summary: falling for your gorgeous, 6'4, fire chief slash superhero roommate is bad enough- falling for the guy everyone else wants is its own kind of torture. you try to move on, but it's useless; clark kent has fought enough fires to know when one's about to ignite.
firefighter ! clark kent x roommate ! reader
themes: ...guys... hear me out. clark's still superman, but he's also a firefighter. mutual pining. omfg, he's a gentleman. you're a journalist at the planet, jimmy's your bff. so super proud of this one, enjoy!!
You never believed in the cliché of falling in love with your roommate. Ever. You used to read books, gossip columns, agony aunt submissions with an eye roll and a scoff; wondering how on earth people could be silly enough to fall in love with somebody they could never have.
But then, it happened to you.
At exactly 1:03am on a Saturday morning, after crashing through the front door; holding your too-high heels by the straps, rummaging around the fridge for something quick and delicious to eat. You’d tried to be quiet, you swear, but the drink had gone to your head and before you knew it, Clark appeared; leaning on the doorframe leading into his room.
Tousled dark hair, white shirt, plaid pyjama bottoms that always hung slightly too low. Grinning. Looking so incredibly attractive, so incredibly Clark, that you dropped the package of something microwavable you’d been holding.
It hit the floor with a dull thud as he walked towards you, picking it back up.
“Good night?” he’d smirked slightly, placing the packet back in the fridge. You frowned.
“I was gonna eat that.”
“You hate those things,” he said as-a-matter-of-factly, reaching into a cupboard above the stove and pulling out a pan, “Go on, sit down. Pancakes okay?”
“You don’t have to do that,” you told him, but you were already hoisting yourself up onto one of the stools.
“I know.” Clark had said back, quietly, back turned to you as he gathered everything he needed. “I want to.”
You didn’t question him. He asked you about your night, laughing at all the right points, remembering all the right things. Did your friend get that job she really wanted? Did the other one finally leave her cheating boyfriend? How did they all get home, are they safe? You know you could have called him instead of getting the subway, right? He has a car and it could do with a spin around.
At precisely 1:44am that very same night, you slotted into bed with a pounding heart, racing thoughts and the sickly, sweet realisation that you had officially fallen for the wholesome farm-boy propaganda that was, Clark Kent.
It all made sense to you then. You were going out more, drinking more, trying not to be around him more for a reason- and the reason was that.
Clark was having to stir up a fresh batch of pancake batter every weekend now, and sometimes he even had it ready for you when you stumbled through those doors; heels off, barefoot, humming the last tune you heard before hastily leaving the club.
He’d asked you about it once, why you had a sudden interest in all the partying. Your friend group hadn’t changed. Your job at The Daily Planet was going exceedingly well- promotions left, right and centre. Clark sat you down with a furrowed brow, tending to a cut on your knee that you’d earnt stumbling over someone’s bag at the bar, and asked, “You sure everything's okay?”
And you’d nodded, forcing a smile. Told him he was being silly; you were just making up for lost time, that was all; for all those nights spent bored and brain-dead cooped up inside, an unread book cracked at the spine on your lap.
Of course, you knew you couldn’t tell him the real reason you were out so much. The truth as to why whenever he’d get home from the station, still in his heavy work gear and dirtied tank top, you weren’t there to greet him anymore.
You had- agonisingly- become the very cliché you once despised. Only it was so much worse for you, because not only was Clark your roommate; he was also your best friend. Your superhuman, super kind and super sexy best friend, that was so noble and good that he had made saving people his entire life's work.
When he wasn’t thousands of feet in the sky, scanning for danger, he was on call at the Metropolis Fire Department; half his bunker gear hanging at his waist. When he wasn’t pushing collapsing buildings upright, he was wading through them in full uniform; voice assertive, tone steady, leading his crew with such confidence you often wondered how nobody had put two and two together yet.
So, yeah. You’d become one of those. A victim of Clark's, of Superman's; a stereotypical case study for the exact trope you used to find ridiculous.
You watched him now from the comfort of your couch, TV remote on your lap. He'd given it to you well over thirty minutes ago, but this was the first morning you'd spent together all week; regardless of how painful it was, you didn't want to waste it absent-mindedly flicking through channels you couldn't give less of a crap about. You owed him this, at least; your full, undivided attention.
"So," Clark started, pushing his glasses up with a soapy knuckle. You didn't know why he still wore them around you; it wasn't like they worked on you anymore. "How's work going?"
"You already asked me that,"
"Am I not allowed to ask you again?" he said rhetorically. You could almost hear the smile in his voice. "Humour me, please. I like hearing you talk."
For a second, your heart threatened to do that thing again; that weird, excruciating throb, a reaction to Clark doing or saying literally anything.
You shoved it to the back of your mind, fast.
"There's nothing more to say," your shrug was light, "I... had a bagel for lunch,"
"Riveting."
"Broke the printer, but fixed it again..."
"Proud of you."
"...And Lois helped me rewrite a article,"
"That your emotional friend?"
"No," you frowned, "That's Jimmy."
"Ah." Clark nodded, drying his hands on the lemon-printed tea towel beside him. He shifted to face you fully, leaning back against the counter with an easy curiosity. “And what article was Lois helping you with?”
Heat crept up your neck, and you ducked your gaze, suddenly fascinated with anything that wasn’t Clark’s eyes.
Because what began as a straightforward, neutral piece on the city’s social and political landscape had… evolved. First, into a decidedly not biased profile of Metropolis’s greatest protector- Clark’s caped counterpart, Superman.
And then, somehow, without your consent or control, it spiralled further. The boring filler article mutated into a full-blown, fifteen-thousand-word love letter to Superman’s legacy; the fit of his suit, the meaning of the symbol on his chest and- embarrassingly- whatever miracle hair product kept his curls in place.
Lois helped you with every unnecessary amendment; eyebrow permanently raised, pen cap chewed to pulp between her teeth. Someone's got a crush, she'd muttered, tapping the backspace button with a force that made you wince every time.
"Uh... it's just... a human interest piece," you lied, giving him an unconvincing smile. Thankfully, Clark didn't seem to notice.
"Well, when it gets front page, and your name's in the 'byline'," he smiled, fingers mimicking quotation marks at his correct use of journalist jargon, "I expect to be the very first person to read it. Before all of Metropolis. Deal?"
Your shoulders relaxed. A light laugh escaped your lips. He came over, holding out a massive pinky finger, waiting for yours to hook around it.
You did so, trying to ignore the red-hot temperature of your face that felt anything but appropriate.
"Deal."
Clark left not long after, flashing you a charming smile and making you promise- again- to call if you needed anything. Not that you ever would; he was always so busy at the station that you’d feel guilty letting the phone ring for more than a second.
You'd visited him before. Once. Three years ago, when you first moved in and saw that Clark had left his phone at home. You were about to leave, but the screen flashed with fifteen missed calls from a Ma and the guilt tugged at you hard enough that you detoured to the station on your way to brunch to hand it over.
You'd been wearing something tight and black with boots to match, the outfit a direct correlation to the boozy afternoon you were determined to have. At this point, Clark was nothing more than your new roommate; not even a friend yet, though he greeted you with freshly baked cookies and a lovely welcome card on your first official moving-in day.
And yet, he insisted on taking you to brunch. During work hours- his work hours. In the fire engine.
"Uh, Chief," one of the burly men- Jason, had said, scratching the nape of his neck as Clark opened the door for you and insisted you get in. "I don't know if this is a good idea."
"I'll be back in twenty, bud," Clark had said dismissively, though his voice still held that kind, steady tone. "Just down to the bar and back, okay? Don't want the lady walking alone."
It was 1pm. Daylight. On a very busy Saturday, mind you.
Yet you kept your mouth shut, legs dangling over the oversized seat of the engine, your body nothing but a bundle of nerves under all that buzz.
You both spent the ride talking, getting to know each other, as if you hadn't just moved the last of your things in the night before. You learnt that Clark was a Fire Chief, a life-long dream of his, and grew up in Kansas; he learnt that you were a reporter at The Daily Planet, fresh-faced and new, one day hoping to score an exclusive interview with someone exciting- someone like Superman.
He'd bitten his lip to keep from smiling. Months later, when he finally told you about his secret, you'd tried to swallow the embarrassment of swooning over him, to him, countless times before. He'd laughed, shook his head, nudged your shoulder and told you not to be silly. It was fine.
But it didn't feel fine. It felt intimate; knowing something like this about Clark. Flashes of him fighting whatever threat decided to grace the city that day made your heart do things it never had before, and the worst part was that he had no idea.
On the bright side, now you didn't worry so much when he ran into burning buildings. You knew he could take it, his biggest problem being restraint. It was the relentless space demons that invaded the earth every two weeks that got you.
"You should tell him," Jimmy said nonchalantly over the phone, and you envisioned him still in his bed; hair a mess, legs dangling off the side, no plans to move anytime soon to get his day off started.
You were all like that on your days away from the Planet. Overly-punctual and typically-structured Lois was probably still asleep, and it was almost lunchtime.
"I am not doing that,"
"You know that thing where you call me, ask me for advice, and don't take it?" he asked, "Yeah, maybe let's not do that anymore,"
You groaned, leaning your head back against the sofa. You hadn't moved since Clark left; you couldn't bring yourself to. "I'm sorry, I know, I need to shut up. I'm just..."
"In love. It's gross, I hate seeing you this way,"
"Wow. Thanks."
"I just think maybe you need a distraction. I keep telling you, I have this friend-"
You sighed, "Jimmy, I am not letting you set me up with an actor. They're the worst!"
"But Jack's nice-"
"Jimmy."
"You're no fun. When was the last time you even went on a date?"
"...Uh..."
"When was the last time Clark went on a date?"
"What?" you glared at nothing, "Why would you ask me that?"
"Answer the question."
You tried to remember. It was difficult; your days with Clark were all starting to merge into one and you couldn't really pinpoint when he'd last been out with a woman other than you- or if he even had since you moved in.
It definitely wasn't because of the lack of interest; everybody wanted Clark Kent. You weren’t clueless. He was a catch, and literally every citizen in Metropolis was well aware. The man was unfairly attractive, an actual gentleman, and spent his days protecting the city in more ways than one.
If Clark wasn’t being lured to fake emergencies so he could be eye candy at some bachelorette party, Superman was being thirst-tweeted under the hashtag #SuperDick. You couldn't win.
You thought, maybe he was just being considerate, refusing to bring a date home when he knew you'd be there just in case it made them- or even you- feel weird. Maybe he went to their places instead. Maybe, you cringed, not wanting to think about it but having no choice- he took them to the fire engine.
You gagged. Jimmy startled.
"What the-"
"Jimmy. I need to get over him."
"Atta girl," he yawned, the phone rustling to indicate movement on the other line, "Let's do this. Are you free tonight?"
You fiddled with the sleeves of your hoodie- Clark's, actually, he'd claimed it was too small for him now and looked better on you- and swallowed.
"Y-Yeah. I'm free."
"Great. So is Jack," you could hear his smug smirk over the phone, "you're gonna love him."
Nothing looked right. Your clothes felt foreign, and every lip combination you used to swear by now washed you out like you’d lined your mouth with grey pencil.
You were in the middle of re-applying your fifth different shade of lip gloss when you heard the front door open and close.
"Honey," Clark joked, the call-out his usual greeting whenever he could smell your perfume lingering in the hallway and knew you were home. "I'm ho-"
He stopped just short of your doorway, voice and walk clipped.
You made eye contact with him through the mirror you were leaning into, smile small as his eyebrows did a slight raise.
He looked good.
Really good.
You felt like slamming your head into the glass.
"Hey, you." you managed.
"You..." Clark blinked. For a second, he looked breathless, eyes scanning the way your dress clung to every curve of your body- just right. Paired with your most expensive pair of heels, an early birthday present to yourself that you'd bought just last month.
Clark knew; he loved the way they looked on you. He loved this combination specifically on you.
You'd made sure. If this date was a pre-cursor to any more, you wanted to market yourself just right. With hopes of it maybe- maybe- finally getting you over your heart-wrenching crush on your hunky roommate, who was currently looking at you in a way you didn't have time to decipher right now.
"...You look beautiful."
"As do you," you replied coolly, gesturing to the way the day's dirt clung onto the white tank top he always wore under his uniform. Somehow, some way, he made it work. He made it look sexy.
"No," Clark shook his head, leaning against the doorframe, arms folded. "Don't do that. Don't shrug it off,"
"I'm not doing anything," you pressed your lips together, the pigment filling every line. It wasn't perfect by any means- but it would have to do.
"Better not be. Because you look gorgeous," he said softly, allowing his eyes to hover over you once more before dropping them. You watched as he pushed himself off of the frame, turning back to make his way to the living room. "You girls heading out somewhere fancy? Someone's birthday?"
"Actually," you went to bite your lip, the nerves suddenly bubbling up now, but decided against it; your $35 gloss would never forgive you. "I've got a date."
You hadn't been looking where you were going. As soon as the words left your mouth, your body crashed into something strong; unmoving, something that had halted movement entirely.
You went colliding into the back of Clark. A gasp left your mouth and you wobbled slightly, using the wall to steady yourself.
"Clark!"
"You've got a date?"
He shot out a hand to steady you, but the glare on your face stayed. If he'd stopped any quicker, there would have been $2 worth of a lip print right on his tank.
"Yes. I do,"
"With who?"
Your shoulders lifted in a shrug, "This guy that Jimmy knows,"
"Name?"
"Jack?"
"Surname,"
"...Uh..."
"You don't even know his full name?"
"I-I'll ask him!"
"So what I'm hearing is, you don't know this man,"
"It's literally a first date."
"That could turn into a second, a third."
"People do it all the time, Clark," you said in exasperation, sliding past him to grab your bag and double check that you had everything. "It's a very normal thing for people to do. Blind dates,"
He ignored your comment, "What does he look like?" you stayed silent, and his eyes widened. "You don't even know what he looks like?"
"It's a blind date!" your voice went up a pitch. Clark's lips opened like he wanted to say something else, but pursed shut again.
He couldn't believe you. You could tell, his expression not subtle in the slightest.
What you couldn't quite grasp was why he cared so much. It was your day off, you were heading out for the night, your typical weekend routine- what did it matter if it wasn't with your friends, but with a date instead?
You let yourself believe it meant something deeper than what it was. Just for a second. Just while Clark was looking at you like this, like you'd hung the stars and exploded the moon all in the same breath.
"You'll be careful?" his gaze bore into you, softened now under the tension. You nodded quickly. "And you'll call me if anything happens? Anything. Even if you're just bored and don't know how to get out of it,"
You let out a nervous chuckle, but Clark wasn't laughing. You cleared your throat, "Yes, Clark. I'll call you if he's anything other than the perfect gentleman."
He held up a hand. Your heart melted at the sight of his pinky, "Promise me."
You hooked your own through out, a tiny little ring adorning your own. It looked tiny compared to his. "I promise you."
That's when the doorbell rang, and you found yourself frozen in place.
Clark had had the worst day of his entire life.
Six false alarms. Three of them, on complete opposite ends of the city; the others quite obvious jobs for the police. Guy kept blowing up his phone, accusing him of ignoring them, of not caring- when all he'd needed was Superman's vote on whether The Justice Gang was the official name or whether League would be a better fit like Terrific insisted.
And to top it all off? You. Getting all dolled up, his favourite shade of gloss adorning your lips, those heels that always made him linger too long on your legs filling his mind and corrupting his vision.
And none of it was even for him.
"Jack," your date had grinned, blue eyes identical to Clark's but lacking the shine when he looked at you. "Jack Castello, nice to meet you. I'll be sure to have her back before 10." he joked.
Clark shook his hand, squeezed a bit too hard- naturally. He watched as the other man winced but ultimately said nothing, and you left; without so much as a second glance back at him.
He leant against the kitchen counter, jaw clenched. He'd been like that for a good hour now; just stood there, unmoving, gaze burning metaphorical holes in the floor. He was waiting, though he didn't know what for.
