Work(ing) Surprises on Valentine's Day🧡
Glen Powell x Husband Reader
Summary: Even after years of being together, you're still able to surprise your husband. After the impromptu interview and your planned Valentine's date, Glen gets back at you at home.
Content Warnings: Valentine's Day Fic | Established Relationship | Reader is Glen's Husband | Reader is Referred to as "Mr. Powell" | Reader's Age is Left Ambiguous (though had in mind early-to-mid 30s to follow my timeline) | Reader is a non-Actor | Married Couple Fluff | (light) Flirting | Interview Used as Reminiscing Device | Use of "Honey", "Sweetheart", & "Sugar" (r!receiving) | Smut (MDNI) | Porn with Plot (PwP) | Glen is a Big Man | Glen is a Pleaser | Soft Dom Top Glen | Rimming & Fingering (r!receiving) | Big Dick Glen | Bottom Male Reader | Mating Press Position (REMEMBER TO USE PROTECTION) | Creampie | After Care
Word Count: 9.44k | (long one-shot)
Author's Note: Y'all there are SO MANY Glen Powell gifs. So much so that I had decision paralysis on deciding what the fic should follow😭. Also, it still counts as a Valentine's Day fic since it's only a week late... right? Right??? Sorry, this was a poorly planned last-minute decision, and I just couldn't scrap it because the special date marked on our calendars passed.
Important Note: I would like to emphasize that this is a work of fiction. This is not meant to imply anything about Glen Powell as an individual. I respect his immense work as an actor. I hope you all will do the same.
| FEMALES DNI PAST THIS POINT |
The blank, boring white walls of the quickly repurposed room shone brighter as the A-list actor was draped across the old, sandy-brown couch, legs propped on one end. His head was supported on the couch's other arm, careful not to mess up his warm, rich chestnut hair that his hairstylists completed five minutes earlier, though Glen was preoccupied with the device in his hands. His phone covers the beaming light directly above him, brightness tweaked up two levels in compensation, the gallery app open.
Scrolling through an album titled Sweeter than Honey, pictures of you and him - well, mostly you - in tiny squares over the years were both endless and still not enough for the man. There are many side profiles that he snuck of you, you cuddling with Brisket, and some videos you took of yourself reacting to Glen's interviews or him on the Red Carpet in numerous hotel rooms when you two were still not out. But the picture that captured his breath was of you two under the white arch, layered with Asiatic lilies at its climax, blue sapphire orchids descending, the warm orange half-set sun painting the ocean's waiting waters. Tapping on it and enlarging to fill out the not-large-enough screen, he focused on you in your sharp white tuxedo staring back at him in his black tuxedo, just like he did back then, the moment he saw you. His mother had personally taken the photo. It's still his favorite.
"Thirty seconds, Mr. Powell," Annie calls out, entering the actor's room, her heels clanking as she looks down, seemingly distracted by the message she's mid-way through sending. She doesn't wait, the personal assistant turns around, repositioning her purse on her shoulder and pocketing her phone after making sure that the individual she had been texting didn't respond back.
"I'm up. I'm up," Glen says, still fully busy staring at you. He feels sweat beads at his hairline's margin from the spreading warm affection ignited from the thought of having you as his husband. How you've been with him as close friends before his breakout role, during the few years when you were secretly dating, your engagement four years ago, wedding nearly three years ago, and even more recently, two years ago, when he abruptly dropped during a press tour interview for Twisters that he was happily married.
Of course, it was intentionally planned after a long talk about how even through the immense scrutiny that you will be propelled into, and will also now follow your husband for being open about your relationship and his sexuality. Still, the realization that the impact of having more representation on-screen, especially with such an A-list actor like your husband, made it more than worth it. As soon as he had a break, he posted the pre-drafted Instagram post that hard launched your relationship - a collage of photos, including the same wedding photo he's still staring at, with the caption "My Better Half" and your handle. You both have really been through a lot, Glen thinks as he caresses your digital face with his thumb.
Annie sighs, picks up the white hand towel from the side table near the doorway, and walks over to the brunette, sticking it between his face and his phone. Glen blinks - caught off guard by not having you in his field of vision anymore. "You'll see him soon enough," Annie reassures, holding back a chuckle.
Glen thinks she's referring to your planned Valentine's date later, so he clears his throat and says, "Right." He clicks off his phone, still frozen on the picture, pockets it, and takes the hand towel to wipe his forehead. "Did you double-check that the reservation didn't get cancelled?"
"Everything is clear and good to go. I even called your chauffeur to be prepared twenty minutes before your originally stated time."
"Perfect," Glen smiles, fiddling with the towel before Annie places out her hand. He hands it to her, finally getting up from the couch and stepping out of the room while feeling the restless weight of his phone pressed against the dark slacks covering his thick thigh. Fading glowing heat cooled as he steeled his expression, ceasing his itching fingers that want nothing more than to re-open his phone and stare at that picture of you until his phone runs out of battery. It's the closest he'll get to you: his other half that he knew has been true, years before your marriage; his love that fuels him every day; his biggest support that rivals his mother; and his Valentine's date. He shouldn't be putting so much thought - so much worry - into what, your tenth shared Valentine's Day. But he couldn't help feeling the swelling guilt in his stomach's basement for having to work and leave you today, on the one day where partners are meant to be inseparably lovey-dovey. Two more hours, honey, and I'll be back with you.
