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pairing dilf blue-collar truck driver!ryomen sukuna x wife!afab reader
synopsis freshly newlywed, your husband goes on his first 2000-mile load across the country, leaving you alone for nearly a month. when he comes home, sukuna sees you've learned some new recipes, and new ways to keep him wanting more.
tags no-curses western set!au, established relationship, age gap (kuna is ~50, read is ~30), crude language, traditional relationship ideals, smut, f!receiving oral//body worship, lots of sweet/dirty talk, hubby is a biggggg man btw, manhandling, nsfw
word count 6.1k
authors note my dirtiest, nastiest, most gut-wrenching, toe-curling fantasy is having a big, beefy husband... but, uh, whoopsie-daisy, I promised u guys this concept in a drabble, but u get a full one-shot instead. can't say i don't love u. enjoyyyy :*
gorgeoussssss art by @innaillus <3
The sound of a car door slams against the sizzle of the dinner turning in your cast-iron pan.
Always perceptive to little things, as such, you raise your gaze against the tiled backsplash. It's not smart to leave the stove, knowing your stew could burn to the bottom of the pan if you let it linger. So, you wait, heart racing, but with expectations at a near-zero.
Your husband is never really home. Since you married him last Summer, you two haven't spent more than a month in constant presence. He's always working. It's in his nature, painted in his blood and the ink on his skin, just like it had been for his father, and the one before him. You won't fail to admit that you have an… easy, enjoyable life, staying in and nursing the big house in the sticks he bought you, or driving into town behind the wheel of his pickup truck. If they're in bloom at your local flower farm, you pick daisies under a sunhat and place them in vases around the house. If it's dreary, you meet a friend for coffee, or perhaps stay in and knit — Forensic Files humming deftly from the vintage box TV.
It's a simple way of life, and Sukuna was your lifeboat right as you felt your heart start to sink.
Now, you stand, easily afloat, cooking up dinner for your husband.
The car door slam outside morphs into gravel-crunching steps, slow and lazy. It's quite an incline to get to your porch from the gravel drive, one that Sukuna despised when he was weary after fifty-something long years and thousands of miles.
You know it's him, only when the key slides in the door with a rough sort of delicacy that only your husband could hold. He doesn't linger unnecessarily or spend too much of his energy on menial tasks when he only has so much. Every touch is jagged and unsteady to an extent — thrusting the key, rattling the knob when his big hand wraps around the metal. Sukuna grunts when he pushes it open and steps inside, the hard soles of his shoes squeaking on your door mat as he strides in, one at a time.
From the entryway, he can see your back at the stove, knees crossed under your skirt as your heart races, and your soul glistens. You reach up, turning the gas to low, watching the blue flames slowly flicker down under the grate.
Holding your breath, you turn over your shoulder with a small, steady smile, biting your lip when you see him again. Taller than your doorway — broad-shouldered and mildly unwelcoming, he stands like he expects something. Like he's waiting for you to make a move, you do, dipping your head and turning around so you can look him over top to bottom.
Lip still caught between your teeth, hands wrapped around the oven handles like you're holding back, you watch as Sukuna wordlessly untucks his dirt-kissed single-breasted tee shirt. He pulls it from the silver buckle that keeps his pants up, giving you a slight edge of the blue plaid on his briefs. Those little moments and the details in his demeanor- make him so tempting.
He waits for you to speak first — to welcome him back into the home you so expertly curated in his vision. "Welcome home."
"I've been waiting to hear that for a month." He finally caves, shedding that tough outer exterior that melts away at the sound of your sweet voice. He toes off his boots right where he stands, jaw working around a yawn he feels he has to stifle in your presence. Still, he makes his way into the room slowly, dragging his socked feet, identifying the scent and sounds in the air. Most of all, he takes you in — his beautiful prize of a wife guarding the first home-cooked meal he's indulged in since setting out for the load.
Your smile gets wider as he draws closer, chest rising and falling in rapid, nervous little clusters before he stops just a breath away. His toes touch yours, just meeting by a breath as he fumbles about in the back pocket of his stained jeans.
After a moment, he pulls out a folded envelope, carrying it proudly between two joined fingers. So close, you can feel his sticky aura on your skin. You nod and take it, staring straight into his settled stare with a feminine ease that soothes his soul right down to the core. You slip a manicured finger under the licked sugar-seal, tearing the envelope and pulling out the physical manifestation of your husband's labor, in the form of a five-figure check scrawled in ink, made out to the last name you both shared.
"Do you like what you see, sweet thing?"
"Hm," you hum tastefully, trying to stifle down the smile that keeps tugging at your lips. It's hard to look into his piercing stare when a number so big is staring back at you, but you cave, knowing eye contact is the least he deserves. "I do."
Sukuna is one for touch, but only in the easiest circumstances — when he's alone with you. He leans closer, dipping his gaze to meet yours. "Once you put most of it away for bills, I want you to treat yourself." His voice is impossibly deep and exhausted in his throat, scratching its way to the surface just like your manicured nails scratch against the paper check.
You nod him down, unable to stifle your proud smile as it tugs at your lips. He hums at your approval, caging you in against the heated stove with a thick arm strong at your side. He wraps his hand around the handle of the oven, dipping his head in the space between your neck and shoulder. You smell so overwhelmingly sweet, like elegant sugar and florals. It's a scent he knows too well, one that he keeps insisting you buy because of how it reminds him of you so wholly.
"How would you prefer I treat myself this time?"
Sukuna sniffs out your dinner, then hums in your ear — light hair tickling your sensitive neck as he burrows a little deeper. At your side, his vice grip tightens like he's holding back, squeezing hardened metal instead of the softness of your flesh.
"Would you… like to help me pick out a few new pieces of lingerie?"
Sukuna doesn't reply with as much energy as usual. Instead, he just grunts, lips pulling into a smirk that fades so quickly that you had no idea it was even there. "Just you saying the word's enough to get me excited."
You laugh, tilting your head back as his words fade into kisses around your neck, dipping to your collarbone, then against the softness leading up to your jawline. The soft, greying stubble on his cheeks tickles, but it's an endearing little shiver that courses through your body like venom. "Before you get too excited,"
"Uh-oh."
"The trucks been making some weird knocking noise." He stands up straight, and you settle back in, gaze low as he stares into your reflection like he's trying to make something new out of it. "Been too scared to drive it with you away, so I've been stuck inside."
"Could've called me." He turns his back to you, yawning behind a closed fist as he goes to grab his boots at the door. "I'd have one of my mechanic friends haul ass up here and fix it within the day."
"It's your truck, so I wanted you to fix it." Your words don't come off as calculated and sweet as they usually do when you talk to him, so you rush to clarify, "I hope that's okay."
"You're more than okay, baby doll." His voice fades into the grey of the space and the echoes of his deft footsteps as he makes his way to the garage side door. He keeps his truck parked there, safe and secure for you, and lets his SUV idle in the front — hauling him to and from the truck yard where it sits peacefully during every one of his jobs. You smile loosely and turn back to your simmering dinner, leaving the head idling at an easy medium-low while the wafting scent of sweet tomatoes and beef fills the air like a savory cologne.
Letting it go just a minute too long on the new temperature, your dissociative, love-struck stare renders your stew burnt to the bottom of the pot. You smell it first, cussing under your breath as you push the top off and cut the heat.
"No big deal," you reassure yourself, careful not to scrape the burnt layer and risk deepening the lightness of the meal. Sounds from the garage distract you from the meal again, a gentle hammering and thumping, followed by his grunts, then silence. You peek out down the hallway, still holding the dripping stock spoon in your grip. "Yoo-hoo, dinner's almost done!" You yell, eyebrow cocking when you don't hear the immediate clamor of his fervor.
"Well, I didn't want you to worry about it, now." You go to scold him with worry, sauce dripping from the spoon you've carried all the way to the garage. He's left the door ajar, out of eye shot when you push it open. He's got the big-ass truck cranked up — lights up bright as he disappears somewhere under it, dirtying himself again after a long, dirty day at work.
You click your teeth, watching his dusty driving boots push and shuffle from under the vehicle. "Ryomen,"
"I hear you." He bites back, thick voice muffled by the weight of the truck. "It's only — I'll be sleeping all day tomorrow, and while it's on my mind…" He pauses, sliding out from under with his back pressed to the dusty ground. He emerges more dusty than he went in, with unknown black smudges on his thick arms and settled face, and tools littered all around him. "I want to get it done."
"What are you doing down there? Changing the oil?"
"You said dinner's ready?" He grunts as he shifts to his knee, then back on his feet. "Heard you callin', but figured you'd just come on in."
"Just have to make the rice, figure I should warn you." You part your lips, watching the sweat bead and glisten against his heavy muscles as he cranks the truck back down on its front wheels. The greying tips of his hair cling to the base of his neck, falling out of place as he exerts himself one final time before succumbing to your sweetness. The whole scene knocks the breath out of your lungs, holding you captive as he grunts and sighs, putting on a show for you that he knows gets you going.
"You got it." He mutters, keeping the crank under the car and passing you by as he steps back inside. You turn with him, gaze wide and upturned as you scan each of his precise movements. "You got some drip, there." He mentions in passing, landing a surprisingly sharp slap over your ass. "Clueless thing,"
You jump, bodies brushing, dirt rubbing off on you as he passes through the doorway. He points out the small trail of drippings in your path, voice laced with an uncertain kind of endearment. "I-it's not burned, so don't be alarmed by the smell!" Rushing to calm your flush and chase after him, he nods silently, turning back to you when he feels you following close behind.
"You're the only one alarmed here." He speaks slowly, disappearing into the bedroom hallway to leave you with the lingering ghost of him that he always seemed to let drift behind. You peek down at your spoon — to the broth that has dripped down the handle and over your fingers, staining them in salty reds.
You jump back into it, licking your fingertips clean, then losing yourself in the farmhouse-style kitchen sink as you wash the remnants from your hands. You drop the spoon in the soapy water, too, grabbing a new one from the utensil drawer.
Your husband is notoriously a man of few words, leaving you with only a vague idea of what he's doing as the shower cranks on, steam lifting under the bathroom door he always leaves cracked when he bathes. It's an open invitation for you to sit and keep him company, perched on the toilet and just chatting his ear off while he pretends to listen. When he's gone on work trips, he calls you just for that same closeness, hearing the TV hum in the back as you go on and on about your best friend's divorce, or how your extended family reached out to you suddenly after the wedding.
Whether it's complaining or doting, his well-timed grunts and empty reassurances are exactly what you need to keep going. He shows that he cares in small ways like that, never entertaining anyone else's conversation when it's not yours.
Sukuna emerges twenty minutes later with his hair stringy and sticking to his scalp. He's decided to throw on one of the shirts you laundered for him before he left, enjoying the faint scent of daisies on the cotton that isn't as overpowering as the fresh clothes you just folded and tucked away.
He walks in sleep-shorts, hanging low on his waist, riding against the hair that gathers at the peak of his happy trail that he never bothers shaving. It's light — pinkish, now that his grey has grown through. Just as the top flips open on your ricemaker, thick savory steam lifts into the air on the only part of dinner you haven't fucked up yet.