For you to come back? To realise that it was a mistake? To burst through the door, heels in your hand again, ready for another infamous round of pancakes, because you'd ditched the date and took a detour to find your friends' instead.
He swallowed. Wishful thinking.
Truthfully, Clark had no idea why he was so surprised- better yet, why he didn't see this coming.
You were barely ever home anymore. You rarely ever called him when you needed something, not like you used to, even though you knew he'd drop everything to get to you. You stopped putting your legs in his lap when you sat on the sofa together, and it didn't seem like you cared all that much whenever he was late to your move nights. Before, you'd huff, and he'd have to make it up to you with a bunch of your favourite snacks and the promise of doing better next time.
Sometimes, Clark would even be late on purpose. It gave him a reason to provide for you without all the confusion as to why.
He knew it wasn't sustainable. That lines were blurring between you both, black and white areas merging into grey, and that his true feelings could never come to light. You probably didn't feel the same. And he knew for a fact that he wouldn't survive that confession.
But for that period, for those months where it felt like you were both something; a unit that had everything but a label and locked lips, well... it had been the best time of his life.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair and taking the glasses he'd put on, just for Jack, off. There was a knot in his shoulders he couldn't shake, and the apartment felt emptier somehow; weightless without you in it.
He wondered how it was going. You'd been out for a while now, definitely long enough to pass judgment on your date. Why hadn't you called him? Why hadn't you let him know how you were doing? You'd pinky-promised, for god's sake.
Clark's stomach lurched at the other possibility. What if you were actually having a great time- an amazing time? What if Jack had taken you to your favourite restaurant without knowing, and you'd lit up at the thought of that one pasta dish you loved because it had been a while since Clark picked it up for you- and what if right now, in this very instance, you were leaning forward, lips puckered, cleavage exposed, and what if he was looking at them? Clark would kill him, kill him dead, because how dare he, the nerve of that man.
Most importantly, what if right now, in this very moment in time, you'd already made up your mind- and Clark had unknowingly lost privileges he'd been so comfortable basking in up until this point?
He blinked the thought away, in turn allowing the red in his eyes to fade. The last thing he needed tonight was a hole in the kitchen counter.
After what felt like forever, Clark willed himself to move. He had a shower, ate something, drank enough coffee to wake him up. He didn't want to risk missing you when you came home; he wanted to know everything.
An hour passed. Then two. Then- not that Clark was counting- three and a half.
It was nearing four hours when he could finally feel your heartbeat coming up the stairs, could smell the sweet vanilla perfume you loved to wear before going out. He perked up on the sofa like a dog who'd just heard all of his favourite words in the same sentence.
Regardless, he kept his head down; book open on his lap, the words jumping off of the page. He tried to still his own heartbeat, tried not to imagine you stumbling in through the door with Jack holding your waist, kissing your neck, as you tugged him breathlessly towards your room-
"Hey," your voice snapped him out of his daydream, and his head shot up, eyes squinting in the light. He braced himself, ready for an uncontrolled gush on how well your date went and how you'd already set up another one.
Only, when he looked up, you were hovering in the hallway; smile small, eyes tired. The gloss on your lips untouched.
Sad.
Immediately, Clark was on his feet. He had no time to feel relief before he walked over, embracing you in such a crushing hug that for a split second, you struggled to breathe. He held you there for a bit, broad shoulders engulfing your entire body. You relaxed against him, arms snaking around his much bigger frame.
You were still in your heels; indicating that wherever Jack had taken you thankfully didn't involve a lot of standing.
Clark breathed you in. After a while, he murmured into your hair. "You okay?"
You didn't answer him right away. You just let your head fall onto his chest, listening to his heartbeat, taking him in.
"Mhm."
"Did you..." he swallowed, thumb rubbing smoothly against your skin. "Did you have a good time?"
You paused. He felt the hesitation, silently urging you not to lie to him.
"Yes." you finally replied. And although your expression said otherwise, he knew you were telling the truth.
Clark tried to ignore the way his heart cracked, just a little.
Because at the end of the day, he didn't own you. He had no claim over you other than being your roommate, one of your closest friends; someone temporary to come home to until you found someone better to fill the space.
And that alone broke him.
Because this- you, him, in the apartment you both shared, your weekend breakfast traditions and nights spent watching something he never paid attention to, just to be close to each other- well, this was it for him.
It was enough.
He'd like it to be more, of course he did. A perfect world would be coming home to you, unable to wait until he was settled before loving you in the way he'd thought about all day. He wouldn't let you go. He'd kiss you on the sofa, on the counter, against the window- and he'd do more, too. In those places exactly.
But if it was between sitting in silence and getting to keep what you both had for a little longer, versus the latter of losing you to someone else completely; Clark knew which one he'd rather.
"Then why are you so upset?" he mumbled lowly, voice a grumble against you. You swallowed again, and he could practically see the cogs in your head turning.
"I'm not upset."
"Could have fooled me."
"It was just... different."
"Never thought you'd be sad over 'different'."
Your head didn’t lift from his chest, not right away.
But he felt it- your pulse hitching, your breath growing shallow. He could track every shift inside you, feel the weight of each one cleaving straight through him.
Clark forced a smile, even though you couldn't see it. "Was he... nice?" he asked softly, hoping the calm in his voice hid the edge in it.
You stiffened against him. Just barely, but he caught it.
"Yeah," you murmured. "He was. He was very nice."
Clark’s jaw flexed. Nice. Jack was very nice. Nice enough to take you out. Nice enough to make you laugh. Nice enough to give you that small, tired smile you walked in with.
Nice enough to not be him.
"A gentleman?"
You let out a light, almost non existant laugh. "I guess,"
"Hm."
He pulled back just enough to look at you, hands still resting on your arms. The silence felt unbearable now; aching to be filled with talk, about your night and his.
"You don't look too sure,"
The confusion on your face stretched slowly, "W-What?"
You could sense the questions forming in him before he spoke, like they pushed at the air around you. His jaw clenched once, subtle but sharp, as if he were choosing his words carefully.
Or rather, choosing the ones he didn’t want to ask.
"Are you oka-"
“Did he pull your chair out?” Clark asked evenly then, knowing once he started, he'd barely be able to stop. “Open doors for you?”
You blinked, his tone change catching you off guard. “Clark-”
His words came out structured and steady, as if he'd rehearsed them thousands of times in his head before. He couldn't stop them. Couldn't bring himself to.
“Did he order for you?” his voice dipped even lower. “Did he pour your wine? The one you like?"
Your lips parted. “Why are you-?”
“Did he make you feel good?” the words were quiet, almost painfully so. And he hated himself for how much he needed the answer, because you were currently looking at him like he'd said something insane. "When you were there with him today- wherever you went. Did he make you feel like he should?" your breath stuttered in your chest.
He felt that, too.
You looked away, suddenly flustered. Clark's fingers flexed at his sides, a break from the harsh clench.
"Are you... are you seeing him again?"
“I don’t know yet,” you muttered, cheeks warming, brain a fog. “Maybe. Maybe I will, or- I don't know, Clark. Why does it even matter to you?”
That landed like a punch.
Clark stepped closer before he could stop himself. He was drawn in, pulled in; helpless against the gravity that was only ever you.
You backed up a little, not out of fear but out of knowing exactly what would happen if he got too close: you'd suddenly forget how to breathe.
He followed through with it anyway.
Your heartbeat kicked up- sharp, loud, panicked. He wondered if it was the thoughts of Jack, or residual guilt for not calling him while you were out.
But for you, it was everything. Desire tangled in irritation, tangled in something you didn’t dare name after a full evening trying to get rid of it.
He swallowed, gaze dropping to your lips for a split second too long.
"Your heart," Clark murmured, the words brushing against your cheek like a touch. "I can hear it."
You froze.
"Is that…" his voice thickened. "Is that what it sounded like for him?"
Your eyes flashed.
"Clark," your voice broke, but your tone bordered on a warning. "Stop listening to my heart."
He didn’t move away. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.
"It’s all I listen to." he said then, pained.
A thick stillness wrapped around you both, thick with nerves, sick with heat.
Your lashes fluttered, breath hitching again. When Clark's hand brushed your wrist, barely there, he saw the slight twitch in your neck as you swallowed.
And God, he thought about it. About leaning in that last inch. About finally tasting the thing he’d been starving for since the day you moved in. About claiming something he’d spent years thinking about, dreaming of, chasing.
For a heartbeat, he swore you leaned in, too.
Your eyes flicked to his mouth, and that was almost enough. His forehead dipped closer to yours, a singular curl flopping forward, the world narrowing down to only the tiny space between you.
He didn’t step far, but he did move back. Just far enough that he couldn’t feel your breath anymore. His voice, when it finally came, was rough at the edges.
"You… you should call him," Clark whispered, eyes dropping to the floor. "If you want another date."
You didn’t move. You just stared at him, breath caught, his words echoing in the space where his closeness had been a second ago. The air still felt warm from him, your pulse still thundering from how near he’d gotten- near enough to kiss you, near enough to ruin the very foundation you'd spent the past four hours trying to tear down.
Clark stepped back like the ground beneath him had given out, jaw tight, eyes fixed anywhere but on you. Without another word, he turned and walked down the hall, shoulders tense, disappearing into the dim apartment like he was running from something. His bedroom door shut quietly, but it might as well have slammed.
He pressed his back to the wood once it closed, breath shaking out of him, hands braced against his knees as the reality of it hit him all at once.
What the hell did he just do?
heyyyyyy...... did u like it :-) wrote half of this on tumblr and the other on word so that "" “” switch up is diabolical im so SORRY
the last half where all clark can focus on is the way the readers heart picks up at every single word or move he makes kills me like fuuckk just say something anything pleaseee [cry emoji]
clarks so attentive too likeeee )))): he has everything she likes committed to memory and the very makings of a gentleman embedded in his bones its so endearing srsly.
patiently waiting for more of this dynamic if theres more to come <333
heeyy ive been ia for forever my bad 😭 ... ive been in a really bad writing slump since the beginning of october, so i havent had the mental capacity nor opportunity to sit down and write something, but i hope ill have something out by next week? at the earliest? someone get me out of this slump pleaseee [cry]
⋆˙⟡ before the sun: cowboy!clark kent x gn!reader.
summary: all the softest morning with your cowboy husband, clark. when he kisses you good morning before going to work, or coming home to watch the storm coming. he just loves you so much.
You’re somewhere between dreaming and waking when the bedroom door creaks open—quiet, like it always is, because Clark’s careful that way. The soft scrape of his boots across the wooden floor follows, he doesn’t turn on the light. He never does; he doesn’t need to.
The room is still painted in blue-grey shadows, the earliest hints of morning stretching through the sheer curtains. You feel the dip of the mattress as he leans in, the faint weight of him close to your side. Then warmth—his warmth and the smell of freshly brewed coffee.
His cologne, the kind you picked out and he only wears because you like it, curls into your nose. Something woodsy and grounded. Real. And then his stubble grazes your skin.
Scratchy, familiar, sweet.
“Baby,” he whispers, low and gravelly, the way voices get before coffee. “I’m headin’ out.”
You make a soft noise—half protest, half hello—curling deeper into the comforter, your face only barely peeking from beneath the plush weight of the duvet. The sheets are still warm with sleep, and the pillow under your head smells like fabric softener and Clark’s shampoo.
He chuckles softly. “I know, I know. It’s too early.”
You feel him shift, see the silhouette of his broad shoulders framed by the faintest morning light. He’s already dressed for the day; denim jacket over flannel, heavy jeans, work boots. Cowboy husband, through and through. His Stetson’s probably waiting for him by the door, just like it always is.
The smell of him wraps around you, seeping into your sleep-heavy mind. Coffee. Leather. Him. You could stay like this forever.
He leans down, and the kiss he presses to your forehead is barely-there soft, like he’s afraid to wake you too much. Like touching the petals of a flower in bloom. It lingers longer than usual today.
“I love you,” he murmurs, voice rough with devotion. “More than anythin'.” Your lips part, sluggish and barely forming the words, but he hears them anyway. “Love you too…”
It’s slurred and sleepy, but it makes him smile. You hear it in the breath he exhales, hear it in the rustle of his hand gently pulling the blanket back over your shoulder, tucking it up like you’re something delicate.
“Go back to sleep,” he says, brushing your hair away from your temple. “Sun’s not even up yet.”
You want to reach for him, hold him close for just a second longer, but your limbs are heavy with rest, your mind slipping again into half-consciousness. He presses one last kiss—this one to the side of your face—and stands.
By the time the door closes softly behind him, you’re already halfway asleep again, and you feel warm all over.
It’s like this every morning. Rain or shine, cold or warm. You wake to the ghost of his touch, to the memory of his lips on your forehead and the trace of his voice in your ear.
And on the rare days you do manage to rouse yourself before he goes—maybe because of the storm rattling the windows, or just because your body misses him before your mind registers it—you catch a glimpse of the whole ritual with both eyes open.
This morning, the storm hasn’t come yet, but you hear it brewing: low thunder rolling miles off, the kind that makes the earth feel heavy. You wake up a little earlier than usual, heart slow and steady in your chest, the comforter kicked halfway off your legs.
Clark’s not in bed.
But you hear him in the kitchen. The scrape of the chair, the low whistle he makes when he’s pouring coffee into his travel mug. It’s quiet, private—like the house is still asleep except for him. You shift upright slowly, your body protesting as you try to sit up. It’s still dark, but the sky outside is softening, clouds turning a misty slate blue.
You wait until you hear the footsteps again. That steady, familiar tread and then the door opens.
He doesn’t see you sitting up at first; he’s too busy gently shutting the door behind him, making sure the cold doesn’t blow in. His hat is in one hand, his mug in the other, and he’s already wearing his denim jacket with the little tear near the shoulder seam.
He turns—and sees you. “Oh,” he says, surprised but smiling. “Didn’t think I’d wake you.” You shake your head slowly, your voice is quiet, still coated in sleep.
“Didn’t. Just missed you.”
That look he gives you? It’s worth every minute of lost sleep. His whole face softens, his eyes crease in that quiet way they do when his heart’s too full to speak.
He walks over, placing the mug down on the windowsill and crouching beside the bed. One hand reaches out, warm and rough with calluses, cupping the side of your face.
“I ain’t gone yet,” he says, rubbing his thumb gently along your cheek.
“You smell like coffee,” you murmur, leaning into his hand.
He grins. “I am coffee. Want me to stay?” You laugh sleepily. “You’d be late.”
“I’m always late. Especially when you look like this.” His voice is teasing, but there’s a softness under it. A kind of awe. You know that look in his eyes like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again.
You reach up with your own hand, touch the sharp line of his jaw. His stubble is itchy, like it always is in the mornings, soft at the edges and rough under your fingertips. You drag your thumb across his bottom lip and he kisses it, quick and warm.
“You should go,” you whisper, though you don’t mean it. He nods, but doesn’t move. “I’ll be back by sundown,” he says, brushing his nose against yours. “We can eat on the porch. Watch the storm come in.”
“That sounds perfect.” He leans in, kisses your forehead again. Just like always. His lips linger, maybe a second longer than usual.
“I love you,” he says again, like he always does. Like he needs to. You smile, eyes fluttering shut as you whisper it back.
“I love you too.”
He stands, grabs his mug, and tips his hat in that goofy, gentlemanly way that always makes you laugh. “Don’t go runnin’ off without me,” he says as he backs toward the door.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you murmur, already sinking back into the warmth of the bed.
And when he leaves, you don’t fall asleep again right away. You lie there, watching the sky shift from blue to grey, hand pressed to your heart where the echo of his kiss still lingers.
That night, when the storm finally comes, he’s home in time—just like he promised.
He smells like rain and horses and dust, his jacket damp and his hair curling at the edges. You help him out of his boots by the door, laughing when he almost trips trying to kiss you mid-step. He’s still got a little mud on his jeans, but you don’t care.
