Ghost who doesn’t know how to flirt like a normal person, instead asks “How much d’you weigh?”
Shadow falling over you, broad enough to swallow the reflection in the mirror behind the machine you were just using at the gym. You look up and find Ghost standing there in a black compression shirt stretched tight across his chest, mask in place even here, eyes flat and unreadable above the fabric. One gloved hand resting on the frame of your machine.
The question lands blunt, no lead up, no softening. Like he’s asking for the time or the weather. Your mouth goes dry. He’s too close, too big, the sheer width of him making the space between you feel airless.
You could tell him to fuck off. Should. But the words stick somewhere behind your teeth, and what comes out instead is a mumbled number, barely loud enough to carry, your eyes dropping to the seam where the mat meets the floor.
He doesn’t react at first. Just tilts his head a fraction, that slow, assessing cock of it Then, low and rough through the mask: “Lighter than I’m used to.”
Confusion flickers across your face but he’s already moving, already loading the bar next to you with plates that match the number you gave him exactly, no hesitation, no adjustment. The barbell settles across the padded support with a dull clank.
You should look away. You don’t.
He lies back on the bench, plants his feet wide, and rolls the bar into place across the jut of his hips. One smooth motion and he drives up, hips snapping high, the loaded bar rising clean with the power of it, his body locking into a straight line from shoulders to knees. The muscles in his thighs flex hard under the fabric of his shorts. Up, hold, lower. Up again. The bar doesn’t even tremble under the weight.
It takes a beat for the meaning to sink in. Heat crawls up your neck, tightens in your chest, but it doesn’t stop there. It drops lower, coils hot and insistent right behind your navel and settles between your legs with a heavy, liquid pulse, cunt clenching around nothing. The reaction is immediate and traitorous, slick gathering hot and fast, soaking into the seam of your leggings, clit throbbing in time with every snap of his hips.
Oh.
(Ghost who doesn’t know how to flirt but somehow it works every time.)
summary: jason and reader go for a ride on his motorcycle, but end up getting into a crash
word count: 2.2k
warnings/tags: sfw, fem!reader, cursing, car crash, angst, comfort, fluff, mentions of injuries, no y/n, use of pet names
The low light of the lamp lit the room enough for you to make out the words inked onto the page of your book. The TV playing in the background was loud enough to fill the quiet of the apartment while you waited for Jason to come home from patrol. He was supposed to be home 2 hours ago, but the door has remained locked since he left this morning.
You’ve been on the same page of your book for the past ten minutes–none of the words truly sinking in because you’ve been stuck worrying about your boyfriend's safety. Usually he’s able to let you know if he’ll be late, but tonight, there wasn’t even a text. You give up, tossing aside the book and instead choose to sit on the fire escape to watch over the city with hopes of seeing a glimpse of his familiar red.
The wind nips at your cheeks and you pull the hood of Jason’s old hoodie over your hair to protect from the cold. His scent envelopes you as you gaze at the broken city below your feet. You whip your head around at the sound of a lock turning from inside the house, and crawl back through the open window, and toward the front door.
Jason steps inside the quiet apartment and catches your eye immediately. His shoulders are hunched, his brow set in a furrow, and overall looks utterly defeated. You don’t care to wait for him to toe off his boots before walking into his arms to mold your body against his.
“You were gone.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he whispers as he pressed a gentle kiss to your hairline, “it was a shitty night and things kept coming up.” His voice holds a hint of frustration behind it.
You look up, resting your chin on his chest. “Bad night?”
“Very.”
You stay quiet as you try to read his expression. He’s always been bad at asking for help from anybody, so you’ve learned to adapt to his needs and figure out what he wants instead. However, it's difficult to do so when his face stays set in the grim expression like he’s holding all his emotions behind that brick wall he's forced around himself.
“I’m gonna go for a ride.”
You let your hand run down the length of his arm until your fingers brush his before stepping back from him and nodding. You’ve learned that when nights are really bad, he’ll go for a ride on his motorcycle by himself to clear his thoughts. He never asks you to go and you never push to go either.
You watch as he walks to the bedroom to grab his helmet and keys before walking back out to where you now stand in the kitchen to make a cup of tea. You feel his gaze burn on your back as you turn on the stove for the kettle to warm before turning to face him again.
“Come with me?” His voice is so quiet, that you barely hear him.
“You want me to go with you?”
He nods once, and that's all the confirmation you need to turn off the stove and walk into the bedroom to change into the riding gear Jason bought you–he’s made it very clear from the beginning that you won’t get on the bike without it. He’s never told you how much he spent on all of it, but when you looked up the brand Alpinestars one night, you found it was the most reliable, but expensive gear on the market.
You walk back out and let him lead you out the door and toward the usual spot where his bike is parked. He helps you into your helmet, like he always does, and then throws on his own with much less care than he did for you. As you throw you leg over the bike and wrap you arms around his chest, you decide to remain quiet for the ride to give him the chance to sort out his own thoughts.
It doesn’t take long to get onto the highway where Jason speeds up to merge on and you keep your arms tightly around his torso as the wind hits your helmet harshly. A quick glance at the speedometer tells you he’s being vigilant about the number and choosing not to speed, likely because of you being on the back of the bike.
It’s quiet this late at night. You don’t pass many other cars as you drive down the street, most establishments that you can make out don’t have any lights on to invite customers, and you’re left with your thoughts. You think about Jason mostly–about how some nights you selfishly wish he didn’t have a double life to fulfill that leads, more often than not, to danger.
About twenty minutes have passed before he's slowing down to take an exit then turning around to get back on the highway, but this time to go back home. There's a few more cars on the road going this direction, which you only notice because Jason has to weave around them more often than he did previously.
You were looking up at the sky, when you heard Jason for the first time through the comms set up on the helmets as the bike sharply move to the left.
“Shit!”
You barely process the car on your right moving into the lane Jason is riding in, before it's too late. Jason tried to avoid the car, but the sharp movement sent the bike out of his control and into the concrete barrier on the side of the road. The bike flips from under both of you, bucking you off and throwing you across the shoulder of the road. You faintly feel your back slam into something painful, but the world quickly falls out of focus and then into nothing.
Jason tried to correct the movement in time, he really did, but the car forced him to turn so sharply that he just couldn’t get the bike to pull away from the barrier. He felt every tumble against the asphalt as he was thrown off.
He’s disoriented, but that's nothing new for him, so he locks the pain into a different part of his mind, and pushes himself to a kneeling position. The now mutilated bike rests on the side of the road with scraps of the motorcycle trailing from where the first collision had happened. As he looks further, his eyes lock onto you, laying on the asphalt, unmoving. His mind narrows to this moment and for the first time since his death, he feels genuine fear.
He pushes himself up the rest of the way, ignoring the protest of his legs, and runs to you as fast as he can while yanking his helmet off so he can see better. Every step he takes feels like he's trudging through mud and can’t get to you fast enough. He’s begging and praying to every God he doesn’t believe in for you to be breathing. He’d give his life again if it meant you could live right now.
Please. Not her. Not my world.
Finally, he's standing before you and dropping unceremoniously onto his knees and pulling your helmet off as quickly as he can while still being gentle. Your eyes are shut, your lips barely parted, and skin indented from the helmet staying securely on you. His fingers make quick work of finding the pulse at your neck, and he could cry at the solid and steady life he feels beating against his fingers. There’s a couple scrapes on your hands, but the gear did good work of keeping you from getting any roadburn like he did.
You likely blacked out from hitting the concrete barrier harshly and having the breath knocked out of you or maybe a concussion depending on how harshly your head collided with the wall. That doesn’t matter to Jason right now though. All he cares about is the fact you're alive.
His forehead drops against yours, and he whispers broken apologies that you can’t hear against your skin. He pulls back to adjust you carefully so your head rests on his lap, then he reaches for his helmet he set aside to rip out the comm inside. He changes the channel from the one he uses when biking with you to the private channel the Bats use.
“Babs?” His voice breaks only slightly as he speaks.
“Red Hood? I thought you were off patrol, what's going on?”
He stares down at your unconscious body, “We got into a wreck on my bike. She's unconscious. She needs medical. Please.”
“Shit, okay I’m on it.”
The faint sound of steady beeping pulls you from your sleep. Your limbs feel too heavy for your body, your head is fuzzy, and as you slowly push your eyes to blink open, everything is five levels too bright. All you see is a plain ceiling and panic rushes through you at the unfamiliar space, and you move to sit up, but a warm hand lands on your shoulder to keep you down.
You quickly look to the side, ready to fight the stranger, but instead you catch sight of the familiar white tuft of hair and emerald eyes. Jason. Your body relaxes against what you now realize is plush bedding beneath you as Jason watches your every move.
“You’re safe.”
“Wh– What happened?” your voice is raw from not using it for a while.
His eyes harden slightly as he blows out a harsh breath through his nose, “I swerved to avoid a car about to hit us, but I lost control of the bike and we crashed.” His voice is gentle as he asks, “Do you remember that?”
Pieces fall into place in your memory as everything comes back to you. The quiet. The car. Swerving. Being thrown off. Hitting the barrier. You nod carefully.
“Good. That's good.”
“It’s bright in here.” You mumble quietly as you blink against the harsh light hitting your eyes.
He lifts his hand to run it across your brow carefully, “You got a concussion. The helmet did what it could, but with the speed you took that hit…,” he trails off. “You’re lucky to have worn the helmet.”
He steps away from you and walks to the light switch, flipping off the light. You're left with the much more tolerable glow of the moon shining through the window to illuminate the room. “Thank you.”
He takes the seat next to the bed you're laying on and you take a moment to glance around the room. There's a desk pushed against the window that's piled high with books that look well loved and some other clutter. A dresser across the other wall with two picture frames: one of Jason, his brothers, and Bruce while the other is a photo of you and Jason. Then as you look to your right, against the bed is a machine that was making the rhythmic beeping–you now realize as your pulse–that pulled you from your sleep.
It slowly hits you that you’re in Jason’s room at Wayne Manor, which is why it wasn’t instantly familiar, because you don’t stay here very often. You turn back to Jason and he's staring at you with watery eyes.
“Jay?”
“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “I– I couldn’t protect you. I should’ve done something different. Should’ve tried harder.”
You quickly shake your head, but stop when it makes you feel a little dizzy. “No. Jason this wasn’t your fault. You did what you could.”
“I thought you were dead,” his voice is barely a whisper, almost haunted by the memory.
“But I’m not.”
His forehead drops to where your hands are intertwined. “I’m sorry.”
“Jay, honey.” You lift your free hand to run through his soft waves. “It’s not your fault.”
He just clings onto your hand more desperately.
“If it weren't for the gear you bought me, I wouldn’t be here. If you didn’t notice the car coming toward us, this would’ve been worse. You can’t change other people's actions, only how they affect you. You did that for me. I’m here because of you, okay?”
He nods ever so slightly against your arm.
“Thank you for keeping me safe.”
He lifts his head and rests his chin on your arm. A lone tear falls down his cheek and you quickly wipe it away.
“Come here,” you whisper, “the bed’s cold without you.”
He stands up and slides under the covers to wrap his arms around you gently, not wanting to hurt you where you might have bruises. His warmth soothes you immediately as you curl against his side.
“What happened to the driver?”
“Tim’s working on it.”
“Don’t do anything too severe.”
“No promises.” He leans down to press another kiss to your brow as a laugh bubbles from you, even though you know he’s likely not joking.
He holds you through the night and doesn’t let himself fall asleep until you do, wanting to ensure you really are here, alive, in his arms. Once he felt your breathing even out against his chest, he brushed some of the stray hairs from your cheek to gaze at you. He leans in, pressing a feather light kiss to your brow as he whispers, “I won’t fail you again.”
A/N: soooo one of my friends now knows about my account and it's very weird to know she's probably reading this so... hey!
t.w.: Smut, size kink, cum eating, p in v, oral f receiving, light choking, Clark has a big cock, some technical stuff about darkrooms and film developing, Photojournalist Reader, Reader is short, at least shorter than Clark, lots of fluff, lots of sweet silliness, some angst, established relationship (ish)
a/n: Please read all warnings for all works before reading. 18+ only! Lowkey y’all should search up what a darkroom revolving door looks like lol. I loved my old campus’s darkroom and lab.
Summary: Clark has been utterly perfect, smart, kind, cute and witty. But a woman has needs and doubts were starting to lead you to a detrimental decision. A breakup. But this Clark guy shows you that he fucks hard and checks all of your boxes.