"How was your shower?" You quirk up, antsy and shivering as you start putting together his serving. Over half of the rice you made is his, and it takes you at least five ladles of stew to fill his bowl. The vegetables you roasted are for you — the only thing he swore he wouldn't indulge in your homecooking.
"Nice to not be locked up in a truck stop." He grunts as he sits at your dining table, right at the front. He leans back, kicking his legs out and stretching his arms high above his head. Yawning again as you close in with his meal, he shoots you an eager gaze as you melt under his attention. "Can't stand showering with shoes on."
As you lean over him, sliding his steaming meal towards him, he stares, and it's blatant and unashamed. His eyes linger over your chest, then over the gold jewelry adorning your neck, and back down your waist and the jut of your ass. He never holds himself back from you, but you're glad he waited until the bowl was on the table before grabbing the small of your back, big hand smoothing the pleats in your skirt like he's trying to fix you up. In reality, all he's trying to do is feel you up, so you let him.
"I can't stand the thought of you having to do that every day."
"It's the one thing you don't get used to." His big hand finds its way under your skirt, tracing hotly against the silky-soft skin of your thigh. Sukuna traces the edge of your lace panties as he owns them, tucking his fingers under the fabric, and pulling so the snap can startle you with an endearing squeak.
"Cowboy stew for my cowboy," You giggle, coming down from the ease of his touch. You turn his bowl so he can pick up his spoon and start eating, but instead, he looks up at you and shakes his head. "What?"
"Nothing," He actually, finally smiles, and it feels real enough to stop you in your tracks, even with his hand up your skirt. "A man can't stare at his wife? You're all mine to stare at."
Your husband doesn't let you wash the dishes after he finishes eating. He waits until the bulk of it is set aside to dry, creeping up behind you as you rinse and scrub at the burnt base of your cast-iron. It'd take you months to re-season it back to its former glory, but you can only kick yourself for your carelessness, and the excitement of your husband coming home.
He doesn't speak a word, just casually turns off the flowing water, and pulls your wrists from the scalding pool. You jump at the grace of his touch, swallowing down a gasp as he guides that dripping wet arm over his shoulders, not giving you space to react as he lifts you from the ground. He grunts like he always does, but just barely. You're what he knows, so he carries your weight like it's his.
"What are yo—
He silences you with a kiss, too occupied with your sweet, painted lips to look where he's walking. Sukuna lets his need for you lead the way back to the bedroom, kissing you like he means it, tongue slipping between your lips as you part them to protest.
Your fingers leave wet marks against the back of his shirt, dragging the fabric and getting lost in the closeness when he holds you even tighter. "Wanted to grab you before you locked yourself in that bathroom for three hours."
"You know I like to prepare for you." You whisper, breath hitching softly as he pushes the bedroom door open and leads you to the bed. It's gentle and fleeting, but his hands linger as he puts you on the mattress. The silk fabric of your skirt gathers — your skin sticks together with the afterglow of his shower, and how the humidity just made a home against the feathery hair on his chest and arms as he reaches behind his neck to pull his collar off and over his head.
Sukuna's thick chest is a welcome sight. Once you rise to your elbows to ogle at, jaw dropped and knees rocking together, as the bare buffness makes its sacred home right back in the center of your gaze. He climbs onto the bed, and you rise to your knees, walking over to him with an expectant, easy smile.
"Missed you." You mutter, pressing your palms to his chest, running them down his pecs and over his shoulders. "And this."
"Mm," He hums in response, not quite knowing what to say, or if he should speak at all. He'd rather just show you how tempting you look right you — you, in your knee-length skirt and chiffon blouse, paid for by his hard labor. He likes the way his money looks on you rather than the same fleece overshirts and cotton tees he lives, breathes, and dies in every day. You make it look expensive — like his way of life is worth it.
Sukuna doesn't even notice the brand-new bamboo moisture-wicking sheets that are under him, but he notices the softness of your face and the color on your lips. He memorises it as he closes his big hand over your jaw, pulling you into a kiss, sucking your plush bottom lip between his teeth. His other impatient limb gathers and pulls at your skirt, hoisting it up past your knees, just high enough to slip his hand between your thighs, body heating and mingling with the impossible, sticky heat that blooms just for him.
"Take it off." He demands with few words, only interested in touching and tracing over the soft crotch of your underwear, and not dealing with pesky gold closures. You nod, letting him kiss you to oblivion, eyelids fluttering and lips parched as he sucks all the soul from you.
You fumble and reach behind your waist, tugging your zipper open, reveling in the loss of constriction. Sukuna touches that freedom and pushes you back into the mattress, smiling against the breathy moan that falls from your lips as you melt into your familiar mess of pillows.
"And just lay there and moan my name, lookin' pretty."
"You don't want me to touch you?" You whisper in passing, flicking the buttons to your shirt open as he tosses the skirt across the room — a fist getting caught in your delicate panties. He tugs against the fabric, ruining it for later use with its stretched fibers. You don't see the bulge in his pants — can't feel it, but you know it's there. You know how overcome he is with the way the burning red flush erupts at his neck and bleeds down his torso.
Your panties find their way across the mattress, abandoned somewhere unseen for you to find when you're dreary and weathered with sleep and the aftermath of him. Sukuna stares into your eyes as he pushes himself against the mattress, his glare almost predatory. Your heart drops, then settles in the pit of your stomach.
"Never seen you make something called cowboy stew," He mutters, half-focused on you as you tug the shirt off your shoulder, bra-strap peeking free. "Where'd you find that recipe? What's in it?"
"Huh?" You reply, breathless, tossing your head back as your body heats in a mixture of nerves and arousal. It always feels like the first time when he touches you — huge hand making craters in your thighs as he pulls them apart. "D-did you like it?"
Sukuna doesn't hide his stare, certainly not when your cunt shivers in his presence, leaking wetness that stains and glistens against the inside of your thighs. "Don't understand why it's called that." Like he's taken personal offense, his voice is glum and low. Still, he loses himself in the warmth you exude, pushing his head between your thighs, kissing against the sweet wetness. He hums, then licks you clean, eyes slipping shut at the taste starts to settle.
"I didn't name the dish." You let go, tugging further at your shirt when your head falls back into the pillows. You have a good vantage point from this spot, tilting your head to the side so your deep breaths can flow — not clog up your chest in desperate hicks. Playing with your bra strap, cheeks tingling, you peer at him as Sukuna gets lost in you. "I took out some things — added others I think you'd like instead."
"Didn't even tell you I was coming home." He kisses the left crook of your thighs, nose bumping against your folds — aching and waiting for him.
"I heard it in the wind."
"You and them silly superstitions." He finally gives you, grip tightening as he dives in. Sukuna knows your body — what excites you — and still, he makes it a point to savor this. His tongue starts at your entrance, dipping and gathering the pooled arousal, humming right back into your pulsing cunt.
You gasp, breath shivering as his tongue laps at your entrance, expertly making its way to your clit with a speed he's mastered in your time together. Sukuna's warm lips close around the bud, sucking it between hollowed cheeks, eyes slipping shut as your thighs shake and shiver. He has to pin you open, knowing you have every mind to strangle him between your heat until he takes that fateful last breath.
It sounds like Heaven — the only issue being, Sukuna would let you. His soul feels so close to home when it's buried between your thighs, memorizing your sweetness as it mingles with his spit and slides down his throat. Exhaling hotly against your heat once he pulls away, Sukuna smirks when he feels how sensitive and overcome you are already, with yourleft heel running down his back, pushing and flexing as the sensation renders you obsessive and crazy.
Your head flies back into your pillows, tummy shivering, unable to pull yourself free from the onslaught like your body naturally needs. The stimulation hits you right in the gut, especially when he focuses those sinful lips at your leaking hole — his nose jutting and digging into your clit, making your back arch, neck tightening.
You want to speak — to tell him that it's so good, but you can't find the breath. Every single time you part your lips, a jumbled version of his name spills out into his mop of speckled hair, going blurry around the edges as your hips lift off the bed.
"I know." He growls into your cunt, forcing your thighs open when they fall together with the force of submission. "Want me to tell you how sweet you taste? Mm…" Sukuna knows what he's doing, and he does it on purpose, just to make your bones sing. His words vibrate throughout your core like they're singing hymns into your bloodstream, making you shake, quiver, and go weak against it.
Sukuna knows immediately when you cum, flying his eyes open when you go limp so he can make out the way your face scrunches before going completely blank — like you've seen a ghost. It's endearing, and a sight he sees every time he looks at you, filing that intimate moment in the back of his mind every time you smile or purposefully pick at his nerves.
He drinks you up like it's his final meal, humming, huffing, and grunting as he humps lazily against the friction of the bed. If he's not careful, he'd make a mess in the pants you'd have to clean tomorrow, and though the messy sight would be endearing come morning, he has to physically rip himself onto his knees to keep him from finishing at the sound of your cries and the pinch of your sweet features.
Sukuna knows exactly what way to make love to you in, his favorite — your least favorite. He wants to stare down at you in missionary, so he mounts you before you can put two and two together, still hazy and holding onto sanity like you're holding onto your bamboo sheets.
Like they're on fire, Sukuna rips off his pants, shuffling them down his thighs just enough to comfortably make a home between your pulled knees. He shushes you like you're a fussy child, shaking his head as you whimper and flutter your lashes, trying to come down to the tightness of his grip. A hand lost to you works between your bodies, wrapping around his thick girth, pinching at the base so he doesn't finish as soon as he slips inside.
"Open up and look at me." He demands, needing to see the way your vision clouds over when you feel him split you open. The view makes his eyes water — it makes him crazy and territorial, and it's what he sees on those night-drenched roads when there's nothing to keep him company but the buzz of the radio and the constant hum of his tires spinning against the pavement.
"Hey." His voice dips into something sinister — the swollen, thoroughly underused head of his cock just whispering against your fluttering entrance. "Open the fucking eyes, now. I didn't wait a month to see you sleep, and you know that."
"I-I'm—
"Look alive." He nods, reaching up to squeeze your chin in his hands. Concentrating over you in a plank only held up by the strength in his knees and a single hand pressed to the mattress, he yanks your attention back down to Earth, nodding when that pretty, familiar gaze flickers back into view. "Good girl — obedient."
"I love you." Before you can fully get the words out, as you stare into his crimson gaze, he slips inside, and it feels exactly how you knew it would — like home. The thing you do — the one with your lovely gaze makes Sukuna crazy. It's impossible to hold back, but he knows he needs to. He can't let this moment slip from his fingers, because it's built up so perfectly and in time with every single one of his nastiest, night-spanning fantasies.
"I love you, too." He answers, eyes squeezing shut as his hips stutter and rock into yours, mind falling into complete static as your soft walls spasm and loosen around him. It feels like he's going insane, eye twitching as he hits that halfway point, feeling the tip nudge against your gummy walls.
Sukuna bottoms out and is so overcome that he has to hide it. You moan and whimper into the air — into his shoulder as he presses his body into yours. All the air is knocked loose from your chest, and you're too constricted to gasp or beg for mercy, so you succumb to the closeness as it's your death… a bitterly sexy and sweet way of losing it all. You can only sit up and catch a soft breeze when he dips his head to your neck, panting into your wet collarbone, his teeth skimming your shoulder and snapping against the strap of your bra. It falls when he pushes it, but it's not enough to pull it off, just to make you look unkempt and fucked-up — his favorite sight.