Dinner is simple: leftovers and toast, eaten curled up under the big blanket on the porch swing. The wind rattles the trees, thunder grumbles in the distance, and Clark holds you close, one hand curled around your hip, the other tracing slow shapes into your thigh.
“Y’know,” he murmurs, lips brushing the top of your head, “if I could, I’d stay in bed with you every damn morning. Just wrap us both up like burritos and forget the rest of the world exists.”
“You’d go crazy,” you tease. “You love being up before the sun.”
He snorts. “I tolerate being up before the sun. I love you.”
You laugh into his shoulder.
“I’m serious,” he says. “If I didn’t have work… I’d spend every day just holdin’ you. Kissin’ you awake. Makin’ you coffee instead of leavin’ you alone.”
Your eyes close; the thunder cracks louder now, but you don’t flinch. Not when you’re wrapped up like this. “You do kiss me awake,” you murmur. “Every single day.” He’s quiet for a moment, then: “Yeah. But someday I won’t have to leave after.”
And you don’t say anything. You just pull him closer, rest your forehead against the curve of his jaw.
Because that’s the thing about loving Clark—cowboy, husband, morning coffee, scruffy-bearded sweetheart—it’s not just about the kisses or the coffee or the promises.
summary: You make Bucky regret ever suggesting that your arrangement is 'just sex' by flirting with other men. He makes you regret ever flirting with other men by giving you a bit of well-earned discipline.
warnings: 18+ mdni!!, smut with a sprinkling of plot, spanking, fingering, unprotected p in v, dumbification, creampie, condescending!bucky, bigdick!bucky, tummy bulge, general filth and debauchery, kinda dubcon but more like undernegotiated kink, no daddy kink but do not be fooled bc this whole thing reeks of daddy issues (see: title), jealousy, use of petnames (doll, sweetheart, baby etc.), implied age gap, bucky calls reader kid, no use of y/n, jealousy, cursing, mention of alcohol, slightest bit of angst if you squint hard, situationship to relationship pipeline
a/n: so. sat down in front of a blank google doc to write a 800-900 word drabble based on this ask. blacked out. snapped out of it and found myself with 7k words of pure filth and a pit of self-disgust in my stomach that i think will last my whole life. bon appetit.
please reblog / comment if u liked this. otherwise i die </3
Bucky knows this is all his fault.
He’s fully aware he’s the one that started this whole thing. When he first said those words to you - ‘no emotions, no exclusivity, just sex’ - he watched about twenty emotions roll over you in the space of a few seconds. First was offence, as if he had just shot you the nastiest insult you could have imagined. Next was something uncomfortably close to hurt. But eventually, he watched a sort of smugness begin to sprout over you - like you knew you would make him regret it.
And fuck, does he ever.
He’s sitting with Steve and Sam in the corner of one of Tony’s stupid team-building drinks, watching all sorts of SHIELD employees approach you. For some reason, it seems like every fucking field agent, engineer and tech analyst decided that tonight is the night to chance their arm with you.
He is furious at the fact that they think they have a shot, but there’s nothing he can do. He has no claim to stake. You dismiss most of them with a polite smile and a flippant comment, but every so often you lean just slightly too far forward, speak a little bit too softly, and it throws Bucky’s head for a spin. Hand grasping his whiskey tumbler just a bit too tight, he’s biding his time until he can discreetly pull you into his room or a supply closet or hell, even the bathroom, and prove why none of them are worth your time. It wouldn’t be the first time.
In his defence, the whole ‘no strings’ thing had mostly been for your benefit. He’s an old man with the emotional regulation abilities of a teenager. HYDRA had left him so thoroughly fucked up, he hadn’t been sure what parts of him were Bucky and what parts were the Winter Soldier. He hadn’t wanted to drag anyone into the mess of finding out and surgically removing the unwanted pieces.
But as spring bled into summer and eventually streamed steadily into autumn, he began to realise that maybe those unwanted pieces don’t need to be removed - you seem to like them just fine, in any case. You do more to dampen the noise in his head than any court-mandated therapy session, uncharacteristically sincere when he wakes up with terror wracking his mind and body. You remind him of who he is and the fact that he will never again be the Bucky of the past - but who is ever their past selves? And who would want to be? He is the old Bucky and the new Bucky and both are okay and worth living as. And if he fucks you with a little more intensity on those days where he feels more Winter Solider than Bucky Barnes, bends you over and makes you take it hard and fast - well, who is complaining? Not you.
He had regretted asking for this arrangement almost instantly. You are gracious; never mentioning the dates you go on, but he knows and you know, and he can just feel how smug you are about it. He almost wishes he could return the favour; show up to your trysts smelling like perfume and running out early with a vague excuse. But he’s old and disgruntled and, if he’s being honest, the idea of being so close to anyone except you makes his skin crawl, as if you’re the one exception to his whole touch aversion thing. Maybe you are.
He has only seen you out with a date once. He was passing by the window of a cosy, candlelit Italian restaurant on his way to the laundromat and caught sight of you. Your blood-red dress was dipping just low enough to hint at your cleavage. Your lips were the same crimson as your dress and you brought the rim of your glass up to meet them, shooting the asshole in front of you a flirty smirk. Lust and nausea were flooding Bucky’s stomach in equal measure. When your eyes caught sight of him, he watched surprise flicker there momentarily, before you smiled wickedly and turned back to your date, leaning in closer to rub salt in the wound.
He thinks you might be doing the same thing now, doling out your punishment to him in the most unkind way he can fathom. The way you’re tilting your head up towards the agent in front of you, eyes wide and enthralled, as if he had just said the most fascinating thing you had ever heard. He knows you’re faking it.
Sure, the guy was fairly good-looking - if you’re into that All-American, Steve Rogers kind of thing. But he knows you’re not. You like your men with rough edges - you like them like Bucky. He can see as much when he fucks you, whispering to you all dirty and mean, and your eyes roll back into your skull as if you’ve found nirvana. The boy in front of you wouldn’t know how to treat you like that, how to get you there.
And he can hear, even from this distance, that the guy is a bore. He’s rambling on about statistics - expounding entry level concepts to you, as if you’re not two full grades above him. And you’re just sitting there, listening and nodding earnestly like he’s not the exact sort of person you would make fun of when you’re alone with Bucky.
You’re in your tactical gear - not long returned from a mission, but always eager for a chance to socialise and cause mischief. His jaw twitches when you shift in your seat and he gets a better view of your breasts. He sees your hips shift, a sliver of soft skin peeking out between your vest and the waistband of your pants, and he can almost picture that you’re seated above him, with the way the leather of your suit clings to you like a second skin. The asshole talking to you - Brandon? Brian? - is clearly enjoying the view too, judging by the way his breath stutters mid-sentence. Bucky wonders if you’re doing this on purpose just to torture him.
“Get a fuckin’ grip, dude,” Sam mutters, reaching over to remove the tumbler from Bucky’s grasp. “Gonna break the damn thing.”
He wonders how long they had been watching him when he catches sight of Steve, expression caught somewhere between amusement and concern. “You okay, pal?”
Bucky just grunts in what is intended to be an affirmative, forcing his eyes away from you but still listening in to your conversation. Steve and Sam are watching him like they aren’t quite sure what to say, eyes darting between himself and you. They have been in this predicament enough to know that something is happening between the two of you, but had never discussed the specifics. Bucky figures they must just know that he has an interest in you that is bordering on unhealthy.
“Look,” Steve says in that pragmatically optimistic way of his. “I actually think it could be a good thing to… you know, get back out there. Why don’t you just talk to her?”
Bucky almost laughs at the suggestion that it’s shyness that is preventing him from talking to you right now. But the truth is so much worse, so he admits nothing. “Had enough whiskey,” he says instead. “Gonna get a beer.”
Steve and Sam sigh almost in tandem as Bucky hauls himself up and over to the bar. When he gets his beer, he doesn’t bother returning to his seat. Instead, he leans against the bar where he can observe you again without any intervention. It’s almost embarrassing how well you have him wrapped around your finger, but he can’t look away.
“Uh- not trying to freak you out or anything,” Brandon mutters conspiratorially, voice lowering. “But I think Barnes has been staring over here for a while. And he looks- well, he doesn’t look happy.”
You smile then, and it’s real - not the pitiful grins you had been granting him before. “Oh, really?” you ask, eyes flicking over and meeting Bucky’s for just a split-second. It strikes him like lightning, the way you look at him - eyebrows raised with mirth and devilment. He feels that he’s too old for the games you’re playing with him, while also wanting nothing more than to grab you by the hips and haul you out of the room caveman-style to have his wicked way with you.
“Don’t look, you’ll make it obvious,” your little pest urges you quickly and Bucky almost face-palms at his idiocy. He doesn’t really understand how this guy got certified as an agent without an awareness that super soldiers also had super hearing, but whatever. The training program is more Steve’s remit.
“Sorry,” you say with a smile that only Bucky knows is sarcastic. “Don’t think he saw me.”
“Are you guys…” he trails off, head turning around to glance at Bucky who meets his stare head-on. “Are you guys together or something? I wouldn’t really wanna piss him off…”
“Together? Oh god no,” you laugh and Bucky’s jaw twitches.
“Okay…” Brendan continues, taking another quick glance at Bucky, who knows his stare has only grown more stormy. “Well, does he maybe have a thing for you?”
“No way,” you protest, and he hates how much you seem to be enjoying this. “We’re not like that at all, Brennan. Bucky trained me. Pretty much taught me everything I know. He’s more like… a father figure, really.”
Bucky almost drops his beer. Something inside him stops, like all the clogs turning in his body have decided to break down. His brain is lagging as he tries to convince himself that he must have misheard you. Even his blood has paused its journey through his body. He can see Steve looking between the two of you from the corner of his eye, but he ignores his bewildered glances. He’ll do his best to explain this away later.
You can hardly contain your amusement. Bucky can tell that you’re fighting every instinct in your body to not look over at his reaction.
“Oh ok!” Brandon seems happy enough with that explanation, but you have lost interest. You quickly manage to get rid of him with the promise of a date the next day and turn back to Natasha, voice brimming with real interest in a stark contrast to your last conversation.
Bucky isn’t sure what to do with himself. He can see Steve deciding whether or not to approach him, so he gives you a look - one that you are very familiar with - and goes straight to his room, trying his best to ignore the bulge forming in his pants.
It takes you near enough to two hours to get to Bucky’s room. Exhaustion steamrolling through you in the aftermath of your mission and the team event, but not enough for you to turn down the silent offer made to you before he walked out. He is almost foaming at the mouth by the time you reach his door.
“You have some fuckin’ explaining to do,” he demands when he meets you at the door, dragging you in not-so-gently. You smirk up at him as you walk in, purposely casual and slow, as if you have all the time in the world.
“I don’t have to leave early just because you do. My world doesn’t revolve around you, you know.”
Bucky would usually tell you that it should, but he seems to bite it back today. He’s not talking about the fact it took you so long to get here, and you know that. “What the fuck was that, down there?”
“What? You’re the one who wanted no exclusivity, remember? Don’t tell me you’re jealous just because I’ve talked to a few boys.”
He is and you know it. You see the way he grits his teeth when someone else approaches you and a warm sort of satisfaction slithers up your spine every damn time. It’s the only thing that makes it worth letting them take you out on dates. The way he fucks you after, rough and demanding, like he’s proving that he’s better than whoever your date is (he is). Or the way he fucks you before you’re scheduled to run out, desperate and possessive, pushing into you hard and fast in a way that should be too much but isn’t because it’s him. Like he’s trying to convince you to stay.
And you never do. Because he made his stance perfectly clear and the last thing you are going to do is invest where he hasn’t.
Even if the dates you go on make you bored and sick. Even if the one person you had tried to sleep with since starting your arrangement with Bucky gave you a full-body ick, a shiver running through you like your body was rejecting him. (“Did you just cum?” he had asked you, smug and satisfied. You told him you had.)
But that’s not the point. You’re playing with Bucky now, trying to make him say it. To admit he is jealous. That he doesn’t want to see you with anyone else.
“You said I was a fuckin’ father figure, doll.”
Your smile just widens, a laugh bubbling forth. You hadn’t been expecting that. “Oh, that really got you, huh? You have a daddy kink, Barnes?”
Bucky just glares back. He doesn’t. He has told you before that the whole daddy thing has never appealed to him.
But you can see it now - you calling him a father figure, so flippantly and casually, did something to him. You can’t tell whether he wanted to bend you over then and there, prove to you and everyone else at the function that he is most definitely not a father figure to you. Or if he wanted to lean into it, maybe show you who is in charge. The irritation on his face is making you lean towards the latter.
“You’re a damn piece of work.” he grumbles, voice low and dangerous. “I’ve half a mind to take you over my knee and show you the discipline you obviously never got from your actual father figure.”
You freeze for just a beat. That’s new.
“You won’t,” you say, indignantly rolling your eyes even though you’re kind of faking your confidence.
“Wanna bet, kid?”
The air has changed slightly, an odd current running between the two of you. And you’re suddenly not so sure he’s bluffing. You feel slightly out of your depth. Like this whole thing had gotten away from you a bit. Like he was more serious about this than you were expecting.
Still, you press him. Because that’s who you are and what you do.
“Yeah, actually, I think I do, old man.”
There’s a tense silence - long and drawn out - where you start to doubt yourself. Maybe you should have backed down, because the way he’s looking at you now, stormy and dark, is making you nervous in a way you’re not used to with him.
And then his nostrils flare and he’s moving towards you, faster than lightning, faster than you are prepared for. He lifts you with annoying ease before you can even register what’s happening, fingers digging into your waist as evidence of a cracked restraint. You’re kicking your legs, a strained shout escaping as he catches you off your guard.
“Let me go!” you’re thrashing now, all spit-fire and outrage.
No,” he grunts, manhandling you with practiced ease. He settles you down over his lap. “You wanna act like a brat? I’ll show you what it means.”
You’re squirming when his hand comes up to yank the leather of your pants down to your thighs, almost tearing it in the process. You’re left in just a lace white thong, bearing your backside to him fully. You had worn it intentionally to see the tortured expression on his face that you enjoy so much. Now it just feels humiliating, bent over in front of him in his favourite panties - the picture of submission.
“Stop messing around, Bucky. Don’t be a dick.”
There is a second where neither of you speak. His fingers dance gently on the skin of your ass and you can’t see him but you can hear his breath catching over the strained silence that stretches between you.
Before it shatters into a million pieces.
Because Bucky’s flesh hand comes down - abrupt and hard - against the skin of your ass. The stinging sensation travels outwards from the area of impact, sizzling your skin and your nerves, and you realise you are absolutely and utterly in over your head.
“Okay!” you gasp. “Okay, Jesus Christ, Bucky, I’m sorry! I didn’t actually think you’d…” you trail off, face enveloping in a sudden and suffocating heat. “I’m sorry. You can let me go now.”
Another silence where you can feel him hesitating and then: “No.”
“No?” you splutter, words lost in your throat as if the position you’re in isn’t humiliating enough. “What do you mean no? I apologised.”
“I mean no. You asked for this doll, remember?”
He grabs your hair in a way that you suppose isn’t a million miles from gentle and twists your face to meet his. In what is an uncomfortable stretch for you, his eyes implore yours, silently assessing whether this is really okay.
Whatever he finds in your face steels his resolve because in the next second, he is pressing your face down further, ass arched higher and his palm is coming back down against your ass, knocking you forward. He clears his throat, mutters a curse under his breath that lets you know this is getting to him too.
“Asked for it when you flirted with that moron downstairs instead of coming to me.”
Another slap has dark stars flashing behind your eyes, the combination of pain and pleasure sparking through you to create something completely unchartered. Your skin is burning and it should be unpleasant - probably would be with anyone else.
Maybe it’s just the angle, you reason. Maybe it’s reverberating to your clit and that’s what making you rock forward with an embarrassing moan.
