summer song || j.k. x f!reader
WARNING #1: explicit real person fiction ahead, dni if below 18. dni if anti-rpf
WARNING #2: explicit rpf/real person fiction content ahead. read at your own risk. dni if anti rpf, dni or read ahead if you simply don’t like rpf lol
₊˚⊹⋆ after such a lovely day, you want to repay the favor.
₊˚⊹⋆ set the night of tt, the day after jtsfaoi
₊˚⊹⋆ reader: f!reader. notfamous!reader. normal au a.k.a. reader has an office job and attends university. reader is not dutch
₊˚⊹⋆ word count: 5.6k
₊˚⊹⋆ cw: smut (established relationship, rimming, frotting, pegging, f sitting on m face, subby joosti:3), let’s pretend butts and buttholes exist as sterile environments ok, genuine cbat reference
WARNING #3: rpf ahead—don't like it, don't read it. do not repost this on any other platform, screenshots or text alike. do not click ahead if you don’t want to read rpf. do not interact if you are below 18. how to block tags/words on tumblr.
₊˚⊹⋆ track(s) of the fic: “summer song” by remy bond, “we’ve only just begun” by the carpenters
₊˚⊹⋆ junote: harness (nsfw? lol it’s…a harness) i started my fic writing career writing gay fanfiction—i very much missed writing m!receiving anal <3. i would really recommend having google translate out for this one!! i dont tend to provide translations 😅 unedited and cheesy as per usual. @howisjoostfanfictionforfree partner in crime yet again!!
18+ only — explicit rpf content ahead, minors dni, anti rpf dni. 4th and final warning!
After such a relaxing, sleepy day with Joost, you should be more tired than you feel—instead, you lie awake, legs hanging over the long side of your bed in silence as you wait for him to come to bed.
You’ve just dried off after a shower together—washing Joost’s back, washing his hair for him even after he whined about the soap getting in his eyes, kissing and kissing until your mouths tasted like lavender and chemicals and the water had run cold.
Before that, right after you’d had your day in the sun next to the pool, Joost cleaned you up, and you dressed back up in each other’s clothes, kissing up the stairs back into your house, bumping into your door, stumbling over the droplets of water his hair dripped all over your hardwood and into the kitchen.
Joost flung the refrigerator open and you scolded him for treating it so roughly—he apologized to it, and you smiled when he did, getting things out of the pantry for you two as he rummaged through it.
When you first got to know Joost, he said he couldn’t cook or clean; you said that wouldn’t fly with you, and now five years later, there he was, humming his own tune as he chopped ingredients and assembled open faced sandwiches with whatever you had left in the fridge, overloading both of them with what you liked and putting what you didn’t like (usually food he loved) on his own sandwich.
The two of you finished making your meal, you took them outside and sat on the loungers together for a bit before you ran back in for a bag of chips to crush up and crumble over your sandwiches—“You’re a genius, I think,” he said after you’d sprinkled the crumbs over his, and you laughed as you fed him another chip.
For a few hours, you napped on the couch in a messy pile on top of each other, deep in slumber from your full stomachs and hearts and shared exertion from your session on the lounger, a few hours worth of Dutch cartoons, a few hours of your cat making muffins on Joost’s back and him pretending not to like it, a few hours of sweating on each other until you felt gross and decided to take your shower together.
Joost comes walking in, white towel low around his waist, water still dripping from the tips of his hair as he stands in front of your shared dresser, in front of the mirror. You sit up on your elbows to watch him; a pink towel in his hands and rubbing his hair out of the extra moisture. This must be torture, you think, how he’s got you on the edge of your seat with nothing but his back and shoulders on display for you.
He shakes his hair out of the pink towel; drops the white one and opens the drawer. “You’re staring again, lieverd,” he says, rummaging through.
You truly can’t help it; the curves of his hips and ass, the dimples at the base of his spine, every spot and freckle on him you know by heart all for you to observe. His shoulders are pinkish—not as bad of a burn as you thought, but still enough to earn you some whining from him for the next day or two.
“Turn around.”
