument in his head. His breath is ragged, pupils blown wide, chest rising and falling like he just sprinted a mile, like this is the only way he knows how to stop himself from screaming.

But there’s a hitch in his grip, just a second of hesitation. His fingers ghost along your waist, rough calluses dragging over bare skin like they’re memorizing it, punishing it, worshiping it all at once.

His jaw tightens. There’s spit at the corner of his mouth, eyes wild when he flips you over, ass-up.

No prep.

It’s not carelessness, it’s desperation. The kind that burns.

The kind that ruins.

He spits into his palm and slicks his fingers with shaking urgency, teeth grit like he’s trying not to say something soft. Or maybe like he’s trying to drown out the voice in his head that says this is wrong.

Then he’s forcing one in, then two, scissoring fast, deliberate into your tight hole. Your thighs twitch. Your back arches, and you begin fisting the sheets beneath you from the onslaught of John's wrath, squeezing cotton until they've patterned your skin.

And still, John doesn’t say a word. No words. Just heat, rage, and spit. You're already whining, writhing against the mattress, your cock leaking between your thighs. His fingers digging inside of you forces you to rut your own cock against the sheets on his own accord.

“Fuckin’ desperate,” he mutters. “Always actin’ like you don’t want it, then melt the second I touch you.”

You laugh, breathless. “Like you’re any better.”

He doesn’t answer.

Just scoffs—sharp and humorless—at the sight of that smug little smile still clinging to your lips. The kind of smile he’ll remember to wipe off later with something rough, something thick, something that’ll make your jaw ache.

His hands move to his belt, undoing it with slow, deliberate movements. There’s nothing rushed about it.

This is control.

This is a man who knows exactly how hard you’re watching him. The zipper comes down, the fabric shifts, and his cock springs free; flushed dark, already heavy with blood, curving up like it’s spoiling for a fight.

Thick. Veined. Angry. The kind of thing that makes you flinch and ache in the same breath. That stretches you just from the sight alone.

He watches the way your ass involuntarily moves for him, your breath catching, your throat working around nothing. That smugness of yours? Slipping.

Then he drops to his knees. Grabs your ass cheeks, spreads them wider. His gaze falls to your entrance: swollen, flushed, twitching with need. Still untouched, still clenching on air.

He exhales, almost reverently.

“Look at that,” he mutters, voice gone gravel-deep.

One hand reaches down, guiding himself closer. The tip of his cock drags along your rim, slow and teasing. He nudges the head against you, circling it, just to see how you shiver. How you twitch. How your hole tries to take him even before he’s inside. He chuckles to himself.

You do somewhat take him, breathless, latching onto the string of thick pre-cum that spills from him as he squeezes the base. It dribbles down in lazy strands, warm and glossy, catching against your skin.

Your hole glistens with it—slicked and shining, haloed in the mess of him. The way it clings there, pooling in the swell of your rim, dripping down your thighs; it’s filthy.

Shameless. Perfect. Like your body’s been marked before he’s even inside.

His heavy balls tighten at the sight.

Something in him buckles.

Whatever restraint he had left—the slow rhythm, the teasing control—shatters in a breath.

He growls, low and feral, flipping you onto your back again, holding your legs up, and his hips jerk forward without warning. The head of his cock breaches you in one unforgiving push, and the sound you make—wrecked, raw—nearly drives him insane.

He pushes in slow. Painfully slow. To watch your face twist. To watch your bravado break. You’re so tight around him it’s obscene, clenching like you’re trying to force him out, but your body’s a traitor. It wants this.

His hands fly to your hips, fingers digging in like he needs to hold you still or he’ll split you apart. He thrusts again. Deeper. Harder. Forcing you to take every swollen inch.

“Yeah,” he pants, voice breaking as he rams in to the hilt. “That’s it. That’s what you needed, huh?”

The stretch is brutal, unrelenting. He watches your face twist, the way your lips part in a silent cry, your brows pulling tight from the sheer pressure.

“Fuck. Look at that,” John growls. “Stretchin’ around me like you were made for it.”

Your hands scrabble against his chest, trying to ground yourself. His cock is thick, wider than anything you’ve taken, and the way he grinds in makes your spine arch.

The slick sound of him moving inside you fills the room—wet, fast, obscene. You’re dripping with him now, the mess of pre-cum and spit and need painting your thighs, the base of his cock, everything. Your body shudders, tightening around him like you don’t know whether to fight or surrender.

But he knows you’re his.

He can feel it in the way your hole sucks him in, desperate and greedy, no matter how you gasp or claw.

He leans over you, breath hot against your ear.

“You run that mouth,” he snarls, “but your body knows who owns it.”

John’s eyes flick down. His palm presses over your belly, fingers splayed, and for a second, just a second, he forgets to move.

The sight stops him cold.

The outline beneath your skin—faint at first, then more defined with every savage roll of his hips. Your stomach, stretched and straining around the shape of him. A thick, blunt bulge rising with each thrust, sliding up under your navel, then sinking as he pulls back.

His cock.

Your stomach is swollen with the shape of it, obscene and beautiful and his.

John stills for just a moment, hovering over you, chest heaving as he stares. His hand moves down—broad, shaking fingers splaying across your belly, pressing just enough to feel the shape of himself inside you. The sensation makes you twitch around him, makes your spine arch off the bed like you’re being electrocuted from the inside out.

"Fuck,” he breathes, voice hoarse with disbelief. “Look at that…”

There’s something raw, unfiltered in his eyes now. Worship twisted into ruin. The animal thrill of knowing he’s inside you this deep, this hard—that your body’s giving way to him, shaping around him.

His other hand curls under your thigh and drags you closer, impossibly close, locking you in place as he starts to move again.

Harder now, rougher, chasing the high of that bulge returning again and again with every thrust.

“Keep your eyes on it,” he snarls. “Wanna see you watch what I do to you.”

You can’t look away.

Not from the brutal rise and fall of your stomach beneath him, not from the way his cock moves inside you like it’s claiming space that no one else ever will.

Your hand finds its way between your bodies, shaking, slick with sweat, wrapping around your cock like instinct.

You stroke in time with his thrusts, desperate, frantic, eyes glazed with something between awe and disbelief. The pressure, the stretch, the sight of your own body swelling with his large cock—it’s too much.

You’re falling apart beneath him, undone by the sheer filth of it.

John sees it. Feels it.

There’s a whisper of shame in his gut. A tight coil of something hot and bitter that he’s too scared to name. He tells himself this is about control. Dominance. Power. But the way his hand lingers, slow, reverent, almost trembling, betrays him. His thumb brushes over the outline of his cock inside you, and his throat makes a strangled sound.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “Look what I’ve done to you.”

You groan beneath him, squirming, and he grips harder, like holding on is the only thing tethering him to sanity. Like the line between wanting and needing has long since blurred, and all that’s left is this: your ruined body, your wrecked moans, and the way your hole still flutters around him like it wants more.

John swallows hard, his mind splitting between shame and wonder, guilt and heat. And still, he doesn’t stop. There’s a bulge there, deeper. His cock, thick, hot, rooted so deep inside you it’s obscene. He moans low and dark, almost like a prayer.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “You feel that? That’s me. That’s all me.”

He sets a brutal pace. The bed slams the wall with each thrust. Sweat drips from his brow, down his chest, soaking where your bodies grind together. The smell of sex clings to everything; salt, spit, the heavy musk of his scent. It’s in your mouth, your throat, your skin.

He grabs your hips harder. Bruising. Forces your legs higher. Fucks up into you so deep your stomach bulges every time. You can’t speak anymore. Just drool and whimper and take it.

“Thought you were a tough guy,” he pants. “Look at you now. My good little hole, all stretched out, beggin’ for it.”

Your head rolls back. You’re flushed, soaked, completely undone. Your legs shake as he slams into you again and again, your body wrecked from the inside out.

In his mind, there’s a war. One part of him is screaming to stop, to pull back, to get the hell out before someone sees. Before he sees himself for what he’s become. But another part, deeper, darker, burns to see how much further he can push. That part lingers on the bruises forming beneath his fingertips, on the thick outline of his cock pressing against the inside of your stomach. It thrills in the sounds you make. Wrecked, needy, shameless.

He remembers his father’s voice, sharp and cold, warning him about weakness. About what it means to be a real man. And yet here he is; moaning into your throat, marking you with spit and sweat and cum, watching your body take him like you were made for it. There’s guilt, sharp as broken glass, lodged somewhere behind his ribs. But there’s also awe. Desire. A sick, perfect satisfaction at seeing you beneath him, full of him.

He doesn’t know which part scares him more. One side says this is wrong. That he’s not this, not gay, not weak. That if anyone saw what he was doing now; sweating, trembling, chasing his release deep in a man’s body, they’d strip him of everything. The shield. The legacy. The illusion. He grits his teeth, mouth tasting of salt and shame. The need claws at him from the inside, hungry and black.

But the other voice—the louder one—wants more.

It screams when he hesitates, clawing through the self-loathing. More, it demands. Deeper. Mark him. Own him.

His hand drags down your stomach again, fingers spreading over the curve of your belly, sticky with sweat and cum. The bulge is obscene, tender to the touch, and it draws a guttural moan from him, because that’s him, all of him, inside you.

John swallows hard, eyes locked on your wrecked form. He should be ashamed. Maybe he is. But the sight makes him feral. Possessive.

“You’re mine like this,” he growls, pressing down until you squirm. “No one else gets to see you fall apart.”

And he’s not done. Not nearly. He pulls back only enough to see you clench, stretched wide, glistening, and then pushes back in slow—torturously slow.

The drag of him inside you makes your toes curl.

“You gonna take it again?” he asks, breathing hot against your cheek. “Let me fill you ‘til you can’t think?”

"W-Walker-"

Your voice breaks into a whimper, and he takes it as a yes. One hand grabs your jaw, forcing your face to his, kissing you with filthy, bruising heat. The other cups your belly again, slow, reverent.

He starts moving. A rhythm drawn not from anger, but from hunger. From worship. You feel him everywhere, in your gut, your throat, your bones. Each thrust is deliberate. Deep. Milking himself in you like a man starved.

John breathes your name. Not a curse. Not a threat. A need.

And somewhere in the chaos of it, in the sweat and scent and sin; John lets himself believe, for one fractured second, that maybe this is more than just control.

Maybe it’s the only time he lets himself feel whole.

Your hand’s slick, trembling, barely able to keep pace with the rhythm he’s forcing into you. Every thrust knocks the air from your lungs, his cock driving up deep enough to punch a sound from your throat that’s more sob than moan. The bulge in your belly rises and falls in time with your cries, a visual of just how thoroughly you’re being ruined.

John watches you fall apart with something close to reverence—like this is what he’s been working toward since the first time you ever looked at him like you weren’t afraid. His jaw is clenched, knuckles white where he grips your thigh and belly, holding you down like he knows you’d try to squirm away if you could. Like he wants you to try.

He wants to ruin you. Leave bruises no suit could cover; mottled purples and deep reds blooming over your hips, your throat, the backs of your thighs. Proof. Markers. His signature etched into your skin with every thrust, every grip too tight, every bite too sharp. He wants the reminders to linger when you're back on duty, hidden under your uniform. Wants you to feel them ache when you move. Wants you to know, even in silence, that he was there. That he claimed you, punished you, needed you so badly he lost himself. He wants to bite your throat and mark your ass and pump you so full of cum you’ll be leaking down your thighs for hours.

Because you don’t hide. You laugh, you flirt, you live. You let your body feel pleasure and you don’t apologize for it.

He hates that.

He wants to control it.

“You take me so well,” he grunts, licking a stripe of sweat down your neck. “You were made to be fucked like this.”

He spits in your mouth, and you moan like it’s a kiss.

Your hand speeds up without meaning to. You don’t even realize it at first—that you’re rutting into your own palm like you’re starving, chasing that edge like it’ll save you. Your mouth is open but nothing coherent comes out—just gasps, shuddering little whines, noises you’d be ashamed of if you could think.

But you can’t.

All you can do is take it.

His balls slap your ass, soaked and heavy. You can feel the tension in his body. Every muscle flexed, his thighs trembling, the head of his cock pulsing against your walls.

He’s close.

His breath grows ragged, catching in his throat as he fucks into you faster now, each thrust raw and punishing. His grip tightens; one hand bruising your hip, the other splayed across your belly, holding you steady like he’s anchoring himself to the sight of his cock bulging inside you. He watches your body take him again and again, every inch stretching you wide, wet and flushed and glistening with spit and sweat. You’re slick everywhere, the air thick with the slap of skin and the low, guttural growls punched out of him as he chases it.

The pleasure burns, raw and overwhelming, until your vision starts to white out at the edges. You clamp down around him, body seizing, cock twitching helplessly in your hand.

And then you break.

You come hard, violently, hot release painting your chest, your hand, your stomach. Your hole clamps around John like a vice, sucking him in deeper, your body spasming beneath his as the pleasure slams into you like a freight train.

"G-god," you cried out behind a cum-covered hand.

John groans low, head dropping to your neck, biting down hard enough to bruise.

“Fuck.” he snarls, and it’s broken, frayed. His cock twitches deep inside, the veins throbbing, leaking pre-cum in thick spurts with every thrust. Your walls clamp around him like a vice, greedy and sucking, making him hiss through his teeth. “So tight. Still so fucking tight. Gonna lose it in you, fuck.”

He shifts your legs higher, pushing you open, wide and helpless beneath him. You’re bent in half now, his weight pressing down, his body trembling like a live wire. You feel everything.

The slide of him. The scrape. The unbearable fullness. His cock pulses with every beat of his heart, flushed and angry, and you swear you can feel it throb in your throat. Your whole body arches, overstimulated, overwhelmed.

John slams forward with a grunt, burying himself to the hilt, and you feel the moment he starts to break—his cock swelling, twitching violently inside you. He pants your name like a curse, like a prayer, a mantra unraveling on his tongue.

“Take it,” he growls, spit flying, eyes wild and unfocused. “Take all of it. Gonna fucking fill you up. Breed you like you need it.”

He ruts harder, frantic now, losing rhythm.

His eyes roll back, hips snapping in stuttering thrusts as he cums, hot and hard, spilling deep into your guts.

It punches out of him in thick waves, jerking through his length as he grinds in deep, forcing it further. The first shot knocks the wind out of you, the second makes your hole flutter around him involuntarily. You feel it gush inside you, thick and messy, coating your insides, your walls clenching as if begging him to never leave. 

John moans a deep, wrecked sound. His mouth finds your throat, biting, panting, murmuring filth. “So fuckin’ full of me... just like you should be. Like I fuckin’ own you.”

He stays locked inside, his cock still twitching as aftershocks pulse through him.

He doesn’t move. Just breathes. Heavy. Shuddering. Shaking.

He doesn’t ask permission. He never has.

And then he starts again. Slower. More deliberate. Breeding you in long, deep strokes that make your gut clench and your mouth fall open with something between a moan and a sob.

But he doesn’t pull out.

John stays buried, breathing hard, holding your trembling thighs around his waist.

You’re gonna take all night,” he mutters, low and rough against your ear, hips rolling in deep. “Gonna fuck you until I see myself leaking out your ruined little hole.”

He rolls his hips slow. Deep. Milking himself. Filling you further.

Each drag of his hips is drawn out, obscene. You feel every inch of his cock slide through your slick walls, dragging thick and hard and hot. His hands stay on your stomach, pressing down, watching the way it bulges when he pushes deep. His eyes are heavy, drunk with it.

Like it’s not just lust; it’s envy.

Reverence.

Grief.

Your moans hitch in your throat as another wave crests through your body. You’re too full. Too raw. And yet, your hole flutters like it’s begging.

“Good boy,” he breathes, voice husky. “Gonna take another load for me. You want it, don’t you? Want to feel me breed you slow. Like you’re mine.”

You nod, nearly sobbing.

His hand cups your belly again, thumb brushing over the bulge of his cock as he thrusts deeper. His own eyes are glassy now. Dazed.

There’s awe in his voice, but also something darker.

A desperation.

Why does it feel like love? he thinks. Why does it feel like need?

The room rocks gently with the rhythm of his slow thrusts. Each roll of his hips is languid, drawn out with a purpose that feels almost reverent. His breath stutters in your ear, warm and uneven, the way a prayer sounds when spoken through clenched teeth.

He watches your face closely; hungry, almost desperate for each flutter of your lashes, each gasp punched from your chest.

His hand doesn’t leave your belly, tracing the swell again like he’s mesmerized. You feel him twitch inside you, and it’s not just from lust; it’s from the weight of what this is becoming. From the way your body molds around him, stretches to welcome every inch. His thumb ghosts up to your sternum, trailing a line slick with sweat.

“You feel this,” he murmurs, voice hoarse with something too tender to name. “Feel what I’m doing to you?”

You nod, voice broken with need, and he groans like the sound undoes him. Like your surrender, so quiet and wrecked, means more than the way you clenched him tight. More than any bruise or mark he could leave.

The thrusts stay slow. Intentional. Less like fucking, more like being pulled apart and put back together.

Again and again and again.

The bed creaks under you. You’re both sweat-soaked and shaking. Your stomach gurgles from the sheer volume he’s already filled you with. And still, he gives more.

