tldr;; mentor!bucky guides you through a wet dream.
(warnings: new avenger!reader, implied age-gap, bucky calls the reader kid but she is a fully grown adult!, pseudo-somnophilia bc he doesn't directly touch her, dry humping, ab riding?, coming untouched, unrealised feelings. idk dude, it came to me in a vision and i had to get it out)
thinking about how mentor!bucky let’s you grind on him in your sleep. it’s a time that can only be described as stupid-o’clock. three, four, maybe even five am — the kind of hour where you can’t quite call it night, yet the sky is still too dark to claim it’s morning. naturally, bucky is awake.
he can’t sleep, and for once it’s for reasons other than the memories of winter.
the mission had gone awry, comms had been dropped, the team had been scattered. amidst a hailstorm of bullets, bucky had managed to grab you and haul you out of there, vibranium fingers clutching your forearm in a vice that refused to give way. a part of him felt guilty for how easily he abandoned the scene, only pausing to think of where the others could be once he was far enough away to safely check you for any injuries… it took your own worried eyes to have him realise a bullet had grazed his arm.
yelena and the rest can handle themselves just fine, however. you, on the other hand, are still new to field work, to being a hero instead of a lab experiment. you don’t know protocols, that’s why bucky had been so focused on getting you out of there.
refuge comes in the form of a road-side motel, flickering neon lights calling out to you both in the dark. rest here, it’s safe! bucky had been the judge of that, ushering you both out of the harsh wind and telling you to wait while he spoke to the clerk behind the desk. three rooms were available: two singles, and a double. the singles were never an option; bucky would not tolerate a night like this separated from you by wall-plaster and chipping paint. he snatched up the key to the double room, strode back to you, and proceeded to mumble out a pitiful lie: only one room, kid. looks like we’re bunking together.
which leads him to this: eyes staring up at the ceiling, heart pounding in his chest, nausea in his throat, and you at his side.
unlike bucky, you’re sleeping like a baby. bundled in more than half the blanket — he put up no fight when you tugged it from his grasp — cheek smushed against your pillow, lips parted with the slightest tease of drool at the corner of your mouth. each shallow breath of yours is a lullaby, gently rocking bucky’s wandering mind away from wondering how much worse the mission could have gone, how he could have found you strewn along the warehouse floor, blood staining the fabric of your suit, eyes void of that light that leaves him frozen, a dear caught in the headlight that is you.
but that’s not what what’s keeping him awake.
it’s your leg.
see, minutes ago it was in safe territories — ie. right next to your other leg — but now it’s wound it’s way between his. like an anchor fixes itself to the seabed, you’ve pierced yourself into his skin and proclaimed ownership of his space. all whilst the angel of sleep and bucky watch over you.
at first, the contact shakes him to the core.
you’ve always been a more touchy-feely kind of person than he has — a feat that is hardly a surprise — liberally throwing your arms around walker and alexei, patting down the fly-away hairs on bob’s head, linking arms with yelena or ava despite the feigned glares they cast your way.
but with him, you’re careful, measured, restrained. not in a way that conjures offence, but comfort; an unspoken acknowledgement of his aversion towards contact that reassures him you’re more than willing to adapt your method of giving affection to his manner of receiving: proud looks across the jet, coffees made with no request, company in the chaos of silent nights sitting side by side out on the watch-tower’s balcony and watching the flickering of the city lights.
bucky barnes is not used to feeling you, nor is he used to the ache that feeling you conjures in his chest. his nerves go from a calm river to a brutal riptide with so little as your foot brushing over his calf. his heart from steady to stuttering over beats. his mind from thinking about the troubles tomorrow (today) will bring to focusing solely on right now, on your leg bending at the knee and hooking itself over his hip, on the heat of your pressing against him.
his pillow has become yours, the first ‘ours’ that has ever existed between you. the breath of you brushes his right shoulder and the hairs at the back of his neck raise. you mumble something, an incoherent babble born from your dreams, and shift closer, arm draping over his chest and laying a palm flat above his heart.
for a moment, bucky panics.
what if the force of his heartbeat wakes you up? it’s not clear what would be worse: you catching yourself in this position, or you fleeing from him just as he grows used to the weight of your touch. fortunately, your slumber is steadfast and your limbs are fully lax. in the greatest escape plan of his life, the soldier manoeuvres his arm from between you both. mid-air, he pauses and waits for you to wake. when you remain the same, he lays it to rest at your back and tucks you fully into the space against him, pillow traded for the cushion of his bicep.
