𝓒𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒 🗒️ ﹕ peter parker 𖬺𖬺 afab!reader ﹐ explicit sexual content ﹐ just abt 3k words of pure porn ﹐ strong language ﹐ fingering ﹐ unprotected sex ﹐ size/strength difference ﹐ rough touching / manhandling ﹐ light praise ﹐ slight overstimulation ﹐ dirty talk
𝓕𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝓯𝐢𝐨 📑 ﹕ the ending is a tad bit trash ‘nd there might be some if not a lot of mistakes but genuinely don’t blame me , blame ryder , he got all needy 4 attention ‘nd kept interrupting me sooo LETS ALL BLAME RYDER 🦄
Peter never quite remembers how strong he’s gotten.
Oh, he definitely notices—the way his shoulders fill out his hoodies now, the way his biceps strain against his sleeves when he’s swinging through the city, the way his body moves with a predatory grace he’s still not used to. But in the heat of the moment? When his mind is fogged with you? It slips his mind entirely.
Like now.
You’ve got him pressed against the wall, your body flush against his, your hands pinning his wrists above his head like it’s nothing. His breath is hot against your lips, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven bursts as he tries—and fails—to keep up with the way you’re devouring him. Little sounds escape him, soft and needy, vibrating into your mouth like a secret he doesn’t even realize he’s sharing. His fingers twitch in your grip, not struggling, but testing—like he’s surprised he’s letting you do this at all.
And you have had an easy time of it. Too easy. Because Peter, for all his newfound muscle, is still Peter—distracted, flustered, lost in the way your hips roll against his, in the way your teeth graze his bottom lip. His mind is short-circuiting, his body moving on instinct, his strength forgotten in the haze of want.
But then like a flip of a switch he remembers.
One second, you’re in control. The next, his hands slip from your hold like they were never trapped at all, his fingers digging into your waist with a bruising grip that has you gasping. And oh God the way he lifts you, like you weigh nothing, like he’s been dying to do this. Your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, your back hitting the mattress a second later, Peter following you down without breaking the kiss for even a breath. His hips settle between your thighs, his weight pressing you into the sheets, and you arch into him with a moan, because fuck—the way he’s suddenly taking what he wants is obscene.
His hands slide up, rough and calloused from years of gripping webs and brick walls, to grip your thighs, prying them open wider, and you whimper into his mouth. The sound seems to snap something in him—his kiss turns hungrier, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like he’s starving for you, his hips rolling down— and then, just like that, the confidence is gone.
His body goes still. His lips pull back just enough to breathe, his forehead pressing against yours, his chest heaving like he’s just run a marathon. His fingers, still tangled in the hem of your shirt, tremble.
“D-Do you—uh—mind if I—?” His voice is wrecked, rough and uncertain, his eyes darting between your face and the fabric he’s this close to ruining. The contrast is maddening—this boy who just manhandled you onto the bed like it was nothing, now stammering like a virgin.
You smile, slow and sinful, your fingers tangling in his hair to pull him back down. “Yes, Pete,” you purr, your voice dripping with amusement and need. “You can take it off.”
His eyes darken at the permission, his hands finally move, his fingers curling into the fabric before yanking it up, up, over your head.
The second your shirt hits the floor, Peter’s lips leave yours like he’s been starved of the taste of your skin. His mouth trails down your jaw, hot and wet, his breath hitching as he presses open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive spot just beneath your ear—the one that makes your toes curl every damn time. His hands follow, sliding up your sides with a reverence that has your pulse spiking, his calloused fingers trembling as they hover just millimeters from your breasts.
Of course he hesitates.
Of course this boy—man, now, though he still doesn’t see it—freezes like he’s afraid he’ll break you.
Your hands cover his, your fingers lacing through his as you guide them upward, pressing his palms against the weight of your breasts. His breath stutters against your collarbone, his thumbs twitching like he’s not sure he’s allowed to move. But he eventually does. His fingers flex, his grip tightening just enough to make you whimper, his touch gentle but firm, kneading you like he’s memorizing the shape of you. A low, needy sound rumbles in his chest, and you can feel the way his cock jerks against your thigh, like even that part of him is surprised by his own audacity.
