𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 : The night takes an unexpected but intensely intimate turn when Matt’s relentless attention shifts from your pleasure to worshipping every inch of you—including your feet. What starts as teasing curiosity quickly melts into overwhelming pleasure as he confesses just how badly he wants to savor every part of you. | porn without plot
You lay stretched out on the king sized bed, sheets tangled around your ankles, your hands fisting the pillows above your head as Matt Murdock knelt between your spread thighs. His strong hands gripped your legs firmly, pinning them down against the mattress, keeping you open and exposed for him. His mouth was hot and relentless on your cock, lips stretched wide around your throbbing length as he bobbed his head. “Fuck, Matt... yeah, just like that,” you groaned, your voice husky with need.
Your hips bucked involuntarily, but his grip on your thighs held you pinned—strong, unyielding. You were gasping, your fingers twisted in the pillows, your whole body arched and trembling on the edge of something beautiful. Everything felt perfect, building toward that tight coil of release in your gut, until suddenly Matt pulled off with a slick pop. Your cock twitched in the cool air, glistening and aching for more.
The sudden absence of his mouth left you gasping, your cock wet and aching, hard against your stomach. Before you could even whimper a protest, you felt his fingers wrap around your ankle. Then his lips pressed against the top of your foot—soft, warm, a kiss that sent a jolt up your leg and straight to your spine.
He pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the ball of your foot, his tongue flicking out to taste your skin. You squirmed. It wasn't bad—hell, it felt incredible. “Matt!” you laughed breathlessly, trying to tug your leg free, but he pinned it down effortlessly with one hand while lavishing attention on your foot. His lips trailed kisses along the instep, nipping playfully at the sensitive skin.
“I didn't know you were into feet,” you breathed, watching him. Matt lifted his head just enough to look in your direction, those sightless eyes dark and focused. “Yeah,” he said, his voice low, rough. He pressed another kiss to your arch, his lips dragging slow. “Does it feel good?” You nodded, your breath hitching. “Yeah. It does.”
“Good.” He smiled—that crooked, devastating smile—and lowered his mouth again. He held you firm, his thumb pressing into your heel to steady you. His lips parted over your big toe, and he took it into his mouth, sucking gently. The wet heat of his tongue curling around you sent a shudder through your entire body.
“God, you're full of surprises, Murdock,” you teased, reaching down to thread your fingers through his tousled hair. “Keep going... feels amazing.” He chuckled against your skin, the vibration making you twitch. “Wanted to taste every inch of you tonight,” he confessed, nipping at your arch before moving to your other foot. He pinned both legs now, spreading them wider as he worshipped, alternating between kisses, licks, and gentle bites. His cock hung heavy between his own legs, hard and dripping, brushing against the bed as he worked.
You moaned louder, stroking yourself lazily while watching him. “It feels good. Really good. But it also tickles and I—“ You laughed breathlessly as he dragged his nose along the arch. “I can't tell if I wanna pull away or give in.”
“Don't pull away.” His voice dropped. “Let me have this. Let me worship you.” He lifted your foot higher, bending your knee, and pressed a kiss to the inside of your ankle before trailing his mouth down the length of your sole again. He took his time, kissing every toe. The sounds were obscene—wet, slick, hungry.
“Can't get enough of you,” he growled, finally releasing your foot with a trail of saliva connecting his lips to your skin. He crawled up your body, capturing your mouth in a deep kiss, letting you taste the faint saltiness of your own foot on his tongue. His cock nudged against yours, grinding slow and deliberate. “Now where were we?” he whispered against your lips, nipping your bottom one before sliding back down, ready to devour you again.
Loki getting creampied and bred by dom male reader that is my requests
Author's Note: It's always a good day to breed the god of mischief 😌
Warnings: male reader, dom top reader, established engagement, anal, breeding kink, creampie, handcuffs, multiple orgasms and crazy stamina for both of you, mild hints of mpreg (nothing explicit)
Trickery is his specialty — but that doesn't mean that you aren't capable of a little trickery of your own.