He does for you, and you move to sit on the edge of the bed, and he stands in between your legs. Joost is impossibly beautiful—you place a hand on his waist, rubbing your thumb over his Rayquaza tattoo, scanning his body with your eyes.
You are lucky, and you know it.
Thighs dusted with hair so blonde it almost looks invisible—you could almost forget that he has a tattoo of a minion in a maid costume on his right leg as it stares you in the face.
“Still can’t believe you got that,” you say, even though you fully believe it.
“Can't believe you let me.”
Soft and hanging heavy between his legs, thick blonde hair at the base of it—under the gaze of you, he’s starting to harden, and you look up at him. Joost averts his eyes, looking to the side as the blush creeps up his neck, down his chest.
Usually so eager, never one to hide—your boyfriend the performer rendered bashful and almost hiding behind his arms as you lower your hand to his hip and squeeze, the silvery thin marks and stretched lines of his growing under your fingertips. You like running your fingers over them, the way he likes touching yours.
“You make me shy when you look at me like that, schat.”
“Now you know how I feel.”
He nods, placing a hand on your cheek. “I guess that is fair, hm?”
You melt into his touch, so warm even with the fan on high and the windows flung wide open—if you hadn’t been so relaxed after earlier, you two would be part of the droves of clubgoers tonight walking and laughing past your house on the way to the center of the action.
His touch isn’t the only thing that’s warm—you’re wearing one of his big t-shirts that reaches down to your thighs, a skimpy pair of old cotton underwear, legs bare but your chest and neck are hot with what it feels like to look at him in this state.
“Joosti,” you say softly, cupping his half-hard shaft. “I want you again,” looking up at Joost as he cups your face in his hands.
Bending down to kiss your forehead, he mumbles, “We will get dirty again. You don’t mind?”
“We can take another shower together.”
“If you say so, mijn schat.” Straightening up, Joost brings the pendants of your necklaces from the back of your neck to your collarbone as you wrap your hand around his cock—you didn’t even know they were displaced. “Aren’t you tired?”
“Not tired at all,” you say, alert as can be as you tighten your grip around him just slightly. He sighs when you jerk him once, twice, getting him harder with every moment. “Can we make up for yesterday?” Leaning forward, you lap at his nipple and he sighs, eyebrows furrowing but face filled with pleasure at your slick hand, your eyes on him. You want him like this more than anything
“Cover your eyes,” Joost says, placing his two fingers over the eyes of his maid minion and you laugh. “We already made up for yesterday.” You hum in acknowledgement as you push him to step back slightly with your fingers on his thigh. “And also, there is nothing to make up. You needed your time, that’s okay.” Absentmindedly, you nod as you pet at his cock, feeling it grow with your grip on him, how you stroke him up and down so he reaches full hardness. He’s fully hard in little to no time, your mouth on his nipple, swirling around it, the soft sounds falling out of his mouth now. “Can I remind you, you have work tomorrow? We can’t stay up too long.”
“We can.” You decide in an instant—you’ll down a Red Bull tomorrow morning or something, call out maybe. Anything for this. “Lie down.”
Despite Joost’s previous refusals, he lies down so easily, so lazy, flopping down on his back against your pillows and giving himself a few slow strokes as you crawl between his legs, lying stomach down.
You lay your cheek against Joost’s soft thigh as he gazes at you, as you gaze at him. He cups your cheek with the hand that isn’t jerking himself, and you nuzzle into it, kissing his palm, his fingertips, sucking around his thumb when he hooks it between your teeth, pupils blown, the light mood between you two all but forgotten when you move to his cock.
A stream of pre spurts out of the sticky tip and you lap it up slowly, keeping Joost’s eyes on you as lick at the slit, the taste salty as you mouth and lick where the crown and the shaft meet, earning you a few breathy moans.
“Je bent een droom,” Joost says softly as you kiss along his length.
“I’m a dream?” you ask, knowing the answer. You knew what he said.
He nods—“You’re a dream,” he says, and you believe it.
“Do you say that ‘cause I have my mouth on your dick?”
“Don’t be so crude,” he scolds, rolling his eyes and sounding like you, and you laugh. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” you say softly, kissing him on the downy skin between his cock and his navel, nosing against his happy trail. “Thank you for today.”
