Hey my beautiful MK angel 😇 could i get some Cole breeding/praise HC's please? I beg of you
GOD OKAY I-
NSFW UNDER THE CUT ~
Things Cole Young says to you while he's fucking you:
🐉 Calls you a "good girl" while he's balls deep, voice hoarse in your ear.
🐉 Holds your face to make you look at him when you're overwhelmed and tells you how well you're doing, how good your pussy feels-
"You're doing so well, baby, look at you," Cole murmurs, his hand clutching your chin, "You're so tight, so good for me."
🐉 Cole loves to bury his face in your neck and nip and lick at your skin, stifling his own moans against you. When he's overwhelmed, he's whispering curses and little praises into your skin-
"Fuck-" Cole pauses to suck at the sensitive flesh of your neck and suppresses a moan against you, "I'm gonna fill you up and-" he groans as you clench around him, "you'll go back out there with my cum running down your leg."
🐉 BREEDING KINK COLE IS JUST- 🙏 telling you he wants to fuck a baby into you, staying buried to the hilt while he empties every last drop inside you. He runs his thumb up your soaked slit and pushes his cum back inside you when it spills out.
🐉 Likes to take you from behind when you're face down and ass up, just gripping your hips until he finishes. When he pulls out, he just watches your swollen, cum-filled pussy and before he knows it, he's hard again.
🐉 Cole could definitely pick a day and just....stay in bed and fuck you for hours. The man's got stamina.
you need ryland grace inspo? Im thinking about those slutty glasses if his. Imagine going with him for his next eye test. His prescription has changed so he needs new glasses.
Imagine helping him pick which frames look best, and he’s getting more and more flustered under your scrutinising stare, and he gets pinker and pinker as you compliment how his nose looks sooo good in that pair, or how he looks sooo pretty in that pair…
and maybe he’ll want to you to tell him which pair looks best on him whenever he’s looking up at you from between your thighs, squeezing at your hips hard to keep your gaze focused on him, getting you all worked up just to stop and switch frames and ask again “what about these ones, baby?”
and i’d bet he’d be glad he got that eye test because now he can see your pretty expressions that much clearer! (Even through the lenses keep getting all fogged up!)
just some food for thought.
Ryland is an adult who teaches middle school children’s science, and pays his taxes every year. Yet he’s nervous to go to the eye doctor without you.
Maybe nervous wasn’t the right word. More like shy, or timid is a better fit.
Going to the eye doctor literally means someone telling you “yeah your eyes suck, but here’s a nifty invention that can help you see better for 40 dollars!!” So you can understand his resentment.
You both make it into a big day event thing. Going to have lunch afterwards and maybe a walk in the park later, ice cream included.
But that’s only if Ryland can actually pick out a pair of glasses.
“Do you like these?”
You turn to face him. Ryland’s wearing a gray shirt that says something about schrödinger’s cat’s escape plan. It fits just a little too tight around his muscles, meaning his biceps are on full display. But oh right— the glasses.
“I like you.”
Ryland snorts and looks down, already taking that pair off and setting it back on a hook. “Well that’s very kind but I’m not asking about me.”
“I liked the other pair on you better.”
He takes a step back and points at the previous pair. They look a lot like his normal glasses, but this time they have a wire of gold around the rim.
“Yeah, you look so pretty in those.”
Rylands eyes dart to yours, he studied your face for a moment, waiting for you to take back your words but you never do. Of course not. You mean them.
“Okay, I’ll think about those. What about these?”
He tried on another pair, but all you can focus on is how they immediately slip down the bridge of his nose, finding a home further down.
“They’re adorable.”
“Yeah but how do they make my face look?”
He gestures around to his head, waving his hand around his eyes and you can’t help but smile.
“Beautiful. I really like those. It brings out your gorgeous eyes.”
Ryland scoffs. You have to be messing with him. But when he pull on another pair of glasses your answers never vary. Always “pretty,” or “Gorgeous.” “Beautiful,”or “Handsome.” Even “stunning.” Ryland flushes at the thought that you’re doing this automatically. There’s no thoughts going on in your head other than the truth.
And the truth was he’s pretty.
“Ry?”
You come up behind him while he’s looking down at his old glasses, trying to compare two different sets to each other.
“Hm?”
“Why do you care what I think? They’re your glasses. You’re the one wearing them.”
Ryland shrugs, his answer is immediate. “You’re the one going to have to see me in them all the time.”
He’s not wrong, but the most comfortable thing would be wearing whatever makes him happy. That would make you even happier than he was just by picking out what he liked.
“Think we could try these out later?”
“Pardon?” You ask.
“Nothing.”
“No, no. C’mon, tell me.” You’re only making him repeat it because you couldn’t hear him the first time. Whispering like he’s suddenly embarrassed.
“Do you think theres anti-fog spray here?”
You look around, your eyes catching some near the corner. “Yeah. Probably a ton. Why?”
“Nothing.” Ryland shakes his head and turns back to figuring out which pair words best. But silence and lingering with your thoughts only make you understand what he was insinuating.
“Grace.” You pinch near his hip and he squirms away. He won’t admit it but there’s a proud smile on his face.
“What. There are other reasons glasses fog up! And now I’ll finally be able to see every freckle and mole on your body. Even the one where—”
You pinch him again, looking around to make sure nobody heard. He was flustering you now. The roles were usually reversed.
Summary: Matt Misses the most important night of your life
Pairing: Matt Murdock x reader
Warnings: 18+ only, angst angst angst
Word count: ~1.2k
Authors note: listened to “the moment I knew” and this quick lil blurb bloomed. It is unedited so I’m sorry for any issues.
The sound of the party settles into a dull, distant thud at the back of your mind. Laughter too cheery, music too loud, glasses clinking like they mean something. None of it reaches you. Your eyes stay fixed on the door.
It hasn’t opened for him. Not in over two hours.
You check your phone again even though you already know—no missed calls, no messages, nothing to explain the silence. That’s what gets to you. Not even a bad excuse. Just… nothing.
Everyone else showed up. Friends, colleagues, people who said they wouldn’t miss this for the world. And they didn’t.
“Hey.”
Foggy steps into your line of sight, blocking the door like he’s doing you a favor. You don’t look at him right away.
“He said he’d be here…” you say, quieter than you meant to.
Foggy hesitates. It’s small, but you catch it; the way he shifts his weight, the breath he takes before answering. A lawyer buying time.
“Yeah. He’ll be here..”
You finally look at him.
Foggy’s good at a lot of things. Lying in these moments is not one of them
The noise of the party presses in again, heavier now.
And for the first time tonight, you stop thinking he’s just late.
Congratulations come quickly after that. Warm smiles, steady voices, hands brushing your arm like this moment belongs to you. Your long-awaited book launch. Your night.
You thank them. You mean it.
But it doesn’t reach your chest.
The ache settles in deeper with every word until you can’t hold it there anymore. You excuse yourself, slipping away from the noise and the lights, into the quiet of the bathroom.
The door shuts behind you with a soft click.
You brace your hands against the sink, staring at your reflection. You look exactly how you’re supposed to. Composed, radiant, untouchable.
It almost makes it worse.
That sinking feeling spreads, slow and heavy, settling somewhere just beneath your ribs.
“He said he’d be here.”
You say it to the mirror like it might answer you back. Like it might fix something.
Heat rises behind your eyes, sharp and immediate. You swallow it down, lock your jaw, and your grip tightens against the porcelain until it’s the only thing you can feel.
You steady your breathing, forcing everything back under control.
No cracks.
Not here.
You can hear foggy and Karen muttering outside the bathroom door. Your reading is coming up, and Matt is still nowhere.
On stage, you set a copy of your book on the podium and smile at the crowd. The lights of New York glitter behind you in the night sky as you introduce yourself, thanking everyone for coming as they settle into their seats.
Your eyes move across their eager faces, anticipation filling the room. Then they catch on the only empty chair. Front and center row.
Your heart gives a sharp, unsteady lurch—but you cover it quickly, the smile never slipping as you begin to read.
“To Matt, and our friends.”
A dry laugh slips out before you can stop it as you read the dedication. You brush past it and begin the book, reading the first chapter aloud to the crowd. The pride never really lands, smothered under the weight of an empty chair.
Foggy and Karen drag you out for one last celebratory drink, but it doesn’t feel like a celebration. The tension hangs thick, unspoken. They try. God, they try. Try To pull you into lighter conversation, but they both know where your mind keeps circling. Matt.
Back at the loft, the quiet settles in like a weight. You pour a glass of wine, turn the armchair to face the stairs leading up to the roof door, and sit. Legs crossed. Glass in hand. Waiting.
The city hums outside, restless and alive, but up here it feels like a held breath. You take a slow sip, eyes fixed on the door, and wait for him to drag his sorry ass home.
You must’ve dozed off at some point, as the door cracking open startles you.