The hand on your back was warm and so utterly large you wanted to jump out of your skin.
Clark was nice. Clark was kind. Sure, his suits didn’t really fit him right, and his hair was a mess half of the time. His glasses were garish and his awkwardness was on the edge of endearing and repelling.
And yet you still decided to go on a date with him. Many in fact.
It was Lois’ idea, Cat’s too but she was less intimidating than Lane’s expectant stare. She was his friend, she spoke highly of him once she found out about his little crush on you, one of the Daily Planet’s esteemed photojournalists.
Clark had been looking through the zines you’ve published independently, enamored by the way you captured people in their everyday lives.
A mother holding their child in the subway was turned into a beautiful mosaic of color as passengers walked past. Another of a dog playing in a park close to the Daily Planet, droplets of water paused in motion, the puppy mid-shaking as children nearby roared in laughter.
You had no idea how he found your gallery. But you think it was the journalist in him. He liked your older ones too, the ones you made in college. Punk shows and protests, some of your neighborhood and of urban explorations done with friends.
The scenes you created were insightful. He could imagine the sounds, the feel of the light as it angled to the focal object, the smells.
Your writing appealed to him. So human, natural, slice of life as you dug into emotions people couldn’t name.
He fumbled over himself as he discussed this over your first date dinner. You looked so pretty in your dress, he couldn’t help but make a slight fool of himself. You decided he was more endearing, but maybe the next date you would give him the tough talk and finally let him go.
You’ve been saying this to yourself the past five dates.
Now you’re waiting for your dinner reservation. His hand at your waist, the other holding your clutch as you stood in the overcrowded waiting area.
His thumb soothes over your hip, you exhale shakily as goosebumps rise from your skin. He was warm, he smelled clean, slightly like the ink of a newspaper. You noted a woody and earthy cologne. His hair more swept back than usual, giving him a put together look. He had his suit jacket resting on his forearm and his sleeves were rolled up because of the heat and humidity that unfortunately lasted deep into the evening.
The need for sex was growing with each date. An unfortunate need to get laid thrumming through your chest and gathering down south to your pelvis and lower belly.
Damn it, you needed his hands elsewhere, as if you wanted him to hear the sickening squelch of your cunt as his fingers dragged against your walls.
But you had a feeling that the farm boy didn’t have it in him to give you what you wanted no- needed. You debated within yourself, feeling the tug of his hand at your waist as you got seated, seeing the way he pulled the chair out for you and pushed it in as you sat, if you should end both of your miseries tonight.
Surely, you couldn’t lead him on, no matter how kind, how gentlemanly or thoughtful he may be. You needed a rough being, a rough pounding to be satisfied. His eyes narrow slightly as you absentmindedly order, your finger tracing the stem of the wine glass, filled with water. It was amusing, in a way, seeing you zone out.
In your head you go through the pros and cons. The more you spent time together the more he opened up. And you quickly discovered that he was perfect. He was smart, quippy, funny and cute. He was a good man. Although a little sassy at times, you knew he wouldn’t hurt a fly.
But he must be a virgin. He’s never made an effort to do more. Not even a simple kiss. There was nothing wrong with it. Nothing at all. But you needed something to help you sleep at night, like horse tranquilizer and not 5mg Melatonin gummies. Did he even know about sex? Who knows if his parents even spoke to him about the birds and the bees back home.
You overthink about his inexperience and about the way you might react to it. It would be bad, you’re not good at keeping your faces in check, much less your own words. It was a miracle you haven’t said anything before. The sun that always seemed to be following him had seemingly stopped you.
Clark’s hand lays on top of yours, his fingers sliding further into your wrist feeling your heart race at the touch. His thumb presses against it, moving side to side. Your head lifts to meet his gaze, you shiver.
God, when did he get so hot? You could see the veins in his forearms, his biceps bulge from the sleeves. You felt as if you couldn’t breathe for a second.
“You okay?”
You nod, your lips pursing in a tight smile as he squeezes you in his hold. You take a sip from your water, the server arrives with the appetizers.
You were telling a coworker about this exact problem that very morning.
Superman was spotted and you happened to be in the area as you both witnessed him stop a robbery in a convenience store nearby. He was greeting people on the street that had witnessed the crime, children coming up to him and wanting to be picked up or talk. It was an opportunity for a candid picture you couldn’t ignore.
“How’s your boyfriend, Clark, right?”
You had been talking about Clark, the man that was taking you on dates and just hasn’t made the move. You turn the aperture ring as you attempt to focus on him, the sun’s glare had you inching closer, huffing as you circled around him, your companion in tow, still keeping the conversation going.
You groan at the title.
“He’s not my…”
You groan again, you didn’t know what he was. The relationship hasn’t been defined yet.
“He’s fine,” you mumble. You pause, remembering that he came over to your desk the day before while you were uploading some negatives to your computer. He’d gotten you coffee, a bagel. You showed him some of your shots and he showed you the newspaper, his name on the first page, grinning from ear to ear. He was confident that day, even going as far as to tease you, groaning exaggeratedly at the fact that you had spilled some sauce on your blouse.
His thumb swiped it off, ever so lightly pressing into your breast, feeling the softness briefly before he sucked it into his mouth. You’d given him a wide-eyed look. It was the most action you’ve gotten from him.
You lower the camera, sighing lightly as you recall the moment. If only he could see the way you shifted in your seat and wet your underwear at his cocky look. You swore his eyes drifted to your lap for a moment, his throat bobbing in a thick swallow.
“He got on the first page,” you say plainly.
You shoot. You didn’t think it was good. You try to adjust. Your colleague scoffs next to you, clearly wanting more gossip.
“I heard.” Silence. They clear their throat. “So. How is he in, ya know…?”
You sigh, you shoot, you sigh again.
“Damn”
“Yeah.”
“So, no good?”
You give them a look. You speak your thoughts, almost as if a plumber had found a leak and cut open a spewing pipe.
“Nothing’s happened yet. We haven't even kissed. The man has no sexual bone in his body. I’m pretty sure he’s a virgin and I cannot deal with that- I mean- I need to be dicked down- and in a good way. At this point who knows if he even knows how to put it in- ”
Your breath catches in your throat. You swore Superman just looked directly at you, his face neutral, eyes narrowed ever so slightly. The conversation ended as he spotted you both, your camera lifting quickly to get the shot.
Perry liked it, he said Superman looked righteous, his face serious, looking deep into the lens of the camera, the audience. Ready to serve. Ready to prove himself.
Whatever that meant.
…
He walks you home, like always. It was sweet, so sweet you felt your heart chip away with each step as you got closer to your apartment. Your arm was wrapped around his, halfway through the journey he placed his jacket over you.
You were too focused on the sidewalk, at your feet, to notice his wandering eyes. The way his chest puffed at how large the jacket was on you, how he could see your cleavage whenever he glanced down.
You rehearse it in your head. Over and over again, finding something new to say, to soften the blow. You felt like the devil. Maybe a demon. A sex fiend?
A woman has needs. You couldn’t deny it any longer. It was a comparability thing.
‘I just don’t think we’re compatible. I love sex and orgasms and you don’t give me the vibe that you’d be able to give it to me. We must part ways dearest Clark.’
You barely noticed you were at your door. Your heart races. He notices, he somehow always does. His hand moves to your waist. Something’s he’s been doing more of lately. You attempt to find your keys in your clutch. He leans against the wall, watching you.
It felt like you two were in a bubble. His hand on your waist, you in his jacket, his large chest blocking everything else around you. His scent consumes you, his warm hand burns into your skin.
Your fingers find the keys and you drop them to the floor, he leans down to pick them up as you do. He was quicker. You straighten awkwardly as he holds it up to you, as he rises, he’s suddenly a step closer, his eyes level with yours as he bends to your height.
Your back was pressed against the door. Did his eyes just flicker to your lips? Did yours? Your face feels as if it’s on fire, his hand on your waist goes lower, to your hip, then the small of your back, his palm resting on the curve of your ass.
You imagine him grabbing a handful, squeezing with his big, strong, sturdy hand…
“Hi,” he says lowly, he could hear your heart beat out of your chest. He’s never been this close. You could cup his face. You do.
He smiles, leaning closer. You should be backing off, he should be walking back to the subway with his head down somberly because you broke it off with him.
“Hey,” you respond back, almost in a whisper. You grab the key, it digs into your hand as he moves in on you predatorially. He looks down on you teasingly, as if he knew something you didn’t.
You swallow thickly, your mouth parting as you attempt to find your words. His eyes again are directed to your lips.
“Clark, I need to tell you something-“
He slides his hand to the back of your neck, pulling you close into him. His lips move languidly against yours, your cheeks prickles in pleasure and your eyes widen.
His eyes were closed as he parted your mouth to stuff his tongue in with yours. You yelp, he groans, and pulls your head closer, his nose smooshing against your cheek.
You get lost in it, eventually your eyes flutter closed as he sucks in your little sounds, his hand moving under your ass, squeezing it and causing you to moan lightly. He lifts you, scooping you up by the back of your thighs. You didn’t notice how your feet were off the ground, in a haze, in your apartment's hallway.
His mouth pants in hot wet breaths, nose smoothing down your jaw and neck. He starts to kiss down your throat, your hands move to his head, feeling his soft hair, urging him further, your back lightly pressing against your front door.
He stops suddenly.
He puts you down quickly, almost making you collapse to the floor from how wobbly your legs had gotten. Your hands tighten over his shoulders in a mix of shock and panic as you land on your feet.
A door opens a second later, the next-door neighbor sliding past you both. You watch silently, eyes wide. You’re pressed against his chest as he attempts to make more room in the tiny hallway.
He grimaces, nodding apologetically at the old woman who trudges an overfilled trash bag as she attempts to move past him.
You didn’t notice that he was so big before. You’re sure his shy demeanor made him seem so much smaller. You were sure he wasn’t that tall before, or his shoulders, you swallow thickly the more you think about it, his shoulders were so broad, his arms tight against his dress shirt.
You watch with your fingers twisted tightly in his coat sleeves. He went to help the older woman, lifting the trash bag and pushing it into the trash chute for her.
You feel your pussy throb. He was so nice. And so… dirty. You watch as your neighbor woman pats his chest and he smiles sheepishly down at her.
She leaves, but not before winking at you from her door.
You think Clark had awakened something in you. You almost glare at him, your stare intense as he pecked your lips good night, leaving his jacket with you because ‘It looked good’ on you. He turned back with a boyish smile as he walked away, your heart beating out of your chest.
Your new kink was Clark Kent.
…
You shift in his gaze.
You’ve been avoiding him the whole day, flustered, your heart racing whenever he were near. You couldn’t focus as you presented photographs to a reporter you were working in collaboration with that week.
Some heartfelt story of an old woman being helped across the street by a local shop owner every morning. Who gave a shit. You kept on thinking of Clark’s tongue shoving itself down your throat, exploring your mouth and making you melt against his thick, hard, body like softening butter.
You could hear him from across the large open media room, chatting with Lois or Jimmy at his desk. He texted you good night, sending you a picture of a midnight snack, as you knew, he always likes to snack. It showed off the obvious bulge in his grey sweatpants, and damn it, you could tell he was soft despite its size.
Fuck his handful of grapes and ritz crackers, he should have sent a picture of himself shirtless with a hand holding his dick.
You curse him mentally, you could tell from the moment you walked into work he was going to make the day hellish. His eyes followed your every move as you wandered around his floor. You were usually a floor down, in the photo lab with other photographers who worked in the darkroom just as much as you.
Jimmy stops you, yelling for you to come hang out for a bit. Damn you, Jimmy, you mumbled under your breath, your boots clicking with each step. Clark had sharply turned his head in your direction, an amused look of confusion in his face as if he had heard you.
You turn your back to him, ignoring the way he stood up. You were wearing lacy black panties underneath your jeans. Clark could see the way your asscheeks wobbled with each step. He felt an almost possessive feeling in his chest, as if everyone else in the room had x-ray vision. He makes his way over to you, his hand makes its way to your waist briefly and squeezes, causing you to shiver as it slid away.
He looks down at you, smiling with a shrug of his shoulders as Jimmy continues talking about this ‘vintage” camera he found on eBay. The seller was sketchy, he wanted your opinion you guess by the way he was describing the bid.