When he cums again, it’s slower. Deeper. A heavy, aching release that leaves him breathless, slumping over you, groaning as he floods your guts a second time.

You’re ruined. Bruised. Dripping.

He grits his teeth, forehead falling to your shoulder as he groans. “How the hell do you live like this? So free. So fuckin’ open. You don’t even know how lucky you are.”

His voice cracks at the end, and you twist your head to look at him, spit-slick and ruined.

"I live like this ‘cause I stopped caring what broke men like you think."

He won't meet your gaze. Instead, he thrusts in again, slow, hard, dragging the edge of pain and pleasure like a punishment. For both of you.

“You’re mine,” he says again, quieter this time, as if trying to believe it. “Even if I gotta break you to keep you.”

"You already did. And I’m still here."

“Oh, crap—“ Hugging the coffee cup to his chest after switching arms, Clark rolled his sleeve up to check his watch. Quarter to nine. “Crap, crap, crap, crap!” Panic finally set in, charging Clark forward into the sunny abyss of office-workers.

This would be the last time he would grab coffee right before work. He’d paid for the consequences already by nearly missing his morning meeting multiple times. Heavy emphasis on nearly as his shoes would audibly skid from turning from one corner to another upon the race he had against the clock, as the slippery leather of his shoes would nearly make him take a tumble if he hadn’t corrected his footing once he began sprinting to his cubicle, and as he sat down in the uncomfortable seat of his chair, only to rise back up once Mr. White made his entrance, nearly missing roll-call. Out of relief, Clark would take a sip of his Frappuccino. The whipped cream deflated from the race, though its vanilla flavor was unaffected as the foam happily danced on his tongue, mixing deliciously with the sweetened coffee. he would feel himself replenished with energy the more sips he took. “Damn you…” He would gulp, licking the vanilla foam off his lips, repentant in his mutter, “Why do you taste so good? Right when I’m supposed to let you go, you reel me back in…”

Clark was a certified Metropolitan.

“Sorry—I’m sorry—‘Scuse me! Passing through—“ 

Nearly there. The man was a mountain of muscle, sturdy and well-knit upon first glance, but Clark used his muscles for good, to protect others in situations where they needed him for leverage, not to harm. Upon instinct, he turned a shoulder for a woman to pass through, sparing little contact, then another when a father chased after his kid. It was hectic, his cup of coffee almost losing his grasp in midst of the scuffle, but Clark managed to find a silver lining in the crowd in midst of the clock ticking: the revolving door to the Daily Planet, an entrance Clark has become irrevocably beholden to. 

“S-sorry!” 

A man yelled out, “Watch it, asshole!” In midst of bumping shoulders.Few met his height. Many would either desire to have his height, or to be in the arms of the man who towered over 6’4. Though, in the morning of Metropolis, most if not all deemed it a nuisance.

Breaking out of the herd of people, Clark felt liberated. His legs moved in larger steps, and his elbows spanned from his sides like how they normally should as he ran into the revolving door and pushed against the partition to turn. He checked his watch again. Three minutes left. “Come on, come on—“ One hand squeezed his cup of coffee, and the other clasped his ID badge. His fingers felt slippery from the condensation of his drink, so he squeezed harder, pacing forward to the elevator, then faster when the elevator opened with only a single patron, you, occupying the space.

Faster. 

Clark’s thighs were on fire. 

His watch, two minutes.

Faster. Almost there. 

Clark let out one last breath as he was nearing, holding it out in preparation to stop the elevator door from closing. A relief of a smile came to spread across his face when it opened to accommodate his charging entrance from a few feet away. Usually, he was met by an expression of irritation by anybody who was occupying the elevator, but you looked bewildered, your eyes opening wide milliseconds later upon realization. 

Fear, as your mouth opened to shout, “W-wait! S-slow down!”

It was all in slow motion, watching your face contort to a various of expressions, and then nothing, as Clark clenched the cup of his drink with the force akin to batter hitting a home-run, popping the lid off the cup in process, and spilling the Frappuccino onto the frightened man, with extra vanilla whipped cream and all. All you needed as a cherry on top of your head, and you were ready to be sold as a Monday lunch special.

Maybe his beginner’s luck was running out of flame.

II: MAY.

Luckily, not many people seemed to use the bathroom in the morning. They must’ve gotten it all out of their system before coming to work. You were bent over the sink, wiping your face with god-knows how many paper towels.

“Just my luck…” You grumbled, squinting at your reflection in the mirror as you wiped the corners of your eyes, then your forehead, and then your ears. No matter how many times you’d lave your face with water, you felt sticky, gross, and worst of all, you looked like a mess. You still had your hair and clothes to clean, the smell of vanilla syrup sickening to your nose. The latter was definitely going to require an insane amount of bleach and arm grease to get the coffee stain off.

The door swung open not too long after, and in came the culprit who’d painted your clothes in brown and white, wide-eyed and panicked like he was searching for a lost puppy, then apologetic and defenseless as if he was the puppy that ran away.

“Shoot, I’m so, so, so sorry—“ He brought his hands to his head, pulling at the messy dark curls of his hair. You side-eyed him, responding with nothing but silence, and then a crinkle of the paper towel as you squeezed out the water. 

“Save it.” Your tone was pointed, though you didn’t necessarily mean for it to come across as aggressive as it did. It was already a bad start to your day. Your milk expired, you ran out of frozen breakfast food, and the bakery you liked to visit in the mornings temporarily closed for renovations. All forewarnings to this very moment, where you had been cleaning whipped cream out of your hair. You held out another damp paper towel towards the man, and then waved it when he simply stared, or rather embarrassingly gawked at the mess he had created. “Get my neck.”

“Y-yeah… Of course.”

Silence. You weren’t sure how long you two have been at it, but you’ve managed to fill the trash can half-way with the paper towels. In complete, utterly awkward silence. His touch was delicate, the paper towel gently cascading over your neck in small swipes, even though you’d shown him that you were more than capable to pierce through him with your glare alone. Laser beams would ricochet off your reflection, bounce off the tiled walls of the bathroom, and somehow strike him through the heart and tear that oversized vest right off of his large frame.

The anger only settled when the man repeated his nth apology, moving onto wipe your hair clean. You closed your eyes to calm yourself, breathing out a deep sigh, because it was a mistake. You were having a bad start to your day, and… so was he? Wouldn’t be a surprise. Mondays were notorious in fucking up the week.

“It’s… fine. Not like you meant to do that.” You looked at him through the reflection, his brows scrunched from hyper-fixating on every lock of hair that was blessed with his whipped cream. Was he always this handsome? And why is he towering over you? Why is he so close? 

“Who gets a Frappe in the morning though?”

“I—Black coffee doesn’t really help me stay awake.” A nervous laughter now that you were making conversation with him. It was the complete opposite of how he physically looked. A sheep in wolf’s clothing. “Nor does it taste that good.” He muttered, cleaning the last lock of your hair.

“I would tell you to watch your sugar, but I’m guessing… you got that down?” You didn’t mean to make a comment on his broad body, but the difference in stature was laughable. “(M/N). You?”

“I-Uh, Clark. Clark Kent.” He washed his hands in the sink next to you, lips opening to what you could presume to be another apology. You’ve only met him for fifteen minutes, but you were beginning to catch his habits.

“Okay, Clark.” You stepped forward, crossing your arms, and you could feel the rattle of his gaze as he glanced at you from the reflection. “I work downstairs, at the gift shop. You can apologize by bringing me lunch for a month straight.”

“Wait—A month?! T-that’s kind of expensive, don’t you think—“

“Hey, you can make it yourself. Get it from the supermarket. Scraps from a restaurant’s garage bin nearby. I don’t really care.” You leaned against the counter, stifling a smile as Clark looked rather charming flustered like this. “If you were really sorry, you’d be committed to making up for it nonetheless.”

“That’s a little extreme for someone you don’t know…?”

You shrugged, then turned on your heel. “Spilling a drink on someone isn’t exactly an ideal way to introduce yourself, you know.” Dusting your fingers of water droplets, you began your exit. “Also, I need a new shirt.”

“W-wait—“

“See ya, Mark!”

“It’s Clark!”

Maybe his luck was just beginning.

III: JULY.

“So…? Ready to guess?” The smile on Clark’s face was filled with anticipation. He watched you chew the contents in your mouth in an obnoxiously poised manner, an inside joke between the two of you as you two had been binging on cooking competition shows. You tilted your head in thought like the pretentious judge on one of those shows, pausing mid-chew like something strange had collided with your tastebuds, then continued as if it had faded away. “Come on, I’m dying here.”

You swallowed, taking a sip of water to wash down the bread. “Hey, I need more than a bite to figure the ingredients out!”

“(M/N), you’ve practically eaten half of the sandwich already.” Clark took his half of the sandwich and sank his teeth into the pillowy bread. 

“Look who’s talking.” You rolled a piece of white bread in between your thumb and index finger until it formed a ball, and playfully threw it at Clark’s shoulder. “I didn’t get to eat dinner last night.”

It was a strange feeling in Clark when you said that. His chest swelled a little, as if his heart kicked it from within. “Why’s that?” He slowed his chewing to clear his ears, putting aside his tastebuds for his attention.

“Well, they’re expanding the gift shop, so they’re asking me to work longer hours to help out. No one else said yes, and I need the money, so there was no question about it, you know?” He watched you dust off your fingers on a napkin. He knew of your habits now. Take a sip of your water, which you did, then fully settle your arms onto the table, unabashedly gazing into his eyes to give your tastebuds a break. His eyes altered to the tip of your tongue, peeking out to lick a crumb off your lip, and Clark mirrored onto himself.

It was a secret vaulted in the deep abyss of Clark’s stomach - well, not so much considering Jimmy liked to run his mouth - but your eyes were his favorite parts about you. Even when they were seemingly set aflame on the day he’d met you, your orbs have since had a way to reel him in like bait and never seemed to have let go. He would find himself free-falling into what soon felt closer to home with every second that would pass by.

“Doesn’t mean you have to skip dinner, though.” 

There was a breeze. Gentle and swaying like the jazz music playing in the balcony of the café. It sifted through your hair like sugar would through fine mesh. One got caught on a few strands—wind— and it blew back to recognize your features with the sun, beaming on features that Clark would someday have the courage to say he adored.

“Why? You thinking about bringing me dinner too?” He doesn’t like that you tease him so effortlessly. Clark also doesn’t like how easily flustered he gets, which prompts the cycle of teasing to begin with. 

With hesitation, he tried it himself once, saying something about how you looked good enough to eat or something when you styled your hair back for a change. Though, what came out was something along the lines of: “You look like you eat good enough,” and Clark would rather forget that interaction even happening.

“Haven’t stopped bringing you lunch, if you think about it.” The memory of his first meeting with you brought a smile to his lips, and yours as well, because you two tend to sync thoughts. 

“Yeah, two months now… When’s that going to stop?”

“It’s a routine now. I don’t think I can find it in me to suddenly stop feeding you.”

“Hm, you’d make a good boyfriend, Clark.”

“Yeah…”

IV: AUGUST.

“Nervous?” 

The powdery top note of your hairspray tickled your senses. You counted in your head, holding back a layer of Clark’s hair in your palm. One, two, three, four… Once you reached thirty, you released, sealing the pushed back fringe in place with another layer of the grooming product. 

“How can you tell? Do I look nervous?!” He’d been chewing on his lip, playing with his fingers, moving in his seat. It was like a toddler, but unlike a toddler, Clark was an adult. An adult who had enough awareness to refrain from making any sudden movements while someone had a scalding hot styling iron in their hand.

“Clark, you haven’t stopped shaking your leg since you sat down—“ You delicately pulled a curly strand to the front of his forehead, and it was another reminder how easily Clark could pursue a career in Hollywood. If only journalism hadn’t been such a strong passion for him. Though, with the way his nerves had been electrifying his body—maybe he made the right call in the end.

“Oh—Sorry… I’m just—I don’t know. What if I mess up? I say the wrong thing to Lois, and then she hates me forever? Then what? She tells the entire office about what a terrible—”

“Whoa, I think you’re thinking way too far ahead here. What happened to you being Mister Optimistic all the time?” You ushered him to get up from the seat, and then handed Clark his dress shirt and tie. “Besides, I don’t think Lois would do that. If you like her, that must mean she has some type of soul.”

“I guess so.” Clark muttered, changing into his shirt. Perfectly tailored to his body contrary to the oversized button-downs he was used to wearing. “You wanna hang out after?”

“Uh… you sure you’re going to be free? And not… you know,” Your brows raised, giving Clark a knowing look, and it was that flush of skin that you secretly adored coming in hot, boiling on the apples of his cheeks as Clark quickly deciphered what you meant.

“I don’t sleep with people on the first date, (M/N).” It was priceless. The horror on Clark’s face upon the accusation, his orbs retracting like he’d seen a spaceship landing on earth for the first time. You couldn’t help but laugh out loud at his confession while tidying up his living room. 

“I know a lot of people do! I just had to make sure.” You waited on the couch as Clark changed, replying to missed messages, scrolling through updates on multiple social media accounts, until you heard Clark approach from behind.

“Ahem,” He cleared his throat, announcing his presence, and you turned upon the sound. “Looks okay?”

It was Clark.

It was Clark, but a more refined version of him. Not that he was sloppy in the first place, but simply… you could see him clearer, his own confidence radiating like it had finally discovered an escape to its freedom. His eyes, clear blues that sparkled even when the approaching night began casting shadows through his blinds and onto his glasses. It helped that you styled his hair back too, framing his face for the whole world to admire, and most importantly, for his date to as well. You reminded him to stand tall, and he took that into consideration through his posture straightening, and his chin raising.

“Y-yeah, you look… great.” It was infectious. His smile while he admired himself through his mirror. His dimples smiled back at him, and you felt your own lips curling on their own, like you’ve eaten a candy that was too sweet for its own good. “Lois is going to love it.”

Cavity-inducing.

“Yeah? Oh—I have to pick her up soon. So, you’ll be here, right?! I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep if it goes well—“ Clark let out one last breath, then a shake of his arms, and he found his nerves rattling up again despite as he approached the door.

Ten steps closer than before to Lois.

“It’ll go well, I promise!” It was his moment. Clark’s moment. Yet, you felt weird about it. You wanted to look at him for longer, a sudden greed to keep him in his apartment for longer.

“All right… wish me luck.” He turned to look back at you, appreciative in his smile, but his eyes looked guilty, meaningfully longing akin to the way he had looked when he spilled his drink on you.

That’s right.

“Good luck.” Apologetic, you remembered when he finally exited the room, and closed it shut.

Clark gave you cavities.

And like all cavities, you needed to get rid of them.

You needed to get rid of Clark.

V: DECEMBER.

It was partially his fault, wasn’t it?

There was no doubt in mind that you and Clark have been spending less time together. Clark was never a big texter, but he found himself messaging you a lot more often to make up for the fact that he had rarely seen you the past few weeks. Lunch was spent with Lois, dinner was with Lois, drinks were with Lois, binge-watching TV… with Lois.

“You’re always talking about Lois…”

It was why he preferred meeting up, because you never answered your phone, especially these days. If he was lucky, you’d spare him more than four messages a day before saying goodnight.

You never liked saying goodnight, and neither did Clark. By preference, Clark liked to fall asleep on the phone with you where he would catch your snores, and the embarrassment of it all would keep you awake for a little longer, at least until it was Clark’s turn to retiring for the night. It felt safe, knowing that he wasn’t - to some extent - alone in his bed. That he could mumble your name in his sleep, and you’d toss in bed, his voice ricocheting off into your own dreams.

It felt intimate.

“Hey, give me a call whenever you get back. Lois and I found this really cool aquarium you’d really like! I got a turtle keychain for you too.”

“(M/N)? Hey, I totally forgot about dinner last night! Work’s gotten so busy, and then Lois wanted to go out, and my parents were calling, so—Let me make it up to you? We can go to that diner you’ve been talking about.”

“Hey, (M/N)! Didn’t see you at the shop today… Doing okay? Not sure if you got the sandwich I left for you on the counter. Or maybe someone had stolen it. But text me? Let me know?”

“It’s Clark. Why am I telling you—I saw you the other day, but… you seemed like you were in a rush? I’m guessing renovation is taking a toll on you? Give me a call…”

“Hey, uh… Listen, If I did something… Will you let me know, please? I-I don’t know. I don’t know what’s happening here, between us, but… I just. I miss—”

Clark didn’t want to seem obsessive. Absolutely not. 

But this was getting out-of-hand. He was panicking. He’d been panicking for the past few weeks since this whole charade had started. It was only right for him to worry like this, about his best friend. To go from aligning his lunch breaks with yours to sitting stone-faced at his cubicle with a half-eaten sandwich in his Tupperware was a huge disruption to his routine. It was like the world had turned against him in solidarity. Knowing his own mind, Clark deserved it.

There had been a farrago of missteps, too many of them to count, for Clark to simply shrug it off and see the silver lining through them for the next day, for the next week, or for the next month. It wasn’t like before he’d met you, where he would simply get caught in a long line of office workers waiting for their coffee, and then received a free pastry because they had messed up his order twice. Or how he would sleep through his alarms, where his body clock fortunately alerted him awake before traffic would begin to dominate the streets. 