To even get someone like him into this position is a mighty feat in and of itself. Not because it's impossible, simply because it takes careful planning from a mind that's equally as devious and cunning as his own.
An offhand compliment about his appearance today. Fingers gracefully teasing down his arms, tickling the hairs in such a way that makes goosebumps materialize on his skin. A little peck on the cheek, then another, and another, confessing that you adore your lover's gentle expression when you kiss him. Loki's immediate suspicion, countered by your hands in his, gliding along each digit so tenderly, yet clinging to them as if you can't let go. A flick of the wrist and a cheeky bite to his lip, and the next thing your lover senses is a pair of metal restraints clamped around his wrists.
But, with your arms so lovingly wrapped around his torso, and that deceptive smile tugging your lips upwards, he finds himself willing to go along with your game for the time being.
Another bruising thrust has the man's vision blurring for a second; static invading the edges of his sight as the lengthy cock digging around in his guts forces yet another embarrassing noise out of him.
Every drag, every movement causes the wettest squelching you'll ever hear, partially from the lube, partially from two thick loads you'd already squeezed inside of his body. As Loki's forehead presses down on the table, his own twitchy cock prepares for a release he'd been denied twice before, drooling enough that it could already be mistaken for his release.
You promised him that he could cum, but only once you'd filled him three times. (And every multiple of three… but he doesn't need to know how much you intend to breed him upfront~) So, with your hips snapping forward in a broken rhythm, and soft grunts next to his ear, Loki greedily accepts your offer, awaiting the familiar surge of your seed before he paints the ground with his own, trembling all the way through.
“Gnngh… gods, you feel good…” you groan into the crook of Loki's neck.
He knows the words aren't empty praise — most of your weight is pressing him down, and you're drilling into him like a desperate mutt, with a grip so secure that he swears you're trying to embed your fingerprints into his sides. Whenever you aren't letting him know how deliciously wet he is around your cock, your praise comes through in whines against his shoulder, teeth grazing his pale flesh in tandem with your thrusts. Surely, it isn't all bravado.
The stickiness between Loki's legs gets worse as your wild pounding pushes more and more cum out of him, dripping down his legs and adding to the wet cacophony of noises. If you look down, you'd be able to see the myriad lines connecting yourselves, a sinful mixture of your own fluids and your lover's precum becoming one lewd mess. Were his hands not bound behind his back, he would be using them to add even more into the wet mix, stroking himself in time with your rough hip work.
Your voice cracks as you feel yourself nearing yet another orgasm, sweaty hair sticks to the edges of your face, and you hold Loki's hips tighter while you warn: “Haah– close a-again… going to… mmfh-!! B-breed you, fuuuck!!”
That warmth floods his entire body for the third time this evening. A flush of heat, creeping across his skin and stirring deep in the pit of his stomach.
‘Breed’. What a choice word for you to use — and a filthy one at that. Implying a sense of ownership, or type of procreation. …He'd be lying if he said that the implications of that didn't make his heart skip a beat. And the reaction between his legs isn't lost to you either…
Loki's breath hitches upon feeling your body come to a halt, burying your dick up to the hilt. Between three fat loads and your tip hammering them further inside, he's starting to feel bloated… if his belly bulges, wouldn't it look like he's…?
It's not particularly easy to piece his thoughts together with the way you're rutting into him, grinding so deep that his feet lift off the ground, but Loki manages to ask his question while catching his breath.
“That word you used, darling…” he swallows thickly, turning his head so you can hear him a bit clearer. “what was that about?”
Still connected by the hips, your dick already becoming soft after so much overuse, you tuck a lock of silky hair behind your beloved's ear. “You'll have to be more specific, love. I'm drawing a blank here.” an exhausted chuckle follows your sentence.
“I heard you use the term ‘breed’…?” he clarifies. An air of uncertainty in his words that you're not used to.