“Asked for it when you called me a father figure, like I don’t fuck you silly.” He spits the term ‘father figure’ like it’s something dirty, and the smack he delivers after it makes your mouth fall ajar and your cunt pulsate.
“Asked for it when you wore this fuckin’ thing,” he says, hooking a finger around the thin lace strap of your thong and letting it slingshot back with a dull nip, before you feel the stronger sting of his hand on your ass again. “Asked for it when you bet I wouldn’t do this. You remember that, don’t you, doll?”
“I-I-“ you can’t get the words out because now Bucky is pressing his fingertips lightly down your spine, carding through the soft indents there before tracing down, lower and lower. He follows the line of your thong, over places that make you clench and shudder, until his finger is pressing lightly over your core through the soaked fabric of your underwear.
“You-you-?” he mocks, black and mean, as he applies pressure there and watches you wiggle back to his touch.
When you don’t answer, his hand leaves your pussy and comes down hard with three successive smacks as punishment. You can feel his jean-clad cock pressing into your thighs, feel it jump at the little yell you release. He curses, whispered and dirty.
“I don’t know, Bucky,” you whine. “It hurts.”
“Too much?” he asks condescendingly, rubbing a hand over the curve of your ass where you can feel red-hot heat blossoming.
You shake your head, face warm with embarrassment and sheer desire and he brings his hand down again and you wonder if it’s possible for you to cum like this, with nothing but his hand against your ass in explosions of fire and something just shy of real pain.
You really should not be having this reaction to being taken over Bucky’s knee and spanked - you’re an adult, for fuck sake - but you think maybe you would enjoy anything he chooses to do to you. Your shame is just making you want it more.
He continues until it really starts to hurt in the most delicious way, the flat of his palm hitting against your skin, rotating between featherlight and rough. Every so often, his fingers nudge their way to the tops of your thighs and your clit, playing there for just a matter of seconds before returning to the fat of your ass.
When he stops, you’re delirious and dumb and you wonder if you’ve just discovered something new about yourself, or if Bucky just has a way of gnarling all your desires, turning them darker and moulding them to his own preferences until the only thing you can categorically say you enjoy in bed is him.
Your ass is so raw that when Bucky finally lifts you off his lap and places you on the bed, you feel a pleasurable little burn linger, but most of your concentration is on your neglected core. You can’t stop moving your hips, too desperate for friction, as he carefully removes your shoes and peels your pants the rest of the way down your legs. He makes light work of your top too and in just a matter of moments you are completely bared to him at the bottom of the bed. He stands above you, still fully clothed, his jeans stained with your desperation.
“Did so good for me. Took it so well,” he murmurs, grabbing your jaw and forcing your eyes to his for one brutal moment. You feel imprisoned by his blue eyes before he grants you a soft kiss - an act of mercy before he completely destroys you. “I think you enjoyed it a bit too much though. Not much of a punishment.”
You shake your head but both of you know that you’re lying. Bucky just smiles knowingly, glancing down obviously to where your pussy is dripping onto the bedsheets. Your face floods with humiliation.
When he kisses you this time, it’s a violent thing - tongue pushing against yours with a dominance usually reserved for those nights when you return to him after a date, your chin lightly grazed with beard burn from an unpleasant goodnight kiss. The feel of his lips on yours lets you know what kind of night you’re in for.
He’s leaning over you, thumb navigating its way to your clit like clockwork. You’re so ridiculously wet that it almost glides right off. He chuckles and mumbles something about how needy you are against your lips, but your body is buzzing and your ears aren’t working properly.
He circles your clit, using extra pressure as if it needs it. You’re humming and moaning, feeling like you might already be on the precipice after just a few seconds. When he slides just one finger into your heat, your mouth opens to release the most desperate sound you think you might have ever made right up against his lips. He smiles, nudges it in further.
“I don’t think I need to get you ready for me at all, do I, sweetheart? Pretty pussy is drooling already just from a bit of discipline.”
Something about the term ‘discipline’ - as if he’s an authority figure - makes the whole thing feel so horrifically dirty but you can hear the mortifying squelching between your thighs and you know he’s right. When he adds a second finger, you’re preparing for the humiliating reality that you’re about to cum just from Bucky’s punishment and less than a minute of fingering.
Except you don’t. Because Bucky curls his fingers into that spot that only he can hit, makes light explode behind your eyes, gets you so so close. You grind down on his fingers, body taught with the expectation of something mind-blowing. And then suddenly he’s gone as quickly as he was ever there and you’re pressing your hips down onto air, trying to find purchase where there is none.
“Bucky!” you gasp, voice coming out so embarrassingly breathless that you might be self-conscious if you thought about it too much. The sight of him humming around his fingers, still slick with the evidence of your arousal, is not helping. “I was just about to-”
“I know, I know,” Bucky murmurs, hand brushing through your hair, voice thick with false sympathy. He’s looking down at you as if you’re some child that fell off their bike - his condescension almost pisses you off, but mostly it turns you on. “You were so close, baby. Your voice goes all whiny when you’re almost there, did you know that? Always sound so needy. Makes me wanna fuck you harder.”
“Then why did you do that?” You’re vaguely aware of how petulant you sound but all conscious thought flew out the window the second you felt his palm on your ass.
Bucky doesn’t answer you. Instead, his hands reach down and begin to unbuckle his belt. Slowly. Meticulously. You’re transfixed, watching every movement. When you reach out a hand to help, he smacks it away, light but firm. He unbuckles and tugs his pants and underwear down far enough for his hard cock to spring out. Your thighs press together in a motion he doesn’t miss.
You feel small like this - completely bared and open to him. You are vulnerable and exposed and so helplessly turned on. But if you try to rush Bucky into touching you, he will only take ten times longer. So you lie as still as a rock, watch him undress slowly and fold away his clothing with precision, ignoring the very horny, very naked woman on his bed. But it is wildly clear that he is feeling some of what you are. His jaw is ticking and his nostrils flare at the smell of your arousal.
By the time he leans over you and kisses you again, you are both on fire. He wastes no time, pressing his cock up against your dripping hole and slamming in with one stroke.
It’s humiliating, really. The whole night is turning out to be just one humongous humiliation ritual.
Because after that first stroke, you’re completely gone. Your cunt clenches down in a way that makes him hiss, squeezing and convulsing, losing your mind. You’re not sure what you’re babbling while you try to milk him - possibly something along the lines of Yes, Bucky, please, right there. You just know that Bucky’s grip bruises your hips with a restraint that is fit to snap at any moment and your legs are spasming as you try to bear down on the cock he just fed you. He’s too surprised to even talk you through it the way he normally does. Instead, he just watches you, awe filtering through his bright eyes.
Your first thought when you come down is that Bucky is going to be absolutely insufferable about this. Your second thought is that you’re still ridiculously horny.
“God, baby,” he grits out, a taunt and a prayer all at once - like he can’t quite decide whether he wants to tease you about this or worship at your feet. He chooses the former. “I didn’t know you were this fucking desperate. Coming as soon as you get my cock in you. Like you were trained for it.”
In a way, you were, you think. But then Bucky is pulling out of you and slamming back in. The sensation is overwhelming - he is too big. It’s too much for your sensitive hole. Your cunt is still pulsing with aftershocks, the sensitivity verging on too much. But you’re still squeezing around him, unwilling to give yourself any reprieve. Not when it feels this good.
“Feel how she’s sucking me in, doll? You can’t stop, even after coming. Your tight little cunt was made for this.”
His eyes are trained solely on your wet heat and the way it’s taking him, a sort of adoration painting his face that almost seems out of place in the filthiness of his actions. His hands have a firm grasp on your hips for leverage while he fucks into you, hard and slow. Your eyes are rolling to the back of your head and you feel too braindead to respond. All you can do is watch him.
“Look at you. Can’t even talk. Let me empty that smart little head of yours. There’s only enough space in there to think about my cock.”
When he fucks you like this, you think you might be in love him. Best not to think too much on it. Not that you can think too much on anything, with his dick sliding in and out of you, filling up and stretching every inch of you.
“Feels so good, Bucky,” you whine. “Need you.”
“You need me?” His voice is patronising. It should piss you off, but it has you gushing. “Baby, you have me. I’m all up in your guts, right here.”
He looks to your stomach and you follow his gaze, watching the head of his cock press into the skin there, before disappearing and poking through again with every thrust. “Fuck, look at that,” Bucky groans, watching his own movements. “So perfect at taking me.”
“Yeah,” you whisper, hand absently reaching down to press on your stomach, feeling his movements there. Your breath is stuttering and you think maybe you’re choking on the pleasure he’s giving you. “Wanna be good for you.”
When Bucky feels you press down on the head of his cock through his stomach, his hips stutter and a loud, animalistic groan spills out. “So good for me. Such a good girl, letting me mark up your ass like that. Think you’d do anything for me, wouldn’t you baby? Let me fuck you past your limit?”
You’re lost to the pleasure. You just nod and he gives your clit a quick nudge in appreciation.
“I know you would. Know how bad you wanna make me proud.”
Oh.
Oh.
Your pussy jumps, face flooding with heat and Bucky is looking down at you like he’s figuring you out. The term ‘father figure’ comes rushing back into your consciousness and it takes everything in you not to go running for the hills in a panic at how much you liked those words on his lips.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he grumbles, pulling his cock out of you and manoeuvring you so you are kneeling up on the bed with your hands on the headboard. “Can’t look at your face when I say those things to you, baby. Gonna make me cum too soon.”
He’s sliding into you from behind then, both arms pressed to your hips to navigate you up and down on his cock, while he presses his face to yours. Every now and again, he lands a kiss to your gland that makes your pulse drop. His pace is steady and harsh and your tits bounce with every brutal thrust of his hips, your combined arousal dripping down to his heavy balls.
You’re chanting his name along with other obscenities that you can barely even register. You feel completely shameless, willing to do anything he wants just so he will shower you with more of that praise you have become so addicted to.
“You’re so easy,” Bucky taunts you again. “Bet if I touched your clit right now, you’d cum again.”
“Yeah,” you say, and you can’t help the way you sound as if you’re begging. “Please, Bucky.”
He tuts, and he grins against your cheek. “I don’t know. Do you deserve it? You talked to a lot of men today, sweetheart. Made them think they have a shot.”
There’s a stubborn part of you that, even in this cock-induced daze, wants to snap at him. To remind him that this was all his decision, not yours. Unfortunately, you’re thinking with all organs except your brain right now.
“M’yours,” you pant, fucking back onto him. You can feel the short, course public hairs graze your ass, which is still red raw. The pain only adds to the building feeling. “Don’t want them.”
“Yeah?”
“Fuck- yeah, please, Bucky.”
“That’s right, sweetheart,” he gasps, voice strained. “I’m gonna come inside you. Gonna fill you up so good that nobody could ever try to take you from me again.”
You can’t help the sharp moan that comes spilling from you. You can’t quite explain how much you want that; how much you want him to fuck his cum into you, as if it would somehow make you belong to him. His filthy words along with the grinding of his hips is almost too much for you to handle.
“Please, Bucky. Want it so bad.”
“Please, Bucky,” he mocks you with a cruel lilt that makes you squeeze around him. “That all you can say? You want my cum so bad you can’t even think?”
You just nod, a strange concoction of arousal and humiliation coursing through you.
“That’s okay, baby. Don’t have to talk. I’ll give it to you. You just have to take it like a- fuck- like a good girl.”
Finally, he moves his metal arm down. He presses his middle finger over your clit, featherlight, and it makes your legs shake and your cunt squeeze and you’re so close-
“Gonna flood you, baby. Have so much to give you. Gonna make you drip.”
And then you’re falling off the edge with a call of Bucky’s name, grinding back onto his stupidly big cock, nonsense falling from your lips. You’re almost embarrassed about the keening noises you’re making but the enormity of your orgasm is too extreme for it to matter. He follows you not a second later, and you feel him pulse inside you, shooting up ropes of sticky cum. He holds you tight as he groans, rocking his hips back and forth on yours with aggressive ardour that peters out into slow, languid thrusts as the feeling washes through you both.
Bucky was telling the truth. He’s still grinding shallowly into you while his spend is spilling out of you, dripping down his length, past his balls and onto the sheets. He fucks what he can back into you for a moment while you both come down, shaking and shuddering.
He’s babbling, pressing kisses to your neck. “So good. Took that cock so good for me. You’re all mine, aren’t you, sweet girl? My good girl.”
He pulls out of you gently and you feel his spend flood out of your thoroughly used hole. He allows you to slump back, lifting you back until you’re lying on the bed with his face in your neck. You can’t bring yourself to care about the wet patches you’re lying in. Not yet.
Both of your chests are heaving as you come down. Bucky is pressing intimate little kisses to your neck, a gentle hand stroking your stomach, and your chest tightens. You’re so close to mistaking this for something that it’s not. How he can dole out his affection like this while still maintaining that you two have ‘no strings attached’ is beyond you. As you slowly recuperate, your breathlessness is replaced with a gooey warmth, owing itself entirely to the man pressing gentle kisses and whispering sweet praises to you as if you’re his. And you’re uncomfortable with how much you want to be.
But you don’t let it upset you. Instead, you take your red ass and your dignity and you decide it’s time to get the hell out of dodge.
“Jesus, Barnes,” you chuckle softly, beginning to haul yourself up even though you’re still feeling shaky and limp. “Whatever I did to piss you off so much today, remind me to do it again.”
“You’re leaving?” he asks, sitting up with you immediately.
“Yeah,” you say, searching through the crumpled sheets for your underwear which has blended into the white of the bed. “Got an early morning tomorrow.”
“Why? You just got back from a mission.”
You give him a sideways glance. “Going for breakfast,” you say simply, as if you’re not both aware that it’s a date you have planned.
“You being serious right now, doll? You’re really gonna go on a date knowing I was inside you just a few hours before? With my cum still dripping out of you.”
You ignore the way heat pools in your stomach. Maybe it’s for the best that you and Bucky are not together - being this turned on all the time would be exhausting.
“Well, that’s what showers are for, dumbass,” you say, standing up and shimmying into your underwear.
You’re turning around to find your pants but his voice stops you. “Don’t go.”
You give him a smug little smirk, but truthfully, your heart is racing. “Why not?”
“I don’t want you to,” he spits and his eyebrows are furrowed - an attractive little line forming there. He looks so sulky and petulant, it almost makes you laugh, something affectionate tugging at your heart. But that answer isn’t good enough.
“Don’t worry, I don’t have high hopes for this guy,” you sigh, yanking on your pants. “I will probably be back here again in a day or two.”
“I don’t want you to come back in a day or two,” he grits out, standing up to tug on his underwear. “I don’t want you to go.”
He’s standing over you now in a way that might be intimidating if you didn’t know Bucky any better. His arms are crossed, great swells of muscles tensing and bulging while he looks down at you with stormy eyes. You like him like this - broody and grumpy and disgruntled. But the confusion it’s causing right now is overriding all of that.
“I can’t stay, Bucky. I would have to cancel-”
“Then cancel.”
You’re not sure what to say - shifting from one foot to the other in an uncomfortable staring contest. You’re not usually like this, but you feel a bit nervous, squirming under his gaze. You push it down.
“No.”
Bucky grits his teeth. “Why are you bothering with these fuckin’ dates? You think they can fuck you like me? Make you cum as hard as you just did?”
“Oh shut the fuck up,” you snap, irritation fighting through all nervousness. “It’s not all about sex, asshole.”
He stands up straighter. “And you think any of them would be the perfect man for you, doll? You think they’d be better for you than me?”
That was cruel. Fury is coursing through you, burning hot. “I don’t know, Bucky, maybe they would be. At least they wouldn’t say they just want sex and then throw their toys out of the pram when I talk to anyone else.”
The storm clears from his eyes for just a second but you don’t care to stick around to see what peeks through after. You’re fumbling with your bra, trying to get it on as fast as humanly possible. Why is it so much harder with shaky fingers?
“I don’t just want sex,” he says, so earnest and uncharacteristically timid that it almost makes you want to wrap him in your arms. Almost.