You let go of his hands, finally trusting him to keep touching you, and slide your palms up his arms instead. God. The muscle beneath your fingers is ridiculous—thick, hard, earned. Every swing through the city, every near-death experience, every second of his double life has carved him into something new, something stronger. And fuck if it isn’t the hottest thing you’ve ever felt.
You’re so distracted by the way his biceps flex under your touch, by the way his skin burns beneath your fingertips, that you don’t even notice the way his other hand has slipped behind your back…
Until the clasp of your bra gives.
The fabric loosens, the straps sliding down your shoulders, and then his hand is underneath, his palm cupping your bare breast, his thumb circling your nipple with a precision that has your back arching off the bed. The first brush of his skin against yours is electric, and when his thumb flicks over the sensitive peak, you gasp, your hips bucking up into him like your body’s begging for more.
Peter groans, the sound raw, his mouth latching onto your neck like he’s trying to drink you in. His hips roll down, his cock grinding against you through his jeans, and you can feel the way he’s shaking—not from nerves, this time, but from restraint. Because fuck if he doesn’t want to pin you down, to devour you, to ruin you.
But this is Peter.
So instead, he whispers against your skin, his voice rough with need: “Fuck—you’re—is this okay?”
And you laugh, breathless and desperate, your nails digging into his shoulders. “Harder,” you demand.
“Harder—yeah, okay yeah,” he whispers, his voice rough like gravel under your fingertips, then his thumb and forefinger close around your nipple, pinching just shy of pain. The sensation shoots straight between your legs, and the sound that tears out of you is obscene—a broken, needy mewl that Peter swallows like he’s been starving for it. His lips crash back onto yours, his kiss bruising, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like he’s claiming you, like he’s finally remembering he’s allowed to.
And just like that, the tables have turned.
Because you—you, who had him pinned against the wall not five minutes ago—are now the one struggling to keep up. His fingers are everywhere, his touch relentless, and your brain short-circuits as his free hand slides down, lower, his fingers deftly undoing the buttons of your shorts like he’s been dying to do it. The fabric parts, his palm cupping you over your panties, and fuck—the way he groans into your mouth when he feels how wet you are, how desperate you are.
“P-Peter—” Your voice is a whine, your hips jerking up into his touch like your body’s begging for more.
“Yeah?” His breath is hot against your lips, his voice a sinful mix of cocky and sweet, like he’s proud of himself for making you fall apart but still terrified he’s doing it wrong. His fingers press against your clit through the damp fabric, circling, teasing, and your nails dig into his shoulders. “This okay? Feel good?”
You nod, your throat too tight to form words, your vision blurring as his touch intensifies, his thumb grinding down just right.
“Words, baby.” His voice is firm, but there’s a tremor in it, like he’s holding on by a thread. And fuck—the way he says it, like he’s earned the right to demand them from you, like he’s finally stepping into the man he’s becoming—destroys you.
“Y-Yes—fuck—” The words stumble out of you, broken and breathless, and Peter rewards you by increasing the pressure, his fingers rolling over your clit in slow, deliberate circles. His lips trail down to your jaw, his teeth grazing your skin as he murmurs, “That’s my girl. Gonna make you feel so good—”
And oh god—you believe him.
This is the Peter you’ve been wanting—the one who takes what he wants, who owns his strength, who drowns you in pleasure until you forget your own name. His fingers hook into the wet fabric of your panties, his touch burning as he slides them aside, and his skin finally meets yours.
“Fuck.” The word is a prayer, a curse, torn from both of your lips at the same time.
His fingers are rough from years of gripping webs, of clinging to life by a thread, and the contrast of his callouses against your soaked, sensitive skin is heaven. He explores you like he’s mapping you, his touch hesitant at first—of course it is—but then his confidence surges, his fingers parting you, stroking you, learning you in a way that has your back archingoff the bed.
“P-Peter, please—” You’re begging now, your voice raw, your body aching for more.
