𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: spencer reid x fem!reader
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.2k
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: mdni, smut, early seasons Spencer, sub!spencer, picture is purely for aesthetical purposes, no physical description of reader besides being a woman
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: When a bullet puts Spencer on bed rest, he's devastated—until you show him that "lying still" doesn't have to mean "missing out."
𝐚/𝐧: So I know I said I was working on angst but this came out instead
When Spencer gets shot through the leg, your entire sex life changes—but not in the way either of you expects.
Before the shooting, everything had been soft. Careful. Almost achingly tender.
Spencer was inexperienced—not naïve, but cautious, as if intimacy were a language he'd studied in theory but never spoken aloud. So you'd taken it slow, letting him set the pace. Missionary was your default: safe, intimate, the geometry of limbs simple. He loved being able to see your face, to watch every micro-expression as he learned what made you gasp. Sometimes, in the middle of it, he'd go still just to trace your brow with his thumb, cataloguing you like you were evidence of something miraculous.
You'd tried doggy style once, at his hesitant suggestion. He'd stopped midway. "I can't see you," he'd admitted, voice small with embarrassment, almost guilty. "I don't like not knowing if you're okay." So you'd rolled back over, pulled him down to you, and stayed there. You didn't mind. There was a sweetness to it—his weight pressing you into the mattress, his forehead against yours, his breath catching when you ran your fingers through his hair. He'd whisper okay? against your lips, and you'd nod, and he'd believe you because he could see your eyes.
That was the shape of your love then: face-to-face, breath-to-breath, his forehead pressed to yours like he was afraid you might disappear if he looked away too long. You almost believed he could hold you still just by watching.
Then the bullet tore through his thigh, and suddenly everything was different.
At first, he's apologetic about it—adorably, heartbreakingly so.
The two of you are settled on his couch, his leg propped up on pillows, the prescription bottle sitting on the coffee table within reach. He keeps fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve, unable to meet your eyes. His hair is falling into his face, still slightly damp from the hospital, and there's a crease between his brows that hasn't gone away since the ambulance ride.
"I'm so sorry, baby," he says suddenly, quietly. The words come out in a rush, like he's been holding them back for hours. "We won't be able to have sex for a while. My doctor said absolutely no strenuous movement for at least six weeks—no weight-bearing on the leg, and definitely nothing that would elevate his heart rate past a certain threshold, which, given the blood loss and the risk of re-injury—" He stops himself, swallows. "I'm sorry. But I promise I'll still make you feel good. I can still use my hands, and my mouth, and—"
He trails off, finally looking at you. His eyes are wide, earnest, slightly panicked—like he's afraid you're going to be disappointed, or worse, that you might leave.
And then, softer: "I don't want you to think this changes anything about how I feel. I just physically can't—right now. But I want to. God, I want to. I just need you to know that."
He's still twisting the fabric of your sleeve between his fingers, over and over, like if he stops, the whole thing will fall apart.
He's spiralling. You can practically see his genius brain running damage control, already trying to solve the problem of you before he's even acknowledged his own pain. It is so achingly Spencer—discarding his injury, his own recovery, because he is terrified of letting you down.
He's already cataloguing alternatives. Optimizing for your pleasure like it's an equation he can solve if he just tries hard enough.
You cup his face. "Spencer. Breathe."
He blinks. "Right. Sorry."
"Stop apologizing." You smile softly. "Of course we don't have to have sex for a while if you're not up for it. That's not even a question."
He opens his mouth—probably to apologize again—so you press your thumb gently to his lower lip, just to watch him freeze.
His breath catches. His eyes go wide and dark all at once, that familiar flicker of oh that you've learned to read across his face.
And that's when you realize: he's been so busy worrying about what he can't do that he hasn't stopped to consider what might still be possible.
Slowly, deliberately, you slide your thumb along his lower lip, just barely tugging it down before letting go.
"What if," you continue, leaning closer, "we just… flip the script for a while?"
His brow furrows. "Flip the—"
"If you do want to try… I could be on top."
The effect is instantaneous. His mouth parts slightly, and you watch him reroute—watches the apology die on his tongue, replaced by something else. His pupils are dilating. His hand, still fidgeting with your sleeve, goes still. His ears turn pink, then crimson, the blush creeping down his neck. His mouth opens and closes twice before any sound comes out.
"On… top?"
"Mmhm." You let your hand drift to his chest, feeling his heartbeat spike beneath your palm—rabbit-fast, stuttering. "That way you don't have to move at all. I do all the work."
He swallows hard. His pupils are already starting to dilate, dark swallowing gold.
"That's…" He wets his lips. "That's not—I mean, logically, that makes perfect sense." His voice pitches higher, the way it does when he's buying time. "You'd be in control of the depth and rhythm, so there wouldn't be any jarring impact on the quadriceps or the soft tissue damage. It's actually the most medically advisable position, assuming we were going to—" He stops, runs a hand through his hair, dislodging a few brown curls across his forehead. "Which we don't have to. Obviously."
But the word intrigued is written all over him.
The way his fingers curl into the couch cushion, knuckles gone white. The way his breath has gone shallow, his chest rising and falling faster than it should for a man who's supposed to be resting. The way his good leg shifts beneath the blanket, restless, like his body already knows what his mouth can't say. The way he keeps glancing at your mouth like he's already recalculating every assumption he's ever made about the two of you.
You don't speak. You just watch him squirm through the realization, letting the silence stretch.
And then it hits you—the real reason he's always needed to see your face.
It wasn't just about making sure you were okay.
It was because he didn't know how to ask for what he needed to see. Your pleasure was the only permission he knew how to give himself. Your okay? and your nod, your gasp, your eyes closing or widening—he was reading you like a manual, because no one had ever taught him how to want something just for himself.
Now you're offering to take the lead. To be the one in control. To let him just… feel.
He's still holding himself very still, like a deer that's just caught a scent it can't quite name—ears up, muscles coiled, waiting for the thing that's going to hurt him. You've seen Spencer do this before: freeze in place while his brain runs a thousand calculations per second, trying to find the trap in something that feels too good to be true.
His jaw ticks. His fingers are still curled into the couch cushion, white-knuckled.
"You're thinking too hard," you whisper.
He exhales something that's almost a laugh—small, breathy, self-deprecating. "I'm always thinking too hard."
You tilt your head, let your thumb trace a slow circle over his sternum. Beneath it, his heart is still racing. "We don't have to decide anything right now. But I want you to know something, Spencer."
"What?" His voice cracks slightly on the word, and you watch him hate it—watch him press his lips together like he can swallow the vulnerability back down.
You don't let him.
"I want to take care of you." You lean in, just close enough that your breath ghosts over his jaw. "The same way you always take care of me."
His eyelids flutter. Just once. Almost involuntary.
"And if that means I'm on top, and you're just lying there, watching me…" You let the pause hang. His throat moves as he swallows. "I think a part of you already knows exactly how much you'd like that."
He doesn't deny it.
That's the thing about Spencer—he's a terrible liar. So instead of speaking, he just stares up at you, lips parted, chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. His hand lifts from the cushion, slow and trembling, and comes to rest on your hip. Not pulling you closer. Not pushing you away. Just… there. Holding on.
Like he's still not sure he's allowed to want this.
