all this talk about hitting tony...😋
what about hitting peter?
pathetic! peter who might break your fingers if he doesn't roll with your punches. he has to fall into your slap in just the right way so the strength pulsing under his skin, like steel cables about to snap, doesn't shatter the delicate bones in your hand, while at the same time making sure you get the satisfaction you deserve from hitting him.
pathetic! peter who really gets on his knees and begs you to slap him or hit him or anything, just please talk to him, yell at him if you must, if you would just look at him. He kneels and has tears gather in his eyes as he looks up at you, pulling his hands behind his back. He has too many muscles bulging at his shoulders, his biceps, and his triceps as he tries so so hard to look small for you so you can be comfortable getting mad at him.
pathetic! peter who ignores his spider-sense for you.
pathetic! peter who tries to act like your little hits and paws at him actually hurt, just so you would have an outlet for your rage at your captivity. hopefully you'll rile down enough that you can forgive him! you'll get exhuasted enough and he can gather you up and cry in your arms about all of it, it's just so stressful for him, after all.
pathetic! peter who just sits there and takes it, cause if it'll make you happy, he'll do anything.
(of course, it never hurts him. and somewhere inside, you know that too. it's not peter you're hitting, it's Spider-Man. No matter how much he pretends, he's still every bit the predator that took you.)
✧˚₊‧ peter cumming in his pants when you sit on his face!
it’s been far too long since peter has fucked.
yes, you fucked him that one when you had to figure out who in the hell you fucked because he disappeared before you woke up; you’d eventually remember when you saw parker’s tank-top on the floor.
you remember his pathetic whimpers as he piston into you, the way he fucked sloppy and the way he refused to even pull out once, like it was physically impossible for him to pull out— and in some ways? it was… and you also remember, oh yeah! you have his phone number now, so of course, when the night is late, when nobody is around and you’re far too horny for your own good? guess he’d do the trick.
and peter, for all of his flaws, has a really good green flag if you ask the right person; he loves when women sit on his face.
he lovesssss getting a face full of pussy, his tongue licking up and down their folds and tasting all of their juices all over his face. he loves feeling trapped under thighs and under someone in full control… and he loved it especially tonight, when he hasn’t gotten the feeling in forever, and you put all your weight on him.
“p-peter! peter!” your moans echo off the wall just like they did two weeks ago as this time, it wasn’t his cock drilling in and out of you, it was his tongue lapping you up and down.
his rough hands grab your waist and keeps you on him, moaning against your cunt as your fingers stroke his hair. “mhm… so good b-baby.” his moans are broken, blushing as he can’t stop his tongue. “s’so’so good.” he mutters, feeling his cock twitch as his mouth tastes more of of your pussy. “could eat you all fuckin’ night, sweet girl.”
you rock on his face, both of your hands in his hair as he continues to lick and suck on your wet pussy. his legs shake a little, eyes rolling back at the taste of you entering his mouth— you taste so good.
“peter! p’peter! ohhhhh fu-fuckkkk!” you moan out, fingers yanking at his brown hair as you look down at him, shuddering at seeing him.
he didn’t hold himself back— he couldn’t, that’s the thing with his powers; yes, he’s spider-man and one of the downsides? he can’t hold himself back when pleasure overloads his senses… and in no time at all… he feels his balls clench and his cock vibrates in his pants.
and suddenly, he feels ropes of heavy semen leave his cock and stain his pants, unloading in his boxers as he cums— just by you sitting on his face.
you feel him tremble under you and you furrow your brows, looking at him with a mouth agape and turn your head, seeing his grey sweatpants become stained in the crotch area. you turn your head back at him and seeing the blush of embarrassment on his face.
“peter!”
“mhm— what?”
you shake your head as you groan at the vibrations against your cunt. “you— you just cummed? what- what the fuck?”
he shakes his head in between his thighs, running his hands up and down your back. “…’m sorry… you just t-taste so good… fuck…”
oh this absolutely pathetic man.
click here for main masterlist! 𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃
AUTHOR'S NOTE: god, i luv this pathetic ass man. also??? the amount of support on my first peter oneshot? didn’t expect that but if people want more penis parker, they gonna get penis parker!
thank you for all the support in every way possible! all support is very much appreciated! all content created on this blog is mine, do not copy or sent it through ai!
summary: peter tries to keep his distance when his mutation turns his crush on you into something far more animalistic, but you’re more than happy to encourage every new instinct.
tags/warnings: 18+, minor spoilers for brand new day, neighbor!reader, mutual pining, possessive!peter, stalking, voyeurism, exhibitionism, masturbation, predator/prey dynamics, reader matches his freak, no y/n
wc: 1.7k
a/n: ngl i never saw myself writing peter fics, but i haven’t stopped thinking about the mutation turning him into a little freak since watching BND 😭 a little OOC, maybe, but too fun to resist. and yes this is formatted like headcanons, but there's very much a story arc lol
arachnid!peter who moves into the apartment across the hall from yours with everything he owns packed into two cardboard boxes and a duffel bag. it doesn’t take long for you to realize he’s a little strange. he comes and goes at odd hours, startles whenever you knock, and disappears for days before returning with explanations that never quite add up. still, it’s hard to be suspicious of him when he delivers every excuse with the same sheepish sincerity, his tired face softening into a smile the moment he sees you. if anything, all his oddness only makes you like him more.
arachnid!peter who becomes part of your routine before you really notice it happening. you start holding the elevator when you hear him rushing into the lobby and leaving food outside his door whenever you make too much. soon, he’s carrying your groceries upstairs and appearing with his toolbox whenever something breaks in your apartment. eventually, you both start listening for the sound of the other’s door opening.
arachnid!peter who is painfully obvious about how much he likes you. he remembers every little thing you tell him and always finds a reason to keep you in the hallway a few minutes longer. whenever you stand too close, his attention inevitably falls to your mouth. you like him just as much, which is why you keep lingering outside his door and touching him whenever you can find an excuse.
arachnid!peter who never lets it go further than that. no matter how obvious you make it that you want him to kiss you, he always pulls away before anything can happen. some excuse follows, then a quiet goodnight, and he shuts himself inside before he can change his mind. peter has already lost everyone he’s ever loved. he knows exactly where this is heading, and he refuses to give the universe another person to take from him—or worse, become the reason you get hurt.
arachnid!peter whose mutation starts quietly enough that he can pretend it’s manageable. his teeth ache deep in his jaw, his skin feels too tight, and his hands keep sticking to things without warning. one morning, he wakes with his palm fused to the headboard and has to peel it loose inch by inch. then his senses sharpen until the whole building becomes unbearable. water rushes through every pipe while televisions blare from apartments several floors away. each footstep overhead or below seems to strike directly against his skull, the sounds piling on top of one another until he can barely separate them. except for you. somehow, he can always pick out your heartbeat across the hall. even your scent reaches him through the walls, your shampoo drifting through the bathroom vent and your perfume lingering long after you’ve gone.