“Hey…” Clark whispers, albeit a little loudly. You act as if you couldn’t hear him, pretending to be focused on Jimmy’s computer screen. You could smell him, it made your stomach curl pleasantly, your thighs shift.
Jimmy looks up, he smiles up at Clark.
“Oh, hey Clark…” Jimmy continues, starting his explanation all over again once he sees him standing next to you. You twitch, adjusting yourself to cross your arms as Clark's fingers tease along your back, like little spiders crawling all over your spine.
You give him a sidelong glare, refusing to say anything in front of Jimmy. Everyone knew that you were seeing each other, Clark would spend his lunches on your floor at times, Cat always pressed him about dinner locations.
He’s never been so bold. Jimmy’s eyes flicker to the touches, the way his finger plays with the belt loop of your jeans, tugging lightly. You inconspicuously slap his hand away. It was unprofessional, others thought it was cute.
Clark, so awkward. Clark, shy. Clark, the goddamn tease.
You walk away before he could continue, leaving them watching as you practically stomped out of the room. Jimmy raises his hand exasperated at your sudden departure. You didn’t even give him an answer.
You disappeared the rest of the day, your fellow photographers mentioning that you were in the darkroom, not coming out, not even for lunch. Clark was shitting himself at your sudden enclosure. What if he went too far, he curses himself and his damn recklessness. He just knew that midnight snack picture was too forward. Shit.
He makes his way to the photo lab. It was the end of the day, most of the building empty for a select few who wanted the quiet to finish up some report or project.
He stands, shifting on his feet, his hair a mess from how much he attempted to smooth it back. His curls were gone, he places his suit jacket on the laboratory table’s stool. The room smelled like chemicals, the solution baths by the sink almost making his head spin. Your bag was under the workbenches, the only one in sight. He sighs.
You were the only person in the lab.
You heard footsteps, coming closer to the darkroom’s revolving doors. You lift your head from where you were focused on the timer when you hear an attempt to slide the door open. Clark didn’t know how things worked in the lab. Jimmy attempted to teach him once, he just didn’t grasp it.
“Just keep on sliding it to the left, hop in, and slide it again.”
You were switching printing paper from one tub to the next, your eyes focused on the timer on the side of the sink. He could see all of your stuff set against one of the desks behind you, a large projector in each desk. The darkroom looked haunted, the light casting a red hue over everything inside.
He looks you over, you were wearing a tank top, no gloves on even though he thinks maybe you should have some. You shake the picture with your tongs, the excess liquid dripping onto the tray. You clip it on the hangar, waiting for it to dry as you go back to the enlarger and pack up.
“It’s pretty late,” he mumbles.
You hum in response, he gulps. You were aching not to turn around, all you could think about was that kiss, the way his hands felt against you, his smell, the feeling of him. It was driving you crazy. The darkroom was the only place you could clear your mind and he was invading it.
He walks around the sink, moving close to you, leaning his shoulder against the shield that divides the space between each enlarger. You glance at him briefly. He looked so handsome, you're sure he didn’t even know it judging by the way his eyes were so sincerely attentive to you.
“I’m walking you home.”
Not a question, a statement. It sent a chill down your body. You look back at your workstation. Clark watches as you pause, your shoulders tense and square off in a sigh. You nod, slamming your negative contact sheet binder closed.
He could tell you were pent up and it was all his fault. He almost felt pity, a little guilty from the way he nudged you the past two days. But based on what he overheard from your discussion with your friend yesterday morning, his chivalry had not been as appreciated as he thought it was.
He had become determined.
You were waiting for him at the door, urging him inside the tube.
You push the revolving door, succumbing you both to the darkness as he steps in. The glow in the dark paint and plastic stars shine, not enough to illuminate you both, but visible enough to elicit a simple pleasure from your chests.
It looked really cool, so he mumbled under his breath. You snorted, keeping you both there to admire the darkness. You thought it was too when you first saw the brush on swirls of green glowing paint.
“I did this one,” you say softly, blindly reaching for his hand to press it against the side of the metal door. It was a star with your initials inside of it. A lot of the Daily Planet’s photographers placed their marks on the entrance to the darkroom. A rite of passage, even for the interns.
You slide your fingers against his palm tentatively as he traces along the star. He intertwines your hand together at the light touch, stepping closer to you.
You feel his breath on your cheek, you grip your folder tightly, tingling from the feel of his other hand resting against your shoulder, his thumb tipping your jaw up. You couldn’t see him, but he could see you, your eyes wide, but somehow meeting his even if you couldn’t see.
The air was getting thinner, his fingers squeezed yours and raised it to kiss the back of your hand. Your lips purse, your brows raising at the affection. It feels ten times warmer than when you first entered.
“We’re going to lose oxygen,” you say shakily, stepping back and letting go, dragging your hands against the revolving door to open it up to the other side.
Your eyes adjust to the change of lighting. The harshness of the white lab lights makes you wince, the back of your eyes burning for a second before unblurring.
He watches silently as you place the finished printing papers in the tub of water by the sink, shifting them lightly around the liquid to completely coat and rinse off any fixing solution left. You were so focused like this. In your zone. Your eyes briefly glancing between your pictures as if looking for any tiny mistake, a blur, a crease, a blob.
You let them sit there, walking over to the long metal table. You point to the pictures you had ready, sitting in piles with the rest of the finished works that the intern took out that morning as they mixed up solutions and trays.
He stands behind you, peering over your shoulder, the scent of your musk and chemical, something human and stinging, made his head tip ever so slightly to inhale deeper.
You felt his breath against your neck as he leaned down against the table, his hand resting against the cool metal as you showed him photograph after photograph.
He mumbles approvingly with each thwip and slerk of printing paper sliding against each other. The glossy finish soothing against his ears and his tired state. You feel a pleasant shiver trickle down your spine as you feel his chest rumble against your back.
“You have a good eye. You always capture so much movement,” he mumbles, shifting ever closer. He had taken off his glasses, which confused you slightly. But it seemed as if he took in the image you showcased better without them.
He was so strange. He smelled like warmth and sunshine. His presence was always comforting. God, you wanted it bad.
Your last picture feels heavy in your hands, the rest stacked beneath them, the corners and edges pinching your skin as you hold them. You lift it closer to him as he rests his chin against your shoulder. You feel yourself melt against his chest slightly before leaning forward, creating a centimeter of space between you both.
“Superman. He’s a wonder. Almost looks angelic,” you say quietly.
Your finger traces the figure reverently. He was surrounded by rubble, creating puffs of grey clouds around him, the light shadowing his face as he floated in the sky with the monster of the week lying unconscious beneath him. A crowd had been forming around it, as if coming out of hiding from the buildings at the edges of the frame, all clapping and cheering.
He hums, his gaze now directly on you. He studies you, you glance at him, suddenly feeling slightly embarrassed at your words. You clear your throat. You weren’t a fangirl, not really. Everyone loved Superman. Everyone appreciated Superman. You hope he didn’t think of you as being part of his fan club.
He just happens to be around you, maybe you attracted criminals. You're not completely sure, but you always managed to get his attention. He’d look into your cam, almost as if he were waiting for you to take a picture. Perry even seemed to notice that your shots have become more and more about Superman than your usual stuff these past few months.
It brings in the big bucks, so you don’t mind.
You turn to your side, facing Clark, tipping your head as you give an inquisitive brow and he looks at you with a half lidded dazed smile. It was shy, intimate, wholly endeared. His eyes pry deeply into yours, as if he knew something you didn’t and was waiting.
You just didn’t know what for. You offer him the picture, extending it out to him.
“Could you give this to him?”
You give him a wanting look, eyebrows creased into the middle of your forehead, almost pleading but not enough to be considered a real beg. You knew he interviewed Superman all of the time. The only other person being Lois. Unfortunately, you didn’t believe Lois had the inner strength to not keep a hold of the picture, she easily swayed with success.
Not that you blamed her.
Clark straightens up, in utter surprise as you offer him the photograph. It was good enough to be a front-page image. You were willing to give that up.
“You know him, right?”
He nods wordlessly, gently taking a hold of it, his fingers lightly skimming across yours. A shot of electricity fluttered over your hand, heat spread across your face as he looked you over. As if in awe of you. As if you had personally gifted him the picture.
He hears you swallow thickly as he places the photo in his laptop case. You point a finger at his chest.
“Don’t publish it with one of your pieces, alright?”
His lips quirk up in amusement. He snorts.
“Superman’s eyes only.”
You nod firmly. “Good.”
Clark bites his lip, looking down at the floor and huffing out loudly. He shakes his head in astonishment, fighting back a grin. You give him a look as he crosses his arms and leans towards you, bending down right in your face.
“You’re fucking amazing.”
He says it so sincerely, you let out an awkward laugh, fighting back a smile at the butterflies that he was making you feel from the sudden and exaggerated praise. His large hands cup your face, making you look up at him.
“What-“
He kisses you, your hands grip his wrists and you gasp as he presses his body into you.
His lips were soft against yours, your hands move over his forearms, his hand cups the back of your head, his fingers pressing against the nape of your neck.
“You’re-”
A peck.
“Fucking-”
Another kiss, this time deeper, his thumb smooths over your jaw, your legs wobble and your eyelids droop.
“Amazing.”
Your back hits the metal walls of a door nearby, your hand entangled in his hair, pressing his back towards you to bring him closer. He kissed you harder, groaning as you bit his lip, watching with drunken lust as you pulled back slightly. His cheeks were cherry red, hair a mess, glasses thrown on the floor from when he hoisted you up, his hand palming your ass as he held you up by one arm.
He tasted like coffee and that tres leches cake he liked from the bakery around the corner. He was so sweet, everything about him was so sugary sweet. You feel his bulge, rising and pressing against the seam of your jeans. Your eyes almost roll back from the size of him, your hips twitch onto it, grinding, your panties were a mess already.
He kisses you harder, like a starving man, his hand sliding over your hip possessively and underneath your top, his palm against your bare skin and fingers splaying across your ribs, right underneath your breasts.
You bite your moan back as he pushes your bra up, his fingers finding their way to your nipples.
“Clark,” you groan out, feeling your body stiffen in pleasure from the stimulation. They were sensitive, his hand squeezing your breast roughly.
He trails kisses down your throat, shushing you, pushing your strap away to teeth at your skin. He imagines getting you in his bed, tasting you, spreading you out on his sheets and getting on top of you.
His cock pulses. You feel it and your brain short circuits. You start to unbutton your pants, hands then rushing to his chest to unbutton his shirt.
He stops you, his head shooting up to face the door. Before you could question him, he opens the door behind you and rushes inside. It was pitch black, you couldn’t see a thing as he closed it.
“Clark, what are you-”
“Hello?” someone calls out from outside.
You tense. A fucking intern. You move to buckle your pants, but his hand stops you quickly. Your bags and your stack were out on the table. Your legs tighten around his waist, his hands press you tighter against his chest, his palm resting on the small of your back.
He was still hard, you had to bite the back of your hand to stifle a moan as you moved against it.
The intern, Micah, you think, calls out your name. You wince. You were in the negative developing room, where you would take out the film from your camera and load the film into a developing tank.
The process had to be done in complete darkness if you didn’t want to risk ruining your film. It was a rather tedious step, annoying if you couldn’t get the roll in place.
“In here,” you shout. You feel Clark’s chest vibrate, a silent chuckle or snort. You move to slap his chest but miss and hit his collarbone. He makes a hushed ow in response.
“You ok in there? I’m about to head out.”
“Yup.” You pop the p. He snorts and you somehow manage to cover his mouth with your palm. His hand squeezes your ass teasingly.
“I’ll clean up, go home, Micah, have a nice night.”
A long pause.
“Ok… good night.”
You could hear the intern open and close the front door. You breathe out a sigh of relief. Clark barks a laugh, and you sigh in irritation.
“You sounded out of breath.”
“I did not-”
“Yeah, you did.”
You huff. He puts you down, cracking the door open. You both stand out in the light, his chest peeking through, showcasing his defined pecs and collarbones. Your zipper exposes your panties, a little bow at the front making him smirk.
“Your place or mine?”
He doesn’t think much about the answer.
“Mine.”
His place was closer, he wanted to see you in his clothes and he wanted to make you breakfast in bed the next morning. It was Friday after all.
…
You barely had a chance to look around his apartment before he picks you up and walks over to the bedroom. He had a nice city view, open, tall windows that allowed you to see the buildings overhead.