Then, his teeth move to the gold chain hanging from your neck, sitting high as gravity pulls it into the pillows under you. Sukuna bites down on the metal, grunting as he jerks and circles his hips inside of you.
You're nodding for nobody — nothing making sense as you run your hands over the ink painted against his huge shoulders, and down his back. All you can do is whisper out invisible praises that keep him going in this sweet, touch-starved pace, too taken to speak your own-damn self. It's just too good. He's so close.
The chain falls from his teeth, wet and cold, jerking life back to your soul as you peel open your eyes. Sukuna sits up, studying that shimmer in your gaze. He reaches down and strokes your leg, massaging your knee as he guides it over his hip. After years, you know what this is — Sukuna can't risk you trying to overcome his position with your writhing legs. He needs you pinned like a fish as he feeds you every single greuling inch of his thick cock.
He wants you on display, but before he shakes you off and gives you what you want, he dips back down and kisses you. Demanding your neck in a way that proves that you're his, you whimper and whine into the intimacy, eyes fluttering shut as he falls from your lips, over your neck, and eventually trailing to the crook of your arm. He reaches behind his back, digging thick fingers into your arm, and pins your wrist above your writhing bodies, giving him the perfect angle to lean down and lick a fat, concentrated swipe through your armpit. He savors the scent — the lingering cleanliness of your wash and scentless deodorant. There's a soft taste of your cologne there, too, and it drives him insane.
That lick turns into kisses, and those kisses feed into the way he fucks into the mattress like he's scared you're going to run away from the body-to-body.
Sukuna gets lost in it the same way every time. He always reverts back to the first time he felt you — how he lost his mind and threw his livelihood to the wolves just to feel you wrap around him again. Your breathy moans echo in his head, beating off the sides and mixing with his thoughts where they stay forever.
Slamming into your sopping cunt, filling the room with the lewdness, he doesn't want to think about anything else. He's hardly thinking about you, letting you scratch and pull at whatever you need, head nodding as your moans fade back into full-chested cries. Behind him, your legs jerk and your feet stiffen, head rocking back with a bent neck like you're trying to expel something impure from your soul.
The pleasure renders you silent so that his groans can be the soundtrack to your pleasure. You wish you could tell him just how much you love and need him, but the way you're taking him is all the proof he needs.
As you fade in and out of reality, you can't help but hold onto him a bit tighter, tears springing to your eyes as he kisses you — body writhing and giving you everything it's got, because it needs you just like you need him.
Every unsaid word — every whisper and twitch in the night gathered and festered in a sealed jar for a month until Sukuna grabbed and broke the seal without strain. It fuels him now that he's into it, sitting up and flipping you onto your stomach so he can finish himself off while you cry and moan his name into the sheets.
Through it all, and though he hates to admit it, Sukuna feels like the ripe thirty days without you this time were worth every single second. He doesn't roll off of you all night, and you're not too tired to complain, you just can't fathom pushing him away once he's been so far.
Sukuna leaves you again, a week later.
Just like you felt the shift in the day he arrived, you feel it as you zip his duffel bag shut.
Attached at the hip for a solid seven days, Sukuna was glad to send you away, even if it was just to shower without him. He lingered as you cooked dinner — drove you into town with all the windows down, so he could watch your hair turn silently in the breeze. In public, he didn't hold you by the hand, but instead kept you at his side with a strong arm at your waist.
You bought him a watch, and he bought you a new dress that he peeled off the second you put it on. Every night, like a ritual, he fell asleep on your chest and didn't move an inch — groaning and pulling you back when you tried to push away. Every bath — every achingly boring football game you had to sit through all fueled him in ways you couldn't see.
"You get into any more trouble with that car," He walks back into the room, pulling a grey, rolled sleeve flannel over his broad shoulders. "Don't wait until I get back to tell me."
"Yes, sir." You smile, teeth shimmering like dusted pearls as you hand him his heavy bag. Sukuna doesn't smile back, but you can see the lightness in his eyes when you do. Instead, he nods and shoulders the weight of his life for the next two weeks, already planning what he'd do to you the next time he has you all alone, locked up in his arms.
You follow him out of the room as he swings his bag over his shoulder, heavy footsteps shaking the floorboards. The front door draws closer and closer — closing in on the two of you like a twisted sort of death trap that you can't ever seem to claw your way out of. Sure, tonight you could sleep, tossing and turning on your mattress and eat salads and bagels all the time, but the freedom comes at the bitter, familiar loss of your husband.
Whether temporary or not, losing him feels like the first time all over again.
Sukuna opens the door like it's so easy, regarding you for half a second to make sure you're still biting at his heels. "Stay up here, babe." He mentions crossing the metal threshold onto the porch that he painted the summer after he bought you this house. "Gonna get your pretty feet all dirty."
"Wouldn't you like to see that," You hum, resting your hip against the doorway as he jogs down the steps. "Hey, be safe, now. Call me when you stop for the night."
"Don't have to remind me every damn time."
"I do." You stand up straight, reaching for the banister as you step onto the porch. Sukuna pulls the driver's side door to his SUV open, swallowing down a smirk.
"Stay your ass on that porch—
"Call me, Ryomen."
"Alright." It's simple, but it still takes a push to give it up as easily as you speak it. "See you, baby doll."
You give him a polite smile, grip squeaking as it tightens against the railing. You're holding yourself back, but you can't say anything else. The car door closes on the rest of your messy, jumbled thoughts, breaking you free from the anxiety that always seems to spike once he gets behind a wheel.
The engine turns over. You can see him staring at you through the streaked windshield, shaking his head when you motion for him to crank the window down. "Load's gonna leave without me, babe!"
His sharp tone, though quite playful for him, strikes you silent as he shifts the car in gear. The second his gaze falls — the break lights illumining the whisper of the morning behind him, you call out for him again;
𑣲 18+ older!boyfriend tojis loves to mess with his girlfriend.
nsfw, smut, breeding, kissing, ass grabbing, established relationship, chubby/curvy!reader, fem!reader, fluff, older man, toji being a little shit.
your boyfriends older.
built like a goddamn tank. his arms big and scarred. broad shoulders carrying the weight of the world. he's got the hands of a killer, heavy and calloused, rough against your soft skin.
there's a scar that runs across the corner of his lip, curling just the right amount whenever he finds something the slightest bit amusing.
he smells of something discreetly masculine. something heavy and strong, like a mix of cologne and smoke.
his hands are big on you, either planted on your waist or palming over the curve of your back, always sliding closer to the nice fat of your ass. grabbing and kneading the flesh with the type of greed only a man like him could possess.
the mans love language is physical touch.
he likes to sink his teeth into the curve of your cheek, soft and playful as he leans back with a huff of laughter. he squeezes your cheeks together just to press a wet kiss right on top of your glossy lips. he loves the way you glare at him, cute face scrunched up as you huff and shove at him.
he walks around the place half naked, barefoot and shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips most the time. lazy and comfortable in the comfort of his own home.
and hes real nasty.
he'll show up behind you, burying his face into the curve of your neck. Inhaling the smell of your skin right into his lungs.
his hand'll move, snaking over your waist to palm at the softness of your stomach. even if you're in the middle of something, he doesnt scare. his hands are always on you, hes a man obsessed with his pretty lady.
he doesnt quit until you whine and shove him away for licking a stripe up the length of your cheek, pressing a wet, sloppy kiss right on your ear.
and he carries everything for you.
he's confident enough in his masculinity to be able to hold your bag for you, even if the whole thing is a star contrast to how he looks. when you're out together, his favourite thing is to walk behind you, eyes fixed on the way your hips sway from the back.
and he manspreads. thats a known fact.
his muscular thighs take up half the space on the couch, his arms sprawled over the back of the couch like he has every right to do so. even though he knows you hate it.
but the truth is that its just a way for him to get you to press up against him.
and if he falls asleep? hes snoring loud enough to shake the walls, head tipped back, mouth wide open.
thats usually the time when you think you're able to mess with him.
but if you wake him up? hes glaring down at you, his big hands finding a way to manhandle you into his lap. now forcing you to sleep with him, head tucked into your neck because no one messes with his naps. (he takes like five a day)
its always a win win for him.
and the thing that ticks you off the most? him taking advantage of the fact that hes so much larger than you. when you playfight, you know he's already won.
he yanks you back to him, his grip heavy on your waist as he slides his cold hands under your top, tickling you everywhere because hes such an arrogant asshole.
you're in the bathtub together, hes behind you, broad frame taking up most the space as he leans back, his arms resting on each side of the porcelain tub.
you're sat between his legs, eyes shut, head resting back on his shoulder. its so nice and peaceful.
but tojis a little shit who can't stay still for a second, so it doesn't take long before he lands a firm slap into the water in front of you, making it jolt and splash all over your face.
"toji-!" you squeak, huffing as you sit up and turn to smack him on his chest, essentially meaning that you're now pissed off at him.
he snorts, his forearm flexing when he brings it up to hold you still around your shoulders, head tilting while his lips kiss at your soft cheeks.
he laughs, low and gruff, continuing his assault on your face, holding you tight against him, he loves the way you squirm against him in the bath.
he loves you.
he's never been so attracted to a woman before in his life, something about your attitude just turns him on.
your thighs, those full, round breasts, the curve of your ass, the pouch of flesh on your tummy, it drives him insane, it all makes him real hot and bothered. you see it in the way his eyes drag over your body, half-lidded and hazy, his growing bulge already prominent against his trousers.
if hes feeling sweet, he'll fuck you slow and deep, cock plunging into your gummy walls, brushing and dragging over each soft spot inside you, pulling sweet sounds out of your mouth.
he'll hold you, murmur sweet nothings into your ear while he gets his fill, hands brushing over your sides, hips rocking against yours.
and when he cums, its sweet and pleasurable, his seed filling you so deep as you moan, begging him to keep going, to fill you up until you're full with his kid.
but if hes feeling mean?
hes rough, pelvis slapping against your ass as he pounds into your pussy like theres no tomorrow, his grip on you is tight, mouth sucking marks into your skin. his skin slaps against yours, sweaty and hot as he fills you up with his cock.
you can feel every ridge, every vein inside of you as he slams harder and deeper. god, hes so dirty, pounding up against your poor cervix. he grunts and groans, his eyes fixed on where you both meet, his cock lathered in your juices.
and when he cums? he's groaning, pumping you up oh so full until his cum leaks out of you. Its thick, and theres so much of it everywhere.
thats how it usually goes.
you think your boyfriend has some sort of cuteness aggression towards you.
he loves to bite you, sink his teeth into your plushy flesh. he loves to hold you, squeeze you close enough that you swear you both might merge into one.
he adores that cute face of yours, his eyes always roving over your pretty features.
he holds you close and murmurs cute things into your ears. his fingers digging deep into the flesh of your thighs.
your cheek is squished against his bicep, sitting pressed closed to him as he speaks.
"you're gon' be the mama to my kids,"
"my angel,"
"so cute n' round, like a lil peach."