“Yeah, I know, Bucky,” you scoff and watch as surprise flickers over his expression. “I’m not stupid and you’re not subtle. But you made your bed when you asked for this. I’m not gonna stick around and wait for you to stop being too emotionally stunted for a relationship.”
“I’m not- hey, stop.”
You’re leaning down to tie up the laces of your shoes when he grabs your arms to stop you in your tracks. You glare up at him.
“I’m tryna talk to you. Can you just listen to me for a second? Stop trying to run out on me, Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” He puffs out a breath and silence falls over the two of you for a moment. You know you won’t be the one to break it - you just watch Bucky grapple with his words.
“It was never just sex,” he begins softly. “I just didn’t wanna fuck you up while I was figuring things out. But then things were… so good between us.” He looks to you with a hint of insecurity, as if checking to see whether or not you agree. “It made me think maybe I had nothing to be scared of. I regret ever saying it was just sex. And I can’t fuckin’ stand watching you leave.”
He closes his mouth tight, like he’s trying to stop a flow of excuses and appeals from bursting forth. He might even be holding his breath, leg twitching and bouncing nervously. You still won’t say anything, waiting for him to admit what you’ve known all along.
“I want you to be mine, doll. If you’ll have me.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re fighting off a laugh. “I’ll think about it.”
Bucky’s eye twitches comically. “You’ll think about it?”
“Yeah. I’ll compare notes after my date with Brennan, decide which one of you to pick.”
He glares, but his ears are pink. “You think you’re funny.”
“What’s funny?” you say and this time you can’t stop the smile from creeping onto your face. “Gotta assess my options.”
He groans, rubbing a hand over his face but he’s smiling too - a crooked, reluctant one with blissful happiness creeping out of the cracks. His hands move to your hips and you let them.
“Let me give you something else to add to your notes.”
how i felt after writing this:
tags: @dolcesaints @m0th3rcal @marina468
ask: @tough-tittay-4u (i hope this was ok! i changed a couple of things so i would find it easier to write but i hope it was somewhat how you pictured it!)
── .✦ SUMMARY: stuck on your father’s ranch, there’s nothing you look forward to - except your uncle charlie’s visits. but this thanksgiving, he’s hungry, and not for your cooking.
── .✦ WARNINGS: minors, do not interact! dubcon, fauxcest, pussy eating, corruption, fingering, daddy kink, virginity loss, p-in-v sex.
── .✦ WC: 6.3k.
⭑ ⭑ ⭑
IT WAS COLD, UNBEARINGLY SO. even from inside, the chill had creeped up your bones. as you peeked outside, you winced - it didn't look good. despite the storm only starting hours ago, inches of white tufts had already covered the prairies outside.
thanksgiving was approaching, and soon all the big wigs from town would clamor to the ranch, bellies aching for supper. by tomorrow, you'd have to clean the house from top to bottom, clear a path from the ranch to the road, cook heaps of food, and ensure the horses were all taken care of.
you wished things weren't this way, but alas, those were your fathers rules. your brothers lazed and you did the housework. no wonder your mother ran from the ranch with nothing but the clothes on her back.
but there was no time to dwell, your chores had to be done. you didn't want to slack and invite your father's rage. reluctantly, you layered all of the warm clothes you could fit on, tugged on your mother's old coat, and got to shoveling.
it was a battlefield of snow and gusts of wind. you could barely even see - ivory sprinkles clouding your vision. and yet, you still shoveled, ignoring the burn looming in the palm of your hand.
you only stopped fully when you saw two flashes of light. after pausing for a bit, your eyes squinted just to see. you can make out a man coming out a car. your heart stops, sliently hoping your father wasn’t home yet.
the fear makes you shovel with more fervor. you don't even see him come up to you.
"hey sweet pea."
the shovel drops in the snow, and you're hugging the man before you can even think. crystals of snow on his jacket wet your face, but you don't care.
"uncle charlie, you came!" he pulls away with a chuckle, but instantly frowns when he sees your face. charlie can tell that cold has gotten to you, your face is so red he knows it hurts.
"how long have you been out here?" he asked.
"not long," you lied with a smile, as if worrying him is the last thing you want. charlie likes how much you crave his approval, but this? this won't do.
"sweet pea." charlie's voice is stern and you crumble instantly, tears already beading at your eyes.
"a couple hours. i didn't mean to lie-"
"it's okay," charlie soothes, gloves hands cradling your face. you nuzzle into the material, so desperately craving his comfort. "let's go inside and get you all warmed up." you listen, scraping the remaining snow off the shovel before dragging it inside.
charlie's right behind you, slamming the door shut. after tugging his coat off and hanging it up, he follows you. you're already heading into the kitchen to make him something.
"sweet pea, i got it," he murmurs, inching behind you. the back of his chest hits your coat. it makes your belly bubble with warmth. before you can protest, charlie wraps his arms around your waist.
"sit down, okay? let me take care of you." the offer is tantalizing because no one ever does, no one except your uncle charlie of course. when a soft 'okay' escapes your mouth, charlie's quick to to strip you of your coat, and he almost laughs at how many sweaters you have on.
you leave the kitchen, coat in tow. charlie's flittering around the kitchen for ingredients. he'll just make you something warm and simple. the fridge is packed - things for thanksgiving he assumes. charlie stumbles on apple cider and there just happens to be enough in the bottle for the two of you.
soon, warmed apple cider is in two mugs, full of maple syrup and cinnamon. charlie finds you in the living room, wrapped up in a blanket. "here," he mutters, handing you the mug. you melt into the warmth, and it doesn't take you that long to guzzle it down.
but you're still cold, shivering all over. charlie doesn't like that either. "sit," he orders, patting his lap. "bring the blanket with you."
your mouth quirks in protest, but charlie's already putting a stop to it. "come on sweet pea, it'll just be like the fourth of july." that was a couple years ago. uncle charlie was just your father’s old partner back then.
for charlie, the fourth was when he realized that you were his. he remembers seeing you for the first time, clad in a ratty shrunk plaid shirt and short-shorts. despite the heat, you were toiling in fields of the ranch - ass and thighs jiggling as you yanked bales of hay all around. when you turned around, faced all flushed and sweaty, charlie was hooked.
when he first said hello, you were shy and all skittish at first. it didn’t take that long for charlie to coax the obedience out of you.
although it was still daytime, your brothers had decided to callously set off fireworks. it spooked you, the crackles and pops making you jolt like crazy. they taunted you, but charlie comforted, bringing you into his lap. until your heartbeat slowed, he cradled you, arms holding your body flush to his.
charlie remembers how you nuzzled into him, as if you’d never experienced warmth like that before. from the way your father spoke to you, he figured that you were a neglected little thing.
but you didn’t have to worry anymore, not with uncle charlie taking care of you. and here you are, crawling into charlie’s lap yet again, eyes welling with need. a happy sigh escapes you as your head rests on his chest. charlie doesn’t even have to fix your body, this (charlie cuddling you and taking care of you) is just natural.
"isn't that better sweet pea?" charlie asks, and you respond only by nestling into him more.
the tranquility only lasts for thirty minutes. you get a text - your father and brothers are on their way home from the nearest city. and they expect a clear path from the porch to the road.
you have two hours until he gets back.
"i got it sweet pea. you won't be able to get in done in time." the offer makes your heart swell, but still, you can't.
"if he finds out-"
"which he won't. it'll just be our little secret." despite charlie's reassurance, you're still anxious. a soft kiss is placed on your forehead to reassure you.
"his rules don't matter when you're with me, alright?" your eyes flicker, wondering if you should listen to charlie or your father. but when you slump obediently into the couch, he smiles.
charlie gets the shoveling done in no time, which doesn't surprise you. he's strong, always has been - muscles so big he could lift a horse with one hand, you think.
when he's back, you're in his lap yet again, but you freak out at how cold he is. "you should take a bath, you might get frostbite!" charlie chuckles at your concern.
"oh, i dunno sweet pea. think i pulled a muscle out there-"
"i could help you uncle charlie-"
"yeah? you'd help your old man out?" charlie's words are interwoven with a teasing tone you don't catch. but your belly can’t help but get hot again - it's a heat you've never really experienced with anyone but charlie. the heat's not just in your belly, it's spreading lower too. charlie can tell from the way your thighs squeeze on him.
after that, you two walk up the stairs and into the guest-room - which is conveniently right across from your bedroom. once you're finally inside, you're about to leave before charlie's words make you stop in your tracks.
"you're not staying?" your face furrows in confusion. "it's just, i thought you'd clean up too sweet pea. you've been workin' all day, and i just want to make sure you’re alright."
your face lights up that. "really?" you ask, twiddling with your thumbs.
"really," charlie replies. "i'll help you get clean, promise."
for a moment, charlie leaves you on the bed. you can hear the sound of the bath running, and you can feel the steam of the heat just a little. soon, charlie steps out, naked.
his cock catches your eye - it's big, slapped up against his chest. the top is all red, achy, and bulbous. something's pooling out of the silt, you can't really tell what it is.
apart of you, deep down thinks that he's really handsome (and by extension his cock too), even though you're not supposed to think of him that way.
"you need me to take your clothes off?" he asks. charlie's eyes are trained at the way you're watching him. it's lust for sure, but he knows that you can't recognize it. he can see you clench your thighs a little, already aching for his touch.
you'll get it soon.
"i-i got it," you stammer, getting up in a hurry. you pull your clothes over your head, albeit a bit clumsily, and drop them on the floor.
your breasts are softer than he imagined, perky, with hard buds. maybe he'll find an excuse to have them in his mouth tonight.
your panties drop soon after, and charlie is enamored by the sight. covered in tufts of hair, your pussy is hidden. but he doesn’t miss the slick pooling, almost dripping out of your cunt.
"sit in my lap" he suggests, as you two enter the bathroom. "i want to be able to wash your back better."
you nod in response, as if his words make sense. before getting in, charlie waves his hands in the water, just to ensure its not too hot. he sits in slow, opening his legs just a bit to make room for you. you inch in the water soon after, laying your bare, wet pussy on charlie's cock.
"water's not too warm, sweetpea?" he asks. charlie's hands reach for the small of your back, gripping it to hold you flush in place.
"no," you mutter, bringing your head into the crook of charlie's neck. he's warm as you nestle in, clit bumping his cock in the process. a moan erupts out of you and charlie's biting his tongue to keep his in.
"you alright?" he asks, as if he’s none the wiser. "'m okay…" you whisper back. charlie dips a hand into the water, and proceeds to rub soap all over his hands. he washes you, from your shoulders to your back. touches soft and calculated.
once he reaches your ass, he barely washes it, opting to to massage the globes with his hands. it jiggles as he moves, just like on the summer day that he met you. you let out some more moans at that, rocking into him just a little.
poor thing, charlie thinks. you don't even know what you're doing.
once he's done with your back, he washes the rest of you quickly and pulls you out of the water. you two brush your teeth in silence. it isn't until you get back to bed that he says something. "oh sweetpea, i forgot to clean your pussy," he tsks, laying on the bed.
charlie's words make an embarrassed flush rush to your cheeks. "is that…is that a bad thing?" you asked, laying down right next to him. "i can bathe again, if you want me to,"
gosh, if he told you to jump, you would ask 'how high?' that'll work in charlie's favor. since the bath, he's wanted a taste of your pussy. he knows it’s all sweet and untouched. those pussies are the best kind in his opinion.
"no baby, i can clean you up here," he counters, which makes you look at him in confusion.
"but there's no soap or water?"
"i can clean you with my tongue. sit.”
"that's so silly uncle charlie," you giggle.
"it sounds silly, i know sweetpea. but trust me, it's the best way. so come sit." the last part is an order, wrapped in a flimsy bow of caring inflection. charlie knows that you'll do it, and you do. crawling on top of him, pushing your body so your pussy hovers above his face.
without a word spoken, charlie pulls you flush against his mouth. "i said sit, didn't i?" he chides, words and breath muffled by your cunt. the vibrations of his mouth sends sparks up your core, and it makes you moan just a bit.
head tilted in ecstasy, your eyes accidentally dart back and catch the door, which is cracked open. your father comes home in thirty minutes, and you know he can't see the two of you like this.
"uncle charlie - oh - we have to - ah - close the-"
“didn't i tell you? his rules don't matter when you're with me," charlie spits, still tongue deep in your cunt. you protest again, but charlie doesn't care, nuzzling his face just so he can feel the hair on your pussy brush his stubble.
your grip on the headboard tightens, and you start rocking back into charlie's face. just like in the bath, you don’t know what you’re doing. just chasing pleasure, just chasing the touch of your uncle charlie. as he peeks up at you, charlie sees your head tossed back, eyes shut in arousal. but you're biting your lip, as if you're trying to be quiet.
charlie reid doesn't do quiet.
so he peppers kisses all over your clit, making out with the nub. slow sucks engulf your clit, as if charlie’s savoring every part of you. he practically licks the slick off your clit clean, pressing his nose even deeper into your tummy.
your legs were twitching already, coiling around charlie's head. charlie dug his hands into your thighs, his fingernails leaving little indents that would sting tomorrow.
finally a moan came, it was soft, quiet, and confused, as if your body didn't know what to do with the pleasure. as charlie increased the speed of his tongue, your moans got even louder.
charlie shouldn't be doing this, especially with your father minutes away. but he doesn't care. a part of charlie wants your dad to know, to have the image of him, tongue burried deep in your cunt burned in his brain forever.
you kept trashing against his face. "uncle charlie!" you moaned. "'s feels so weird."
"it's not weird sweetpea," he muttered, the vibrations in his baritone voice sending another jolt of pleasure to your clit. "you’re about to come, that's why it feels so good." charlie watches as you pant - chest heaving, lungs gasping for air. it’s probably too much for you.
but charlie still sucks anyway, desperate to be the first (and the last) man who tastes your essence. he reaches for one of your hands on the headboard and yanks it off. you let him, and he brings it to his cock. "i need to get clean baby. how about you stroke me, up and down?"
your soft hand comes to charlie’s member and tries to stroke it. there’s enough pre covering it, that all you have to is glide up and down. your movements are hesitant and clumsy, but that’s what puts charlie on the brink of an orgasm : the sight of his sweet pea trying her hardest to make him come.
as continued, your strokes slowed. but that wasn't a problem. he started rutting into your hand, tip hitting your palm each time. charlie wasn't going to last long, not when you were like this.
the pleasure had gotten to you now. you didn’t care that the door was cracked open, and that the entire house was filled with your moans. nor did you care that your father and brothers were minutes away.
what you did care about was coming all over charlie’s face. you were to innocent to understand the desire, but that didn’t stop you from fucking yourself on charlie’s tongue.
after slipping out of your hands, he comes with no warning, mess dribbling down his cock.
next time, he thinks - once your throat is all trained and your back in chicago with him, you’ll nurse on his cock, cheeks all puffed with him.
but now, charlie’s focused on making you come. your body is twitching so much, he knows that you’re almost there. but your clit just needs one more suck. it’s messy and slow, and soon tears are pooling in your eyes.
"uncle charlie," you whined, frustration, as the coil in your belly was about to break. "stop…i gotta pee."
once again, charlie doesn't stop. your nectar soon drips all over charlie's face. it's sweet as he gulps it down - and charlie wonders how he's lived this long without tasting your cunt.
for a while he slurps all you have to offer, obscene sounds of his gulps and sucks ringing in your ears. when he finally pulls you off his face, charlie's face is covered in slick. the bottom half of his face is damn near shiny.
“feels good to be clean, doesn't it sweet pea?” you nod in agreement but no words escape your mouth.
charlie chuckles at that, one orgasm was too much for you. one. for a moment, he imagined what two or three would do to you. would you squirt? pass out? beg him to stop? the thought made charlie hard yet again, but he'd take care of that later.
before he can even wipe you down, you're scrambling off the bed.