Hearing him actually say that out loud, well, you'd be crazy not to be a little hot and bothered. An embarrassing flush spreads beneath your skin at the reflexive twitch in your cock, and the realization that Loki probably felt it. “Oh, w-well… yes, that is the word I used…” you trail off. Your mind becomes lost amongst the various thoughts of your future, the expectations placed upon both your shoulders and your fiance's, and your own selfish desires.
A slight jingle followed by warm fingers curling around your wrist pulls you right out of your daze. That familiar touch that always grounds you when you're floating off in space.
“Out with it then, something has been bothering that pretty head of yours for days now.” Loki flips himself on the table. His gaze is expectant and slightly annoyed — as it usually is whenever you keep things from him, good or bad.
His palms cup your cheeks, and it's as if those worries that plagued you melt right off into the ether (even if the handcuffs hanging off one wrist look a bit silly).
One look into your darling's eyes has a confession rolling off of your tongue easily. “It's just… we're going to be married soon, and with marriage comes certain expectations from our parents…”
“You're not talking about political status, are you?”
You shake your head, face burning up as the truth finally slips. “No, I'm talking about them wanting grandkids, sweetheart.”
Left without words, Loki blinks in astonishment. Grandkids. Kids. YOUR KIDS?! Together?!
Now this is something that genuinely stops the trickster in his path. You mean to tell him that you've been thinking about– no, fussing over the prospect of–
“Ah, I see,” he clears his throat, squirming as the fluid leaking out of his hole becomes undeniably more arousing than before. “and this is the only thing bothering you?”
You're quick to nod, alleviating your betrothed's worries on sight. “Besides a few pre-marriage nervous jitters, yeah. I'm just worried that I won't be able to deliver, haha…” the laugh falls clumsily from your lips, concealing a hint of insecurity.
But Loki won't have any of that. The handcuffs are back around both wrists immediately — you'd never know they were never off to begin with. His hands lift over your head and rest on the back of your neck, pulling you down into a gentle yet passionate kiss.
“Mm I don't know, if you ask me, I'd say you'll be quite thorough with this matter~” he purrs against your lips, spreading his legs underneath you. You're greeted to the sight of his already used hole presented just for you, and you easily take the bait.
A few strokes and the sight of your beloved so driven after your little chat is enough to get you hard again, easily sliding right back inside those warm walls.
You're yanked closer, buried in the crook of Loki's neck once more, trapped by his arms around your neck and his legs around your waist, rutting into him. He's still pleasantly tight, squeezing you in just the right ways that have your vision faltering.
On instinct, you keep your arms wrapped around your soon-to-be husband's body, dwarfing him in your shadow as your hips continue to pound him hard enough to leave stinging red marks. His body sucks you in without a second thought, eating up every inch. You tremble, and whisper 'I love you' into your darling's ear before cumming hard, turning the slick plaps from your bodies even sloppier as your seed overflows.
Never in his life has Loki felt so stuffed. You've filled him multiple times, each load is just as thick as the last, and you kept fucking it deeper inside, leaving little opportunity for it to leak out. Even now, pulling everything except the tip out and watching your own sticky fluids gush out and dribble down Loki's inner thighs, you swiftly angle his hips so that the rest can't escape from his fertile hole.
And after your conversation, it seems a fire was lit within yourselves, dispelling whatever exhaustion would have followed. Surely Loki's parents wouldn't be too upset with their son getting knocked up before the wedding… it's only a few more rounds…
Hey I was wondering if you could write a scenario with Loki and m!reader - Loki is ill because of the summer heat and reader make him a nostalgic meal(like a family soup or pasta recipe for example) and keeps him company until he recovers. But reader ends up getting sick and Loki returns the kindness.
I absolutely love ur work and hope that u are able to write this(totally okay if u don’t want to though)
Sick Day
Loki Laufeyson x Male Reader
Summary: You're pulled from a deep sleep by a sense of dread. There, at the foot of your bed, is the god of mischief himself, looking less like a trickster and more like a miserable toddler. He's clearly sick, and by the look in his feverish eyes, you're now his personal nursemaid until he's better.