"m'baby. m'sweet girl" he murmurs, his big hand brushing over your hair, pressing a kiss to you ear.
he says it, and its true.
he presses kisses everywhere on you. your cheeks, your breasts, your stomach, your arms, your nose, your brows, your lips.
under all that rough, male bravado, and that playful nature of his, he loves you so deeply, so much that his heart aches.
when he's not with you, he feels useless. like theres nothing to do if it doesn't mean he can hold his woman.
when he's with shiu, he spends half the time sprawled onto his seat, lazy and half-paying attention to shius words.
he'll have his beat up phone in one hand, flicking through pretty pictures of you, occasionally zooming into something, a lil smirk pulling at the corner of his lip.
he hums in response to shiu, not even paying attention.
thats all he uses his phone for, really. to talk to you, talk to people like shiu, and keep photos of you to go through when he's not with you.
݁ ❛ ✧ 𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐒 ꒱ older !sam winchester 𖬺 fem reader. you’re bored and whiny in the passenger seat of the impala..
𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐤 [ 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 ] 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 𐔌 nsfw. fingering. squirting. use of daddy. ꒱ !!
݁ ❛ ✧ 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐂𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 ꒱ track three of 𝑣𝑎𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑠 event. he treats getting you off like it’s his sworn duty..
“i know what you need.. baby i’m so sorry you’re feeling this way..” sam slid up the top of your mini bottoms, allowing him clear access to the damp cotton underneath.
“you were just writhing in your seat, weren’t you? you needed my help..? you should’ve told sweetheart. i’ll stop anything to make you feel better..” he rubbed tiny circles over your mound, other hand still languidly keeping the car straight. you weren’t going fast or anywhere important.. at least it wasn’t as important as you now.
“i know.. i just didn’t want.. ah.. not while you’re driving..” you watched his movements, words stuttering as his thumb came down to press right on your clit, already overstimulating you.
“oh, sweet thing.. i said anything..” he moved his hand to gently caress your inner left knee, “can you spread your legs for me?” sam glanced over as you did, seeing the moist spot you created in the leather, “fuc.. baby you were leaking this much?” he adjusted himself in his seat, getting turned the fuck on by how needy you were. “’m so sorry i didn’t get to you sooner. she was crying for me.. oh baby..” he winced.
rubbing with his whole hand over you, you gasped at how it engulfed your panties. you could only see hand. big, veiny hand. you latched onto his wrist, biting down on your lip. spreading your legs wider..
“is it.. is it too much..?” you worried being this wet wasn’t normal. this attracted to sam. to his driving. to his stoic demeanor in the driver seat.
“mm.. i love my baby’s juices on me.. go ahead and make a mess. spill all over your seat. i want to see it, sweetheart. i want you to soak my hand. let me know i’m doing good, getting my baby off just how she likes it.. deserves..”
“augh..! okay..” you gripped onto his forearm as his hand delved in, spreading your pussy lips open in your underwear, rubbing the folds, bunching them.. toying with you.
the damp spot grew bigger as you watched his fingers move around beneath the cotton, “good girl.. make a big mess for daddy, hump on his hand if you need to, baby. fuck.. get yourself off. use me, use my hand. you’re so good.. you’re so cute. my needy little baby..” he poked two fingers in, punching in and out so fast..
sam ignored how close he felt in his own pants. how he was slightly humping the air. licking his lips. straining not to throw you on his lap and bounce you on his cock.
one of your hands held onto his bicep as the other pushed his hand closer to your pussy. his arm acted as a seatbelt. a seatbelt and a toy all at once.
“uh huh.. guide me how you want it..” his hand gripped the wheel as he glanced out the window at fellow driving pedestrians, “give your pussy what she needs..” he started swiping at your pussy with his whole hand, sloshing around your juices. making you squirm and squeal..
“ugh..! sa..sam..” you bucked up into his hand, little squirts of juices shooting out of you. you were slipping in the seat, knees touching the center console and the door. pelvis gyrating, gripping onto sam’s arm.
“oh, shitt.. my baby girl a little squirter for me? marking up my car with her precious juice? such a big girl cunt.. come on, baby, give it to me. daddy wants your little squirts. drench his hand.. fuck, baby i’m gonna cum just looking at you..”
you whined louder, arms circling around his, bunching up and up, more wet seeping out.. dashing out onto the dash.
your body twitched with aftershocks as you calmed, mewling and sobbing on sam’s arm..
“ngh.. good girl.. such a good girl..” sam shot up in his pants, rubbing your folds gently as you both finished.
AU zombie!sam winchester x vamp!dean winchester x fem!reader 𓂃 Both SFW & NSFW sections include explicit sexual content with possessive behavior, plus Sam's features body horror elements and Dean's features blood play/biting with primal predator themes.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ art by okvcko on twt!
SFW 𓂃 ZOMBIE!SAM WINCHESTER
He shouldn't be capable of this. Love. Devotion. The kind of bone-deep need that makes his sluggish heart attempt something like a normal rhythm.
But then there's you.
Every time you look at him—really look at him, past the decay and the death and the wrongness of what he is—something in his chest tightens. It's not quite pain. It's not quite a pleasure. It's something, and after years of feeling nothing but hunger and cold, He'll take it.
He's rotting. Slowly, carefully preserved through rituals and Dean's obsessive care, but rotting nonetheless. His skin is too pale, too cold. His eyes are pale white like the goddamn moon. Half of his skin is melting or torn off. His movements are just slightly off, as if his body remembers being human but can't quite replicate it anymore. He's a walking corpse held together by magic and sheer stubborn will.
And you loved him anyway.
He watches you sleep sometimes, Dean curled around your other side, and He's terrified. Terrified he's lose control. Terrified that the hunger will win. Afraid you'll wake up one day and finally see him for the monster he is.
But then you reach for him in your sleep, fingers seeking his cold hand, and you smile. Even unconscious, you want him close.
Dean says He's too careful. He holds back too much. But he doesn't understand—he's had three centuries to master his control. Sam had barely a decade, and every day is a battle between the man He was and the thing He become.
You make him want to win that battle. You make him want to be better.
NSFW 𓂃 ZOMBIE!SAM WINCHESTER
[CW: explicit sexual content, possessive behavior, body horror elements]
He can't feel the way He used to. That's the cruelest joke of undeath—sensation is muted, distant, like experiencing everything through thick glass. Touch registers as pressure. Temperature is almost meaningless. Pain is just... information.
But with YOU? God, with you, he feels everything.
The first time you saw his cock, he almost couldn't go through with it. It's not like the rest of him—it's worse. Mottled purple and gray, discolored in patches where the flesh has started to break down despite the preservation spells. The skin is textured wrong, rough in some places, too soft in others, with dark veins spiderwebbing across the shaft. It's cold. Always cold. Dead.
Sam watched their face, waiting for the disgust, the rejection, the moment you'd realize exactly what kind of monster you'd let into your bed.
Instead, they reached for me. Wrapped your warm hand around his damaged cock and looked at Sam with nothing but want.
"Sam," you whispered. "I want all of you."
Now, when he's inside you, He's hyperaware of every way He's wrong. His cock is cold—you gasp every time he first pushes in, that shock of ice against your heat. The texture is different, rougher, the ridges of damaged tissue dragging against your walls in ways that shouldn't feel good but somehow do. You tell him that you can feel every inch, every imperfection, and you crave it.
He's obsessed with making you feel good despite his ruined body. His fingers work your clit with desperate precision while his dead cock fills them, cold and textured and wrong but yours. All yours. He angles his hips to hit that spot inside that makes them scream, using every trick he can remember from when he was alive, when he was whole.
"Sam, fuck—" you gasp, clenching around his mottled shaft, and you can feel it even through the numbness. The way your living body accepts my dead one. The way you pull him deeper, wanting this, wanting you.
You grip their hips too hard, leaving bruises, fucking into them with a desperation that borders on violence. Mine. My cold, damaged cock is driving into their perfect heat. His dead hands on your living skin. He ruined his body trying to give you everything.
When you came on his cock—that cold, textured, wrong cock—crying his name like he's something holy instead of something rotting, He almost believed he could be human again.
Almost. (tbh I'll fuck Sam for life..leave my freaky ass alone LMAOO)
SFW 𓂃 VAMP!DEAN WINCHESTER
He's been a vampire for three hundred years. He seen empires rise and fall. He tasted blood from every corner of the world. I've loved and lost and learned to stop feeling anything too deeply because immortality is a bitch and everyone you care about turns to dust eventually.
And then there's you.
One human. One fragile, breakable, temporary human, and suddenly three centuries of careful control are hanging by a thread.
He can hear your heartbeat from across the room. Steady, strong, alive. It calls to him like a siren song, and every instinct he has screams to bite, to drink, to take. The hunger is always there, a constant ache in his jaw, a burning in his throat.
But he doesn't. He won't.
Because you trust me. You look at him with those eyes and see Dean, not the monster. You let him close, let him touch, let him love you, and he would rather walk into the sun than betray that trust.
Watching you with Sam is its own kind of torture and pleasure. His baby brother, dead but not gone, finds something like happiness in your arms. You're so gentle with him, so patient with his struggles. You love him like he's not a walking corpse, and he loves you for it.
Y'all are both a fucked-up little family. A zombie, a vampire, and the human stupid enough to love you both.
He'd spent three hundred years alone, even when he wasn't. But with you? With Sam and you curled up in bed together, safe behind wards and locks?
He's finally home.
He just has to make sure he doesn't kill you. That's the fun part.
NSFW 𓂃 VAMP!DEAN WINCHESTER
[CW: explicit sexual content, blood play, biting, primal/predator themes]
The bloodlust is worst during sex. That's what nobody tells you about being a vampire—arousal and hunger are wired together, and when he's buried inside you, feeling your pulse racing, your blood singing through your veins, it takes every ounce of three-hundred-year-old control not to bite.
Well. Not to bite fatally.
Your neck is right there. Throat exposed, pulse jumping under thin skin, and He can smell the blood just beneath the surface. Rich and sweet and theirs. His fangs ache. His mouth waters. Every thrust makes the hunger worse because you feel so good, so alive, so perfect wrapped around his cock.
"Dean," you moan, and the sound goes straight to his dick and his bloodlust in equal measure.
He wants to flip you over and sink his fangs into your throat while he fuck you. He wants to drink you down while you cum, taste your pleasure mixed with your blood. He wants to mark you so thoroughly that every supernatural creature for miles knows you are his.
But he doesn't. He couldn't.
So He settle for your shoulder. Your wrist. The soft inside of your thigh. Places where he can bite and drink without risking too much. Just enough to take the edge off, to satisfy the beast while keeping you safe.
The taste of your blood on his tongue while he's inside them is transcendent. It's better than any high, any drug, any experience in three centuries of existence. You gasp and tighten around him, and he has to fight not to lose control completely.
Sam's usually there too, and that helps. Watching his brother worship you with his cold mouth while Dean takes you from behind. Seeing you caught between Sam & Dean, overwhelmed with pleasure. It grounds Dean. Reminds him this isn't just about hunger—it's about love.
"So good," Dean growls against your skin, licking the blood from the bite on their shoulder. "So fucking perfect. You take us so well, sweetheart."
You whimper, pushing back against me, and he grips your hips hard enough to bruise. Another mark. Another claim. He's a possessive bastard, and you're ours.