It was nice and very modern. A completely different homestead that you imagined for the farm boy. Then again, you think you might have a lot of wrong ideas about him.
Your back lands on his mattress. The sheets were soft and fluffy, the pillows silky. He takes off his shirt quickly, taking up all of your attention.
His hand unbuttoned his pants as he watches you squirm in his bed. He crawls over you, a leg kicking off his pants his cock springing forth from his boxers.
You moan at the sight. He was out of the ordinary. Long, about seven inches, girthy, you don’t think you could touch your fingertips if you wrapped around him and…
You swallow thickly as it slaps against his ripped stomach. His tip spittles and dribbles pre-cum as he jerks it. Your mouth waters.
Uncut.
You’ve never felt need like this. So desperate you felt as if you were underwater, a beast inside of you attempting to claw its way out of your chest and latch onto his expansive one.
He casts a shadow over you, as he crawls closer. Eyes watching you as if you were his prey.
His hands make quick work of your clothes, leaving you in panties and your bralette. He touches, presses, squeezes all over your body.
“Have to get you ready.”
You pause. He kisses your cheek, pecking down your jaw, his hands briefly squeezing your breast.
“What?”
You’re not a size queen, by any means. But you’re sure you could take him. Sure you’ve never had anyone as big as him but…
You could take him.
You whine from the back of your throat as he kisses down your belly. His palm pressing against your panty covered cunt. Your thighs close around his forearm, back arching at the stimulation. He could feel your clit through the fabric, pulsing, swollen, ready to be touched.
He presses his face against your pussy, licking erratically, wetting the fabric further with his spit. He could smell your cunt, he groans, his cock throbbing.
He’s always had a thing for wet pussy. Something in his biology got him so hard at the scent, sometimes enough for him to have to go to the restroom and fix it during your dates. When you were ovulating, his cock stiffened, his body reacting to yours without you even trying.
Your pussy was so sweet, like it was calling to him. His eyes roll to the back of his head as he finally gets a taste. You smother your mouth with the back of your hand as he pulls your panties to the side, tongue laying flat against your folds, nudging against your fat clit.
It twitches as he sucks. His fingers pressing against your opening, curling upwards and spreading inside of you. Your gummy walls squelch, a wanton moan escapes you as his tongue enters with his fingers, flicking upwards and pressing against the spongy spot right near your hole’s rim.
His saliva pools on the sides of his mouth, gliding down your folds and between your asscheeks. You stare at the ceiling in complete disbelief.
The sheets were getting soaked, as if he were a slobbering animal, so hungry for your pussy he started to drool. His hips flex against the ends of the mattress, you take off your bra and start to pinch your nipples as he brings you to the cusp of orgasm.
He sucks your nub as if there were no tomorrow, tongue circling around it quickly, his fingers pressing upwards and applying pressure.
Your fingers grip his hair tightly as your thighs start to shake. You feel your lungs start to collapse.
“Clark.”
He moans, open mouthed, lips shining with your juices. He looked drunk on it, he swallows thickly as he looks at you from his position between your legs.
“Say it, say my name again.”
Unbelievable heat courses through your body at his slack jawed expression.
“Fu- “ He starts to lick and suck again, keeping his eyes on you. “Fuck-Clark”
One long suck brings you to ecstasy. Your body shakes as an uncontrollable squeal escapes your throat. Your thighs lock around his head, his fingers fuck your through your climax, opening you up, spreading.
He pulls your panties down your legs as he moves up your body, watching as you twitch and pulse, your mouth open as you panted.
“Where did you learn to do that?”
He shrugs. He gives you a smile, soft as he runs a hand over his head, waiting for you to calm down. You feel lightheaded, the world blurs for a moment.
Your hands shake as they lift to cup his cheek, thumb rubbing against his chin, covered in your slick.
“Let me suck you off, baby.”
He shakes his head at your request, head flicking down to lick your thumb clean. He hums and closes his eyes. You gasp at the action. So fucking dirty.
“C’mon,” you whine. He nibbles on your neck, you melt into his soft comforter. He brings both of your calves to his shoulders to have your thighs press on either side of your torso. A mating press.
He closes his eyes tightly and shivers at the sight of your bare pussy, glistening, your hole gaping and twitching.
“Tonight’s about you.”
He kisses you tenderly, slowly as he licks at your bottom lip, willing you to open up for him.
“All for you,” he murmurs into your mouth.
He shifts forward, you let him manhandle you, putting you in any position he wanted. You peek between your bodies, he guides his cock to your folds, rubbing his shaft over you, lubing himself up. His balls were heavy, full.
His tip pushes into your hole, you constrict around it. You throw your head back as the head pops inside of you with a slimy squelch. Your hands tighten into fists.
“Holy shit,” you breathe out shakily.
He knew how abnormally large he was. But he loved watching you squirm and whine. He kisses your cheek.
“Relax. I’ll go slow.”
You nod, leaning your head back, watching as he focuses on controlling himself. His eyes move across your body, watching as goosebumps rise along your skin, smiling lazily at the sight of you so pliant underneath him.
“Clark-” your words come out garbled, he watches you intensely as your cunt swallows his cock inch by inch. Your hands fist his sheets, your hole twitches and pulses, your walls squeezing so tight it felt as if they were attempting to push him out.
He shushes you, kissing down your neck and to your breasts, taking one into his mouth and sucking. His thumb circles over your clit, urging you to open up.
“You're so fucking huge,” you say out of breath, sweat collecting over your furrowed brow. He pushes in another inch, he groans into you and bites your nipple lightly.
“You can take it.”
You felt a building pressure in your lower belly, you took deep breaths in. You felt like you were on the verge of overstimulation, your senses surrounded by Clark, his scent, woody and warm, his touch, his mouth, his monster cock.
You close your eyes and rock into him, moving your hips from your compromised position. Your cunt produces more slick, tinges of pleasure as his cock drags along your walls and makes your mouth open in half moans and half whines.
He holds your hips in place.
“Let me take care of you.”
He straightens up, you could see his upper body, flexing as if willing himself to not push you further than you could handle. Your nipples tighten, pinched and sensitive in the cold air.
They jiggled with each flex of his hips.
He looks further down, his eyes focused on your cunt, watching the way it squelched with each press and drag of his cock. You bit your lip to hold in your moans, the headboard starting to rock against the wall loudly.
He could see himself inside of you, your walls stretching wide and straining. He lightly nudges your cervix, your body locks up. Your eyes well up in tears.
“So pretty, just a little longer and it’ll feel so good. Already drunk on my cock, uh?”
His voice was deeper than usual, raspy with want. The tremor of his tone digging into your skin and burying into the marrow of your bones. Your brain is turning to mush, lips parted, almost making you drool.
“Yeah- yes.”
He quickens pace, his balls pressing against your ass, the base of his cock kissing your folds. He presses his body weight against you as your slight winces of pain turn to full on moans of mind-numbing pleasure.
Each thrust feels like a punch in the gut, your lungs compressing and releasing your breath all in one go. A good punch, a sexy punch. His head rests besides yours on his pillow, his grunts feral as he erratically ruts into you.
He grinds against your pelvis, the pleasure shooting through you from your clit, making your body shake. Your words slurred into mumbles, walls so tight around his cock he almost felt as if it could stop him from moving forward entirely.
Your feet jostle, the backs of your thighs wobbling against his solid chest.
“Cum for me, baby.”
He sits up, releasing his hold on your legs and wrapping them around his waist. His palm presses against your lower belly. The pressure mounts again, you close your eyes tightly, but his hand grips your jaw.
“Hey, look at me.”
He squeezes your cheeks, making your lips squish together, moans escaping you freely. He seemingly gains control over most of your body as he pounds into you.
You nudge his hand lower, it lands on your throat. He sees you lose it completely. Your hips move to meet his with each movement, he feels his cock brush against your cervix each time, the soft tissue almost pushing him back like a wall made of Jello.
It sends a delightful shiver up your spine each time. Your body throbs, clit pulsing.
He’s only ever held the throats of bad guys. If that. It felt so aggressive, so demanding.
This was entirely new for him. He feels his chest tighten at the sight of your utter enjoyment, almost convulsing against his mattress as each flex of his hips presses you further into it.
He puts the slightest pressure along the sides of your neck, your cunt tightens so much he had to soften his thrusts. He fears he might actually lose control if you continue, but fuck if it didn’t feel good for him too.
It felt like your insides were being ripped apart, in a good way. You’ve never felt anyone reach so deep inside you, first emotionally and now physically.
You were on the verge of orgasm, his squeezing in pulses helping you along. He had a gentle hold over your entire body, sturdy and firm but not pushing further.
The headboard cracks against the walls, his bed creaks.
“C’mon, cum for me.”
He leans forward, kissing you with all that he has, your wet pussy makes an even wetter mess, each thrust producing gummy sounds to resound around the walls of his bedroom, your juices dripping to the sheets.
You swore you saw colors across your eyelids as you came. You could feel his hips twitch, body shuddering and mouth stilling against yours as he spilled into you.
It went on for a few seconds, both of your bodies wrung tight, molded perfectly against each other as you both shook in pulses.
He came a lot. You could feel the warmth of his seed spew from around his cock, dripping down your abused hole as he pulled out of you.
His hand smooths over your twitching thighs as he lightly shushes your groans and moans of utter fatigue.
He licks you up, moving his lips around your folds as if he were making out with them. The overstimulation made you push on his head weakly, but he didn’t move an inch.
It was like attempting to move a brick wall. You lean back against his pillows as he laps at you, the sounds of his feast making you cover your mouth and bite down your palm.
His hips flexed against the mattress, and he paused to give out a long moan. You turn your head to see him at full mast, cock still slick with his cum and your juices.
It was a long night.
…
You woke up in a cloud, your body seemingly floating atop a cumulonimbus. You feel deeply satisfied as you laid in Clark’s bed, nuzzling into the sheets and smelling his laundry detergent on them.
He changed them as you went into his bathroom to freshen up, right before going to sleep.
Your eyes finally open and you gaze around his room. He had his front-page paper hung up, a framed picture of everyone from the Daily Planet. A picture of you, cut out from who knows where, stuck into the corner of the frame of a candid of his parents, presumably a baby Clark held between them.
Your heart soared at the detail.
You hear him in the kitchen, it smelled like bacon, eggs and warming bread.
The scene was perfect. The sun’s rays were shining in through the wall to ceiling windows, his kitchen was illuminated by the warmth of the sun. He almost glowed from it.
You pick up your bag, attempting to be as quiet as possible. He pauses as if he could possibly hear you near silent movement for a second but continues. He was quirky you thought, your hands digging through your cam bag to fish out your camera.
His shoulders and back flex with every movement, his hand stirring the pan full of eggs, you presume, with a spatula.
You take a picture of him, with your personal digital camera. You feel a giddiness inside of you as you trace his figure in the image, his exposed torso, the sweats low on his hips.
You narrow your eyes. He looks sort of familiar. The toaster goes off and he picks up the bagel as if it were nothing, holding it in his palm as he coated it with cream cheese.
You almost want to tell him to drop it on the plate from how long he holds it like that. You wince, he must have tough hands. But they didn’t feel that calloused.
“How’d you sleep?” he asks without turning.
You swallow thickly, you could feel the bruises left on your hips, he held onto you fiercely throughout the night. Your back was covered in love bites, breasts too.
You slept like a baby.
“Good. You?”
He turns, food plated. He smiles widely as he makes his way to you.
“Great.”
Your stare makes him almost miss his step, you pull the sheets over your chest as you sit up. He bites his lip and swallows thickly at the sight of you.
You were gorgeous, he could see darkened spots over your body, his work.
You look through the camera roll in your digi cam, ignoring him as he places breakfast beside your legs. He sits next to you, peering over your shoulder.
You glance between him and the picture you have in your tiny screen. It was Superman, grinning widely, after he saved a girl’s cat stuck in a tree. He had waved at you, pointing to your camera and posing.
Clark didn’t have his glasses on. You look up at him with wide eyes, mouth parting in shock. Same dark hair, same broad shoulders and chest, same goddamn smile.
Clark hears blood rush through your veins quickly, your heart beating like a hummingbird’s. He gives you an almost pleading look as you stutter.
He says your name softly; you slap a hand over your face exasperatedly. How could you have not noticed? You curse under your breath as you cross your arms.
“Don’t-“ Clark attempts.