“sleeping real steady there, kid,” it’s a whisper directed at you, yet kept for himself. too tired to fight, he can feel the bloom of adoration taking over his face.
it’s been too long since he felt safe — not in himself but for others, a figure to be leaned on and trusted in moments of vulnerability. yet here you are, seeping yourself into the gaps of his body and trusting him to watch over you while you rest. you might not be conscious, yet your body seeks him out all the same, like it is your natural instinct to want bucky barnes at your side.
you mumble again, incoherent, and bucky registers you brush against his waist. you’re fussing, hips wriggling in search of the most comfortable position while the hand at his chest fisting at the fabric of his shirt. he’s content to let you wrestle against him, to let you find what position works best for you to sleep peacefully, until the hitch in your breath scratches at his ears.
at first he worries and tries to get a glimpse of you, but between the dark of the motel room and the way your face is turning into his arm, it’s impossible for him to get a good glance. another noise departs from you, a whimper akin to something pained, and bucky feels his heart lurch. you must be having a nightmare. though the thought of watching you in distress stings at his soul, bucky knows better than to wake you.
so he decides to guide you through it. a metal hand lands on your back, encourages you to coil deeper into his hold while both hands soothe over spine in slow, cautious movements. you’re fortunately receptive yet the nightmare seems to persists, another whimper caught in your throat as you fuss once again and roll your hips against his-
“please,” it is barely a mumble. but the cadence of it, the way your voice breaks around it in not a cry of fear but a cry of ecstasy, has bucky freezing.
solid as a rock, he lays there as the truth registers in his brain. you’re not having a nightmare, and you’re certainly not scared. you’re caught in nature’s gift of a wet dream, and you’re turned on.
while bucky is still trying to compute what’s happening, you continue to squirm against him, a movement he no longer mistakes as you searching for comfort but, instead, for friction. the cotton of your shorts is thin, barely a real scrap of clothing that even a man who hasn’t had his blood altered by super serum would be able to feel the heat radiating from your core through it.
your whimper becomes a whine, a sound that sinks into bucky’s ears and shoots right down his bloodstream, following the rush of it that aims directly towards his crotch. guilt creeps in alongside an untamed lust, his cheeks flushing in embarrassment as he feels his cock stir to life beneath his boxers. he’s lived so long like a machine, he sometimes forgets he’s just a man.
a man who currently has the most beautiful thing he’s ever held curled in his arms, rubbing her pussy against him in search of external stimulation.
not even the most virtuous of men could prevent the appearance of a boner, and bucky is far from virtuous.
another hitch of your breath is met with a groan in the back of his throat as your thigh slips down against his cock, pressing against it for the blink of an eye before settling back over his hip.
“you’re acting like a liability,” the chastising is pointless, you only seem to rut harder against him at the sound of his voice. “rubbing up on an old man and expecting me to just lay here.”
but he does just lay there. doesn’t dare to flinch a muscle, or breath too deeply, or edge too far where the roll of your desperate hips won’t find him. this is wrong, on so many levels, and bucky knows it. he’s your mentor, the person who was assigned to get you ready to join the team. the person who has watched you go from malleable on the training mats to a fighter capable of knocking him on his ass in a matter of three kicks. the person trusted to not let someone corrupt you into using your powers to commit any wrongdoings…
yet here he is, feeling like he’s somehow corrupted you into using him to get yourself off.
the fact you’re blissfully unaware, fast asleep in the throes of your pleasure, only makes him feel worse. more dirty, more depraved. not an inch of him is unaware of the lust brewing in his guts, a lust directed at you, with a cock that aches for bucky to tug your shorts to the side and give you something real to grind on. but he resists, by some miracle, and holds off on the temptation to pay attention to either of your desires.
until, “mmhm, please, bucky.”
his name.
fully formed, fully spoken.
your eyes are still shut but your lips are parted and he feels the swipe of your tongue brush against his skin as you wet your lips.