“You’re saying thank you enough today.” Joost’s breath hitches as you take the tip in your mouth and suck, hollowing your cheeks around him as you take his inches into your mouth. He brushes your hair out of the way; you swallow around him and he groans with the tightness of your throat when you get half down.
“Like that, fuck,” Joost breathes as you bob your head, lips wrapped around him and trying to take more until you can’t, until your eyes water and you have to come off of him with a quiet gasp, letting the extra spit drip out of your mouth and onto his cock when you jerk him.
“Too much?” he teases, and you roll your eyes. Joost takes your chin in his hand and squishes your cheeks, making a happy little sound which you know is a substitute for him calling you cute.
“Never enough, honestly,” you sigh, a smirk playing on your lips as you stroke him. “You’re changing the sheets by the way.”
“Mean!! You’re so mean!!” he laughs, poking your forehead gently in fake annoyance. “I was always going to change the sheets after this.”
“Always enough, mijn schat,” you say quietly, slinking back up to him to have your faces close together. “I tease, I know, but I’m so thankful for you.”
Joost presses his lips to yours, one hand around your waist. “Stop with the thank you, I’m serious—I don’t need it, I want to do this for you,” he says when you pull away.
You brush back his hair and press another kiss to his lips, gazing at him. “I’ll be saying thank you for the rest of my life, Joost, I’m not gonna stop now.”
For some reason, he looks surprised—so many years together, not a lot of things to be surprised about anymore, and especially not that sentiment. It took a while to get here, yes—but you’ll spend the rest of your time together proving you mean it. You admire Joost’s face and his strong nose, the stubble along his jaw, the pink lips you’ve kissed all the time since that day in December 2019, his hay colored eyelashes batting at you in wonder.
“The rest of your life, lieverd? You mean it?”
“Always,” you smile, nodding. “Get used to it, you’ll hear it forever.”
You come back down between Joost’s legs, a small pool of precum on his stomach from how long you've neglected his cock. It twitches when you look at it, spurts more of the clear fluid when you wrap your hand around it and slap it against your tongue gently. “You’re fucking crazy,” he breathes, and you laugh as you feed it into your warm mouth, hollowing your cheeks and sucking around him.
Joost is pathetically loud almost all the time, and he’s no different now, mewls and happy sounds tumbling out of him, the slurp of your mouth and your attempts to get the spit from spilling out the sides of your lips.
Once you come up off him, you lick along the underside of his shaft, the length of his cock, taking time to lap at his slit again.
You come down and lick at the seam of his balls, popping one into your mouth momentarily as you jerk him; you let go, and then you come down even further, nudge his legs back, lick at his perineum to watch as his cock twitches with every lick of your tongue on his skin, watch as he sucks in a hiss through his teeth and then throws his head back and laughs.
“What are you doing, baby?” you smile as you kiss at the soft skin there. “Fuck, I can’t believe you sometimes.”
“Testing the waters,” you say simply, kissing at the base of his shaft.
“For what?”
“You know what.”
You look towards your dresser—three drawers down on the right is one filled with toys over the years, many duplicates, one for each of you. There’s only one kind of toy that’s for Joost only—the assortment of anal toys and straps that you’ve got mixed in there, relatively new to the arsenal but already well loved by both of you.
“You shouldn’t start something you can’t finish,” Joost says, even when you lick once over his hole and it makes his entire body spasm, how sensitive he is.
“You think I can’t finish it?”
“You wanna?”
“Do you want to?” you press a few wet kisses to his perineum, stroking him as you do.
“How could I say no to you, lieverd?”
You get up off your stomach, squeezing his thick thigh as you shimmy down your underwear, leaving it on the bed—“If you want it, get me off first.” You don’t need an answer to sit yourself where you belong; your thighs on his cheeks, your knees near his ears as he grins up at you, laughing. “What is it?”
“You say it as if it’s a punishment to do this—I’ve been waiting since morning to eat you out again.”
Shaking your head, you adjust so you won’t squish him so bad, but he pulls you closer, kissing your inner thighs. “You say I’m crazy.”