arachnid!peter who begins to realize that what he feels for you is growing into something deeper than attraction. his whole body starts reacting to you, tensing when he hears your door open and settling only once you’re home again. one night, he catches his reflection after hearing your key turn in the lock and finds his eyes completely black. that’s when he understands that whatever he’s becoming has fixed itself on you.
arachnid!peter who starts avoiding you after that because he no longer trusts himself around you. he waits until the hallway is empty before leaving and stops answering whenever you knock, even when you know he’s home. you’re confused at first, then hurt, wondering what you did to make him pull away so suddenly. meanwhile, peter spends his nights pacing from room to room, listening to you move around ten feet away. distance only makes the need sharper. he wants to know where you are and who you’re with. every time he hears you leave, it takes everything in him not to go after you.
arachnid!peter who eventually stops fighting the urge to follow you. the next time he hears you leave after dark, he’s out the window before he can talk himself out of it, climbing toward the rooftops because the streets feel too exposed. he moves differently now, keeping low against the brick as he follows from above with an ease that feels more instinctive than deliberate. there’s something satisfying about keeping you in sight, tracking every turn you take and listening to your heartbeat beneath the city noise. he tells himself he only needs to know where you’re going, that the restless feeling under his skin will ease once he knows where you’ve ended up. it doesn’t. even when you reach your destination, all he can think about is following you inside.
arachnid!peter who doesn’t realize you’ve started hearing him. the faint scrape of his fingers against brick. something shifting overhead. a shadow crossing the sidewalk whenever you pass beneath a streetlight. one night, you glance up quickly enough to catch a familiar figure crouched along the edge of a rooftop before he disappears into the dark. suddenly, the unanswered knocks and empty hallways make a little more sense. whatever made peter start avoiding you, it clearly wasn’t because he’d lost interest. you should probably be afraid. instead, the realization sends a slow heat curling through your core. after that, you start taking the longer route home, choosing emptier streets and darker alleys. sometimes you slow down when the sounds fall too far behind, pretending not to listen until you hear him moving above you again.
arachnid!peter who sees you changing through your bedroom window by accident the first time. you’re halfway through pulling your shirt over your head when movement outside catches your attention. there he is, clinging to the brick across the alley five floors above the street, one hand spread against the wall and his body folded close to it in a way that barely looks human. he disappears the second you see him.
arachnid!peter who can hardly meet your eyes the next morning, confirming your suspicion that it was him outside your window. once again, you’re nowhere near as unsettled as you should be. seriously, what is wrong with you? all you can think about is peter watching you while you were half-naked and what that means about how badly he wants you.
arachnid!peter who waits for you to close the curtains the following night. you leave them open instead and undress slowly in front of the window, lingering in your underwear while you pretend to look for something in your dresser. peter watches from across the alley, telling himself he’ll leave any second. he doesn’t.
arachnid!peter who finds his way back into your routine, though it looks very different now. he comes back the next night, then the night after that. you always take your time by the window in barely anything, moving as though you have no idea he’s watching. some nights you catch sight of him immediately. other nights he stays hidden long enough to make you wonder, but you always feel him there eventually. with every visit, he lets himself creep a little closer.
arachnid!peter who is perched just above your window one night when you climb into bed naked and spread your legs for him. you start touching yourself with your eyes fixed on the glass, every slow movement daring him to stop hiding and show himself.
arachnid!peter who holds out until your touch grows more desperate, and then a low, wrecked sound leaves him. your eyes find him in the darkness outside, caught in the spill of light from your bedroom. when he lifts his face, his eyes are completely black and his teeth look sharper than you remember. there’s something almost monstrous about him like this, and seeing what wanting you has done to him only makes the heat between your thighs burn hotter. you keep your eyes on his as your hand moves faster.
arachnid!peter who drops silently onto the fire escape when you moan his name. every instinct in him is screaming to get closer, to climb through the window, to put his mouth against your throat and find out whether your pulse feels as frantic as it sounds. but he stays where he is, gripping the railing hard enough to bend it because some small, stubborn part of him is still trying to protect you from what he might do if he lets himself touch you.
arachnid!peter who watches you bring yourself over the edge with his black eyes fixed on yours, taking in every movement of your hand and every tremble that runs through you. even after your breathing begins to settle, he doesn’t move. instead, he tells you to close the curtains and stay away from him, his voice rough as he warns you that you have no idea what’s happening to him.
arachnid!peter who starts listing everything he can sense when you make no move to listen. your heartbeat through the walls. your scent the moment you step into the hallway. your footsteps moving through the building. he knows when you come home, when you can’t sleep, and when you touch yourself. he means it as a warning, but it sounds more like the confession you’ve been waiting for all along.
arachnid!peter who goes completely still when you tell him you’ve been leaving the window unlocked every night. he already knew you were putting on a show for him, but this is different. all this time, you haven’t just been letting him watch. you’ve been waiting to see if he would come inside.
arachnid!peter whose shame gives way to raw hunger as you climb out of bed and walk toward him without bothering to cover yourself. he tells you to stop, but the warning comes out strained enough that neither of you believes it, and you reach for the latch anyway, pushing the glass open as his fingers tighten around the ledge and the last barrier between you disappears.
arachnid!peter whose last bit of restraint finally breaks. one second he’s outside, and the next he’s crowding you backward into the bedroom with one hand wrapped carefully around your throat. he doesn’t squeeze. not yet. his thumb settles beneath your jaw as he searches your face, holding you still long enough to make the difference in strength impossible to ignore. “you have no idea what you’ve been encouraging.”
arachnid!peter who finally stops pretending this hasn’t been a hunt when you tilt your head into his hand and whisper, “i think i do.” he has spent weeks tracking your scent, following your heartbeat, and watching from the dark while you laid out a trail for him. now his prey is standing beneath his hand and asking to be caught.
older!simon who absolutely adores how much smaller petite!reader is than him. well, typically everyone is smaller than you when you're six-foot-three and counting. doorframes are smaller, airplane seats, ceilings—you get the gist. simon is used to maneuvering the world with his eye-level far above crowds since he was in middle-school by now, but it's with you that he suddenly doesn't know what to do with himself. feels like his huge, lumbering hands are too big for your body, like he'll snap your limbs in half when he takes both of your wrists in just one of his own and pins them above your head. it's like handling fine china, two meaty fingers awkwardly pinching the entire handle of a too-tiny teacup. simon isn't particularly good with metaphors, but i digress.
he always swears he can't fit inside you, but well, you do fit like a gem in the backseat of his car and the opportunity is too good to pass up. it almost feels cruel, you're so small and he's too big, but how could he not? fold you up nice and easy under him, et voila. you're so brave for him, and it just takes a bit of pushing past the initial resistance to bury his oversized cock inside you. you're tight as a fist around the head of his cock, just at first.
you're easy to manhandle, a real-life ball-jointed doll that even a brute like simon can bend to his whim, or bounce up-and-down on his cock. fun-sized, he'd call it, you're made for the fun stuff. it's a little reductive, maybe, but you inevitably bat your lashes and reply that you were made just for him. he can do whatever wants with you.