“wanna repeat that for me, kid?” the nickname takes on a new flavour in his mouth, no longer something to position himself as a figure of authority but, instead, a sickly reminder of the years he has on you — mentally and physically, the greys in his beard seemingly doubling every time he looks in the mirror. by all accounts, bucky should not want this, you. yet nothing and no one has excited him this much in years. “only ever hear you say my name with frustration, didn’t think you could sound so sweet.”
like you can hear him, you obey, another whimper of his name following the bump of your clit against his hip bone.
you’re practically mounting him with each renewed grind of your crotch, and so bucky takes matters into his own hands: for your sake and his own.
gripping at your waist, he guides you over his torso and settles you down against him. both your legs are now bent at the knee, pushing your crotch even deeper against him. bucky needs to breath, lungs screaming at him for air as he turns lightheaded, but it’s suddenly so much harder because he can smell it on you: the sticky wetness between your thighs, leaking out your hole and begging him to make use of it, to cover his cock in your slick, all so he can split you open on it that much easier.
he’s still cradling your waist before his hands slip down to find purchase on your hips. in perfect rhythm, he guides you over the expanse of his torso as you rut against him.
“atta girl,” his praise goes out into the night, so different to the way he so often critiques you. “grind on me. let your mentor guide this little pussy over him.”
your moans sounds almost as good as your cunt smells, rolling bucky’s eyes back in his skull as his hips jerk up against nothing. his tip is sensitive, weeping pre-cum in a cry for your body, and the shift of cotton against it is enough to have him groaning your name back at you, hands clutching tighter.
“fuck, that’s it, there we go,” you’re letting loose against him, crying out while your clit grinds down into the defined lines of his abdomen. if you would just wake up, bucky would happily sit you down on his cock and bounce you atop him until all you can both do is whine and beg for more of each other. “my pretty protégé, my good girl. finally listening to your mentor, huh?”
you don’t last much longer, lost in whatever filthy actions the version of him in your dreams is doing, while the real bucky barnes aids your quest to ride over his torso, soaking yourself through your shorts and staining his shirt in your pleasure. when you cum, it’s with a string of unintelligible words that have bucky’s head tilting back and his hands fighting the urge to grip you even tighter.
when the dust settles, you’re slumped fully against him, now using his chest as a mattress and his neck as a place to hide away from the world. your orgasm clings to your breathing, shaking it even minutes after you fall back into a peaceful, dreamless sleep. his own breath shakes too and another realisation dawns upon him.
he just came untouched, the thick heat of his cum now clinging to his skin beneath the fabric of his underwear.
“how the hell am i ever supposed to look at you the same, kid?”
clark kent licking and pawing at your gorgeous cunny, attempting to get a decent angle while wearing his nerdy glasses.
they just keep slipping down his long nose as he whines with frustration. your glossy, spread pussy is on display for him beautifully and he can barely taste you comfortably.
he sighs, taking them off. leaning upwards to prop them on your face which makes you giggle lightheartedly.
he persists now, deeper. hungrier.
you're wearing superman's glasses and cumming all over his wet tongue.
summary: a routine fire alarm inspection leads into you proving to clark that he does have a suckable dick (kinda.)
tags: 18+, smut, roommate!clark, established friendship, f!reader, i broke clois up (sorry,) clark is older than reader (non-specific,) reader doesn't know clark is superman, fire alarm inspections, clark kent is a DORK, reader just barely realizes she has a crush on clark, blowjob, messy blowjob, big dick!clark, big boobs!clark, big arms!clark, sub!clark, size difference (sorta?), m!nipple play, reader swallows but there's also kind of a facial, begging for like two seconds, sweet!clark, aaannd he picks reader up one time.
a/n: yayy my first clark fic !!! (facedown drooling twitching)
wc: 4.5k, reread once by my eyes
my masterlist - my askbox
You’ve been roommates with Clark for approximately… seven months.
It’s been great really. No complaints, especially since he’s never home long enough to be annoying. He does the dishes, he takes the trash and recycling down every Thursday, and he usually makes enough food that there’s leftovers for your lunches the next day. The friendship between you two is easy, but not intimate. Clark, to you, is personable, but not personal.