You narrow your eyes. He says your name again, this time in a light warning, pointing a finger at you. Clark Kent who wouldn’t hurt a fly and would actually go through hell and back to save it.
He makes sounds as you attempt to speak, interrupting you each time. You blurt it out quickly, leaving the room in stilling silence.
“You’re Superman.”
---------------------
David Corenswet’s voice is sexy and Superman has been freaky and horny since 1978. This is inspired more on the Lois and Clark dynamic from the 80s movies. Like wdym Lois’ underwear is pink, Clark???? Also, I will fight back against any babying of this man!
Requests open! Plesss give me Clark Kent ideas plesssss
synopsis: clark bending you over the counter, fingering you underneath your clothes just to give you a quick orgasm and a good start to your day.
cw: porn and no plot, fingering (f!receiving), little bit of dry humping, squirting, clark jizzes his pants <3
wc: 966
a/n: guess who just finished the longest semester ever??? finally, i have time to dedicate myself to writing superman porn ☺️
It starts off as a normal morning, just you and Clark rushing around the kitchen, trying to clean everything up after breakfast before you each go to work.
You've got a bit of time to spare, and Clark just wants to have a little moment of peace with you. You've both been so busy, and he misses you.
So while you're wiping the kitchen counter down, he hugs you from behind, just placing little kisses on your nape.
“You smell nice,” he says against your warm skin, inhaling the soft scent of your perfume. “Sweet.”
You hum softly, giving up on your task to lean back against him, just enjoying the moment.
But Clark can't hold back when it comes to you.
One of his hands slips down a little, moving from your stomach, lower, until his fingers graze the waistband of your pants.
“Clark,” you say quietly in warning, feeling your body grow hot at his touch. “We have to go.”
“We've got a while,” he murmurs as form of explanation, his fingers deftly undoing the button and the zipper on your pants.
“We'll be late for work,” you say weakly, warmth spreading between your thighs.
“We'll be fine,” he replies, grazing his teeth over your ear as his hand slips under your panties. His fingers slide over your cunt, gently parting your folds to press against your clit in neat little circles.
You let out a soft moan, hips pushing forward against his hand.
Clark's mouth trails down the side of your neck, kissing and sucking your skin, feeling himself getting harder and harder as you mewl and whine lowly.
His fingers move a little lower, prodding at your entrance, feeling your slick slowly starting to drip out.
“Oh, baby,” he groans lowly, his teeth lightly digging into your neck in a soft bite. “You feel so good.”
You moan, hands grabbing onto the counter, your hips pressing against his fingers. “Clark...fuck...”
“I know,” he says lowly, his voice rough, as he starts grinding his hips against your ass. He groans at the friction against his hard cock, and he can feel the front of his boxers already damp with precum.
You're making soft little sounds that go straight to his groin, his name falling from your lips in little gasps.
Gently, Clark eases you forward to bend over the counter, one hand on your hip, the other one sliding a finger into your wet pussy.
Your cunt welcomes him eagerly, walls warm and pulsing as his finger delves deep in and then curls, finding your g-spot with ease.
He gently pushes your foot with his to spread your legs farther apart, giving him more room.
With every breath he takes, he can smell your arousal, mixed with the scent of your body lotion and your shampoo. It makes him insane, makes him wish he could rip your pants off, sit you on this counter and eat you out like you deserve. But that'll lead to him fucking you, and then you'll both definitely be late to work.
You moan loud, thighs shaking as Clark adds a second finger into you, thrusting and curling them perfectly, the heel of his hand grinding against your clit.
A familiar heat spreads through your body, thick and intense as it fills your womb. It grows hotter as Clark fucks you with his fingers, pushing you towards the edge.
“Clark,” you gasp, but he already knows. He can feel your gummy walls squeezing his fingers tight, he can feel the way your body is shaking. He can hear your racing heart, can smell your juices dripping from you and gathering in your panties.
The thought of you being so close only spurs him on more. He rolls his hips against your ass, his cock twitching in his boxers as he grinds against you, the fabric sticky from his precum.
“I know, baby,” he grunts, the steady rhythm of his hips stuttering as a tight coil of heat grows taut in his lower abdomen. “Almost there.”
You're squealing now, your legs quivering and threatening to give out. But Clark holds you steady with one arm around your waist, keeping you in place.
The hot sensation in your womb builds and builds, like a balloon filling with air, until you're sure you can't take it anymore.
“Clark —” you try to warn him, but your brain is hazy with pleasure and your tongue isn't collaborating. “Fuck!”
The steady press of his fingers against that spongy spot in you, combined with the press of his palm against your clit, has you seeing stars. But it's also pushing you towards something more than just a regular orgasm.
You're mewling and whining, not able to find the words to warn him as he pushes you closer and closer to the edge until the heat is too much, until your body shudders and the tension in your womb snaps, and you come.
You moan his name loud enough that the entire building might've heard. A gush of your slick spills from you, soaking Clark's hands, making a mess of your panties and your work outfit, your juices drenching the fabric.
Clark moans as he feels you squirt on him, the feeling of it pushing him to his own orgasm. He comes with a rough groan, his hot cum spurting onto his boxers in thick, sticky ropes.
You're both breathing heavy, bodies slowly coming to, skin sticky with sweat.
Clark kisses the side of your neck gently as he withdraws his hand. “You okay?” he asks.
You nod softly, still breathless. “Yeah, I'm good.”
He hums. “You were right, we're gonna be late,” he says sheepishly. “We're gonna have to clean up before we head out. I wasn't counting on us making such a mess...”
♡ please comment and reblog my work, it means so much to me and inspires me to keep writing
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𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 - if you wanna be added to my Clark Kent taglist, lmk <3
werewolf!Soap has gotten robbed by a one night stand.
you were desperate. short on rent because your siblings couldn’t be bothered to return the money they borrowed from you after you’d been pressured by your parents to just give them what they wanted.
so you got creative and got busy. the bar was your usual place to strike. you went after the loud and boisterous fucker with the bad haircut after he’d declared that drinks were on him at his table for the night.
it was Soap’s own fault, really, for bringing you to his place. he was a good lay, which was a bonus. enthusiastic, a little too passionate. you hated how soft his eyes were when he pinned your hands above your head and made a point to set a slower pace, hated how praises seem to tumble out of his mouth when he trailed his lips down your skin before he littered you with bites and nips. his chest rumbling with something sickly sweet as he nuzzles his cheek against your neck and inhaled thickly as if he’s trying to breathe you in.
you didn’t sign up to be worshiped. didn’t sign up to be revered by a complete stranger. one you planned to steal from anyway, yet here you were. trapped under him as he pushed you over the edge again and again while your nailed raked down his arms.
he was eager to please too. eager to eat your pussy before and after he stuffed you full of cum. you went the extra mile to ride him to tears for good measure and he returned the favour by folding you in half and fucked you till the neighbours called and complained to keep the noise down.
but slept like a log right after. you almost did too with how much he wore you out but you forced yourself to stay away and pry yourself out of his heavy arms. which gave you the perfect opportunity to take what you want from him.
you struck gold that night. found a fat wad of cash in his wallet and a couple of expensive watches on his night stand which were worth a fortune.
you cast one long look at his sleeping frame. handsome motherfucker, this one. burly arms with a big hairy chest and legs to match. your fingers traced the faint, jagged line running along the side of his head to his chipped ear.
part of you wished this could’ve lasted longer. part of you wished you met him under different circumstances. but alas, life goes on. this would be the last you saw of him and he’d be glad to be rid of you.
or so you thought.
not even half a week lapses before you heard a knock at your front door. your blood ran cold when you opened it to find Soap’s familiar grin flashing vividly before he pushes his way in and pins you down, clasping a hand over your mouth before you can even think to call for help.
“there ye are, little thief.” he heaves over you as you squirm helplessly under him. “yer scent was far too easy tae find, lass.”
it’s not just that he’s heavy. he’s strong too. much stronger than you’d like him to be. you’re reminded of how he’d used that strength a two days ago to mold you to his bed without much of an effort.
you attempt, through tears, to mumble apologies under his palm. your hands try to push him away, to crawl out from under him. but he won’t budge and he won’t let you go anywhere.
just like last you saw of him, you’re trapped under him.
“not here fer that, sweet thing.” he pants into your neck. “i came tae finish what we started.”
it’s only then that you feel his cock pressed against your thigh. his hands pawing over the layers of your clothes and slipping underneath.
it’s only then that you realized that robbing him wasn’t your first, nor worst mistake.
willingly throwing yourself his way like a lamb to slaughter was.
I thought of this at like two in the morning and it might be my top ten funniest identity reveal scenarios. Imagine there was ever a moment where for one reason or another Spider-Man had to bring his vigilante buddies to his apartment in the middle of the night and everyone is so confused why this normally collected and unbothered crime fighter is freaking out.
They might not know who the guy is but they’ve worked with him enough to know he goes with the flow and doesn’t really care much for order or neatness. He’s one of the most chaotic people they’ve ever meet and he wouldn’t be surprised if a wormhole opened in the sky.
They’ve seen Spider-Man crack jokes while fighting literal aliens. Spider-Man ignores calls from Nick fury and has fought several avengers. Spider-Man landed hits on Thanos and held the infinity gauntlet.
Spider-Man is also about to have a panic attack because Matt accidentally got blood on his couch.
Spider-Man is hissing at Jessica to take her shoes off at the door.
Spider-Man is refusing to turn up the thermostat because of how expensive the bills are and yells at Danny for his quote on quote billionaire biased over privileged request.
Spider-Man is aggressively doing the dishes at five in the morning
Spider-Man is throwing chicken breast and frozen greens onto the counter and trying to speed thaw them with a blowtorch.
Luke Cage is staring at a giant Star wars Lego set on the table very confused and gets yelled at not to touch a single piece.
Somehow Frank Castle is the only person not actively pissing Spider-Man off. Somehow the guy who lives in a fallout shelter actually knows how to behave when at someone else’s home.
Eventually everyone just shuts up and sits down as Spider-Man aggressively dumps hydrogen peroxide onto anything stained with blood.
Matt looks like he has something he really wants to say but Spider-Man starts to vacuum while simultaneously wiping down counters
They have seen Spider-Man defuse explosives with less anxiety.
Spider-Mans head just snaps towards the front door and he runs into his room at full speed before running out in hello kitty pajamas and a black eye a few seconds later.
Spider-man looks like he’s twelve.
Spider-Man shoves them all outside onto the fire escape and closes the curtains before anyone can say anything.
Spider-Man’s (mom? older sister? Aunt?) just walks through the front door appearing completely exhausted and looks at him blankly.
Spider-Man seems completely unconcerned with the fact he reveled the identity he’s protected for years, and a hundred times more concerned about whatever this lady has to say.
“Peter. Why was the door unlocked… and what happened to your face? And why aren’t you ready for school?” She asks slowly looking him up and down,
“… it’s PJ day at school.” Spider-Man (peter???) says pathetically,
May slowly nods waiting for more of an explanation.
“And I need to do a theater class for extra credit since gym is bringing my grade down.” Peter says eyes flickering to Matt and Frank
Both of which are still in full costume on the fire escape as Peter slowly closes the curtains further.
“Thought I’d get it right at home so I don’t mess it up in class.” He says casually rubbing his hands together as if all the defenders aren’t staring at him in abject horror.
Mays eyes bags are designer and she looks as if she’s debating whether or not this is a hallucination
“Okay… well good luck, I’m sure you’ll do fine.” She blinks eyes wandering back to Peter’s face in tired confusion “Hey… that special effects make up is actually really good. Make sure you grab breakfast on your way out it’s in the fridge.” She says encouragingly.
May Parker retires to her room.
Peter Parker picks up all of their shoes which were still at the front of the apartment and hands it to them silently.
The defenders leave. Nobody acknowledges this for days. Spider-Man avoids them like the plague. Every time it gets brought up Spider-Man try’s to convince them he has no idea what any of them are talking about before ditching them.
They eventually decide to drop it because no one wants to deal with a snarky avoidant Spider-Man.
They all unfortunately seem fine with dealing with an snarky avoidant Peter Parker.
Danny Rand gets a meeting set up with Tony stark and ignores the other billionaire for the entirety of it as he trys to find Peter asking for him by name. Danny has convinced himself that Peter needs a mentor to teach him material arts so he can protect himself. Peter would love nothing more then if Danny would stop showing up at his fake internship so that Tony would stop calling him about this asking why he knows other billionaires and if he’s leaving him to work at Rand industries. Peter reiterates several times that he doesn’t work at either and that his internship is fake. Tony still offers him double his wage not to sell stark secrets to Rand. Peter doesn’t get paid anything. The internship is fake. He tells Tony this several times. Tony offers to triple his wage.