When you come, he lets himself bite again—just a little, just enough—and the combination of your blood and your pleasure and the tight clench of your body around his cock sends him over the edge. He comes with his fangs in your flesh and his brother's name on your lips, and it's perfect and terrible, and everything. Dean never knew what he needed.
Afterward, he licked the wounds closed. Vampire saliva—it's useful like that. You're boneless and satisfied between Sam & Dean, marked and claimed, and there's.
"Love you," Deam murmurs against your hair, and he means it with every dead cell in his body.
Three hundred years, and He'd never meant anything more.
⠀a/n : not beta read, all mistakes are my own because im supposed to be studying but samantha winchester is more important to me than electrophysiology soooo.... everyone be nice okay..? okay.
sam was very sensitive, that much was always obvious. sensitive to the point that a simple make out session would make her a mess of whines and breathy hiccups.
just feeling your fingers rub at her perky nipples through her flannel dress shirt while you trailed kisses along her jaw made her brain melt.
you've barely even started to actually touch her, gently rubbing feather light circles around her clothed nipples while she whines out your name like a prayer against your lips.
she always makes it so obvious that her weakness is your touch, even when it's a touch so small her brain can barely even register the pressure. it's cute, makes your heart skip a beat knowing how much of an affect you have on her.
"i've barely even touched you sammy," you whisper against her jaw as you continue to trail kisses along the bone. the feeling of your hot breath against her cold skin sending shivers down her spine.
a ragged breath falls from her spit-glossed lips as she begins to pant out a response.
"can't help it," her voice trembles as your fingers continue their slow journey down her body, warm fingers traveling towards the waistband of her jeans. "not when you're being such a tease-"
you gently suck at her neck, a reddish-purple mark blooming as you gently nibble before pulling away. "don't rush me, be patient."
she whines as you nibble at the sensitive mark on her neck before giving you a nod, a quiet promise to behave. with an amused half-smile, you unbutton her jeans as you continue peppering kisses along her neck.
sam makes her pleasure clear as day, her quiet pants communicating her desire in a way that words could never. it almost makes you feel bad for teasing her, for going as slow as you are. almost.
making quick work of the buttons on her jeans, you slowly tug them down her soft thighs as she lifts her hips eagerly.
it's cute, her desperate need to feel your hands on her in any way she can. it's cute and so her.
you let out a marveled sound, a mix between a laugh and a content sigh as you tug the rest of her jeans off.
she's wearing your favorite pair on panties. of course she is. because as much as she wants to hide it, she enjoys teasing you almost as much as you enjoy teasing her.
without bothering to tease her any further, your hands slide underneath the waistband of the floral patterned cotton. your finger pressing gently against her clit almost immediately, the way you touch her calculated from months of experience.
her reaction is practically immediate. a soft, ragged exhale falling from her lips as you allow her the pleasure she's been so desperately seeking.
your finger tracing light circles against the nub as you continue pressing light kisses against her pulse point, feeling the way she melts in your hands like clay.
"fuck-" she croaks, the word coming out more broken than she'd like for it to have. it makes your own cunt throb hearing how pleased she is already with just a few gentle circles on her bundle of nerves.
leaving her with a few more gentle circles, you finally move to glide your fingers through the slickness that'd gathered in the seat of her panties.
teasingly, you push your middle finger against her entrance. she's practically gushing at this point, leaving the digit soaked already without even applying much pressure.
her hips buck eagerly against your finger, echoing her need to feel you inside of her.
you give her a look, one that she knows all too well at this point. one that practically tells her to say what she wants.
"need to feel you-" her voice a breathy mutter with her eyes conveying the same desperation.
you pause, giving her a knowing look before she finishes her statement with a single word.
"please."
by that point, you don't have the willpower to even attempt to continue with your teasing. from the soft whines falling from her lips to the way her hips eagerly buck against your finger, it's all too cute to ignore. who were you to deny her what she'd been begging for?
not bothering to give any warning, you gently push your middle finger into her heat.
even with just one finger inside she's a whiny mess, needy mewls falling from her lips as you curl your fingers against that sweet spot that turns her brain to mush.
as whiny as she was, it was still clear as day she was far from pleased with just a single finger, even as you began to pump in and out with slow strokes.
"'ts not enough is it? my girl needs more, hm?" you mutter, your finger never stopping its gentle pace on her slick cunt. "tell me what you want, sammy."
the slick sounds of your finger inside of her echoes off the walls as she tries to form a coherent sentence in her mind. you can't help but give a teasing half-smile as you can practically see the gears turning in her head.
after a few moments, her lips finally part, ready to speak. her voice is low and quivering as she finally articulates her thoughts into words.
"a-another.. need another."
the corners of your mouth work up in amusement. even after moments of thinking her words through, she still couldn't help but stumble over herself. it was so pathetic yet adorable.
without wasting more time, you offer a hum as your index finger joins your middle finger, gently scissoring the two inside of her before pressing a gentle suck to her clit.
you begin thrusting both fingers inside of her, keeping up the intimate rhythm you'd set as you continue to kiss and suck at her clit. by this point, your own cunt was clenching around nothing as you pleasured your girlfriend.
her hands fly to your hair, trying to be gentle as she tugs on the strands with ragged whines.
sam keeps her eyes on you, only looking away to throw her head back against the pillows when you curled both fingers to meet that gummy spot right against her slick walls.
with a gentle kiss, you release her clit only to start speeding up the pace of your fingers.
"atta girl, feels so good huh?" you jest, curling the digits once more as she nods like a broken bobble head.
she's close, it's obvious she is with how her hazel eyes are rolling in the back of her skull.
the only noises she can muster up are weak mewls and incoherent babbles as heat starts to bubble in her abdomen.
"my girls so close, yeah? come on, cum on my fingers."
that's all it takes for her to finally unravel, her hands tugging on your hair as she lets out a weak cry of your name.
the sloppy wet sounds only get louder as she cums on your fingers, never stopping the pace as you continuously curl them against her g-spot.
pressing gentle kisses to her clit, you offer words of encouragement as she starts to come down from her high.
"that's it, that's my girl. doing so good, sammy"
her response is a hiccup as she gentles her grip on your hair. laying her head against the pillows, she lets out an uneven breath she didn't even notice she was holding in.
you keep your fingers inside of her for a moment more before finally pulling them from the heat of her cunt, pressing one final suck to her clit before lapping at the remaining slick on your fingers.
sam is utterly spent, her legs slightly quivering as she tries to come back from the mind-blowing orgasm you'd just given her.
all you can do is watch with amusement and slight pride, knowing that you're the only person who can make her feel so good.
summary: clark never wanted to take showers with you. you didn't know why. there was no reasonable explanation as to why your boyfriend didn't want to just.. get into the goddamn shower with you... until now.
warnings: clark being secretive, lil bit of angst, mentions of nudity (duh) more comedic than sad though, mentions of sex but no actual smut lol
authors note: this was requested by this lovely anon right here so credits to them :3 i wasnt sure if you wanted there to be smut so apologies in advance
you truly didn't understand what clarks deal was. like... he has, in fact, seen you naked. he's been inside of you, actually.
which honestly made this whole situation so much more confusing.
"i'm gonna hop into the shower... care to join?" you smirked softly as you leaned your head against the doorframe.
clark blinked quickly as if it was urgent, glancing down at his watch before chuckling nervously.
"i- uh- work! gotta head to work!" he rambled quickly as he walked towards the closet and began rummaging through his clothes.
"...you just got back from the gym." your eyebrows furrowed softly as you watched him pull on his work clothes swiftly.
clark turned towards you as he was in the middle of doing his tie, smiling that smile you knew too well. the look of being caught in a lie.
"...i showered there...?" he posed it like a question, as if he was trying to convince himself more than you.
you glared at him with your tongue pressed against the inside of your cheek as he finished with his tie, grabbing his book bag before leaning down to press a soft kiss to your cheek. "clark-"
"i'll be home at 5!" he said without letting you finish, rushing out of the front door as quick as he had walked in it. and you just... stood there. irritation bubbling in your throat before swallowing the lump that pooled in your mouth.
and that wasn't the last time.
he'd always dodge when you asked. and of course, you wouldn't force him. you were upset, of course, but you didn't want him to do something he didn't want to. but you were truly curious. which is why, it wouldn't hurt to ask...
"do you like... not like seeing me naked or something?" you said as you watched him walk out of the shower, his glasses almost glued to his face with his towel wrapped around his waist.
clark freezes as he looks at you with wide eyes. you're sitting on the bed, the covers almost pulled up to your chin as you glared at him.
"wha- what are you talking about? that's not-"
you huffed as you sat upright, your hands on either side of your legs.
“every time i ask you to shower with me, you turn me down. why?” you lift your arms and cross them over your chest while you continue to glare at him, irritation piercing through your eyes.
clark opens his mouth briefly just to shut it again, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as his other hand moves down to hold the towel around his waist from falling.
“i just… i… like my privacy when i’m showering… i-it doesn’t have anything to do with you, baby i promise—”
“is that really the best thing you could come up with?” you grumble with your head tilted to the side.
clark winced at the sarcastic tone in your voice, sighing softly before slowly making his way towards the bed to sit down at your covered feet, reaching his hand to rest on your blanketed thigh.
"i—just know that... it doesn't have anything to do with you. i promise. just uh— personal... issues..."
"like what?" you continued to glare at him with your arms crossed over your chest.
"...just… don't worry about it. okay?" he smiled softly in hopes to calm you down, but to no avail. you were still upset. no matter which excuse he could come up with.
"...okay." you mumble simply, pulling the blanket back up your body before turning on your side to face away from him.
clark felt horrible. for keeping the other side of him from you, a secret that should be yours to keep. he sighed before standing up from the bed and walking towards his closet to change. as he pulled on his pants, he turned to you, listening to your heart beat slowly underneath your skin, steady breaths leaving your lips as you fell into a deep slumber.
the next morning, you entered the shower, without clark. again. you realized it was a lost cause, and it wasn't a big deal anyways, right? if he didn't wanna shower with you, so what?
you sighed softly as you lathered the shampoo in your hair, steam surrounding your body with the warmth from the water. you were so out of it, that you hadn't noticed that clark had sneakily hopped in behind you, his figure towering over you as he slowly pulled the shower door shut behind him.
as you heard the shower door closed softly, you smiled to yourself, feeling clark's arms wrap around your torso as he pressed kisses to the side of your neck, with you tilting your head to the side just a bit to give him more access.
you hummed softly at the feeling of his lips on your skin, pulling your hands away from your lathered hair before resting them against clarks. you turned to face him a with soft smile... before it vanished.
the man standing in front of you, was not clark.
it was superman.
he furrowed his eyebrows at your expression, interlocking his hands with yours as he pulled you close to him. "what's wrong?"
you stared up at him in shock, as if your brain was processing the biggest file known to man.
"...s-s...uperman..." you stuttered out as you pulled your hands away from him, backing up just barely without realizing that you now stood under the shower head, water cascading down your lathered hair... along with your shampoo.
"baby—"
"shit!" you screamed as soap made its way into your eyes, bringing your hands up to your face and rubbing the burning sensation away from your eyes as you turned to face the water.