You do know that he moved in with you after moving out with his ex girlfriend, and that the relationship ended as amicably as possible for “professional reasons.” Clark also works at the Daily Planet and being a writer may or may not be why he needs a roommate in his thirties. He grew up somewhere not Metropolis to your knowledge and he goes back home usually one weekend a month.
And that’s it. That’s all you know about your roommate of seven months. It’s kind of nice to live with a dependable man, especially when he’s not just kind but also sort of intimidating. Your last roommate was a young woman around your age, and though she was fun, you were always a little worried about the weird neighbor down the hall. He really liked talking to you when you’d take the recycling down, or god forbid, when you’d have to do your laundry in the basement of your building. As soon as Clark found out about that he made a point to start taking the trash down for you and coming with you to do your laundry. The weirdo neighbor backed off pretty quickly when you began walking around with a 6’4 grown man who gave him the stink eye any chance he got.
Obviously you’d rather be living alone, or with a romantic partner, but neither of those things seem like they’re in your cards at this point. Clark is a good alternative. You get plenty of alone time when you have a day off since Clark is at work until five most days, and on top of that sometimes he goes out with his friends. Alternatively to the time you get to spend alone, you also get to feel just a smidge safer at night. Metropolis is nowhere near as dangerous as Gotham is, at least not at night, but you can never be totally sure. Superman can handle whatever huge creature is toppling buildings over, but you can’t really call Superman if there’s someone trying to break into your apartment. You can call Clark though, or rather, knock on his door. Usually.
Tonight Clark is out. He’s actually out a lot later than usual, which is strange. He said something vague this morning about having to go to a meeting later tonight with his friends after work and he’d “be back aroumd smghmsgh.” His voice muffled at the end of his sentence because he had stuffed a cinnamon swirl eggo in his mouth. Helpful!
Around ten you finally peel yourself off the couch. It feels strange to get ready for bed without Clark being around. You aren’t dependent on him, but like, it’s routine by now. You brush your teeth, he brushes his teeth, and then you both go to bed. Sometimes he showers, but that’s not your business to think about. At all. Clark is your friend and roommate. Your kind, dependable, tall, handsome, buff, protective, roommate. You walk to the kitchen to get a glass of water, telling yourself you aren’t prolonging the time before you get ready for bed sans-Clark.
The water pools in the sink as you run the tap for a moment before sticking your glass under. It fills a little too quickly. You chug it, pour more water in the glass, then let your eyes flit to the overhead cupboards. A notice is taped to one of them, one which you taped up.
NOTICE: Fire alarm inspection
Dear valued tenants,
This coming Saturday the MFD (Metropolis Fire Department) will be entering your apartments to test your fire alarms. These tests will happen between 8am-11am. If you are unable to be present this Saturday please let me know by e-mail so we can rearrange a time.
Thanks.
Ugh. Your landlord is a nice person but is it necessary to start fire alarm testing at 8am on a Saturday? You were kind of hoping Clark would get home early tonight so he could be the one to let the fire department in tomorrow morning, but you guess not. He’s going to end up sleeping in late if he’s not home soon, so you better set your alarm.
—
It’s 7:59am. And they’re already here.
You had woken up to a strong knock on the door of your apartment that had you gasping for breath as you stumbled out of bed, throwing a more presentable shirt on. Thank God the fireman that you opened the door to looked worse for wear than you did. If you had opened the door to a sexy fireman while wearing your somewhat holey Snoopy sleepshirt, which you’ve had since middle school, you might have lit yourself on fire to test the alarm.
Now you’re sitting on the couch backwards, staring at the fireman as he stands on a ladder in the kitchen. You’re kind of wondering if the fire department needs to do this. You’re pretty sure Clark could check the fire alarm without using a ladder, which you’re tempted to tell the fireman, but he seems nice enough. It’s just early, you’re grumpy.
“I’ve been doing this for almost a decade now,” the fireman says. You hum in an interested tone, watching as he uses a screwdriver to unscrew the panel of the fire alarm. It falls down into his other palm and he checks the batteries.