— a/n: based on a conversation i had minutes ago, except i immediately started thinking of ghost bc simon riley is better than any real life man. <3
Actually, you notice it every Tuesday, and every Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and both weekend days if he can find an excuse to see you, but Tuesday is when you finally put a name to it.
Puppy.
Clark is a puppy.
He does this thing.
This thing where he waits for you by your locker every single morning, and you don't even know how he gets there before you because his family's farm is a forty minute drive from school and the bus doesn't run that early, but there he is. Every day. Backpack hanging off one shoulder. Flannel a little rumpled because he dressed in a hurry, probably, because he was so excited to see you.
And when you turn to the corner...
His whole face changes.
It's not even a smile at first. It's just... light.
Like someone flipped a switch inside him. His eyes go soft and bright at the same time, and his shoulders drop from whatever tense place they were holding, and he pushes off the lockers like he's been waiting his whole life for this exact moment.
"Hey," he says, and his voice does that breathy thing, like he's a little winded just from looking at you. "Hi. Good morning. You look—you look really nice today."
You're wearing the same sweater you always wear. Your hair is in a messy ponytail. You have a stain on your jeans from breakfast.
He's looking at you like you hung the stars.
"Hi, Clark," you say, and he shivers. Just a little. Just a tiny ripple through his shoulders, like your voice is a physical thing that touched him.
His ears go pink.
You don't mention it. You've learned not to mention the ear thing, because if you do, the pink spreads to his cheeks and down his neck and then he can't look at you for ten whole minutes and Chloe makes fun of him at lunch.
So you just smile and spin your locker combination and pretend you don't notice him hovering at your elbow.
He walks you to class.
Every class.
Even the ones on opposite sides of the building.
You have biology on the second floor and he has history in the basement, but somehow he's always there when the bell rings, a little out of breath, hair slightly windswept, holding out his hand for your books before you can even ask.
"Clark, you don't have to—"
"I want to," he says, and it comes out so earnest, so fast, so harsh. "I mean. If that's okay. Unless you don't want me to. I can stop. Do you want me to stop?"
He looks genuinely panicked. His eyebrows knit together and his eyes go big and worried and he clutches your biology textbook to his chest like a lifeline.
You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing.
"It's okay, Clark. You can walk me."
And just like that, the sun comes back out. He beams. Beams. There's no other word for it. His whole body straightens up and his chest puffs out a little and he falls into step beside you.
Pete's standing there rolling his eyes and Chloe's hiding a smirk behind her notebook. Clark just smile. An awkward laugh.
Such a good boy.
In class, you sit by the window.
He sits two rows over and one seat back.
You can feel him looking at you. It's not creepy. It's never creepy (okay maybe a little. But it's Clark, what do you expect?). It's just... warm. A warm gaze on the back of your head, like sunlight through glass.
When you turn around to pass a handout, you catch him. He's got his chin propped on his hand and his pen hovering over a notebook and he's staring at you with this dreamy expression, like he forgot where he was.
His eyes widen when he realizes he's been caught.
He drops his pen. It clatters on the floor. He fumbles to pick it up and smacks his elbow on the desk and mutters "ow" and when he sits back up his hair is messy and his face is the color of a tomato.
You smile at him.
He smiles back, shaky and wide and so, so sweet.
Later, you find a folded note tucked into your textbook. It's a little star, drawn in blue ballpoint pen, with a speech bubble.
"thinking about u."
Then underneath, in his neat handwriting.
"Hope your bio quiz goes good. Not that you need luck. You're the most hardworking person I know."
You keep all his stupid notes in a shoebox under your bed.
Lunch is his favorite part.
You know this because he told you once, very seriously, that lunch was "the highlight of his whole day, probably his whole week, honestly maybe his whole life so far." Then he got embarrassed and tried to stuff an entire sandwich in his mouth so he wouldn't have to talk about it.
He’s already at the table when you get there. Saved you a seat right next to him. There’s a brown paper bag in front of your spot and you recognize it immediately—Martha’s baking. Clark pushes it toward you with this nervous little duck of his head.
“Ma made apple pie. I told her you liked it so she, um. Made extra. For you. Specifically. I cut it into slices the way you like. Triangles, not squares.”
You open the bag and there’s a little note tucked inside. His handwriting. Messy, rushed, like he scribbled it in the tractor on the way to school.
"Hope today’s a good day. You deserve it."
—C
He’s not looking at you when you read it. He’s very intently studying the cafeteria wall, ears turning pink. His knee is bouncing under the table and his fingers are shredding a napkin into tiny little snowflakes.
“Clark, this is so sweet,”
His head whips around and he smile.
Smile.
Like the sun came out.
Like you just gave him everything he’s ever wanted.
“Yeah? It’s nothing. It’s just pie. Ma did the hard part. I just— I just wanted you to have something nice. You work so hard. You’re so smart. You’re the smartest person I know, actually. Did you study for the biology test? I can quiz you if you want. I made flash cards.”
He digs them out of his backpack. Handmade. Color coded. There are little stars drawn in the margins and your name at the top in careful block letters.
He made you fucking flash cards.
He's so fucking cute.
He barely eats his own lunch. Too busy watching you enjoy yours. Too busy making sure your water cup is full and you have enough napkins and nobody’s bothering you.
At one point you catch him just… staring. Chin propped on his hand. Eyes soft. A tiny smile playing at his lips.
“You’re not eating,” you say.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Clark.”
“I ate a big breakfast.”
You give him a look. He fall for it immediately.
“Okay, I forgot to eat breakfast. I was too busy thinking about— about stuff. School stuff. Nothing weird.” His ears are crimson now. He shoves a carrot stick in his mouth to prove he’s fine. Chews too fast. Almost chokes.
You pat his back and he nearly melts into a puddle under the cafeteria table.
God, he’s pathetic.
He's jealous. He's so jealous.
He doesn't mean to be—he hates that he's jealous, you can see it on his face—but he can't help it. It's written all over him the second you so much as smile at another guy.