So that evening, you help him lie back against a mountain of pillows—soft ones behind his shoulders, firmer ones under his elevated leg, everything arranged so his injured thigh stays perfectly still. He watches you adjust every detail: the angle of his back, the placement of his knee, the way you check and double-check that he's not wincing. His hands stay limp at his sides, fingers loose and uncurled, like he's already surrendered control before you've even asked for it.
You notice. You file it away—that quiet offering of trust—and let it warm you from the inside out.
Before you touch him anywhere that matters, you meet his eyes. You wait until he nods, just once, small and certain. Then you give him strict orders—your voice gentle but firm, the way you've learned works best when his anxiety starts to spiral.
You've seen him talk down unsubs. Negotiate with kidnappers. Calculate bullet trajectories in real time while bleeding out on a warehouse floor. But none of that mattered the first time he couldn't figure out how to touch you. What he'd needed then was someone to tell him exactly what to do.
Now, he needs the same thing. Just for different reasons.
"You don't move," you say, settling over him carefully. You bracket his hips with your knees, mindful of every bandage and bruise, and the pillows sigh softly beneath you both. He smells like his laundry detergent and something warmer underneath—skin, sleep, Spencer. "You don't lift a single finger. If you need to stop, you say 'red.' If you need a break, you say 'yellow.'"
He nods, eyes fixed on your face.
"And if you just need to tell me something—if you're overthinking, or you're scared, or you just need to hear my voice—you use your words. Any words. I'll be listening."
"Red, yellow, words," he repeats, a little breathless. His chest rises and falls faster now than it was a moment ago, his pulse visible at the base of his throat. "Okay. Okay, I can—I can do that."
"I know you can." You lean down, brush your lips over his forehead. He exhales sharply, like he'd been holding his breath without realizing it. "I've got you, Spencer. You don't have to do anything. Just feel."
His hands twitch at his sides, muscle memory begging to reach for you, to touch, to do something. But he keeps them there, knuckles pressed into the blankets, because you told him not to move—and Spencer Reid has always been very, very good at following instructions when he wants to.
He's spent his whole life following rules. FBI protocol. Crime scene procedure. The chain of command. But those were obligations. This is different.
This is wanting to obey.
And God, he wants to.
You start slow—a deliberate, unhurried undressing of yourself first, because you want him to watch. And he does. His eyes track every inch of revealed skin, his throat working like he's trying to swallow a confession. When you pull your shirt over your head, his breath catches. When your hands go to your waistband, his hips shift beneath you—just a fraction, just a reflex—before he stills himself again.
You lean forward, just for a moment, and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Doing so good," you murmur against his skin.
His eyes flutter shut. Then open again, because he doesn't want to miss a single thing.
When you finally reach for the waistband of his sweats, his whole body goes taut beneath you. You go slow—slower than you need to—watching his face for any flicker of pain or hesitation. His injured leg stays perfectly still on its pillow. His hands don't move from his sides.
But his stomach trembles under your touch.
"Okay?" you ask.
He nods. Swallows. His throat clicks.
"Green," he whispers. "Very green."
You laugh softly—warm, reassuring—and pull his sweats down, just enough, just where you need them. He's already half-hard, and the way his cheeks flush when you notice makes your chest ache.
His hands still don't move.
His eyes never leave your face.
When you finally sink down onto him, slow and deliberate, his whole body goes rigid—not with pain, but with the effort of obeying. His hands fist the bedsheets instead of reaching for your hips, twisting the fabric so tight you hear the threads strain. His jaw clenches so hard you can see the tendon in his neck, a cord of muscle pulled taut as a bowstring.
His breath comes out in a shattered exhale. "Oh."
You lift your hips, just a little, and sink back down.
"Oh, that's—" His voice cracks. His eyes squeeze shut for half a second, then snap open again—because he can't look away, even now. "You're—"
He can't finish. The word dies in his throat as you move again, and you watch him try to hold himself together.
You've started a slow, devastating rhythm, and his head falls back against the pillows, exposing the long line of his throat. His chest heaves with every shallow breath. His eyes stay locked on yours, wide and dark and pleading, even as his hips twitch involuntarily beneath you—a reflex he's fighting with everything he has.
His hands are shaking now. You can see it in the way his fingers curl and uncurl against the sheets, desperate for something to hold onto that isn't you.
"I'm trying," he gasps, the words tumbling out like a confession. "I'm trying not to—please, I want to be good, I'm trying so hard—"
"I know, baby." You smooth your palm up his stomach, feeling the muscles jump under your touch—the flutter of skin so sensitive he shudders. A full-body tremor, from his shoulders down to his good leg. "You're doing so well. Just a little longer."
His throat works. His jaw is still clenched, but his lower lip trembles.
His thighs tremble on either side of you, every instinct screaming at him to move, to meet you, to turn this into something reciprocal—because that's what he knows. That's what feels safe. Giving back. Earning.
You feel it in the way his breath catches when you roll your hips just so. In the way his heels dig into the mattress, fighting the urge to plant his feet and thrust up into you. In the broken little sound he makes when you deliberately slow down, drawing each movement out until he's practically vibrating beneath you.
His body is at war with itself. Every muscle wants to do. But his hands stay fisted in the sheets. His hips stay pressed into the mattress—barely—by sheer force of will.
"Please," he whispers. Not even sure what he's asking for.
"Please what, Spencer?"
He shakes his head, jaw working. His eyes are glassy now, focused on your face like you're the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. There's no calculation behind them anymore. No rambling. No running cost-benefit analyses in that beautiful, frantic brain.
Just wanting.
"I don't—I can't—you feel—"
He can't finish. The words won't come. His mouth moves around them, but they tangle somewhere in his throat, and all that comes out is another small, broken sound—higher than the last one.
You feel his restraint fraying. The way his hips twitch beneath you, harder this time, almost involuntary. The way his fingers twist the sheets so tightly his knuckles have gone white.
You take pity on him—just a little.
You speed up. Not much. Just enough to feel the tension in his body ratchet higher, his chest flushing pink, his mouth falling open on a breath that never quite becomes a moan.
"Look at you," you murmur, half to yourself, tracing your thumb along the line of his jaw. His stubble scrapes against your skin—a small, grounding sensation. "So desperate to be good for me."
He makes a sound—high and reedy, punched out of him without permission.
"I want—" He swallows hard, throat bobbing. His voice is cracked, barely there. "I want to be good for you. I want to—I want to earn this."
Earn.
The word lands like a stone in your chest. You feel it sink—heavy, cold. How many times has he said that to himself? How many years has he spent believing that love is a transaction, that he has to perform and produce and prove?
You stop moving entirely.
His hips jerk up involuntarily, seeking friction that isn't there, and he lets out a sound that's almost a sob—frustration and shame tangled together, knotted so tight he probably couldn't untie them if he tried.
"Spencer." You lean down until your forehead almost touches his, until you're breathing the same air, until the only thing he can see is you. "You don't have to earn this. It's already yours."
His eyes well up. He blinks rapidly, trying to hide it, but you see. You always see.
The corner of his mouth trembles.
"But I—"
"No." You press a finger to his lips, gentle but absolute. His breath catches against your skin—warm, uneven. You feel the shape of his mouth, the slight part of his lips, the way he goes perfectly still under your touch. "You don't have to do anything except lie there and let me take care of you. That's the deal."
He stares at you. His eyes are wet now—one tear escaping, tracking slowly down his temple and into his hair.
"Can you do that for me?" you ask softly. "Can you let go?"