Jessica jones really doesn’t care enough about this to be putting in this much effort because she has better things to be doing but she unfortunately has a conscience. Jessica tries to confront his aunt about this but Peter has already told May that she’s an alcoholic and struggling. May helps Peter plan an intervention for Jessica. Jessica walks into their apartment to see decorations and sobriety pamphlets on the table. Jessica goes home without getting to say anything and decides the kid is definitely Spider-Man and he’s obviously doing just fine.
Luke Cage decides to confront Peter because he can’t let a kid out themselves in danger without trying to help. He takes a trip into Queens and gets front row seats to Spider-Man beating up a giant lizard in the middle of the street. Luke makes eye contact with Spider-Man as the vigilante picks up a streetlight and bends it to use as handcuffs for the defeated foe. Luke leaves immediately because he’s not touching any of that with a ten foot pole.
Frank doesn’t even try to confront Spider-Man. Frank just knocks on his front door after school one day to inform him that he’s too young to be a vigilante. Peter informs him he’s too old to still be a vigilante. Frank lectures and yells at him for several minutes. Peter could literally not care less. Frank tells him that it’s dangerous and not worth it at such a young age. Peter has three fractured ribs and a headache that would feel much better if Frank would stop yelling. Frank threatens to tell his aunt. Peter tells him that his aunt is under the impression he’s in a gang so being Spider-Man is would be a relief. Peter closes the door in his face. Frank bangs on his door, Peter turns up the TV volume and ignores him. This cycle continues for several days until the NYPD decides that the punisher has moved onto queens and start setting up patrols for him forcing Frank to abandon his goal.
Peter works as a photographer at the Daily Bugle. A journalist from the New York Bulletin asks for him specifically. He goes to a cafe where he sees a very kind looking blond lady who exhibits an air of professionalism in a booth smiling at him. Right next to her is Matt fucking Murdock. Peter completely ignores Matt instead introducing himself to Karen Page. They get into a networking conversation about how much he admires her articles while she compliments his photos. They decide to try and work together more often. Neither of them acknowledge Matt for the entirety of the interaction. Peter leaves politely thanking her for having him. Matt ends up paying for the bill. Karen thinks this is the funniest thing to happen ever.
Bonus points if May knows Peter is Spider-Man but is waiting for him to tell her.
Extra bonus points if all the defenders are outside on this fire escape bare foot and Peter has to give them back their shoes before they leave.
Unlimited bonus points if the Frank bangs on the door aggressively and May opens it instead. Frank asks her if she knows where her kid is right now and she silently opens the door further so Frank can see Peter playing with legos on the dining room table and doing his AP homework. The little shit waves at him.
I think Simon did hate cooking, when he was on his own.
Just didn’t see the damned point. No one was gonna see it, he just needed to give his engine fuel and that’s it. No need to get fancy when protein bars, tinned beans, and microwave dinners did the trick.
And then he started dating you. And at first, he didn’t feel the need to change. You were clearly fine with being brought back to his flat to get fucked on a floor mattress, so what did it matter?
It mattered when he wanted you to stay. When in the morning, he found that he had nothing to offer. Microwaved egg bites at best. Tea, powdered milk, a bulk of granulated sugar he’d bought when he signed his lease, all but turned into a single solid brick.
So he started small. Bought some eggs. Pancake mix you shake up with some water. Waking up before you was easy— then he just put in his earbuds and threw on some “you poor soul, your mommy didn’t teach you this?” Level YouTube tutorial and got cracking.
The endorphin rush he got from seeing you smile and eat his food, sitting across from him at his little kitchen table, could not be overstated.
And then it escalated. Slowly, at first. Adding a little fresh cream to scrambled egg. Getting a pepper grinder. Pancake mix from scratch. Then he tried his hand at poaching eggs. Making a simple hollandaise. Adding a compote with fresh berries to homemade scones. Dinner was next— it made for nice foreplay, he told himself, pleasing you with grilled asparagus and salmon basted with garlic and rosemary in melted butter before he pleased you with his cock.
And on it went, until he found himself moved in with you, feeding you, scolding you for heating up a hot pocket when you could’ve just told him you were hungry. Smacking your hand with his spoon for trying to steal a taste. Giving you the beater after he whips up cream or batter. Keeps a windowsill herb garden with a set of militant instructions so you can keep it alive while he’s on leave. A freezer full of pepped meals so he knows his bird is well fed when he’s gone (and he keeps a flawless mental inventory— so he’d better not come home to too many still in there, or you’re in trouble).
The last thing his team expects when they’re invited over post-op is a kitchen with cast iron and enamel pans, high grade fillet knives, and perfectly conditioned butcher block cutting boards. And those who foolishly offer to help do not expect the field treatment they receive.
“Jesus Christ, Johnny— I’ve seen you defuse an IED with a paperclip and chewing gum in less than five minutes, but it takes you 20 to cut up an onion like a five year old?”
I watched 'Send help' with my boyfriend and now I can't stop thinking about fem!reader stranding on an island with Soap and Ghost.
!MDNI!
cw: mention of injury, SMUT, a teeny tiny bit of dirty talk(?), oral (m receiving), p in v
a/n: am I happy with this? absolutely not. Also, yes, I don't fucking know how to tag NSFW 😔🤚
The heli was struck, sending it to crash down over the ocean on the way to a mission. It was by pure luck that Ghost, Soap and you were still strapped into your seats when the chopper started spiraling downwards—allowing the three of you to survive the initial crash.
As water floods the interior, flames licking the outside and burning thanks to lost oil and fuel, you barely manage to get open the straps of the seat and get out in time. You head is pounding and spinning from being whipped around violently, leaving you hazy and disoriented.
You don't know how, but you manage to make it to a nearby island—the wreckage still burning faintly at the horizon.
The first day, after waking up at the shore, you tumble around in the sand in shock—unable to process what happened, the trauma to your head keeping you from snapping straight into survival mode. Your gear's gone because you freed yourself from it to be able to swim towards land, leaving you only with the knife in the holster at your thigh as a weapon.
Mindlessly you walk around the island in search of anything really—shelter, comrades. You need water soon, food eventually too because you don't know when help might come.
You found Ghost and Soap after hours of walking along the shore in the burning sun, the first signs of a heatstroke already showing.
Soap is out cold, dried blood sticking to the side of his head and face—his head protected from the sun thanks Ghosts jacket he put over it to block out the uv rays as much as possible.
Ghost is awake though also injured, a deep wound having torn apart the flesh and muscle in the center of his thick thigh. Whatever was stuck in it, Ghost pulled out to avoid infection and took care of the wound as best as the situation allowed—at least it's not bleeding anymore.
"Thought ye were dead sweet'eart." he calls out when he sees you and you want to cry in relief, chapped lips turning into a smile—you're not alone, not inevitably doomed.
Ghost doesn't give you the chance to relax though, gives you instructions instead as he jumps right into his role of being your L.T—you're the only one with full mobility of you three since Soap is unconscious and Ghost can barely walk, forcing you into the role of sole caretaker.
It's thanks to Ghost that training finally takes over, making you gather whatever's eatable and gathering drinking water.
When Soap wakes up, he's dazed and complaining about pain in his right arm and ribs—turns out they're broken. You do what you can to stabilize the injuries, check on Ghosts wound which he only lets you do reluctantly.
Over the next two days, while Soap and Ghost are too injured to help, you make shelter for the three of you. At night, since they're cold, Soap rightfully insists the three of you huddle together to preserve heat—you ignore the boners pressing into your lower back and stomach when you're sandwiched between them during the night.
The two men do what they can, even if it's not much. Soap helps in gathering supplies, Ghost helps process food to get it to be edible. And despite the situation, the three of you are doing well. Nights don't end with frustration or useless discussions when help will arrive. "Kannae imagine they won' find us, bonnie." Soap insists with easy and reassuring smiles.
Survival isn't the hard part about being stranded on an island for you three soldiers—it's the loneliness. You're surprised how easy you cave in.
Your slick is wetting Ghosts pants as you bounce up and down, pulling up high enough so only his fat mushroom tip stays buried in your cunt before slamming down—humming against Soaps cock in your throat as Ghosts hits that sweet spot deep inside you while the open zipper of his trousers drag against your clit.
Ghosts hands are planted firmly on your hips, squeezing the fat there as he helps to guide you and watching you use his dick to get off. "Fuckin' hell luv, didn't know how good yer pussy is." he groans.
Soap is leaning slightly against the palm tree where you built the shelter, his right hand buried in your hair at the back of your head—forcing you to take his cock faster and deeper, making tears fill your eyes as you fight against the gag reflex and for air.
"Yeah, just like that bonnie." he moans deeply, his injured hand twitching in the makeshift sling around his neck like it wants to reach out too.
You hollow your cheeks as you suck Soaps dick, the bitter and salty taste of his pre-cum lathering over your tongue and he winces in pain when he bucks forward a tad too much due to his ribs still being broken.
Ghost grips your hips harder, moving you faster up and down his length—he growls when you clench around him, reaching forward with his hand so his thick index and middle finger can pinch your clit. "Yer so fucking tight."
Soap is delighted by that, the vibration of your moan making his cock twitch inside your mouth and throat. "Fucking beautiful." he murmurs, breathing heavily, as he releases his hold on your hair to pinch one of your hard nipples through the fabric of your shirt.
If that's the payback for keeping these two alive, then perhaps staying on a deserted island isn't as bad as you initially thought.
request fulfillment in which simon ‘ghost’ riley decides you need to turn your big, beautiful brain off.
“love, for christ's sake. you need t’ fuckin’ stop now.” simon's voice cuts through your focus as you stare down at an email you're trying to reply to on your laptop screen. he leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, and frowns. “they get enough of yer fuckin’ time. now yer givin’ them yer saturday evenin’ when yer meant t’ be gettin’ ready.”
a blink, “just need to send this. then i’m done. promise.” you reply, face twisting into a grimace. you know he's right; that your job has started infiltrating moments it's not meant to.
there's a pause as you glance down at your bare legs. “and i promise i’ll put trousers on before the lads get here.” it's sheepish.
your laptop shuts with a thud. simon is suddenly right in front of you. and he looks as close to pissed as he ever gets with you.
“no love. you're gonna fuckin’ stop now. you need yer brain turnin’ off a bit.” it's clipped, flat - an order rather than a suggestion.
you start to protest, but the words don't make it past the point of a thought before his calloused hands find your hips; flipping you and pressing you face down onto the mattress; one arm hooked under your hips as your underwear is unceremoniously dragged down the back of your thighs.
his palm collides with your ass cheek with a sharp thwack and you can't help but bite your lip, arching back into the warmth spreading from the memory of his handprint there.
“there you are love. now shut that fuckin’ powerhouse in yer skull up for a bit. want you fuckin’ stupid this evening. yer more pleasant company when yer not thinkin’ so much.”
his palm finds your cunt, grinding the heel of his hand down onto your clit until you whine, pressing yourself down onto the rough callouses on his palm.
he grins. you can't see it. but you can picture it there - shit eating and satisfied.
he shoves you further onto the bed, one arm hooking around your waist to hold you exactly where he wants you.
and then his mouth finds your cunt.
and oh god there's absolutely no ceremony to it, no warm up. no quick flicks of his tongue on your clit to tease you. just his mouth latching on to your clit before pulling back to drag the flat of his tongue over every inch of you.
just him making out with your cunt like it's the last thing he'll ever do.
and he just doesn't stop. when your legs tremble and you try and pull away the iron band of his arm around you waist hauls you back.
when you clench your hands into the sheets and drop your head to the mattress he pulls back for half a second to breathe before diving right back in.
he knows what he's doing is working from the way you've gone pliant; the only noise leaving you a garbled string of whines and moans and occasional words - mostly bitten off expletives followed by his name.
he pulls back again just to scrape his teeth over the curve of your ass and hear you hiss before pressing a kiss over the same spot.
“see? yer already nicer to be around love.”
you can't formulate a response other than a growl with no real heat behind it.
he grins again. absolutely undeterred. emboldened, even.
slowly, he pushes two fingers inside your cunt that's already fluttering around nothing just to watch the way your mouth drops into a pathetic little ‘o’ shape; rubbing the pads of his fingers over the squishy spot that makes you try and crawl away again.