And god—the way he smirks against your skin, the way his breath hitches like he’s just as undone as you are.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his voice dark with promise.
Two of his fingers sink into you in one smooth motion, and your head snaps back into the pillows, a broken moan spilling from your lips. Fuck—his fingers are thick, his digits stretching you just enough to make your toes curl, and when his palm grinds against your clit, the dual sensation has your vision whiting out for a second.
Because God, Peter knows what he’s doing.
His fingers curl inside you, dragging against that spot—the one that makes your breath hitch, your back arch, your nails rake down his shoulders like you’re trying to anchor yourself to reality. His thumb circles your clit in slow, maddening strokes, his touch firm but gentle, like he’s memorizing the way your body reacts to him. And his eyes are glued to your face, searching, studying, like he’s desperate to know if he’s doing this right.
And oh, he is.
“F-Fuck, Peter—” Your voice is a whimper, a plea, your hips rolling up into his touch like you’re chasing something just out of reach. “Need you—please—” The words tumble out of you, broken and breathless, and Peter swallows them like they’re the only thing keeping him alive.
Because fuck—how is he supposed to say no to that?
His fingers slide out of you with a wet, obscene sound, your body clenching around nothing, aching for him to fill you back up. He brings his hand to his lips, his tongue darting out to lick every last drop of you from his fingers, his groan vibrating against his skin as he tastes you. His lashes flutter, his pupils blowing wide, and for a second, he looks drunk—high even—on you, like he’s never tasted anything so good, so addictive.
“Fuck—” The word is torn from his throat, raw and desperate, as he shoves himself off the bed, his hands fumbling with the button of his jeans like he’s forgotten how to undress. You whine at the loss of his touch, your body thrumming with need, but the sight of him—flustered, desperate, stripping for you like his life depends on it—has you biting your lip so hard you taste blood.
Your own hands hook into the waistband of your shorts, shimmying them down your hips along with your panties, the fabric sticking to your soaked skin before you kick them off. The cool air hits your bare, aching flesh, and you spread your thighs wider, inviting, daring him to look—to see what he’s done to you.
His jeans and boxers pool around his ankles, his cock springing free, hard and throbbing, the tip already glistening with precum. His breath hitches, his eyes locked on the way your hand slides down yourself, your fingers circling your clit, teasing yourself because you can’t wait anymore. The sight of you—spread for him, touching yourself, needy for him—has his cock jerking, a bead of precum dripping onto the sheets.
Peter crawls back onto the bed, kicking his pants off properly, his movements clumsy with need. “You look—fuck—so pretty,” he whispers, his voice rough, like he’s barely holding on. And then his lips are back on yours, his kiss hungry, desperate, like he’s starving for you.
His hand slips between your bodies, his fingers wrapping around his throbbing length, and you feel the heat of him, the pulse of his cock as he runs his tip up and down your slit, collecting all of your wetness. The sensation is teasing—torturous—and when he presses just the tip inside you, testing, waiting…
“Peter,” Your voice is a warning, a beg, your nails digging into his back.
When he finally sinks into you—all of him, deep, stretching you in a way that has your breath catching in your throat, your nails digging into his back—Peter freezes.
His entire body goes still, his muscles locked like he’s afraid to even breathe. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps, his skin burning against yours. For you, he tells himself. It’s for you—so you can adjust, so you can breathe, so you can—
Fuck.
Fuck, he’s lying to himself.
Because the real reason he’s not moving is because if he does—if he so much as twitches—he’s going to cum in two seconds flat. And Lord, would that be embarrassing. But the way you clench around him, the way your walls pulse and squeeze like they’re begging for more, like they’re trying to drag him deeper—it’s torture.
And worse—he can feel it. All of it. His spider-sense is screaming, every nerve in his body alight with the heat of you, the tightness of you, the way you fit around him like you were made for him. It’s too much—overwhelming—and he’s drowning in it.
“Peter, move.” Your voice is a whisper, a plea, your hips rolling up just a fraction, testing, teasing.