“We can both be crazy,” Joost says, gazing at you between the legs so intensely you might scramble off him and hide. “Now sit.”
Gently, you lower yourself down onto his mouth, sighing when he licks through you, insatiable. Joost hooks his arms around your thighs, big blue eyes looking up at you, fingers parting your lips so he can have direct access to your clit—he wraps his pink lips around it, sucks hard, earning him a succession of loud moans out of your mouth. He flattens his tongue against you, drinking you in, the wet sounds of his mouth and your pussy making your cheeks burn.
Your hands grip at his hair as you keen, losing control with how well he’s eating you; one arm unhooks itself from your thigh, but you pay it no mind when he fucks his tongue into you a few thrusts in, the sensation filthy. You sigh out, eyebrows knitting together with the effort it takes to stay upright, one hand in his hair, the other on the wire bed frame. Turning your head around, you watch and see—see Joost’s hand wrapped around his cock, stroking himself, and you turn back to click your tongue at your poor, misbehaved boyfriend.
“Mm-mm,” you say, shaking your head. “Did I say you could do that?” You lift up off his mouth to let him get a word in and he shakes his head, lips glistening.
“No, schat, you didn’t,” he breathes heavily, smiling up at you.
“That’s right,” you say softly, smiling when he moves his hand from his cock to the meat of your ass. “Good boy. Don’t do that again.”
Again, you sit yourself on Joost’s tongue, having to stifle back a moan immediately when he sucks on your clit again, a few minutes passing against the background of your heavy moans, the smack of his mouth against you.
You’ve no composure now, your bucking hips allowing you to grind on his tongue, losing yourself with your impending orgasm, your breaths and whimpers at how good he feels under you—you cum hard, having to hold onto the bed frame with both hands as Joost keeps sucking on your clit, sobbing out his name as you ride his tongue and ride it out.
Once you’ve made it through, Joost switches to licking through your folds, tasting you, slow and methodical. The overstimulation makes you wince, squeezing his head between your thighs, and he laughs, the vibrations of his voice making you twitch and lift up off him as you catch your breath, gazing down at him.
“The longest we have gone without bickering, schat,” Joost says, licking his lips of your wetness, his chin and cheeks glistening in the light.
“Mm, you’re not wrong,” you laugh, limbs light as feathers with how blissful you feel as you climb off and go between his legs again, his neglected cock hard as ever. “Let’s take care of that,” you purr, and Joost nods profusely, making you laugh as you push back his legs, as you press a wet kiss to his hole, a lick over it as he moans out your name.
Slowly, you flatten your tongue against it, letting your spit pool as you lap at his entrance. Joost throws his head back in pleasure, groaning when you pull back and spit on it, rubbing over it with your thumb, pushing in slightly and licking around his rim to a loud whine from him.
“Get the lube,” you say, pulling away from Joost as you wait for the top drawer to open and shut, his hushed cursing when he has to rummage around for longer than he’d like. He’s the one who threw it in haphazardly after last time—you’d tease him about it, but he has enough things to worry about with his twitching and angry pink cock.
Finally, Joost gets it out and hands it to you, breathless; you uncap it, drizzling it onto your fingers, spreading it over his hole as he hisses through his teeth at the sensation. When you push in with your middle finger, it makes him shudder, sigh out—he gives so easily to you, strokes himself but has to stop as soon as he starts because it’s all too much. You stroke your finger inside of him once you push in to the knuckle, rubbing at his perineum with your other hand.
Joost pants out your name, hand around the bed frame as he looks down at you, eyebrows scrunched, mouth open and contorting soundlessly when you add your ring finger, teasing his hole—maybe it’s too much all at once, but you know he’ll take it.
One finger and you’ve gotten him so flushed, so pretty, his platinum bangs sticking to his forehead, the sheen of sweat on his chest and stomach. You’re not even moving them quickly, slowing down the curling so you’re petting over his spot gently, almost tantalizingly, at least to you.