Matt goes still at the top of the stairs. Gloved hands flex. tight, then loose, then tight again. like he’s bracing for impact. The room shifts, the air going thick and charged. Your heartbeat spikes, loud and uneven, a tell he’s never been able to ignore.
That’s when it lands.
Oh. Shit.
“Babe—” he starts, already dragging the cowl off as he descends, voice low, careful. like he’s stepping into a crime scene.
“Don’t ‘babe’ me.” The words cut out of you, bitter and sharp, harsher than you meant. But you don’t take them back.
“I’m sorry,” he says. There’s panic threading through his voice, edged with just enough defensiveness to make it worse. “It was supposed to be quick—”
“I asked you to hang up the horns for one night, Matthew.”
“I know bu-“
“One night.” Your voice doesn’t rise this time. It sinks, heavy and fragile all at once, like it might collapse under the tears burning in your eyes.
“I asked for one night where it wasn’t about the city, or the mask, or everything else that always comes before me.” A breath catches in your chest. “Just one night for something I’ve been working toward for years. Something that mattered to me.”
“It mattered to me too—”
“Then where were you?” The question isn’t sharp—it’s soft. That’s what makes it hurt. “Because I kept looking at that door, Matt. Over and over like an idiot, thinking any second you’d walk through it.” Your lips press together, but it doesn’t stop the crack in your voice. “I had this whole picture in my head. You, standing there with flowers, smiling at me like I was the only thing in the room.”
“You’re right,” he says, quieter than you’ve ever heard him. For once he doesn’t try to fix anything. He just puts the cowl on the table. fingers lingering on it for a second, Then he sinks down to his knees in front of you, slow, deliberate. Like this is a kind of penance. Like this is the only place he knows how to be when he’s failed you completely.
Your eyes lock on him. There’s no sympathy left to offer. You’d told him it didn’t matter. That you understood. But now, faced with his absence on the most important night of your life, you realize just how much it bothers you.
You don’t move to comfort him. You take a slow sip of wine, set the glass down, and let the silence speak for you. There’s nothing left here to salvage.
Your body language tells Matt everything he needs to know. His head drops into your lap, tears prickling in his eyes.
“I’ll be out by Monday night.” Your voice is strained.
The silence stretches. Heavy, and unforgiving.
A broken sigh leaves him. “I’m sorry I missed it.”
“Im sorry too.”
You stay there, quiet. You’re still dressed for your night; he’s bruised, still in his suit. Neither of you moves. Whatever held you together doesn’t anymore.
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If you enjoyed this here is a list of my other Matt fics. Reblog to spread some angst!
summary; you buy new lingerie to surprise your husband matt, and he loves it.
warnings: smut, sensual smut, fem!reader, porn with plot, oral (f receiving) unprotected sex, talks of babies/trying to get pregnant, so much praise, literally this is porn with very little plot, not edited was too excited abt it lol
"I want you to feel something," you said, walking into the living room where Matt was laid back on the couch, fingers tracing over some documents for a case he's working on.
"Hmm?" he mumbled, hands stilling as you sat on the edge of the couch. "What is it, love?"
"A surprise, just... tell me which one feels better." You picked one of the few scraps of fabric you'd come over with, "hold your hand palm up."
He did.
You placed the first piece of material on his palm, and he smiled when he recognized the silk between his fingers.
"Here, could you take these please, sweetheart," he asked, handing the small stack of papers over so you could put them on the coffee table. "I want to give this my full attention, I have the feeling it's a very important decision."
"Mhm," you smirked. "How does that one feel?"
"Soft," he mused, "feels good on the skin, wouldn't be too warm." Matt smiled, "but still nice. Like cool to slip into."
You smiled. Matt thought you were buying sheets, for once, once, you were one step ahead of your overly observant boyfriend.
But you had no intention of buying fancy sheets today.
"Next one," you said, taking the silk and placing down lace.
Matt scrunched his eyebrows together. "It's okay, not something I'd want to feel all night though."
"Hmm," you hummed, "okay, last one. I think you'll like this one most."
You replaced the lace with satin, and he smiled. "Would be a very nice choice. A little fancy for how the bed ends up for us though, no?"
"Just pick your favourite, not the most logical. I just want something nice."
"Well you, my love, were right as always. I like the last one the most, just feels the best in the my hand, yaknow? Between my fingers."
You narrowed your eyes at him, it was almost like he knew what you were up to. But he couldn't have. You'd been dropping hints at buying new sheets for two days now. You were trying to play the long game. You wanted to surprise him for a change. For a blind man, being Daredevil had made it nearly impossible for you to ever get the upper hand. But you think, hoped, you'd done it.
"Well, all right then." You ran your fingers through his hair, and your favourite boyish, dopey smile graced his face. "I'll be back in a few hours, don't work too hard while I'm gone."
"Yes, ma'm," he nodded, "any requests for dinner?"
"No," you said, running your fingers gently down his cheek til you were softly grabbing his chin. "Whatever you'd like."
You gave him back the papers he'd been working on, kissed his forehead, and left him on the couch.
Before you were heading out the door, you called over your shoulder, "any preference on colour?" And closed the door as he laughed loudly from the other room.
You weren't gone very long, a few hours like you had thought. You'd spent the afternoon in a lingerie shop, picking out something perfect for the evening. You had some already, of course, but nothing quite... soft enough, nothing that was special to the touch. You wanted something that fit you in just the right way in just the right places for Matt to run his fingers over.
The other ones you owned were fine, but he'd felt everything before. And you wanted to give him something to be excited about. Wanted to give him something extra. He'd been working so hard on a case this week and you just wanted to help him take his mind off of things this evening.
And recently, you'd been trying for a baby. And Matt had been so patient and loving with every attempt. Never made you feel bad for it not working yet, promised you it would happen when it's supposed to and you're doing everything right. He was the ideal man, ideal husband, the kind of guy you wanted to be around whenever possible. And trying was the most fun part.
When you'd finally settled on a few different ones, all made of the satin he preferred, you came home to Matt standing in the kitchen, cooking some pasta, looking sexy as hell chopping some veggies with a cloth slung over his shoulder.
"Hey sweetheart," he said, smiling before you even walked into the kitchen.
You coming home, safe and sound, always filled him with a sense of contentedness and relief. Just you two, being with each other, exactly where you should be.
"Nice time at the store?"
You hummed happily, dropping the bags by the counter and walking up behind Matt, putting an arm on his back and looking at the sauce he had cooking.
"Yes, I took my time and found something that was just right," you sighed, what he was cooking smelled divine. It was simple, but wonderful. Kind of like how it was being with Matt. You used to worry it would be hard, but something about it just wasn't. Something about it always felt right.
"You gunna tell me what it is you got?"
"You'll find out later," you said, patting his back a couple times, and moving away from him, grabbing the bags back up and walking to the bedroom.
Matt smiles, thinking you're going to change the sheets on the bed. And well, he was kind of right. You did end up buying new sheets, soft ones, comfy ones, but nothing crazy. You wanted him to be extra surprised, so you did change the sheets. Being extra sneaky, you tried to do it 'quietly,' acting like you were trying to hide it from him. There had to be layers if you were going to get one over on Matthew Murdock, the devil of Hell's Kitchen himself.
"C'mon baby! Food's ready!" Matt called down the hall, right as you finished slipping into the light purple outfit you'd bought. It was tight and thin enough over your chest and hips that he could feel it without it moving around too much, and loose over the thighs where he could slip his hand up your thigh and feel it ghosting over the back of his hand, with thigh straps that each had a little metal heart securing it, clipped onto thin soft stockings. You angled the hearts to be on the route his fingers usually take when he's kissing your neck and trying to slide his hand up your skirt.
"Coming!" you called back, straightening out the front of your skirt.
Now you just had to get through dinner without getting anything on it. You thought that him finding out you'd been wearing this in front of him would just excite him even more.
"Get everything done in there?" he asked, placing a plate for each of you on the table.
"Get what done?"
"Oh, you know. Whatever you were doing," he smirked. You really couldn't tell if he knew what you were doing. You'd done everything to mask it. You'd put your regular socks over top of the stockings in case is sounded different across the floor, slid into the seat across from him without being in arms reach, because if you were in arms reach he would always find a way to get his hands on you, and you'd walked with the fabric held down so he wouldn't hear it swishing around differently. It was like playing chess.
You didn't answer him, just continued watching him, his smile giving nothing away. "All right, fine, I'll try not to ruin the surprise then. Eat up, I feel like there's something important we'll have to do later."
"And what's that?"
"Oh I don't know, test drive those new sheets you got maybe," he grinned, laughing softly. "Are you pouting?"
"No," you pouted, arms crossed over your chest.
He just laughed, "eat your supper, it's gunna get cold."
Throughout the meal, the two of you held normal conversation, he told you what he could about the case, you told him the plans you had for tomorrow. You'd tried to slyly kick off your regular socks, so you could slip your leg over to his side of the table, brushing your toes up his pant leg, and running the soft material against his leg just above his sock.