His entire body shudders, a broken sound escaping him into your neck. “J-Just—give me a second—” he mumbles, his voice muffled against your skin, his fingers digging into your hip like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
But you’re done waiting.
With that, you lift your hips, fucking yourself on him since he clearly won’t do it. The movement drags him deeper, and the sound that rips from his throat is obscene—a whimper, a moan, something raw and needy. His grip on your hip tightens to the point of pain, his fingers bruising your skin, and fuck it hurts so good.
That hand drags downward, his touch rough as he trails down your thigh, his callouses scraping against your skin. And then his palm slides under your knee, pressing your leg upward, opening you wider for him. His hips push forward, driving himself deeper, and the angle—fuck—the angle makes it feel like he’s hitting something new, something impossibly deep, like he’s fucking you into your soul.
The way he’s manhandling you again, the way he’s taking what he wants, the way his control is shattering—it has you clenching around him, your walls pulsing, milking him, begging for more.
His breath hitches, his hips stuttering as he finally—finally—starts to move. “Fuck—” The word is a curse, torn from his lips as he pulls back, slamming into you again, his rhythm erratic, desperate. “Y-You—fuck—you’re gonna—”
His voice breaks, his words lost as his hips snap forward, his cock hitting that spot inside you that has your vision whiting out. And oh—the way he groans, the way his forehead presses against yours, his eyes squeezed shut like he’s fighting for control—he’s gone.
Like he’s really gone.
The last remnants of his shyness, his hesitation, his Peter-ness—shattered. Like a dam breaking, like a switch flipping, like the boy you knew has been replaced by something feral, something hungry, something desperate to claim you. And definitely you’re here for it.
His hips snap forward, driving into you with a force that has the bed creaking beneath you, the headboard slamming against the wall. His tip hammers against your g-spot repeatedly, each thrust hitting that spot inside you that has your toes curling, your back arching, your vision blurring at the edges. And his hand is holding your leg up, pressing it to your chest, opening you wider, going deeper, like he’s trying to fuse you together.
His lips crash onto yours, his kiss sloppy, desperate, his words spilling out of him like he can’t contain them, like he needs you to hear them, to know them. “You—fuck—you feel so good—” His voice is rough, raw, his breath hot against your mouth. “So good—do you—do you feel good?” His hips stutter, his cock twitching inside you as he waits for an answer, like your pleasure is the only thing that matters.
And you do. You feel amazing. But your brain is mush, your body alight with need, and the only thing you can manage is a nod, a whimper, a broken sound that has him groaning into your mouth.
“You look like you do—” His voice is wondering, awed, like he can’t believe he’s the one doing this to you. “Yeah you do—so pretty—so fucking pretty—” His hand tightens on your leg, his fingers digging into your skin as he pulls back, slamming into you again, his cock dragging against that spot that has you seeing stars. “And so tight—so fucking tight—good God—”
The words tumble out of him, unfiltered, like he’s drowning in you and the only thing keeping him afloat is the sound of his own voice, the feel of your body clenching around him.
It’s intoxicating.
You can’t speak. Can’t think. Can’t do anything but feel—the heat of him, the weight of him, the way he’s fucking you like he’s trying to brand you from the inside out. Your fingers tangle in his hair, your nails scraping against his scalp as you pull him closer, deeper, harder. And oh—the way he responds, the way his hips stutter, the way his cock jerks inside you.
It’s madness.
Pure, delicious madness, you never want it to end.
Because this? This is the Peter you crave—the one who takes what he wants, who manhandles you into the perfect position, his hands rough and possessive as he bends you to his will. The way he grips your thigh, yanking it up to your chest, opening you wider for him—it’s perfect. The way his hips slam into you, driving deep, hitting that spot over and over until your mind is blank and your body is singing—it’s addictive.
And even now, even as he fucks you like he’s starving for you, even as his breath comes in ragged gasps and his skin burns against yours—he still checks in. His lips brush against your ear, his voice rough but tender, “You okay?” like your pleasure is the only thing that matters. His eyes flick to your face, searching, studying, like he’s memorizing every whimper, every gasps, every shudder of your body beneath his.