“Expired,” he says disapprovingly.
Okay fire alarm guy.
He takes a couple batteries out of his shirt pocket and replaces the old batteries. Then he screws the panel back on. It kind of feels like watching you dad or uncle fix something, which would be sweet if you weren’t sleep deprived and annoyed that somehow this guy made his way to your fourth floor apartment before these tests were even supposed to start.
The fireman puts his screwdriver back into his toolbelt and then looks back at you from where he’s standing on the ladder.
“Might be loud,” is the only warning you get.
A shrill beep screeches through the apartment as he presses the “test” button on the alarm. It wakes you up all over again, making you jolt upwards. You’re close to cussing, but then you hear a different loud noise. Two loud thuds echo from behind Clark’s bedroom door.
Oh shit, he was still sleeping.
A couple more thuds sound out before Clark’s door is ripped open. There’s a wild look to him as his chest puffs anxiously.
“Fire?” He asks at the same time the fireman says “alarm works now!” Proud as ever.
No, there’s no fire. But it’s starting to get warm.
You’ve never seen Clark straight out of bed. Typically he showers at night, after you go to bed, so that you can have the bathroom in the mornings. That means that by the time you see him each morning he’s already dressed for work, curls tamed, and he’s all put together. Right now though, he’s the least put together you’ve ever seen him.
His hair is somewhat screwed up, the curls flat on one side of his head from how he sleeps, and his glasses are a little crooked from how hastily he must have shoved them on. Clark is also shirtless, which is surprising. You kind of took Clark as the kind of man who has old fashioned cotton pajama sets considering he wears a suit to work everyday. You very much wish he was right now.
Clark is obviously a strong guy. He’s got great arms that you’ve been able to admire multiple times over the last seven months, and sometimes you’re able to see how big his chest is when his dress shirts strain just right. But right now, you’re getting a full view of everything, and he’s so, terribly, attractively, big. Clark’s arms are much bigger than you thought they were, but so is everything else. His stomach pushes against the stretchband of his pajama pants just right, making you think of the time that he had shared the fact that “Ma fed me well,” over dinner. Fuck yes she did. Thanks Ma. His stomach looks dense with strength, like he’s been bulking his whole life, and his tits… Lord. Never in your life have you ever thought that a man having tits could be attractive, but Clark Kent doesn’t seem to be able to be unattractive. They look heavy and the skin looks soft and for a split second you think about what it would be like to run your hands up his body and cup them.
You notice that you’re staring at him, but he doesn’t. Instead, Clark seems to realize that the guy in your apartment isn’t an intruder, but is actually checking the fire alarm. He walks over quickly, and in typical Clark fashion, strikes up a conversation with this guy. He’s distracted fully, giving you more time to kind of drool over the new angle you’re getting of his arms.
Normally you wouldn’t do this. You’ve purposefully been avoiding being attracted or generally objectifying Clark no matter what because when he moved in with you he was sorely broken up over his last relationship ending. Clark was much too sweet for you to think about in that way, no matter how delicious he is to stare at. But it’s been months now, and he seems more okay, and damn it he’s shirtless and it’s 7:30 in the morning and you’re pissed! You deserve a little eye candy, no?
You let your eyes drop back to his stomach as he stands while talking to the fireman. The profile of his tummy almost hanging over the waistband is making your whole body heat up, but then your eyes drop lower and it gets worse.
He’s not wearing underwear.
There’s literally no possible way that he’s wearing anything beneath the pajama pants. You can see the outline of what you think is morning wood, but you aren’t entirely sure. If he had a boner that big right now he wouldn’t just be casually talking to a stranger in your apartment, right? But then again, there’s no way he’s packing something that much. It wouldn’t be human to be that big soft. He must just be oblivious. Fuck, you’re perving out right now.
It’s pressing against the plaid pattern of his pants in a way that maybe is camouflaged to the poor fireman who now looks like he’s trapped in a conversation with Clark. You watch as the fireman slowly packs up his ladder and moves unsubtly toward the door in an attempt to drop a hint that Clark isn’t picking up. It, yes it, isn’t camouflaged to you though. You watch from the couch as his pants tent around it, the thickness of it pressing against his leg as he moves toward the door with the fireman. Sweat starts to form at your brow as you swallow dryly.