"Hey," he mumbled, reaching down to catch your ankle before you could sneak away, and you giggled, trying to kick out of his grip, but he effortlessly pulled your leg up, making you slouch in your chair. "You got new socks too? Oh wait, no..." he ran his other hand up along the back of your calf, "stockings," he mused, sliding his back back down your leg. "Soft, baby, these are very soft." He leaned back, letting go of you, smile twitching at the corner of his lips as you dragged your foot slowly down his thigh, just to bring it back up again.
"Notice anything else?"
He brought his hand up to his mouth, finger running over his lips as he held his own chin. "Did I miss something?"
"I wouldn't say you missed it," you said, leaning forward in your chair to rest your elbows on the table, chin resting on your knuckles. Matt looked so pretty, his sparkling with wonder as he tried to figure out what you were hiding.
"What're you hiding, pretty girl? Hmm?"
"Since you think you're so smart, figure it out."
Matt raised an eyebrow, not moving an inch otherwise. "Figure it out, she says," he mumbled, voice getting lower and pants growing tighter. All he really wanted to do was run his hand up your leg again, and figure out how high those stockings went.
"I think I'm all done with my food," you said, pushing the plate a few inches away from you.
"Oh, I think I'm still very hungry," Matt smirked, chair squeaking as he drew back from the table. "And I think you're gunna have to help me with that."
"Want me to make you something else?" you chuckled, watching him come around the table.
"No," he said, grabbing your chair and pulling you away from the table as well. "I just want you to lay on those new sheets you got us and let me have you for dessert."
"I think I can do that for you," you said, putting your hand in his so could guide you to stand. You didn't get all of two steps before he grabbed you, slinging you over his shoulder with his arm wrapped around your thighs to stabilize you, as he walked you off to the bedroom. He hadn't said anything yet, maybe he was too caught up in the moment, or maybe his shirt was just hiding the feeling of the new fabric.
You laughed as he kicked the door to the room open, leaving it open wide behind him. He brought you over to the bed, crouching down to set you back onto your feet by the foot of it.
He sat on the edge of the bed, holding your hand in his, bringing it up to his mouth to place a few chaste kisses along your knuckles. He tugged you to stand between his spread thighs, handing coming down to both of your knees, fingers spread on the backs of them.
"You stand right there, baby." Matt's hands ghosted down a few inches, then slid back up, fingers searching for the end of the fabric. When he found it, mid thigh he sighed, the frilly edges of the stockings making him lick his lips. He felt around the edge of the stockings with his thumbs, so softly like he was afraid of breaking it. When he got to the thin straps on the side, he followed them up, til his thumbs hit the metal heart. Your breath caught in your throat, his quiet exploration making your heart start racing.
"All this for me?"
You nodded, knowing he'd know.
He traced the hearts, now warm from resting against your thigh, then felt the thick straps holding them in place. One more inch higher and he'd feel the satin, but Matt was a patient man, and he'd be taking his time with this gift.
"What colour?" he asked, thumbs flicking the bottom edge of the thigh strap.
"Pink," you answered softly.
"Pink," he repeated, hands sliding down to your knees just to trace the exact same sequence back up, savouring the feeling. You put your hands on his shoulders, gently massaging the muscles, and he moaned, head falling back.
"You spoil me," he moaned, head lulling to the side, "absolute spoil me. All dressed up, baby, you're takin' me right to church."
"Keep going," you urged, thumbs digging into his tense muscles.
"Let me take my time," he whispered, head falling back into place, face determined, focused. "We've got nowhere to be tonight. Just right here," he sighed, fingers inching up higher, slower than he'd ever moved. His fingers hit the edge of the lingerie, and it was his turn to stutter. His breaths deepened, and his pinched the fabric between his thumbs and fingers, swirling it around in tiny circles to feel it.
"What colour?"
"Purple," you answered, moving closer to him so your stomach was pressed tight against his chest.
"Wait," He gripped your thigh in one hand, and leaned back, away from you, so he could use the other hand to pull his shirt over his head, "okay, come back." And you did, lingerie pressing against his bare body. "Fuck," he whispered, leaning forward to press his cheek onto your breast, taking a deep inhale to smell your perfume. Just a drop mixed in with water, not overwhelming, just like you knew he needed. "What kind of purple?"
"Light, so light it's almost white," you said, bringing your hands up to thread into his hair, following his lead with slow, ginger touches.
He moaned, fingers back to work on your body, holding the back of your thighs to press you tighter into him. One of his hands stayed above the fabric, settling over the curve of your butt, while the other slid up under the fabric caressing the plush skin there.
"So fucking soft," he mumbled into your breast, "So soft and pretty," he continued to mumble, placing kisses over you, lips almost quivering over the feel of the fabric against his skin. "And it's all for me, forever. I'm yours, pretty girl. I'll always be yours. Wrapped around your pretty fingers, whatever you ask of me, I'll do it. I'll do anything," he continued praising, muttering things that barely made sense as his brain went into overdrive feeling the edge of your panties, thin and soft and spread over your cheek tightly, wrapping up his favourite present. "What colour?"
"Pink," you smiled laying a few kisses to the top of his head, "also a light hue, like the flowers in the kitchen."
He huffed a shy laugh, "that picture is gunna come back into my head when I make coffee in the morning and I smell those damn flowers."
"I can move them if you want," you offered, fingers scratching gently at his scalp.
"Don't you dare."
He stands suddenly, hands gripping your thighs and pulling you up to wrap your legs around his waist earning a whispered gasp from you, music to his ears. But he doesn't throw you on the bed, doesn't waste one precious moment of the feeling of you against him. Instead, he just brushes his nose against yours, your fingers grazing over the stubble on his chin, before cupping his cheeks to pull him into a slow, sensual kiss. Mouths moving slowly, his tongue sliding against your bottom lip, but he doesn't rush even this, even a dance you've practiced a thousand times.
Instead he crawls onto the bed on his knees, pulling away from your kiss to lay you sweetly on his side of the bed, head resting on the pillow that smells like him. You're surrounded by him, in feeling, in scent, in comfort. Every movement he makes is lovingly calculated. He kisses you once more, and brushes the stray hairs off your face, making sure none gets trapped under you.
"What made you do all this for me, huh? Did I forget my own birthday?"
"Just been working so hard, baby, thought you deserved something nice."
"You tricked me," he says, "made me think you were buying sheets."
"I did buy new sheets," you smile, running your hands across the linens.
He follows suit, face lighting up with laughter. "So you did."
"But you don't care about that."
"Not right now, not at all."
And he doesn't have much else to say about, instead brings his mouth to your neck, placing open mouthed kisses against the areas he knows are most sensitive, enjoying every moan and gasp you give him. He takes pleasure in your hands wrapping themselves in his hair, tugging to beg for more, but he's almost evil in his patience. Takes the strap of your lingerie into his mouth and drags it down your shoulder, out of the way of his kisses, where he can suck a shallow purple bruise onto your collar bone.
And he switches sides, giving your other side as much love and attention. And then he's moving down to where the curve of your breast pokes out, and he's laying kisses there, one hand is in your hair, his elbow supporting him, and the other is on your hip, thumbs moving slowly back and forth to feel his gift for as long as you'll let him.
"Matty, please."
"Mm, please what?"
"Please touch me, pretty please."
He moans. "Baby, you never need to beg for me, I told you I'll give you everything." The hand on your hip dips down, sliding under the short skirt and stopping when it reaches the line of your panties on your hip. "It's all coming, I just have to appreciate every inch of it if I'm gunna build the picture of this in my mind." His mouth returns to your breast, the edges of the fabric getting wet from how his tongue licks across it. He nips at it, teeth catching your skin and fabric together and you moan. "Such a pretty fuckin' girl."
"Please," you moan again, unable to ignore the pulse between your legs, the way his crotch presses into yours, his bulge giving you a little but not nearly enough.
"I'm picturing the smirk on your face all dinner, when I didn't even know what was waiting over there." His thumb brushes closer to your core, and you wriggle in a weak attempt to get it there. "Made me pick the fabric I liked best, then wore it and didn't even tell me." He ran his finger down the soaked panties, pressing against your clit and keeping it perfectly still there. "Are these new?"
"No," you moaned, hips bucking to get more from him. "They just matched the thigh straps."
"Then I don't need to take my time on them," he said, finger looping around the soaked material and pulling them down your legs, the speed of it making your legs detach from around his waist so he could get them all the way off, but he quickly moved your legs back, your bare pussy rubbing against his erection made you both moan. "Already so wet for me baby," he mutters, hand sliding back between you to wedge themselves between his jeans and your soaking wet centre. "What did I do to deserve you? I'll never get it," he kissed your breast again, then moved his hands to hold himself fully above you. "My sweet girl, treating me so good. My turn to treat you good, right?"
"Please, yes please." You arched your back up, pushing the satin against his abs and he nearly crumpled, but he stayed steady. Crawled his way down the bed to settle himself between your legs, kissing each thigh once. He pressed his cheek into your inner thigh, hand reaching up to roll a lazy finger through your folds.