Whitney stops you in the hall to ask about a group project and Clark's immediately standing behind you.
Doesn't glare or puff up his chest or do any of that macho posturing stuff. He just stands there, hovering, his eyes big and worried, his bottom lip caught between his teeth.
Whitney leaves. Clark visibly exhales.
"Everything okay?" you ask, because you're not oblivious, you know exactly what's happening, you just want to hear him say it.
"Yeah," he says, too quickly. "Yeah, totally. Fine. Normal. I'm normal. He just... he's tall."
You raise an eyebrow. "Clark, you're taller than him."
"Oh." He pauses. Processes this. "Right. Yeah. I am." A beat. "Do you... do you like tall guys?"
You laugh. You can't help it. He looks so worried, so genuinely distressed by the possibility that you might have a height preference that doesn't include him, even though he towers over basically everyone in Smallville High.
"Clark," you say, and you let your voice go soft, the way you might talk to a nervous shelter dog. "You're my boyfriend. Okay? You're always my favourite."
His whole body sags with relief. He ducks his head, a shy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Sweet.
Sometimes you catch him doing things.
Little things.
You'll drop your pencil and he'll catch it before it hits the ground, fast as a blink, and then look startled at his own hand like he doesn't know how it got there.
Or you'll shiver in the hallway and suddenly his jacket is around your shoulders, and he's standing there in his t shirt looking proud and nervous and a little cold (he's not), but he won't take it back no matter how much you try.
"Your lips were turning blue," he says, like that's a reasonable justification for giving you the clothes off his back.
"They were not."
"Were too. A little. Around the corner."
You squint at him. He squints back, stubborn, jaw set in his gentle way that means he's not budging.
You wear the jacket for the rest of the day. It smells like hay and laundry detergent, and when you give it back, he holds it to his chest for a full three seconds before putting it on.
Later, you'll swear you saw him inhale.
After school he finds you at your locker again.
He doesn’t even pretend he just happened to be passing by. He’s leaning against the row of lockers across from yours, clearly waiting, arms full of your favorite wildflowers.
Black eyed Susans and goldenrod and a few cornflowers he definitely picked from the edge of the Kent property (just now).
“These are for you,” he says, and his voice cracks a little on you.
You take them. He watches your face like a hawk. He's nervous. You can tell.
“Clark, they’re beautiful.”
Relief.
“Yeah? They’re just weeds, really. I mean technically they’re wildflowers but— I saw them and thought of you. They’re the color of your— I mean they match your— they’re pretty. Like you. Not that you’re a weed. You’re definitely not a weed. You’re more like a— a rose? No, that’s corny. I’m gonna stop talking now.”
He doesn't stop talking.
“Do you wanna come over? To the barn? We can watch the stars. Ma’s making dinner, she said you can stay if you want, no pressure, totally fine if you’re busy, I just thought maybe— it’s supposed to be clear tonight and I fixed the telescope and I found this new constellation I wanna show you—”
You say yes.
He fist pumps.
Actually fist pumps.
Then immediately tries to play it cool by leaning on the lockers and misses, stumbling sideways, catching himself halfway through.
Smooth. So smooth.
The barn is your place.
You don't remember exactly when it became your place. Sometime between the first time he showed you the telescope and the first time you fell asleep on the old couch in the loft. Now it's just... yours. Yours and his.
You’re curled up on the couch and he’s beside you, not quite touching, because he’s always so careful about that. He doesn’t want to assume. Doesn’t want to push. Even though he wants it with every cell in his body.
He’s telling you about the stars. Pointing out Cassiopeia, his voice soft and a little sleepy. His flannel sleeve brushes your arm and he shivers. He’s so easy. So sensitive. Everything you do gets to him.
“You’re not listening,” he says, and he’s smiling. Not mad. He could never be mad at you.
“I’m listening. Cassie something.”
“Cassiopeia. She was a queen who bragged too much and got put in the sky upside down.”
“Like a punishment?”
“Yeah. But I think she’s still pretty.”
You're not looking at the stars.
You're looking at him.
The moonlight catches his profile, the soft angles and earnest expressions. His hair is slightly messy. There's a piece of hay in his hair from when he flopped down next to you. He's so beautiful it makes your chest ache.
“Clark?”
“Yeah?” He turns his head, and the full force of those pretty eyes hits you, and for a second you forget how to breathe.
"What's your favorite constellation?"
"Yours."
He doesn't even hesitate.
"Clark, that's not—"
"The one that looks like you," he says, and he's blushing but he's pushing through it. "I haven't found it yet. But I'm looking. Every night. I'll find it eventually."
You have to close your eyes for a second. When you open them, he's still looking at you. Soft. Hopeful. A little nervous, like he's not sure if that was too much.
"That's really cheesy," you whisper.
"I know." He winces. "Was it too cheesy? It was too cheesy. Sorry. I've been workshopping it and I couldn't tell if—"
"Clark?"
"Yeah?"
"I liked it."
The smile that breaks across his face is brighter than every star in the sky.
He falls asleep on you.
It happens during movie night. You're halfway through some old Western his dad recommended, and Clark has been slowly, getting closer to you for the past hour.
First it was a casual arm over the back of the couch. Then it was his knee pressed against yours. Now his head is on your shoulder, heavy and warm, and his breathing has gone slow and deep.
You look down.
He's out. His cheek is smushed against your arm and his mouth is slightly open and he's making this tiny little sound with every exhale, almost a snore but too soft, too sweet.
He looks more sweet like this. All the worry is gone. He's just a boy. A sleeping boy who trust you enough to let his guard down completely.
You reach up and gently, brush the hair back from his forehead.
He stirs.
"Mm?" His eyes flutter open, unfocused and drowsy. "Whassat? Did I—was I sleeping on you? Oh no. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to—"
"Clark."
He freezes mid freakout.
"It's okay." You card your fingers through his hair. "Go back to sleep."
He stares at you for a long moment. His eyes are all soft and confused and vulnerable. Then he sighs—a happy sigh—and lean back in your shoulder.
"'Kay," he mumbles. "G'night. Love you."
He freezes again.
Every muscle in his body goes rigid. You can feel him holding his breath, can feel him panicking.
You keep stroking his hair.
"Love you too," you murmur.
He melts. Literally melts, like butter in a hot pan, sinking into you with a whimper that's almost puppyish, almost a whine. His hand finds the edge of your sleeve and grips it, like he's keeping himself together, like he's afraid you'll disappear.
"You mean it?" His voice is so small. So hopeful.
"Of course I mean it."
He makes a sound that's half laugh and half sob and presses his face into your shoulder. His ears are bright red. His whole body is trembling slightly. He's so happy he doesn't know what to do with it.