Out in the hallway, no longer hidden in the safe confines of a closed room, Glen turns on his public personality to eleven as he walks past a shut door with another shiny star like his. Must be the interviewer, Glen thinks. For whatever reason, the video's director wanted the two not to meet beforehand. No explanations, rundowns, introductions, or even brief formalities. As an actor, he knew how to put on a performance - how to fake a raw reaction like he was just meeting the individual for the first time. He's done it plenty of times over the years. Strange.
Glen stops right behind the red curtain - the final barrier that separates the backstage from the spotlight. He takes one last breath, shoving the curtain to the side, and lifts an arm at the in-studio audience. As the brunette takes a seat at his designated chair to the right, Annie hears the crowd's rambunctious applause die down as she shuts Glen's door and raps her knuckles against the other star's door before entering. The smile that she was holding in for the past few minutes finally lifted. In front of her, you were standing in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror as you put the final touches to your appearance - positioning the black bow tie perfectly horizontal under your chin.
"How do I look?" you ask Annie, turning to face her and opening your arms so she can look at all of you.
"You look nice. The stylists did a number on you," she answers, leaning against the doorway. She stands as a barrier between you and the bustling backstage crew and nosy reporters, knowing that this is the first time you have done anything like this before. She wanted for both your recent developing friendship that has only sprouted further after Glen broke the news, and your husband's sake, for you to stay safe.
"Thanks," you chuckle, dropping your arms. "I actually dismissed them early, told them that I wanted to look just presentable - more natural than glammed up."
"Does he know?" you ask her, referring to Glen. For a brief moment, the ever-expanding prickling needles traveling through your bloodstream dulls and your heart grows not out of jitteriness but undying love for your husband.
"Not a single ounce of suspicion. Told him that the director wanted the interviewer and him not to meet before the shoot so they could capture his raw reaction. He nodded instantly, not questioning it. Then he was occupied by lovingly staring at pictures of you," she explains as you take one final glance at your reflection.
"Good to note. I can ask him about that in the interview," you respond, devoid of the front of enthusiasm that you wished to perform. Be funny; Play your part until the exaggeration is unnotably indifferent; You don't have the right personality, were some of your inner monologue's rambling that thrashed inside your head.
Annie catches you nervously brushing your shoulders. At nothing. "How do you feel, though?"
Your nerves flare, and your body freezes, stopping your ministrations. She read you like a children's book - clear and simple to follow. You step closer to her as you say, "I know sooner or later other producers are going to invite me to guest star with him, whether I want to or not. And I know Glen has been saying that his PR team has also been telling him that my inclusion is the best way to drive more support for him. It'll be a new trend to have an actor's and an actress's partners to interview them..."
You grimace as you trail off, remembering your husband muttering under his breath, "To humanize us," sandwiched between quiet curses as he restocked the pantry full of an assortment of protein bars for himself and Goldfish and Cheez-Its that he wasn't meant to touch, or at least he never brought up the truth to his personal trainer. "But, I also want to rip off the Band-Aid. I do. I know he won't let me flounder out there all by myself," you finish as tiny sparks burst from simmering determination.
"Good, 'cause I didn't want to fill in your shoes and have to explain your disappearance to the director," Annie jokes. She juts out her elbow, and you link arms as you share a laugh. Together, you take the thankfully brief walk to the same red curtain that your husband walked through no more than three minutes ago. Annie leads you to breathe with her - holding in the air for four seconds and exhaling for six - until you nod at her that you are now okay. She pats your shoulder and turns around to join the rest of Glen's team as they watch the live footage behind the scenes. It is only when you no longer hear the clacking of her heels that you push aside the hanging fabric and step on stage. Wow, it's bright.
Glen hears the crowd erupt around him, a wave of collective applause and short side comments at the figure entering. The camera swiftly turns as you step out, squinting, but you quickly recover into a bright smile. Your heart is racing, though you feel a slight sense of comfort at the warm reception, and you are a bit surprised by the cheers of people who recognized you. As you walk out of the coating bright light, the camera switches to focus on Glen's small smile, capturing his reddening face and the change in expression as he finally recognizes you walking closer to him. He briefly turns to face the camera, his smile falling, as he hopes it played into the joke of his shock at being set up.
The camera refocuses, zooming out to perfectly fit you standing next to your chair. You stare at your shocked husband, waiting for him to recuperate as you turn to the still cheering crowd with a mischievous grin. Brain malfunctioning, the brunette grounds himself by glancing you up and down. You were almost like an adorable penguin with your white button-down untucked over your black khakis. God, he couldn't wait to rip that dark bowtie off you. You lock eyes after a few moments, and it revitalizes Glen.
As you go to pull out your chair, he coolly springs up, chair scraping in disagreement, and walks around you to pull it out for you. He easily tucks you closer to the table, and you express your gratitude with a quiet, "Thank you," though you know that your mic still picked up.
Glen presses an insufficient kiss against your cheek, sea-blue eyes lidded. "Anything for you, sweetheart," he responds, breath fanning against the sensitive skin of your ear. Out of all of your thoughts, you ignore the many that want you to turn your head and press back into him as he leans over you, and you chew on the one that's focused on whether the camera is picking up the rising blush on your neck.
You hear a crew member in the back shout an unwithheld frustration, "You're ruining the shot," as your husband purposely blocks the camera's lens - his strappingly large frame covering you. He presses a minuscule button under his red lapel - where his tiny mic was secretly clipped to - and motions for you to do the same. The second your mic also shuts off; his shoulder's visible relax.