He takes a shuddering breath. Then another. Then, slowly, you feel something in him release—a tension you didn't even realize he'd been carrying, a knot of guilt and obligation and the desperate need to perform. It's like watching a fist unclench after years of being balled tight.
His hands uncurl from the sheets. His hips go slack beneath you. His eyes—still wet, still watching—soften into something almost unbearably vulnerable.
"Yes," he whispers. The word is small. Barely there. But it's the most honest thing he's ever said.
"Good boy," you whisper against his lips.
And something in him unfolds.
Not breaks. Not shatters. Unfolds—like a flower he didn't know he'd been keeping closed, like a door swinging open to a room he'd forgotten existed. His eyes flutter half-closed, his jaw going slack, the last of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders all at once. His breathing changes too—deepens, slows, finds a rhythm it doesn't have to fight.
He's not thinking anymore. You can see it happen.
His genius brain—for once in its life, has gone quiet.
Thinking of a slighty pervy!reader who purposefully torments best friend!Eddie. He's pretty clueless about that sort of thing, so it takes a while for him to figure out what's going on…(18+ mdni, oral f!rec)
When the two of you hang out together, you’re always playing with his hair and teasing him with little fleeting touches everywhere—you just can't seem to keep your hands to yourself!
Watching a movie in his bedroom? It doesn’t take long before you’re bored and trying to distract him, tickling his sides then crawling into his lap and squirming overtop of him until he's a desperate, throbbing mess.
When he calls to say he’s stopping by your place on his way home from work? Surely it’s just a coincidence that you’re always fresh out of the shower when he arrives, wearing only a towel and asking him to rub lotion on your back because your hands can’t reach that far.
You know…normal friendly stuff.
And the whole time he goes along with it all, trying to shove down his guilt for being attracted to his sweet and unsuspecting best friend. He feels like a terrible person, filled with shame and self-loathing every time he touches himself while thinking about you (which happens a lot).
Things continue on like that until one night when you give him a lingering kiss goodbye, and as your sweet lips press against his, it finally dawns on him—is it possible something else is going on?
He's never been close with any other girls, so maybe he’s reading too much into things? Maybe it’s just wishful thinking on his part and you act like that with all of your friends? But at the same time, he’s been around you and some of your girlfriends on occasion, and he’s pretty sure you don’t give each other back rubs in your underwear.
Something just isn’t adding up.
Confused and conflicted, it all gets to be too much, so he vows to go cold turkey—no more time alone with you until he can figure things out and get his head on straight.
No more late night movies in his bed. No more tickling or massages or lotion applications. He’s going to avoid any and all situations where things with you might cross the line.
And to your dismay, his plan works. A little too well. He hardly ever comes around to see you anymore and you miss him. The loneliness is almost too much to bear.
So one day you call him up in desperate need of his assistance, hoping he’ll be willing to help you. He’s always said he would do anything for you.
You tell him that you got asked out by this really great guy who’s super handsome and you need Eddie’s opinion on the lingerie you bought for your upcoming date. It’s a bit more risqué than what you usually wear and you want to make sure it doesn’t look too trashy. You don’t want to give this totally-real-and-not-made-up guy the wrong impression, after all.
“As long as you don’t mind?” you purr into the phone while he grips onto his kitchen counter for strength. “All of my other friends are busy and, I mean, you’re practically one of the girls.”
And Eddie’s no fool. He knows it’s a bad idea to agree to your proposal. Being alone with you in that way sounds…dangerous. But at the same time, you need his help. You’re practically begging and he doesn’t want to let you down.
When he gets to your place a short while later, the lights are low and you answer the door in a silky robe that doesn’t leave much to his imagination.
“Thanks for getting here so fast, Eddie.” You smile. “You’re such a good friend, and I could really use your help.”
And he helps you—down on his knees with your soft thighs pressed on each side of his messy head, those trashy little panties pulled aside to let his thick tongue curl and dive through your dripping cunt.
With his plush lips wrapped around your needy clit, he finally hears you sigh his name out loud, the way he always imagined it would sound in his dreams. And when your legs start to shake and you cum for the first time on his tongue in a flood of sticky sweetness? It isn’t quite enough. He still comes back for more.
After all, what’s a best friend for?
🎶 maybe i’m delusional and the way you act is usual 🎶
hi…just emptying the drafts of some drabbles + imagines 🤍 sometimes i write these as little mini fics with a plan to flesh them out later as a full fic with dialogue and detail. there is a longer version of this in progress but i’ll probably never finish it ;)
aaron hotchner who swore he’d never get close to another woman, after haley.
aaron hotchner who meets you at one of jack’s soccer games; your niece was jack’s friends becca, the pee-wee team’s goalie.
aaron hotchner who struggles to keep up with you— you’re younger, energetic. you spend your day teaching kindergarteners and it never wears you down. your jobs couldn’t be more different.
aaron hotchner who loves you nonetheless, even after being hesitant at first— but seeing you get on with jack so quickly melted down his walls.
aaron hotchner who finds he sleeps better when he listens to your heartbeat; a constant thumping, telling him you’re safe, breathing.
aaron hotchner who listens to you babble on about your day over dinner, eyes glossed over in a way they only ever are with you.
aaron hotchner whose coworkers at the BAU adore you— penelope, jj, and emily take you in as one of their own, inviting you to girls night. he watches across the bar with dave as the four of you chat all night.
aaron hotchner who knew on the first date, you’re his forever.
"fuck!" you cry, throwing your head back and letting your jaw go slack. clark is pistoning his hips against yours relentlessly, the only sounds in the room being the lewd skin slapping and the heavy panting and moans emitting from both of you.
"i know, honey" he coos, trying his best to be sweet verbally despite how rough he's being with you physically. "m'sorry babygirl" he tries.
the stretch was borderline excruciating. he was just too big. the funny part is he doesn't even know he's that big! or atleast he didn't know it until you started screaming complaining about it.
"s'too big, clark!" you mewl, squirming under him, but you can't help but arch into him. it's almost instinctive.
"just breathe, baby... breathe" maybe he should take his own advice, because he's barely able to take in a full breath with just how tight your gummy walls are squeezing and fluttering around him.
"i- can't-" the pleasure becomes overwhelming when clark reaches in between the both of you to aimlessly rub at your clit, anything to get you to stop whining. he immediately notices your eyes roll back and your breath hitch. "s'that better honey?" he asks, "that feel a little better?" you nod frantically, barely able to compute his sweet words as you feel yourself growing closer and closer to coming undone. the sniveling and the cries coming from you morph into delighted moans as the stretch becomes euphoric, his praises egging you on impossibly.
"there she is" he purrs, a small, knowing smirk playing on his face. "there's my girl" he litters your face with small kisses in an effort to calm you down as he continues his thrusts, growing closer to the edge himself.