"here— let m—"
"do not touch me!— oh my fuck—" you yelled in... anger? pain? clark wasn't completely sure. he watched as you washed the soap from your eyes quickly, blinking rapidly before pressing the heel of your palm against your eyes once more, whether it was to aid the pain in your irises, or to avoid having to look at metropolis' hero standing behind you. naked, mind you.
you both stood there for what felt like hours, the water still running down both of your bodies before clark took a deep breath and reached from behind you to turn the water off. you were... conflicted. in a way.
you sat down on the shower floor and pulled your knees up to your chest and stared at an empty spot in front of you, without saying a word as clark slowly sits down next to you, water dripping from the end of his curls as he looks at you.
"...honey? i— i know this is... a lot... to take in... and to be completely honest, this was an accident— i— i didn't want you to find out like th—"
"you're superman." you blurt out without even glancing at him. your knees still pulled up to your chest as water drops rolled down the side of your face.
clark winced before nodding softly, reaching his hand out to rest on your arms that hugged your legs. "i... my glasses. they... alter my face so i'm not recognizable to anyone when they see me with them on..."
you swallowed before speaking again, "is that why you didn't wanna shower with me?"
"...yes."
"and it's not because you didn't like seeing me naked?"
clark furrowed his eyebrows before breaking into a fit of chuckles, "of course not, baby. trust me, i love seeing you naked. i just... i meanobviouslyineedtotakemyglassesoffbeforeshoweringandifididthatthenyouwould findoutimsupermanandipromiseiwantedtotellyoulikeireallywantedtotellyo—"
"clark." you cut off his rambling as you hold your hand up. clark swallowed the lump in his throat as he waited for your next words.
"who else knows?"
clark huffed before thinking in his head. how many people did know?
"well there's obviously ma, and pa, and there's... jimmy, lois—"
your eyes widen as you turn your head to look at him, "lois knows?!"
"she found out on her own! i— i promise i didn't tell her myself!— i mean—i would've but that's not the point—"
"so if she didn't find out herself, you would've told her before me!?"
"no— baby, please... i just... i didn't know how to tell you, okay? i didn't know how you'd react and if you'd... still wanna be with me..." he bit the inside of his lip as he leaned back and rested his head on the tiled wall behind him.
you furrowed your eyebrows at his words and released your knees from your arms as you sat criss cross, as best as you could, in the shower.
"why wouldn't i want to still be with you, clark?"
clark sighed before lifting his head up to stare at the ceiling, "i... i could put you in danger. i— if anyone found out that i was dating you... they could hurt you. and— and i don't want that. i'd never want that... i'd never forgive myself if someone hurt you because of me."
you sighed softly as you stared at him, slowly scooting towards him as he lifted his head from the wall and looked back at you, spreading his legs just a bit to let you rest between them, your back pressed against his chest as he wrapped his arms around you from behind. "i'm not— angry. or scared, clark." you mumbled before lifting your head to look up at him. his blue irises glancing down at you, filled with guilt and regret. he's so pretty...
"just... don't keep anything from me anymore. okay?" you said as you grabbed his hands into yours. and you smiled softly as clark nodded, blinking just a few times before his eyes scanned your face, and leaning down to press a kiss to your lips.
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: sam assures you when you're feeling down!
𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: gn!reader. stanford!sam. established relationship. fluff - hurt/comfort. close proximity, hugging, gentle touches, kisses. use of pet names (honey, pretty).
masterlist ♡ requested
Sam's big hand holding yours is nice.
The warmth of both him walking beside you and the lazy sunlight beaming down from a very merciful January sky is more than soothing. His voice works well, too, shoving aside your gloomy, spinning thoughts as he talks about what he's learned today.
He's going to be a good lawyer. So smart and attentive and seemingly full to the brim with endless motivation, he works through exams quick and papers even faster. He's constantly studying which you like, not only because you're proud of him, but because he always make a date out of it.
It's all so impressive. Sometimes, you feel grossly incomparable.
Today, the walk to his dorm seems to be taking longer than usual and he's begun to shift the conversation. He'd had a nice morning, he says, and received a good grade on a paper along with lovely, complimenting feedback.
You'd been unlucky enough to receive a less than mediocre score on a project. It happens, you know that. But it never seems to happen to Sam, everything comes so easy to him. Fleetingly, you wonder if maybe you're dragging him behind.
Your hand is squeezed, and your boots still. He's tall in front of you now, with his other hand settled atop your shoulder. His gentle, nervous gaze flits over your expression and he leans down so that you'll look at him.
"Honey," he calls. "Lost you for a minute."
You blink and take a short moment to look around campus. You take in the buzzing sunlight and the cool breeze, the old oak looming above you, along with your gentle boyfriend before murmuring, "Oh. M'sorry, Sam."
His head shakes, hand sweeping down your bicep. "It's alright, hon. You feeling okay?"
You hum. "I'm fine. I'm glad you did good on your paper, Sammy."
He smiles something lovely, but his brows remain all pinched. You'd like to kiss away the furrow and assure him that you're fine, really, you've just had a disappointing morning. But you don't get to before he's speaking again.
"Tell me about your day, pretty," he coaxes. "I wanna hear."
You're aware that he knows something is off with you, because he doesn't move from this spot. He's not buying any excuses, never does. His attentiveness isn't only brought out by his classes, it targets you even more so. You adore him all the more for it.
"It was okay," you offer. "I just... got a shitty grade, is all. How are you so smart, Sam?"
He doesn't quite like the sighing sound of your voice, the insecurity and disappointment there. It all makes his chest pang painfully and he gives your knuckles a tender tap with his thumb.
"That's okay," he soothes. "It happens, pretty. What d'you mean?"
You shrug at him. "You're always doing so good with your courses, and- and you know everything, Sam, you're so smart. I'm not like that."
"Hey, no," he protests, voicing firm words sweetly. "You're so smart, honey, don't compare yourself."
"It takes me so much longer to understand, Sam-"
"That doesn't matter," he insists. "You think that makes you any less capable than me? It doesn't. You impress me everyday. You're focused and passionate and you try so hard, even when you don't want to."
Your heart swells whilst Sam keeps on going.
"You do so good, you're more than smart, honey. Please don't say you aren't, okay? It's not true."
For the first time today, you smile bright, feeling soothed and loved and appreciated. He seems to notice all of this and brings your hand up to his lips, pressing a flurry of soft kisses to your heated palm.
"Got it?" He asks to be positive.
"Got it, Sammy."
He makes sure your smile sticks for the rest of the day.
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: You're a sex-deprived, part-time employee at a local sex-toy store in Metropolis. It's a life you'd grown to predict all possibilities of — one that you hadn't, was a six-foot-four curious journalist he wanders in.
𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆/𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐆𝐎𝐑𝐘: Explicit / F!Reader
𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: smut, pwp, sex toy store!clerk reader, forward!reader, exhibitionism, f!receiving oral, cunnilingus, munch!clark, buttplugs, sex toys, comedy, size kink
𝐖/𝐂: 2.5k
Your pussy ached.
There was just no polite way of putting it. Shelves with nothing but vibrators and dildos, in oh-so many shapes and sizes, towered around you. It wasn't exactly an orgasmic environment — in fact, it was the opposite, reminding you that 40% off all goods couldn't replace the touch of an actual person.
Despite that, the pay was decent, and you could choose your shifts. So you justified overlooking the loneliness that threatened to spill — at the very least, entertainment was abundant, like the awkward, virginal couples currently fumbling around at the fantasy dildo aisles.
You attempted to give those a shot, but it didn't really pan out.
Some days, there'd be the sort who'd surprise you. (Nipple clamps for grandpa weren't something one could easily forget.)
And then there'd be pervs. Most of which probably got off to the idea of buying them alone, but weren't all that bad; you'd scored a magic wand. And a sailor-moon butt-plug from their offerings, which just so happened to be sitting nice and snug in you.
There wasn't a reason for that. Other than boredom, really, now and then you'd squirm, lean against one side, chasing every rousing sensation you could until you got off your shift to …well…get off.
Though weekly, you'd begin noticing something rather peculiar. A figure at the storefront, with his palms cupped over his forehead in a lousy attempt to peek.
He never came in, only loitered until someone would push the doors open, with loud chimes that would announce your existence & deter any weak-hearted sap. Like clockwork, four-eyes would immediately twirl and walk off like he wasn't just boring holes into the store.
"…Weirdo. S'a two-way mirror."
You're unfocused, picking at your already chipping polish. Ringing up all sorts of things with the most deadpanned expression and a phoney 'thank you, come again!'
The shift goes by mostly uneventfully.
It'd significantly grown darker outside, save for the flickering street lamps illuminating the streets. You had an hour till closing. With your arms full of bullet vibrators, you unsteadily climb up the aged ladder.
You've sufficiently worked yourself up by now. Fidgeting in your stance on the elevated space, pushing the older stock to the front.
When did your life turn to this, anyway?
The deep sigh you exhale covers up the subtle crack at the front door. Normally, that ding would've warned you of incoming customers.
Normally.
"Excuse me?"
You jump.
"What the fuck!"
"Oh geez-us." Clark jerks harder when a box is careened at him, grabbing at it instinctively. He glances down and coughs at the rather explicit verbs splayed in bold on it.
"Uh. Your…vibrator…"
Your heart's still racing, staring at the intruder, eyes softening significantly in recognition. Shit? Four-eyes actually came in.
He holds out the brightly coloured box for you, which you snatch away a little rougher than intended with your surprise. "Th-Thank you."
"No problem. Um. Can I…look around?"
"Mhm." You push the last one in place onto the shelves. "We close at 10. So, take your…time." (Which, really, was a passive threat to get out in five minutes so you could zone out until closing.)
Clark's shuffling away before you get to the end of the sentence. Clutching tightly onto the straps of his messenger bag, while his broader shoulders bumped into products as he passed. You peek at him through your peripherals, at the dildos he'd knocked over, clumsily arranging them back.
"What a nerd…" You murmur, and despite yourself, the corner of your lips quirk upward in intrigue.
You've finished tidying the store by now, with Clark wandering around still, pretending to browse in the aisles. It was obvious he had no idea what he was looking for. You're watching him openly, all leaned up against the cashier counter.
He glances over every now and then with a guilty look.
After a minute of silence, he speaks up with a clear of his throat. "Do people…uh. Normally know what they're looking for when they come in?"
You perk up. Huh. His voice was much deeper than earlier. It was kind of…hot.
"…Some do," you begin, "some pretend they do."
He gulps. "Right."
"I can help." You finally offer to his relief, walking over to him with your palms pressed behind your back. It lands on the shelf he was before, the full range of sex-toys. "Looking for anything specific?"
A pause. Standing this close to him had you realising just how much bigger he was. Not just tall, he'd just made the entire aisle feel narrow. "…for yourself, or?…"
Clark looks over at you, then sputters, "No! No — not…yes. For someone."
"Else." He emphasises, rubbing his quickly reddening neck. You clock it instantly, gaze, then flicking to his hands. They follow the manner in which his knuckles graze the display pieces. The length of his hand dwarfs the entirety of the silicone.
You swallow.
White button-down, messenger bag. Nerdy glasses…polite. Massive. He was your type.