The brunette ignores the hundred or so fans in the audience that are either ogling each of your movements or dissecting the disposition of space and your changing facial expressions to break their completely credited revelations on Twitter. He can feel the restrained confusion blocked by his manager's patience; the years of working together have built a sturdy foundation of trust to look past this mistake, at least momentarily. And yet, your husband is proud to be your shield - to be the catalyst for a possible controversy because it would mean that fewer people online will focus on you. He'll take any and all online harassment if it means it would keep you safe.
His smile shifts when he says, "I'm here if you need me." It isn't the usual overly bright, pearly smile; rather, it is the softer, more genuine expression reserved for the late nights spent together cuddling. "Just be yourself, honey. They'll love you. I know I do."
When he follows you into a brief peck, he knows that it's going to get him an earful from his manager for keeping the intimate action between you, himself, and the audience in the stands, which are, again, freaking out and desirous that they still had their phones on them and weren't currently locked away in the lobby. As you pull away, you each flicker back on the other's mic. For the camera, Glen angles his frame and lifts up your hand to kiss the back of your left hand. He lingers for a moment, allowing the affection to heighten as your husband winks at you with a sly spark in his look. In less than two minutes total, Glen scrapes forward his chair as at last the video footage reflects both of you sitting together.
The table is draped in a wrinkle-free red sheet, adorned with three fake, flickering wax candles at its center. In front of where each of you is sitting, there's the shiniest silverware placed next to a white ceramic plate semi-covered in a folded pink napkin. Neither of you will be eating, at least it wasn't mentioned by Annie when she broke down the theme of this interview: Valentine's Day. She said overall it would be questions that prod at the details of your relationship. Nothing about movies. Solely focusing on Glen, you, and your love.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Powell," you say professionally, though you can't help the widening grin. The room's surrounding lights dim, practically shrouding the audience in darkness, so that you can only make out the whites of their eyes from your periphery.
Your husband shakes his head, chuckling. "You can call me Glen, sugar," his deep-seated country drawl in full force, "you really blindsided me. I thought I wouldn't see you until later. And here you are, handsome-as-ever."
"Alright, Glen, it is then. But please refer to me as Mr. Powell. I would like to keep it professional," you answer, the tension in your body easing. You still feel rigid, but as you focus on the brunette across from you and the way he's staring back at you like he still couldn't believe you were his interviewer, your heart settles incrementally into the standard semi-skipped beat around your husband.
He clears his throat before responding, deciding to play into the flirty dynamic. So, a usual afternoon. "No promises, sweetheart," he tones back his Southern accent, and winks again at you.
You hear approaching footsteps and turn as an intern brings you a stack of laminated cards. You thank him before grabbing the stack of interview questions, and he departs the stage. Glen follows his retreating figure, eyes snapping back onto you when you lay the hold the cards perpendicular to the table. You briskly shuffle through the questions to get a better idea of where this interview could end up, and you stop at one that forces you to hold back a laugh. Oh, let's see how this goes, you think. "Alright, Glen-" But the brunette man cuts you off.
"That's it, hon? You ain't gonna introduce yourself?"
"Oh, I don't need to introduce myself. I'm sure the audience will learn plenty about me from how much you choose to spill." However, you still raise your hand to show off the rings that your husband proposed and married you with. Your engagement band is a simple tungsten ring with a thick gold stripe around its center, while your marriage band is a matching fully dark obsidian-colored tungsten ring with the words "My Better Half" engraved inside. Glen also holds up his hand, an identical tungsten ring displayed next to his tilted head, and is poorly maintaining his smirk as it turns into a small, but powerfully affectionate, smile. "After all, this is an interview disguised as a date."
"We've already gone through these 21 questions on our first date," he lies. He reaches across the table and gently interlocks your hand - that isn't holding the interview cards - with his larger palm. "Think we've been together long enough to skip to the fun part."
You must power through, maintaining eye contact as you bite your tongue and feel the heat pool against your face from his innuendo. "Please, Mr. Powell, the questions." You pause briefly and give in. "Maybe later, though, you'll get lucky with your husband," you tease. It causes his eyes to widen, constructing a lustful challenge involving the endless possibilities he could have with you behind closed doors to celebrate Valentine's.
"So, if you will, Glen," he lifts his arms up in innocence and nods at you to continue. Your eyes drift to the bulging muscles stacked on his large arms from the movement, so you lift the cards higher to hopefully hide the blooming blush. "Let's start simple. How long have we been together?"
Glen tactfully responds with, "Married for 2 years, 7 months, and 18 days; 3 years, 5 months, and 14 days since our engagement; and our first date was on December 24th, 2016, so 9 years, 1 month, and 21 days since then. Which one were you lookin' for, sweetheart?" He feels you squeeze his palm, and he knows he read through the trick question.
"Next question, what's a meal you'd love for me to cook for you?"
"Skip."
"Skip? Glen, you can't skip a question."
"Hon, I can't answer that without havin' my trainer use the video evidence against me," he explains, turning to the camera with an incredulous look. "And it would mean even less time spent together."
"Alright, fine, but you used your only pass. You don't get any more." You can hear the slight creaking as the camera swaps angles as you flip through a few more questions. You ignore the brunette's puppy eyes and pout. "What's your favorite way we spend a lazy day together?"
You brace yourself, thinking he's going to answer something inappropriate, but he tricks you. He says in a wistfully deep gruff, "However you wish to spend it, sugar." The brushes against your knuckles are faster and a bit rougher - he's trying to ground himself rather than soothe you. It takes him a moment, and you watch him to analyze whether it'd be better if you move past the subject. He continues, "I know I'm always busy... It's only getting worse with every year that passes. If I'm not filming, then I'm training, preparing for another audition, or grabbing a flight. I can only bring you with me so often on set if you aren't busy with your job as well.