"g-gosh- baby," he groans, his big fingers still working at your clit. "feels s'good clark!" you moan, right at the edge. "yeah?" he moans right back at you. "that feels good, huh?" he speeds up his thrusts, making you squeal. "feel me so deep, yeah?" he looks down and sees himself poking through your lower belly. he reaches down and presses on the bulge, making you wince at the tightness. the bulge is disappearing and reappearing with every thrust. "shi- shoot, honey" he mutters.
you feel the white hot band in your tummy snap, pleasure shooting through your body as you cry out his name. that alone is enough to push him over the edge as well. he cums deep inside you, fucking into you a few last times. you both lay there, panting. he's heavy on top of you, all 6'3, 235lbs of him laying sweaty on top of you (not that you mind). and of course, clark is quick to comfort you.
he pushes some of the hair out of your face, off of your damp, flushed skin. "you did so good, baby... m'sorry i was so rough" he speaks gently, kissing your forehead.
clark was more than surprised when you told him you had never fingered yourself before.
he just couldn’t wrap his mind around it. how have you gotten this far in life without sliding your slender fingers into that sweet pussy.
no no he won’t have that.
so he takes it upon himself to teach you.
slow at first of course he’s not gonna overwhelm you.
“just get comfortable, baby,” he says one night when you’re both laying in bed. “we’ll go slow.”
he’s never gonna go too far with you, always focusing on your face making sure you’re okay every step of the way.
he lays on his side next to you while you lay on your back in just your panties and one his his shirts.
he’s got a small smile on his face as he watches you make yourself comfortable, knowing you’re nervous.
“don’t be scared,” he says, “i’m gonna take care of you.”
“i know,” you say softly, staring up at the ceiling feeling flushed all over.
“rub yourself over your panties, baby,” he says, “let’s get that little clit nice and swollen.”
you whimper softly at his words as they shoot through you, going straight to your cunt.
you do as he says, using a finger to circle your clit over your panties while he watches.
“good girl…does that feel good,” he asks in a gentle voice, his head propped up on his hand so he can watch everything.
you can’t escape his eyes
“yes,” you say, feeling a little embarrassed. “are you gonna touch yourself too?”
you ask because you feel bad, making him stay there next to you without touching himself.
“no let’s just focus on this, yeah?” he says and rubs a big hand down your thigh. “i want you to see how good it will feel…that you don’t need to be scared.”
his words calm you down a bit because he just sounds so genuine. like he wouldn’t ever lie about something like this.
you get into a nice, slow rhythm and when your panties start sticking to your leaking cunt and a stain starts to form, clark knows it’s time to take them off
“take ‘em off, honey,” he says and tugs at the lacy hem.
your hands shake as you slide them down your legs.
“good girl,” he nods as he watches you. “now circle your entrance with one finger, see how wet you feel. how soft.”
you do and he’s right, you’re so wet and soft. the skin is hot and puffy after teasing yourself and you’re practically dripping on the bed.
“i don’t know if i’ll be able to cum without rubbing my clit,” you say, a blush spreading across your cheeks.
“that’s okay,” he says, “don’t worry about that, we just gotta focus on one thing at a time.”
you nod and take a deep breath, “okay.”
he watches you explore yourself for a bit before he reaches down and guide one finger to your hole.
“it won’t hurt, baby. you’re too wet for it to hurt,” he soothes when he hears your hear rate pick up.
slowly he helps you push one finger in and he angles it upwards so you can feel the spongy spot within your walls.
when you finger brushes against it, your back arches off the bed, “o-oh god.”
you let out a low moan, making him smile.
“see, baby? i told you it’d feel good.”
you nod at him and pump your finger experimentally, exploring the new sensation.
and god it feels so good.
he was right as usual.
“here, i’ll rub your clit and you keep working on that pretty hole,” he says, his hand sliding up to circle the sensitive nub.
the dual sensation is almost too much but he whispered soft words of encouragement as you both work to bring you to the brink.
it doesn’t take long at all.
the orgasm sneaks up on you, takes you by surprise.
you squeeze your eyes shut when you feel it wash over you
“good girl…good job, look at you,” he murmurs while you squirm on the bed.
once the contractions finally subside, his eyes are heavy and he takes your finger, bringing it to his mouth so he can have a taste.
can't stop thinking about starlight from the boys and her eyes glowing when she orgasms, so…hehe.
tags: pwp, KINKY!!, readers eyes glow when she cums, mutant!reader, p-in-v, post-coital conversations, teasing, sexual tension, pussy whipped!clark (1.1k wc)
—
you could count the amount of times you'd orgasmed in your entire life on a single hand.
it wasn't that every man you met was devastatingly bad, there were good times. but it was a much bigger, brighter problem when you could cum. you'd gotten tired of explaining they why of the light-show that came when…you came. so you'd decided, the next person you fucked, would be someone entirely capable of handling you in the oddities of your quirk.
that man…happened to be none other than clark kent.
you'd met him in the justice league, hit it off instantly. mainly because you really adored how fascinated he got whenever you'd use your powers in his presence. so he should've been fine if you beamed as you orgasmed.
…that's what you told yourself anyway. the theory was yet to be tested.
when you forewarned him, he was more embarrassed than weirded out. "the idea that i could even get a gorgeous girl like you to…you know…it's not weird at all. it'll be rewarding. c'mon…don't be silly."
despite his casual deference to your forewarning, his ears were red, all the way down to your neck. so you figured, what's the worst that could happen.
the words tumble out of you breathless, hasty & jumbled. too overwhelmed to even form coherent sentences with how much clark's cock was stretching you out. fucking you so hard and deep.
your body arches right into him. hot, sweaty chest, soft and pressed up against his own. clark's muscle tenses, his hip thrusting relentlessly into your squelching cunt. the sharp burn you once felt had manifested into something so dangerous and potent — the aching pleasure of your belly burning wildly and intensely.
clark's arm curls around your hips, his forearms flexing, holding you securely in place as he drives up into you. he'd barely begun fucking you and he already knew you were going to cum, with your pussy fluttering so warm and tight around him. the combined sweat makes your skin slick where you're pressed together.
he thinks he might've imagined it when he sees a flicker of an amber glow casting form your eyes. it pulses in your pupils, threatening to take over. clark keeps at his pace — the room then lights up, in the direction your head was tilted.
his eyes widens. an awed gasp caught in his throat as the amber coats your irises, illuminating his face for a brief second before you tip your head. column of your through visible as you come hard, coating the space in an otherworldly glow.
"jesus…look at you."
the glow pulses from within your skin. forcing clark to slow in the presence of the eerie hue. he stares, completely captivated. it quickly churns in him — a quiet, heady want that fills him. before you even begin to feel judged beneath his scrutiny, his hand comes to cradle your cheeks, thumbing gently at your cheekbone.
you lean into his touch, shy. "i-is it weird?" his gaze only makes you pulse around him harder.
clark lets out a low, shuddered groan at the flutter, hips jerking up into you.
"g-gosh no. not weird. it's…you."
his thrusts resume much slower, careful not to overwhelm you after your orgasm. but he's mesmerised, by the gentle flow that fades from your eyes. grinding slow and deep into you.
"you're so…so beautiful."
you feel his palm slide to the back of your head, flexing his fingers in locks of your hair. "m-mhn. you're…not just saying that to be nice?" you punctuate your words with a circle of your hips, matching the pace of his thrusts.
clark visibly winces, grunting low as he feels the familiar tightness in his balls. "you're…unbelievable." his gaze remains on you, sheepish, but truthful, "it is…so…incredibly hot," he croaks, his own head looks to the side. focussed on driving his cock into you velvet, tight pussy. "you're glowin'…cause of me."
you don't think you have another orgasm left in you. but you're as determined to get him to feel the same pleasure you did. a low growl rumbles in your throat as you squeeze harder around him.