“love, jus’ stop fightin’. yer practically fuckin’ cross eyed.”
before you can even try and think of a retort in the pile of mush you're calling a brain, his mouth is on you again; this time with purpose. each flick of his tongue designed to make you finally crumble.
when you start fucking yourself back onto his fingers mindlessly he knows he's won. he knows that for the rest of the evening you're going to be tucked into his side like a warm shadow. sweet and soft; hard edges rounded down into something that doesn't always bite back.
you come with a noise that sounds like surrender. a shuddering gasp that trails off into a low, long whine. simon doesn't stop until you're nothing but a pile of trembling limbs and breathless murmurs of his name into drool slicked sheets.
he rolls you onto your back, slides your underwear back into place. pulls you into a sitting position before pressing a kiss against your temple.
“get fuckin’ ready love. they'll be ‘ere in thirty.”
later that night johnny corners simon in the kitchen.
“what's happened to ‘em? they haven't called me a prick once all evening. they feelin’ alright?”
lieutenant!simon stays with sergeant!reader because his flat has mold and seeing you off-duty knocks him sideways
Simon’s flat had mold. Or something like that.
To be honest, you’d stopped listening halfway through his explanation - something about damp walls, black spores and a useless landlord. You were too busy thinking about finally getting off base, out of uniform, and into your own shower.
Then you heard yourself say, “Yeah, that’s fine, you can stay at mine for a bit.”
And by the time you realized what you’d agreed to, it was too bloody late to take it back.
What were you going to say? Actually, Lieutenant, I was only half-listening and you staying with me might be weird. Not a chance. Not to Simon Riley.
You’d always had a soft spot for him - hidden somewhere between respect and whatever the hell sat in your chest every time he said your name and not your callsign. He was terrifying and magnetic in equal measure.
It was going to be fine, you told yourself.
And for the most part, it was.
Simon took the guest room next to yours. You’d shared safehouses before, dirtier ones with far less privacy. This was nothing new. He was quiet, neat, didn’t leave a trace. The only sign he was there was the deep rumble of his voice when he said “Mornin’” or the faint sound of the kettle at dawn.
You forgot he was there, sometimes.
But Simon—
Simon never forgot you.
Seeing you at work was one thing. Tactical vest, boots, voice sharp enough to cut through radio static. But here, in your own space, in soft clothes and bare feet—he didn’t know where to look. Couldn’t decide which version was real.
The first night, he padded down the hall with a glass of water, heading for bed. You’d said goodnight hours ago, voice muffled through the door. “Don’t stay up too late, Lieutenant.”
He’d just grunted something like “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Now, passing your door, he noticed it cracked open. He wasn’t nosy, never had been, but something made him pause. The faint hum of white noise drifted out.
Then he saw you.
Tucked under a massive down comforter, some stuffed thing clutched to your chest. An eye mask. A bloody nightlight. And—Christ—was that drool on your pillow?
Simon froze, glass in hand.
He’d seen you covered in blood and dust, screaming orders through chaos, patching someone’s wound without blinking. And now you were this…soft and quiet and safe.
It did something to him.
He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, exhaling slow. The same hands that had held a rifle for hours now clutched a glass too tight, the muscles in his forearm jumping. You looked so far from the Sergeant he knew - unguarded, slack with sleep, your face half-hidden by the pillow.
The sound of your steady breathing filled the hall. It shouldn’t have mattered. But something in his chest pulled tight anyway. A reminder of everything he’d probably never have.
He stayed too long. Then he shut the door the rest of the way.
You take out your little tin of Vaseline, taking a small amount on your finger and bringing it to your lips. You feel Simon Riley’s large presence walk up to you. He leans one hand against the wall. He’s standing so close you could almost see his pupils expand a little when you looked up into them.
Your heart racing, you hold his gaze and rub your finger over your lips. Dip into the tin, back onto your lips. You rub your lips together.
“Can I have some?” Ghost’s gruff voice rumbles from beneath his mask.
“You want lip balm?” You ask, somewhat incredulous. He didn’t seem like the type.
He merely nods, never talking his eyes off yours.
“Okay.” You say, the word sounding more like a question. He lifts his mask just above his mouth. You go to hand over the tin. His hand comes out but instead of taking the tin, they find your chin, gently gripping you and pulling you closer. His lips land on yours, firm but a lot gentler than you were expecting.
He pulls back, rubbing his lips together. You blush furiously.
“Thanks, love.” He mumbles, pulling his mask back down. He walks away then as if nothing just happened.
tws: reader has vaginismus, loads of spit, oral, fingering, squirting, smut 18+
simon has no clue what heaven is like. fuck, he doubts he’ll even get in when he dies, but this? this seems like the closest he’ll ever get.
here with you.
legs spread open, pussy glistening with a mixture of his spit, and your glossy eyes looking up at him. he watches as your chest rises with each breath, and his mouth waters at the sight of your nipples begging for more attention. eyes trail down to where your muscles clench and usually end things early.
“gonna let me in tonight?” he asks, a simple question.
do you want to try adding a finger tonight? or was his mouth enough?
he’s fine with ending things here. the cum on his belly and stained sheets are enough to prove it. still, he likes to leave the door open for when you’re feeling up to it.
“let’s try it,” you nod with a sneaky smile.
“yeah?” he gruffs, repositioning himself so his mouth hovers over your pussy.
you wait until his eyes find yours, and while maintaining eye contact you reach to spread your lips apart for him and nod. time stops for a second and resets when you giggle at his frozen figure, his eyes glued to your tight hole.
and that’s how you find yourself whining simon’s name, clenching repeatedly at every attempt simon’s finger takes to tease your hole. each clench is met with a soft kiss on your clit, feather-like and soft.
“relax for me.”
his gentle words make you huff, but still you listen. you let your muscles go, let your body sink into the soft mattress, and let your thighs go limp around simon’s head.
“thats it,” he drags out the praise, holding his breath when his pointer finger pushes. the stinging sensation threatens to ruin the moment, but you shut it out.
he pushes until your muscles stretch around him, wetting his digit with your slick. he’s careful to wait it out. he waits for your cry, waits for your muscles to go stiff, waits for the familiar sniffle of ‘maybe next time,’ but it never comes.
instead, his weak ears pick up the faintest moan.
testing the waters, he goes deep until he bottoms out, makes the tiniest moves, and watches for your reaction. immediately, his cock stirs awake when your jaw drops in pleasure. fingers that focused on spreading your lips apart find their new home on the bedsheets, gripping tight when simon curls his finger inside.
“agai-n! fuck, do that again,” you breathe out until your head spins, not bothering to refill your lungs.
simon knows it.
“breathe for me.”
your wet gasp results with another curl of his finger, this time, simon pairs it with his tongue against your clit.
straying from your usual routine, your muscles clench with need and desperation. like you want to keep him inside, not push him out.
“fuck!”
your lower tummy tingles with the urge to cum, but it’s different. feels more intense, especially with the pressure inside your pussy.
“yer doing so good for me,” simon moans against your clit, petting the nub with his drooling tongue.
pressure builds with each curl and it isn’t long before you’re gasping out his name and rolling your hips to meet his actions.
“push out for me,” simon groans, loving the way your walls hug him.
he can’t wait until a finger turns into two, and two turns into three. maybe one day, you’ll be clenching around his cock, milking him until he can’t fuckin think.
and you do exactly what he says, letting go as you allow your orgasm to take over. the wet sounds of your pussy fill your ears, before you hear a wet splash.
rather than letting you ride out your high with his finger inside, simon pulls out, and replaces his finger with his tongue. pushing the wet muscle inside, and slurping up whatever he can with his wet mouth. the foreign muscle has your head spinning.
“ooh, my god,” you cry, and push his head when it becomes too much.
twitching from overstimulation, your pussy clenches around nothing, but the stinging pain never comes. not tonight, and it’s nights like these that make you hopeful
this goes out to the real ones w/ tight pussies. yall keep it real tight and i love that
He knows his cock is big, knows it’s thick and long and it bulges at your tummy whenever he manages to bottom out in your snug cunt. Knows you take deep breaths when your taking him. And the brute Loves it that way, loves fucking you rough and bending you every which way, turning you stupid just from him hitting your sticky spot inside you over and over till your soaking his abdomen.
But God, does he love when you climb on top of him, your perfect ass facing him, pussy contained by that lacey cheetah print thong he likes and you taking his cock in your hands, rolling your hands and getting it all stiff and big— then taking it down your tight throat.
“Fuck me, Kitten thaaaat’s it.”
Can’t help the groans falling from his lips as you take him inch by inch, till you can’t anymore. He can feel your breath against his jeans, your warm mouth sucking as much as you can, your bead bopping uo and down slowly. Simon pulls your panties to the side, slick dripping out of your pussy lips. He grunts, “Jesus look at this shit, she’s soaked like this from only sucking my cock?”
You moan around his length when he gives your pussy a harsh smack, pulling your legs around his head as he leans back on the couch, your entrance closer to his mouth. “Fuckin hell, I missed my girls.” Simon gives your pussy a fat kiss, drinking and lapping up every bit that your soaking mess is leaking out. You can’t help the mewl, letting Simons cock go with a loud ‘pop’
“Shit Si, mmmph!”
His thick fingers dip into your hole, thrusting them in and out, his wet fingers slipping out and flicking your cunt
Simon hisses when he feels your tongue lick a stripe up his shaft, licking around his aching tip, yout plump lips covered in his pre. The older man hands petting your head, kissing between your thighs. “Come on dolly, let me use your mouth.”
And you can’t help but clench around his fingers, letting him push your head down further till yout can’t breath, air barley reaching yout brain. It’s so much, the feel of Simon deep in your throat, gurgling around his dick so much that spit and cum fall down your chin.
He growls, throwing his head back in pleasure as he guides your head up and down his shaft. Hollowing your mouth so perfectly tight around him. “Fuck- So fuckin needy for it swee’art, love how good you take it.”
Your moans get louder, gripping his thighs as your walls clench around three of Simon’s fingers that thrust so deep inside you. He cums deep in your throat without warning, having you choking on his dick as your legs shake in his arms.
Simon smirks, brushing your hair back as you pant. His thumb brushes against your lips, smearing his cum over then and then putting his thumb in yout mouth for you to suck it off his thumb.
“My pretty fuckin girl.”
a/n: this is sloppy and I had a terrible day but I think Simon patting my head while fucking my throat would be so nice🥺🥺
warnings: 18+ mdni. dirty talking Joel. some pussy play. pussy pronouns. allusion to sex. w.c: under 500
an: I had a thot and this is the tiny result. 💙
𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⋅ 𝐅𝐢𝐜 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐬 ⋅ 𝐉𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫
Warm, golden rays are pouring through the kitchen window in Joel's Jackson home when he finds you bent over, inspecting the contents of his fridge for. You must've grabbed his blue jean button-up when you woke up, the one he tugged off in a hurry last night, leaving him wondering where you ran off to when he rolled over and found the side of his bed warm to the touch.
Your bare ass peaks from under the worn material when you shift on your feet, gifting him a vivid glimpse of the place he swore he called home hours ago. Joel curses under his breath as blood rushes south.
Before he can think, he weaves his hands around your hips, yanking you into his clothed body, a high-pitched yelp tearing from your lips. Your ass cushions his pelvis as his hold on you grows tight.
Joel drags his nose along the curve of your neck as you squirm in his arms, and he winds his hands around your waist, settling his palms on your soft, bare belly.
"You look real good wearin' my shirt, Darlin'. I'm thinkin' this is all you wear from now on."
You sag against his frame, a wall of warmth and safety; your hands barely fit around his wrists as you clutch him for support. The thought of being so bare to him has your stomach tumbling. Your back arches, testing his vice lock around your middle, seeing if he'll let you escape, but a rough hand slides north and presses between your breasts, a subtle warning as he easily keeps you pinned.
"Got you right where I wan' ya," he husks, slowly grinding his half hard cock against your ass. "An I ain't lettin' ya go anytime soon."
The hand that clutches his wrist travels south as he moves; thick fingers creep through the curls that cover your mound before cupping your sensitive flesh. "Gonna be good? Lemme fill you again before day breaks?"
With a breathy mewl, your head lolls. You press your weight into the hand on your sternum as nimble fingers dip between your folds, gathering arousal and swirling a slick pad over your clit.