"y/n-"
"i have to heat up dinner before they come," you mumble, tugging your clothes back on. charlie lets you leave, but there's a pit of jealousy brewing in his stomach.
you chose your father over him.
charlie really doesn't like that.
the door soon opens, and you scramble to the foyer. your father brothers are covered in snow, and you're quick to take their coats and hang them up.
"dinner's ready, papa" you say, voice all sweet. but he barely acknowledges you as he hugs charlie.
"you should've told me you came early, would've picked you up from the airport." charlie's slow to respond as he notices the sad slump of your shoulders.
"oh 's no problem man, y/n took good care of me." a chuckle escapes your father, as if he doesn't believe charlie's words. as the men head into the dining room, you're quick to head upstairs.
charlie doesn't see you until dinner next evening. he watched as you moved around the table, serving the food to all the guests. you're trying your best to accommodate everyone and all of their requests. one person's wine's too cold, the other wants white instead of red. people ask for different cuts of ham.
he can tell you're about to break.
as you flutter around the room, your breasts spill out your dress, just a little. it's a tiny jiggle, the average person wouldn't notice it, but charlie does.
you don't eat for a while, just spending time catching your breath. you're tired, obviously so, taking tiny deep breaths to regain your strength.
charlie would never make you work like that, he'd keep you coddled and pampered, just like girls like you should be.
"food's good," he says, giving your thigh a reassuring squeeze under the table. "did a good job." your face beams with happiness. charlie knows he's just made your whole week.
"really?" you ask. "they didn't have the right pineapple juice in the store to cook the ham in," you pout. "had to get the one that was a little salty-"
"you did good, sweet pea," charlie interjects, giving your thigh yet another squeeze. that motivates you to pick up your fork. charlie likes that.
craving praise means that you'll listen to him, which is exactly what he wants.
you start eating after that, small dainty bites. your plate is different than the other men at the table's- barely has anything on it.
in the midst of it all, you freeze, charlie scans the room to find out why. your father was practically glaring at you, staring you down with anger and disgust.
"sorry papa," you mouth, instantly putting your fork down and dabbing your lips with the napkin.
your hands drop under the table after that, hitting charlie's, which is still resting on your lap. once your hand grazes his, he grabs it and gives it a reassuring squeeze.
"i'll get you some food later," charlie whispers in your ear. "your dad will be knocked out by 10, easy."
"thank you uncle charlie," you whisper, eyes trained on your hands intertwined with his. after dinner's done, your father's friends migrate to the living room to watch football. charlie stays behind with you. before you can even pick up a plate he stops you.
"let me," he insists, hands gripping your waist.
"i'll get in trouble-"
"not when i'm here. go relax," he murmurs. charlie massages your waist a little, just to calm you down. you can help but preen into his touch. when charlie's here, you soak up as much as you can as possible. the little bits and pieces of comfort he dangles over your head will have to last until his next visit.
"okay," you reply.
thirty minutes later, there's a soft knock on your bedroom door. "it's me…i have food." at the sound of his voice, you skip to the door to open it for him. charlie sees you, he's equally aroused and angry. you look gorgeous, hair pinned back and nipples poking through your nightgown. but the nightgown, is if anything, outdated. it smells like old closet too.
"oh thank you," you say, opening the door to let him in. your room isn't what he imagined, it's bare and empty. nothing but a bed, a bedside table, closet with dusty clothes, and a barren desk.
he really has to get you out of here.
"you hungry?" he asks, showing you the plate. subconsciously, you can't help but salivate. it smells good. charlie took his time making the plate. got you a nice piece of ham, some greens, a dollop of mashed sweet potato. he even cut the cornbread so you got a nice corner piece.
"i can't," you whisper, snapping yourself back to reality."not allowed to."
charlie huffs at that, opting to sit on your bed, putting the plate on his lap. he then rubs the spot next to him. you watch his hand with cautious eyes, and charlie clocks it. "sweet pea, what'd i tell you?" he asks.
"papa's rules…don't matter when i'm with you."
"exactly. so just eat a little, i won't force you to clean the plate," he adds, flashing you his signature smirk. charlie's hands are now stagnant on the spot he wants you to sit on. slowly, your feet travel to the edge of the bed. you hop on slowly, as to not the disrupt the plate in his lap.
charlie then brings a spoonful of mashed sweet potato to your mouth. you don't open when it rests right outside.
"open," he orders, and you do. the mashed potatoes feel good on your tongue, sweet, buttery, with a hint of garlic. when your eyes close in bliss, eating everything you can, charlie smiles.
"come on, eat some more." charlie feeds you in tiny bites, as to not upset your stomach. he watches, as your belly begins to bloat and your eyes begin to get all droopy. it's because you're getting used to it, he deduces. you're getting used to him taking care of you.
soon, the plate's all clean. "it's good to enjoy the fruits of your own labor," he smiles, wiping crumbs of cornbread for your lip. "how do you feel?"
"full," you say, eyes dropping to your lap. before any feelings of shame come, charlie says "that's a good thing. you're a growing girl, you know. need your nutrients." soon, charlie gets up, plate in hand, but you instantly grab his free one, pulling him back to the bed a bit.
"uncle charlie…" you start, eyes unsure if you're supposed to say what you're about to say. "can you stay the night with me please?"
“of course i will sweet pea. let me just hang out downstairs first." as charlie heads downstairs, all the men are putting their coats on, hunting rifles slung over their shoulders.
"every year, i let a turkey loose and we try to find it. you in?" your father offers.
"yeah, i'm in." it's pitch dark out, but that's kinda the point. the men spread out quickly, soon it's just your father and charlie. charlie doesn't say anything, but just watches as your father flirters with his gun (with improper technique at that) looking for the turkey.
charlie should've said no. this is beneath him. he should've just crawled back into bed with you. maybe tear that ratty nightgown of yours into pieces and eat your pussy again.
he's so lost in thought he doesn't even notice your father trip over a branch. the thud of the his body snaps charlie out of his thoughts. the sight of his body all laid out in the snow is pathetic really. the snow’s so deep, charlie can barely make out the cries for help.
"shit, help me up," your father groans, voice muffled. but charlie doesn't reply. this is easy, a little too easy. all charlie has to do is leave, no weapons or clean up necessary.
in a few hours another storm will come, so any prints will be covered by then. if charlie doesn't help your father, he'll die out here. no one could save him - the men were scattered across the property, and there was barely any service to call for help.
but, with him gone, charlie can have you all to himself.
"you know," charlie chuckles. "i ate y/n's pussy yesterday." before your father can even get up, charlie's winter boot is quick to press his back into the snow. not hard (charlie doesn't need his print showing up later), but soft enough to keep him there.
"it was sweet too, like fuckin' candy. might eat her again when i get back." your father tries to reach for his hunting rifle, but charlie's quick to stomp on his back.
"oh come on, don't fight," charlie tsks, removing his boot. as he walks away, he can here your father rustle in the snow. but it's too late now. when he walks back into the house, charlie washes his hands before getting into bed with you.
they don't find his body until the next day. cause of death: frostbite. there's no foul play suspected, after all, your father was drunk off of alcohol. mistakes happen all the time. everyone believes it, including you.
once the officers leave the property, you're quick to head upstairs. charlie trails behind you, grabbing your hand once the two of you are out of sight. without protest, your smaller digits wrap around his. your grip is strong, as if you don't want to let him go.
"you okay?" charlie asks, as you two enter his room. you're silent as you let go of charlie's hand and sit on the bed. he doesn't sit right next to you, propping himself up against the pillows instead.
"you can talk to me, you know? about how you're feeling-"
"i'm a horrible person," you sob. for some reason, you're not all that heartbroken. people are supposed to be sad when their fathers die. but you're not, you're actually little relieved.
"come here sweet pea," charlie orders, and you're quick to comply, tears dropping on the sheets as you crawl into his lap.
"you're not a horrible person," he soothes, and you're quick to shake your head no.
"i am," you croak, tears spilling out of your eyes. "papa's dead but i…i don't feel sad at all. why don't i feel sad uncle charlie?"
"because he wasn't good to you sweet pea," charlie replies. “heck, i took care of you more than he did-"
"don't say that!" you sniffle. but charlie was right - in the short time he knew you, charlie had given you more love and affection than your father ever could.
"sweet pea, 'm not trying to make you upset. it's always upset me how you…how you never had a papa to take care of you." charlie's words are supposed to be comforting, but really he wants you to feel the sting. more tears fall as you process his words.
"'s okay," charlie coos. "i can be your papa, if you want." if you want. the suggestion makes you freeze.
"uncle charlie-"
"try it out sweet pea." charlie's hands stroke your back, as if he's trying to ease you into it. but charlie knows you'll say it eventually. it was impossible for you to say no to him.
"papa," you say, almost whisper.
"again, sweet pea-"
"papa." this time your words are louder, full of conviction. as if you've known that this has been charlie's role all along.
"good job," he praises. charlie's hands cradle your face, grazing the underside of your jaw. a sole finger, turns your head towards his. charlie's touch is gentle but his intentions are not. he fully plans to ruin you, today and for the rest of your life.
as your head peers up at his, charlie can tell just how needy you are. you've always been needy, but now you're craving what you've been missing out on. charlie places a kiss on your lips, and your eyes widen in surprise at the feeling. and yet, your lips melt into his anyway.
teeth clash against teeth as charlie claims you. he goes slow, each peck on another part of your lips. as his tongue dips inside your parted lips, your hands fist his shirt, making your bodies fused together.
as your tongues intertwine, charlie's hands graze their ass. they're covered in your sleep shorts, which are a little tight on you. but that works in charlie's favor, because he really gets to feel the flesh in his hands.
on accident, his hands graze the fat of your clothed pussy. through the shorts he can even seen their print. they look achy and swollen, in desperate need of their papa's care. so, charlie shifts your body so he has full access.
he's quick to discard your sleep shorts, yanking them down to reveal your panties. they're soaked, practically glued to your cunt. a large damp patch covers the entire fabric, making the cloth almost transparent.
charlie's still kissing you, tongue claiming as much of your mouth as he can. but you're so lost in the feeling that you don't even notice the drag of his hand up and down the seams of your cunt. the shlick it makes is filthy. it doesn't take long for charlie's fingers to become drenched, almost pruned.
the second drag of his hands is what makes you pull away, lips all glossy with saliva.
"papa, what-"
"just give in sweet pea, it'll feel good," charlie interjects, letting his hand rest against your pussy. you're not like the other girls charlie's fucked. all he does is take, but not with you. charlie wants you to feel good, he wants you to give in. because the more you do, the more you'll want him. that's really all he needs.
"'s wrong papa-"
"'s not wrong baby. you feel good don't you?" you nod yes, but charlie can still feel how hesitant you are. "things can feel even better, " he adds. "but you gotta ask for more sweet pea." to push you, charlie drags his hand over your clit. the friction makes you gush.
"papa-"
"tell me what you want, hmm?"
"more," you whisper into his lips. "wanna feel good. please papa." your pleas make charlie drag his hand for the fourth time, applying even more pressure. the simple brush against your clit, makes your mouth contort in pleasure.
"so dirty sweet pea, look how wet you are," charlie chuckles, and your eyes dart down to your wet pussy. with a sharp yank, your panties are bunched up against your clit.
"ngh, papa-"
"papa's going to make you feel real good, alright?" another kiss is placed on your lips, engulfing your moans. charlie's kissing more sloppy now, sucking on your tongue as much as he can. he's less careful with you as he pulls your panties to the side. your pussy is even prettier like this, slick already smeared all over your bush.
a thumb comes to your pussy, pulling the hair back to reveal your pretty clit. it's twitching with need already, bud shaking as charlie touches it. he flicks it absentmindedly, but the lazy drag of his fingers is enough to make you gush. charlie watches as slick pools out of your hole and drips all the way down. he dips his finger down and collects the slick just so he can taste you off the pads of his fingers. it's different than the night before, a little tangier. you didn't shower today, and it almost tastes even better.
you watch as charlie sucks his fingers into his mouth, eyes shut in pure pleasure. with the way he's moaning, you'd think he was eating a slice of apple pie. once his fingers withdraw from his mouth with a pop, wet fingers come down to your slit. charlie's exploring, running his fingers all around your slit, just so he can soil his fingers with your slick.
"papa," you pout, desperate for more relief.
"i'll stop teasing sweet pea," charlie assures, bringing his hand to your clit. he'd tease you more later. god, you would look so pretty begging for an orgasm, edged to your last breath. but today, he'll let you feel good. because that's what papas do, don't they?
"feel good?" he asks, as he rubs tiny circles on your clit.
"so good, love you papa," you whimper. the confession makes charlie smile. you were far gone, and he hadn't even gotten started yet.
"yeah, you love papa?" charlie asks. you peer up at him at that, as if you want a kiss again.
"love papa, so much - ngh." you're so cute like this, charlie thinks. it's only been a few minutes, but you're drunk on charlie's touch. despite wanting to hear all the little sounds you make, he kisses you again. whines enter charlie's mouth as he increases the speed of his circles.
you need to come, quickly, before he looses all patience and fucks you right then and there. so without asking, two fingers from charlie's other hand dips inside of your hole. the slick of your pussy helps him push in, but you're so tight. fucking you is going to be a tough stretch.
through kisses, you yelp, but charlie soothes you through more kisses. for a moment, his fingers don't move, barely grazing your walls. his other hand swipes at your clit. the motions aren't rushed, charlie can't force it out of you. it's working, with every swipe, your hole pulses and he can push even deeper. he fucks his fingers into you soon after, thick fingers grazing your walls with each thrust. it doesn't take that long for you to come.
charlie just shoves his cock into you afterwards. the stretch is even worse than his fingers, but the pained cries from you only makes him harder. your belly bulges as he settles in, cock resting in your tummy.
"it hurts papa," you wail, and charlie just rubs your clit yet again.
he's trying to make it easier for him to slide in yes, but he's also trying to comfort you. charlie wants you to know that you could take it. as an orgasm escapes you, wetness soaks his cock. as your thighs twitch and open, charlie's able to fully nestle inside. your walls stretch for him, and a moan escapes charlie's lips as his tip finally rests at your cervix.
your eyes are wide open, pleasure and pain spreading across your nerves. but you still want charlie. a part of you trusts him with your life, and by virtue your body. the stretch still burns, and a tear escapes your eye. charlie's kiss wipes it away, lips soft on your cheek.
"'s okay sweet pea. you're such a big girl, i know you can take it. need to stop?" at the word stop, your head shakes no in protest. with a hand holding your waist, charlie slowly rolls his hips up into you. the movement is experimental and cautious, the last thing charlie wants is a tear of some sort.
somehow, charlie's even deeper than before. you can feel his cock pulse inside of you, which causes you to let out a choked gasp. charlie pauses a bit before fucking up into you once again. this time, you moan, the painful stretch dissolving now.
"now you try," he instructs.
"can't-"
"sweet pea, listen to papa." at that, you try to mimic charlie's actions, rolling your hips. a surprised moan escapes you. this pleasure is new and different. a part of it is yours. your hips roll again and again, until you're full on riding charlie. he watches as your pussy sinks back down on his cock with each ministration, ass slapping against his thighs. you come once, and that makes you so tired. as you ride out your high, your head slumps into charlie's chest.
as you nestle into his chest, your eyes shut. charlie doesn't stop, he knows that you need more. you're a little tuckered out, but your need for him hasn't wavered. as soon as you're settled, charlie wraps his arms fully around your body, just to keep you steady. his hips thrust into you, dragging his cock in and out, until another orgasm is pulled out of you. in your dazed state, more whines and whimpers escape your mouth.
but the fact that you're not knocked out, means that charlie isn't done yet. charlie doesn't ridicule or judge, he just lets you settle and fucks into you. orgasm after orgasm is pulled from you until he finally releases hours later. when he attempts to pull out, you're fast asleep on his lap - a content smile grazing your face.
because all you really needed was a proper papa to take care of you.