"h-holy—…ugh!"
a broken whimper leaves his throat as soon as you relax around his length and his belly tightens, convulsing beneath you as he pants your name over and over. arm tightly locked around your hips as he empties himself deep inside you in helpless, desperate thrust.
you whine at the abrupt change in position, where clark pulls you down next to him, breathing heavily in the wake of his own orgasm.
clark's turns to you with a deep, content sigh, his hand coming up to brush the damp hairs stuck to your temple to the side. "wasn't such bad thing…" he murmurs, thumbing by your cheekbones.
"you're so weird…"
he lifts his head in mock offense, "how does that make me weird?"
"me beaming like a lighthouse is weird. liking it makes you weird. " you mumble with an embarrassed laugh, burying your face in his chest.
"it's not weird," he tuts, draping your trembling thighs over his hips, "first time i….came….i laser beamed my bedroom in the barn."
you snort. nudging your jaw on his chest.
"you're fucking with me."
"m'not," clark raises his palm, folding his fingers. "scout's honour."
"…you really think it's hot?" you lazily rest your cheeks on the sweaty, tuft of hair on his chest."
"are you kidding? i came harder than i have in years just watching you get like that…"
"you're just saying that." you cut in, hasty and in disbelief. "what's so hot about it?"
"gosh it's…" clark sighs, head slumping back, a lop-sided grin on his cheeks. "letting go for me like that, your entire body reacting so…beautifully. it's…it's like heaven —"
"jesus. you're so poetic for no reason. say it dirtier." you murmur. running your knuckles down the deep indents of his cheeks.
clark lifts his head enough to size you with a pouty look, but then he slumps. pondering on your words. you don't think he was actually going to follow through until you feel his voice drop an octave lower, gaze intently on yours.
"watchin' you…come apart on my cock is one thing. but seeing your eyes just…glow. like some kind of…extra-terrestrial adult film…star. i don't think a guy can ask for more. i thought i would explode. like i was gonna laser beam at my release like it was my first damn time."
you lift your head, almost in awe at his use of words, a soft, appraising growl leaving your throat.
Pairing David!Clark Kent x Female!Reader
Summary You knew better than to tease your husband when he was at work. (Lingerie)
Tags 18+, mdni, smut, masturbation (f), sexting, piv, a teeny bit rough sex, standing doggy, Ragebaited!Clark CrashOutClark, Mutual horniness, Menace!Reader
WC 3.8k
Galentine's #9 by @/wildflowersandvibranium & @/pinksplace | Mrs. Kent Diaries
Clark didn’t lose his temper easily.
Did he get frustrated? Yes. Flustered? Often. Quietly, almost politely indignant? Always. But true, jaw-clenched, restraint-fracturing anger? That was rare.
Kindness was his default. Patience, muscle memory. Self-control came as easily to him as breathing, as sunlight, as knowing the weight of the world and choosing not to let it crush anyone else.
Which was exactly why it was so satisfying to take it apart.
You see, there were a few things in the world that could make Clark Kent absolutely heated. Just a few. And you? You were at the top of the list.
Specifically: you in red-laced lingerie.
You knew the pressure points by now. You’d studied them—committed them to muscle memory. Knew exactly which seams to tug, which smiles to flash, which casual poses made his breath catch just behind his ribs. Knew how to bait a man who could bench press a building, but who still lost every last ounce of composure when you spread your thighs and looked at him like he was the only man in the world.
.
It started small. Always did. You were so generous offering the strongest metahuman the illusion of a fair fight, giving him a few soft warnings before you pulled the pin.
A message waited for him on the bathroom mirror, scrawled in your red lipstick right across the glass, the curve of each letter playful and practiced. Beside it: a perfect kiss-mark, glossy and shameless.
Have a good day at work, babe.
I love you!
A pair of your panties, red mesh, tiny silk hearts stitched along the waistband, was "accidentally" left half‑folded in the sock drawer he opened every morning without fail. You knew that he knew you better than that. You didn’t leave things out by accident.
None of these breadcrumbs were enough for him to fully wake you as he leaned in to say goodbye before work, but it was enough to make him kiss your lips longer than usual. Slow. Lingering. Like a man already bracing himself for war.
You had an inkling that he barely made it out the door.
.
The first photo went out at 9:14 a.m.
Nothing obscene, just enough. You stood in front of the bedroom mirror, Clark’s flannel unbuttoned and hanging loose from your shoulders, sleeves falling just past your wrists, the red straps of your lingerie cutting neat, precise lines across your skin like you were gift-wrapped: bare legs, bare throat, morning light slipping in through the window, and the corner of your smile just visible in the reflection.
You could picture it perfectly: him at his desk like the perfect employee he always was, blissfully typing away on his keyboard, coffee halfway to his mouth. You could see the exact second his phone lit up. The pause. The way his fingers stilled. His eyes flicking downward. The quiet inhale. The shift in posture. His glasses sliding slightly down the bridge of his nose.
You knew the timing. Knew his tells.
The reply came two minutes later.
Clark:
Good morning, my love
You're being unfair right now. Beautiful, but unfair.
Have a good day!
You smiled. He was always so damn sweet.
At 10:36 a.m., the second photo followed.
Same set. Different angle. The flannel was gone now, leaving nothing between you and the mirror but skin and red lace, cut high on the hips and dipping low between your breasts, the sheer mesh hugging your ribs in a way you knew made his mouth go dry. The satin bow sat tidy at the center of your sternum, a little too innocent for what you intended, tied just tight enough to make him wonder if he’d get it undone with his hands or his teeth.
Your thighs were parted, just a little. This time, you added a caption that gave him no room to breathe:
You:
Thinking about how long it’s gonna take you to get this off me.
I knotted this pretty tight.
His response came faster than you anticipated.
Clark:
Sweetheart, you look incredible, but I’m at work?!
You sent back a heart, and nothing more. Let him sit with it.
At 11:12 a.m., you sent a brief a video this time. Switched it up, because why not?
Silent, unfiltered, back turned to the mirror. Your ass in motion, hips swaying slow. The straps were so thin they might as well have been floss, cutting over your ass as you shifted your weight from one foot to the other. One leg bent. Head cropped. Nothing but ass and lace and implication.
He left you on read this time.
Which was telling. Because Clark always responded. Even if just with a heart emoji or a flustered "you’re trouble." If he didn’t? It meant he couldn’t. It meant his hand was clenched so tight around his phone he couldn’t trust himself to type. Meant he’d flushed from throat to cheekbone and ducked into the Planet stairwell to cool off. Or he’d taken a lap around the roof. Around the city. Maybe around the atmosphere.
By 12:17 p.m., his reply finally came, and it was obvious he was unraveling.
The texts were shorter. Less punctuation. The fact that he stopped trying to scold you, and started asking questions instead? Ha!
Clark:
did you buy that
just for today
how long have you been wearing that
You answered with audio.
"Since you left," you murmured, soft, breathy, and barely above a whisper. "Been thinking about you all morning Clark. Been missing you."
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Then nothing.
The next few hours were a study in escalation.
A photo of you kneeling on the mattress, back arched, ass up, cleavage spilling down beneath the delicate straps of the set.
A close-up of your fingers grazing your inner thigh, dragging slow, gliding higher, just high enough to hint without showing.
Another voice note, this one needier. A soft, whispered "Clark" said with just enough air, just enough ache, that you could practically feel him falling apart in real time.
By 4:07 p.m., the damn broke. Your poor Clark was done pretending he was okay.