"Hell, even today on Valentine's I got roped into working," Glen's voice waivers off, a rare frown deeply embedded. He looks up at you when you squeeze his hand, his eyes are glassy with thin red lines snaking to eat his handsome blues. Without speaking, you ask him if he needs to step away with a tilt of your head. He can't help but chuckle - face lifting - since he's the one who should be asking you that. You are completely out of your element, and yet you eased into the interviewer role easily. You smile at him, and it's enough for him to find the missing words and flip his guilt. The brunette pulls back his hand with a final squeeze and clasps them under the table. He sniffles, setting up the shot, before he reverently looks up at you with intense affection and says, "I was thrilled when I saw you walk in. It meant today wasn't a total loss."
"It never is, Glen. Not with you."
You don't pull away from his gaze, not yet; you allow the moment to linger. You didn't do it for a strong emphasis to conclude the scene, no, you couldn't care less about the video produced from this. You needed to reassure your husband that there wasn't an ounce of doubt in your words, that with your whole heart you meant every word.
The rest of the hour passes with more teasing and boyish grins. You purposely start slowly, choosing simple questions that focus on yourself and your past with Glen. He describes the first time you ran into each other, literally, how endless apologies slipped out of your mouth, and you asked if you could make up to him by buying him a new coffee. He even tells how he didn't know it then, but followed the unconscious feeling that he wanted himself to be your friend, so he agreed and wrote down his number on your receipt.
You both laugh after the brunette jumped to retell your disastrous first date. Glen - wanting to impress you - had the bright idea of picking you up from your apartment with his newly purchased luxurious car. Well, for more than three hours you had been circling the crowded New York streets for even the tightest parking spot and came up just short time and time again. When you had turned to the brunette to call it quits, your reservation having long passed more than an hour ago, the plastic and wrapping paper cradling the bouquet of roses crinkled in your lap, and you placed your hand on his knee to tell him so. You ended that retelling by highlighting how the date wasn't a total waste, as you had grabbed some takeout Chinese food and put on a movie. The full memory resurfacing, he adds that that was the start of some of the best sleep of his life.
"Glen, we were hunched over each other all night, and when we woke, we both complained of feeling sore in joints we didn't know we had," you point out.
"Yeah," he says breathlessly, and it wasn't from the laughter. "Well worth it to have you so close."
You asked him about the small moments, about other silly instances that will get him to break out of a slump on his off days, the cute small gestures that mean more than anything, his favorite inside joke of yours, and what he thinks the most dashing compliment he has ever given you has been. When he lifts an eyebrow at you, and before the words could smoothly glide in the space between you, you stop him. You hide behind the question cards, even though you know the camera can still capture you, as you verbalize that no matter what he was going to say would've made you blush.
"It wouldn't count."
"Think I shoulda just said I don't need words. Right, hon?" You don't agree, at least not verbally. You can feel your heart drumming against the cartilage prison of your ribs, starstruck from the gallantly dashing smirk and the spotlights casting a warm tan glow with emerging sweat descending his sharp cheeks and coating the scruff of his beard.
The final question for the interview has you ask Glen about the future. You could've asked him about what a time-jump twenty years in the future would look like, what upcoming trip he has planned, or if there were any adventures with you from the past that he would like to resurface. No, you know the answers to all of those already. Instead, you ask, "What is a change you wish to implement this year?"
"I want to spend more time with you," he winks with that same radiant smile. This isn't an exaggeration nor a play into his persona; he was being genuine. "And with Brisket, of course."
After the audience files out in wavering droves, the surrounding lights re-emerge, and you two are left alone with a handful of crew members. You both pose for a few promotional pictures, Glen's favorite of the three, which you are definitely going to get Annie to send you later, is of him kneeling with his hands raised as he practically worships your figure. He's going to make that his phone's next wallpaper. And when the camera crew looked away, they missed the perfect accompanying shot of Glen kissing your ring. Luckily, Annie didn't.
You head back to Glen's room as he filmed a few extra scenes for promotional clips of your video. He almost asked for you to also be in them, but you pulled away from him and gave him a look that both said, "It's fine" and "I'm tired anyway," which assured him enough to drop it. Five minutes turn to ten minutes, you pass the agonizing period by awkwardly switching between uncomfortable positions against and on the lumpy couch before you compose yourself unknowingly in the exact same position that Glen was in a few hours ago. Down to the similarly replicated blockage of the room's harsh, bright light with your held phone. It's only when you no longer hear the grounding vibrations from your husband's brisk steps that you pull away from your screen. What a sight you were met with.
Before you stood Glen, grinning, his massive figure imposing. The maroon fabric of his shirt was forced forward as his heaves jutted in tandem with his buff chest. His wide, sturdy shoulders made the shirt look a size too small, which it might honestly be. Directly next to your head was the barely overhanging hem, a black leather belt accentuating his toned waist, and in between was the brush of brown of his happy trail that paved up to his ripped abs. You're ogling at this point, but you wouldn't - couldn't rip your eyes away.
"Later, sugar," he said, voice reaching a deeper octave now that you're both out of the public's eye, dragging out the last syllable in the pet name. He outstretches his arm, and you finally look away; however, you must rapidly blink away to not trail and linger over his bulging bicep, even when not flexing. He lifts you to your feet easily, and with an arm on your waist molding you into his side, you walk out the back entrance of the filming studio. Fortunately, it seemed like all the crew members were busy, or more than likely, had already gone home to their partners after being dismissed early. You both were able to briefly catch Annie, thanking her for the support, before the three of you parted ways.