"Cool," he says, muffled against your sweater. "Cool cool cool. That's—wow. Okay. Good. I'm—I'm gonna be normal about this."
"Clark."
"Yes?"
"You're shaking."
"I know." He lets out a breathless laugh. "I know. I'm sorry. I'm just—you said—and I've been wanting to say—for like, two years, actually, and—"
"Two years?"
"Maybe three. It's fine. I'm fine. This is fine."
He's definitely not fine.
You tug him closer and he goes willingly, eagerly, curling into your side like he was made to fit there.
"Good boy," you tease, soft and fond.
He makes a noise. A tiny, strangled noise, somewhere between a gasp and a squeak. His head snaps up and his eyes are huge and his face is on fire.
"Did you just—"
"Maybe."
"Can you—" He swallows hard. His voice cracks. "Can you say it again?"
You smile. Brush your thumb across his cheekbone, right where his blush is deepest.
"You're my good boy, Clark."
He whimpers.
Then he buries his face in your neck and stays there, breathing you in, holding onto you like you're the only solid thing in the universe.
The movie plays on, forgotten.
Neither of you moves for a very long time.
In the morning, there's a note between your book.
It's a drawing of a constellation—a new one, one you don't recognize. It's shaped like a person, sort of, if you squint. A little crooked. A little imperfect.
Underneath it, it's Clark's handwriting.
"Found it. The one that looks like you. It's my new favorite."
Clark loves PDA, but not in an overly lovey-dovey type of way; no, his type of PDA is subtle. Barely noticeable unless you know what to look for. His hands are always on you somehow, whether it's gently guiding you through a crowd with his hand on your back or his hand simply resting in yours. Sometimes it's around your waist and other times it's around your shoulder.
He needs to be near you at all times and constantly hovers not for your sake but for his. You need to be in his line of sight or else he will panic. He'll look for you, his head swiveling around the room like a madman until his eyes finally land on you, and when they do, he's immediately up and moving.
And don't even think about walking away without a kiss; whether it's just walking to the other side of the room, he needs at least a kiss on the cheek to be satisfied, or else he'll just follow you until you cave. He knows it's pathetic, but he doesn't care. Not even for a second.
“okay but ashton irwin size kink smut. like that man is over a foot taller than me and omg i would kill to be underneath him. like him manhandling you, picking you up over his shoulder and throwing you on the bed. i need it like i need oxygen, more than ever. so please”
description: in which his girlfriend is so much smaller than him, and they both get off on it
pairing: ashton irwin x small!female!reader
warnings: rpf, swearing, pet names (princess, baby), smut (unprotected p in v, fingering, oral m receiving, tummy bulge, references to other sexual activity but nothing in heavy detail), reader is described as being smaller than ash so i apologize if that is not your body type i usually try to be more vague for my fics but this was a request!
everyone thinking clark and his girlfriend are the most vanilla, sweet, innocent couple because of how they act around each other and present as a team — never cursing or fighting, never drinking or getting belligerent, never lying or betraying anybody including and especially to each other. they were the golden couple. they only amp up that image to everybody even more when clark buys them promise rings. everyone thinks it’s sweet, cute as a button how virginal they both are and are waiting for marriage. they’ve only ever seen him give her a kiss on her cheek or her forehead, rub her arm, hug her in a warm embrace and whisper their adorable inside jokes.
but in the private space of their bedroom, they’ve done just about everything but.
even before clark got them the rings.
every night, he whimpers her name and ‘please’ on repeat right in her neck, wearing nothing but his glasses. grinding his cock up and down the front slit of her pretty, glistening pussy like he’s a horny little bunny that couldn’t ever be sated.
“it doesn’t count, right? if I don’t put it in, mmmmuhhh— oh, god — if I don’t put it in then we’re still virgins,” he pants. still humping her up and down, their parts rutting up against one another as they both implode from the friction. she grinds her clit back, bumping it up against his head and all his throbbing veins, and nods her head up and down, agreeing.
“of course baby, just keep going, we can cum like this as much as we want. it won’t count.”
“oh, oh my, yes, yes please! I have to keep going. I’m about to cum. it’s gonna get all over your pretty little pussy.”
he learns all his dirty talk from the dirty movies they’ve watched too. apart from his instincts and his imagination, and of course all his grunts and movements were purely primal.
“it looks so big when you press it up against me. I don’t know how it’s gonna fit when we get married,” she gasps, watching him rut like a dog and how it goes past her belly button. it’s sloppy, slippery, jutting around from all the blood that’s filled up. his sac is even heavy against her too. the way it bounces against her hole, gives her another part of him to clench onto too.
“shhh, we’ll make it fit. I won’t let it hurt you. we’ll be nice and wet together, just like this, then it’ll just… it’ll just slide right in,” he gulps. losing any other words that are left to say the more he thinks about it. “we’ll feel so good. and you’re gonna be my wife.”
“keep — keep going baby, don’t stop now,” she pleads. clark nods immediately, kissing on her neck while he humps her even faster. the slick is audible, gushing in between them as they whimper and slide.
“they think I don’t even touch you,” clark hums a laugh, slobbering on her throat through a wet, lazy kiss. “mmm. they think I haven’t even seen you naked. they don’t know I can still make this pussy feel good without even putting it in.”
she sprawls out her legs even wider, mouth open as she has her toes further up in the air, letting him take over their gyrating completely as they both leak all over each other.
“let’s cum together, honey. let me make you feel good. let go for me, cum on me. I wanna make this pussy feel nice and happy.”
clark ruts harder, faster. kisses her chin and swallows up his favorite noises that leave her mouth when they both feel the electric dip in their bellies. both of them clench, clark’s tip stills and presses up right against her clit while he lets out his long, gushing first spurt. she cums just as he’s creaming all over her clit, making a mess of her mound and even up to her stomach. they both roar and hum and whine as they rub out their highs, the splatter of all the evidence of their innocent fun coated all over her as they catch up to their wild heartbeats.
he kisses her and hums all his praises right into her mouth, some of it even nonsense as he slaps his filthy, heavy wet tip back on the lips of her pussy and the hood of her clit.
“you um, felt good? jeez, it’s so wet….”
clark is in awe at her shiny center, enthralled while he plays with the mess a little more. he gets shy and ducks his head back with a laugh and says he’s sorry if she’s too overstimulated. she laughs right back at him and shook her head, wrapping one leg around his hips to trap him back in.
“you can keep playing. it’s all yours.”
“it’s ours. our mess… and gosh is it pretty,” he breathes, rolling his head and tapping the sopping wet folds. “prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“I can’t wait to be your wife.”
“well I can’t wait to be your husband,” clark retorts, pointedly looking at her and leaning in to give her a warm, selfish kiss.