"Bet that pretty pussy would love bein' on display for me," He husks, "Lettin' me claim 'er whenever I want."
A pathetic gasp fills your lungs. Heat rises steadily in your belly, raging and consuming, setting every nerve ablaze. You grab the counter, hands clutching the top in a death grip as the faint sound of a zipper registers in your brain.
"I'd hold on tight if I were you," Joel teases, flipping the bottom of the blue jean button up over your hips so he can get a front-row view just as his cock catches on your weeping hole. "Cause I plan on fuckin' 'er until she's cryin' all over the kitchen floor."
feel free to scream at me -> 💌
reblogs & comments are extremely appreciated! follow @ozzieslibrary for new fic updates!
A/N: This may or may not be something that I've become self conscious over lately. this is more of a self-indulgent short piece :)
Warnings: A bit angsty, reader has a bit of self loathing over their hands, could be read as a metaphor for different things? or taken literally. Logan being supportive <3
Fingers break through the soil.
Soil, a mixture of sand, silt, clay. Minerals, rocks, organic matter. All form together a messy composite that nurtures life. Both soft and rough, wet and dry.
You dug through it, creating space after space to plant the very life that the soil would nurture. Asters, trilliums, wild geraniums. Pleasant scents that wafted to your nose and give you an eerie feeling of peace.
Brows creased as you stared at the soil and mulch the you spread and dug apart with your fingers. You had tools available, trowels and rakes and shovels- but you chose to use your hands instead. Toiling over the soil, repeated actions and movements that you don't stop.
The sun shined in your eyes, rays shooting down and hitting you with an intense heat that made your skin burn and sweat bead on your forehead.
You turned, grabbing another tulip- sticking the bulb securely into the hole you dug and pushing the dirt over it securely. You pat the dirt, firming it around the pink tulip you set in place- stopping as you stare at your hands that are placed on the ground.
They were covered in dirt. Brown and black specks, a dark dust layered over your skin. Small clumps that climbed up to your elbows.
Closer observation, dirt was buried under your nails and in the crevices of them. Your nails are short, broken, and cracked. Your fingers were crooked- they always were like that.
You turned turned your hand, noting the dryness of your palm. The dirt had taken in the moisture of your skin, sucking it dry. The life, health, and love line of your hand was pronounced and dark from the soil that buried itself into your skin. Callouses were forming from the work you do every day.
You should probably wear gloves.
Your hands weren’t pretty. They weren’t dainty and thin like Jeans. They weren’t smooth and perfectly manicured like Ororos.
It didn’t matter how much lotion you wore, how often you filed your nails, or painted them. They would never look feminine, pretty, delicate. They looked awful.
A frown set on your face as you stared at your hands, sinking deeper into the pit of your mind.
“Looks nice.”
You blinked, a small inhale as you realized you’d been holding your breath. You turned your hand to look at Logan. He tilted his head, a sweet smile on his face as he looked down at you.
“You alright bub?” He asks in concern.
“Yeah.” You finally say, your voice hoarse. You’ve been out here for hours. Digging through the soil. Dirtying your hands. You’d been lost in thought, barely moving your position kneeling into the grass and dirt.
“Something bothering you?” He asks, kneeling next to you. You cleared your throat, staring down at your hands once more, now resting on your thighs. “You’ve been at it out here for a while sweetheart.”
It was your escape, the gardens. Even if there was nothing to do, there was something to do. You’d create something. Remove those shrubs, transplant some flowers, and prune the woody plants. You would water, fertilize, and look for signs of disease and pests.
Now though, it seems that the world has finally managed to climb into your garden, poisoning your only escape.
Logan was the only one to pick up on it. Of course, he was- he was so intuitive to your every move. He watched you begin to come out to the garden at random, spending hours upon hours working on it silently. The others thought it was a nice hobby that you decided to start as a pastime for when there was nothing to do.
Logan knew better.
He never tried to bring it up. Knowing it was what you needed.
Then today, he stirred at nearly 6 in the morning, finding you're gone from your shared bed already. He climbed out, walking towards the window where he watched you already in the gardens when the sun just barely peaked over the horizon. He’d come out and check on you throughout the day- never interrupting you, just making sure you weren’t pushing yourself too hard. It was now 4 o'clock, and he hadn’t seen you eat, drink, or do much of anything other than dig into the soil and plant something new.
You stare down at your hands on your thighs.
“Sweetheart?” Logan put a hand over yours. You look at his. The way it settled over your dirty hand. No fear, no shame, no disgust.
He curled his fingers around your hand. You finally looked up at him. His hazel eyes gazed adoringly into yours. “You’ve been working pretty hard out here. It looks beautiful.” He says.
You turned your head to look at the garden, the flowers and shrubs and trees. You watched a butterfly flutter past, landing on a small butterfly bush you planted a few weeks ago. Its wings softly flap before it finally rests. You spent so much time digging and digging, you never stopped to look around you.
To see what you cultivated.
“Maybe it’s time to take a break?” He asks. You turned to look at him again. “Take care of yourself now, yeah? Better yet, let me do it.” He smiles, bringing your dirt cover hand to his lips, and pressing a soft kiss to the back of it.
A small quiver of your lip as you watched him. He never broke eye contact with you as he kissed your skin. His lips felt soft against your dry skin. He pressed several pecks to your hand, seemingly unaffected by the dirt, and the dryness, nothing phased him. He seemed happy to even just touch you, to be near you.
You let out a small exhale, and nodded, allowing him to help you up from the ground. He intertwined his fingers with yours, leaning to press a kiss to your temple, and you walked away from the garden.
oh this is beautiful. you can feel the emotions in this and god it made my heart hurt. i love how supportive he is, because yeah he would love every part even if you don't. so so good.
Characters: Bucky Barnes & a special surprise (no pairing)
Word count/Rating: 1.3k / T
Summary: Bucky struggles in the winter months. Walks help clear his head.
***
It's harder in the winter months. He would laugh at the irony of it if he wasn't the one reliving the reasons why.
Dr. Raynor had mentioned seasonal depression to him once. They both knew what he was dealing with went far beyond that. Still, he attempted the methods.
He increased his already rigorous training schedule. He made sure his meals were balanced and healthy. He made more of an effort to talk with others, even John. He bought one of those light therapy lamps that he was convinced did nothing other than provide a nice glow to read by.
None of it seemed to make a difference. None of it, except the walks.
Irony layered on irony. Nothing else calms his mind like walking through the cold and snow that drives him to the darkest corners of it.
Bucky never cared for the winter, even as a kid. There was a chill that would creep into his bones – not leaving until the spring thaw. Steve usually got sick, sometimes bad enough to keep him up at night with worry. One winter the temperatures got so low he and Rebecca had to share a bed just to keep warm at night. The days ended sooner, keeping him cooped up for too long and feeling claustrophobic.
The eight year old version of him had no idea just how cold the world could really get. New York winters had nothing on a Serbian one. No winter could ever compare to being put on ice.
The time he spent in the freezer itself was almost a blessing. A blissful nothingness – as close to death as he could come. Free of the violence he otherwise underwent or inflicted. He still couldn't find the right words to describe the way it felt. Not quite asleep, nor quite dead. Untethered. Separate from himself and time. Waking up each time hoping for it to be the last.
It set a chill into him he's never been able to shake. Deeper than bone. Permanent. Constant. Something he can never make amends with. Something the spring thaw can no longer remove.
The snowfall under the streetlights is far more peaceful than the driving winter storms of the Russian tundra. It’s directionless, drifting gently before landing like soft kisses on his cheeks. He's able to watch individual flakes as they land and appreciate their unique beauty instead of fighting against them as tiny projectiles.
Not many people go outside to brave this kind of weather, especially in the dark. For a city that never sleeps, this is as close as it comes.
Bundled up in his winter gear, Bucky is warm and as anonymous as anyone else. He's grateful for both. The less of a chill he feels and the more privacy he gains, the better. Having people come up and ask for photos is still something he's getting used to.
His walk is mindless. Meandering. He follows no set course and simply goes wherever his feet take him. Turning this way and that, noting places he'd like to visit in the daylight hours. Free from worry of where he needs to go next or when he should return to home base.
If not for the serum running through his veins he would have passed the alley by. Right at the edges of his hearing, he caught it. An animal's soft cry.
Bucky's feet move him towards the sound.
As automatic of a movement as it is, panic grips him for a fraction of a moment. I am no longer the Winter Soldier. I am James Bucky Barnes. The fear passes with the breeze.
Each step brings the noise closer, until he's stopped in front of a dumpster. There's no echo to the cry, so he figures it's likely below and not in it. Bucky crouches, nearly flattening himself on the ground in order to get a proper look underneath. His heart squeezes at what he sees.
Two small blue eyes, staring back at him in a field of white. He's suddenly twenty-six again, ducking into alleys to protect something that can't protect itself.
Bucky sticks his arm out like a reflex. He doesn't know if it's a good or bad sign that the cat hardly flinches. She makes another cry instead, shivering in the still lowering temperatures. His hand cups around her small form to pull her out.
He's quick to dust the front of his clothes off from the snow as he stands. As revolutionary as modern fabrics could be, he doesn't want to end up wet. Bucky cautiously leans down and picks the cat up. She's no kitten, but still quite small. He can’t imagine she's yet a year old. She feels slight, lighter than she should.
He can't leave her here.
He opens up his jacket and settles her in against his chest. Zipping it back up is a delicate process, but manageable. Then he does what he never has before and pulls out his phone – using GPS to find the fastest route home.
Bucky doesn't think of much else on the walk back. He's listening closely, monitoring every breath and tiny heartbeat. Halfway through they start to even out, falling into a natural steady rhythm. It calms his own.
Something or someone must be looking out for Bucky, as everything is quiet when he returns home. There's usually someone milling about and he was unprepared to answer any questions. Yelena was either going to be pissed or excited about this development. The others, he didn't much care – except Bob, who would likely be quite happy.
Bucky paws through the kitchen, thrilled when he manages to find a can of tuna. He could go out and get real cat food tomorrow.
In his room, he sets up a nest of blankets to lay the cat in at the foot of his bed. He's ginger as he takes her out of his jacket. She doesn't make a noise, but instead blinks at him wearily. More of his nerves fade away.
He keeps an eye on her while he removes his winter gear and puts on loungewear. She keeps her eyes on him as well. Now out of the snow, she looks like an oversized cotton ball with eyes. Her coat is a pristine white, eyes brightly shining blue. Bucky has never thought of a cat being pretty before.
He ducks into the bathroom, filling up a dish with water for her to drink. Stepping out, he nearly spills it as the cat has gotten up from her spot and begun to twine herself around his legs.
Bucky huffs affectionately. “Okay, just give me a moment. I was getting this for you, ya know.”
He grabs the can of tuna and opens it as he sits down, leaning back against the wall. The cat approaches him without hesitation, taking only two sniffs before biting into the tuna. She seems to enjoy it immensely. Bucky's heart grows fonder still.
Bucky never had a pet of his own growing up. There were a couple strays his sister had fed, but Rebecca had also been the one to name them. He knew better than to get attached to animals they couldn't keep.
Finishing her meal, Bucky expects the cat to return to the blanket nest and fall asleep. She surprises him instead, marching right onto his lap and curling up. He slowly moves his hand toward her head. Nerves are replaced by joy as she pushes her head into the vibranium. A low rumbling purr starts only moments later.
He stays there with her. Unwilling to move until she decides the moment is right. Bucky doesn't even remember falling asleep.
The next morning comes with a knock at his door. It slides open to reveal Bob, probably sent as he was the least likely member of the team to get yelled at for waking him.
“Hey, Bucky-” Bob cuts himself off as he takes stock of Bucky sitting up on his bed, a white cat in his lap. He smiles. “What's her name?”
Bucky looks down at the small ball of fluff. Only one name comes to mind.
“Alpine.”
***
A/N: Literally no one asked me to write this or start writing for this character but here I am with the same brainrot I had when I was 15 <3
hey so what the fuck i'm crying now. this was so incredible babes and i genuinely need you to write the script for any other scenes bucky might be in cause you understand him so well. i loved the small insights you put into his past. and this:
Two small blue eyes, staring back at him in a field of white. He's suddenly twenty-six again, ducking into alleys to protect something that can't protect itself.
is where i started to lose it. because he protects and he always has and you portrayed that so well. i need to go lay down now.
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