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"uncle charlie - oh - we have to - ah - close the-"
"didn't i tell you? his rules don't matter when you're with me." charlie spits, still tongue deep in your cunt. you protest again, but charlie doesn't care, nuzzling his face just so he can feel the hair on your pussy brush his stubble.
im faint im dizzy im— hes so demanding even with his mouth half way inside your cunt. literally losing himself in your slick but he needs you to listen likeeee. and the way the reader is fully obedient too has me crazy, like a kicked puppy i love it allll
charlie reid doesn't do quiet.
no notes. just had to highlight this part bc it had me going insane
"try it out sweet pea." charlie's hands stroke your back, as if he's trying to ease you into it. but charlie knows you'll say it eventually. it was impossible for you to say no to him.
"papa," you say, almost whisper.
"again, sweet pea-"
"papa." this time your words are louder, full of conviction. as if you've known that this has been charlie's role all along.
okay this entire section might just be my favorite bit of this wholeee fic just because it feeds the little voice in my head. daddy is one thing, but papa is sooo. the innocence behind the word and how she uses it, especially how it was the way she called her own father once. now using it in a sexual sense— completely defiling the word for her. i love your brain <33
i’ve got something special in the cards for you <3 . . . kinktober25 / cbt
bob reynolds (mcu) with gender neutral, teammate!reader. nsfw. a lighthearted conversation escalates into a newfound kink for bob. + kinktober masterpost & regular masterlist.
. . . it all starts with a casual conversation.
“you’re so cute, sometimes i just want to hurt you,” you mutter, half-jokingly, as you eat your salad. “cuteness aggression, y’know?”
lunch time is always spent with the rest of the team, spread about but still in the same room, sometimes eating the same things and sometimes not. bob and you aren’t dating— you’re a little too scared of commitment for that— but he doesn’t let anyone touch him, anymore, so you’re not not dating either.
he’s dating you. you’re…. working on it.
“you’re so hot i’d let you,” he replies playfully, watching the way your lips wrap themselves comfortably around your fork. “i really would.”
“i’m not joking, bob,” you insist, taking swallowing your bite before continuing, “i want to… i dunno…”
“slap my dick?” reynolds blurts, which causes yelena to tune into your conversation, one eyebrow raising.
“you slap his dick?” she asks, half-impressed and half-mortified with the information.
you huff, “bob doesn’t know what he’s saying. shut up. i don’t slap anyone’s dick.”
at this, john interjects, “hey— last week, you punched mine!”
“well, you deserved it!” you retort, head snapping to stare him down. walker rolls his eyes and yelena chuckles; ava’s agreement with you is what changes the topic of conversation from you slapping bob’s cock around to whether or not john deserved to be punched in his.
. . . later that night, though, the topic comes back up. you’re sitting on the bed, watching bob strip down while you remain fully clothed. he gets down to his boxers when he first pauses. his fingers hold onto the waistband, fidgeting, halting the show. stalling.
your lips purse, mildly annoyed. “what’s wrong?”
he glances away, then back at you, cheeks flooding with an all too familiar reddish hue. “do you… still wanna… hurt me?”
“hurt you?” you repeat, frowning because when you think ‘hurt’ you think of the men you’ve shot at, the women you’ve pinned and punched, and the people you’ve harmed.
“hurt me,” he repeats, cheeks growing even redder.
it takes a moment for you to realize what he means. when he thinks ‘hurt’ he thinks of you slapping his dick. maybe his balls, too… you look up at him, tilting your head some. “is that what you want?”
he’s quick to answer, his tone turning defensive. “i just want to try it,” he says, stepping closer. he tugs his boxers down, kicking them off before holding his cock in one hand, gently stroking with his thumb as he presents himself to you. “maybe start with just squeezing?”
“sure.”
you gesture for him to come even closer and he obliges, biting his lip. if you’d known beforehand that you’d be doing this tonight you probably would’ve invested in some toys. maybe a cage. maybe a ring or two. for now, though, you use your hand, squeezing his dick with an experimental amount of force. you start off light… then you clench your fingers a little more… even more… it’s only when you hear him gasp and whimper that you stop firming your grip, instead running your thumb almost lovingly along his length.
you glance up at him again and, god, he’s even cuter like this. his face is flushed, his mouth slightly agape so little noises can escape from between his lips. his eyes are focused on you, not your hand or your body, but your own eyes, waiting expectantly for you to take further charge. most notable of all is the slight curl of his mouth, the hint of pleasure in his gaze. he likes it.
so you press down a little more, naturally.
this gets him to whine, long and needy. “again,” he manages, hands clenched at his sides. he’s not touching you, and you wonder briefly if it’s because you haven’t told him he could. he’s always been more obedient than not. “please?”
you entertain him with another rough squeeze. you’re rewarded with the sight of his eyes closing and the sweet sound of his breath hitching. you glide your hand closer to his tip, squeezing again before letting go.
“wh— what?” reynolds mumbles, “what? no, i liked it, i— oh, mmm.”
he’s interrupted by the feeling of your hand squeezing on his balls, holding them together in a sort of makeshift bind. you adjust your grip a few times until it’s nice and tight, forcing his balls against each other. they’re almost like stress toys in your hand, squishing against each other. “i know what you like, bob,” you coo, “i know you’ll like whatever i do. even this. isn’t that right?”
he nods, his answer coming out in one short breath. “yeah.”
you being dominant and bob being submissive is nothing new. but this? this is a new level of control you have over bob. it’s power. and fuck, if you weren’t starting to get drunk off it, the breathy moans, the whines and whimpers, the teary eyes— “yeah, that’s what i thought,” you murmur, beginning to rub his tip with your free hand.
you use the pads of your fingers at first, brushing them up and down his frenulum before shifting to using only your thumb. your thumbprint glides along his dick around the tip, smearing about precum that probably dribbled out when you first squeezed him. the rest of your hand holds his dick, now stiff and upright, still in front of you. you hum softly. casually, really, as if you weren’t teasing his tip and death-gripping his balls. in this moment, your own heat doesn’t even matter, though you certainly could feel a warmth pooling throughout your lower half. it’s all about reynolds. his cute dick and his cute muffled cries, soft and shy.
his eyes flutter shut for several moments as he gets closer and closer to coming. the pressure on his balls, the constant rubbing around his sensitive, weepy tip… bob can’t help jerking a little, attempting to rut into your thumb for more friction. at one point, he writhes a little, letting out a cry of frustration.
“does it hurt?” you ask, batting your eyelashes as you look up at him. “does it hurt, baby?”
after a groan, he replies, a string of babble leaving his mouth. “no, no, it’s so good… it’s good, i… yeah, it’s good… you’re good. i love you. i think i’m gonna come, and i love you, and i— ahh, aha— i think i’m gonna come, can i? can i come? oh, please, please, gonna come for you, just you, if you— if you let me, please let me—”
your voice is gentle as you interrupt his rambling. “one minute. you can wait one minute, for me, right?”
“yeah,” he forces out, his voice cracking. it comes out broken, like a promise he knows he can’t keep. he lasts about half a minute before a tiny bit of cum leaks from his tip, a prelude for what was to (literally) come. “’m sorry, i can’t,” he groans, “can’t hold it.”
“it’s okay,” you comfort him, pausing your strokes, “shh, baby, it’s okay.” you keep your grip firm on his balls as you use your other hand to slap them from underneath. slap. slap. slap. “here, let it out.”
each time your palm meets the bottom of reynolds’ balls, cum spurts out from his cock and lands along your lap as if you were spanking it out of him. all the while, he’s a mess of noises and heavy breathing. when you finally let go of his balls, bob’s head rolls back. you reach for his hands, both clenched on either side of him, and gently pull him into resting against you. “there we go…”
reynolds moves his head so that it rests on your shoulder for several moments. he pants, panting hard like a dog that’s been through heat, before having his lips meet the skin of your neck. “i liked that a lot,” he admits into your skin, “i liked that more than i’m supposed to, i think. is that bad? it’s just, you’re so hot when you’re mean like that… but you’re mean-nice… i’m sorry for coming early.” his sentences, each one oh so sincere, come out with several pauses in between them where he catches his breath.
“it’s fine, bob,” you reassure him, rubbing along his back. “you like what you like. it’s not bad. it was my idea anyways, yeah? bob, you’re fine. i want you to come. i like it, that’s the goal.”
he nods against your neck, kissing some more before stilling to just regain his strength. when he finally breaks away, he sinks to his knees before you, spreading your legs. “okay. your turn,” he murmurs, glancing up at you.
huh? your turn? as in—
“i’ll start off gentle, promise. i swear i won’t hurt you too much— really, it feels good once you start tearing up and stuff, y’know?” he goes on, smiling up at you. he presses a kiss to your thigh before spreading your legs further apart. “okay, here goes.”
bob is deff a talker when he’s really close to finishing & then after. the experience of coming just makes him really chatty. + i think whatever u do to bob he will want to do to you… so prepare to have your cock & balls or clit & nipples tortured. lovingly, ofc.
"does it hurt?" you ask, batting your eyelashes as you look up at him. "does it hurt, baby?"
oh, im soooo insane about this. the almost condescending usage of 'baby' while choking out his cock is so so so hot.
after a groan, he replies, a string of babble leaving his mouth. "no, no, it's so good... it's good, i... yeah, it's good... you're good. i love you. i think i'm gonna come, and i love you, and i-ahh, aha- i think i'm gonna come, can i? can i come? oh, please, please, gonna come for you, just you, if you- if you let me, please let me-"
i love babbling. love love loveee babbling, and bob being all whine-y and asking for permission to come, while drunk off the feeling of your hand? yes yes yes! thank u for this. like deadass this made my week.
tags: nesting, scenting, marking, mentions of heat suppressants, solo masturbation, late heat cycle, p in v, breeding, hyperspermia, multiple orgasms, no refractory period, bdc (big dick clark), cervix kissing, golden retriever energy clark (heh), usage of (1) "good boy", omega clark kent, sub top dom bottom dynamics. not proofread.
⚠︎ the amt of tags this has makes me feel like that one twitter meme 'i just made some bullshitttttt'
clark kent— at the end of the day— is just like anyone else. if you end up putting the inevitable on the back burner, it will always come back to bite you in the ass.
and this seems to be the case with clark when he finds himself in bed, with what he could chalk up to as a fever. having always had a great immune system, he’s never had to worry about catching some regular old bug that everyone seems to get when the seasons change from summer to autumn. but from what he’s seen you experience, this seems the most likely.
it feels as though there's lava bubbling underneath his skin when he throws himself onto the bed you share, the left side being yours. the residual scent that lingers on the wrinkled linen sheets seems to ease the fire burning in his body, the slightest whiff from his impact on the mattress catching in his nose and has him letting out a sigh of relief.
“mmm, baby… y’smell good…” delirious giggles bubbling from his throat. clark’s glasses creak against the pressure from pressing his nose into the fluff of your pillow to inhale your scent, each huff feels like some form of drug. intoxicatingly sweet and soft on the nose, like a newly unlocked high he’s found, scrounging to get every last ounce of it in his system.
you smell reminiscent of the woods, that fresh musky smell that doesn't overpower the senses— but with a sweet bite that kicks in right at the end that leaves you in search of more, nose perked upwards to find its source. and it has clark reeling. every breath he takes in, a static buzz rolls through his body. every muscle in his back relaxes as you envelop him entirely. eventually clark finds himself in a pile of your clothes, pieces fished out from your hamper that smell like your perfume and slight stale scent of salt from your skin– cock fisted tightly in his palm while digging his nose in one of his favorite tops you own.
his palm and fingers choking his cock can only do so much though, every load more watery than the next— thick fingers barely meeting on the other side. and that fire in his gut that seems to never end, does just that. it flares brighter, warming the edges of clark's skin and pushing him to jerk that much harder. he's already smothering it with how tight his palm is wrapped around his leaking head, angrily rouge from the stimulation— and even then, it doesn't seem to enough to quell it.
clark practically rubs himself raw with how fast his hand seems to be going, nose clinging to any form of something that resembles your smell. he needs your warmth, the plush supple skin of your hips in his hands as his thumbs dig into them while fucking into your heat. the wet drag of his tongue along the swell of your tits in his mouth, nursing on you as though he’s in search of something that isn't there.
it’ll be there eventually though— the thought of filling you to the brim with his load and leaving you swollen and round has him leaking into his hand once again, a raw whine tearing from his throat. clark’s curls are flattened against his forehead, tendrils soaked in sweat has he bucks into his sore hand once more.
spit leaks and trails down the cheek he has smushed into the pillow. when clark thinks he's right at the edge again, just about to finish— it escapes from him. time and time again, just right out of reach, it has him bucking into the mattress. cock too overstimulated to feel it all, soft cotton sheets cradle the heft of his cock, bed frame creaking with each extension of his hips into it.
when his hands paw at anything around him, knocking into the pile of your pillow and your blanket from this morning, the subtle waft of your scent fills his nose. the warm musk of sleep still nestled in the fleece, subtle hints of cardamom and whipped honey— hand stilling as he spills onto his fingers, thick spurts of cum flooding his hand.
the faint jingle of keys turning the lock of the door catches his attention, the clicking of your heels sounding closer than the next lodging his heart in his throat. even with the door shut, you fill the apartment with your scent and suddenly your worn clothes don't cut it anymore. they pale in comparison to the source that's right behind a plank of wood.
“clark? cla—ark, where are you?”
“in— hnnng— in the bedroom, baby!” the sound of your voice spurring life back into his already impossibly hard cock, it throbs back to attention in the confines of his fingers.
“hey, baby—” words catching in your chest when you see clark in the position he’s in. exposed entirely to what is now you: back sloping downwards in a crescent, muscular thighs spread apart with a pillow crammed in between, cock leaking onto it, and cheek smushed into the fluff of your pillow. flushed pink, bitten lips agape with each drag of his fist along his clearly overstimulated cock. the air in the room is thick, muggy in the way it almost blankets your skin when you step inside.
his glasses are fogged over, but you can see the twinkle in his eye that shines through the condensation when he meets your eyes. goosebumps light up along the curve of your spine when you breathe in the heady scent of clark that sits heavy in the room, it doesn't smell right though. you fish and click your phone on, checking the date.
“what’s going on, clark? it’s way too late for you to be having your heat…” you try and keep your head on straight, it proves to be much harder than you'd like it to be though— swallowing thickly at the full display of clark in his most vulnerable form. thighs pressing themselves together through a layer of black tights when a spike of heat runs through your core.
late heats happen rarely— unless something is chemically stopping them from occurring.
even in your daze of heat, the thick fog of cork tapped hunger spilling over, you still manage to scour through clark’s bedside cabinet. when you find the blister pockets of pills— now empty, everything clicks as to why clark's having such an intense reaction.
“these are for emergencies, clark.” you give him a hard look— heat suppressants.
he chokes out a moan when he makes sense of it all: the heightened awareness he got when you were around, the territorial edge he grew in recent days, the haze that glazed over his brain that made it hard to work— a fever never made sense to him, but it did then.
“gosh, i— i forgot i took those! after lex and that kaiju, i took— mmm— took them to focus on the aftermath…” clark feels pathetic explaining it to you while he continues chafing his cock, showing no signs of going down any time soon, but it's an urge he can't resist. especially when the tights you’re wearing are beginning to fray at the thigh, soft skin tearing through.
you're about to continue, something about needing to put his needs first and you can't save the whole world without taking care of yourself, when he paws at your hand. gripping it tight with a glassy look in his eyes, tears sprouting at the seam, “i know— i know i shouldn't have. but please, please,” cupping your hand over his flushed cheek, thumbing over a spring leak, warmth blooming underneath your fingertips, “help me, baby. i need you…”
it’s how you end up with your knees bent up to your ears, tights torn open and legs slung over clark’s thick shoulders— throbbing cock stretching you open and kissing your cervix with every hard thrust, it’s bordering on painful. fingers gripping the headboard, clark fills you out entirely as he tucks his chin, failing to muffle the mewl he cries out when he feels the heat in his gut bubble.