Maybe his last girlfriend just couldn’t stand the hospital trips after they had sex? That’s the only plausible reason you can see someone dumping Clark. He’s suffering from the success of all those inches.
The fireman finally shuts down the conversation Clark had started with a gentle “I have to go test other alarms now,” and slips out the door. Clark turns to you now, still clearly oblivious to the third leg he seems to be showing off.
“I totally forgot about that inspection, geez.”
You are braindead. His words don’t even seem like words anymore as you get another full frontal view of his less-than-normally-clothed body and the inside of your skull feels fuzzy. It’s too early for all of these emotions of frustration and then sudden insatiable heat. Maybe you’re getting close to ovulating or something, but Clark is triggering you badly.
“Are you hard?” You ask.
Clark instantly reaches his hands down, covering his crotch.
“What? No, I just– I just threw these on. They must be too small.” He sputters.
Just threw those on? Your brows scrunch together in confusion. If he just threw those on before coming out of his room and he’s not wearing anything else (other than his glasses…)
“I sleep naked,” Clark admits flusteredly. Your eyes widen just as your mouth hangs slightly open in surprise. This is not something that you thought Clark would ever say, nor admit if it was the case. His ears are turning pink as his hands cover his crotch area still, though you doubt he’s actually covering all the square footage of his downstairs property.
“I started sleeping naked when I moved away from home. It was like a freedom thing, I think.”
Oookay. Coolio. Packing that tidbit of info into your brain and saving it for later when Clark isn’t home and you have a certain something charged. You nod with your mouth still open, then swallow back the dryness on your tongue before speaking again.
“Why do you…” you start speaking but then he moves toward the couch and your voice trails off. He sits opposite you, looking a little ashamed as he shoves a pillow over his lap. “Why do you still sleep naked?”
He can’t make eye contact with you now, he’s too embarrassed. It almost seems like he never really thought about the fact it might be strange to still sleep naked, and now he has to face the music.
“Clothes just… restrain stuff,” he admits quietly.
Stuff.
“Stuff?” You reply. “What stuff?
He shakes his head, says your name quietly like he wishes you’d forget this. “You know what stuff. My stuff.”
This is insane. There’s no way he’s that big all the time. That’s not something you believe.
“You’re seriously not… that’s not just morning wood or something?”
Clark shakes his head again and seems even more embarrassed now. His fists push into the throw pillow on his lap nervously.
“I’m sorry,” he says weakly. “I know it’s strange. Or scary, I’ve been called scary.”
Aw. You feel kind of bad for him amidst all your curiosity about this newfound limb on your roommate. The best comfort you can offer in this awkwardness is a shrug.
“It’s okay, Clark,” you attempt a normal voice, “it’s just a surprise.”
He laughs quietly, thank goodness. His smile is always a ray of sunshine but right now it breaks up the insanity of the situation.
“Golly, it’s a surprise to you? Imagine growing this thing,” he chuckles. Like it’s normal.
The honesty is somehow scarier than the fact that his dick is really that big. That’s just Clark’s life, he has to have that in his pants all the time, and now you have to know that he has that in his pants all the time too. What the fuck? What is this morning?
Clark finally works up the courage to look at you again, though you can still see the remnants of his flustered expression from moments before. His eyes stroll over your face and he seems to realize your befuddlement.
“Are you okay?” He asks. You raise your head to nod, but then feel the tug of a question caught in your throat.
“How big is it?” You ask. The tables turn again and Clark is back to being the one caught off guard. He sputters some breaths and attempts words but you shrug. “I’ve already basically seen it, Clark. I’m just curious.”
The last thing you say seems to ease him some more, as silly as it is. It’s true, you’ve basically seen the outline of the whole thing now, so he has less reason to be shy. Clark, again, nods. Then he picks the pillow up off his lap and places it on the ground beside his feet. This gives you a chance to see the way his stomach pouts out from his body while he sits, and the way his tits sit. They still look so soft, but you can’t make Clark any more uncomfortable than he already is, so you try your best to maintain eye contact.