"So good for me, aren't you? Always so good to me, baby." His finger found your clit with ease, your moans encouraging him to roll gentle circles around it. "I'll never deserve you," he mumbles so quietly, almost to himself, "but I'll never stop trying." He pledges, finally moving his mouth to where you want him so desperately. His tongue worked like it was one purpose in life, like it was the only thing keeping in here on earth. Flat licks followed by tight circles, repeated and repeated until he was the only thing on your mind, and then when you were a moaning mess above him, he slipped a finger into you, your wet folds welcoming him like an old friend.
"Matty, treat me so good, fuck, you're so good. So good to me," you moan, words coming out rushed, every thought just falling off your tongue like you were speaking directly to God. "I love you, love you so much." Your fingers gripped his hair, tugging the roots as he slipped in another finger, hitting you directly where he knew would make you fall apart.
And fuck, you did. You moaned and begged and pulled hair until you were coming against his face, hips gyrating against his mouth and chin, making stars explode behind your eyes as you bit back a scream, followed by the loving coax of him helping you ride the waves of your orgasm, until you were lax against the bed, and he moved his kisses to your leg, kissing the soft skin, up to the crease in your hip.
"Come up here," you sighed, opening your arms for him to fall into.
"Let me just," he finally undoes his pants, kicking them and his underwear down his legs, and falls into your arms. Bodies flush together, Matt winds his hand between your bodies to grip himself, and line himself up with you, kissing you deeply before pushing himself into you. He groans, your tight walls warm around him, squeezing him as he works himself into you. "Fuck, you got me so worked up, I'm not gunna last long."
"That's okay baby, let go for me," you moan, arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders. "Want you to feel good."
"Feels so good baby," he moans into your shoulder, "always so good."
He hikes your leg higher around his hip, and grips your soft, plush, satin covered hip, and thrusts into you, so deeply, each thrust thoughtful and intentional. He sucks the skin by your ear, and your moans make his dick twitch, it's the sexiest thing he's ever heard. The way you moan and gasp and grab him, he's overwhelmed by the feelings, both physically and emotionally.
"So in love with you," he mumbles, lost in the feeling of your pussy wrapped around him. He always fell into a loop of praises and I love yous when he was getting close. "Gunna fill you up, baby, gunna give my beautiful bride a baby, huh? Would you like that?"
You just moaned in response, unable to form words as he continues to fuck himself into you, hips meeting your with enthusiasm.
"So pretty," he mumbled, lips working the skin of your neck in between his dirty praises, and your nails scratch over the muscles on his back. "Gunna look so fucking pretty carrying our baby, baby."
"Matty, gunna..." you just moan, unable to warn him that you're close again, but he feels like. He holds himself back as your walls clench around him, fluttering and pulsing as you come, back arching and loud moans in his ear as he pants and grunts, wanting to give you more but coming close to the edge himself.
"Let go baby," you moan, "it's perfect, let go for me."
His kisses you as he fills you up, groan vibrating into your mouth as his hips stutter and still, warm cum painting your walls. He holds himself still completely sheathed inside you, keeping all his cum inside you, hips flush against yours and lips still moving languidly against yours.
He pulls away, nose bumping yours affectionately. "I love you."
"I love you," you murmur, eyes fluttering closed as you tried to even out your breathing. "Always treat me so well."
He kisses the tip of your nose, slowly pulling himself out of you as you both gasp, the overstimulation both perfect and overwhelming all at once.
Matt falls beside you, arms wrapping securely around you, hand spreading over the fabric covering your stomach. "This one's gunna stick," he whispers, "when we're not trying and just loving each other."
You mumble happily, wiggling closer to him. You had to get up and change, but for now, you just wanted to be wrapped up in loverboy's arms.
"Hmm," he mumbles, running his hand across the sheets in front of you. "These are nice."
in which Dr. Grace uses the wrong vocabulary, and the Hail Mary gets a lot hotter
part one - part two
word count: 2,9k
requests are open!
The vast, endless expanse of interstellar space was, frankly, a little monotonous.
When you first boarded the Hail Mary, the sheer, existential terror of the mission had been enough to keep your adrenaline spiking every hour of the day since you woke up. You were on a one-way trip to Tau Ceti, carrying the weight of the entire human race on your shoulders, surrounded by technology that was experimental at best and completely suicidal at worst. For the first few months, every creak of the hull, every fluctuation in the life support systems, and every minor error code on the monitors had felt like a harbinger of imminent death.
But the human brain is remarkably adaptable. After millions of miles, the terrifying isolation of the cosmos had slowly morphed into a strange, domestic routine. You knew the exact, comforting hum of the centrifuge spin drive. You recognized the faint, metallic scent of the air scrubbers working overtime. And, perhaps most dangerously, you had memorized the exact way Dr. Ryland Grace’s brow furrowed when he was lost in a complex mathematical equation.
Living in a tin can hurtling through the dark abyss of space meant that personal boundaries were a luxury you had both abandoned long ago. You had learned to navigate around each other in the cramped, utilitarian quarters of the ship, sharing unappetizing nutrient paste rations, recalibrating the atmospheric controls shoulder-to-shoulder, and existing in a constant, comfortable proximity that would have felt suffocating back on Earth.
But out here, with only each other - and an incredibly intelligent, five-legged alien space spider - for company, that proximity was the only thing keeping you sane. Ryland was brilliant, relentlessly optimistic, and possessed a deeply ingrained, nerdy charm that made the crushing weight of the mission feel survivable. He was a good man.
Lately, however, that comfortable proximity had started to feel a lot heavier. The accidental brushes of his arm against yours in the laboratory, the way he looked at you when you managed to decipher a new string of Eridanian vocabulary, the warmth of his presence when you were both exhausted and staring out at the uncaring void - it was all beginning to build a quiet, simmering tension in the pit of your stomach.
Currently, that tension was being tested as you sat strapped securely into the pilot’s seat in the main control room, running manual astrogation drills.
The ship’s automated systems were robust, but Eva Stratt’s paranoia had dictated that every single crew member know how to fly the Hail Mary in the event of a catastrophic computer failure. Well, except the two of you. You were scientists, not pilots. The dizzying arrays of vectors, velocities, and orbital mechanics were entirely outside your wheelhouse. But Ryland, ever the patient educator, had taken it upon himself to teach you - in theory, that was. You liked to consider the both of you as clueless as any other human down on Earth.
"Okay, let's run through the parameters one more time," Ryland said.
He was hovering just over your left shoulder, anchored to the hard plastic back of your pilot's chair in the zero-gravity environment of the control cabin. Because there was no 'up' or 'down' without the centrifuge spinning, he was floating at a slight angle, perfectly relaxed in the weightlessness.
"If I want to adjust our attitude to point exactly at that specific star cluster in the Tau Ceti system," you murmured, keeping your eyes locked strictly on the glowing telemetry screen in front of you. You raised your hands, hovering them over the manual thruster controls. "I can't just fire the port thruster like I'm turning a steering wheel."
"Right. Why?" Ryland prompted. His voice was close. Close enough that you could feel the ambient heat radiating off his standard-issue jumpsuit, a stark contrast to the slightly chilly, sterile air of the cabin.
"Because of Newton's First Law," you replied, reciting the lessons he had been drilling into your head for the past three weeks. "An object in motion stays in motion. In the vacuum of space, there is zero atmospheric friction to slow down the spin. If I fire the port thruster, the ship will just keep spinning along that axis forever, or until we make ourselves incredibly dizzy."
"Exactly," Ryland beamed. The pride in his voice was palpable, vibrating right near your ear. "You are your own friction. You have to be your own brakes."
You swallowed hard, forcing your focus away from the warmth of his arm, which was currently hovering a mere millimeter away from the shoulder of your flight suit, and forced your brain back to the math. "So, I fire the port thruster to initiate the turn, let the momentum carry our mass, and then I have to counter-fire the starboard thruster at the exact right millisecond to arrest the momentum and lock us into the new trajectory."
"That's the theory. Now let's see the application," Ryland encouraged softly. He was watching your hands over the console, entirely focused on your progress.
You let out a slow, steadying breath. You disabled the autopilot interlocks, the console flashing a brief yellow warning before yielding full manual control to your joysticks.
"Alright. Manual control engaged. Firing port attitude thruster for zero-point-two seconds... now."
You tapped the left control stick. The ship didn't shudder - the attitude thrusters were too small to feel inside the massive hull - but the starfield out the reinforced viewport slowly, lazily began to drift to the right. It was a dizzying sensation, watching the universe spin around you while you sat perfectly still.
You glued your eyes to the digital degree marker on the main astrogation display. It ticked up with agonizing slowness. Ten degrees. Fifteen degrees. Twenty degrees.
"Wait for it," Ryland coaxed.