Entering the shiny black limousine felt like a striking whiplash. Never-ending differences between New York's dirty, crowded, and yet still familiarly memorable streets, when compared to the soft fuzz of the velvet seats with the faint lingering odor of the overly abundant arrangements of orchids, lavenders, and roses. One rested in your lap - just like that same first date almost a decade ago in Glen's car - and the rest created a wall on the seats across from you two. Even through it all, some things never seemed to change.
The limousine constantly stopped, the supposed thirty-minute commute taking more than an hour. But you and Glen didn't mind. Hidden behind the deeply tinted opaque windows, the mobile confine was filled with your shared soft - nearly inaudible - voices, half-full champagne glasses, and the messy streaks of gooey chocolate on your fingertips as you plucked pieces from the ginormous heart-shaped container and fed each other.
When the limousine finally reached your destination, you could clearly hear past the quiet hum of the engine a cacophony of waiting fans and demanding paparazzi. You tilted your head on your husband's shoulder to catch his reaction when he too heard the first snap of a camera. A tidal wave of roaring flashes that sounded like professional tap dancing followed. Glen's eyebrows furrowed, slight creases etching out the corners of his eyes, and he tightened his hold around your waist. Even after all these years, he still doesn't understand how reporters and paparazzi were able to find him when he never left a visible trace to predict. He hadn't even taken you out to this restaurant before.
"I'll step out first," he says more to himself, psyching himself up to put back on his cheery mask for the public. He stops midway through pulling the door's handle, he looks back at you, and gives your right arm one final squeeze with his free hand. You nod, a genuinely appreciative smile displayed for you and only you. It's enough for him to play into the public's devoted attention, standing on the curve and raising his arm for the surrounding cameras. He turns back to the limousine, bending over to tug you out of the vehicle. Selfishly, his voice booms as he excuses the two of you and instantly starts pulling you behind him and into the restaurant.
He looks back at you constantly, his large frame assertively forcing its way through the enclosing crowd. He has a death grip on your wrist that tightens incrementally with each shoulder that knocks into his. The shutting doors behind you eases his tension, but even as he releases a held breath, he still refuses to unlatch his hand. The hostess leads you behind a red satin curtain reserved for the private room held solely for celebrities and walks away after telling you two that your waiter will be with you shortly.
Glen hadn't unlatched himself from your figure ever since the elevator doors closed, finally blocking the public eye and granting you two the needed privacy after too many hours. The date had run smoothly, filled with delicious, decadent cuisine and teasing banter, first about the interview until your husband shut the gates on talking about work to ask you about yourself. The space felt light, familiar, and all too adoring as he devotedly listened to you talk about anything but.
The elevator dinged as it rose past another floor, the increasing number's red light illuminating the brunette's actions against your neck. Sensual kisses that had peaking nibbles against your pulse point, his arms seized around your waist, tense from the strain as you could feel his thick pecs pressed against your back. You knew he had been holding himself back all day. You knew he wanted to make this day perfect for you to pour all his love into you. Honestly, you're surprised he had waited so long, as you noticed his body buzzing in the limousine ride back, endless and dutiful restraint. Perhaps he would've snapped and lost himself in lust sooner if the paparazzi had found you two on your way out of the restaurant. You will definitely need to go back to that restaurant again and personally thank that waiter for mentioning the secret entrance in the back early in your meal.
You felt the rough glide of Glen's jean-covered pelvis grind against the dip of your lower back, his tree-trunk-like thighs knocking against you as he tried to find the best position to let you feel all of him. There is an insurmountable amount of desire that is fueling him, like a starved man finally allowed to give in. He drags you back into his muscular form as you try to pull forward, since the doors creak open to the hallway of your penthouse suite. You try again, stop when you feel the deep vibrations from his chest echoing into you as he doesn't let go.
"Glen, this is our stop," you explain, voice quiet as you didn't want to burst the intimate bubble.
His head cranes further, beard scratching pleasantly, and warm huffs of air fanning over your neck as he tries to dig deeper into you. His forearms graze up your body as he shifts and locks them in a compact, tense hug around your chest. You feel him kiss the underside of your jaw, approving you to move forward. Together, you awkwardly shuffle together with the large man practically dwarfing you as he leans most of his weight on your back, each step a challenging reminder of the inevitable. Your heart's racing, you were both so lucky to not have any surrounding neighbors. In the distance, you can hear the elevator shut and descend as another tenant called for it, probably on their way out to drink their grief away at a local bar.
You nearly fall forward as you twist and push open your door, the slight change in angle causing Glen to somehow pull you even closer, finally feeling his hardening length. He grunts, a wave of chills sliding down his limbs from the brief touch. Letting go of you only momentarily, and only partially, the brunette swipes at the door, grabs the keys from your palm, clicks the lock back into place, reaches up to sheath the golden chain lock, and turns on the suite's security system. He turns back into you, arm rewrapping around your shoulder to tilt your head and begin an assault of kisses and licks in a trail from your jaw down to your chin and finally up to your lips. He doesn't reach the final destination as he pauses, hearing the pitter-patter and a couple of yips from Brisket as he walks in from the couch, you presume.
"Hi, Brisket," you can feel the widening grin against your cheek. The terrier-poodle looked up at his two dads, tilting his golden head as if he was trying to decipher why his Padre - as Glen refers to himself - was glued to your back.