No, this was different.

He’d earned a raise since then, for his great work on profiling the Superman, but it was all he did now. When it wasn’t Superman, it was being Superman, and Clark wished there was someone to talk to. To celebrate with, now that he can splurge a bit more on himself. To vent towards, about how it was obvious that he’d been holding Lois back since their relationship started. To shout with while he watched a movie because the killer had been in the main character’s house all along. To lament towards, because Lois had called it quits, yet in spite of that, it wasn’t as painful as the way you had been treating him. To scream out the month’s omen with, because maintaining this double-life of his was wearing him down.

Moments of happiness, catapulting his memories of you with laughter and warmth, had felt like a wound. A piece of him was broken. He felt hollowed out - a pineapple without its core - more so than ever, losing you as quickly as he had became friends with you, as quickly as he had fallen for you. Spineless, if he just watched you slip out his fingers and float away.

He needed to bring you back. He needed to tie you around his wrist like a balloon, like how his Ma and Pa would when they took him to the fair as a kid. At least if you float away again, he’d chase after you like he should’ve the first time.

If luck was on his side, you’d let him hold your hand and cruise the winter sky together. And if a miracle was in the palms of Clark Kent, he’d reckon voyaging the four seasons as one would turn over a new leaf.

VI: DECEMBER.

The air was frigid. The glass pane of your window shivered against the cold, frost webbing your reflection from corner to corner as you peered out into the city. Noses red and cheeks flushed, symptoms of the freezing cold as they endured the walk home. Careful steps across the sidewalk, into the street, as flakes of white fell to the earth. 

For an alien, it would summon silence. Those sparkling crests that would melt upon contact—an invasion they would yell in terror as the flakes seeped into their skin like acid. But for humans, people like you, it brought laughter. Giggles pierced the air, couples holding each other close to gather heat, but to also keep each other from slipping, and the world had only felt warmer despite the snow’s best efforts.

Your smile reflected off the joy radiating off of multiple passersby. Kids with their guardians. Dogs with their owners. Parents with their own parents. The holiday was nearing, spirits ramping in midst. As the streets emptied, leaving you in nothing but the cruel howl of the wind, you couldn’t bring yourself to caring about your favorite celebration. There was little need for your participation if you didn’t have anyone to spend it with.

To be completely honest, it was your fault.

Clark was happy. He was happy to have someone who shared the same interest in him. He was happy that Lois could bring the best out of him, either out of his work or out of his personal ambitions. Lois would make Clark the man his parents would be proud to see after silently agonizing over months on whether the city would be good for him. He was happy to share this new chapter in his life with you, and you had little patience to see him blossom.

You couldn’t bear it, knowing that it could’ve been you.

God, you were being childish. This felt like high school all over again, except… not really considering you weren’t out in high school. You’ve watched enough coming-of-age films to know that the audience would’ve deemed you immature. Worst of all, you would’ve vented to Clark about how foolish the main character was being.

Your romantic experience had been limited to silently crushing on guys in your classes to hooking up with strangers through an app. Maybe that explained why you were acting out. Why you preferred isolating yourself from the root of your happiness instead of surrounding yourself with it. When was the last time you were ever in love? With the family dog? With her puppies? No, actually in love… with a person, with a man.

“Fuck.” The ice cream in your mouth suddenly stung the back of your jaw the longer the spoon sat in your mouth. You’ve been looping Clark’s voice messages, debating on whether it was too late to reconcile, whether he was too upset at you to even want to have you step a foot inside of his apartment. 

“I miss you. I really miss you.”

You winced, groaning in discomfort, tensing your jaw as the voice message looped like some kind of hypnotic spell. “I miss you. I really miss you. Miss you. Miss. You. (M/N). I miss you.”

The sweetness bulldozed your molars. It was unbearable. You tended to your cheek, holding onto it as you hastily slipped on your coat and beanie.

Throbbing. Your gums.

Your hand yanked the door open, and you marched outside, into the blanket of snow.

Beating. Your heart. 

The cavity was returning, and you needed Clark’s help.

VII: DECEMBER.

Clark had mixed feelings seeing you at his doorstep.

This was not how it was supposed to go. He was the one that was supposed to be drenched from the snow. Shivering like an unkempt toy, with severed electrical currents making him twitch at the modest breeze, at the welcoming warmth. He peered down at you, where you met his gaze. Clark registered a broken and a contrite heart, and he could only respond in complete silence. Frozen in place because the visit was unexpected, but also because you made his heart swell to the point of nearing combustion, and it took all his might to control himself from pulling you into a hug.

“Hi.” You sniffed, wiping your runny nose. There was a stark contrast between your body temperature and Clark’s, he could feel the frost biting his own skin.

“Hi…” Clark took a step closer, but he couldn’t cross the distance between you and him, halting as if there was an ice barrier. No, control yourself, Clark. “I—Come in.”

A wet layer of skin; narrow hills from your eye bags, past the apple of your cheeks, and down to your chin. Crystals would form along your tears if you hadn’t insistent on wiping them clean. You never liked being vulnerable with him. With anyone, for that matter.

Clark stepped aside to welcome you in. You passed one glance at him, hesitant and apprehensive, but the warmth reeled you in, one shoe at a time. He was so close to you. Your arm nearly brushed against his, close enough as if it had almost nudged his elbow.

“You’re freezing—I-I’ll make some coffee.” He headed towards his kitchen, then paused to glance back at you, resembling the skittish reporter you first met as his indecisiveness staggered his following steps. “No, Tea? Hot water? I don’t know—“

“Clark, that can wait… Uh, how about we talk… first?” Clark could see it. He could see how you felt like a stranger in his apartment, a place he’d nearly asked you to move in as his roommate considering you spent so much time here. 

You carefully took off your coat, and Clark immediately went to your aide to gather it into his arms and put it on the coat rock. Though, not before letting the smell of your cologne linger in his nose, because god, he missed this. 

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s… talk.” He gestured towards his couch, tidying up the sweater that was beginning to feel constricting on his body.

Other than a tiny Christmas tree hiding in the corner of his living room, not much had changed. Everything was right where you’d last seen it, including a polaroid Clark took of you and taped to his ‘Wall of Memories.’

Out of instinct, you sat at your side of the couch, and Clark sat to the left, right beside you. Your palms ran over the cotton upholstery, then paused when your finger dipped into a ripped hole you had accidentally created when you two were watching a horror film.

“So… how are you?” Clark was staring. He didn’t mean to, but seeing you beside him felt… unreal. Maybe he was dreaming. The space next to your hand looked inviting, so his own hand naturally found its place, laying it there with his pinky finger barely grazing yours. You’re real. His pinky twitched when your finger brushed against the tip, and you pulled away. No, no. Come back.

“I’m good, well—long story, but…” You sighed, and Clark was patient as you took a moment to gather your thoughts. It was unlike you. Not that it was bad, but it was extremely attractive how outspoken you could be, especially regarding subjects you were passionate about. It was like you rode the ocean waves, swam with large strokes because you had a goal in mind, to convince Clark that mint chocolate chip was the best flavor of ice cream and whatnot.

“Before we catch up, I’m sorry… I don’t really know what I was doing, but it was my fault. I’m childish, I know that. I pushed you away because I was jealous… of Lois. And—please don’t hate me, but I hated how you looked at her. And how she looked at you.“ You breathed, your eyes casted downward like you were ashamed of being capable of human emotions. Then they clenched, because you heard how incredibly thoughtless you were being, yet that didn’t stop the tears from forming.

“And I was supposed to be happy for you, Clark. I mean, I knew I didn’t have a chance to be with you, but I somehow convinced myself that one day, you’d look at me with the same amount of affection you’d look at Lois. I would wait, and wait, and it was getting… painful. I mean, who am I kidding? I should’ve let you adjust first before growing impatient, but it felt like I was being replaced, and I was afraid of the inevitable, Clark—“

Now, you were floating. And out of fear, Clark felt his hand come alive, and spider close to your hand again. Tie him before it’s too late. It was up to Clark to change the trajectory of your descent. The pinkie that had lain next to your own crossed over and locked over yours. The barrier of ice that had been building between the two of you shattered into a million shard and he was frozen. A million of them pierced into Clark’s skin when he took your hand into his, and the clasp of your hand into his had bonded.

“Clark, what—“ Your eyes widened, letting in fragments of Christmas lights to highlight the glossy sheen of the tears welling in your sight. 

Without questioning it, Clark pulled you into his chest and felt the crumbled wetness stain his sweater. One by one, his fingers loosened to let go of your hand to support your body with his arms. Strong, thick arms wrapped around your body, fitted snug against you like a vest. There wasn't any resistance from your end, so he held you longer, then tighter in case you’d let go of him. 

It had never felt so good holding someone’s weight.

Two hearts pulsed against one another, and then as one as Clark buried his head into your neck in silence, while you rested your cheek against his shoulder. You clutched yearningly at his back, and Clark ran his palm over yours. Completely different motions, yet they told the same story, the same ending.

“I missed you.” In harmony, Clark’s voice mixed with yours. Clark often marveled at it, how often he came into sync with you as a pair. Another, when you mustered up the remaining energy to blindly breathe out a sweet laugh against his neck, and he followed, his soft lips inking your skin with a grin.

He didn’t want the hug to end, but it had to sooner or later. Clark needed to see you, as much as he needed to touch you. Releasing you from his hold, he settled for the middle. Large hands found their way back to the vacancy of your own pair and he leaned his forehead against yours, watching your eyes come back into focus as you gazed upwards, officially sharing his yearning.

“What are we doing, Clark?” It was dangerous. There was a heat to his cheeks that needed to connect with the one festering on your own. A dryness to your lips that needed a fresh paint of balm. Clark silently leaned closer, yet your gaze steadied, like you were silently anticipating something. “Lois…”

“We’re not together anymore.” He revealed once to his parents, and that was that. It was a strange feeling bringing up his relationship with Lois again, considering they’d both healed from it and moved on as friends. It was better that way, felt better too. 

Your lips parted for another question, but Clark was quick to answer. “November...”

“I’m sorry—“ Undeniably, Clark’s patience had run its course. He didn’t spare a single second for you to catch your breath. Instead, letting gravity pull the weight of his head until his nose pressed against yours. Multiple forewarning bumps to your septum that made you crease your nostrils, a charming expression he’d later marvel over. 

Clark allowed himself to sink further into you, applying all of his weight to push you back into the cushions of his couch to then finally capture your lips for one yearning kiss. It was cathartic. He’d wanted this for months. His mouth on yours, his hand into yours, and now that it was finally occurring, Clark wanted to savor the moment. Your body was reacting prosperously, opening your legs to close the distance between Clark’s body and yours. You wrapped them around his hips, condensing him groin to groin. Gentle tremors rattled down Clark’s spine as he pressed into you, mouth and hip, stirring wondrous feelings that ignited from the bonded bodies. First with the utmost uncertainty, then with a starry vehemence upon catching your delightful little sounds in his lips, in his mouth, on his tongue. He swallowed, releasing your hands to tuck his left beneath your head. A cushion, or a reminder to him, as his thumb carefully caressed your cheek, that this was real, that this was happening. You gasped, occupying your free hands around his neck because you felt yourself slipping. Whether it was off the couch, or from your original state of delusion, Clark was going to catch you no matter what.

“I love you.” Scratch that, he was never going to let you go. Not this time. You had no doubts about that as he repeated those three words into your mouth like you needed convincing, then kissed you again to lock his stubborn pleas in place. His glasses bumped against your face, but the feeling of his mouth on yours felt too good for you to complain.

A breather, you pulled away soon because Clark was stealing your oxygen, and you needed to tell him before you would embarrassingly faint from overdosing on the simplicity of his kisses. You took one look at him, gently pushing his head back before your hands had taken his cheeks hostage and cupped them, analyzing what made you fall for him in the first place. Thick dark curls that fell gently over his forehead. Clark’s eyes fluttered shut when your fingers ran through them, the pressure of his scalp gratifying like a long stretch in the morning. Wide frames that were too big for Clark’s face, but had he gone any smaller, they would’ve completely hid the beautiful blues of his eyes. You straightened the crook of his glasses, grinning because the bewildered look on his face resembled a puppy’s. His physical appearance made your heart skip more than a couple of beats, yes, but it wasn’t the main attribution to your attraction.

Your hand trailed from his neck, to his chest, then to his heart. Boiling, his heart was pulsating rapidly like yours, and you sighed.

Because it was here. This was why you fell in love with him.

“I love you.”

His heart was making popcorn, and the scorching heat was rising to Clark’s cheeks. “Thank, god.”

Clark pressed one kiss to each of your palm before leaning back into you, and continuing where he left off. Your laughter was eaten up by his mouth. Suddenly ticklish as Clark catapulted your lips with an uncontrollable laughter of his own. His body shook with yours, heart pounding at one’s chest to bond with the other as he held you close once again.

Nothing was funny. Just simply relieving.

Now tighter, drawing you into his arms when the collective laughter was enough for the couch to move a nudge and roll your intertwined bodies onto his floor. Clark could laugh all night long with you, something that could pull a world record if there was someone to verify the interaction, but something began aching inside of him when he was reminded of your hips against his, groins rubbing in simultaneous pleasure. He maintained his position on top of you, in between your legs, and seized the opportunity to press against you. When your laughter was interrupted with a stifled whimper, without a doubt, Clark was a goner.

“Can… I?” He leaned up, his curious palms on your inner thighs kept you spread on the floor. You watched inquisitively, anticipating, hardly masking it with a low-effort grin.

“Can you… what? Not sure what you’re asking, Clark.” Your elbows supported your body, leaning onto them as Clark bit his lips at your obvious teasing. You wiggled your hips while his hands did their best to avoid touching you there, anywhere but there, until you gave him permission. Chewing, because he was trying his best to control himself upon seeing your crotch twitch with agony.

“Come on…” His palms roamed the back of your thighs, then towards the front again, because he needed to occupy the anticipation of his sweaty hands. “Don’t make me say it.”

“I’m not a reporter like you, Clark. Unfortunately, I was never good at deciphering clues or hints. You pulled him down by the collar of his vest, wrapping your legs back around his hips because you loved making him flustered. “Give it to me straight.”

“I—“ Clark surrendered at the touch of your lips on his. Gentle and sweeping, you kissed him like fall of snow, and he melted, whispering into your mouth, “I… want to make love to you.”

His voice registered sweet, in both mind and body. Your tastebuds bloomed when he kissed you again and slipped a tongue in without much warning. Your pants felt tighter as Clark began his antics again and ground himself against you, eagerly rubbing his larger bulge over your own. Clark was a growing cavity, festering right down to the root, but it was no longer painful.

It was indisputably pleasure.

“I’m all yours.”

There was something hidden in Clark’s gaze, something that his glasses had been unfairly shielding from you. You reached up to put aside his glasses and felt your breath hike when the quick glimpse of his gaze matched the avidity of his mark to your neck.

He refused to part from you. Even with the eagerness of stripping you, he needed to be in close proximity. Knit vests off, Clark returned to mark at your neck. Sweaters tossed, he quickly studied your figure and where you were most sensitive with his tongue and palms Wet and warm, you whimpered. Pants kicked, he helped you out of them while he clumsily stumbled out of his. Slow down, you’d laugh with him, and Clark would find his balance with a hug from you before he could embarrassingly take a tumble. A trail of clothing led to his bedroom, where you laid on the bed while Clark sat on his knees, decorating your entire body with the tiniest, yet wettest kisses. He palmed himself to this, squeezing his erection to the restricted pulsation of your own. Every time he ran a marathon of licks up your leg, your briefs twitched. Clark neared closer to your thighs, then inner thighs, every lap, and the twitching doubled.

“Clark…” It accidentally came out as a whine, and you were grateful that it did because you’d been keeping an eye on his clothed erection, watching it unfurl from a stuffy mass to an intimidating thick shaft where it began outgrowing his original side tuck and throb against his left thigh. It would be more than a handful, two if you were being pessimistic.

“Baby, be patient… I missed you.” The pet name came out of nowhere. They didn’t have nicknames for each other, but Clark felt good calling you that, and seeing how your cock began pulsating rapidly at the sound of his voice, he’d reckon it felt just as good hearing it for the first time.

After teasing you with multiple sequences of nearly kissing your bulge, Clark finally caved in and pressed his mouth to where the tip of your erection was hidden. Its location marked with a tantalizing wet spot that made him moan when he could taste your salty leakage through your briefs. Mouthing it, licking it, you watched Clark with an open-mouth, finding yourself mimicking his licks to the open air as you imagined his own erection was in your mouth. You played with your nipples, and it was heaven. You could get off to this. Clark could too, as he began rutting into the mattress, laving the center of your briefs with his wet tongue.

“I wish you could see yourself right now. You look so sexy, so…” Clark never finished his slurry of a sentence, clearly high off of his desire to ruin you. Your lids felt heavy, pinching and twirling your nipples to his languid mouthing like it was your lullaby. His voice came to a complete halt, a beat of silence that you’d come to query, until your eyes immediately widened at the warmth of his mouth surrounding your cock, finding your unspoken question answered.