Clark:
tryn to focus
ur making so difficlit
DIFFICULT
Please tell me you're waiting for me, honey. Just one more hour.
It wasn't often he truly begged, but that last message was so damn close.
And you, his sweetheart, menace, wife, North Star, had the nerve to read it and not reply.
You waited until 5:02 p.m., letting that last message sit and ache, let Clark stew in it as you took your time setting up what you already knew would end his entire day.
The Kill Shot took longer to record than the others.
You were reclined against the headboard, pillows shoved behind your back, thighs spread wide and unapologetic, red lace pushed damp and dark between them from hours of teasing that had left you tender and buzzing. The phone was propped at the end of the bed, poetically against a careless stack of Clark’s unironed dress shirts.
"See what you do to me, Clark," you sighed softly when you hit record, your hand drifting down your stomach, fingers slipping beneath the red lace. You hissed quietly when you touched your already swollen, already too sensitive clit, hips rocking without permission. "I’m so wet, baby. Soaked. All day. Just from teasing you."
Your ring finger circled your clit slowly, deliberately, letting the slick and sound gather. A raspy moan slipped out of you as your back pressed harder into the pillows.
"Hope you’re not mad," you added, breath hitching, almost laughing through it.
You slid one finger inside yourself, then another, the stretch making you gasp as your thighs trembled. Your head tipped back, chest lifting as you tried to make it feel right.
"It’s not the same," you whined, frustration threading your voice honestly now. "It never is without you."
You lifted your free hand into frame then, holding up the bright blue, ridged Superman vibrator. Absurd. Thrilling. Purchased originally as a joke, now deployed with intent.
"I even tried this," you lamented.
When you turned it on, the low buzz filled the room, vibrating straight up your spine. You pressed it to your clit and jolted hard, a broken sound tearing out of you as your hips jerked helplessly.
"Oh—oh God—" You sucked in a breath, fingers curling inside yourself. "It doesn’t—fuck—it still doesn’t touch me like you do."
You dragged it away almost immediately, breath ragged, shaking your head like you were offended by it.
Your fingers thrusted as deep as you could, scissoring, stretching, searching. Ultimately failing.
"They’re not big enough," you babbled, voice going soft and needy now, slick sounds growing louder as you rocked against your hand. "They don’t reach like yours. They don’t—God, Clark, they don’t feel like you."
You brought the vibrator back, pressing it against your clit again while your fingers worked inside you, the buzz climbing as your body arched and your knees drew up, lace biting into your hips. A shaky laugh fell from your mouth, half‑wrecked, half‑desperate.
"This isn’t fair," you whined as you lifted your head, eyes flicking to the camera now, unfocused but locked on him all the same. "You always make it feel so good. Your hands… your mouth…"
You writhed openly, unashamed, thighs trembling, red lace soaked through as you chased something you knew you wouldn’t quite reach.
"It’s not your thickness," you breathed. "Not your heat."
Your fingers slipped out, then back in, curling deeper this time, trying to find that spot he always hit so effortlessly, like your body had been built for his hands alone.
"I need you, Clark," you panted, eyes fluttering. "Need your fingers and your mouth between my legs. Need you telling me to relax—telling me how pretty I look when I fall apart for you."
The vibrator buzzed louder, dragged teasingly once, twice—and then you pulled it away again, breath shuddering.
"And your cock," you added, voice breaking into a whine. "I need you to show me how it’s supposed to feel. Need you to stretch me the way you always do. Need my husband to fill me up because this—"
You gestured helplessly between your thighs, fingers slick and shining, breath uneven. "This isn’t enough. It’s never enough without you."
You lifted your gaze to the camera one last time—wrecked, honest, ruined by want.
"Come home soon, Clark," you whispered, biting your lip.
And then you stopped. Didn’t finish. Wouldn’t dare.
You ended the recording with your chest still heaving and thighs still shaking. You redressed slowly, washed your hands and the toy with care, and hit 'send' as you went to start dinner.
As if nothing at all was about to explode.
.
Twenty minutes later, the apartment was drenched in the scent of garlic and thyme, steam curling from the pot like a love letter in vapor.
Clark's favorite, beef bourguignon, simmered low and rich on the stove, sweet and buttery and slow. You made it only on special occasions: birthdays, anniversaries, nights you wore lingerie beneath an apron and didn’t pretend otherwise.
You stood barefoot, thighs still trembling faintly from earlier, the red lace set damp beneath one of his softest, most lived-in aprons with Kansas Corn Festival logo faded on the front and the fraying strings you always tied in a neat bow at your lower back.
Your lip gloss was fresh. Your hair was a little too tousled, a little too knowingly mussed. You looked like you’d been fucked senseless and then pulled halfway back from the edge. Which was, of course, exactly the truth. Just not by him. Yet.
You stirred the pot once more, slow and thoughtful, then licked the spoon just as a sonic boom tore across the skyline.
The windows rattled.
You didn’t even flinch.
The burner clicked off, and you turned just in time to hear the familiar thud on the balcony. Something weighty and male and exasperated had landed with purpose.
Clark Kent, god among men, paragon of restraint, and utterly fucking done with you, stood just outside, flushed from throat to hairline, chest rising and falling like he was seconds from combusting.
He opened the balcony door too hard. Shut it harder.
You didn’t flinch. You smiled instead.
"Hi, baby!" you greeted sweetly, licking the last of the spoon and setting it down like nothing was melting between your legs. "How was work?"
Clark mouth opened. A strangled sound came out. Nothing formed. He looked like a man who had rehearsed a speech the entire flight over, one with bullet points and moral high ground, and lost all of it the second he saw your bare thighs and dazzling smile.
"You—" he tried, pointing one finger squarely at your chest, not moving.
You tilted your head. "Moi?"
"Honey," he began, dragging a hand down his face, voice pitched somewhere between desperation and disbelief. "One: hi. Work was fine. Two: dinner smells delicious. Three: what you pulled today? That was beyond cruel."
You leaned back slowly, bumping your side against the edge of the kitchen island with a little bounce. He followed without thinking. Close enough to trap. Close enough to breathe you in.
"You liked it," you sang, tugging at one of his belt loops.
"No, I loved it," he ground out, hands already on your waist, gripping just tight enough to send a shiver up your spine. "That’s not the point."
"Oh?" you asked, lashes low, lips pouty. "What’s the point then?"
He huffed. Actually huffed. Then, defeated, he pulled off his glasses and set them carefully on the counter beside you. Pinched the bridge of his nose like he could still slow this trainwreck down with rational thought.
"The point is—" he tried again, swallowing, visibly recalibrating. "I have been trying to be good all day."
"So have I. Guess we both failed."
Clark exhaled, running a hand through his already-ruined hair. Pushed it back only for it to fall limply forward again.
"Sweetheart," he hissed, blue eyes sharp now. "I had to sit in a meeting with Perry after I listened to you moan my name. You—" He pointed again, but his hand dropped halfway, like touching you would end this too fast. "You sent me audio. While I was on lunch with Jimmy. I could barely look him in the eye."
"That sounds like a you problem," you murmured, one leg brushing between his.
His hands tightened on your hips. You gasped.
"And then," he said, lower now, voice going dangerous, "you sent me a video of you—Gosh—spread out across our bed, touching yourself with that silly little toy—"
You shrugged, too pleased with yourself to be sorry.