As soon as you feel Glen's grip start to loosen, you crouch to give plenty of pets to Brisket. He licks the air near your face out of blissful enjoyment. "What have you been up to? Huh?" you teasingly ask your dog as you cascade your palm through the long, luscious fur. Your husband's lust subsides temporarily, too enamored with the view of seeing his two important and favorite men together. It produced a familiar warmth that nudged into the crevices of his bones, especially pooling at his pelvis. The brief interaction ended as Brisket got bored and decided to trot over to sunbathe in the corner of the living room before the sun kissed the sky good night, splitting the intense passion with mind-numbing love.
After the past few minutes, you finally face each other again, and at the moment you stand straight, he lunges forward and kisses you. His large hands scramble to grab at any piece of you as he deepens the kiss, never settling as he goes back and forth between your shoulders and hips. You feel him licking your bottom lip, asking for permission, and immediately entering the cavern of your mouth when your lips part. When his hands settle against your clothed waist, patiently waiting for the soft skin there, he leads you past the kitchen and through the small hallway into your bedroom.
Your tongues dance, an equal part of concentrated vigorousness, as Glen doesn't take charge. At least not for tonight. He lets you push and pull his head whichever direction your heart desires as your hands hold fistfuls of brown locks. The wet smacks are louder when the brunette kicks the door closed. Your eyes close as you fully trust your husband as he leads you back into the California king-sized bed, not that his eyes were open either. It's a gentle fall as he carries most of your weight, lips still attached to yours, and he follows you.
Leaning on his forearms over you, to not crush you with his weight, at least not yet, the position gives him the perfect position to grind against you. Warm puffs of air, tongues twisting and pushing in perfect symmetry, and the grinding draws out your hearts to pump faster and faster. But it could only feel so good, with the clothes preserving the raw feel of your skin like armor. His hardening, trapped cock pulsed harshly, needing to be freed and feel you against him. It wasn't a desire; it was vital.
"Mr. Powell, I need you," Glen huskily whispers against your right ear, a momentary tease that will soon be forgotten as he circles back to the professional title you asked him to use earlier.
"What are you waiting for, Mr. Powell?" you tease back, hands raising to cup his face. As much as he wishes to cuddle against your palms and continue to gaze at you like you were the moon itself, Glen rips away from you.
The two of you shuck off your clothes, socks first, as both your shoes were left somewhere forgotten in the hallway when you kicked them off. When he tugs over his maroon shirt, he crawls back over to you to help you unbutton your white shirt. He chuckles when he finds your bowtie already on the ground. "I wanted to take that off you," he grumbles as he unbuckles and cleanly unfastens his belt. You mirror each other as you both kick off your pants and pull down your underwear. His darkening eyes just about vibrate as he ogles your naked figure. You take him in, too, mountains of muscles on every inch of his tanned skin from the simmering heat of his desires.
His length swells, thickening when his eyes lock on your half-hard member. You sprawled out under him like you were a feast to be served to feed a king pulls him back into you. This time, your lips only meet once, a sweet reminder that has him form a small smile, before he trails kisses down your form: chin, jaw, shoulder, chest, your heart multiple times until he feels it skip a beat from his affection, ribs, and stomach. He gives a quick, all too brief, playful kiss against the head of your cock, your body jolting from the tease. His large fingers brush against your inner thighs before he shuffles back and lifts them up to rest your calves against his sturdy shoulders. You wish you weren't in the middle of taking a deep breath as the air catches in your throat when your husband begins to repeatedly lick against your taint.
He groans when he feels your hand back in his hair, tugging him down lower. He obliges, his lips barely opening as his tongue swirls around your hole, diving deeper when he hears you whimper a few times, your fingers scrunching and scraping against his skull. Head a buzz from hearing your cute reactions, he lets go of one of your thighs and grabs his rock-hard rod that's been jumping impatiently against the smooth quilt's fabric. Instantly warm shocks shoot up beyond his core as he tugs himself, his hand nothing comparable to one of your own, but enough for tonight, as he roughly pulls at his cock in preparation of being inside you, every so often twisting and flicking his thumb over the precum leaking from the head's slit to coat himself. As his tongue digs deeper into your folds, his arm moves faster, unrelenting. The constant hours working out in the gym have caused his stamina to increase tenfold over the years, but if he wasn't careful, he would blow too soon. He could never do that to you, especially not tonight.
All at once, he pulls back, lips puffy and chin covered in some of his slobber, your hole clenching against the cool empty air. He can't help the growing grin on his face, even as he lets go of his large cock, the rigid veins pumping blood, forcing him to shake from the lack of movement and pressure, the mushroom head a deep, angry red. Kneeling with your heels digging into his shoulders, his abs flex and deflate in prevention before the irresistible view. Even though he's still left with abundant energy, his light panting expands his massive figure as he towers over you.
"Glen," you murmur. His dark Caribbean-blue eyes lock onto yours, his cock twitching in a mix of glee from you seeking his attention and abstemiousness. Before you can lift your head, Glen is already there - his handsome face centimeters from yours, that brushes momentarily when he tucks a pillow under your head. You whisper, "I need you."
His face scrunches, biting back a groan as he feels your cocks touch from his twitching. It's difficult to collect himself, heart exuberantly racing, still partly panting, and his skin readily overcharged as his body hesitantly hovers over yours. He forces a deep breath before saying, "I know, sweetheart. But I still need to prep you first."
He tucks his face against your cheek, warmth tickling your right ear as he raises his left hand and sticks two fingers into his mouth. It's intentional; he wants you to hear the rough noises he's making for you as he laps at his three thick fingers. You know he isn't playing it up, forcing it, putting on an act or a show for you - this is your husband passionately wanting you to understand even an ounce of the catastrophe of emotions that you stir inside him. With a quiet pop, his fingers break away, a tiny line of drool webbing between his wet lips and a digit. You shiver and groan when you feel him lick at his drool that dripped onto your cheek.