It’s too much—this boy, this man, this perfect mix of ferocity and care—and fuck if it doesn’t make you ache for him even more.
surprising peter with a spiderman themed matching set
peter was at a loss for words. he came home exhausted expecting you to be curled up in bed like you usually were, warm, peaceful, and your body asking to be wrapped around. but when he quietly climbed through the window, he was met with you clad in a red, blue, and black matching set.
you bought it specifically to surprise him and he sure was surprised. the lacey underwear was sheer and cheeky showing off your curves and ‘imperfections’ peter loved most about you and shimmering were black jewels placed in the shape of a spider right in the middle.
his eyes trailed up meeting the curve of your breast decorated in a red bra with the same spider design as his suit. he was in awe, the whites of the suits eyes grow so big you thought they’d break.
he swallowed once, ripped his mask off like it was suffocating him and took a step forward. he didn’t breathe for a minute, he didn’t need air, he needed you. his hands reached out, gently finding your waist as he took a better look. his eyes trailed up and down your body so painfully slow, you were sure he was painting a permanent picture on his head.
finally, he exhaled, licked his lips, and blinked so slowly you would’ve thought a reptile bit him rather than a spider. “so perfect, so beautiful- i- gosh” he whispered, clearly out of his mind enamored with you. your heart beat out your chest with anticipation, and you could feel his body getting warmer from in front of you. it was so obvious how much you affected him, no one else could make him feel the way you do.
how did u like brand new day??💟💟i saw u watched it and me personally i loved it!
oh my fucking god i loved it sooooooooooooo much it was perfect peter looked sooo good he willll be paying me a visit on google docs matter of fact he alr did…😈😈😈
Clark loves watching you do your hair on a Sunday evening.
Loves the little routine of you putting in your hair mask and washing your sheets while he meal preps your breakfasts.
He loves the way your hair smells after you wash it out. He isn’t ashamed to let you know how much he loves it either. “Honey girl,” he sings as he comes up behind you as you pull the towel out of your hair. “You smell delicious.”
You giggle as he tucks his nose into your neck, his hand twisting a damp strand around his fingers. “You’re such a boy!” You laugh as he dramatizes a sniff to your hair.
“I am not!” He totally is because he starts grumbling playfully against your skin before he pulls away. “I love wash days.”
You huff, “Wash day is exhausting, Clark.” You brush through your wet hair carefully, cringing when the water and hair lotion splashes onto your bare shoulder and Clark’s nose.
“So let me do it,” he says it so easy, so casually. That you look up at him through the mirror, finding his blue eyes earnest as he looks back at you. “M’serious, let me finish it and you can sit and we can watch our show.”
He kisses your cheek while you deliberate, getting all your products and tools in the bedroom. Clark sets on your show and even goes to get your favourite soda.
He pays the bed and beckons you closer. “C’mon my love,” you scamper to the bed and kiss his cheek.
“You’re the best man ever,” you feel his cheeks heat under your lips. “Thank you.”
“You’re always welcome honey girl, you know I love making your life easier.”
clark would loveeeee to put sunscreen on you he’s offering the second you get your stuff settled on the chair he’s pulling out sunscreen and telling you to lay on your stomach so he can ‘help’ you out. he never buys the spray kind because he’s a firm believer he can do it himself he might even make up a white lie about how the liquid kind is better and offers more protection which is weird because you’ve never been too concerned about protection before…
Summary: Rescued by Jackson patrolmen and brought back to the city's rapidly growing settlement you're given temporary shelter in Joel Miller's spare room while waiting for a place of your own. Joel does his best to be welcoming in his own gruff way, but your guarded nature leaves him uneasy. With tensions already high after a recent falling out with Ellie he can't shake the feeling that there's more to you than you're letting on. Despite both your better judgments, suspicion slowly gives way to attraction and an unexpected bond begins. However you're hiding a secret powerful enough to destroy everything and everyone.
tags (for now): Enemies to lovers (duh, it's me), angst, trauma, slow burn, smut, secrets and lies, violence, forced proximity, HEA
author notes: There will be a day I don't write about Joel Miller. Today is not that day. Chapter one dropping later this week.