"What did you have in mind?"
"Um..." He starts, shifting closer. You stifle a gasp when his arms stretch over your line of sight. Like an idiot, you inhale. The lingering scent of his ocean-like softener takes you immediately, mixed with a calming sandalwood that you could pleasantly taste on your tongue. You slyly eye the way the folded white rolls up his forearms, revealing the extent of veins — to the way it visibly tightens by the biceps, which were…holy shit. Nearly the size of your head.
Clark interrupts your thoughts once more when he holds a box out for you. "Something like…this?"
"Mm," you hum, attempting to buy yourself some time at his less-than-modest selection. It stirrs a whole string of unwanted thoughts. "This one's new. A little hardcore if it's your first time, though."
Clark blinks, steam practically coming out of his ears at the rate of your blasé observations. "I don't really need…it too hardcore."
"You can go with the more traditional stuff then. Lots of sizes for it too, depth-wise." Clark's following behind you as you redirect him to the rather colourful aisle of pocket pussies. "Have someone you fancy or anything. I could suggest one that would be accurate based on her height." You joke.
Internally, you cringe. Because what sort of small-talk was that?
His hand lifts instinctively, stopping shy of you as he gestures. The motion highlights you perfectly — exactly your height and build.
"Um. About yay…tall? Sort of…exactly your height and build." You blink at him, and he slaps his hand over his face in the wake of your prolonged silence. "A joke. Funny. Very funny."
"Haha."
You're able to see the growing redness at the back of his neck. For some reason, you weren't really put off by it.
So the guy was attractive, with shoulders like a linebacker. Admittedly geeky looking, but…
You shift on your heel, head tilted as you tap on one of the display cases.
He'd do.
"This one. If she's anything like me, this'll be pretty…uh. Accurate." You add in a suggestive lilt, with a quick glance downward. Slowly dragging your gaze up his body.
Clark's visibly breathing a little laboured. Dumbly trailing behind you when you take the box with you to checkout. As though you'd already decided for him.
"First time in a store like this?"
"Ah…mhm."
You've noticed that he's stopped, looking over at a mounted case. Unwittingly, you twitch when you take a quick scan through the array of silicone and stainless steel plugs. "Interested?"
Clark shakes his head quickly, scratching the sides of his jaw. "Not on myself, no."
W-o-w.
"On other people, then?"
He takes a moment, then nods in a show of courage.
You fully smile, patting him on his arm, a gesture which instantly makes you feel warm all over at the feel of his muscles.
"I'd definitely recommend it for your girl."
Clark's gaze follows your retreating silhouette, watching you set down the massager you'd picked out for him at checkout.
"You've tried?"
"Mm—hm. If she's into it. Even when she's not, it's worth a try."
"I-I see. It's not uncomfortable?"
You pause to think, "well…I guess there's no need for formalities. I'm wearing one now. I'd say it's pretty comfortable. Pop it in the whole day, and if you reaaaaallly feel frisk,y you could do anal without the trouble."
Clark doesn't answer. Not verbally anyway. You whip around at the clatter behind you, where he'd knocked down an entire display of edible balls-gags.
"S-Shoot, I'm…so..so sorry."
"Jesus…for a big guy. You're real clumsy. It's fine. I got it."
You bend a knee, grabbing the boxes closer to you. Within your eyeline, you can see his oxfords tapping onto the tiled floors incessantly. Like a nervous tic.
"I usually am just — when you said…" He mumbles, greedily looking over at your smaller form. Hips bent a tad to retrieve the fallen merchandise.
"That you were…"
I could see that you weren't exactly joking.
Was what he wanted to say. But wasn't really an acceptable form of banter. You shift to face him, eyeing the thudding brown. Before you can think it through, your palms cup over the toe of his oxfords. Stopping the taps cold.
Clark's breath stutters as he lowers his head, meeting your gaze past the thick, black frames.
"Kind of making the floor shake." You murmur, blinking through your lashes. And when you see that his gaze drops down to your lips. You wet them.
The fabric right in front of your face twitches & tents slightly. He jerks at the sound of boxes clattering, as you make no attempt to pick up the discarded ones from earlier.
You stop by the cashier counter, the back of your hips pressed up against the hardwood.
"Curious?"
He nods.
A smile curls at the corner of your lips, turning without elaboration. Bending at the waist, the best you could do with your elbows pressed atop. Clark gulps at your offering. Unbeknownst to you, he was absolutely transfixed by the metallic crescent moon, delectably stuffed in you.
For a moment, you look over your shoulder at the sudden breeze that picked up, only to be swallowed by Clark's shadow. Shivers involuntarily trail down your spine when his palm cases the countertops, right next to your elbows.
"Is…this a joke? Are you for real?
A humourless laugh escapes you, and you shift a tad, met with the stiffened wall behind, which certaintly weren't one of the store's support beams. It should worry you that you could not feel the end of his dick just by the testing grind you give.
"Is that for real?"
"Ah…it's. Well. Average-ish."
Generous.
Your clothes are kicked into a neat little pile beside your feet, in nothing but your leggings. Cheekily, you cross your ankles, tapping your heels impatiently. Clark's palms rests heavy onto the softer flesh.
"And you've had this in you all day?"
He'd been doing just that. Kneading, squeezing your ass for the better half of five minutes. You've grown antsy, at every drag of his padded thumb across lace, the crescent shifts, deeper into you.
"Mm—hm…"
Clark's knuckles drag over the exposed lace, having left nothing to imagination. He tugs at the white lace leggings, the only thing separating him from seeing the accumulation of slick between your thighs.
"Oh…gosh…"
Your teeth catch your lower lip the second you feel your inner thighs hit the colder air. Cotton half pulled down to your leggings.
"This is…" He's murmuring to himself, thumb skirting around the twitching silver. When his knuckles nudge at it, you brokenly let out a gasp. "S'pretty..."
Clark reels back, the wide expanse of his thumb grazes the jewel. Thighs quivering at every nudge of it.
"…May I?"
You stretch your arms further out across the surface, allowing yourself to bend your hip upwards wordlessly.
It comes without warning.
His nose grazes your inner thighs, testing. You don't register the fact that Clark's dropped down to his knees just yet — until you feel the gentle press of his lips, trailing upward.
"!…When did you get — hhhht!"
The first suck knocks the breath out of you.
Clark isn't shy about being decent. Clearly. His flattened tongue dips into your core, dragging it up toward the silvered plug. You squirm, restless and unable to keep your thighs still. But he holds you in place, rotating and twisting the crescent.
Instinctively, your puckered hole sucks back the silver when he tugs at it. The sensations were far too much, especially with the way his tongue zig-zagged, drinking in the sticky, honeyed slick you were abundant with.
Your hips tip back insistently, softer, whines growing much louder as you occasionally feel the bump of the thick, plasticky frames of his glasses. "Mmn. Take — it out!"
Clark hums lowly into you. Dragging is thumb from the base of your folds to your clit. You grind backwards into his face, the gentle slope of his nose snug in your folds. You weren't sure just how he was able to keep at it, without pulling out, relentless driving his tongue into your tight, cunt.
"Pl—ease!"
You groan, louder at the teasing thrusts of the plug, before the clatter registers in your senses. Clark pulls back to sit on his thighs. Expression almost twisted — in awe and fascination at the sight of your pretty, puckered hole, pulsing around nothing.
"Better than'…I'd ever imagined." It's a half-murmured thought at best, all while he presses at his hard-on for some relief.
Clark shifts back, glasses fogged and crooked, the expanse of his wider mouth suckling at your folds, before he drags the wetness upward to the tighter hole. You whine when his tongue probes, replacing the stiffness that kept your company for hours.
"Oh! Fuck —…fuck. Like tha—hhht…." You encourage, eyes rolled back from the firm thrust of his tongue into the tighter hole, which only pulses and sucks him further in.
Your hand blindly snaps backwards, uncaring of how tightly the digits wrap around his curls. Tugging as you thrust back to his movements. He takes it all in, rubbing your soaked pussy with his palm, and up to your clit.
He grunts hard into your ass when you use him, to your liking. Guiding the pace until you're finally tapping at his shoulders as best as you can.
"S-Shit. Shit. Think—…mm'gonna…cum!" You squeak, thighs quivering from the buildup.
Clark doesn't stop. His palm simulating your clit in the same manner, all while he shakes his head, coaxing and relaxing your tight, puckered walls until you've finally slumped, boneless, onto the countertops.
You're panting, heavily in the wake of your orgasm, a hesitant whimper escaping at the poke of his still stiff hard-on, soaked from his own cum on the flesh of your ass.
Hazily, you glance over at the dull thud next to your cheeks. Clark leans down, and you feel his palm — faintly smelling of ripened fruit- cradle your cheeks. Directing your gaze toward the very toy you'd suggested for him earlier. He leans down, whispering next to your flushed, sweat-slick face.
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: You're a sex-deprived, part-time employee at a local sex-toy store in Metropolis. It's a life you'd grown to predict all possibilities of — one that you hadn't, was a six-foot-four curious journalist he wanders in.
𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆/𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐆𝐎𝐑𝐘: Explicit / F!Reader
𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: smut, pwp, sex toy store!clerk reader, forward!reader, exhibitionism, f!receiving oral, cunnilingus, munch!clark, buttplugs, sex toys, comedy, size kink
𝐖/𝐂: 2.5k
Your pussy ached.
There was just no polite way of putting it. Shelves with nothing but vibrators and dildos, in oh-so many shapes and sizes, towered around you. It wasn't exactly an orgasmic environment — in fact, it was the opposite, reminding you that 40% off all goods couldn't replace the touch of an actual person.
Despite that, the pay was decent, and you could choose your shifts. So you justified overlooking the loneliness that threatened to spill — at the very least, entertainment was abundant, like the awkward, virginal couples currently fumbling around at the fantasy dildo aisles.
You attempted to give those a shot, but it didn't really pan out.
Some days, there'd be the sort who'd surprise you. (Nipple clamps for grandpa weren't something one could easily forget.)
And then there'd be pervs. Most of which probably got off to the idea of buying them alone, but weren't all that bad; you'd scored a magic wand. And a sailor-moon butt-plug from their offerings, which just so happened to be sitting nice and snug in you.
There wasn't a reason for that. Other than boredom, really, now and then you'd squirm, lean against one side, chasing every rousing sensation you could until you got off your shift to …well…get off.
Though weekly, you'd begin noticing something rather peculiar. A figure at the storefront, with his palms cupped over his forehead in a lousy attempt to peek.
He never came in, only loitered until someone would push the doors open, with loud chimes that would announce your existence & deter any weak-hearted sap. Like clockwork, four-eyes would immediately twirl and walk off like he wasn't just boring holes into the store.
"…Weirdo. S'a two-way mirror."
You're unfocused, picking at your already chipping polish. Ringing up all sorts of things with the most deadpanned expression and a phoney 'thank you, come again!'
The shift goes by mostly uneventfully.
It'd significantly grown darker outside, save for the flickering street lamps illuminating the streets. You had an hour till closing. With your arms full of bullet vibrators, you unsteadily climb up the aged ladder.
You've sufficiently worked yourself up by now. Fidgeting in your stance on the elevated space, pushing the older stock to the front.