Like he did with his tongue, he circles around your hole teasingly, then plunges a single large digit in. He peppers kisses on different parts of your face, trying to distract you as he works his finger deeper until it reaches his knuckle. He knows there isn't a point at the moment, but he wiggles the finger, seeking your prostate to no avail. Though he does think your shaking is cute. To prepare for a second finger, he kisses you on the lips, knowing that the electricity shared between you is enough for the other finger to join the first. As soon as he starts to scissor your clenching folds, your lips part in a whimper that forces him to deepen the kiss, to try and swallow how he's making you feel.
His cock jumps, slapping against the margin against his flexing abs as he gets to feel first-hand how much pleasure he's giving you. By the time he's ready to plunge his third necessary digit, your body is covered in a thin veil of sweat, fire-y hot, and uncontrollably trembling. This time, he does get to swallow your whimper and the many following as he continues to stretch you. You tap against the side of his neck, a sign that he knows means you were prepared enough and want to feel him - the hot, heavy, hard, and thick length of his cock.
He steadily pulls away, mouth leaving yours first, so he could hear the breathless moan when his fingers leave you empty. His body shudders when he pulls away from your close proximity, kneeling as he strokes himself a few more times to reapply his precum thoroughly across his glistening, large rod, eyes never leaving yours. With his free hand, he plucks another pillow from behind you, easily lifts your lower body, and inserts it under your lower back, slightly angling you while supporting your hips. He wanted to love you, not hurt you.
You lather your fingers in some of the precum that pooled onto and surrounding your cock, it jumped at the small touch of attention, and you reach further down to grab his length. His groan is loud, bounding from deep within the chasms deep in his chest and filling the room when he finally feels your hand wrap around his cock. He can't help the poorly held back thrusts that has your grip sliding back and forth across him, an insistent pulse flooding each of the protruding veins from feeling you. Glen re-grabs your calves, lifting them off his shoulder and bending your legs forward until your knees are inches away from your shoulders.
He groans your name, "Come on. Guide me into you."
His chest rumbles, and you stop breathing when you feel his bulbous head poke repeatedly against your awaiting hole. After all that time and preparation, it's still humongous, bigger than your stretched hole. He eases his hips forward, the further stretch shooting tendrils of pain that currently conceal your pleasure. Glen moves his hands lower, now holding onto the junction between your knees and thighs as he works himself farther and farther into you. His large frame covers yours, beads of sweat dripping onto you from his expanding large chest covered in stubble of dark hair. He stops for a minute when he's halfway through, his cock twitches angrily in disagreement. Your husband waits until your body's grip turns from a push to a pull, signifying that the pain has finally subsided.
He apologizes against your skin and pushes the rest of the way in, causing you to scream from the intrusion's pleasure. The full feeling doesn't last too long as Glen already begins to glide back and forth, his cock's lust shouting louder than the logical thoughts that try to break through his overworked heart. For no more than a second, you feel his pelvis grind into you - a delicious scratch against your ass from the shaven hairs surrounding his pubic bone - before his cock pulls back again to restart the cycle. You don't know what's causing you more pleasure, it all blurs together as the thrusts steadily pick up in their pace.
Glen pulls out for too long; he shifts his body as his hand curls into a fist that holds himself in this new angle. He circles his hips, smearing more precum against your entrance before plunging back all the way, hitting your prostate directly. You gasp, neck snapping forward from the surge of pleasure to rest your forehead against your husband's wide, tense right shoulder. Bingo, Glen praises himself. He presses a long kiss against the dip between your eyebrows, pressing your head back against the plush pillow beneath you. Grinning down at you until a groan escapes his lips, he continues to shove deeper, quicker into you, all thrusts directed toward that little spot inside you.
Your rushed breathing is in sync, both your hearts trying to break through your chests, and your shared gaze never faltering from the other's contact. Glen begins to jackhammer into you, his cock barely maneuvering out of you as he shifts into rapid, deep thrusts against your prostate. As your body clenches tighter against his cock, your folds morph into a perfect vice grip that pulls against the large length's steel ridges. The sound of Glen's thick thighs slapping against your ass causes your hazy mind to remind you how lucky it was that you two didn't have any neighbors.
You revert back to whimpers and gasps when Glen shifts lower again to hold your legs down with his shoulders, head directly above yours, and his free hand pulls at your length. It's like your body was waiting for your husband's contact, as you suddenly feel that familiar, ready-to-burst coil in the pit of your stomach. When you break eye contact from the brunette, gaze trailing further and further up as the sensations feel too much - your husband's passionate jackhammering, the hand around your cock, and the close, dedicated, secure proximity. But he couldn't help it, no, not tonight. Glen cranes his neck up, following you until you're looking back into his dark eyes as he pours every ounce of love that he has for you into you. More than he needed to feel you against him, he needed the constant reinforcement that you were blissfully loving every second, every touch, every bit of him against you.
He groans out your name for a second time, "I need you to let go, please. Can you do that for me, sugar?"
And with the loud slaps, the overwhelming fullness, the jolting waves of pleasure, you do. You throb against his large palm, shooting your cum over your stomach as you scream. The first actually landed against Glen's abs, your warm liquid immediately trying to seep its way past his skin to join his being. He continues to jerk you through your high until your body convulses and your limbs feel like heavy pudding from the lack of strength. You shake when he pulls his hand away, looking down at the remnants of your pleasure streaking his fingers. The sight is enough to break him.