He leaned in a fraction closer to check the monitor over your shoulder. You could faintly smell the sterile, unscented ship soap they provided in the washroom, mixed with the distinct, warm scent that was just fundamentally him. It was intoxicating in a way it had absolutely no right to be. His presence was a massive, grounding anchor in the middle of nowhere.
"Twenty-eight... thirty-two..." you counted aloud, your fingers tensing over the starboard control stick. Your heart was thumping a rapid rhythm against your ribs. If you overshot the counter-burn, you'd have to waste precious fuel correcting the wobble.
You tapped the starboard control with as much precision as you could muster.
Out the viewport, the spinning starfield instantly stopped drifting. The sudden halt was almost jarring to the eyes. The nose of the Hail Mary locked into absolute stillness. You checked the telemetry screen. The digital crosshairs were sitting exactly on top of the coordinates you had calculated. Dead center. Zero drift. Zero wobble.
"Yes!" Ryland cheered.
In a completely natural, unfiltered burst of scientific triumph and pride, he shifted his grip.
His large hand moved from the hard plastic back of the pilot's chair to rest warmly and firmly on the curve of your shoulder. His thumb pressed right into the dip of your collarbone through the fabric of your jumpsuit, an anchoring, heavy weight in the zero gravity. He leaned down, his face dipping into your peripheral vision, his cheek almost brushing yours as he grinned at the perfect alignment on the screen.
"Perfect pitch and yaw," he praised.
The sheer, relieved approval stripped away his usual nervous, rapid-fire energy. His voice dropped an octave, settling into a low, breathless rumble that vibrated right through the shell of your ear.
"Textbook execution. Good girl."
The ambient, ever-present hum of the ship’s life support systems seemed to vanish entirely from your awareness.
The praise had slipped out of him on pure, unadulterated instinct. It was a leftover relic from his previous life, from his days of leaning over lab tables, grading middle school science fair projects, and offering gentle, authoritative encouragement to students who finally figured out how to balance a chemical equation.
But floating in a tiny cabin in the dark abyss of space, millions of miles away from any school or civilization... it didn't sound like a teacher.
Delivered with the heavy, possessive weight of his hand on your collarbone, the close proximity of his body, and the low, rough timbre of his voice, it sounded like something else entirely.
It sent a searing, electric jolt straight down your spine, pooling hot and heavy in your stomach. Your breath hitched audibly in the dead quiet of the cabin. Your hands froze over the manual controls, your fingers curling inward. Every single nerve ending in your shoulder seemed to hyper-focus on the exact shape and heat of his hand gripping you.
It took Ryland Grace exactly one and a half seconds to hear the echo of his own words replay in his brilliant, analytical brain.
"Oh, my gosh," he gasped.
He yanked his hand off your shoulder as if your flight suit had just been doused in liquid nitrogen. In his sudden, blind, overwhelming panic, the man completely forgot the very laws of physics he had just spent half an hour teaching you.
He pushed back away from you with entirely too much force. Without any gravity to anchor him, the violent push launched him backward across the control room. He flailed wildly, his arms windmilling in the air as he sailed across the cabin, completely out of control, until his back slammed into the main science console with a loud, painful thump.
You spun around in your chair, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, entirely unsure if you should be concerned for his safety or absolutely entirely amused by his panic.
The brilliant, world-saving biologist - the man who had figured out how to harness alien microbes for interstellar travel - was currently tangled in his own zero-G socks, gripping the edge of the metal console for dear life. A furious, agonizing, painfully bright red blush was crawling so fast up his neck that his ears practically looked radioactive.
"I- I didn't mean-" Ryland stammered.
His eyes were wide, round, and completely horrified behind the lenses of his glasses. His hands hovered awkwardly in the air in front of him, fingers twitching, as if he didn't know what to do with his own limbs anymore.
"My brain just- it cross-wired!" he blurted out, his voice cracking horribly. "I was looking at the telemetry and I was just so proud of the math, and my brain just reverted to grading eighth-grade science fairs! I swear on my life, I swear to gosh, I do not think of you as a seventh grader! That was incredibly inappropriate, I am so, so sorry, I didn't mean it like- I didn't mean to sound-"
He was rambling at the speed of light, his chest heaving under his jumpsuit as he hyperventilated.
But despite his absolute mortification, despite his frantic attempts to rationalize the slip of the tongue as a simple, harmless pedagogical error... the tension in the room had irreversibly shifted.
It was thick. It was electric. You could practically cut it with a scalpel.
He was panicking precisely because he was suddenly, acutely, and overwhelmingly aware of the fact that you were definitely not one of his students. The realization was hitting him like a freight train, crashing through the comfortable, platonic barriers he had built around himself for the duration of this mission. As he stared at you from across the room, his eyes darted nervously from your gaze, down to your slightly parted lips, down to the curve of your throat, and quickly back up to the ceiling ceiling panels, swallowing hard enough that you could see the apple of his throat bob from across the room.
You bit down hard on your lower lip, trying desperately to suppress the smile that was threatening to break across your face. Your own cheeks were burning hot, a flush that you knew matched his completely. You could still feel the physical ghost of his thumb pressing into your collarbone.
"Ryland, breathe," you managed to say. You tried to sound reassuring, but your voice came out a little softer, a little huskier than usual, betraying the fact that the slip-up had affected you just as much as it had horrified him. "It's fine. Really. I know what you meant-"
Thump.
A soft, hollow impact echoed in the cabin, cutting off your reassurance.
A large, perfectly clear, pressurized sphere of xenonite drifted lazily through the open doorway of the control room, gently bumping against the upper doorframe before floating into the space between you and Ryland.
Rocky was inside his custom-built bubble. The Eridanian engineer had likely been in his workshop, heard the loud crash of Ryland slamming into the science console, and pushed himself down the zero-gravity corridor to investigate the commotion.
"Observation. Human female face is red. Internal temperature elevated."
The deadpan, entirely emotionless robotic monotone of Ryland’s custom translation program filled the room instantly. Because the software was completely hardwired to intercept Rocky’s frequencies and translate them in real-time, there were no musical chords to soften the blow - just the immediate, blunt observation echoing from the laptop speakers strapped to the console.
Ryland groaned, a sound of pure, unadulterated suffering. He let go of the console and pressed both hands over his flaming face, hiding behind his fingers.
"Oh, heck," Ryland muffled into his palms. "Please. Kill me now. Just vent the airlock and put me out of my misery."
Inside the floating sphere, Rocky shifted. His carapace scraped slightly against the xenonite, his five little articulated legs tapping a rapid, curious rhythm against the clear wall of his bubble. He was a scientist at heart, and a new, unexplained biological phenomenon was entirely too fascinating to ignore.
The laptop speakers instantly spoke again, delivering the translation with zero tact.
"Query. Grace also turning red. Heart rates for both humans are currently fast. Biometric sensors indicate endocrine systems are actively producing large amounts of adrenaline, cortisol, and oxytocin."
Rocky’s bubble slowly rotated in the zero gravity, his eyeless carapace seemingly tracking between the two of you.
"Are humans in physical danger, question? Or is this typical Earth mating behavior, question? Please explain."
"It's not mating behavior!" Ryland yelped, dropping his hands from his face.
His voice was an octave higher than normal, bordering on hysterical. He pointed an accusatory finger at the floating glass ball, looking like a man who was fighting for his life against his own ship's computer.
"It was a linguistic error! A vocabulary slip! I used a colloquial phrase in the wrong context and triggered an inappropriate psychological response! Rocky, I swear to gosh, turn off the biological monitors right now! Stop looking at our oxytocin levels!"
Inside the sphere, Rocky tapped a few more times.
"Linguistic error causes mating response, question?" the robotic voice stated deadpan. The xenonite ball slowly bounced off a wall panel, lazily drifting back toward the center of the room. "Earth biology remains highly confusing. I will take notes for future reference."
You finally let out a shaky laugh. You couldn't hold it in anymore. The sheer absurdity of the situation - arguing about mating responses and oxytocin levels with a highly intelligent, incredibly blunt alien space spider who was rolling around in a hamster ball - was exactly what you needed to break the suffocating, heavy sexual tension that had gripped the room.
You unbuckled your complex pilot's harness, the straps floating away from your shoulders. With a gentle, practiced push against the footrests, you floated up and out of the pilot's seat, letting the zero gravity carry your momentum smoothly across the small room.
Ryland watched you approach. He looked entirely paralyzed, his back pressed flat against the science console. His eyes tracked your every movement, the dark rings around his pupils blown wide, the furious blush on his face stubbornly refusing to fade.
You reached out and caught the edge of the science console, arresting your momentum and stopping just a few inches away from where Ryland was currently trying to merge his molecular structure with the bulkhead. Up this close, you could see the rapid pulse beating at the base of his throat. You could feel the heat radiating off him again.
He looked up at you, his breath catching audibly in his chest for a second time.
"I'm going to go to the galley and get a drink of water," you said softly, holding his panicked, entirely captivated gaze.