P R O L O G U E
The Miller brothers stand over the office desk, eyes on the rudimentary blueprints they've concocted.
"I'm thinking if we can manage a decent runoff system for the west end we can fit a small communal set up," Tommy murmurs, finger tracing a penciled line on the paper. "Sorta like a small apartment set up. What do you think?"
"Better for the singles."
"Yeah. S'what I was thinking."
Joel pushes back the hair that's fallen into his creased forehead, his eyes sharp with focus.
"Yeah," he adds after a few moments of thought, lower lip pouted in consideration as he stares at the papers. "Yeah, that should work."
"We can't start until the rain clears up consistently," Tommy offers, rolling up the paper. "The weather is shit this year, so it's gonna be a bit."
"Yep."
Joel knows that the building is going to be delayed. He knows that because he's in fucking charge of Jackson's expansion. Has been ever since he and Ellie landed here five years ago.
He knows it's gonna be at least two months of waiting around before the sopping spring weather ceases its endless rainfall. When Jackson will become drier and the weather will be decent enough to start building foundations.
If this were before the outbreak it might be possible to work through the bleak skies. Back when he and Tommy were on construction they had protective coverings and the right kind of wood. Here they have whatever materials can gather from patrol missions.
The brothers part, each going to their salvaged desks across from one another. Joel's is rusted on the bottom, Tommy's dented so badly he can't use the middle drawer. Still, it feels good to be in this office with its blueprints and maps. Good to be around pencils and sketches. Good to be with his little brother, even if the guy pisses him off at times.
"Hopefully we're gonna be finished the new school by the end of the month," Joel tells him. "Only have a few more interior repairs. Then the kids'll have somewhere to go and learn that isn't that shitty old church."
His brother tilts back in his chair until it creaks, feet propped on the edge of his desk.
"What do you think they teach em about?" Tommy muses.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, do they bother teaching them anything before Outbreak Day? Politics... World Wars... Vietnam...?"
"S'above my pay grade," Joel shrugs. "Guess you'll find out when Ben starts."
Tommy rocks in his chair, fingers laced over his belly as he thinks. Joel darts a look up to see his brother staring out the window that overlooks the main part of town.
"I like the art room and the music room in there," Tommy smiles. "Can't believe y'all brought back a piano."
"Wasn't my patrol that did that," Joel frowns, shaking his head as he flips the pages on his notes of repairs. "That was all Logan and Josh and that lot. Fuckin' idiots if you ask me."
"Still," Tommy says with a wide grin. "Music. Art. Schools. Fresh air. Don't think we could have imagined something like that happening back when we were struggling back in Boston."
Joel has a moment when that old life in the Boston QZ flashes behind his eyes. To a time when he was angrier, his tastes uglier, his body crueler. A time when fighting felt better than breathing. When Tess and her strong, sure way of navigating the world seemed like a beacon in darkness.
"You getting enough sleep?" Tommy asks, head cocked. When he does that, for a moment, Joel remembers the child he was. The one who was always getting into scrapes, the one Joel had to protect when he got too mouthy at school.
"You know I'm not," Joel sighs, looking back down at the newer blueprints.
Joel can't remember the last time he slept through the night without the aid of sleeping pills and whiskey. The former of which isn't as easily accessible to him anymore. Painkillers are for external pain, not the internal kind.
"Daddy!"
The door to the office swings open and an elated child of no more than four streaks across the room and into Tommy's waiting arms.
A tall black woman enters her glossy braided hair in a loose ponytail down her back. Her full mouth curves into a smile at the sight of her husband and son in an embrace.
"Hey darlin'," Tommy says, standing with a yawning Ben in his arms. The child watches as his father plant a kiss on his mother's waiting lips.
"Ew," Ben says, squirming in Tommy's arms until he's lowered to the floor. He moves over to Joel without hesitation.