“can’t wait to feel you inside me. all the way,” she whispers. holds onto his face.
“I’ll make you feel so good. I already can’t keep my hands off you.”
“and they’ll never know.”
“nope,” clark grins.
eventually, shortly after clark proposed they graduated to ‘just the tip’ making both of them cum after only a few shallow pumps of clark tearing her open with just his crowned head. and he grazes her g-spot with the most perfect angle to drive them both crazy. but in public, with their matching shiny engagement rings gracing their fingers, they still are perceived as modest as can be.
clark kent struggles to face the fact that some people in the world will dislike him at some point, no matter how hard he tries to get them to like him. he hates the idea of anyone disliking him, but when he's with you, it's inevitable.
the neighbours come knocking on the door after it's the 5th time that week clark was fucking you into the bed with his cock deep into your pussy. there's a loud moan that follows every time clark hits the sweet spot— sending you into ecstasy over and over again.
"ngh— i love you so much," he moans, pulling your head closer to kiss you.
he's shoving his tongue down your throat while grinding his cock deeper into you. loud moans escape past your lips despite clark throat-fucking you with his tongue.
you let out a gasp when he pulls out, leaving only the tip inside. you clench around it, wanting more desperately, pussy unconsciously pulling him inside but he doesn't cave. you let out an eager whine.
"stay silent for me, will you?" he asks nicely, a big cheeky grin plastered on his face.
immediately, you place a hand over your mouth.
he uses his palm underneath your back to pull you into an arch, aiming the tip perfectly at the spot that would send you over the climax. he hesitates, before exerting the final blow and thrusting his full length inside you one last time.
"fuck—!" you subdue with your hand, spurts of cum coating his softening member.
he groans above you, peppering kisses along your neck as he paints your walls white.
"what're we gonna do about them?" you ask, panting.
"i have no idea," clark chuckles.
meanwhile, neighbours are already gathered at your door, begging for some kind of compensation or for you guys to sound-proof your room.
Clark who, after the tiniest of interactions with you, has to go jerk off in the bathroom before he literally jizzes his pants in the middle of the office.
He's locked himself in the bathroom, his breathing quick and labored.
He glances down at the tent in his pants, his cock painfully hard, and he groans, grabbing his face in his hands.
He can’t believe that just a conversation with you got him this aroused.
And now he has to fix it.
He shouldn't. He shouldn't even be thinking about it. He hates that this happens every time he talks to you. He wishes he was better than this, but he can't help it. He just likes you so much.
He tries to push down the guilt he feels by rationalizing that if he doesn't do this, he'll be hard all day in the office and everyone will see. It's not just him jerking off, it's him solving a problem so he can go back to work. Right?
He hastily undoes his pants, his heart beating hard and fast, more blood rushing south at the promise of release.
He pushes his pants and his boxers down, just past his hips, and his cock springs free. The tip is a dark, angry red, precum smeared over it. He spits on his hand before wrapping it around himself, feeling the way his cock throbs with need, and he starts out slow.
He feels guilty every time he does this, mostly because it makes him think about you and that makes him feel like a huge pervert. But he really can't help himself.
He likes the way you did your makeup today. The soft gloss on your lips was shiny and it smelled sweet, and he imagines it smearing on his cock while you suck him off.
He groans quietly. You'd look so pretty on your knees, looking up at him with those gorgeous eyes, your mascara smudging as tears fall down your face.
He squeezes himself harder, jerking faster. Droplets of precum spill from him, landing on the floor. “Fuck,” he hisses quietly.
That skirt you're wearing is so pretty. He'd have it bunched around your waist, holding it there with one hand as he ate you out. Or maybe you'd let him hide under your desk, that skirt concealing his head while he lapped at your sweet pussy in the middle of the office.
His cock twitches in his hand, that searing heat in his lower abdomen growing unbearable, winding tight.
And that blouse of yours…fuck, he'd pop open the top buttons, just enough for your tits to spill out. He wants to bury his face in them, leave marks over their soft skin. He wants to suck on your nipples and bite them until the sensitive peaks are swollen. He wants to spill his cum on them and then lick it off. He wants to watch them bounce as you ride him, watch them jiggle as he fucks you…
Clark braces one hand on the wall as he jerks himself faster and harder with the other. Fuck, he's gonna come.
He can imagine your beautiful face caught in ecstasy, that perfect mouth open as you moan and gasp his name. He can imagine your soft thighs wrapped around his waist, your pussy tight and wet as he fucks into her.
You'd sound so sweet when you’d come, you'd look so beautiful. And you'd feel so good, wet gummy walls wrapped around him snugly and milking him. He'd fill you with his cum, spill all of it in you until it's dripping out of you. He'd keep you full of it until you got swollen with his baby. He'd make you his. Completely his.
He grunts, gasping as he comes, the white, sticky ropes of his release spilling onto his hand, coating the wall, dribbling down to the floor.
He's shaking from the force of his orgasm, sweat beading on his brow. It takes him a minute to come down, but when he does he's immediately cleaning the mess, embarrassed and guilty.
He walks out of the bathroom, his cheeks tainted a faint pink, and he hopes he manages the rest of the day without having to get off while thinking of you again.
♡ please comment and reblog my work, it means so much to me and inspires me to keep writing
Clark Kent masterlist
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𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 - if you wanna be added to my Clark Kent taglist, lmk <3
@jamesh0tfield your request!! Hope you enjoy it and thank you so much for requesting🫀!
(Older) Josh Silver x (f! Younger) Reader
☆ It's a Glitter Orgy
Warnings!: 18+, this will appear with sexual tension and sexual intercourse (mild), older kink, breast playing, fluff with sex, spanking (a bit), teasing, stress relief and him absolutely loving you! Enjoy!
Summary: You have been coping with some stress lately, since you were a great singer (and if you are in real life, you still are great) , the concerts, plays, your throat killing you, so your amazing boyfriend will help you cope with it.
Lately, stress has got the best of you and you have been working everywhere in the studio as well as the music stage, the beauty salon for your retouching of your hair, finding the right clothes, trying to keep yourself on top and also, having your lovely and handsome boyfriend: Josh.
He knew how stressful it could be working as a rock star, (in general), he being the keyboardist and producer of his band could be exhausting, notes everywhere and cables up to his hair and his tattooed arms, and the worst were the tour busses, you two could confirm that it was a rolling ass that smelled funny and had dirty clothes everywhere with beds that made you more back problems than money of your singing, he has seen you crying because of tiredness into his arms or just slumped yourself at him while he practiced keyboard, ruin your voice at the vocals of your songs.
He tried to help, bringing you a tea for your voice, cuddling you, giving you space when you need it or clinging to you when you wanted to, even helping you on the backstage if you have a concert in your period, he always loved you no matter how sweaty, cranky or full of glitter your lovely self was.