“O-oh, Clark.. .That’s—mmf!” One hand was fondling your balls, while Clark’s other was stroking himself through his briefs after tossing your underwear to the carpet. His mouth was full. Warm and breached with your stiff shaft. His cheeks hollowed, and your body arced toward the ceiling as a result of holding your moans back. 

On the contrary, your body was trembling. Cold tremors electrified every bone in you as Clark explored your cock with his thick tongue, building your excitement to a rattle. He’d secure you in his mouth, sucking and refusing to let you go even when your fingers laced and pulled at his hair, a lazy attempt to push him off, but it only encouraged him to suck harder, lick at the underside of your cock, at your veins, swirling over the glossy tip, tasting the salt you’d produce solely for him, because of him. “S-stop, I’m going to come if you keep—“ 

“Sorry, you just taste so good…” Reluctantly, Clark pulled you out with a subtle pop, wiping his remaining saliva on the back of his hand. Your cock was twitching in a shiny coat of spit as you and him both watched his masterpiece of a tongue have its remaining effect on you.

“My turn…” It was a declaration. You crawled forward onto all fours while Clark watched in anticipation. He sat up on his knees upon you reaching for the waistband of his briefs. With a slow pull, his large erection sprang free with a heavy bounce, and your pupils dilated. “Jesus, Clark…” You removed his briefs, tossing it to join the floor, and he sat back on his knees while you marveled over his girth. Its size submitted you into silence. A tint of envy, but mainly of wonder as you couldn’t possibly imagine fitting him inside of you.

“Hey, you don’t have to…” Clark could see the fear in your eyes. The intimidation. Though, he would never admit that he was extremely turned on from watching your expression morph into utter astonishment. His cock, however, couldn’t care less. Thick and mighty veins blasted from the base of his raging hard-on to the very plump tip of the bulbous head. It was as equally as inviting as it was intimidating.

“I want to. I’m just… kind of jealous, that’s all.” You laughed to yourself, wrapping a firm grip around Clark’s shaft and watching in awe at how you couldn’t close your fingers around him, even when you had adjusted your hand. Clark’s cheeks were scalding. Was there an adjective to describe someone who was embarrassed, but extremely aroused right now? He’d have to look it up, but he was that. He watched how your mouth practically salivated for him, working him in slow strokes because you were careful not to anger this phenomenon of a creature.

“You’re perfect, wouldn’t change a single thing about you. Where would be the fun in all of this if we all looked the same?” You hummed at the comforting words, somewhat feeling guilty over your cock hardening over such a sweet consolation. 

Nonetheless, it wasn’t something you were going to dwell on. You knew Clark loved your body, he would’ve inhaled you whole if he could. As a token of appreciation, you nuzzled over the underside of his cock, lining gentle kisses over the veins that made you the hungry, desperate man you were displaying for him. “I love you.”

Clark would burn this image of you, drooling over the sight of his cock, over the tense of his muscles as you licked his abdomen, sucked at a birthmark on his hip, then hollowed your mouth out to accommodate his erection. “I love you.” He exhaled from his gut, nearly seeing the whites of his eyes as you didn’t spare a second in warming him up to your throat. 

“Baby, slow down… You’re going to choke—“

“Mmfggh—“ Sweet sounds. Delicious noises that made his spine tingle, that made his muscular chest puff up as it swelled with so much selfish pleasure. You looked up at him with such pureness, a determination that Clark was afraid to shatter if he made you stop, so he simply watched. Petting your head, brushing strands of your hair that threatened to obscure the parts he’d loved most about you. Your eyes sparked with glee as the salt of his cock watered your tastebuds. You let your hands roam free on his body. One palm admiring the toned muscles on his stomach, the other stroking the inches of flesh that haven’t been in your mouth yet.

Then, your eyes filled with tears, as you became overzealous from your mouth blooming with arousal and heat as you took more of Clark. Past the tip now, your tongue flattened at the underside of his veiny cock to make room for his large shaft. Your cheeks hollowed while you sucked, and you could taste Clark leaking on your tongue again. Thick and salty pre-cum dancing over the bed of sprouts.

“Baby, careful…” Despite his warning, Clark couldn’t help but thrust every now and then into you.

It was difficult stuffing Clark inside of your mouth, but you proceeded. Further and further, you sank your head. Clark carefully held you while his gaze marveled at the warmth of your mouth. You’d splutter into a gag when you lodged him into the back of your throat, cramped and gratifying despite the tears in your eyes. Clark was quick to pull you back in case you choked on your own spit, and he knew you. He knew you were the type to take on a challenge. Before you could complain about him pulling you away, he brought you up for a kiss, meeting you half way as he bent forward. His hand was on your nape, tenderly massaging in case you pulled a muscle, and he smiled at your fluster when he pulled away. A thin line of spit connected the pair of lips, a display of devotion for one another. “You did so well.”

While Clark laid you on the bed once again and reached for lube out of his bedside drawer, you were kissing at the underside of his jaw. He’d left a mark on your neck, so it was only fair that you made your presence known as well. Your teeth nibbled on the stretch of skin as your lips wandered off to suck on a patch of skin on his neck. The smell of his body wash was strong in your nose when you buried your face into him, suckling until Clark’s neck had skipped the initial stage of turning pink, and instead, an ardent red. “Don’t finger me too much. I want to feel you.” Your cock throbbed in anticipation.

“No way, (M/N). I’m going to hurt you if I don’t.” He sealed off any potential retorts from you with a smooch to your lips, and then affectionately bumped his forehead to yours, sparing you a teasing smile. “And I promise you, you’d still feel me even if I spent an hour warming you up.”

Your heartbeat spiked.

You brought your knees up after he placed a pillow beneath your lower back. Clark took his sweet time lubing his fingers and erection. There was an obvious motive behind the gaze he’d spare you. A smugness in the curl of his calming smile. He made sure you were watching as he bucked his hips up when he slimed his cock with a glorious amount of lube. The remaining lubricant was used to lather your rim, and then the surface of your lips as he brought his hand up-close.

“It’s cake-flavored. Haven’t used it yet.“ Clark said with a laugh, pressing his lubed thumb to the center of your mouth.

“Of course it is. What’s with you and sweets?” Your lips parted to let your tongue peek out and take a swipe at the wet layer of his skin. Artificially sweet at first, but it wasn’t unpleasant enough to detract you away from it. After taking multiple samples of the lubricant, you closed your mouth around Clark’s thumb, and that was when the base notes hit your tongue. The scent of vanilla tingled your sinuses, as well as the artificial flavor of the sweet commodity spreading pleasantly on your tongue the more you sucked. It tasted more like marshmallows than a cake, but you weren’t complaining. You pushed his thumb out with your tongue and nodded in approval. “Tastes nice. Why do you need it to taste like cake though—“

“Because I like cake.” With a push of your thighs, Clark was back on his knees again. He haunched over to face your exposed entrance once you locked your arms around your legs, holding your knees to your chest. Then, he flattened his tongue over the smooth surface of your crack. One stripe to sample the quality of the flavor. Another to discover the depth of vanilla blossoming on his tongue. And then another few laps, because your bare flesh tasted infinitely better than whatever was mixed in that bottle of lube.

“Clark…” You wished you could properly watch him. For now, you had to settle on blindly watching the top of his head from the opening of your legs, dark curls bouncing as he eagerly devoured and lapped up the layer of lube that slicked up your opening. His tongue swirled over the rim of your hole, teasing at first, to sample you again, then he pressed his mouth to your entrance. The movement of his languid mouth nipping and mouthing made you pucker. It was an automatic reaction, you clenched, then opened, and Clark seized the opportunity and slipped his tongue inside of you, officially tasting you. “C-Clark! That’s—Mmf!”

Clark was under hypnosis. Everything that was said to him, that was plead towards him while he ate you out was drowned out by the sound of his slobbering. Two palms on your asscheeks stretched you out while Clark thrusted his tongue inside of you like daggers. When you clenched around his tongue, Clark pulled back to carefully push a lubed finger inside of you, spreading you back open. “I wish you could see this right now, (M/N). Your hole’s so pretty.” He looked up at you, lips beaten red and his fringe tousled, while he pumped two fingers inside of you now, smiling at the way your body had a mind of its own, floundering within your own hold, completely stripped of insanity and instead, disheveled over the smallest touch. “You look so pretty.” Your cock twitched in solidarity. 

For someone who made it seem like he absolutely got no action, Clark was a natural talent in pleasing you. His fingers were thick and deep inside of you, curling at various spots you hadn’t even brushed once in your lifetime. You bit your lip, writhing in suppressed arousal, and Clark would watch in awe as he simultaneously licked around your rim and thrusted his fingers inside of you. Three now, spreading, twisting, and churning in and out of you smoothly with the help of a fresh paint of lubricant. His thick pecs bounced with every draw of his fingers, sweat beginning to form over his neck and shoulders as the heat between you and him only escalated. He broke out into cold sweats, watching you unravel your sanity before his very eyes, and Clark was eager to be the cause of your destruction, for you to equally ruin him.

You’d let your legs collapse onto the bed a while ago, but it was fine, because once you were properly warmed up, Clark took matters into his own hands and balanced your feet over his shoulders, pulling out and orienting his hips before you. He slicked his cock in another layer of lubricant, the smell of vanilla mixing pleasantly with his arousal, and he leaned for a sweet, but confirming, pushing your knees towards your chest in the process.

“I love you.” He softly whispered into your mouth, forehead to forehead. Words of affection that you couldn’t possibly imagine growing tired of. Your stomach was in knots, your heart tugging one way, and then another, as you two shared a gaze. A silent one, but surely meaningful because you felt close to tearing, looking into his sweet, adoring eyes. It nearly ripped when he repeated those three words again in your ear, gentle like the kisses he was adorning the shell of your ear, ticklish like the way he had been tracing your rim with the tip of his cock.

“I love you…” It came out as a purr, and you gave his shoulders a loving squeeze. I’m all set.

Upon the completion of your breath, Clark pushed his hips forth. Slowly, you felt your hole opening. Wider, as it took in Clark’s hot pulse. Gasping, as it was a struggle to fit the head of his cock inside of you. Your body naturally reacted in pushing back the intrusion out of your body, swelling around the plump glans and clenching to prevent him from moving any further. “C-Clark—“

“M-mm, relax—“ He grunted in the depth of your mouth, distracting you with another open-mouthed kiss. But Clark was persistent. He was nearly there. One more push, and he was in. He used the back of your thighs as leverage, pushed your legs further back, and pushed with careful might. Not enough to hurt you, but enough to break through the barrier that refused to let you two bond. Clark was pushing. You were pushing back. It was a battle for territory, a toll on your body as you broke into cold sweats. You inhaled at the increasing soreness, but nonetheless endured because you’d endured worse. 

You’d lived through the loneliness that was your life without Clark, and that was absolutely unbearable compared to this. The thought of spending eternity with him reconciled you with near pleasure. You two would go on to do everything together. Holding hands with him in public would be a no-brainer as you helped him shop for a new suit. You’d celebrate his promotion over dinner, either homemade or a fancy restaurant, because Clark deserved the luxury of life. And if all things go well, he’d reward you for staying by his side and supporting him with a ring. Nothing too grand or magnificent, because you were never too keen for the lifestyle of the wealth. And knowing Clark, he’d ramble about how he could buy another engagement ring if you weren’t happy with it, completely forgetting to ask you about the inevitable: Will you marry me?

Exhaling once more, you brought a hand to his nape and gently pushed his forehead to yours. Then his nose squished with yours when you felt your body arched off the bed in response to Clark finally breaching inside of you with one tantalizing thrust, goosebumps fluttering over your skin and amplifying the soreness by tenfold. “H-hh! Clark!” You choked out, straining your neck as your body felt like it was burning. Scalding with pleasure and pain all at once.

“I got you. I got you, baby…” Clark slipped an arm beneath you, cushioning your body when gravity pushed you back onto the bed. He began lathering your neck in pacifying kisses, stilling his hips while doing so. “Doing so well, doing so good. You feel so good, you know that? You make me feel so good.” Clark was drunk on the grasp you had around his cock. So tight, you felt so tight, and he anticipated what you’d feel like beyond the first few inches of him.

“You’re okay?” For moments now, he’d been kissing you to divert your attention from the pain. Wiping beads of sweat off your face with the back of his hand. Massaging your chest and playing with your nipples. Anything to get your body to relax. Though, the most effective remedy was when he gazed into your eyes and rambled. Clark knew that. He felt your muscles loosen when he’d make a silly joke, or when he’d bring up a memory about losing his shoe at work. Touching was the easiest effort and you loved the weight of his palms on you, but you were most sentimental about Clark finding other ways to temporarily shift your mind to a sanctuary. All in all, the power of his humility was a force to be reckoned with.

“I’m okay… Just been a while.” Your lips slurred against his, kissing Clark again, extremely appreciative of his patience. “Think I’m all good now. You can move.” You confirmed with a gentle pat to his cheek.

“I’ll make you feel good.” It was a promise.

Clark kissed at your ear. “I’ll make you feel like you won’t want to stop when we’re about to end.” A symptom.

His lips moved to your neck. You shivered at the ghosting of his mouth, of his tongue, before he’d rightfully claim another spot on your neck as his own. 

Clark reeled his hips back until only the tip was left inside of you. You whimpered at the emerging heat, but it was beginning to become bearable.

“I’ll make you feel like you were made for me.” You felt yourself split into two when Clark brought himself forward. A gasp slipped when you felt your hole stretch. And then continued to push itself to its limits as he worked himself inside of you with gentle and subtle thrusts, until Clark was an inch deeper. The grasp you had on his shoulders was extreme, egg-shell white as the sweat in your palms threatened to loosen your grip. The husk in his voice trembled while you swelled around him. Rapid pulsations embraced the thick veins of his cock, seemingly massaging him out of appreciation, a token of your gratitude because pleasure had finally materialized in the loss of your agony.

The toned muscles of Clark’s thighs slapped into the back of your sweaty thighs with every thrust. A salacious sound that wouldn’t cease. Louder. Harder, when Clark was comfortable enough to properly move inside of you. “Because you are.”

Properly stir your insides. Your face said it all. Your sight blasted as you watched Clark with dilated pupils, mouth agape like you had better counter to the flattery of the man’s words. Instead, you found yourself choking back on them. Words. They would’ve been affectionate words. They came out as stifled moans because it was embarrassing for Clark to see you like this. Grunts when Clark lodged himself deeper inside of you. He was just as motivated by a challenge as you were. The challenge of making all sorts of delightful noises fall from your mouth out of your own will.

Sweat dripped off of him like he’d just returned from a blacksmith.  A sweltering fire would heat him up. Not to burn him, but to make him pliable enough for the blacksmith to shape the perfect man out of Clark’s flesh and bone. A chisel to carve out the deep dips in his upper traps, where your palms loved occupying. Another at his waist, where you’d hold Clark to help him dig you deeper. Then a hammer, used to forge the sturdy muscles on his athletic body. Deep hills and valley, crafted over his pecs and abdomen to let his sweat drain onto your body.

“You’re made for me, as much as I’m made for you.” Clark murmured.

A vow.

With that, Clark mounted you, both of his palms grounded to the space by your shoulders to stabilize his catapulted position. He pushed his full weight on top of you. Your legs folded towards your chest, alongside the sink of his body, until your knees signaled the end of their mobility. A kiss to your left calf to keep you alert, a bite to the other to warn, and Clark propelled his hips forward without the intention to stop. Further and further, your mouth and eyes widening as he tunneled through your contraction, until his cock was deeply-rooted fully inside of your hole. Clark settled himself inside of you with a yearning groan, and you retaliated with staggered cry.

“C-Clark, I feel so… full. Honey, fuck—” Your skin prickled with goosebumps knowing that Clark had fully breached your hole. There was no doubt about that, yet your hand snuck down to blindly confirm the achievement, to see if you could slot your hand between his pelvis and your ass. But Clark was pressed flushed against you. No gaps. Only the thick hairs of his pubic region came into contact with your fingers, and your cock twitched.

You were completely and utterly full to overflowing.

“You’re squeezing me so tight, baby. You feel so good. So warm. So… tight.” Clark huffed out a few breaths and slid his cock nearly out before slamming it back into you. 

“U-uh-huh.” You panted at the sight of his arousal. How gratifying it was to Clark, being inside of you, to the point where his eyes would roll back, and then feel the need to slow his deep thrusts, because he was close. You could tell. You could feel his cock throbbing harder. Veins hotfooting a nearing high as you stimulated his aching muscle, and you were stroking your leaking dick to the feeling.

“I love this… I love you. I love making love to you.” His cock hammered your insides, the thick head of it raking past your sweet spot. It made your cock tremble, your glans crying out with thick, teary pre-cum. When your moans hiccuped a pitch, Clark realized he had mined gold.

“C-Clark, I love you—“ Your firm cock slid through your closed fist every time he moved, the creaking of bed springs following every motion of his thrust. It wouldn’t be long before you made a complete mess on your body. “Oh, god—“ Clark clasped his mouth around your tongue, greedy to feel your moans ricochet off the walls of his cheeks, and into the depth of his throat. Veins charged his arms as he pinned your hips to the bed. You were floating, higher and higher. The roam of your hands, over his sweaty pecs, his shoulders, his neck, his abdominal muscles, his arms—you were stimulating Clark’s body so he doesn’t stop. Motivating him to blind you with his devotion, starry skies and all.