A/N: I haven't written for him in what feels like forever and typically when I do it's on the sadder side, but not this time! I'm also working on a fic that's supposed to be for a 800 followers special, might take awhile though. I'm sorry I haven't posted in awhile too, I've been really tired and dealing with chronic pain.
TW: Fluff - Over dramatic Loki - Pre-established relationship
Words: 3.2k
It was the type of late-night heat that clings to you, a heavy, humid blanket that no fan or air conditioner could completely banish. You lay sprawled across your bed, a human starfish trying to maximize surface area for the cold air blasting from the box fan perched precariously on your bedside table. The whirring of the fan was a constant companion, a white noise machine battling the oppressive New York summer night. Your body lay entirely on top of the sheets, a futile attempt to escape the sauna your small apartment had become. Even with the air conditioning set to its lowest, most frigid setting, the heat was still too much to bear. It seeped in through the windows, a persistent, unwelcome guest that didn't just bother you—it had even managed to affect your frost giant boyfriend, Loki.
Your eyes, which had been squeezed shut in a desperate attempt to drift into sleep, shot open. Your mind, an internal alarm system, had become acutely aware of some unseen presence. You weren't dreaming; the feeling was too sharp, too real. Letting out a low groan, you slowly sat up, your muscles protesting as you scanned the surrounding darkness. The air was thick and still, and the only sound was the fan's incessant hum. You reached for the lamp on your nightstand, your fingers fumbling for the switch. The soft, yellow light cut through the gloom, illuminating the room and, more importantly, the figure standing at the foot of your bed.
Loki wasn't beside you like he typically was. He stood there, dripping with sweat, his clothes clinging to his lean frame. His usually impeccable raven hair, now soaked with moisture, was plastered to his forehead. His skin, usually an icy pale, was flushed and damp, a color you had only seen after particularly strenuous battles. He looked utterly miserable, a picture of a toddler about to confess to their parents that they'd just thrown up all over the rug. His blue eyes, which were typically sharp and full of mischief, were wide and glassy.
"Loki?" you whispered, your voice thick with sleep and concern. You reached a hand out, turning on the lamp to get a better look at him. His expression was a blend of irritation and childlike helplessness. You sighed, the sound a soft puff of air in the warm room, and got out of bed, the cool floor a welcome relief on your bare feet. You walked over to him, and he shuffled forward, wrapping his arms around you and resting his head against your bare shoulder. His skin, which you had always found to be naturally cool to the touch, was burning up.
"I don't feel well," he grumbled, his voice muffled against your neck. He clung to you, his grip surprisingly tight, as if afraid he might topple over.
"Oh, no kidding," you muttered, pulling back slightly to look at his face. "You're burning up. What's going on? Are you sick?"
"It's this dreadful place," he complained, his eyes closing as he leaned his head back against your shoulder. "This Midgardian heat. It's... disgusting. It clings to you like a particularly persistent insect. It's unnatural."
You couldn't help but huff out a small laugh. You had a feeling this was going to be a long night, filled with Loki's dramatic complaints. You gently put a hand on his forehead, confirming your suspicions—he was definitely running a fever.
"Unnatural or not, you're hot," you said, a teasing lilt in your voice that he ignored.
"Of course I am," he deadpanned, without opening his eyes. "I am a god."
"No, I mean you have a fever," you clarified, rubbing his arm gently. "A very high one, it feels like."
He groaned again, the sound low and mournful. "It's the air. It's humid and... and heavy. It's suffocating. It feels as if I'm being slowly boiled alive."
You shook your head, already knowing he was going to be a drama queen about this. It was just a fever, likely from being a little overheated.
"Let's get you to bed," you said, trying to lead him back toward the bed. He resisted, his arms still wrapped around you.