For Joost, you’re sure it’s a blur—his voice so shaky, the inside of him is hot around you and squeezing your fingers as you watch him almost in your own state of wonder as he inhales and exhales so heavily it’s as if he’s calming himself down for you. This angle must be nice, right? Is it so different for him the way it is for you? Is this what you look like, writhing and hungry for you and what you’ll do inside?
The squelch of your fingers, wet, weird because it isn’t coming from you for once; the grip of your other hand, tight, strange because it’s your hand around his hip keeping him from squirming so much and not the other way around; the stuttering, whiny exhales falling from his mouth, familiar and breathtaking, raspy and deep still because it’s Joost, your Joost.
“Yes, right there, schat,” Joost moans, closing his eyes when you curl your fingers where you know his prostate is, scissoring them and opening him up more so he’s comfortable and ready for your strap, your favorite out of the ones you own—silicone, the color of your skin and around 6 inches long, Joost’s favorite, too.
You’ve worked up sizes over the past year: small silicone plugs to slightly longer, ribbed glass dildos, and finally, the several straps of varying sizes you've both been keen to try out on him now that he’s ready—he brought it up over your 3rd anniversary dinner in Aruba, tipsy and blushing and beautiful, and it caught you off guard. How shy he was, how he could barely get the words out until you begged him for 10 minutes to tell you because you wanted to know so badly what it was, exactly what he wanted.
Joost tells you what he wants now, no waver in his voice, no hesitation as he sobs out your name, clutching onto sheets, clutching onto metal when you add a third finger and keep your rhythm curling them, his hips thrusting into the air and then fucking back onto your fingers.
Outside your open window, the commotion has quieted down—you’re sure that your boyfriend, crying out and desperate is the only sound echoing on these Amsterdam streets, but neither of you mind. They’d be lucky to hear him anyways.
A few minutes of this, opening him up further until he’s groaning out, practically crying. “Mijn liefste, wees niet gemeen, wees alsjeblieft niet gemeen tegen me,” he pants, shaking his head at you when you pout at him teasingly. “I’m serious, give it to me.”
“I’m giving it to you right now, aren’t I?”
“You know what I mean, please, please, please,” Joost breathes, and you nod, pulling your fingers out and getting off the bed, even as he swears at the absence of you inside of him—what he gets, you guess as you rummage around the drawer for your black leather harness and the strap.
You set it all up for yourself—for him, feeling Joost’s eyes on you at the side of the bed, tightening straps and setting things into place. You strip off your shirt; it’s too hot now, even as you turn around and a breeze comes in through the window, running over you. It’s strong enough, he’s sensitive enough that the wind makes his hips buck into the air.
That look on his face—shy and sheepish, one you earn every time you show up at a show unexpected and he’s humped yet another speaker, said your name accidentally on purpose during “Ome Robert,” yelled “SCHAT I MISS YOU I CAN’T WAIT TO SEE YOU SOON!!!!!!!” knowing you’d see it on Twitter or somewhere and running off stage and bumping into you almost knocking you over. That expression appears now when you turn back and catch him so needy that even the wind keeps him going while he waits for you.
With both hands, Joost covers his face and laughs—another familiar expression, this time one of yours—as you straddle him, and wait for him to come to you fully. You let him take the seconds he needs to bear with how much of a display being with each other is, laid bare completely to one another. Every confirmation you get that he feels it too feels like a blessing, somehow.
Settling higher up on his thighs, you’re forced to pause—“Wait, wait, schat,” Joost pants out, and you do, fingertips on his stomach as he wraps his big hand around both of your shafts. “I want to try something.”
“What do you wanna try, baby?” you ask softly, brushing his bangs back and looking down at his leaking cock. He still dwarfs you by an inch, and he’s thicker, but watching it happen… the slide of his foreskin against the soft length of your strap, the weeping head of it providing more than enough lubrication for his stroking hand and his bucking hips into his tight fist.
If you weren’t in awe and watching him and his closed eyes, his beautiful eyelashes spread out across his pink dusted cheeks, you'd tell him to stop, save his energy for later. For now, you watch and listen and wait for those wondrous and higher pitched moans of his, the composure he had all thrown to the wall and in his own hands now.