"Hey Ben," Joel smiles gently over at his nephew, chair rolling back. Ben crawls onto his uncle's lap, smiling up at him, shiny little seed pearl teeth gleaming.
"Hi Uncle Joel. Daddy says you have candy I can have."
Joel shoots his brother a dark look over his nephew’s curly head.
"He did, did he?"
"Yep."
Joel doesn't like sharing his stash and a smirking Tommy knows this.
"You okay with it, Maria?"
The woman in Tommy's arms nods indulgently.
Joel's eyes drift back to Ben's, to the young boys bouncing legs and eager expression. As if he could deny this kid anything. He reaches into his pocket for the small paper bag, fishing out one of the chocolate bits he brings along with him on office days. He holds it out to Ben with a serious look.
"You gonna brush your teeth extra good tonight?"
"Yes sir."
"Alright then," Joel says pressing the chocolate into his chubby palm. "Enjoy, kiddo."
His nephew nods, shoving the chocolate into his mouth, the left side of his cheek bulging before he's twisting to see what Joel's been working on.
"What's this?"
"This is gonna be your school when you're old enough," Joel says, pointing to the pencil drawing on his desk. "That's gonna be the music room... That's the art room... That's the gym..."
He goes through the small schoolhouse, his smile broadening with each excited squeal from Ben. His nephew is a constant learner, eager to understand the world, curious to the point of absurdity.
"Alright," Maria says, gathering her son into her arms when he yawns. "Nap time."
"No! Mama please-"
He pouts in a way that reminds Joel of a young Tommy.
"Enough of that or no more chocolate from Uncle Joel," Tommy scolds lightly from over her shoulder.
Ben immediately stills, casting a baleful look at Joel before sighing heavily, as if the world is on his narrow shoulders.
"Say goodbye," Maria says with a peck to his bronzed cheek.
"Bye Uncle Joel."
"See ya later, kiddo."
Maria glances over at Tommy who's starting to busy himself with cleaning the desk. He usually goes home for lunch around this time.
"Oh, Tom, did you talk to him about...?" She trails off.
Maria exhales irritably when she sees Tommy's stricken expression.
"Talk to me about what?" Joel asks, eyes narrowed in suspicion before they move from Maria's face to Tommy's.
"Oh, uh," Tommy clears his throat, looking around the room, avoiding Joel's sharp look.
"Tommy, honestly," Maria says with a shake of her head. "Here, you put Ben down for a nap. I'll be home soon."
Joel watches the handoff of Ben to Tommy, his brother mumbling a goodbye before the door shuts behind him.
Joel's stomach twists uncomfortably when it's just he and Maria left in the quiet office. His brother's wife is a strong figure, someone he has come to respect just like everyone else in the community she founded.
But she and Joel often butt heads, whether it is on matters of repair deadlines or giving her son too many chocolates during family dinners.
He watches her arms fold over her swelling stomach. She hasn't made a formal announcement, but Joel knows one is coming soon. She scans the array of gathering figures that mingle outside, laughing, sharing groceries, making plans.
"What did you need from me, Maria?"
Dark eyes flick his way.
"Your brother was supposed to talk to you about putting someone up in your place for a few weeks." She says it casually, scratching her elbow as if this isn't catastrophic.
"What do you mean put up?"
"Have them live with you in that empty room of yours."
Joel goes still, the pencil in his hand almost snapping.
"No."
Maria moves from the window, nearing his desk. "Joel-"
"Maria, I work my ass off for this place morning to fuckin' night."
"We all work our asses off."
"My house is the only place I can have a break."
"A damn large house to have a break in," Maria comments, her words lingering in the ensuing quiet from the glowering man across from her.
Joel's spine straightens, tossing the pencil down. It rolls around the blueprints.
"Joel, Jackson's overcrowded as it is," Maria says wearily. "With Ellie moved in the shed you have that whole bedroom sitting unused."
"She might wanna move back in."
There's a moment of pity that touches Maria's eyes before she shakes it away. "Well, if that happens then we'll move em into the shed."
Joel stands, pushing back from the desk. His hands stem on his hips as he paces a moment, eyes flying to the people outside.