"Superman didn’t save me this time."
His laugh was broken. Unhinged, like he couldn’t believe you’d just said that. He stepped until the kitchen counter pressed cold against your spine as he crowded into your space, chest brushing yours, arms braced on either side of you like a cage made of heat and muscle and something wild beneath the surface.
There was nowhere to go—not that you’d ever want to—his presence wrapping around you like steam, wrapping around your waist, sliding down your thighs.His breath kissed the curve of your cheek, then your jaw, then lower, his mouth dragging down your throat like he needed to taste how hard your pulse was pounding for him.
"You have any idea what you did to me?" he rasped.
"You say that like it’s not your favorite thing about me."
A strangled moan escaped him as he leaned closer, forehead touching yours. His cock was already stiff and twitching, the thick press of it unmistakable against your stomach even though layers of slacks and lace. You gasped, fingers tightening in the soft cotton at his elbows just to stay upright.
"Every second of your video," he growled. "Saying your fingers not being enough—" A long breath. "How empty you still felt. Using the toy."
You shivered. The air between you went heavy.
"Clark—" you warned, already trembling.
"I haven’t even said hello properly," he muttered darkly.
Without warning, he kissed you like a man who’d just run halfway around the world and needed you to catch him. No restraint. No finesse. Just tongue and heat and need, his mouth slanting over yours in wild, open-mouthed hunger, one hand sinking into your toussled hair, the other pressing low on your spine until your bodies aligned, hips flush, your thighs parting on instinct.
You whimpered into it, clawing at his shoulders, overwhelmed by the rush of him finally, finally being here. Being on you.
"Been waiting for this," he whispered, mouth trailing along your jaw, your neck, nipping at the places he knew would make you gasp. Losing my mind since the first photo."
His hand spread low on your ass, tugging you harder against the thick ridge in his slacks. It ground into your clit with every breath, every shift of his hips, and made your knees buckle, a cry caught in your throat as your body begged for more friction, more weight, more.
That heady, perfect mix of power and affection and worship and want coursed through you.
"You’re unreal," he panted between kisses. "You were made to drive me insane, huh?"
A quiet laugh caught in your throat, lips brushing his jaw.
"What’s unreal is this bow," you hummed, tapping your chest, where the ribbon peeked just above the apron’s neckline. "Knotted it way too tight. Think you can get it off, baby?"
His eyes darkened, gaze zeroing in on the apron tied at your back. That innocent cotton thing cinched tight around your waist like some symbol of sweet domesticity. A disguise. A mockery.
He wouldn't take the bait. Not this time.
"No," he said firmly. "Not yet. You’re gonna stay in that pretty little set, sweetheart. The one you spent all day tormenting me in."
You blinked, caught off guard by the edge in his voice.
Clark’s gaze dropped to the apron. That innocent cotton thing, cinched around your waist like a mockery of domesticity, as if it hadn’t been hiding the filthiest tease he’d ever seen in his life.
"Though this?" he muttered, fingers curling into the bow behind you, "Is a problem."
Before you could answer, he tugged sharp and hard, and the apron came loose, slipping off your shoulders and crumpling to the floor.
The sight of you underneath?
His breath left him in one long, shattered exhale.
The red fabric shimmered under the kitchen light, clinging damp to your chest, your hips, your thighs, every inch of you hot and glowing and desperate for him. He stared for a long moment, jaw tense, hands twitching at his sides like he was debating whether to worship you or simply scream and combust.
In one fluid, impossible motion, he spun you around to face the counter. Your hands flew out, bracing against the cool granite with a yelp. His body pressed against your back, the hard, unmistakable ridge of his erection straining against his trousers, digging into the cleft of your ass through the lace.
"This," he hissed in your ear, one large hand splaying across your stomach, holding you firm against him. "This red lace. It’s been haunting me all day. A glimpse here. A shadow there." His other hand came up, his fingers tracing the intricate pattern over your breast, teasingly tugging on your bow, then sliding down your ribs. "It’s all I could see."
"Clark," you moaned, voice cracking with lust.
"Payback," he whispered, his hands now on your hips, yanking the damp panties down your thighs in one rough pull. The cool air hit your exposed skin, followed immediately by the blistering heat of his palm as he cupped you from behind.
"Still wet?" he leaned over you, mouth to your ear as he buried his fingers in your soaking, messy cunt slowly. "Still aching for me, hon?"
"Y-yeah, been a-all day," you choked out, thighs knocking against the kitchen cabinets with each twitch. "Since the first photo. Since I woke up and ruined my lipstick for you. It's all for you."
A rough sound tore from his throat. Unfastening his belt with a desperate frantic flick, he pushed his slacks and briefs low enough to free himself. The hot weight of his cock pressed against your bare ass, solid and heavy and so real
"See what you do to me, sweetheart?" he growled, echoing the opening line you’d whispered into your last video as he teased the swollen, pre-cum slick head between your puffy folds.
You whimpered, barely able to breathe as the head caught on your clit the same time his teeth nipped the edge of your earlobe.
"F-fuck! That—oh god, that feels—Clark—please, I need it—need you—"
"I know," he whispered, kissing behind your ear. "I’ve got you."
With one powerful, driving thrust that silenced you, he buried himself inside inch by glorious inch.
Your eyes rolled back, feeling every ridge, every vein, every pulsing heat and maddening pressure.
The air left your lungs in a punched-out cry. He filled you, stretched you, exactly as you’d whined about. The difference was profound, overwhelming. It was his heat, his thickness, the perfect, devastating fit of him being enveloped by your quivering, gummy walls.
You felt impossibly full, stretched to a sweet, burning limit, and any remaining coherent thought was knocked clean out of your head.
"G-gosh," he groaned, feeling a new wave of slick coat his length. "You’re so–so tight like this, beautiful. Still fluttering around me—"
You answered by clenching tight, rocking into him slowly. "S-stay right there—just—stay."
He kissed your shoulder, the top of your spine, the back of your neck, mouth open and reverent.
Clark set an increasingly deep, relentless rhythm, pounding you hard up against the kitchen counter. Each drive of his hips slammed you into the cool granite edge, a counterpoint of pleasure and slight pain that made your vision blur.
His hands gripped your hips, surely leaving faint bruises, holding you in place for his taking. The sounds were filthy—the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin, your ragged cries, his guttural groans near your ear.
"You like that?" he gritted out, pressing hot kisses on your neck, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. "You like making me lose it? Making me fly home like a madman?"
"Y-yes! Yes!" you cried, words slurred, hips bucking back into his as your fingers scrambled uselessly over the cool countertop, dinner long forgotten. "Wanted this—wanted you—"
He grunted, one hand slipping down to rub your clit as his thrusts turned punishing, precise. Your body jolted with every snap of his hips, legs shaking, pleasure rising so fast it blurred everything else.
All the while, Clark kissed you, really kissed you, with one hand on your throat as he pulled your face back to his, tongue sliding into your mouth, your moans swallowed between breathless gasps and cracked, whispered I love you's and You drive me crazy's.
Okay, so you ragebaited Clark: masterfully, deliberately, without shame and without mercy.
And now?
Now you were going to spend the rest of the night helping him cool off, one deep, punishing thrust at a time, your body bent beneath his as he finally gave in to everything you’d spent the day dragging out of him.
There are only a few things in the world that could make Clark Kent come undone.