And one of the things you also dealt with: the press, how you were younger than him made fingers point at you and not so glittery comments, sometimes, it affected you and he was not having it. Not to his gorgeous controversially young lovely girlfriend.
Right now, you were just getting inside his house, covered in glitter (your concert was a bit wild) and you were just trying to make it to the bed, and he saw you come in, full of glitter. His face turned from serious to a bit weirded out, standing in front of you amusedly.
'What happened...? - He asked, his voice still had the tinge of weirdness and chuckled lowly, reaching his hand to gently see your hands. And you answered very tiredly, taking his hand softly.
'Don't ask. - You chuckled, leaning into him and he playfully groaned, 'complaining' of how he looked like a disco ball like you, and your sighed of relief as he picked you up, going with you towards his bedroom, he kissed your head softly and helped you change into more comfortable clothes, but when you tried to quit your bra but even your arms were too tired to even move.
He had it and he had a brilliant idea.
He gently took your arms, putting them away and pressed his body onto you, making you gasp softly, and he gently put you on his lap to make you relax and you held onto his arms, as he started to kiss and nibble your neck and the back of it, going towards your collarbone.
You took soft moans, feeling tired but slowly that feeling turned into the need to release that stress while closing your eyes in relief, relaxing onto him his hands started to caress your torso, loving the texture and how it felt that heat under his hands. And his hands reached your chest, he did not care about size, he cared about how you had your body and you were healthy, gently he started to play with it, teasingly, but kind of rough since you liked it like that.
Taking your hard nipples in pinches, murmuring into your ear.
'You like that, don't you? Being handled and cared for? - He whispered into your ear, kissing your ear and you moaned at the pinches, gently gripping his wrist, your nails gently dug onto it and he smiled, letting an approval hum, saying again softly yet with an edge of roughness.
'All pretty and nice, covered in glitter with that skin of yours, such a pretty galaxy for me. - His words were lovely as his hands, you whimpered, mostly whining of how you wanted more, he pinched your nipple at your whine to cause you a small yelp.
He gently held you to you being on four, he quit his shirt and tossed it aside as he grabbed out a condom out from the drawer, you breathed in soft pants as he quit your panties, smirking at the sight of your gorgeous naked form, he pressed kisses to your spine while you let small sighs of pleasure and a yelp, even. When he reached your ass, he gently held it and he guided you to be comfortable.
'You good? Want lube? Change or...? - He softly asked, despite wanting to relieve your stress (in a rough way so) he still loved you, and you smiled with your blushed cheeks, saying softly.
'I just want you, and a bit of lube. - You did not even have to say 'Please' with him sometimes, he adored you (but he hid it, and remained quiet yet you knew him), he nodded as he pressed a kiss to your head and quit his pants and boxers, putting a generous amount of lube to his already hard cock, and gently put some inside your back peach, making you shiver and gasp.
After you and him were ready, he slammed into you and that gained a sweet moan of yours, as he started slow but it was a hard, rough slow pace that made you press your face to the pillow and your sounds came muffled, he gently spanked your ass to hear you better and smirked, holding you and guiding you with his hands as he thrusted himself hardly, sometimes rolling his hips so your gasps came higher and your moans were left by your pretty lips.
As he thrust onto you hardly, you were clenching him tight and your legs shivering more at the moment his hips were to your ass, caressing your hair softly and holding it up, saying gruffingly in between groans.
'So pretty... In glitter and my marks, come for me, sweet girl. - His voice was the perfect match of roughness and softness, with tenderness for you and only you and his words were magical, making you scream his name into a moan and reach your orgasm, your cherry walls clenching him and he grunted your name, kissing your shoulder and cupping your breast and hip.
After you two cleaned up, he dispossed the condom but he grinned, chuckling softly.
'It's a glitter orgy. -
And with that, he held you all night and kissed you at soft moments, promising you to be better and you hugged him, sleeping safely.
A Sweet Angel. Josh Silver x Younger F! girlfriend
(A/n: GUYS HERE IT IS, THE FANFIC OF JOSH AND HIS NEEDY GIRLFRIEND IT TOOK SO LONG BUT JESUS FUCKING CHRIST IT HAS BEEN SO HARD. Anyways, enjoy and thx so much for y´alls patience!)
Concept: You have been seeing that Josh, since he is a musician, he was sometimes surrounded by gorgeous women, and your hormones did not help in this case. You have been feeling pretty insecure about your body and image lately, since he could read you well, he knew what was going on but he waited until you opened up to him:
WARNINGS: Insecurities: raw talk about feelings and a female body, fluff, angst, death, tears.
If I missed anything, y´all say it in the comments!
Enjoy!
Being a girl is so difficult.
It really is, especially when you have a partner, buy not only when you have a parter but everything else mixed with your emotions.
´I´m just a girl. ´
Sometimes you just wanted to be held by an older man and just die right there while he rubs you on your back and caresses your hair. Yet the world seemed like a big wolf, and you were the lamb. Unless you are the lamb of God, and that God is your boyfriend, Josh. But that also meant how much you wanted his approval, his gorgeous words calling you pretty, with that deep voice of his, deep, soothing, slightly rasping a bit because of how much he smoked. How his skilled hands braided your hair when you sat on his lap, and he smoked without care but you.
Right now, you were just getting ready so he could drive you to have a date.
Recently, there have been some insecurities in you, and you hate it. Since he is the keyboardist of Type O, he was out a lot. Sometimes he talked to women, and you accepted that, he was loyal after all (or sometimes he right down did not talk to anybody at all), what bothered you was the fact of how sometimes those women were so gorgeous.
With their pretty hair, their well taken care of nails, painted with delicacy. Their perfect words with such soft voice coming out of plumpy lips that were perfect. Their big eyes with seriousness yet happiness looking at the interviewers and the different rock stars (that included Josh). The way they were so prepared and looked so dominant, so secure. Their clothes, perfect, with their slender bodies and such pretty hips, a flat stomach. A skin that had no pimples. A hair that was always styled. Basically, perfect for the camera and absolutely everyone.
You were jealous sometimes, but only enough.
It´s not like: you wanted to tear yourself apart and their perfect bodies at all.
Silly, yet true.
How could you be jealous? How could you sometimes have bad dreams where the voices in your head tore your self-esteem and how you see yourself into pieces? How could you possibly hate your own skin? When in Josh´s eyes: you were the most beautiful woman he has ever seen.
Sure, he was older than you and he have seen many women in his life, some were attractive, some were not. He has dated many people, but he was over it. Never you, he loved you.
Your own beauty was sometimes the inspiration for practicing music. To keep going for you.