“P-Please, Clark. God, that’s so good. You feel so—“ Forehead to forehead now, Clark was watching you passionately through heavy lids, alternating his gaze from the silent plea in your eyes, to the beaten and swollen muscle of cock in your jerking fist. All while he throbbed inside of you, overwhelming you with the pulsating of his thick cock veins, making love to your hole with the refusal to stretch his approaching climax.

So close, you were so close. You held Clark by his neck with one hand, and refused to let him pull away.

Faster and faster, his cock consistently drilled into your prostate, drumming against it with a deep swivel of his hips and more, until you couldn’t hold back your cries. Your pulse raced as your cock twitched with your heartbeat, speeding the flicks of your wrist to outpace Clark’s thrusts. 

It was a tense battle to see who’d erupt first. Harder. Harder. Faster. You were a mess, and so was he. You made him a mess. A drunk intoxicated by carnal desire. Sweat clung onto his fringe, yet he had never looked so attractive, powering into you like a madman, impaling you with his love, with his devotion, with all of his might, brute force, through gritted teeth. You gripped him hard by his biceps, unsure of whether your cries of pleasure were heard between the thunderous sound of his thighs connecting to your asscheeks and the creaking of bed springs. You took a chance to cry out again, to warn him that you were close. 

“C-Clark, I’m going to come…” The bubbling feeling had been too irresistible to delay any longer. Clark locked eyes with you upon your alert, and groaned. His tongue came out to skim the bottom of your lip, and you strained forward to cover his mouth with yours, sealing the pair of lips in a slow kiss, contrary to the rapid rhythm that had overtaken the rest of your body, and it stole your breath and made you all dizzy. Your cock only needed three more pumps.

Clark panted a few quick breaths, bracing his body in anticipation by clutching onto your hips until his fingers had turned white. “Want to see you come from my cock…” What you heard in his murmur was beyond want. 

It was need.

Two. 

You reminded Clark that you were going to come.

One. 

His forehead pressed hard against yours, and he switched his gaze to your jerking fist.

“Clark—“

“Let it out. Show me how much you love me.”

You yanked your hand a millisecond before the inevitable, and Clark watched in pure bliss, maintaining his thrusts as your cock erupted with white. Thick shots of cum catapulted across your body with the aid of Clark’s thrusts drilling semen out of you. Layers of creamy ropes messily inked your body from abdomen to chest, and that was all it took for Clark to spill his load inside of you. 

His hand like claws on your waist, he pummeled your insides for a few more seconds, delivering your ass with powerful thrusts, and you sobbed out in between breaths, clutching a bundle of his hair in both fists. Finally, Clark grunted, unloading himself inside of you with a scalding bite to your lips. You felt his cock pump, his balls jolting as it drained itself inside of your cavity, filling you up with an unspoken affirmation that you were his. He pushed his cum deep into your hole, powering through the cold tremors overhauling his body, and resumed thrusting inside of you. 

Shallow and slow, but enough to spread himself all over your walls. Enough to remind you of the memory when you had been claimed as his, in case you’d ever forget.

You shuddered, dropping your legs to wrap them around his waist, because you could never forget. Couldn’t if you had tried. Not when he was milking his orgasm into you, dumping his warm seed into your hypersensitive hole until he filled you to the brim. Not when you prevented him from pulling out, because you pressed the heel of your feet into his lower back, and countered his thrusts with swivels of your pelvis, gluing him shut to you. 

Until you were bonded to him.

“I love you…” Lethargy in his voice, his eyes closed. Clark worked so hard, and you immediately rewarded him with a slow kiss, embracing him close to you after.

“I love you.” He tucked his head into the crook of your neck, evidently gratified by your response as you felt the corners of his lips tug into a smile. You murmured sweet praises in his ear, petting the back of his head to calm the electrical currents stimulating his body.

“We… have a lot of catching up to do, by the way.” Clark suddenly spoke, and your eyes weakly opened, inquisitive over the strange tone in his voice.

It was also funny. How absolutely massive the man was, yet in your arms, he was cuddling up to you as if he wasn’t aware of his own weight plastering you.

“Yeah? Something on your mind, or you wanna save that for tomorrow?” You idly twirled a piece of his hair around your finger, windmilling it out of affection.

“I mean, I guess so? It’s been on my mind since we’ve met. And it’s been killing me on the inside.” The stubble on his chin tickled you when he lifted his head to look at you. The expression on his face suddenly made his warning seem all the more significant.

Concerning, as you propped yourself on your elbows and frowned. Despite your risen position, he was insistent on continuing to rest his weight atop of you, not that you had minded. “You’re kind of scaring me, Clark. What is it? Did you get fired or something?”

“No, no. Nothing like that. I—It’s just…” He stammered, then heavily exhaled. Thoughts of regrets plagued his mind at first, but he trusted you. You could see it in the light of his eyes. “Okay, here it goes. You know... how I’ve written multiple articles about Superman?”

“…Yeah? Got you on Perry’s radar, didn’t it? He seems to only like talking to you, which is impressive. Not surprising though—”

“Yeah, well… It’s just—there’s a reason why… he only sees me.”

“Why? Is it because he saved you or—”

“Clark, what are you doing with your eyes?—“

“Wait, holy crap—“ 

Sweat dripped off your forehead, off the locks of your bouncing hair, in anticipation of a merited water break. The water bottle sat on the seated stationary bench, pooled by its own condensation. You could taste it with your eyes, a ravishing sight that pushed you harder. You sped up, raised your knees higher, and endured the pain for ten seconds more. Your gut was sucked in, engaging with your core, and your breathed out in methodical puffs, your chest rising along with it. Everything was burning, muscles tightening into flaming knots that would render you frail by tomorrow morning. If the floor was lava, your body was the volcano erupting it. 

Holy bells rang once you finally counted down to zero, and you immediately came to a halt, the weight of your gratification breaking your movement with an echoing thud as you instantly marched forward to quench your thirst. 

“Fuck.”

Your nostrils stung more than usual. Flared with every inhale as you were catching up to your breath, and more so when you cooled down with several sips of water. Breathing had never felt so good, an absolute fiend you turned out to be after every workout.

You’re getting weaker. Breathing harder. Quicker. You’re losing control on your breath. How are you going to keep up with the team? If you feel this fatigued after a warm up? You let them down last time. Got knocked out and Dick—

He was getting to your head. Again.

Dick. 

The name rolled off your tongue bitterly. A foul taste of metal and battery acid lingered in your parched mouth before it was drowned out by another gulp of water. Another. 

And another. 

And another, as the aforementioned man across from you halted his ropes, stopping in his tracks. 

He’d been doing this since you’d arrived. Mirroring you like a reflection, copying your every move as if you were an instructor. If you were doing strength training, he stopped his cardio to take the machine next to you. Pushed when you pushed, groaned—louder—when you did. 

Needed to stretch your hips? He made some lame excuse about how his legs were too tight, and felt the need to join you on the floor, stretching himself beyond the limits of what you could achieve. It colored you impressed, but you would never say that out loud. Though, you did silently admire the view of his ass, and that especially, would be kept a secret between you and the floor.

Now, it was with jump-roping. The two ropes swung from either corners of the gym like the gears working silently in your head. There was a need to compete with you for some reason.

A satisfied smirk rolled a drop of sweat off his face, and seized his naked torso with glitter as he took a step under a light that lit his body like a podium, or—and you hated to admit it—like one of the sculptures you remembered fawning over in Art History. From his broad build, you could tell that Dick was sturdy, toned, and undoubtedly beautiful. 

His fringe clung onto his forehead, but you could see the gratification he got from outlasting you, smiling while he squeezed a stream of water into his mouth. You noticed how much more capable he was with the calmness of his breath, and felt his adrenaline pumping through the room. In turn, it possessed you—his energy–maneuvering you to the center of the room where a foam mat was placed, and to which Dick expectedly trailed after you.

“Wanna have a go, partner?” Dick said while rolling his shoulders back before picking up a pair of boxing gloves, then another without your confirmation. 

“Seriously—“ He tossed the other pair towards you, an accurate shot that landed into your arms. “Are you going to be doing this all day? Copying me?” You silently thanked him because you began kneading one glove like a stress ball, the rubber foam absolutely gratifying with every scrunch of your hand, as well as consoling as it kept you sane for a little longer.

“I don’t see the problem—“ You began approaching him with the gloves fitted snug over your fists. “Well, actually. I do see the problem. You’re not training hard enough.” Marching with heavy stomps, your nose flaring with every breath that he casually spat out. 

“You give up as soon as you feel tired. I mean, no amount of water breaks are going to help you. You think we have the time to sip water when we’re rescuing a town? A city? The world?” 

His voice, soft and smooth yet it was grating to your ears. The constant talking. Rambling. It gave you a headache. It made you see red. Hearing him berate you. Mock you.

“You’re breathing too hard too, which is taking up all of your energy. And your emotions? You need to control them better. Not only does it affect your combat, but your relationship with your team. You shut yourself off when you don’t do well on a mission.” 

“What are you, my therapist now?”

“Listen, it does no one any good if you’re—“

And it stopped with a strong swing towards his left cheek. His head snapped to the side when the rubber foam smacked him like a whip. 

If red hadn’t blurred your vision, you would’ve noticed the tiniest smile he mustered up from the corner of his lips. A crooked, slanted one that was followed up with a chuckle.

“Not exactly fair play, but…” He raised a hand to rub at his cheek before adjusting the gloves onto his wrists, cracking his neck and stretching the muscles in his back with one more shoulder roll before positioning himself like you were: knees bent and fists raised with the gloves fencing off your face. 

“I’ll give it to you. You can throw a good punch. Beginner’s luck?”

The comment made you swing at his left, and he snapped his head to the right. You missed. There was a precision to his move, something that you lacked in as he snuck a punch to your right cheek. A grunt was stifled, and then let loose in a cough when you felt another beat to the left of your abdomen. Sputtering breath, when Dick scored another hit to your jaw. 

“Fuck—“ Your eyes locked on him while he held your gaze. Your perception seemingly widened, heightened as you’d noticed the smallest movements from Dick, twitching upon instinct as if he was about to strike, but there was nothing. Just the taunt of his arms, and Dick’s teasing smile to garnish, to taunt.

He was circling you. You were circling him. It was the same movement, following each other like two predators unwilling to share the last morsel of food. You felt as much as a leader as Dick was, but from the outsider’s perspective, it was telling who was following the other’s lead. 

Who was the experienced leader of the two sparring men.

Dick feigned a punch with a raise of his arm, and you immediately buckled, jerking back to nothing but a bluff of a hit. You were then greeted by an obnoxious chuckle before he landed a successful sneak to your head, a hit impactful enough to rattle your knees and knock a scoff out of you.

“Be observant. I punch better with my—”

Another swing to his left cheek. Successful, and harder this time, as it managed to stumble him from his stance. You could feel the impact of your fist on Dick, even if it was cushioned by foam. 

It was exhilarating.

“Fight better with your mouth closed too.” You spat, raising your arm to strike the same cheek again. Dick detected it before you could attack, and ducked lower to the right, where he met a sudden fist to his jaw, a calculative undercut that sent him falling onto his back.

“Shit—“

Something unleashed in you. The red in your vision had scorched, burned blue as it reached its highest temperature. You immediately seized the opportunity to straddle him, to face the source of your belittlement, to look at the leader that everyone on your team had silently wish you were, that everyone had admired, to somehow stare and pierce him long enough with your eyes that you were able to tear into his body and take his incredible abilities and mold them into your own, becoming that someone that you had undoubtedly admired as well. 

You threw another blow to his face, enough to knock a groan out of him. It was pleasing to your ears, the low trembles of his voice because of your touch, they twitched with gratitude. But you needed more, a beg from Dick, a plea for you to stop. You threw another punch, and then another as you became blinded by rage. It was out of your control, your arms had a mind of their own as they continued wailing on Dick, even if he had shielded himself with his arms for the last minute now.

You breathed hard, tossing your gloves off as you held him down for a stronger grip and prying his arms from his face. A need to touch him, to feel the impact that your gloves had been restraining you from. You pinned him by his bare and sweaty shoulders that made the grasp all the more slippery, but you nonetheless held him anywhere you could, by his biceps now, and stared into him. You peered into those brown eyes that mysteriously settled your fury until you’d succumb to the beautiful tranquility of his orbs, quietly pacific compared to his mouth.

Dick’s chest was rising. Up and down like your own, recovering from the pummeling you had given him. His eyes were widened as he watched you—studied you. No marks on his face, thankfully due to the cushions you were begging to be replaced with stone a tantrum prior. 

It was humiliating to prove him right, about your emotions, and you sat still, on his lap, breathing. Your fists had stripped you of the little energy you had left, and turned it into mush, but you found support in the warmth of Dick’s body, still breathing. Your grasp had loosened, but remained on his biceps. Warm skin, and ever slightly kneading because of your own envy of Dick’s strength.

You felt your eyes closed, shutting yourself off of the supply of Dick’s silent consolation as the adrenaline pumping through your veins had slowed. “I can never be you, can I?”

“Who says you have to?” Finally, Dick’s voice hadn’t grated your ears like it had in the past. It was gentle as ever, but this time, there was a warmth to it that you wished you could be bundled up in if it had a physical body. A spirit that could temper you with just its warmth, rather than the toxic heat that had just boiled your rage.

“Because—they’ve seen you, Grayson. They know how you operate with the Titans. I can see it, you know? The way they look at you, then the way they look at me. It’s just…”

“You know, my team looked at me like that when they saw how Bats ran the Justice League.” 

“With disgust? Contempt? Disdain? All of the above?”

“No,” He laughed, gathering himself half-way up with the support his elbows. “with... relief?”

“That’s… not helping?” You rolled your eyes, and then felt yourself flush upon coming to realization upon your current position on his lap when he sat halfway up. “Sorry—“ Without making eye contact, you brought yourself off Dick’s hips, but found yourself suddenly pulled back by the waist.

“No, no. What I meant was…” He cleared his throat, sitting up as he positioned you back on his lap again. His hands interlocked against the small of your back, a devise to keep you from abandoning him on the lone mat, but to also pull you closer, hip to hip. 

“Batman… is impressive. You’ve seen him, right? How he has this presence that automatically appoints him as leader. Commander, really. I don’t know anyone that can plan better than him, but that’s not to say that he doesn’t have his faults. He’s all business, little relations. So are the others. You’ve seen them too. Supes, the Lanterns. I respect it. They respect him because of that, and vice versa. But… that’s not how my team works. Not the Titans.”

“I see…” You shifted, nodding every now and then as you listened.

“It’s just… My members are more than co-workers, you know? This isn’t some nine-to-five job that you’ll probably quit after five years. It’s… our lives now. And with them, they’re with me every step of the way. So, they’re more than co-workers. You don’t protect co-workers. Not saying the Justice League don’t care about each other… But what you do protect are friends, families. Yeah, they’re my family, so I treat them as such. And maybe… that’s why they seemed relieved they were part of my team. And…”

“I just have to find what works with my team?”

“Yeah. I mean, you guys are just starting out. Everyone’s still adapting, still getting to know each other, still figuring out each other’s powers, right? Things are bound to be a little more destructive in terms of chemistry.”

“I don’t know… I just… I don’t know if I can lead them like you guys can. I’m not like you guys. In terms of skills, in terms of leadership, in terms of—“

“Then work on that with your team. That’s what a good leader does, they seek out help from their teammates and let them know that their opinions and help are valued.”

It sounded absolutely simple. Something that shouldn’t have taken you this long to figure out, but Dick was right. Rather than seeking for your team’s help, you thought you had to endure whatever situation had arisen on your own. It weighted heavily on your shoulders, until you couldn’t muster up the strength to push your own weight. And in turn, that affected your team. You needed them, just as much as they needed you. 

“And here you are…” Dick continued, suddenly bursting with a smile. “Instead of spending time with your team, you’re with me. I know I’m quite charming, but geez, (M/N), can a guy get some alone time?”

You scoffed and lightly punched at his chest. “Did we forget that you were the one joining me in the gym when you have your own in the tower? Copying my every move? What’s up with that?”

He shrugged, kneading nonchalantly at your sides. “Knew you’d be alone. Knew you were probably blaming yourself, moping around. Thought I would give you a little push.”

You shifted again, your hands keeping close to yourself as you couldn’t muster up the strength to complain about his wandering hands.

Or rather, find anything about his hands to complain about.

“Push as in to annoy me?”

“Well, I was supposed to be teaching you some things, but, uh… you were playing whack-a-mole with my head earlier.” 

“That’s because—“ You sighed, dropping your head low in embarrassment. “Sorry. I don’t know. Everything started happening so fast and—“

“No, it’s fine. It gives me the perfect opportunity to introduce you my first lesson of the week.” He was sincere, smiling up at you, almost as if he had mistaken your brief fit of rage as a game of tag.

“What’s that?” You asked, meeting his eyes once again.

He pondered for a moment,, pursing his lips as he was lost within his thoughts before speaking again. “How To Communicate To Your Team 101.”