You let a slow, deliberate, teasing smirk tug at the corner of your mouth. You didn't back down from the proximity. Instead, you let the silence stretch for just a second longer than necessary, letting him sweat it out.
"But you know..." you added, leaning in just a fraction of an inch closer, dropping your voice. "My astrogation is getting pretty good."
Ryland swallowed, his eyes darting to your lips. "It... it is. Yes."
"So," you whispered, pushing off the console to slowly float backward toward the open doorway, "I expect you to keep up the positive reinforcement, Dr. Grace."
Ryland made a sound that was half-choke, half-squeak. His hands gripped the metal edge of the console so tightly his knuckles turned completely white.
Satisfied, you turned in the air and floated gracefully out of the control room, heading down the corridor toward the galley. You left the brilliant, awkward microbiologist completely flustered, entirely speechless, and very, very red as Rocky’s clear glass bubble lazily drifted past his head, the laptop speakers chiming one last time.
"Observation. Human female has retreated. Mating ritual concluded?"
clark smut with reader that can’t focus while they fuck🙏
very much relatable. thanks for requesting 💌
CHATTERBOX 18+ ⸻ CLARK KENT
clark kent x fem!reader
WORD COUNT. 658
WARNINGS. 18+ only! general filth, pinv, reader can’t turn her brain off and clark being cute and teasing about it. mdni
Turning off your mind is always quite the struggle, it's never quite as easy as you hope it to be. It's like there's no off switch, your brain always seeming to be a rapid pingponging of thoughts, no matter the situation.
Even now, when your mind should be empty, sole focus supposed to be on Clark with the way he looks and smells and sounds and feels; your brain is drifting back to a conversation you had in passing with someone at the train station, and then to the paper shopping list you made and lost soon after.
Clark pulls his face out from the crook of your neck, lifting his head to get a better view of you below, your brows scrunched — but not in bliss like they usually are at a time like this, but instead focus.
He lowers slightly, pressing a kiss to your lips. "Penny for your thoughts," he whispers against your mouth, the tip of his nose skimming yours.
"I never found that shopping list."
"I did," he smiles lazily, a dopey grin tugging on the corners of his mouth. He presses another kiss to your lips, and the unrushed motion of his hips into yours subside, a lull occurring in the gentle fucking he's giving you. "It's on the fridge."
"You found it?" you ask, eyes ardently softening as you peer up to him. You slip your hands from around his shoulders and up to his neck, palms settling either side of it. "Where was it?"
"Next to your phone."
"You found my phone?" you ask, elated tone genuine.
"I did," Clark chuckles softly and shakes his head, the act small, like he finds the exchange endearing. He presses another kiss to your lips and another and another, searing warm acts of affection across your cheek, along your jaw and then down your throat. "Was by your shoes next to the front door."
You slide one hand up the short dark hair at the back of his neck, grazing your fingers along his scalp until you settle them around the crown of his head. You shake your head slightly, baffled by your own inanity.
When he thinks your mind to be clear, he resumes the motion he had halted a few moments prior; hips winding into you, cock retracting and pushing back into you in a steady, easy rhythm.
Though that's the case, and Clark should've known that. But really, he got just too ahead of himself.
"Did you know lemons float—"
"But limes sink," he finishes off your fact, an entertained smile lining his lips — temporarily halting the small littering of kisses at the base of your throat. "I did know that."
"Did I tell you that before?"
"You did," he nods and lifts his head, lining it back up with yours. "But I don't mind it," he kisses the tip of your nose, blue eyes gentle on you below.
"Did I turn the oven off?"
"No," he brings a hand to hold the side of your head, keeping you there. He chuckles. "I did."
"What time tomorrow—"
He dips in to sear a kiss to your lips, disrupting your question as he knew this to be a futile game with you. Clark knew of your inability to shut down your brain, and while he loved your natural inquisitive nature, he knew you needed a little bit of help quietening the contents swirling in your mind. If anything he was doing you a favour.
"No more questions," he shushes you softly, cooing into your mouth. "Focus on me," he whispers, timing it with a slightly more deliberate roll of his hips — cock sinking in that bit deeper.
And as he predicted, a whiney noise falls from between your lips, the blissed sound hindering the chance for you to ask anymore questions. And so he does it again, knocking another airy gasp from you; further disabling the thinking centre within your brain.
You send the guy you were dating pictures of you in lingerie by accident.
cw: 18+, smut, accidental 'nudes', colleague!reader, clark jerks off to your pictures, m!masturbation, soft dom!clark, rimming, f!receiving oral, clark uses his arctic breath on you, temperature play, p-in-v, overstimulation,clark's all freaked out in this fic, he eats you from the back, doggy, belly bulge, possessive!clark (4.4k wc)
You were halfway through tugging your jeans back on when you realised something was terribly off.
Cat should've been blowing up your phone in all caps by now — a 'GODDAMN BABE YOU LOOK HOTTT', or at the very least, 'buy both, coward'. But your screen remained stubbornly silent. Save for one text you didn't get a good look at.
Weird.
You yanked the curtains open, lingerie draped over your forearms as you shuffled out of the fitting rooms. Swiping your lock screen to open the most recent message. Your thumb hovers over the opened chat and you choke on your breath. No. Oh no. No no no no.
It's staring right back at you. In unforgiving grey & white. Clark Kent. Packaged with two little blue check marks sitting all innocent underneath what you'd consider the most unsexy tit and rump pics of what you'd tried on earlier.
"H-Holy shit," you croak, all too dramatically slumping into the mannequin beside you. You tossed your phone into the clearance panties basket as if that would've reversed the crime scene.
Your heart's slamming out of your ribs when you shakily grab for your phone, hoping it was a hallucination that you hadn't sent racy pics to a man you'd barely been on two dates with. Mr Small-town-farm-boy. The same man who would pull away burned the second your tongue met his lips.
This was it. You were drafting your obituaries in your head — local woman perishes after sending unsolicited boob pics to the most pure adult male alive.
A buzz from your phone nearly has you whipping it, you shakily look down at the thread.
[6:05PM]
You: Blue or purple??
You: [4 Attached Images]
[6:18PM]
Clark Kent: I think the blue one looks lovely on you. 🙂
You're staring at your phone like he'd send you a response in a different language. Lovely. He said you looked lovely, with a freaking millennial smiley face. Your insides do a somersault. Did he like it? Or was this a pity 'lovely' like he was trying to be nice?
You dial Cat's number before you spiral any further.
"Kill me," you breathe out all at once. Clutching the mannequin next to you, staring face-first at the green crotchless underwear in your eyeline.
"Hello to you too," there's an amusement to her voice, replying coolly like this was a regular occurrence, "what did you do this time?"
"I messed up. Big time."
"Easy, babe. What'd you do? Need me to bail you out of jail or something?"
"Worse. I sent Clark Kent boob pics."
There's a beat of silence across the line, and you yank your phone away from your ears when a loud cackling rings out. "No, you didn't."
"I so did!" You whine loudly, resting your forehead on the mannequin. "And it wasn't even hot. I look like….like I'm posing for an overtly-sexualised pudding commercial — CAT. STOP. LAUGHING. Tell me what to do!"
"Okay, okay. Breathe," she's still wheezing between syllables, "what did he say?"
You pull your phone back to squint at the text, and then hold it to your ears. Biting on your thumb. "He said I looked…lovely."
Another round of shrill laughter explodes through the speaker, "girl, GIRL. DO NOT tell him you sent them by accident. Don't you break his cotton candy heart."
"He's gonna think I'm some stupid over-eager slut, Cat!" You're pacing back and forth like a crazy person, gripped around the mannequin for emotional support.
"Oh please! He's still a man. Just roll with it. Let him think you sent them purposely."
"That's insane." You mumble, thumbs already hovering over the keyboard.
"That's how you're gonna get laid."
You're about to argue, but you type out a draft message, thinking more through your pussy than your mind. And then…you click the send button.
"Did you do it?"
"Yeah. I'm just gonna wai—"
Your phone buzzes damn near in seconds.
[6:38PM]
You: You really think so?
[6:38PM]
Clark Kent: ues you look perfecft
Clark Kent: perfect.
You're frowning at your phone at the uncharacteristic typo, and then you screenshot the thread to forward it to Cat.
"Oh hon he's one hundred percent typing with his dick in his hand."
"Shut up," you manage through a grin, "okay, bye bitch, I'm gonna go pay for the blue one."
"Over-eager-slut."
You roll your eyes, hanging up while you're smiling your way to check out.
Clark had been palming himself for the past five minutes. Or at least, he was, until it got way too painful to just rub at his hard-on. He fully had his cock in his palm now, pumping himself slow, with the picture of you on full screen, splayed on his device.
It wasn't a sexy picture — not really, you thought. But the half smile on your lips? The soft curves of your chest he'd been fantasizing seeing, in a lacy blue fabric?
You devastated him.