And this time: it was not a wonder you were insecure.
You were getting ready, sitting in front of your vanity fair while doing your make up, natural but pretty. Just like the photo of a magazine you had in your mirror. Wanting to be like her, pretty. So, you were doing your best, passing the brush across your eye to gently give it more deepness. The blush was soft, cute even with your nose. Oh, your nose was one of Johs´s favorite things to kiss. You curled your eyelashes, making sure to make them look well and natural. Mascara, eyeliner, the little cutesy and sparkly glitter, subtle enough to not look like a disco ball, notorious enough to shine your face as a star. Josh was sitting on your bed, smoking and just watching you get ready. His face was hollow with soft gestures as his shining eyes watched you, and the small smile on his lips as he held the tangy smoke between his middle finger and pointer finger.
You were wondering if you really looked pretty for him to look at you with such eyes.
You brushed your hair softly, hating the way your hair was not shining, but you had to give your best. Josh knew how you felt; he just preferred you to tell him (it honestly hurt him a bit to know how you did not tell him that, how you doubted your own self and his). Your outfit as well was truly ravishing in his opinion, the small black heels, how your skirt was just above the end of your stocks with a black bow, the way that blouse of black strides with dark blue ones was just your size, loose yet utterly fashionable. Himself, he was not such a model (EVEN THO HE IS SO FINE), but he knew how to look decent.
He liked the contrast between the two of you.
When you were done with your make up, you honestly did not think you looked pretty; you wanted to stay at home and just rot in bed, yet you had a chance to change everything. You turned to look at Josh and smiled softly, tilting your head a bit meanwhile standing up, you asked.
´Do I look pretty? This is good, right? For the date? -
His eyes lit up at your sight; you looked gorgeous, ravishing, exquisite even as he took a hit of his smoke, mostly to clear his head, and his eyes softened. After he exhaled his smoke, he looked at her and patted his leg.
´ C´mere. -
So, you came to him, walking gently with your stocks on the carpet and went to stand between his long legs. He gently gripped your thighs, fiddling the edge of your stocks, drinking the sight of your thighs. You were this- soft angelic in his eyes.
He felt his heart crush at the sight of your eyes being so nervous, wanting to cry meanwhile he adored you so much. As much as the truth hurt, he would rather tell it, so you snapped out of it, than sugarcoating you with some bullshit lies. It stung him, so of course it stung you as well.
´What´s goin´on with you and your body? -
His voice was deep, rough as always for smoking too much of all of his anxiety. It came out a bit raspy, but just low enough for you, just how you liked it. He knew it. He knew what was going on but wanted you to say it, so he heard it, so he helped you, so he was sure of his instinct. Those magazines and sad looks were not fooling him anymore. Once again, you freeze a bit, anxiously. As you fidgeted with your own hands, your hair strands moved briefly by the gentle movement of your shoulders, sucking a breath as you tried to speak. It was hard to when his blue eyes were looking at you like that.
´Nothing, nothing´s wrong. It´s just-. -
´Now, don´t go lyin´on me like that when i know ya for a while. I worry for you, and I'm makin´sure my darling is healthy. Doesn´t matter if is her body, mind, I want to make sure you´re good and it hurts me to know ya lied. So, last chance: what is goin´on, sugar? -
That is when you cry. You just sat on his lap, crying; he preferred when you opened to him anyways.
So, he pulled you to him; he knew it hurt, and it hurt him too. It hurts to both of you. He gently cooed you, making sure you were comfortable on his lap and he took a drag of his smoke, exhaling it away as his other hand caressed your hair with easiness, he kissed your hair as he tapped the smoke on the ash tray, letting its burn remains die on the metallic plate you kept for him. He kissed your head, letting you cry all you want. He did not care if it stained his shirt; it was a sign of trust he absolutely adored. He once again kissed your head multiple times, guiding your hands to hold onto him at his sides and making sure you did not fall over the carpet floor. He thought that you, his beautiful angel, was crying over some stupid girls, was already sad but a bit pathetic. Because you already looked too divine to even compare yourself to others.
´Angel, don´t you cry to that, sweetness. -
He may cry as well, but he kept himself strong for you. Only for you, his sweet angel.
´Y´know you´re perfect, right? I don´t care about some woman's flat stomach in a magazine. I care not only about you, but that you´re okay in many aspects. That you accept this body as much as I adore it, you´re beautiful, you´re perfect. If I thought otherwise, I wouldn´t be here for you, but I am, ´cause i love you. ´Cause you´re my woman, my sweet angel to take care of. I don´t mind comforting you like this, but i mind when you start to reduce ya food only ´cuz some stick made you feel bad. You´re you, you´re too precious for me to vanish into a thin nothing all ´cause you didn´t eat. I love you, angel. My darling... it hurts me to see you ripping yourself over some other girls when you´re my girl. -
Stars die when a girl hates her own body over standards with a man's eyes.
So, he helped you to take your shoes off, you were in no condition to go out when you felt so bad, he kissed your cheek and took a drag of his smoke, passing you a hit and kissed your cheek. He then laid on the bed frame as he pulled you to him, making you sit as however you wanted while he caressed your highs, soothing the painful grip of those tight stockings, he let you sob into soft hiccups.
´I just- see ´em, all pretty when I'm still- y´know, trying to accept myself and how- you can get any girl wo´s better than me. - You sobbed out, slowly calming down. ´ And- and it hurts me to know, I may be not enough for you. -
´Darling, darling. What did I just say? I don´t care if you´re a stick if ya chubby, I don´t care about those women. I don´t care about a girl that isn´t you. You´re in my lap for a reason, you earned it and that´s ya place to sit. - He rasped out, fixing your hair and he quit his jackey, letting it go aside as he then left the smoke on his lips, rubbing your sides and then he set his smoke aside, kissing your cheek and your hair. You melted on him. He knew you were needy, affectionate, that you wanted to please him, and he didn´t mind it. He would only care when it´s not balanced, but for now, he drank the sight of you, the love of his life hugging him as they laid together in a bed where they could be honest to each other.
His love was for his satnin, for you.
´You wanna be pretty, make it happen. You wanna be secure, go on. Don´t just run into my arms, they´re open for you, but you gotta do your own, babe, I know ya can. Don´t run to this underweight, anorexic body, ´cause I may not be here for long, love. But as long as I'm here, I'm here for you, sweet angel. -
´Don´t go. Don´t go, no, no, no. I can´t stand it- no. -
He knew it hurt, but you as him, will die.
In any way, his hands will be in forever yours, with his kisses cleaning undeserved tears. His body heat was the killer of your coldness, for he will be your cure.
Angel (Taylor’s Version) @angel-cherrycake - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