"No," he whined, sounding more like a petulant child than a powerful sorcerer. "The bed is a furnace. It's warm. The sheets are warm. Everything is warm. This mortal coil is entirely too delicate for such conditions."
You managed to pry him off of you, and with a soft smile, you grabbed his hand, leading him over to the bed.
"We can put some cold washcloths on your head," you suggested, sitting him down on the edge of the bed.
He sat there, looking profoundly offended by the suggestion, his arms crossed over his chest. "I do not require a mortal's rudimentary remedy. It will pass."
"Loki," you said, your tone firm but gentle, "don't be a pain. Let me help you."
He sighed dramatically, his entire body seeming to deflate in a gesture of ultimate defeat. "Fine. But I am not enjoying this. And when I am better, I am personally going to put an end to the summer season."
You just chuckled, already making your way to the bathroom to get him a cool towel.
You returned from the bathroom with a damp washcloth and a glass of cold water. Loki was still sitting on the edge of the bed, a picture of sulky misery. He watched you approach with narrowed, weary eyes.
"This is completely unnecessary," he said, even as you sat beside him and began to dab his forehead with the cool cloth. The sudden chill made him flinch, but he didn't pull away.
"Just relax," you soothed, gently moving a few damp strands of hair from his face. "It's just a fever. It’ll pass. You’ve just been in this apartment for a few days, and your body is probably just trying to adjust to the Midgardian climate."
"Adjust?" he scoffed. "I am a god, not some… common mammal. My body does not 'adjust' to such a degree. This is a personal assault by the elements themselves. They know I am here, and they despise me."
You couldn't help but smile at his theatrics. "Oh, I'm sure the weather is plotting against you. Now, drink some water."
You held the glass to his lips, and he took a small, reluctant sip. His usual arrogance was a thin veil over genuine discomfort. His skin was still radiating heat, and his breathing was shallow. He was tired, and despite his protests, he leaned into your touch as you continued to press the cool cloth against his skin.
"You're going to be fine," you whispered, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. He didn't respond, instead just resting his head against your shoulder again. He felt heavy, his body completely relaxed against yours.
"I am a son of Jotunheim," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "Frost runs in my veins. This… is not right. It’s a violation of my very nature."
You gave him a gentle squeeze. "I know, I know. It's just a temporary inconvenience. Tomorrow, you’ll be back to your usual self, plotting something and walking around like you own the place."
He let out a weak chuckle, the sound a low rumble against your collarbone. "I do own the place. And you. And this wretched apartment."
"Sure you do," you said, a soft smile on your face. You helped him lie back down, pulling the cool sheets over his legs while leaving the rest of his body exposed to the fan. He was still radiating heat, but the cool cloth and water seemed to offer him some small measure of relief.
He reached for your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours. His grip was weak, but his touch was warm. You held his hand, rubbing the back of it with your thumb. The fan blew cold air over the two of you, and in the quiet of the night, with the gentle hum of the fan and the soft yellow light of the lamp, you watched over your frost giant, who for once was a little too warm.
The morning had brought little relief. Loki was still running a fever, though it wasn't as high as the night before. His color was returning to a more natural, albeit still pale, shade, but his dramatic flair was at an all-time high. Every movement was an epic struggle, every quiet moment an opportunity for a new complaint. He had spent the better part of the morning whinging about the terrible sheets, the "unbearable" temperature of the room, and the "agony" of his headache. You had to physically resist the urge to suffocate him with a pillow just for a moment of blessed silence. It was a close-run thing, especially after the tenth time he tried to pull you closer, whining that he was cold, despite you telling him repeatedly that you did not also want to get sick.
It was now mid-afternoon, and you were at your wit's end. The apartment, which had been your sanctuary, now felt like a prison with a particularly demanding, god-like inmate. Loki was sprawled across the bed, his long legs tangled in the sheets, a picture of pathetic grandeur. You had been in the kitchen, making him a mug of chamomile tea, hoping its soothing properties might have some effect on his temperamental spirit.