He tried to type something sweet back, something that wouldn't expose the fact that he was stroking his cock silly like some easily excitable hormonal teenager. He settles for something safe, because that's what you looked like to him always, lovely. Oh..so lovely.
Clark's thumbs rub at the leaking tip of the slit on his cock head. Eyes unfocused, he zooms in on your tits, noticing a glimpse of your areolas. "…!"
He could feel you on his tongue, rolling the shy nubs until they hardened. He wanted to suck around the fat and….And…it's too much. It was too much.
"Oh…mygosh —" He clicks the side button of the phone. Nothing but the black screen reflecting his still throbbing cock, now bubbling over with thick spurts of pent-up cum. It dribbles over his thumbs, landing onto the device. Clark's panting roughly, rubbing it clean clumsily with the waistband of his pants.
And because Clark Kent was the way he was? With restraint barely carved into his DNA? He does the only thing that's sensible. Especially after violating your likeness.
[7:10PM]
Clark Kent: I'm sorry.
Clark Kent: I can't make it to dinner tonight.
His pulse was hammering in his throat. Leaning back in his armchair to set his phone down. He couldn't face you like this, not when just the sight of you now was enough for him to want to pounce on you and fuck you senseless.
Clark's phone began to ring the tune of one of The Mighty Crabjoys songs. He froze at the incoming call that flashed a picture he took of you, smiling while holding one of your very first articles making headlines on the paper.
He hesitated for a second, but picks up after the second ring.
"Hello?" His voice was terse.
"Clark? Why'd you cancel? Did I do something wrong?" Clark's groaning internally at the worry in your voice. "I — It's not that, It's not you, I just —" His voice is faltering, hesitating.
Your brows knit into a furrow. Something was wrong. With the way he was stuttering at every word, "Clark." You repeat, softer. Heart racing with Cat's teasing words from earlier.
He grits his teeth, head rested on the edge of his chair, your voice settling in his ears like honey. His hand moves downward to idly rub at his still half-hard cock. "Y..Yeah?" He grunts softer and his tip twitches beneath his palm.
Your breath hitches, "…am I interrupting something?"
Clark goes radio silent for far too long and you hear it — his breathing, slow and strained. Inhaling, then exhaling like he was pained.
Finally, he speaks, low, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Ever since you sent me those pictures — I-I'm such a sleaze. It's not anything you did wrong, I swear."
Your lips part with a stuttered breath. Cheeks warming instantaneously at his admission. You're setting your keys down by the doors.
The silence stretches uncomfortably, and he's calling your name, hesitant.
You swallow thickly, the words spilling out before you could consider them.
"You jerked off looking at me?"
There's a sharp inhale at the other end of the line, and then he cuts the call.
You stood there for a solid minute and a half. Staring at your phone.
He hung up.
He hung up in your face.
Offence prickled potent in your chest, but it doesn't last all that long. Your thighs squeeze tighter at the ringing revelation that he'd jerked off to you. Looking at pictures of you. It feels far too hot and heavy in your entryway suddenly.
Your screen lights up with another text.
[7:15PM]
Clark Kent: I know an apology won't cut it.
Clark Kent: I violated your trust.
Clark Kent: I understand if you no longer wish to see me.
[7:20PM]
Clark Kent: I'm sorry.
You hadn't replied, of course you hadn't. Why would he have thought that pathetic apology would've cut it? Nearly thirty minutes had passed since then. Clark lay face down in his sheets, mumbling to himself, mostly things about how he'd let down his ma by treating a girl he really fancied like this.
Idiot. He was such an idiot. You probably thought he was disgusting, and probably regretted ever even giving him a chance.
Bzzztt.
Clark shot up right like the vibration from his phone had shocked him. He sat up on his thighs, palms flat down on his bed with his phone between.
A message notification, from you.
He's clicking on it with shaky hands. Ready to see you sending a text to end things with him officially.
But it wasn't.
[8:02PM]
You: [1 Attached Video]
It was blurry at first, shaky. The frame tilted like you were fumbling trying to prop it against something. But the moment it eased? Clark was zeroing in on you. You, in that blue set, perched on your bed.
You were looking into the camera, biting down on your lips with a shy smile. Head tilted to look down as you smoothed the lace on your thighs. Then, you hook your fingers at the thin band of the thong to adjust it higher onto your hips.
Clark's hand snapped to his mouth. Muffling a curse he'd never say out loud. All blood rushing down south when you pick up the camera, angling it down to run your fingers over the thin lace covering your tits, shy areolas peeking through from the near translucent fabric.
He thought the picture alone was enough to wreck him. But this? This was you saying, it's okay, use me.
Your phone rings even before Clark can finish the video you'd sent him.
The first thing you hear isn't even a hello, it's the muffled click of his door, followed by a slow exhale.
"I don't deserve you."
Your lips twitch, fighting back a slow smile at the way his voice trembles. You drag your fingertips down your belly. Toying with the heart-shaped charm attached to the seams of your underwear.
"Did you like it?" You finally say, featherlight. Clark audibly groans at your voice. There's a pause, and then a laugh tumbles out, breathless at its edges. "I — I did. — Yeah. Gosh, I did. You're unreal. So…so insanely stunning."
He hears a rustle on your end. You shuffle up your bed, wetting your lips, "…are you hard?
Clark hums a stuttered mhm. You hear him adjust, and he's rubbing at himself again, sighing, "I feel like some teenager. It's so…embarrassing."
There's a slow boyishness to his tone, and you're giggling, tracing your fingers over your nipples. "I really…liked how you sounded earlier." You admit.
"Yeah?" He laughs, palming his bulge a little harder, "you liked hearing me sound all pathetic, stroking myself for you?
You let out a stuttered breath, fingers rubbing down and beneath the lace covering your pussy, the sound of his voice teetering you over the edge to slip your fingers into you. Clark's listening to the dull schlick's of you touching yourself. He shuts his eyes, timing his idle rubs to your soft moans.
"I wish…you were here."
There's a sudden silence after your honest whisper. "…Clark?" You frown, looking at the line that wasn't hung up yet.
And then, there's a pounding at your door, like whoever behind was about to rip it off its hinges.
You jolt. Fumbling to grab the silk robe abandoned over your chair. The knocking all but grew more impatient, knocks reminiscent of someone trying not to break the door down. You barely make a proper knot at your hips as you open the door — eyes widening.
Clark Kent stands there, hunched over in your hallway. Panting like he'd just run a goddamn marathon. His hair was messy, glasses sitting crooked on his nose. His white shirt clung to him, sweaty particularly at the chest, wearing what seemed to be printed plaid pyjamas.
"Clark," you breathe out, hands stunted at your door frame. "I was just on the…phone with you. How did you get here so qui —"
"I was already in the area." He blurts out all too quickly. Chest still heaving with effort.
You look at him suspiciously, obviously still in what seemed to be sleep clothes, and sounding far too much like he was lying. But then you see how he's boring holes into you, at your robe. Gaze turning feral by the second as if he could see what was underneath the maroon silk.
Before you're able to press a little further, Clark's figure hunkers in. Forcing you to stumble backwards as he shuts the door behind him with a resounding click.
It's quiet, other than the sounds of his still-heavy breathing.
"You said…you wished I was here." He says, voice cracked and barely restrained.
"…I did."
The air whizzes at the speed of him closing the distance before he's on you — mouth crashing into yours, desperate and messy. His glasses bump into your nose, but he readjusts quickly. Kissing you like a man starved, hands trembling as they cup your jaw. His thumb steadied, feeling the way your cheeks hollow to keep up with him. When your tongue grazes over his lips, he doesn't pull away this time.
Instead, he groans into your mouth. His tongue licking into yours, and then over the softness of your lips. Clark walks you backwards and then lifts you up, like your weight didn't even matter. You squeak into his mouth, arms clambering to hook over his broad shoulders. You knees lock around his hips and he's walking ahead, not knowing his destination while he kisses at your neck.
"Where's — where's your bedroom?" He mutters low, the need in his voice sinking deep into your skin.
Your nose bumps into his glasses, chasing his lips. "D-Down the hall. Second door."
His hair feels wild beneath your fingers. Within barely a second, the walls blur, and he slams your room door open. Your breath catches in your throat at what seemed to be a crackling noise when the door hits your closet. You aren't able to see how the wood splintered beneath, and the hinges now creaked raw.
Thankfully, you're far too hazy to question it.
Clark tumbles into your bed, kissing down your collarbone and down to your sternum. "Mmh—…" He sighs into your chest at the sweetness in your satisfied hums. Your robe snaps open, and you jolt. Staring down at your exposed body and up at Clark, who was pulling back, looking down at you with a slow shake of his head.
"The real…thing…far..far better." He mutters more so to himself. Clark pulls his shirt over his head in one fluid movement, letting you marvel at his body. He smiles shyly, lifting your hand up. Looking at you now, he finds enough control in him to savour the sight.
He kisses at your knuckles, soft pecks travelling up your palms as he twists your wrist slightly. Trailing kisses up to your elbows. "I've been wanting to do this with you…for far too long." He admits, breath ghosting your cheeks when he leans over.