Too many fucking people.
"You said it was our house when we got here," Joel says with a growl to the edge of his words.
"And it is yours. But you live in a community which means there are times we have to share." Maria shifts. "Now, it's just temporary. Just until we get some new places finished."
"That could be months."
"Might be."
"So I'm just supposed to live with some stranger until then?"
"Think of it like a roommate."
"Fuckin' roommate at my age," Joel scoffs, irritated and exhausted. "S' ridiculous. I don't see why we're letting all these folks in if we have no place-"
"Stop right there," Maria cuts in. "I'm serious, Joel. Not another word." She motions to the gathered masses down below. "That was you and Ellie at one time. You think it would have been right to turn you away?"
Shame touches Joel's cheeks, making them flame pink. He looks down, hands loose on the desk She's right. When he doesn't say anything else Maria continues, her voice just as sharp.
"You have your choice, a single or a mom with two kids."
Joel flinches at thoughts of loud children screaming in the night, of sticky fingers leaving greasy fingerprints on his woodworking supplies.
"Single."
"Figured as much," Maria says. "Alright. Glad that's sorted."
She turns footsteps heavy on the wood. Joel goes to close the door behind her when he stops, brows pulled.
His voice reaches out after his sister in law. "When's he moving in?"
"Tomorrow."
Maria hesitates, looking over her shoulder with a strange expression before she moves down the steps.
It’s part of his biology, there’s nothing to do about it. Clark is supposed to have a bunch of kids, and for that he has to cum a lot. A whole lot. Which means you end up completely full of his cum every single time he fucks you.
He's quick to recover after each orgasm, so the moment he's done pumping you full of one load, he's already picking up the pace again and thrusting into you just the way you like it.
It's so messy. His cum causes wet, obscene squelches every time his cock pushes in. The thick, creamy substance dribbles from you, down between your ass cheeks and onto the bed, gathering in a sticky puddle under you.
And there's just so much of it.
“Gosh, baby. Oh, gosh, you feel so good,” he whines, his body hot as the pleasure starts building in him again.
You mewl underneath him, your nails dragging down the skin of his arms, leaving behind red tracks. You can feel his cum in you, warm and thick where it's gathered against your womb.
Clark slides a large hand between your bodies, his fingers drawing messy shapes on your clit. He feels bad about how many orgasms he's had, seeing how you've only had two and he's had at least five. It makes the entire situation feel unfair, but he just can't help it.
“Can you come for me, hon?” he asks sweetly, peppering kisses across your jaw, up to your cheek.
You nod, moaning, feeling that tight knot of pleasure coiling in your womb.
Clark whines as he feels you clench around him tight, another orgasm already building low in his abdomen.
You'd been close already. Clark just gives you the final push so you fall over the edge. You mewl his name, hips grinding against his as the waves of your pleasure wash over you.
Clark gasps and moans as he feels your cunt squeezing him tight and he comes again, spilling more of his thick cum into you.
“Golly,” he chokes out. “Oh, baby, so good, so good.” He kisses across your face with quick pecks. He's already getting hard in you again. “You okay to keep going, baby?”
You nod weakly, your lips seeking his to kiss him softly.
He smiles against your mouth. “That's my girl.”
♡ 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
sometimes when you’re participating in your favorite hobby clark doesn’t know whether or not to bother you. he’s extremely clingy so going five minutes without kissing you is his personal hell. if you’re reading would it be considered rude if he asked for a kiss even though he knows your mid page? is it rude if he interrupts your dedicated alter time for a quick peck on the lips? or if you’re on the phone with a friend? sometimes he can’t help it and other times he stares from afar and tries his best to be patient and when you’re done he’s all over you.
so random but evb ships paul baker and anton but evb forgets abt issa and how heartbreaking that would be for her? but im scared they aren’t going to explore issas feelings abt that a lot and have her play it off or like not address it and maybe it’s bc i put myself in all the media i consume and get to attached and parasocial (w that characters) so i let things effect me as if they actually happened to me