“How is that even going to—“

You felt a sudden press to your lips. A softness that awakened your five senses by tenfold, and a desire that you had kept vaulted in the back of your mind; now beginning to unlock to its freedom the longer Dick had his lips on you. It wasn’t right. No, it wasn’t like it was morally wrong, it was just…

You hesitated, conjuring up all the reasons in your head on why kissing Dick wasn’t a good idea. But it was futile. Everything had been resolved within this moment; the way he let you use him like a punching bag, the way he didn’t spare a single second to share his empathy for your concerns, the way he tended to your wounds days prior despite your brazen disregard to his kindness. 

You were being selfish again, guarding yourself off with ice like you had done with the others. When in reality, you wanted him. 

No, you desperately needed him.

You felt him open up his mouth, assuming he was about to speak, but you seized his breath with a slot of your lips, and kissed him. One hand came up to rest on his cheek, to finally feel the slight scruffs you had delivered on his skin, and you caressed tenderly across textured skin, to the slow rhythm of your lips, whispering, “Sorry… again.”

“Don’t be. Without it, you wouldn’t have been on my lap. And… I wouldn’t be kissing you right now.” Dick muttered, a satisfaction to his voice like he had gotten his wish fulfilled. He ran a lone hand up your back, then back down your spine, bone tingling once he repeated again under your hoodie, and gazed across your bare skin.

“What are you doing to me…” It was a genuine question, something you wished could be answered because you didn’t know yourself. And yet, you were scared of the answer if Dick was to ever give you one. It’d been a while since you felt like this, with someone else.

For the past few months, you hated him. Couldn’t stand the sight of him. And now, you feel like you couldn’t tear yourself apart from him. From the softness of his lips and to the warmth of his body; the longer you endured him, the more you realized you had been captivated by Dick all along.

“I don’t know, but… I like figuring you out.” Dick’s speech was slurred from dragging his lips down to your jaw, nipping at your sweaty skin. “Like how you push me away, but you can’t help but tolerate me whenever I’m in the room.” He breathed you in, sucking at the corner of the sharp bone. You pressed your head into his neck, silently letting him take you. “How you’d sneak glances at me and roll your eyes, only to keep on staring… and staring… until you hadn’t realized that I was looking back at you. Because you were too busy looking at me.”

Nothing but the truth came out Dick’s mouth. Remarkably candid, because you thought you were more covert about your conflicting feelings for him. It brought a bloom of heat to your cheeks, and you hid your face inside his neck, groaning because Dick began licking at your neck, and because you felt stripped, absolutely vulnerable.

“Dick…” Something was rising in your shorts, tightened around the center. Warm and pulsing, even when Dick had unzipped your hoodie and thrown them to the side. A chill was felt across your bare back, most likely a draft from the vent, and Dick held you closer, sandwiching the heat, and suddenly your erection, between his body and yours.

“I knew you never hated me.” There was something about your chest that he loved. How smooth it felt. A few hairs had grown at the center, raised from the feelings Dick was supplying to your body. They tickled his cheek whenever he rubbed himself against it until they were then flattened with a long, fluttering lick as he maintained eye contact with you. “Always right.”

The taste of your sweat was salty yet delicate on his tongue.

“Hate is a strong word...” Your fingers threaded through Dick’s locks, scrunching them into your fist when he started toying one nipple at a time with his tongue. The wet muscle flicked deftly, then he suckled, and then tugged, like he had known your body, like he had explored your body before. It was strange, how he knew the right thing to say, and the right thing to do.

Maybe he was ‘always right.’

“Whatever it is, it’s not stopping you right now.” His hands dropped to the waistband of your shorts and he pulled away from your swollen nubs. It was unwilling. You could see it in his eyes, the thirst to ruin, and it compelled him to bring another suck to your nipples, a few seconds more that almost pulled a dangerous whimper out of you before he ultimately paused. “Nor is it stopping me.” 

With a gentle push on your chest, he leaned you back onto the mat while lifting your hips up, smoothly sliding your shorts off. They joined the pile containing your hoodie soon after, and then your briefs to top.

“R-right here? Aren’t there cameras or something…?” Your hands instinctively came down to cover yourself, cupping that embarrassing erection that Dick was thirsting for. The head of your cock peeked out from your clumsy gasp, and his hands instantly came up to pry your hands off.

Dick had that same look in his eyes when he was circling around you earlier. A rapacity blaring the pupil of his eyes. His piercing gaze alone kept your hands from coming up to cover yourself again. You knew you wouldn’t stand a chance against his strength.

“I doubt anyone is watching the gym… Private for a reason.” Your legs were then wrapped around his waist after pulling you by the ankles. His presence was commanding. You knew to keep your arms to your side, hands forbidden from obstructing the view of your hard, throbbing cock.

“No wonder you’re so stressed. Look how hard you are.” Dick muttered, seemingly speaking his inner thoughts because he was too distracted by the veins of your erection. Thick and pulsing as he wrapped a hand around you, and stroked, fascinated by the stretch of foreskin unfolding from the head of your cock when he pulled back, then rolling back up when he pulled forward. “This okay?”

“Fuck—Yeah… Feels good.” One arm was raised to wipe the cold sweat off your forehead,  but it then rested against your forehead, shielding yourself from Dick’s gaze as he slowly pumped you back into breaking another round of sweat.

“No,” He paused, suddenly squeezing your foreskin over the tip of your swollen glans. You whimpered. Not only did he squeeze you tight, stripping you of a friction that you desperately had been needing more of. But Dick was teasing, threatening with the dull movement of his thumb as he pressed and rubbed into the fold of skin, polishing the head of your cock  in a thick sheen of pre-cum as his grip would draw out a generous amount from beneath. “I want to see you properly. Look at me.”

You reluctantly met his demands, only after you felt the tip of his thumb prying into your slit. Was this supposed to be a punishment? Because you could’ve allowed it to go on for longer, knowing how much Dick marveled at how much pre-cum you were leaking out.

Your body felt hot, and your hands—they needed something to hold, something to grip. When Dick began resorting to quicker strokes to your cock, you were clawing at the mat at first, etching your presence with indentations of your nails as your warning came in vain. “I’m going to cum if you keep doing that, Dick—“ 

“Use your words I’m telling you.” He spat in his palm after a millisecond of a break before lubing your cock in his own spit and churning you into the tight, yet slippery friction of his fist. Dick’s gaze had been fixated on you, never once had it torn away to look at something else. Not even a peek at your cock deliciously fucking into his fist. Because in case you forgot, he liked figuring you out. “Gotta communicate with me.”

The stoicism you had worn with pride, only ever fragmenting from anger upon defeat; Dick had discovered another facet to its escalating submission, and it was delightful watching you unravel in real-time. The slick of his hands; one beating off your cock while the other massaging your balls; your expressions had given yourself away on how to break you down. Maybe it was because you had given up keeping up the facade. Or maybe it was because it was Dick, who has done more than enough to earn your trust, that you found yourself nearly crumbling.

He had studied you, his hands continuing to wander, explore every part of you while silently cataloging the right spots to make you crack. You were close, hanging off the edge with one hand, nails dulling over a cliff as you desperately prevented gravity from pulling you down under. When his hand had left your balls in favor of suddenly pushing a finger inside of your tight hole, Dick knew you had completely submitted.

Your body was writhing, hips desperately thrusting in the air despite Dick pinning them down to properly stretch your hole and fill you up with another finger, and another. Your expressions were ravishing, conflicted with pleasure and tension, and your mouth opened to politely tell Dick to stop, yet you couldn’t bring yourself to utter the demand. Instead, all that came out of your mouth was a whimper of his name, a stutter that rang delectably in Dick’s ears when he interrupted you with a deep push of his fingers, curling and then pumping in and out of you, and another whimper would secure the deft removal of the rest of his shorts and briefs. All because he couldn’t contain himself anymore. 

He had absolutely no right to teach you about control, for the reason that he was on the brink of losing it himself. You looked absolutely wrecked, all from the stubborn grip around your cock, the tight fit of his fingers, and Dick couldn’t imagine what you’d look like if he was in you, his thick cock fucking you, making love to you.

“Seriously, Dick—I’m about to—“

You couldn’t help it. Dick’s demand to control yourself was absolutely absurd with his reign on your body. The wet, sticky sound his spit made as Dick’s fist was being screwed by your pulsing cock drove you nuts. And then came the view of Dick’s thick cock, throbbing, pre-cum dripping heavily off of his swollen head as he watched you untouched, begging to be touched. You swore you almost surrendered had it not been for his wrist slowing down, a delicacy you begged prior, but now desperately wanted to vanish.

“God, you know I always loved it whenever you accidentally let a smile slip. But this? You’re so beautiful like this, (M/N).” He paused despite your silent pleas for him to otherwise. Though, all was forgiven when he leaned forward to kiss you on the lips. Sweet and bountiful like his words had made you feel, and you kissed him right back, an eagerness compared to his own movements, but then gratefully countered with an impatient swipe at your crack. His cock, plump and heavy, then wet and sticky as he smeared his pre-cum over your hole. Your legs remained wrapped around his hips, but Dick pushed his body weight forward until they folded with your knees touching your chest, his cock dangerously pressing at your entrance.

Dick spat in his palm again, reaching down to coat himself in the sticky layer of spit, and you felt him press. Your arms were wrapped around his neck, anticipating with an accelerating drum of your heart as he teased, slicking your pucker with the gentle, smooth circling of his tip.

“Please… I need it.” You had a gentle grasp around his nape, pulling him down until his forehead rested against yours. You’ve never seen him like this, so up-close and intimate. A mole, a freckle on his face that you’d never noticed, and you instantly yearned for what could’ve been all this time, had it not been for your stubbornness.

“What do you need? You need me inside of you?” Dick clarified against your lips, a whisper into your mouth as you parted them open to welcome his tongue. Hot and heavy, you let your tongue wrap around his for a tingling moment before pulling away, a string of spit webbing a path between your lips and his. “Use your words.”

“Need your cock, need you… Need everything. As long as it’s you.” You marveled at Dick, drunk off of the mutual endearment you have for each other. He regarded you with a warm smile, followed by a dazzling glint within his gaze, then relayed the turn of his mouth to yours with another kiss, a gentle warning, before Dick pushed his hips forward and slipped his cock inside of you.

“Good boy.”

“O-oh, fuck.” 

Your body tensed as soon as you took the first inhale of breath since he’d breached you, sharp and abrupt, just like the pain that had jolted the muscles in your body to squeeze around him. You were playing defense, impeding the foreign introduction inside of your body with a clamp, yet Dick resisted. Rather, he thrived on your strain, adoring the suctioning feeling of his cock as if you were conflicted about inviting him in or pushing him out. It didn’t take much to figure out that it was the former. During the meantime you were adjusting to his cock, Dick was thrusting the few inches that had slid inside of you. Small and short movements to aid in your stretch, and then eventual pleasure as he gradually pushed himself deeper until you’d blossom completely open for him, like a bud in the Spring.

“Fuck, you’re so tight… So good, your ass is so good.” He was satisfied with half of his cock inside of you, rocking into you slowly until you felt comfortable enough to have him harder, faster. Till then, it was perfect like this. Breathing in your whimpers, holding your face like it was the last vestige of your sanity, before kissing you again, sweet on the mouth, tender with your tongue, to hold a fragment of your sanity within him and sealing it where no one could ever take it from him.

“T-too big, Dick—Fuck…” You whimpered again, closing your eyes from the uncomfortable detection of already feeling completely full, yet you and Dick both knew it wasn’t a complaint. Rather, it was a simple observation that had rendered you speechless, an inkling you’d disappoint Dick for not being able to take him properly, to not let him in like you had done for all these months.

“You’re doing great, baby. Doing so good… You can take it, I know you can.” His words were so warm, so kind, so gentle in your ear, low and sinking in your neck as he marked you as his with constant licks and kisses, and immediately, he dialed up your confidence by tenfold. You felt yourself relaxing, the tension in your body melting the longer he rocked half of his cock into you.

Just breathe. Breathe. You found it helpful following Dick’s breathing pattern, exhaling when he pulled out, inhaling when he pushed in, and gradually, you felt yourself opening up for him, taking him in longer strides, with little breaks, faster, harder, until you felt thoroughly plugged when he pushed once more to cork his cock inside of you, balls-deep.

“S-shit, Dick—Fuck—So good—“

Dick trembled with a moan sinking into the underside of your jaw. His cock had never felt so wanted, so warm in another’s body. You took him in without a single complaint, and it was a spectacle, an absolute wonder when Dick leaned back to watch himself completely unsheathe out of you like a dagger out of its scabbard. 

“Look at that… Fucking beautiful.” Your hole was gaped open with the diameter matching the girth of Dick’s cock. Blinking, puckering desperately as it painfully endured the loss of heat, the loss of his desire. You’d never felt so exposed, completely powerless as Dick had you bending your legs further back with one hand, and the other spreading your cheeks apart to further see how much more you could stretch. 

The color of your flesh was enthralling, and if the marks on your neck had not been telling that you were Dick’s; he pressed a kiss to your pucker, gentle nibbling and licking at the puffy rim before abruptly spitting inside of you, and another for good measure, the glorious designation would remind you now.

“Dick—No more, I need you, please—“ You reached down to spread your pucker with the spit dribbling out of you using two fingers, then pulled back to taste him, sucking on them before your craving for Dick would return with a vengeance, body-writhing and mind-numbingly so.

“Tell me. What do you need, hm?” Dick tapped his cock against your hole. The plump head slid smooth over the spit-covered flesh, mixing with his pre-cum, while he watched you with a grin, each swipe of his cock taunting to pull completely away unless you spoke.

“Need you. Inside of me. Fucking me. Holding me. Kissing me. Touching. I don’t know—Please, please. Just need you.” Your wishes were long-winded, but sincere. The gaze you had given him, an imploring look that Dick would take a moment to hold for a little longer despite your begging.  Cherishing it, not knowing if this would be a fluke you’d later regret down the line, but in the end, all that mattered was that  you let your guards down at the mercy of Dick’s guidance. Then utterly defenseless, when he gave into your wishes, a chaste kiss to your lips while doing so, and pushed himself deep inside of you with one smooth thrust.

You stiffened in Dick’s arms when they slipped around you, digging your nails into his skin. Squeezing his waist with your legs, you held onto him when he pushed the rest of his body weight over you, bending you further while keeping his lips connected to yours. He was stabilized on the tip of his toes, thrusting into, past, and against your inner muscles all at once. You clenched around his cockhead, the pleasure unbearable to resist as each dip of his hip successfully knocked a gasp from your mouth. 

“So good, so tight like this…” Dick’s cock was in heaven, burying you deep until his heavy balls pressed flushed to your taint. He would stay motionless whenever he did; to catch up on his breath, to draw out his nearing high for a little longer, and to feel you, luxuriate in the warmth of your walls squeezing him tight, pulsing with dilemma, and ultimately refusing to let go. “Think I can come just like this, you squeezing my cock…”

He looked down at your face, a brief check-up. Your lips moved as if you were about to say something, but no sound came out. Only a stutter of a gasp, little sounds that Dick found incredibly magnetic, to which he found increasingly difficult to keep his lips off of you. He failed with little effort on his end, in hopes to steal those tiny sounds and keep it for himself. 

Your pupils were blown when they weren’t rolling back from the smallest movement of Dick’s hips. In addition, with your lips swollen and lids heavy, you gazed up at Dick like he had saved your life, as if he had guided you towards a better place. Your life seemingly were in his hands as he held your cheeks and kissed you once more. Sweet again, rocking into you steadily, sweat sticking his skin to yours. 

And maybe he did.

“Say something. I want to hear you.” A merciful demand upon your lips. You were trembling, barely swallowing down moans while Dick continuously impaled you with his cock—up into you now, when Dick leaned back until he was sitting up, and brought you back onto his lap like before, pushing your hips towards the rate of his thrusts.

Mesmerized by Dick, your mouth parted open and your throat immediately began emptying itself of all the harbored moans and groans that you had been holding hostage. “F-fuck me, keep fucking me. L-like that. No—Harder, harder—“ They rattled in volume, bouncing in sync with the way your ass had been doing against Dick’s cock, and then louder, because your marvelous sounds emerged an addiction out of Dick.

Sweet Jesus. He couldn’t stop. Watching the desire in your beautiful features, hearing your pleas reflect your want, stroking your cock awaiting for its release, marking every flesh of your skin his mouth had come in contact with. At the level of intimacy; from the pull of Dick’s hair, the sloppy, open-mouthed kisses you two shared, and the mutual passion you had for each other; you no longer felt like his disciple, but rather, an equal to Dick’s being—a derivative blessing, that would course correct each other’s life.

Your hands could barely hold onto his shoulders, but you worked with your strength, the slip of his skin, and locked your hands around his nape. Forehead to forehead, you and Dick breathed moans into each other, heavy and thick with yearning as you two pressed close, stuck to each other like glue. He cataloged the tiniest details on how your face contorted with pleasure; the scrunch of your nose, the roll of your eyes, the part of your lips. Your fist tightened around your cock, pumping it rapidly to the pace of Dick’s thrusts, churning it until your biceps had distractingly flared with veins. 