“Ik wil het binnen,” Joost moans. “Laat me niet wachten,” he says, still stroking himself, eyebrows furrowed and eyes half-lidded with want, biting down on his lower lip—his eyes roll back in his head in pleasure when you cup his cheek, when you touch him of your own volition again.
“Who’s the one making you wait, hm?” you ask softly. “You or me?”
“Me,” he replies, so good for you. You smile as you move back a little, coming free from his grip and coming to find the discarded lube bottle on the bed. Uncapping it, you squeeze out more on your palm, hoping it’ll warm more with a thinner layer.
“Can you…I wanna feel…” you tilt your head at him, waiting for the rest. “Can you add more lube, maybe? I want…I want to feel wet, I don't know.” He can’t even look you in the eye when he confesses it to you, and you don’t want to push him too far—he treats you gentle when you’re like this, you’ll treat him the same.
“Alright, baby, we can do that,” you purr, squirting more lube on your hand, on the shaft of your strap itself. You spread it around, stroking it; he gives himself a few lazy jerks as you tease the wet tip of your strap against his hole. “That wet enough for you?”
“Mhm,” Joost nods, sighing out when you push your hips a little further, watching as the head pops in with how open he is already. He smiles at you, entrancing and gorgeous, eyes half-lidded, lips curled in a small smirk and bitten pink. He looks down when you inch a little more, mouth dropped open slightly with his mewls. You both watch as it enters him, slowly, stretching around you.
In the heat of the moment, you almost let out a moan yourself like you can feel the sensation through the strap—maybe you can. Joost makes you feel so strongly all the time, it wouldn’t be a surprise to you.
“I love you,” Joost breathes, strong thighs loosely wrapped around your hips as he beckons you over to him for a kiss, his arms around you as you lick into his mouth, fuck into him. “Fuuuuckkk, Daddy, you’re so deep,” he moans exaggeratedly, biting his lip and winking at you when he pulls back, and you laugh, “Shut the fuck up,” as he cackles.
You straighten back up so you can have an easier time moving your hips, Joost already shuddering with the heightened sensitivity he surely has. The rhythm is awkward, barely there at all; you’re still learning how to thrust and wondering how he does it so well—to make up for it, you wrap your hand around his cock and stroke him faster than your slow and shallow thrusts inside.
Joost sighs, “You’re holding back—why? Even if you thrust like Cbat, I would love it, come on, please.”
Rolling your eyes—both at being called out and how needy he is—you start, “Do you realize, Joost—“ you let go of his cock, and he shoots you a look, “How much I love you? I don’t think you do. I'm not holding back.”
“You’re holding back,” he says flatly, and you roll your eyes again. Such a brat. “I can tell, I know you. I know how much you love me,” you pull your hips back, pulling out almost completely and the sensation makes him waver, you know it, “And I know you are holding back. Simple as that.”
You pull back, slow, and then drive your hips forward harshly, bottoming out inside and dragging against his spot in the process, forcing a choked out moan from him.
Joost has his head thrown back on the pillow as you start your thrusts, focusing hard on a rhythm that’ll have him go crazy; it seems like it won’t take much, a series of “ah ah ah” falling out of his mouth with every movement.
For a few moments, it’s just that—your thrusts, his heavy breaths, the sound of lube and skin and your thighs meeting his ass, the leather and the soft plush of his legs against each other.
Joost is gorgeous and you’ll admire this for the rest of time—just the beautiful sight of him, flushed, one hand wrapped around the wireframe of your shared bed, the other jerking his drooling cock as you fuck him open.
The breeze rustles your curtains, your ceiling fan going as fast as if possibly can, rickety alongside the squeak of your mattress and the panting from Joost’s pretty mouth—you’ve never felt warmer, more turned on in your life thrusting into him as he whimpers out your name, holding onto your forearms as you seat and unseat yourself from inside him.
“Fuck, schat,” he whines, the hollow slaps of skin against skin the background noise to your perfect summer night. His eyebrows are furrowed as he looks down at himself, watches what's happening to him, how you have him in your palm.
“My pretty boy,” you coo, brushing his bangs out of his eyes, though you can’t quite move the ones stuck with sweat on his forehead. “You’re being so good for me, schat, I can’t believe you’re mine.”