“Eight and a half inches,” he manages to spit out. God, he sounds ashamed of it. Why is he ashamed?
You gawk at him. “I don’t even think I could fit half of you in my mouth.”
Why did you say that? Oh my god, why did you say that?
It sounds like a challenge. Your eyes drop back to his lap, searching for a moment until you can finally focus on the visible outline against the worn fabric of his pajamas.
“I could try,” you suggest. Clark’s head tilts down a little as he tries to meet your eyes that are currently feasting on the sight of his lap. He starts to say “what” but you stumble out more words. “Like just to see. Not in a sex way, but in an experimental way. Just to see.”
He seems a little speechless, his mouth forming the shapes of words that don’t come out, seldom for a shocked whisper of your name. Clark swallows the saliva in his mouth and then leans back against the couch, nodding.
“Not in a sex way,” he repeats as you slide off the couch and maneuver yourself between his legs. “Aw geez.”
Stupid cute man with a stupidly big cock. You aren’t technically breaking the “roommate rule” of don’t-fuck-your-roommate at least. You’re not fucking him, you are both just trying to see how much of Clark’s dick is humanly possible to suck.
He lifts his hips for you as your hands reach up and slide his pants down his legs, pulling them off with little struggle. It exposes his thighs to you, the hair that feathers out from his pubic area into a softer dusting around the outer area where his dick lays. It’s too heavy to even stand up on its own, it just lays against his thigh. He’s uncut but the foreskin is pulled back slightly, exposing the deep pink of his tip and how it’s starting to drool pre-come.
“Sorry, it’s um, been a bit. I’m a shower so don’t worry about,” he swallows nervously again, “about it getting any bigger than this.”
It is a little comforting to know you won’t have to deal with any more than you signed up for, but mostly you just want to soothe him. Clark seems so ashamed of how big he is, which isn’t totally unfamiliar. He always seems awkward in social situations, like a mega block in a world of lego bricks, but this is something you can help. You’ll prove to him that he is suckable.
But you’ll prove it in a moment. First you focus on what your mind, what’s left of it, wants to do.
You lean down and nudge your nose against the side of his cock, inhaling a little bit. He smells clean, just like the rest of him, but also a little different, a little more Clark than everywhere else. Your eyes meet his as you let your tongue loll out of your mouth and drag up his shaft, then lap at his tip as his head falls backward.
“Y-you said it wasn’t a sex thing,” he protests weakly.
“It isn’t,” you protest. It’s not a total lie. “I’m making sure you’re as hard as possible. You have to be fully hard for me to–”
“Please just put your mouth on me,” he blurts out. “Please? You wanna figure this out too, right?”
Holy needy. You weren’t really expecting Clark to be this submissive. He’s probably just desperate because, as he said, it’s been a little while, but he’s already begging.
“Yeah,” you mumble against his tip, “yeah okay.”
He’s so much more than a mouthful. You were expecting it to be a lot, but you can’t breathe at all once his tip is fully in his mouth. Clark isn’t just long, but he’s thick too. It feels like you bit off more than you could chew, literally, and you’re just desperately swallowing around him. It’s especially hard to focus on not choking because he keeps making these little sounds and grasping at the arm of the couch. Clark clearly doesn’t want to push you at all. The hand that isn’t on the arm of the couch is gripping the couch cushion ferociously and his hips keep trying to buck up but he resists it, though just barely.
It isn’t a sex thing, it’s an experiment, you need to focus.
Your eyes slide shut as you decide to lock in, tuning out the noises and movements he’s making. Most of your focus goes into relaxing your jaw to fit more of him in. You know you’ll ache later, but it’s worth it. He’s so heavy in your mouth and in your hands as you hold him. The wetness of your mouth doesn’t seem to be enough and so you keep drooling out more and more saliva, trying to lube your throat so he’ll slide in easier, with less resistance. It doesn’t feel humanly possible, he’s completely right.
You attempt to say his name, but just gargle around his cock. He struggles back a “yeah?” and that’s when your eyes open again.