You did the same. You watched Dick’s mouth agape with rapture. The scrunch of his brows when he fucked into you faster and to the root. The clench of his jaw when you squeezed tight around him, suctioning his cock until he sounded delirious with pleasure. It was beautiful. He was beautiful, and you knew he found you beautiful as well, the beautiful loss of reality from the mutual pleasure, and that was all it took to make you spill your load without a single warning. 

You smashed a guttural groan to his lips and unraveled your fingers, leaning your body back to let your cock release where it pleased to afterward. “Oh, fuck—“ 

“Holy shit.”

Thick shots rained on Dick’s sweaty body. Three spurts to the center of his chiseled chest, and then another four splashing high in the air when Dick powered up on the sight of your cum alone, and drilled you harder, your cock dribbling in cum as he did so. His nails dug into your ass cheeks, spreading them apart, then cushioning them back around his cock to somehow press your walls against every vein pulsing through the thick of his erection.

Dick fucked you like you’d begged him to. Long, strong thrusts, to the brim on each stroke, undoubtedly hitting your prostate at every turn from the way you would jolt forward with widened, rattling, yet blissful eyes. A sight Dick would have forever ingrained into his memory, because you were officially, utterly, and completely wrecked.

It was heaven. The crown of Dick’s cock sliding over the spot, the depth of his cock rendering you immobile and dazed. Again, he’d repeat. A new addiction, surging powerfully through his veins. You let out a sob. 

Again. You squeezed your eyes shut. 

Again. You dug your nails into his shoulders. 

And again. Dick smacked your ass at the delirious state he was in. He had completely breached inside of you, explored every inch of your hole with the circle of his hips. A thrust. A slam. A rut. He had traversed through every option to dismantle you, and like clockwork, your snug hole all but sucked on his cock, begging for him to come inside.

He couldn’t hold it anymore.

“Baby, baby…” Dick’s large hand smothered his warmth around your throat. You could feel the callous in his palm, a gentle abrasion to your smooth skin, and he rubbed your seed all over your body, then his. He fucked harder to the sight of the sticky sheen layering your body. The smell of musk. The stick to his hands. Filthy. Your body and his were filthy together. Filthier, when pleasure burst from the base of his shaft, and in turn, flooded your insides with a large load. He moaned, and you arched into him, into the stick of his body, anticipating for the rupture of your doing. 

Your cock throbbed once, straining forward with its swollen head aiming towards the ceiling, and you spat thick shots of white seed into the air, eventually course-correcting to land on your body and Dick’s.

It was wonderful. You could feel Dick’s cock pulse as his seed rushed up the shaft and buried you deep into your guts with thick and heavy shots. Upon impulse, you squeezed as well, clamping around the peak of DIck’s orgasm until it must have crested with the stillness of his breath. “Don’t pull out.”

“Wasn’t planning on it…”

If he hadn’t thought it enough, you were beautiful, he was keen on calling it a mantra because it meant that he was still here, on this very earth, breathing and witnessing your very existence. Your body was weakened, barely mustering the strength to hold your chest up without the aid of Dick’s arms around you. Limp, after your second orgasm. All of you, you were so beautiful. From your rim hugging the base of your cock, your softening cock dripping, your swollen nipples, the smooth planes of your cum-stained chest, and parted lips. You were a banquet to Dick’s eyes, a feast that could muster up another around to have at you, to have you completely devoured if he had really wanted to.

But no, this was perfect. Watching you in silence, surveying up at you while you peered down at him, panting, breathing slow, in a case of wonder of how one could have such an effect on him without a morsel of effort. 

“So… lessons? You always do this to new recruits?”

“Only if they absolutely suck at their role.” An exhaustion in his smile, you wanted to capture it in between your lips, and replenish him with gratitude.

“Hey— Asshole…” You muttered, a gentle knock to his chest, to which he laughed off, and then held on, to pull you in for a blissful kiss.

With the way you fit into his arms as if you’d always been meant to be there, warm where he was cold, and cold where you were warm, he knew he didn’t need his question answered.

“Kidding. Let’s just say… it was curated for a special someone. And hopefully, they liked it as much as I liked teaching it.”

“I have a good feeling that they did.” 

Even though you mentally prepared yourself for the moment, you weren’t expecting this year to be the time where your son and daughter would tell you that they would be sleeping over at a friend’s for the celebration. As if there was any option for you and John to protest too, it suddenly struck you how quickly they were becoming their own person, because they had already packed their bags the night before.

But also—damn you, for raising them to be so direct.

When John returned back to the couch, you glanced at the bowl.

“Do kids these days not go trick-or-treating anymore? We’re doing less refills than usual,” You took the half-empty bowl from him and rummaged through the assorted candy bars. “When I was a kid, I used to circle my neighborhood multiple times because I was determined to not end the night with a barren bucket. I also knew my parents would steal from my stash whenever I was asleep, so that was another incentive to prolong the pain in my little kid legs.”

You knew you were babbling and were beyond caring. From the smile John gave you, he seemed more entertained by the endless vault of childhood stories than the horror marathon you two had started since six o’clock in the evening.

“All those candy runs seem to be paying off considering your calves are the size of bowling balls,” John laughed, arranging your legs to lay them across his lap as you resumed lounging. To prove his point, he began unzipping your costume’s pant leg one-by-one, ventilating your ankles and calves finally free from the tight spandex.

You breathed a sigh of relief when the draft in the air chilled the sweat on your skin, then another, when John’s large hands began stroking and kneading at your legs. You probably should have guessed that John had other intentions in mind since his hands only traveled north, in which your calves were nowhere to be found.

But what would be the fun in calling out your lover’s extremely apparent advances? For a brief moment, you two sat in silence, putting the TV on mute because the marathon had run its course, but also to hear the sound of John’s hands, calloused, warm, and large over the plane of your body, exploring you and the ribbed costume like he was learning texture for the first time.

It had been quite a long time since it was this quiet in the house. You had to have accidentally said it out loud, or John’s telepathic abilities were only awakened on Halloween night, because he was looking at you like you had whet his appetite, hazel eyes cataloguing your body like it was a dirty magazine, lips bitten in secrecy.

“What’s on your mind, Captain America?” You let your legs wrap around John’s waist when he pulled you to sit on his lap, fixing his tousled hair with a smooth swoop of your hand, and affectionately squeezed his large shoulders after.

God, John filled out his costume so well. No wonder you couldn’t stop glancing at him throughout the night, the tactical suit made him look much larger and imposing—you couldn’t help but run your hands all over his body and his tight muscles beneath the fabric, the contoured lines of the costume was practically inviting you to do so.

“I’m thinking… the neighborhood is quiet. I’m thinking that the kids are preparing for bed, and that the parents are drunk off their children’s candy stash, which means you can finally take it easy for tonight, Spider-Man.” John’s smile was terribly broad. You could feel him fiddling with the pull tab on the back of your costume with one hand while the other was caressing the side of your thigh, nearing dangerously closer to your rump.

It was a cheap costume that ran for no more than forty bucks, which meant you could feel the heat radiating off of John’s palm.

“Take it easy? I’ve been taking it easy. I got my popcorn, some king-sized candy bars, a scary flick, a rather inquisitive man holding me…” You shivered when his hand paused on your right buttock and squeezed. “Nothing’s beating this right now.”

He began kissing your neck, his beard ticklish and feathery over your flesh. “Really? Nothing at all?” Both of his hands were on your rump now, massaging tenderly at the handful of thick flesh in his palms.

You must have indulged in the warmth and strength of John’s grip on you for far too long, because out of the blue, he began knocking the silence out of you with strong smacks to your ass, drawing out a collection of moans and grunts from you as he fixated on marking up your neck until your mouth was in vicinity.

When his strong palms came down onto your cheeks again, your lips parted at the right moment he would seize them, capturing your mouth for a slow, languid kiss. John’s lips tasted like a celebration. You could feel the crumbs of sugar from the fruit ropes he was eating prior roll off his lips and onto your tongue, flavoring the kiss of green apple. You moaned, gently holding at both ends of his jaw, while your hips grew conscious of how your body was reacting to John’s tongue invading your mouth, pressing your growing tent against his pelvis with slow rolls, pushing your ass out to meet his hands.

“Nothing at all, unless…” You groaned when the stinging over your covered ass was only heightened by the unrelenting grasp John had on your ample skin. If he wasn’t so busy tonguing your mouth open, you wouldn’t be surprised to find him tearing your costume into two within the next second. “You have something to bestow upon me?”

“Ever heard of a monster-sized candy bar? I got one that’s filled with vanilla cream for you, specifically curated to your taste buds. What do you think? I’ll trade ya’.” The spirit of Halloween affected him as he laughed into the kiss, the tip of his nose crinkling in effect and swiping over yours when he resumed in exploring your mouth.

“I think it sounds like a trick, you a con-man?” You lightly pushed at his chest to break from the kiss, then lingered to silently admire his well-built pecs. You weren’t sure if you were more turned on by John’s hard-work and dedication, or the fantasy of him as a superhero—saving you from your ultimate demise.

Regardless, your hips only rutted harder, swooping low to brush your erection against his, then raising them high, to grind your rump over his arousal.

“Keep moving your hips like that, and you’ll find the answer soon.”

An inquisitive hand of yours reached in between John’s thighs. It didn’t take long, hardly a millisecond, to find what you’d been searching for.

The mass in your palm was overwhelmingly large and thick. You felt your throat go dry when the weight of John’s bulge was heavy enough to unfurl itself within his suit, across his right thigh, and reach to a point of hardness where one hand of yours found it impossible to tame it alone.

You stroked the enormous print, focusing on the apparent head with your thumb, and then squeezed. Hard.

“Fuck, (M/N). Upstairs, now.”

As you sat on your knees, the scent of arousal filled your nostril. There was something enthralling about this position, being bare and naked on the carpet, while you were looking up at John’s hard cock through your lashes. He was already monstrous enough, but the angle from below provided insight just exactly how jaw-dropping his size was.

“I’m sorry I doubted you, Captain. What would you like in exchange?” Bracing your hands on his strong calves, you nuzzled the underside of his erection. You sucked in a breath at the smell of it. The heat and musk built from a long day of work, finally released out into the air, tickled your nose pleasantly and made your mouth water. “‘Three musketeers?’ ‘Butterfingers?’ ‘Hershey’s?’” You slapped his heavy cock over your lips, mouthing over the tender spots of his glans.

He had his arms behind his head, exhaling slow and steady, sporting an expression that told you he was the luckiest man alive, not that you needed that affirmation, as you held his cock tight around the base and suckled at the plump, pink tip. “How about ‘(M/N)’s Pieces?’ Yeah? Is that up for grabs?”

You could feel his hairy thighs tense up when you taunted him with the tiniest licks over his heavy, full balls. It was amusing, watching his cock jolt over your face—like they were envious of such half-hearted actions.

“You mean, the candy that would make a kind and handsome dad, such as yourself, turn into a ferocious beast of a man?” Holding John’s lustful gaze, you took a long and slow lick at the underside of his shaft, the girth of it thicker than the width of your tongue.

You felt complacent when he let out a hoarse moan upon pressing your nose deep into his cock-slit, inhaling deep. “Yeah, that one…”

You traced the prominent veins on his cock with your tongue—thick, pumping blood vessels that made him throb over your mouth with rage. “You know, you’d have to work really hard…” Between fondling and suckling his full sack into your mouth, you stroked his shaft and muttered, “To break me into pieces.”

It was difficult enough to maintain some semblance of order, but the taste of John’s sweat, blooming delicately and stimulating your appetite like an hors d’oeuvre, made you nearly submit as your knees felt inclined to spread wider, and wider, letting you enjoy your last moments before you’d yield.

You hoped you were distracting John enough, being caught in the middle of humping the air and fucking yourself back on some imaginary dick would’ve gave him the upper hand.

“I do—oh, fuck…” He choked back on a moan, the heat of your mouth as you suddenly slid his cock inside melted the composure off his face. His thick shaft strained, stretching your wet mouth uncomfortably. The chances of you taking all of John inside of your mouth was slim to none. You’d done this so many times, tried everything, from practicing with a dildo to enduring the tears welling, to get him down your throat, but your body wouldn’t give in—it simply couldn’t.

He was much too big for your own good.

John was large. Tall. Always has been, and always will be. His muscular legs were open wide, his face was slack-jawed from your tantalizing tongue, and even though you could barely fit half of his cock inside of your mouth, you were still in control.

You pulled him out with a gasp, nearly choking back on the spit pooled in the back of your mouth, and sniffled. “You do? You sure about that?” There was no doubt that the inevitable was going to happen. Gagging on John’s large cock was a given, but it was the messiness of it all, that made your cock leak. “I don’t think you can handle it.”

His cock was coated thick and heavy in a glorious sheen of spit, translucent pearls shining on the veiny skin. One hand was massaging his balls while the other was adamant in slicking him up until the weight of your own saliva was enough to weigh him down.

You temporarily freed John from your fist to slap his wet and large cock around. It was delectable, watching his giant tool swing from the impact of your smacks. Webs of thick spit occasionally flung to your face, as if his dick was fighting back against your horrendous taunts, but all you needed to do was tame it with your mouth again, and the reign on John’s body resumed.

“I am, and I can…” John grunted, his abdominal muscles flexing. You could see his toes curling into the carpet at the corner of your eye, swirling your tongue over the swollen pink head while the rest of his monster cock was being man-handled by your quick hand, tightly grasping to keep your hand from slipping.

“You absolutely sure?” Your words turned him on, his cock maddening in course as it spat out drips of pre-cum from the squeezing grip you had around his shaft.

The substance wouldn’t stance a chance against your urges, you eagerly went on to lap it up, forcing more of the viscous fluid to come out with competitive strokes to aid.

“I’m sure—baby, come on, enough—“ He struggled to contain his moans, arching his hip forward to push himself further into your mouth, but you wouldn’t have it. Instead, you reeled yourself back, slapping his cock once again as punishment, and remained at tip’s length.

You could tell he was getting frustrated, you knew of his mannerisms for years now. For God’s sake, you were his husband. His jaw tightened and his eyes leered down at you with sudden alert—like a silent warning. He exhaled sharply as if the draft in the room had infected his strong body with frostbite.

Nonetheless, you continued entertaining yourself, knowing the consequences—anticipating them, rather.

You tongued the urethra of his dick, welcoming every drop with greedy sucks, all while you hadn’t left John out of your sight for a single second. You could make John orgasm right then, you were so sure of it.

“You really, really, really sure?” Your smile was smug, feigning innocence while you mouthed on his thick piece of meat, stroking yourself to the copious amount of pre-cum leaking from his tip.

John’s gaze immediately darkened.

He loved watching you slap his dick across your face. He loved being in awe at his own size, especially when you’d shower him in praises as you compared his big cock to your forearm.

I’m going to break my ass taking you, John. Holy fuck…

He loved having his dick sucked, point blank period. How sloppy it could get, how nice his cock felt when it was being slimed up with such pent-up arousal. You were confident that you were over-delivering in that department too because the lower half of your face was dripping in your own saliva.

“What’s the matter, big man? You don’t want to fuck me anymore? Break me into pieces like you originally wanted to? Think you won’t satisfy me enough?” You pursed your lips over the plump head, provoking John by the sudden languid pace of your wrist. “Answer me,” You slapped his large cock again, your own erection throbbing from watching John grit his teeth in sudden refusal to give in.

“Are you sure or not? Huh? Answer me,” John sucked in his teeth every time you smacked his cock, and you proceeded to hound him harder, narrowing your tone. “Your cock’s useless. Can’t satisfy me. Can’t satisfy a fucking flashlight with how big it is.”

“Ghoul got your tongue, or what?” You smacked his cock hard. “Your big fucking cock—” His cock swung. “—seems to be doing—” Pulsed in a fit of pique. “the speaking for y—“

A harsh slap cut your taunts short.

You let out a gasp, your hand instantly coming up to hold your cheek and tranquilize the stinging pain. Shock crossed your face, bewildered as though you hadn’t been anticipating his catharsis the entire time.

“Enough,” He pulled you up by the jaw to meet your lips hungrily, his large hands clamped tight around your neck like you were fresh carp farmed for hatchery. “You’re really testing me today, aren’t you?”

The kiss was searing, your lips volunteering themselves to be bitten and sucked to be forgiven upon the increasing pressure around your throat. Maybe you were still coming to terms with the slap, but it swallowed you whole nonetheless, rendering you incapable of producing a single coherent thought.

You whimpered softly, his resentment was beyond recall as his hands remained solid, one thumb looming over the center of your throat, “Hit me again—“

He stabilized you with one hand around your throat, squeezing tight, and let his other hand swing across your cheek, harder than previously.

“F-fuck!” You could feel your cheek blooming with heat, stinging as if a million of rose thorns had prickled your skin to poison you with its color, and you couldn’t have asked for more.

It was too good. John’s large hand imprinted hot on your face, and it felt too fucking good. You were branded, an extension to the wedding band around your finger, a reminder of your undying love for him.

“Get on the fucking bed,” John growled, tugging on your lower lip with his teeth, slow yet imposing, before sending you away with a gentle kiss on your stricken cheek, a much-needed relief you had been silently clamoring for.