“I can believe it,” he smiles weakly as you smooth your hand over his chest, pinch his nipple.
You rock into him, over and over, sweat forming on your skin, the slide inside easy, leisurely. On his back, legs spread, your fingers running over his tattoo of Belgium and LINK IN BIO and the maid—your mattress squeaks with your movements, and Joost only gets louder with every movement, moaning out “Yes, yes, yes,” “I love you, please give it to me,” “Ik wil het, ik wil het alemaal,” nodding, rambling with how drunk he is off your strap.
“Naughty mouth, Joost,” you remark, snickering at how talkative he gets in this state.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, eyes closed as he takes it so well.
“Nothing to be sorry for, my baby,” you say as you push down on his thigh, opening him up further so you can get deeper, Joost taking you to the base, his cock twitching wildly with pleasure in his hand as he strokes himself, weeping milky white precum as he gets closer and closer to his climax.
Lucky, lucky, lucky. You are lucky to have him, lucky to see him like this. A comet in the sky, once in a hundred lifetimes, his spilled Bacardi cola down your dress and the rest of your life as its wonderful puddle on a sticky club floor. Your purse with the faint brown edges of the stain and its fraying hems from continued use hangs on the coat rack downstairs.
How lucky to have met each other. All those nights made worth it by this and his smile and his art and him.
You fear looking too sappy, but either way—he’s too distracted by the way you’re fucking him to care.
“Schat, I’m gonna cum,” Joost moans, and you nod, keeping the pace of your hips steady, angling so it’ll hit his prostate just right. Again and again until he’s a whining mess, not even saying anything comprehensible, groaning and watching you with his mouth dropped open in pleasure, holding his legs open for you like a good boy. “Ik vind het geweldig, ik hou van je,” he breathes, his breath hitching as he jerks himself off.
Joost is so gorgeous overwhelmed, pink cheeks as you run your hand over his soft stomach, his chest, his arm until you reach his hand which he intertwines his fingers with yours. You never get to see him in this state much—losing himself getting off. Normally, you’re the one in this position, being caressed, talked through, taken care of. You decide in an instant that you’d like to see this more often than not.
A few more strokes of yours and Joost’s, and he cums, loudly, shooting all over his stomach and chest. “Stop touching yourself,” you say softly, and he whines in protest but takes his hand off, the last few drops of white dribbling out of his cock as you continue fucking him through his climax, forcing his moans out of his mouth, face contorted with the overstimulation you're giving him.
“Give it to me, right?” you ask as you keep thrusting, Joost’s whines low when you adjust your position so you’re half-lying on him, grinding into him as you hover over his face. “You want it all, you said?” He nods, and you kiss him deeply as you rut into him, milking him for everything he’s got. His hands roam your back, your ass, and you smile into it, licking into his mouth; you’re interrupted by him sobbing out your name and you look down, his cock spurting clear fluid pathetically with your final sloppy thrusts.
You’re breathing heavy and you don’t even realize until Joost brings your lips to his and you have to take a few to catch your breath into his mouth, stilled inside of him, lying on top and your stomachs sticky with his cum. Your thighs are wet with your arousal; he’s sure to take care of that later, but for now, you pull back and gaze at him, stunning in this afterglow, blonde hair sweaty, chest rising and falling at the same rate as yours.
His eyes are closed, blissed out and smiling—”It’s hard, isn’t it? So tiring.”
You laugh and nod, “So tiring, but worth it.”
Getting up in the morning will be so difficult, especially when you know Joost will be right here next to you, sleeping and peaceful. You’re still inside, and frankly, you never want to leave.
“Bedankt voor alles, mijn liefste,” he whispers, and you kiss over his eyes, his cheeks when he does.
“Ik hou van je, Joost.”
i so appreciate everyone's patience with this fic as well :''') i hope you enjoyed!! special shoutout to @catholicfacade because u motivated me to keep writing this fic LOLOL <3 thank you so much for reading! likes, comments, reblogs always so so appreciated <3 : ) askbox anon on hereeee - juno