When did your life turn to this, anyway?
The deep sigh you exhale covers up the subtle crack at the front door. Normally, that ding would've warned you of incoming customers.
Normally.
"Excuse me?"
You jump.
"What the fuck!"
"Oh geez-us." Clark jerks harder when a box is careened at him, grabbing at it instinctively. He glances down and coughs at the rather explicit verbs splayed in bold on it.
"Uh. Your…vibrator…"
Your heart's still racing, staring at the intruder, eyes softening significantly in recognition. Shit? Four-eyes actually came in.
He holds out the brightly coloured box for you, which you snatch away a little rougher than intended with your surprise. "Th-Thank you."
"No problem. Um. Can I…look around?"
"Mhm." You push the last one in place onto the shelves. "We close at 10. So, take your…time." (Which, really, was a passive threat to get out in five minutes so you could zone out until closing.)
Clark's shuffling away before you get to the end of the sentence. Clutching tightly onto the straps of his messenger bag, while his broader shoulders bumped into products as he passed. You peek at him through your peripherals, at the dildos he'd knocked over, clumsily arranging them back.
"What a nerd…" You murmur, and despite yourself, the corner of your lips quirk upward in intrigue.
You've finished tidying the store by now, with Clark wandering around still, pretending to browse in the aisles. It was obvious he had no idea what he was looking for. You're watching him openly, all leaned up against the cashier counter.
He glances over every now and then with a guilty look.
After a minute of silence, he speaks up with a clear of his throat. "Do people…uh. Normally know what they're looking for when they come in?"
You perk up. Huh. His voice was much deeper than earlier. It was kind of…hot.
"…Some do," you begin, "some pretend they do."
He gulps. "Right."
"I can help." You finally offer to his relief, walking over to him with your palms pressed behind your back. It lands on the shelf he was before, the full range of sex-toys. "Looking for anything specific?"
A pause. Standing this close to him had you realising just how much bigger he was. Not just tall, he'd just made the entire aisle feel narrow. "…for yourself, or?…"
Clark looks over at you, then sputters, "No! No — not…yes. For someone."
"Else." He emphasises, rubbing his quickly reddening neck. You clock it instantly, gaze, then flicking to his hands. They follow the manner in which his knuckles graze the display pieces. The length of his hand dwarfs the entirety of the silicone.
You swallow.
White button-down, messenger bag. Nerdy glasses…polite. Massive. He was your type.
"What did you have in mind?"
"Um..." He starts, shifting closer. You stifle a gasp when his arms stretch over your line of sight. Like an idiot, you inhale. The lingering scent of his ocean-like softener takes you immediately, mixed with a calming sandalwood that you could pleasantly taste on your tongue. You slyly eye the way the folded white rolls up his forearms, revealing the extent of veins — to the way it visibly tightens by the biceps, which were…holy shit. Nearly the size of your head.
Clark interrupts your thoughts once more when he holds a box out for you. "Something like…this?"
"Mm," you hum, attempting to buy yourself some time at his less-than-modest selection. It stirrs a whole string of unwanted thoughts. "This one's new. A little hardcore if it's your first time, though."
Clark blinks, steam practically coming out of his ears at the rate of your blasé observations. "I don't really need…it too hardcore."
"You can go with the more traditional stuff then. Lots of sizes for it too, depth-wise." Clark's following behind you as you redirect him to the rather colourful aisle of pocket pussies. "Have someone you fancy or anything. I could suggest one that would be accurate based on her height." You joke.
Internally, you cringe. Because what sort of small-talk was that?
His hand lifts instinctively, stopping shy of you as he gestures. The motion highlights you perfectly — exactly your height and build.
"Um. About yay…tall? Sort of…exactly your height and build." You blink at him, and he slaps his hand over his face in the wake of your prolonged silence. "A joke. Funny. Very funny."
"Haha."
You're able to see the growing redness at the back of his neck. For some reason, you weren't really put off by it.
So the guy was attractive, with shoulders like a linebacker. Admittedly geeky looking, but…
You shift on your heel, head tilted as you tap on one of the display cases.
He'd do.
"This one. If she's anything like me, this'll be pretty…uh. Accurate." You add in a suggestive lilt, with a quick glance downward. Slowly dragging your gaze up his body.
Clark's visibly breathing a little laboured. Dumbly trailing behind you when you take the box with you to checkout. As though you'd already decided for him.
"First time in a store like this?"
"Ah…mhm."
You've noticed that he's stopped, looking over at a mounted case. Unwittingly, you twitch when you take a quick scan through the array of silicone and stainless steel plugs. "Interested?"
Clark shakes his head quickly, scratching the sides of his jaw. "Not on myself, no."
W-o-w.
"On other people, then?"
He takes a moment, then nods in a show of courage.
You fully smile, patting him on his arm, a gesture which instantly makes you feel warm all over at the feel of his muscles.
"I'd definitely recommend it for your girl."
Clark's gaze follows your retreating silhouette, watching you set down the massager you'd picked out for him at checkout.
"You've tried?"
"Mm—hm. If she's into it. Even when she's not, it's worth a try."
"I-I see. It's not uncomfortable?"
You pause to think, "well…I guess there's no need for formalities. I'm wearing one now. I'd say it's pretty comfortable. Pop it in the whole day, and if you reaaaaallly feel frisk,y you could do anal without the trouble."
Clark doesn't answer. Not verbally anyway. You whip around at the clatter behind you, where he'd knocked down an entire display of edible balls-gags.
"S-Shoot, I'm…so..so sorry."
"Jesus…for a big guy. You're real clumsy. It's fine. I got it."
You bend a knee, grabbing the boxes closer to you. Within your eyeline, you can see his oxfords tapping onto the tiled floors incessantly. Like a nervous tic.
"I usually am just — when you said…" He mumbles, greedily looking over at your smaller form. Hips bent a tad to retrieve the fallen merchandise.
"That you were…"
I could see that you weren't exactly joking.
Was what he wanted to say. But wasn't really an acceptable form of banter. You shift to face him, eyeing the thudding brown. Before you can think it through, your palms cup over the toe of his oxfords. Stopping the taps cold.
Clark's breath stutters as he lowers his head, meeting your gaze past the thick, black frames.
"Kind of making the floor shake." You murmur, blinking through your lashes. And when you see that his gaze drops down to your lips. You wet them.
The fabric right in front of your face twitches & tents slightly. He jerks at the sound of boxes clattering, as you make no attempt to pick up the discarded ones from earlier.
You stop by the cashier counter, the back of your hips pressed up against the hardwood.
"Curious?"
He nods.
A smile curls at the corner of your lips, turning without elaboration. Bending at the waist, the best you could do with your elbows pressed atop. Clark gulps at your offering. Unbeknownst to you, he was absolutely transfixed by the metallic crescent moon, delectably stuffed in you.
For a moment, you look over your shoulder at the sudden breeze that picked up, only to be swallowed by Clark's shadow. Shivers involuntarily trail down your spine when his palm cases the countertops, right next to your elbows.
"Is…this a joke? Are you for real?
A humourless laugh escapes you, and you shift a tad, met with the stiffened wall behind, which certaintly weren't one of the store's support beams. It should worry you that you could not feel the end of his dick just by the testing grind you give.
"Is that for real?"
"Ah…it's. Well. Average-ish."
Generous.
Your clothes are kicked into a neat little pile beside your feet, in nothing but your leggings. Cheekily, you cross your ankles, tapping your heels impatiently. Clark's palms rests heavy onto the softer flesh.
"And you've had this in you all day?"
He'd been doing just that. Kneading, squeezing your ass for the better half of five minutes. You've grown antsy, at every drag of his padded thumb across lace, the crescent shifts, deeper into you.
"Mm—hm…"
Clark's knuckles drag over the exposed lace, having left nothing to imagination. He tugs at the white lace leggings, the only thing separating him from seeing the accumulation of slick between your thighs.
"Oh…gosh…"
Your teeth catch your lower lip the second you feel your inner thighs hit the colder air. Cotton half pulled down to your leggings.
"This is…" He's murmuring to himself, thumb skirting around the twitching silver. When his knuckles nudge at it, you brokenly let out a gasp. "S'pretty..."
Clark reels back, the wide expanse of his thumb grazes the jewel. Thighs quivering at every nudge of it.
"…May I?"
You stretch your arms further out across the surface, allowing yourself to bend your hip upwards wordlessly.
It comes without warning.
His nose grazes your inner thighs, testing. You don't register the fact that Clark's dropped down to his knees just yet — until you feel the gentle press of his lips, trailing upward.
"!…When did you get — hhhht!"
The first suck knocks the breath out of you.
Clark isn't shy about being decent. Clearly. His flattened tongue dips into your core, dragging it up toward the silvered plug. You squirm, restless and unable to keep your thighs still. But he holds you in place, rotating and twisting the crescent.
Instinctively, your puckered hole sucks back the silver when he tugs at it. The sensations were far too much, especially with the way his tongue zig-zagged, drinking in the sticky, honeyed slick you were abundant with.
Your hips tip back insistently, softer, whines growing much louder as you occasionally feel the bump of the thick, plasticky frames of his glasses. "Mmn. Take — it out!"
Clark hums lowly into you. Dragging is thumb from the base of your folds to your clit. You grind backwards into his face, the gentle slope of his nose snug in your folds. You weren't sure just how he was able to keep at it, without pulling out, relentless driving his tongue into your tight, cunt.
"Pl—ease!"
You groan, louder at the teasing thrusts of the plug, before the clatter registers in your senses. Clark pulls back to sit on his thighs. Expression almost twisted — in awe and fascination at the sight of your pretty, puckered hole, pulsing around nothing.
"Better than'…I'd ever imagined." It's a half-murmured thought at best, all while he presses at his hard-on for some relief.
Clark shifts back, glasses fogged and crooked, the expanse of his wider mouth suckling at your folds, before he drags the wetness upward to the tighter hole. You whine when his tongue probes, replacing the stiffness that kept your company for hours.
"Oh! Fuck —…fuck. Like tha—hhht…." You encourage, eyes rolled back from the firm thrust of his tongue into the tighter hole, which only pulses and sucks him further in.
Your hand blindly snaps backwards, uncaring of how tightly the digits wrap around his curls. Tugging as you thrust back to his movements. He takes it all in, rubbing your soaked pussy with his palm, and up to your clit.
He grunts hard into your ass when you use him, to your liking. Guiding the pace until you're finally tapping at his shoulders as best as you can.
"S-Shit. Shit. Think—…mm'gonna…cum!" You squeak, thighs quivering from the buildup.
Clark doesn't stop. His palm simulating your clit in the same manner, all while he shakes his head, coaxing and relaxing your tight, puckered walls until you've finally slumped, boneless, onto the countertops.
You're panting, heavily in the wake of your orgasm, a hesitant whimper escaping at the poke of his still stiff hard-on, soaked from his own cum on the flesh of your ass.
Hazily, you glance over at the dull thud next to your cheeks. Clark leans down, and you feel his palm — faintly smelling of ripened fruit- cradle your cheeks. Directing your gaze toward the very toy you'd suggested for him earlier. He leans down, whispering next to your flushed, sweat-slick face.