Just as you poured the steaming water, you heard it again—a long, drawn-out cry from the bedroom. "Darling! Are you abandoning me to my fate? I believe I'm on the verge of fading into the ether!"
You sighed, a sound that held all the weariness of a thousand years of dealing with a drama queen. You picked up the mug, the warmth of it seeping into your hands, and walked back to the bedroom.
You found him in the same position, one hand dramatically flung over his forehead. He looked up at you with wide, puppy-dog eyes that were meant to illicit sympathy but instead just made you roll your own. You set the mug of tea on the bedside table with a firm click, the sound sharp in the quiet room.
"You are so incredibly lucky that you're sick," you said, your voice low and even, "or I would genuinely consider strangling you for how dramatic you're being."
His hand came away from his forehead, a mock-offended look on his face. "Strangling? After all I have endured? The constant heat, the suffering, the very air itself assaulting my senses..."
You cut him off with a pointed stare. "You have a minor fever, Loki. It's not the end of the world."
He sat up, propping himself up on an elbow. "It is the end of my world, which is, I might add, far more important than the world of a mere mortal. Now, come here. I'm cold." He reached for you, his hand outstretched.
You took a step back, gesturing to the tea. "Drink your tea. And if you ask me to come closer one more time, I'm going to put you in a cold shower."
Loki's hand remained outstretched, a silent, pathetic plea. He looked at you, then at the mug of tea on the nightstand, and let out a long, theatrical sigh. His entire body sagged in a gesture of utter defeat.
"Fine," he grumbled, pulling his hand back. "But I would prefer a bit of kindness and affection over this... this 'tea.' It tastes like old weeds."
You watched as he cautiously took a sip, the mug held between both hands as if it were a fragile artifact. His face, already pale from the fever, contorted into an expression of profound distaste.
"It's chamomile," you said, crossing your arms over your chest. "It's supposed to calm you down."
"It is not calming me down," he whined. "It's making me feel as if I'm being punished. Surely you have something stronger? Something that will make this heat... and this mortal coil... bearable."
"That's all you're getting," you said firmly. You sat down on the edge of the bed, a safe distance away from him, and began to scroll through your phone. The quiet of the room was interrupted only by the whirring of the fan and Loki's occasional, mournful sips of tea.
After a few minutes, he broke the silence. "Are you not going to... comfort me?"
You looked up from your phone, an eyebrow raised. "Comfort you? I'm sitting here, aren't I?"
"I meant... closer," he said, shifting so that he was sitting up straight. "And perhaps a bit more... attentive. A gentle touch, a soothing word. Something to indicate that you haven't forgotten about me in my time of need."
You sighed, putting your phone down. "Loki, I've been with you all morning. I've been bringing you water and tea, and trying to get you to take some medicine. I haven't forgotten about you, I've just reached my limit for your whining."
He frowned, a look of genuine hurt on his face. "Whining? I am merely expressing my discomfort. It's a fundamental right."
"It's whining," you said, a small smile playing on your lips. You stood up and walked to the other side of the bed, getting into your own space. You gave him a look. "Drink your tea and try to get some rest. I'm going to take a shower."
You left the room, the door clicking softly shut behind you. You could still hear Loki's protests, muffled by the door, but for the first time all day, you had a moment of peace.
The cool water of the shower was a welcome escape. You let the steam fill the small bathroom, washing away the heat and the frustration of the afternoon. Loki's muffled complaints from the bedroom became a distant, almost comical sound. It was the first moment of genuine quiet you'd had all day, and you savored it, leaning your head against the tiled wall as the hot water cascaded over you.
When you emerged, wrapped in a towel, the apartment was eerily quiet. Too quiet. A quick glance into the bedroom confirmed your suspicion: Loki was asleep. He was still tangled in the sheets, one arm thrown over his head, but his breathing was deep and even. The mug of tea, half-finished, sat untouched on the nightstand. The fever, it seemed, had finally won the battle against his ego, at least for now. You moved quietly, picking up his clothes from the floor and setting the mug in the sink. You checked his forehead one last time; the heat was still there, but it was less intense.
