#pinktober

He’s so lost he doesn’t hear you rush up the stairs behind him, he doesn’t even register your presence, your worried voice until you lay your soft hands on him, cupping his cheeks in your hands and forcing his glassy eyes to lock onto yours.

A protest tears out of his throat, “No.” he moans, voice ragged and unrecognizable. He shakes his head, his hand weakly coming up to push you away from him. “Go. Sick.” He grunts each word separately, like talking steals all of his strength.

In his mind a silent mantra repeats itself, a reminder that he just needs to make it to morning. He just needs to see the sun and then the ache, the terrible thoughts, the burning in his gut will go away.

Clark thinks that this must be a fever.

You ignore him, sliding his arm over your shoulder and doing your best to act like a crutch, helping him slowly get back on his feet. “I know Clark, it’s why I came.” You explain, “Saw you stumbling around on the news.”

Clark’s chest heaves, your touch, the heat of your body pressed to his side makes the pain go away. Not completely, but it dulls the ache enough for you to get him to his apartment, your hands pulling frantically at the suit until you got him free. Clark was useless, biting into the mattress to stop himself from moaning when you undid his zipper.

The window is still open from when he left, curtains blowing in the night breeze, humidity filling the every inch of space and leaving no room for anything else.

The more you touch him, another problem pierces through the fog of his fever. His cock is rock hard and angry. The suit is still on his bottom half, polled at his waist and Clark hopes you can’t see what’s going on through the layers of fabric. It feels like an oxymoron, he can hardly keep his head up but his dick is ready for action. Oh god Clark was going to be sick, you didn’t deserve this, some fever dream creep show. You must be disgusted, he’s disgusted, you’re his friend, his very bestfriend, who is just trying to help him. Nothing more.

Despite his morals, Clark can’t help the way desire curdles in his belly with every touch.

You hold the back of your hand to his forehead and gasp, “Clark you’re burning up.”

A shiver wracks through Clark’s body at your touch, it washes over him like ice water, cooling him down and burning at the same time.

“You-“ he grits his teeth, the words barely escaping “-have to go.”

Clark doesn’t hear your answer, if you even had one. But suddenly your presence is gone. A ragged moan tears out of his throat, a tortured noise somewhere between relief and agony. At least you listened.

His senses are scattered, his hearing hardly able process anything beside his own breathing. His eyes are equally useless, vision tunneling and hazy. But smell remains, if anything it’s heightened. You’ve been gone for easily five minutes and he can still smell you. Warm, sweet, clean. He’s knows your smell better anyone else’s, but it’s never this strong, it never lingers this much. There’s something else underneath it, more subtle than the rest. It’s musky and natural.

His hand moves on its own accord, diving below the waist band of his suit. He grabs his cock tight, and the ache eases again, not as much as it did when you touched him, but enough for him to realize that whatever this sick is- this is what it wants.

He remember something his Ma told him when you were sick.

Starve a cold, feed a fever.

Giving in, he begins to pump.

Heat radiates off of him like UV waves as he works his cock over. He pulls it out of the suit, jostling his hips until it’s pushed down to his thighs. Not the most comfortable, but it would have to do. He hisses when it hits the air, hand gripping so tight it almost hurts.

He fucks his fist like a teenager, it’s so dry it’s almost painful, but so is the idea of pulling away to spit in his hand. Pathetic grunts fall from his lips, hips jerking as he chases the high.

Then you walk back in.

A gasp announces you, then a bang as you stumble into a door with a loud and embarrassed shout of his name.

Clark wants to freeze, stop, apologize, wants to do anything but he can’t. Instead he looks over to where you’ve pressed yourself flat against the wall and he cums.

It’s disastrous, spilling over his knuckles, onto the suit and his stomach. He cries out, not in pleasure but once more in pain. Like a knife that’s been twisted the ache in his gut intensifies.

Tears start to roll.

“I’m sorry-“ Clark babbles, he pulls his hand away and his hips thrust in protest. “I thought you left.” He explains.

You approach, slowly with small steps, like Clark is an injured animal you’re afraid to spook. “Got you a washcloth.” You hold the fabric up weekly, as if to explain. Then you look at down, first at his dick, then further to the bunched up suit and his boots. “Can I?” You ask, tilting your heads towards them.

Clark nods, and squeezes his eyes shut. He’s still hard, pre-cum dribbling down the side of his shaft as he tries his best to ignore it. Ignore the pulse of it, ignore the way your hands delicately grab the heel of his boots and pull. Ignore your frantic tugs to get the suit off of his legs.

He does his best to focus on something, anything else.

The smell is back, the one he couldn’t place, but stronger now. The notes of it impossible to describe but intoxicating nonetheless. It burns the back of his throat, yet he craves another whiff, inhaling even deeper. When he opens his eyes again, you’re back by his face, pushing wet curls off of his forehead. With the way his head is turned to the side, he’s right at eye-line with your cunt and as he watches your thighs press together, it suddenly becomes clear what the smell is.

Arousal.

Not sick or alien attack driven either, natural, uncoerced. It’s enough to make him consider it, the one thing that’s been on his mind since the fever set it. Your eyes are on his cock, fascination painted clear as day. He twitches against his stomach.

You flit back up to his face, expression torn between worried and wanting.

Clark’s resolve shatters, his chest heaving.

“Please.” It’s breathy, broken, and barely audible.

Its hours later, after he’s spilled in your hands and your mouth, that you finally sink down on him. The relief is like laying in direct sunlight. Clark chokes on your name, for the first time all night it’s like the clouds part and he can see you clearly. An angel on top of him, biting back whines while you struggle to set a rhythm.

He finds the strength to flip you over, whatever is coursing through in his veins has him mindless above you. Bottoming out with every thrust, each stroke leaving you clenching so tight around him, it’s almost painful.

Apologies fall from his lips. “I’m sorry-“ he gasps, punctuating it with another wild thrust. “I’m so so sorry.”

You try to soothe him as best you can, promising him it’s okay. “Wanted this for so long Clark.” You whisper, a soft kiss to his lips. “Take what you need.”

He sobs, his chest aches as much as his body. “Was supposed to be different.” He buries himself in your neck, words tender and soft despite the relentless pounding of his hips. “I’ll take you out proper, gonna make it up to you.”

His drives himself deep, the head of his cock pressed against the spongy spot inside you. You’re trembling in his arms, body wracking with pleasure. “Okay Clark.” You agree. Then you hook your ankles into his lower back, and pull him as tight as humanly possible, canting your hips up against him. “Just cum first.”

When it’s over, when you’re both more than spent, he tries to pull out.

The fog settles back over his vision before he even gets halfway. All intentions of getting a washcloth and water bottles disappear. With a groan, he buries himself back to the hilt.

Not yet.

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Thank you for reading!!!! See you all on Monday for day 6!