You're squirming at the sensation, curling your head into your neck. "I-It didn't seem like it.."
Clark's shaking his head, burying his face into your pulse. Your fingers card through his curly locks. "That's not it. I've been going insane." You raise your brow at his exaggerated hand gesture, "I want to touch you, all the time, every time."
He pulls away, gazing at you. "But then you send me something like that…how could I not?"
Your eyes are wavering, looking at the scrunch of his features. You drag your fingers down his dimples, and he tilts his head to kiss at your fingers once more.
"Mmm. It wasn't meant for you." You say softly, with a teasing edge. Clark's expression twists, grabbing your wrists.
"Don't even joke about that. I'm barely holding back as is."
"I still don't get why you're trying to be gentle, Clark. I-I want you. Can't you see that?" You finally huff out, a slight resentment building in you at how long it took for you to get to this point.
"I don't want to hurt you." He finally admits after a beat.
"Hurt me how? I want this."
Clark exhales slow, and his hold on your wrists loosen, to guide you to rub at the length of his cock. Your breath stills, and you squeeze at the girth.
"Ngh—that's…that's why." He grits, seeing the way you were rendered silent just by feeling how big he was.
"O-Oh.." You murmur. Clark lets your wrists go, but you don't release him. Watching his lips press taut as you curiously venture, squeezing and rubbing at his more than impressive length in your softer hands. It wasn't a reaction he'd anticipated.
"You're okay? With this?" He manages through a strained pant. Hips bucking to your steady strokes of his clothed cock.
"Are you kidding? Why the hell would I not be? My boyfriend is hung, I'd be an idiot to complain."
Clark groans and lets out an embarrassed laughter, covering your mouth with the expanse of his palm. "G-Geez... Don't…say stuff like that." He mutters, head falling flush onto the sheets. You smile into his hand, and your hand wanders beneath his waistband.
He lets you touch him, rubbing his thick, throbbing length. Clark groans the second your fingers roll beneath his balls, "…o-ohmy— g-gosh." His head goes dizzy, and he's blinking at you. "Where did you learn how to do that? Wait — no. Do not tell me." He warns, tugging his pants off quickly.
You grin, pecking at his jaw, ghosting a whisper, "college boyfriend."
Clark pulls back slowly, expression turning all serious. He didn't utter a single word.
Your bed frame groans when he flips you to your tummy all of a sudden. You gasp, perking up to look back at him, not seeing much but the intense look on his face. Clark's palm lay flat at your lower back, dragging his fingers over the pretty lace that curved around your hips and thighs.
You let out a shudder, trying to peek a glance at him. "Clark?" You try, growing worried that you might've upset him for real.
He doesn't answer you, and you soon understand why.
Your hips jump when he presses a kiss on the inside of your thighs. Then, he licks a stripe dangerously close to your puckered hole. "Mmn?!" You all but let out a stuttered gasp when he probes his tongue into your ass. Lips curved around it entirely, sucking and licking. The grunt that leaves you isn't something you recognise.
He holds you in place, tongue flicking over the ring. You don't fully process it, still breathing heavy at the aftermath of a pleasure you were not familiar with.
It's simple in Clark's mind though. He wanted to have the remainder of all your firsts.
He feels your hips tremble, and he soothes around the fat, head dipping lower to tug at your thong. You whimper at the string rubbing at your clit. He nudges his nose up your slick pussy, already wet from the stimulation so far. Your hips lift when he licks up your folds, his tongue poking into your pussy nice and slow.
"D-Didn't think….you had that in you."
Clark laughs, the vibrations sending an electric sensation of desire in you. "Yeah…" And he sucks at the softness, tongue grazing your clit. Your eyes roll back. You're close.
"Clark…" you whine, he hums in response, already aware —diving back in. "Give it to me." He mutters, continuing to tongue fuck your pussy with a blinding pleasure. Your hips are writhing, but he keeps up, knowing you were so goddamn close with just how your pussy was trying to clamp down on his tongue and nose.
He must've been there forever, but he doesn't rise up, not even once, not even to take a breath. It was insane. It's like he didn't even need to. That man was giving your vibrator a run for its money, and you were feeling the full force of his apparent expertise in pussy eating. Something you didn't even anticipate him to be this frighteningly good at.
It takes you a second to register the strange shift in sensation, more importantly, the temperature. His mouth felt so hot — and suddenly, there's an icy chill. Grazing your pussy in a way that has your cunt clench. A startled shiver takes you, and you look over your shoulder.
"W-What the hell was that?"
Clark flinches for a second. Lifting his head. "I — uh…" he begins, brushing his messy curls away from his face, "…I was chewing mints earlier. Do you feel uncomfortable?" he manages, voice strained.
You blink at him, not sure what to actually say. But it felt….good. "No…d..do it again."
His lips quirk into a smile, seeing the curiosity on your features. Clark leans back down.
"O-Oh my—..fucking…god, Clark!" You scream out, muffled into the sheets.
He takes his time, and like clockwork, you feel the familiar build. Your hips are nudging backwards, rubbing, grinding back into his face. And you cum. Hard.
Clark doesn't relent, licking you even as your thighs spasm through your release. He's suckling at your folds, kissing, flicking at your clit until you've pulled all stops, palm slapping onto the sheets.
He pulls away then. Licking his lips, watching you shake beneath him. Clark hooks his arm around your hips to turn you on your back. He leans down to kiss you, sucking your tongue with a gentle ease until you taste yourself. A heavy palm steadies on your head, soothing your hair down. "Easy, easy, baby. You're okay."
You're muttering incoherently into his neck, thighs shaking still from your come down. "I c-can't..s'too..much. It's—…can't.."
Clark rubs at your hips, humming. "Mmhm. I know. I know." He peppers kisses down your cheeks, picking you up in his arms, rubbing you nice and slow. For a second, you actually think he would give you a break. But instead, his own legs pushes yours impossibly apart. His cock rests idly on your pussy.
You blink at him confused, and Clark guides your hand to rest at your belly. "I promise you." He murmurs, interlocking his fingers where it lay on you.
"You won't ever need to think about your college boyfriend when you're with me."
The possessiveness in his tone catches you off guard. "H-Hrrk!" Clark notches his cock into you, and then pushes in, slow, inch by inch. You grab at his forearm that rests beside your face, the other, glued to your belly. He's watching you, watching as your expression turns to utter shock when his cock presses, pokes where he held your palm steady.
Clark looks at you, panting heavily. The suction of your cunt, squeezing at his cock with a pleasure unmatched. "You're so…incredible.." He mutters, burying himself into you to the hilt. You groan loudly, fingertips tracing over the bulge on your belly. Clark presses down on it further, and your eyes roll back.
He leans down, breathing against the column on your throat. His hips pick up the pace, starting off with slow, yet hard rocks into you. "Mm—..myg-gosh…so…tight." Your thighs squeeze around his hips, rocking to his movements. "N-No other…no other guy will ever…have you like this. You..hear me?"
You're nodding, through the tears prickling at the side of your cheeks. He was fucking you so full, so deep, you aren't sure if you'll ever be able to recover from this man. Your grip around his arm turns into a claw. You're about to cum again, you feel it.
But Clark tuts, his hand moving off your belly to hold your jaw in place. "Don't…cum." He mutters with a punishing edge, licking up your jaw slow. Your expression twists, and you clench instinctively around him.
"W…What?"
He groans when you somehow get even tighter around him, and he slumps over you. Grinding slow and deep into you. The wind is knocked out of you by the weight on your chest. But the sheer suffocation of his heavy body only served to drive you even more dumb.
You bite at his shoulder, arm slung loose around his back. "Claaark…" You whine his name out, muffled. Tasting the saltiness of your own tears at his relentless thrusts. He's nosing at your jaw, thumbs tracing over the lace on your neglected tits.
"Gosh..even wore this..all…for me.." His thumb rubs over the band, snapping it apart, earning a shocked gasp from you. You'd be angry at him for that later, but now? Now you were far too fucked out with how your pussy was throbbing, begging for release that he didn't allow you.
Clark leans down, massaging the softness he'd been fantasizing ever since you'd sent the pictures to him. His nose drags over the already hardened nubs, groaning into it, groping them with both his palms. His balls tighten when you mewl as he suckles around the fat.
He breathes your name out, reverent, panting until he tenses. Clark pulls out at the very last second. You blink hazily to see his thighs at the other side of your chest. He pumps himself once, then twice. Hot cum sputtering over your tits in jolts.
You're transfixed at the pearlescent white land on your chest. Wincing when some lands on your cheeks. Clark's eyes are fluttered shut, stroking and squeezing at the head, resting his cock on your sternum until the rest of his spend dribbles onto your collarbone.
He looks at you, with his head tilted. A lazy smile creeping on his lips when he spots you gathering some of his cum off your cheeks to lick your fingertips.
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