You slipped into your pajamas and returned to the bedroom, climbing carefully into your side of the bed. You gave Loki a wide berth, but he seemed to sense your presence even in his sleep. He shifted, his body turning toward you, and an arm draped over your waist, pulling you against his warm back. You let out a soft sigh, resigning yourself to your fate. You gently untangled yourself from his grip, creating a small, safe space between you. You settled back into your pillows, finally allowing yourself to relax, and drifted off to sleep to the low hum of the fan and the reassuring presence of your dramatic, fever-stricken god.
A couple of days later, the tables had turned with a vengeance. Loki was finally back to his usual self—his skin was cool to the touch again, the sparkle of mischief had returned to his eyes, and his dramatic complaints had been replaced by a familiar, condescending quiet. The apartment no longer felt like a sauna, but a tomb of your misery. The inevitable had happened: his inability to stay away from you while he was sick had gotten you sick as well.
Being human only made it worse. You weren't a frost giant with a minor fever; you were a regular person with a full-blown cold. Your nose was a faucet of snot, your head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, and the occasional, violent bout of vomiting made you want to curl into a ball and never move again. You were a mess, and Loki, in his infinite self-pity, refused to admit that he had been the cause. The truth was, though, you didn't care. In fact, you were relishing the chance to give him a taste of his own medicine.
It was now late in the afternoon, and you were sprawled across the sofa, an entire box of tissues on the floor beside you, a damp rag on your forehead, and an array of medication and a mug of tea on the coffee table. Loki stood over you, arms crossed, his expression a mixture of annoyance and thinly veiled concern.
"I still fail to see how this is my fault," he said for the tenth time, his voice a low grumble.
"You were all over me while you were sick," you wheezed, your voice thick with congestion. "You hugged me, you touched me, you breathed on me. How could it not be your fault?"
"I was not 'all over you.' I was in a state of distress, and you were providing comfort," he argued, a flicker of irritation in his eyes.
You managed a weak, sarcastic smile. "Right. And now I'm in a state of distress, and you are... standing there. Judging me. How very helpful."
He sighed dramatically, the sound almost an imitation of your own sighs from a few days ago. He moved to the other end of the sofa, a respectable distance away, but still close enough to see.
"You don't even have the proper decorum for an illness," he said. "Your nose is... running. Constantly. It's a rather grotesque display."
You reached for a tissue, wiping your nose with a loud sniffle. "Yeah, well, you were whiny. I think a runny nose is an improvement."
He glared at you, then at the mug of tea you hadn't touched. "Are you going to drink that, or will you just sit there and make yourself look more pitiful?"
You closed your eyes, a groan of pure exhaustion escaping your lips. "Just... go away. I want to be left alone."
"I cannot go away," he said, and you could hear the subtle tremor of concern in his voice. "I am responsible for you, apparently. And a proper caregiver stays with their charge."
You opened your eyes, meeting his gaze. "A proper caregiver doesn't stand ten feet away. Come here and get me something."
He hesitated for a moment, then moved to the sofa's edge. "What do you need?" he asked. "A better pillow? A different blanket? A more... appetizing drink?"
"I want you to be quiet," you said, your voice a little stronger now, filled with the satisfaction of turning the tables. "And I want you to sit here and suffer with me. Just for a little while."
He looked at you, a flicker of a smile on his face, a ghost of the smirk you knew and loved. He reluctantly sat down beside you, leaving a small gap between your bodies. He leaned back against the cushions and folded his hands in his lap, looking every bit the dutiful boyfriend.
"Happy?" he asked.
"Ecstatic," you said, closing your eyes and finally allowing yourself to relax. "Now, where's that cold washcloth you promised me?"