Glen's breathing picks up, his heart pounding in his ears as he uses your body for his pleasure. Your hole is slick from the insurmountable amount of leaking precum that has been coating into you through his thrusting. His low-hanging, hairless, robust balls slap against your ass cheeks as he pushes and pushes into you furiously as he chases his own pleasure. Your shared memories, the special occasions, and the spur from the hopeful future he has in mind with you blur the feeling of his heart and soul as he drives in again and again. The shiny glint from the ring on your finger is what causes him to snap.
Your husband spills into you with a deep groan against your neck, the pleasure all too much and yet still not enough. He doesn't stop pounding into you as your body clenches tight against him again when you feel his load continuously shoot and spread into you. For what feels like a euphoric eternity for Glen, he continues to cum and jackhammer into you for another minute as he makes sure that he has absolutely nothing left to give to you. In his last thrust, his bulbous head presses against your prostate in a loving reminder and a kiss. He chuckles at hearing your heart rate spike, his muscular figure finally giving in and lying over you. You feel all of him, his exuding heat, the muscles, and his familiar weight.
Together you both lay there for a handful of minutes, both not wanting to come down from the thrilling, enchanting, hazy daze and not wanting to pull apart just yet. You feel your chests pressed against each other, your hearts cheerfully applauding at how close the two of you finally are. Glen is the one to break the intimacy; he reluctantly pulls his softening length out of you. When you hiss from the emptiness and the breach of chilling air, the brunette wraps his arms around your shoulders - just beneath the pillow - and his hands span across your back in soothing, hopefully distracting, random drawings.
You pull his frame back against you when you feel the damp warmth of his skin fleetingly retract. "Stay," you whisper against the silent night.
He smiles against your cheek, heart leaping at your singular spoken word. "Hon, I'll be right back. I've gotta clean you up," he replies, voice low and still that octave deeper when it's just you two in private without an accompanying audience. "I'm going to step over to our bathroom and grab a towel for you. Is that okay?"
You almost wanted to make out with him and get him reinvigorated enough to get him back in you from that final question. Almost. He always put you first, like his heart was beating inside your chest instead of his. Instead, you say, "Yeah. That sounds perfect," with a nod.
His face is tight, eyebrows scrunched, and eyes narrowed in that concentrated look when he fully lowers your body down and steps off the body. He wants to give in and fall back into your arms, but chooses to feed that thought by looking past you and into the attached bathroom. He walks no more than fifteen feet to your left, but for both of you, it feels like you're continents apart. You hear him shut off the faucet's water and twist the towel to squeeze out a majority of the water; you also hear the rushing water of your bathtub filling. That sounds nice right about now.
Glen walks back in with one of your extra grey hand towels, looking disheveled, and you know you must look something similar. His chestnut waves are a tired mess, his lips swollen with drying saliva in surrounding spots, the tan skin of his shoulders, arms, and chest is highlighted in a thinning red from the simmering heat, and his pelvis, cock, balls, and thighs have smears and streaks of his drying cum. He stands beside the bed as he wipes himself off first, smiling brighter than the bathroom's white light. He's extra gentle when he glides the towel over your stomach, cock, and around and over your puffy entrance.
When he's done, he rhetorically asks you, "Do you think you could stand?" He knows you can't, but still his following vibrant laugh causes your eyes to well with tears rather than roll them, like you had done too often at the start of your relationship. "I've got you," he says, wrapping an arm under your thighs and another supporting your back as he carries you into the bathroom.
Glen tests the water with his big toe, deeming the temperature soothingly warm for you as he carefully maneuvers you into the tub. You lean forward, Glen steps in behind you, and he pulls you back into his thick chest once he settles in with his muscular legs, entrapping you between him. The next twenty minutes are difficult to recall, your brain rapidly shutting down for the night as you focus on your husband's steady heartbeat against your back. He was behind you, and that's all that mattered. Glen didn't mind taking care of you as he tenderly washed your body as you rested between the state of consciousness and unconsciousness.
His voice sounded distant when you hear him whisper your name against the shell of your ear. "Can you stand? Think I'll drop ya' if I try to get us both out of here at once."
Still half in a daze, you listen to your husband's voice. You peel off him, stand, and your feet plant against the soft fabric of the bathroom's rectangular rug. You didn't notice, but Glen's hands followed your body's movements - ready to catch and save you if need be. The brunette stands, pulls the bathtub's plug, and steps out to join you on the carpet. He pats your shoulder twice, both to ground himself and make sure that you stay awake for the moment, before walking around you to grab a towel. The plush fabric drags through your hair, then falls up and down the rest of your body until Glen deems you dry enough for you to finally rest in peace.
He's very quick to work through his own hair and muscular form, tossing the wet towel into the hamper beside the doorway. You ignore the feeling of the room spinning, pressing further into the meat of Glen's pec while he carries you back to the bed. Your husband pushes aside the two leftover pillows, rips off a corner of the quilt, and tucks you in. He followed right behind you, pulling the quilt back up over you two, latching against your side as you share the same pillow.
"I love you," you mumble.
"Love you more." Your husband's lips press against the back of your head, eyes closing in quiet contentment. "Happy Valentine's Day, sweetheart."
Author's Note 2: I DON'T KNOW WHERE THAT BIT OF SLIGHT ANGST CAME FROM. I APOLOGIZE. (I love how these have just turned into my reactions of my work, like I wasn't there writing it💀).
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