“baby, baby— can, can i come. please—” voice tight in his throat, spit bubbling at the corners. your muscles contract around him, a silent affirmation he takes more than willingly. it sits heavy in your stomach when he releases short, open mouthed whines punched out of his chest with each rope that leaks out.
babbling thank you’s when you run a soothing hand over his cheek, nuzzling into the cool pressure.
you yelp when clark leans his chest into the backs of your thighs, sandwiching you even more— damn near folding you in half, “clark! give me a second, you—”
“no— no, please! just one more, i need it, just one!” exasperated, wide eyed and pouty– bottom lip snagged on the tip of his canines, clark gives an experimental roll of his hips, slow and dragging the entirety of his length inside you with slick ease.
“it’s never just one more with you, clark—!”
he pumps in and out, testing the waters of just how much you can take, savoring in the hisses you let out through clenched teeth. eyebrows furrowed before relaxing, “fu—uck, okay— okay, one more.”, nodding when you feel the delicious sting of the stretch again.
clark fucks you like his life depends on it, zeroing in on the warmth of you around him and the way your face twists when he hits the spot you like. it’s desperation manifested in physical form, chasing the feeling of you spasming around his cock once again. his fingers paw at the fat of your thighs when he wraps his forearms around them, switching them to lay on one shoulder— the change in position allowing him to tuck himself deeper inside you. you tremble at the feeling, clawing at the sweat soaked bedsheets, “i’m— fuck— so close clark, c’mon, baby— be a good boy and come for me.”
he lets out a pitiful whimper at the name, a noticeable throb in his cock and a stutter of your name when he hears it. clark digs his nose into your shoulder, hiding the way his face scrunches when the tight feeling in his gut sits heavy in his gut— “please, clark.”
hand smoothing over the nape of his neck, catching on stray curls that sit at the base when you pull him in flush against you— mouthing at the skin of it. a flat, wet stripe of your tongue along the bone, before clark feels the sharp sting of teeth indenting the area. heat courses through his body, feeling the pain fizzle into something more intense— veiling over his skin in a blanket before unraveling inside. his breath catches, teeth nipping at your shoulder when he slots himself impossibly deeper into your heat.
his spend bubbles out of your cunt in lewd crackles, frothing at the base of his cock, most of it drooling out from the sides. clark can't pull out if he tried, the spasming of your walls around him sucks him back in with no complaint.
for a long moment, it’s the simple act of heavy breathing against sweated skin, and the humming of a tune into his skin— your fingers circling over the freshly laid bite over his neck.
can you imagine bucky laying on the bed and you’re straddling his waist, leaning down placing slow kisses from his neck, to his collarbones. his breathing a little heavy, as he let you do whatever you wanted to him.
your hips rocked against his clothed bulged, your teeth digging onto his sweet spot, making him moan quietly. “my sweet baby boy..” you cooed, your nails grazing his sides making him shiver.
instead of riding him (which caught him off guard) you pulled his sweats down, freeing him as you settled between his thighs holding his length in your hand—slowly stroking him.
“d-doll—“ bucky whimpered, his hips jerking up as you slapped his thigh. “stay still.” you ordered firmly. bucky was already sweating, you’ve been edging him for hours it seemed like.
your thumb swiped over his slit, flattening your tongue from his balls licking all the way up to the head as his stomach clenched, whining. “please, please—“
“please what?”
“please mommy, please, i need you to suck me, fuck, please suck my cock.”
“you beg so pretty for me baby..” your lips wrapping around the mushroom head before taking him fully in your mouth, bucky let out a guttural moan, fisting the sheets, “fuck, fuck! oh god..”
you looked up at him with your beautiful eyes, bobbing your head watching him struggling to keep eye contact with you, your tongue swirling as you pulled away with a pop!
bucky whined, “no, no i was so close, please—“ “i got you baby boy..” you purred, taking off your panties as you hovered over him, sinking down slowly, your nails digging into his broad chest.
bucky sighed, his head against the pillows, “please can i touch you mommy please, please?” he begged making you smirked, “go ahead and touch mommy baby..”
you felt his large, calloused palms touch your hips, guiding you, his head thrown back in pleasure. in a swift movement he took control, his arm around your waist as he held you down, bare chest to chest as he pounded up into you.
“fuck, fuck, fuck! sweet pussy squeezing me so tight doll.” he panted, your nails digging into his biceps as you whined out some type of moans.
“b-bucky! fuck!” you squealed, feeling your juices squirt out every time he hit your gspot. “cum for me pretty girl, c’mon cum on my fat cock.”
your eyes saw white as you cum on his cock, your walls squeezing him as he released deep inside your walls, your head on his shoulder as you both caught your breath.
"please mommy, please, i need you to suck me, fuck, please suck my cock."
the concept of sub!bucky with a mommy kink. this is making me insaneee
"please can i touch you mommy please, please?" he begged making you smirked, "go ahead and touch mommy baby."
and he asks for permission before touching you Yesssss😭😭😭😭 omg this is everything and moooorreee to me. obedient bucky mhmm mhm. if you read me this on my death bed and i dont wake up, just know im actually dead and start planning a funeral
tags: joel miller x reader, sharing one bed trope, dubcon due to the nature of somno, cunnilingus, wet dreams, p in v, reader is described to be smaller in size compared to joel, keeping quiet, joels soft at the end. not proofread.
⚠︎ out much much later than i hoped sorryyyy. i was out of town and had too many different ideas for this prompt
kinktober directory!
joel’s shirt clings to his skin in all the wrong ways, sweat gluing the tee to his back and the collar of it digging into his skin. it’s much too warm in here, the air is thick and humid and much too palpable. you seem to be doing just fine though, or as well as someone who is asleep can be doing– eyes drawn shut, arm strewn across your midsection while small snores bubble in your throat. but you’re just as sweaty as joel is, if not more. stray hairs stick to your forehead with flushed cheeks, and sweat that formed along your hairline beading down your skin and down your nose.
he can feel the warmth buzzing off of your skin from your proximity, practically shoulder to shoulder and knees bumping against one another in a bed that is much too small for two full grown adults to be sharing this way. joel gives you more space though, even if you had argued earlier that he doesn’t have to give up his comfort for yours when you noticed how close he was teetering to the edge of the mattress– his arm becoming his pillow for the night as he pressed himself to the edge once more.
maybe it’s the sleep that creeping up on him, feeling it in the creaking of his joints and the drag of his eyelids every time he blinks— but he can’t help but notice you. the way your white tank top sticks to you, your sweat penetrating through the thin fabric and soaking it through. your skin faintly visible from underneath, creasing where your torso bends and clinging to your stomach. it caves in between the divot of your chest, soaked fabric cupping around the swell of your tits.
she ain’t wearing anything underneath, joel squinted. the slight pebbling of your nipples visible from the way they peak underneath the tank top. he adjusts his jaw by rolling it, suddenly much too aware of what he was doing. ogling you. he swallows back something he's fully aware of, feeling the slow drag of it down his throat as he looks up to the ceiling.
maybe the exposed wooden beams and the beginnings of rotting wood he spots in the corner would quell the thumping of his heart in his chest.
the mattress dips beside him, and suddenly you both are much closer than joel needs right now. his leg is sandwiched between yours, the change of positions to your side has your chest pressing together and your cheek, now smushed against his supposed corner of the pillow. joel feels himself freeze for a beat, heart lodged in his throat and much too aware of your skin on his. it’s the middle of summer, heat laying thick even in the odd hours of the night, so your choice of shorts makes sense. but the hem bunched into the crook of your thigh, more and more of your warm skin exposed to his salacious eyes.
“joel…” murmured into the fluff of the pillow. so quiet, joel almost convinced himself his brain had made it up before it happened again. a little slower, said with something he couldn’t quite place.
a languid roll of your hips had him very much aware, though. it was experimental in nature, curiousity deep in your sleeping bones that was trying to find friction in what was closest– which happened to be joel’s thigh. the cotton of his pants bunching with your weight as you continued. it was the small hiccups that caught in your throat that told him you weren’t entirely in your right mind, dirty thoughts coming to the surface and this was the result of them.
deft fingers lazily grip the hem of his shirt, pulling him that much closer to your flushed body. joel can’t help the itch in his fingers though, the slipping restraint of wanting to feel your skin under his. to feel the blooming warmth of your hips pinched under his fingers. the rough pads of his fingers carefully blanket over the expanse of your exposed thigh, warm and soft under them. your body seems to respond to it in the form of a shift of your shoulders and another roll of your hips.
the experimental hands of joel miller trail up your hips, down into the dip of your waist, and back up your ribcage to your chest. first, it’s a careful nudge of his thumb against your nipple, enjoying the way you twitch at the new stimulation. then, it’s a soft squeeze of the fat of your tits in his hand. joel realizes then how much smaller you are compared to him, his whole hand manages to fit you comfortably and then some, and it does something to him.
goosebumps wash over his spine and he can feel his cock chubbing up underneath the cotton of his boxers, tightening with every throb he feels in his pelvis. joel knows he should stop, take his hands off you and just let you continue on your own accord– but it seems physically impossible. he almost hates the way the idea of touching you when you’re so… unaware, has him leaking in his pants like a teenager.
but every little reaction joel seems to pull out of you with a feather light touch eggs him on further, so he can't help but continue.
joel shifts his body, propping himself up on one arm until he’s hovering above you. inches away from your skin. he drives his knee onto your slick cunt, the pressure has you whining in your sleep. drool leaking from the edge of your mouth onto his side of the pillow, wet spot blooming onto the white pillowcase. you grind, and grind, until he eventually replaces his knee with his thumb. the more focused, attentive pressure onto your clothed cunt of joel’s thumb against you has you stirring in bed, chin jutting upwards and a cry ripping from your chest.
his fingers dip underneath the elastic waistband of your shorts, slipping them down until bare. entirely bare. you hadn’t worn anything underneath, and while the rational part of joel’s brain says it’s due to the heat– the other part of his brain whispers that you did it on purpose. joel swallows thickly, “jesus christ, sweetheart. you’re killing me here…”
the sheen of your slick coating your folds catches the faint glow of the moonlight seeping through the blinds, and the patch of hair you sport dipped in it. at first, it’s a slow tentative stripe along the surface, testing the waters to see just how much your sleeping body can handle. you twitch at the warmth of his tongue, soft breaths rolling out from your nose at each flick of joel’s tongue against your hole.
your nails scrape against joel’s scalp when they find purchase in the bed of his salt and pepper curls, “mmm— joel…” you mumble sweetly, sleep still thick on your tongue and barely audible. he can feel the clench in your thighs against his ears when he suckles on your clit, beard scruff scraping against the soft supple fat of your thighs.
joel’s forearms wrap, and bring pull you flush against him, leaving little room for air– but more of you to fill up the space. joel doesn't complain, groaning into your cunt to lap up more of your juice. your ambrosia has him on cloud nine, the crook of his jaw aching with each roll of it into your heat but he pays it no mind, continuing through the sting.
even if joel did feel the force of your fingers clawing at his hair for more, or wanton cries that he pulls from your throat, he does nothing about it. you shift in his grasp, hips switching against the mattress as you blink the sleep out of your eyes. eyebrows furrowing and relaxing in rhythmed beats. “joel…? what— mmm, fuck— what are you,” the sudden prodding of slick muscle against the rim of yours choking the words in your throat.
drowsy complaints fall on deaf ears— joel’s much too good, and the feeling of locked knees refusing to give way. your gut feels heavy, knot impossibly tight. joel feels it, your body giving you up much before you even notice to say anything. “c’mon, baby. give it to me.” the desperate need to feel more of you laid on thick in his words.
you mumble pleas under your breath, jaw slowly opening and closing with gaped breaths that never quite make it out of your chest entirely. your hips stutter against the warmth of joel’s tongue, back arching up from the mattress and sweat slicking down the slope of it. jaw growing slack as you barely have time to breathe before the rope snaps and left heaving against the pillow. juices leaving droplets in their wake on the scruff of joel’s beard when he finally looks up at you through the valley of your thighs.
“wasn’ expecting that one.” you huff through soft laughs, you brace yourself on your elbows to meet his eyes, sweat slicking down your cheek. after a last lick carded through your slick folds, “shoulda’ seen what you were doing to me— humping on me like a dog.”
he huffs air through his nose as you squabble, head up, “didn't know i was doing that— s’different…”
his shoulders hunch upwards in a shrug as he hums, “coulda’ said the same f’me.” hands skimming the sides of your waist, coming up to meet you in a quick kiss. your movements delay from the sleepy groan in your joints as you peck him back.
joel’s hands cup over your hips, thumbing them open to push himself in between them— the stiff press of his groin on you, zipper cold against your skin. he spares you a glance, something of a silent search of approval in your face before tucking himself inside you.
it’s slow and languid, filling you out inch by inch entirely. he groans at the constricting warmth, gaping out curses in inaudible pops. every slick slap of his thighs meeting the backs of yours reverberated against the thin walls, enunciated with a whine from your lips each time. and with your knees touching your ears, bent over the thick muscle of joel's shoulders— it doesn't help to ease the shocks that roll up your spine. the blunt head of his cock crammed itself tight against that spot you like, the one that has your back lifting off the sheets and curling against his broad chest.
“gotta’ keep quiet, baby— don' forget it ain’t just us here.” groaned under his breath after a particular plunge inside your walls, jutting his chin weakly towards the door. even when joel's clearly too enthralled by the way your body seems to receive him, tight and warm in all the right ways— ellie’s still his priority. it’s sweet, even if the moment doesn't call for it.
you try to keep the noises at bay, an occasional squeak pushed out from between lips pressed into a line. but it's too hard to keep things down when joel’s fucking into you the way he is now, nibbling at the soft skin of your neck as his breath rolls in warm waves across your shoulder while his cock kisses the deepest parts of you— and joel seems to get the hint.
his hands are cradling your hips, commanding his own rhythm with your body on his and presses a kiss to your mouth to keep you quiet. the slick muscle of his tongue runs along your teeth and dances with yours, sleepy in the way joel moves in slow bouts with you to swallow the sounds. he parts with you for a beat, “feel that good, huh?” humming a warm laugh into your lips as he goes back in for more.
you gasp into his mouth, head pushing down into the pillow, “yes— yes! mmm, give me more, joel. feel t’fucking good—”
the rough scrape of his thumb against your swollen clit stings in the way your ankles lock behind joel’s neck, using the leverage to grind into his groin, feeling the feather light tickle of hairs as you press down. “fuck, joel— i’m gonna— please—”
“come f’me then— i know you can do it, c’mon.”
release is tight in your stomach, the muscles in your back tensing in split second intervals as you gush around the girth of joel's cock. obscene squelching noises as he continues his same stuttered pace into your convulsing heat, “the—ere you go, baby. go—od girl, y’took me so fuckin’ well.”
you tremble in joel's hold, thighs quivering against his sweat-slicked shirt as he smooths circles into the fat of your thigh in his hand, slowly easing his pace to something more manageable. joel eventually pulls himself out right when he’s about to finish, pumping the aching head of his cock in between your slick folds before spilling over them. cum streaming down with each tug of his hand, keening over into your warmth as his breath catches in his chest.
it dries on your skin with a particularly sticky tack against your thighs before lapping it up, the mix of the salted musky taste thick on his tongue causing him to groan into your soft slicked skin. joel places rather light kisses onto the skin of your stomach, staying a second longer on spots you have moles on, before trailing upwards again.
it’s bittersweet, every plush press of his lips feels like he truly believes you wouldn't remember this in the morning— or that he would forget, not that he could. like he’s savoring the heat of your body to commit it to memory, adding it to his mental scrapbook of all things shared between you that joel has yet to admit meant more than he’s already said.
and you don’t verbalize any of the thoughts you had, some things tend to be better left unsaid— this being one of the many such cases. you simply sit in the comforting warmth of joel's weight against your back with his nose dug into the crown of your head, and your hand laid atop his on your waist.
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