You’re far enough down on his dick now that when you open your eyes and look up at him, you’re met with a slight underside view of his stomach and tits. Clark looks back down at you with clouded eyes and a sweaty brow, meeting your own accidental doe eyes. It’s hard not to look pathetic and needy when you have a dick in your mouth, it’s just what happens. You maintain eye contact as you work your throat, attempting to open it up more to take him further and he whines while looking into your eyes.
Clark breathes your name once, then shuts his eyes tight as his chest heaves.
“Are you trying t-to make me come?” He asks. His voice sounds pained, but his cock throbs in your mouth as he asks the question.
Well, are you?
He looks close already, even more wrecked than five minutes ago when this “experiment” began. Obviously you want him to come, you’re sucking his dick for gods sake, but he’s just making sure. He’s just being good and making sure that he’s allowed to come. The two of you are losing any inhibitions about this pretense of an experiment and you’re ready to fully let loose.
You can’t respond to his question without pulling off his cock, and you sure as hell don’t want to lose the progress you’ve made on his length, so instead you give in. Reaching up from the floor with your hand, you trail your fingers up his body and then cup his left tit in your hand. His breath catches as he looks down at what you’re doing, and that’s when you rub your thumb over his nipple. It hardens immediately and he lets out a rough moan as you nod, resuming bobbing your head up and down his cock.
Yes you’re going to make Clark come. You want to make this big, delicious, kind, man come his brains out, either in your mouth or on you, or both.
Whatever efforts you were making previously tenfold as you start to start to jerk off whatever you can’t fit in your mouth with your free hand, the other one still entirely focused on groping the soft fat of his breast and toying with his nipple. Clark starts to let his hips buck up more as he begins to repeat your name, whining each time you stimulate his nipple just right. Drool leaks out of your mouth and onto your balls as you let the back of your throat get pummelled relentlessly. It feels like your brains are melting in your head each time you feel him throb or taste him leaking a little more pre-come.
“I’m gonna come,” Clark warns. He says it again, but makes no move to pull you off him.
Your eyes meet his with some sense of determination, and you hope the bob of your head and the nod of your head don’t look too similar as you try to reply with a nod of “yes, yes, come.” The message, thankfully, is received. Your hands work relentlessly to stimulate him fully through his orgasm as he spills down your throat. You try to keep up with swallowing but it starts to feel like if you don’t pull off of him you’re going to have come drip out of your nose. Finally you jerk back, watching as his cock doesn’t slow down at all, shooting ropes not just on your face and neck, but dripping onto his own thighs too. He’s so noisy as he comes, on top of all the things in motion he’s moaning your name and thanking you.
“Thank you, thank you,” he whimpers, “m sorry it’s such a mess.”
It is such a mess. You didn’t take into account that him having a big dick might mean him having bigger balls, which you certainly won’t neglect if the two of you ever do this again, but now he’s coming so much. Some of it is already half dried on your sleepshirt by the time he’s finished.
Clark’s head rolls back again, his legs falling even further apart, as he catches his breath. He has half a mind to hand you the pants you peeled off him earlier, apologizing for not being able to clean you up properly. It’s a sweet gesture, and you’ll excuse his lack of aftercare since it seems like he just emptied his entire bloodline down your face and shirt.
After somewhat cleaning the come off you, you’re surprised as he lifts you up onto the couch, moving his spent cock out of the way so you can sit on him.
“Thank you,” he says again, pushing his nose against your shoulder, “sorry I ruined your experiment.”
It seems that despite what just happened, Clark will always be the considerate, sweet, guy that he’s always been during his time as your roommate. His breath is soft against your shoulder as his eyes flutter and look down.
“And sorry for ruining your shirt.”
A giggle pushes its way through your chest and past your aching jaw.
“It’s fine. I’ll just take off my shirt next time we try.”
Clark’s posture goes a little rigid at the mention of a next time. He pulls his nose away from your shoulder and looks at you a little curiously.
“Next time?”
You’re quick to respond, shrugging it off casually to avoid the many questions and considerations you’re sure Clark will chatter away at you once his brain rebuilds itself from his orgasm.
“Yeah, next time. I only fit like… half of you in my throat. I think I can do better than that,” you say defiantly. Clark huffs a laugh of disbelief out. “I just need more practice.”
“More practice. Sure,” he agrees softly.
>///<
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