The metal clanking behind you sounded like church bells, but you resisted the temptation of looking over your shoulder, fearing that whatever John had in mind, he’d strip it away upon your lack of diligence. You crawled onto the bed on all fours and anticipated nervously

At long last, you felt your royal throne crumble into a million pieces.

You suppressed an urge to swear. The heat emanating from a strip of leather when he struck your ass was bartered directly with the devil himself. Another peep out of you, and John would’ve banished you to hell to pay your dues to the fallen angel.

“It was cute, I have to admit…” Your body jolted when John muttered near your hear. In the time his hand was soothing your whipped ass cheeks, the other had a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back for you to look at him. “Seeing you think you had control over me, even going as far as to humiliate me and my cock—did that make you happy? Huh?”

“I-I don’t know—“ You struggled to find the words, your mouth parting instead to lean in for a kiss in hopes to distract him, but John quickly caught on. He knew you, very well in fact, yanking your head back harder to coax a gasp out of you. As John had expected, he then pushed a thick wad of spit into your mouth before pulling you by the back of your neck into your original position.

You shuddered, smacking your lips at the arousing taste of John’s saliva spreading in your mouth. You savored him, wanted John to last forever on your tongue. You didn’t want to swallow. You wanted to simply let his spit pool with your own and mix into the perfect elixir that would work perfectly as a muscle relaxant, something that would greatly aid you in taking John’s cock—knowing the likelihood that he wouldn’t be easing up anytime soon.

“Answer me.” Your eyes widened in a silent plea when John taunted you with the belt in his hand. Before you could moan out so much of a beg, the leather in John’s hand came down swinging at your buttocks and seemingly cut through flesh. In turn, your four limbs gave out from the electrifying bolts of pain, making you collapse onto your stomach from the arresting strength of John’s resentment as you cried out in pleasure.

“Oh, fuck! F-fuck, fuck, fuck…!” You writhed in bittersweet glory, choking back on swears and instead, what came out were delicious straggled sounds that made John’s cock uncontrollably pulse. Your hands roamed the bedsheets, clawing at the silk material in search for a physical outlet to release the tension in your body. “I-I’m s-sorry—“

His cock was near you, lubed up in a thick, alluring sheen. Maybe John wouldn’t mind if you held him. Plead for him to stop with lazy, but abiding stroke. You bit your lips and stretched over to grab him.

He lifted your head again for you to face him. You sniffled, letting the tears roll down your flushed face before another wad of spit would accompany them in their journey. “You’re not answering my question. Were you happy?”

Upon barely brushing your fingers over the head of his cock, you reeled yourself back when the belt came striking down on your ass again, breaking skin as repercussions to your hedonistic behavior. Your legs came up to kick back at the air violently, grinding out the pain by digging your swollen cock into the bed.

You had enough.

You needed John.

Now.

“Y-yes! I was fucking happy! Watching your large cock swing like that. Degrading you to the point where you were too ashamed to answer me. Abusing your pathetic tool because it’s too immersed in its own girth to know that I actually despise your cock. Should’ve seen the look on your handsome face—god, I could’ve came right there. All because I was in control. You fucking let me, you fucking delusional self-obsessed cuck—”

At breakneck speed, John curtailed you of your vigorous speech by shoving your face into a pillow, mounting on top of you with one foot pressing hard to the back of your head, and grunted, “How do you like me now?” Pushing all of his body weight to vault you out of an escape route, you felt his cockhead suddenly breach your hole.

“Holy—shit!” You sobbed at the discomfort, kicking your legs back as John pushed more of his large cock further in, adding onto the painful stretch of your unsuspecting hole. You felt his a palm on your ass, spreading one cheek open to aid the slide. “Fucking, more—Johnny! More, more, more—“

“There we fucking go, fuck. Look at that hole. Fucking swollen around me, and I’m only halfway in,” he licked his lips, wiping the sweat off his forehead with his forearm as he loosened your raw hole with shallow thrusts, his cock pushing deeper at every rut.

Your body’s natural reaction was to propel yourself up for some air, but after the first turn, John instantly took both of your wrists and bound them behind your back, your back muscles squeezing in effect. When you pushed your ass out, his foot pressed harder like it had the power to bury you six feet under if John had no concept of restraint.

It was painful, all of this, your neck was hurting, but especially your hole, his unrelenting thrusts—but, be that as it may, you were so happy that you didn’t have to remind John to leave you unprepared. Otherwise, the pleasure of John’s large cock gutting you raw wouldn’t have overstimulated you, not to this profundity. Your wriggles only made John hold onto your wrists tighter, his heel press deep into your nape, you were sure it would be bruised by the next morning.

You felt so used, your body at his disposal. Your cock was painfully rubbing between your pelvis and the bed from the impact of his strong thrusts, but you were leaking and throbbing nonetheless, staining the sheets from the thrill of it all—of being John’s personal fuck-toy.

“Feels fucking incredible. Shit, baby—“ His cock was digging into you like an excavator, slow in its journey, but you could feel him sowing excitement deep into you, nearing the crown of your prostate with the grind of his hips. You clenched tight, gripping your aching walls around the girth to provide John an incentive to go at you harder.

Not loose enough.

He had to fuck you open.

And you were desperate.

The perks to being married was that pleasuring one another came second nature to both parties. Luckily, you led a charmed life, and John was here to bestow upon you your weekly demands.

He released his foot on you, but you groaned when he pressed his remaining weight on top of your writhing body. “If you’re good…” John panted hot on your shoulders, accompanying the abruptly slow roll of his hips with chaste kisses to the shell of your ear and the moist parts of your neck. “Maybe I’ll let you play with your cock.”

“Please…” You flexed your toes into the sheets when John nearly pulled himself out, thankfully leaving only the swollen tip in.

“No, I had a change of heart. Maybe, I’ll let you jack off until you explode all over your sweaty body,” you pushed your ass back to slide more of him in, but a hard smack to your ass nipped your oscillation in the bud. “Don’t push your luck.”

“I’ll be good—promise…” you looked over your shoulder at John with glistening eyes and a sniffle, finding yourself frowning when he pulled himself completely out, and insisted on rubbing his wet cockhead over your raw, blossomed pucker.

“See? This is how it’s supposed to be—the natural order between you and I,” he sighed, giving into your desperation, and pulled you in for a sweet, lingering kiss after releasing your hands. A sigh of relief, you braced yourself half-way up with an elbow, the other hand reaching back to rest on John’s nape, and locked his lips deeply into yours, pacified by the soft fur of his beard on your chin.

His tongue messily swiped over yours as you both had intended to explore each other’s mouths. You two met in the middle, bridging each other’s spit from one mouth to the other. When a dribble of drool dared to leak from the corner of your mouth, John had incredible foresight and was already lapping it up before it could trail to the bottom of your chin.

“Say you love my cock…” John whispered, swaddling you into his arms from behind and carefully maneuvering your body on top of him as he switched positions, reclining himself onto his back.

Interlacing his legs with yours, John then pushed them apart with the spread of his knees, twisting his ankles over your own to lock you in place. He angled his hips to slide his dick over your taint, letting you wallow in the sight of his plump tool nearly curve over your throbbing erection.

“I love your cock…” You muttered softly, nuzzling the side of his kempt beard. The smell of bourbon vanilla lingered delightfully in your nostrils as you watched him from the corner of your eye, drooling when you caught a glance of his large cock spit thick drips of pre-cum over your balls.

It was fruitless to even try to attempt to close your legs, John’s calves overpowered your own by tenfold. In spite of your wish, John compensated by reaching below, trailing his warm hand over your ribs and stomach in passing, and wrapped his hand around your cock, slowly pumping.

“Say, you’ll be a good boy for me…” Brushing your hair back, John claimed a hold over the back of your head, raising his left arm to welcome your face into his armpit.

You moaned at the warm, musky odor. The thick hairs reeked of sweat. Salty and slightly spicy in your nostrils, yet you couldn’t help but inhale for more, breathing in the natural pheromones and making your cock dribble out ample amounts of pre-cum when the aroma of John’s masculine scent fogged your passing judgement, and had you licking at his pit.

John cradled the back of your head, quickening the strokes on your cock seemingly as a token of his appreciation while you buried your face in the bush of dark hairs, nuzzling and licking long stripes over the plane. It was addicting, yet embarrassingly filthy as it registered how easily John had reign over your freewill. Your spit gathered in the center of John’s armpit, where the hairs were grown the thickest. They were beads of your devotion, and you couldn’t have felt prouder marking your territory.

Your mouth watered and tingled at the ripe taste lasting on your tongue, then, when John suddenly tipped your chin up and spat inside of your mouth—you felt like you were in heaven, like your body wanted to crumble in front of him from the intimacy of it all.

He captured your lips again, and you muttered softly, “I’ll be a good boy…” You watched him with lustful eyes, anticipating his next move. His right hand had stopped stroking your cock in favor of massaging your tight balls, making you squirm with desire. When his other hand released his hold over the back of your head to toy with your perky nipples, the simultaneous pleasure carried a hoarse tune of desperation out from your throat.

“You’ll be daddy’s good boy?” He nuzzled your ear, kissing the shell of it.

“I’ll be whatever daddy wants me to be,” you slowly rolled your hips when you could feel John line his cock over your hole, lubing your pucker with the thick fluid leaking from the crown.

“And you want daddy’s big cock?” He rested one hand on each thigh respectively, spreading your legs farther by the aid of his knees.
 “I’m aching inside…” Your cock twitched upon feeling so completely vulnerable and bare for him.

“Then, let’s turn that ache into pleasure, shall we?”

That was all it took. A heartbeat, a single push of John’s hips, one strong stroke, and he claimed his territory. It was beautiful. Your silky flesh fluttered and clenched on his cock, and your eyes popped open wide when he slammed upward.

John ripped a glorious moan out of you. Your neck strained with beautiful veins as your attempts to bite them back were powerless in comparison to the spark of passion in John’s hips. You could see the very moment the fire flared in John’s eyes, his fingers gripping a mound of your thighs until they had turned white.

You were filled to the root, uncomfortably-so as John’s biceps bulged with strong veins on account of the bend of your legs. He capsized them, holding them back at the crook while he deliciously hollowed your hole deep with his monster cock, your feet dangling in the air from the pure drive.

It was a reminder. That you were his. That you were his only. Nobody could ever own you like he owned you now. John made sure those thoughts wouldn’t dissipate by making sure you felt every inch of his plump, meaty cock burrow in and out of you. John was adamant in making this more than a memory. He wanted you to wake up and sleep thinking about him. Thinking about his cock. Thinking about how brutally stretched you felt right now, and that you didn’t mind at all—because it was John, your loving husband. He would do anything for you, and right now, he was living up to his many vows of loving you fiercely, of completing you, of loving you forever and every day.

“T-too much, John—“ It wasn’t, you were lying—it was fucking perfect, but god, did you love making your husband feel powerful. You loved feeding his cock with arousal, feeling him throb harder while he pummeled himself faster into you at your spoken truth. “Cock’s too big—“

“I’ll make a cunt out of you, wear out your tight little hole until it’s leaking like one,” He growled. You cried out from unabashed lust, holding your legs back to expose yourself further, and John set the animal free at the depiction. He held your waist, dragging your unsullied hole through his hardness until only the tip was left before connecting the drop of your weight with a powerful thrust, punching into your prostrate.

“That’s what you are, right? My good little cunt? Just a good boy who can do nothing right, but take my large cock.” John gutted loud moans out of you, his gaze locked on your wrecked expression because watching you take his cock was equally as gratifying as sinking himself of you, down to the root. “Say it. Say you want daddy to make a cunt out of you.”

You were falling in love with this animalistic side of John. With the sensations he was supplying and overwhelming you with. Your cock was sure to agree, throttling as if there was a phantom hand stroking its shaft.

“I want—a fucking cunt. Want daddy to make a cunt out of my hole, please—“ You felt deviant, like those words shouldn’t have left your mouth, but it was all the worthwhile because John kissed you hard on the mouth, groaning.

Up to the hilt, John thrusted into faster—harder as you choked back on a moan and nearly gagged on his tongue. “I’m going to fill you up with so much of my cum, you’d be leaking for days.”

“Oh, God—“ You gritted your teeth, exhaling loud and hard because it was coming. Your stomach clenched and your balls tightened without the need of your hand.

“You’d be lucky to walk tomorrow, (M/N). You’d need my help walking you down the stairs. Even then, I wouldn’t be so sure if we’d make it to the floor. Knowing the prospect, I’d just take you right then and there, on the fucking stairwell, making your ass gape once again.”

“John, s-stop—I’m going to—“ Your eyes rolled back until John could only see whites. His words supplied you with the mental picture of the filthy smut coming out of his mouth. It came to you naturally—the smile on your face. You were broken in your state of reverie, dazed by the fantasy of taking John’s cock anywhere and anytime he pleased. Using you however his mind and body desired like he was now. Balls-slapping against your taint, sweat sticking your body to one another, pants and groans loud in your ear, the air thickening with the act of pure lust, pounding into you with no intention in letting you recover your breath. “S-stop, fucking coming—“

“Look at me,” John ordered you, panting.

Your eyes were heavy when you looked up, mere slits from the weight of your desires, heavily drugged by John’s poisoning rapture on your wrecked body. You pressed a smile against his mouth, making no attempt to kiss him, but to simply be in close proximity, pressing his nose against yours. He grappled at your hips, digging your insides with the weight of his large cock, piercing into prostate harder and faster as he took a bargain on your orgasm coming to a near.

You were stunned, the gutting you were enduring from John hitting you like a ton of bricks. You emptied your throat of sounds, the inner walls dry and scratched like the desert. All you managed for John was vigilant whimpers, any more forewarnings were fallen on deaf ears as you’d been knocked into a trance that melted your speech into meek garbles of incoherency.

It only took a few more seconds before your brain rewired itself and had your body floundering within John’s loving embrace, alerting you awake. With the help of John’s cock continuously assaulting deep at your prostate, you felt your body tense up, your hole clenching around pillar John’s pistoning staff to stop him, but he prevailed, breaching through the resistance, and slammed hard into your prostate once more, splitting your ass open and knocking the orgasm out of you.

John held your gaze, marveling over the ecstasy in your otherwise blown-out expression. His brows furrowed in utter fascination as your mouth parted open, only for your moans to adhere to your throat instead, blowing your load in agonizing silence. Thick ropes spurted powerfully out of your throbbing cock, splattering messily over your chest. With the buck of your hips, you graced your face with your cum-shots, additionally provoked as John used the strength of his heels to lift himself to meet you at an elevated height, fucking the cum out of you.

The sound that came out of you was guttural, transporting you into another dimension where you were caught in a whirlpool of toe-curling sensations. Rubbing a hand over your stomach, he could feel it sink in as you liberated yourself from your high, uncontrollably spilling over your pelvis in midst. Yet, despite your dazed state, your eyes never left his, provoking him to come inside of you with desperate, but gentle murmurs on his lips, as well as the addition of the ring of muscle spasming around his shaft.

“Fill my cunt up, make me fucking leak…” You showered his lips in soft whispers, finally releasing your grasp on your legs to stroke at his cheek. Squeezing, caressing, urging—for him to seal your hole.

On the drop of your legs, you squeezed them close together until your knees touched, confining his shaft between the clamp of your inner walls. You clenched hard when he was buried to the root, foiling the pace of his hips, and let your swollen insides bring him closer.

“Oh… shit…” John’s eyes rolled back, and finally spilled with a shudder.

His large cock jerked deep inside of you, and soon, you felt his warm seed fill you to the brim. You felt your bond with John transcend, higher, beyond space and time, with every pulse of his thick veins pumping cum deep into you.

Upon capturing John’s lips for a kiss, he circled his hips, making you moan languidly into his mouth. You swallowed every breath of his, swirling your hips against his own cautious thrusts in retaliation, gratified by the warm, thick coating of cum your insides were receiving, soothing your spellbound hole and stirring his connection to you.

“Didn’t hurt you too bad? Think I slapped you too hard.” John asked softly, gently rubbing a palm over your stricken cheek. You could see guilt in his expression as he brought you closer to claim your lips The moment was soft, the complete opposite of previous events, silent apologies to your mouth as John’s mouth was lingering, yet electrifying all at the same time as he sucked on your lower lip.

“You. Were. Perfect.” You warded off the guilt with a smooch after word, rubbing his chest. “I asked for it, you know that. It was fun, wasn’t it? Something different to spice up the bedroom.”

“Hm…” He laughed at your sudden eagerness, as if you hadn’t been debilitated from his cock moments prior. Tucking one arm behind his head, his other hand idly began petting at your head. He retired for the night with the shut of his eyes, contemplating on their newfound kink. “Let’s see how I feel when you’re the one slapping me next time. Then we can judge it accordingly.”

“Holy shit…”

“Mhm.” “I’m pulling out the dumbbells. Too late to go back on your word now, John.”

“Wait, now that you—“

“Not a single word, or I’m making you call me ‘Doctor’ as an early punishment.”

“We both know how this will turn out. I just need to pull my dick out, and you’ll be back onto your knees, no matter how much you try to resist.”

“I… plead the fifth?”