Only a few things that could burn through all that patience and kindness and quiet self-control.
And you in red-laced lingerie had always done it best.
.
Thank you for reading! Any reblogs, comments, likes are forever appreciated, and keeps me motivated!
a/n: Here’s my little “get well soon” gift for @kryptidfiles !! Imagine this wrapped in a huge bow with flowers sticking out from every side. EVERYONE GO FOLLOW HER BLOG and I hope you enjoy!!
Summary: You made the mistake of turning sex into casual conversation with your coworker and accidentally start the worst HR violation of your life.
Classification: Smut +18 | coworkers to lovers, several smut scenes, alcohol consumption, rude/arrogant Scott Miller, oral sex, fingering, dirty talk, rough sex, rough groping, protected and unprotected sex, doggy style, missionary, squirting, ass smacking, marking/bruising, praise, dom/sub dynamics, workplace boundary issues and emotionally repressed idiots in love.
Word count: 9,2k
There was a difference between good sex and great sex, the same way there was a difference between getting fucked and being made love to...
Good sex was what you expected from anybody decent enough to make it that far with you. It was the kind people talked about casually with their friends, the kind that came up over drinks after someone asked, “So, was he good?” Good sex happened on Tuesdays after work with the guy from Hinge who insisted on taking you out somewhere too expensive for a second date. You split a basket of fries, drank half a beer because you still had work in the morning, drove home with exhaustion sitting heavy behind your eyes, then let him fuck you well enough to sleep for four uninterrupted hours.
Good sex was practical and predictable. It convinced your body you were living a normal life.
Great sex was different. Great sex happened after work parties when your mascara was already smudged and your heels were in your hand by midnight. It happened on weekends with nowhere to be the next morning. You never talked about great sex because it sounded exaggerated the second you said it out loud, like you were overselling a man nobody else would understand. Great sex made you cum or at least brought you close enough that your stomach tightened every time you remembered it afterward. You thought about great sex while driving long stretches of empty highway, your hands steady on the wheel while your mind wandered somewhere warmer.
Great sex stayed in your body for days. You caught yourself replaying parts of it absentmindedly while standing in line for coffee or brushing your teeth before bed.
Then there was getting fucked…
There was no cleaner way to define it. It lived somewhere between fantasy and urban legend, passed around between women in half-serious conversations that always dissolved into laughter. Everybody claimed to know someone who’d experienced it but nobody could explain it properly. Getting fucked was the kind of sex that distracted you in the middle of the day badly enough to make you stop what you were doing and change your underwear. It sat dangerously close to the limits of what sex could actually be before the whole thing collapsed under its own weight.
If a guy treated you too much like an object, it fell apart immediately.
If you didn’t orgasm, it didn’t count.
If you weren’t still thinking about him six months later at red lights and in grocery store aisles and during lonely hotel nights, then it wasn’t that either.
Getting fucked sat at the very top of the scale, lit up like something obvious and somehow most men still missed it completely.
Being made love to was worse and more dangerous, honestly.
For somebody like you, it could become embarrassing fast. Storm season kept you on the road for months at a time, bouncing between states, sleeping in motels with stiff sheets and weak air conditioning. Off-season meant office buildings, weather models glowing across multiple monitors, long meetings about funding, new equipment and data collection. Your life moved constantly and men liked that at first. A woman who was smart, busy, gone half the year, financially stable and difficult to pin down.
Men loved the idea of you because it excused the fact they never had to give very much. Most of them thought they were in love but really, they just liked access to somebody they found impressive.
Before all of that, you used to think being made love to meant passion…intimacy. That it was slow sex with somebody who knew your body so well they could pull an orgasm out of you patiently and confidently, like it mattered to them as much as breathing did. You imagined hands lingering at your waist, sleepy conversation afterward, somebody brushing your hair away from your face before kissing you again.
Instead, you ended up underneath men who mistook enthusiasm for intimacy. You stared at ceilings while they grunted above you, listened to them breathe your name like they were performing something instead of feeling it. Sometimes you felt your stomach turn from the boredom alone, your body rocking mechanically with theirs while your mind drifted somewhere else entirely to storm reports, grocery lists and whether you needed to change your oil before the next drive west.
You never let them finish once you realized you hated it, that was the one thing you refused to fake. You pushed them off, sat up and reached for your clothes while they blinked at you in confusion. You told them it wasn’t going to work, sometimes you said it gently and other times you just didn’t bother. Either way, you watched realization settle over them while they sat there flushed and humiliated, their ego bruised worse than their feelings ever were but somehow your harsh words still made them cum…
Needless to say, after a while, you stopped having sex altogether.
You were in your rental house after a long day spent staring at storm data and listening to Javi ramble about whatever breakthrough he thought he’d made this time. It was late, the entire house felt heavy and warm, every light dimmer than usual and lately, you weren’t alone nearly as often as you used to be.
Scott sat at your dining table with your laptop open, shoulders slightly hunched, completely absorbed in columns of numbers and radar models. You’d known him for two years and he’d been your partner for one of them.
People were right about him. He was direct to the point of rudeness, arrogant enough to make most people defensive within five minutes and mean when he thought someone deserved it but unlike most men in your field, Scott had learned how to admit when he was wrong, far from gracefully or happily but still, he did it.
The two of you were impossibly stubborn in almost identical ways, so sharing space with him sometimes felt like being trapped in a room with a sharper version of yourself. Separately, you were both good at what you did but together, you were nearly impossible to beat.
You couldn’t pinpoint when “coworkers” had turned into Scott walking into your house without knocking, helping himself to your fridge and sitting at your table like he paid rent.
“Best orgasm you’ve had during sex?” His voice came from across the room, casual and flat, like he’d asked you about rainfall percentages. He didn’t even look away from the laptop while he said it.
You’d forgotten he was meeting you there before the two of you drove to the bar together, which was why you were still walking around in sleep shorts and a bra, trying to find something decent enough to wear without looking like you’d spent an hour trying.
You took a sip from the beer he’d already pulled out of your fridge and nearly snorted into the bottle. “You think men do that?” you asked as you disappeared into your bedroom.
“To you?” Scott finally looked up. His eyes tracked your movement automatically while he reached for the beer the two of you were apparently sharing now. “I hope so.”
He took a drink as his eyes followed your movement.
You walked back into view holding two dresses on mismatched hangers. “You’re a fucking idiot,” you said plainly. “And maybe a pervert.”
Scott pointed at you immediately. “You’re changing in front of me. I could probably keep count of your bras at this point and I don’t. That actually makes me less of a pervert.”
You disappeared back into your room. He could hear hangers scraping against the closet rod while you searched through clothes with growing irritation.
“Just because it doesn’t make you hard doesn’t make you not a pervert,” you called back, your voice muffled through the wall.
“How do you know I’m not?” he shot back instantly, sounding almost offended by the assumption.
Silence followed but about a minute later, you walked back out wearing a dress he’d never seen before. It was simple, fitted enough to make his eyes stop for a second before continuing downward automatically. You crossed the room toward him, letting your heels drop onto the hardwood before slipping them on one at a time.
“You’re not attracted to me, Scott,” you said flatly.
He looked up slowly then, his eyes dragging over the length of the dress with enough attention to make most people nervous. On you, it just made you impatient.
“You seem awfully confident about that.”
“I am.” You adjusted the strap on your shoulder before glancing toward his laptop screen. “So don’t say shit that makes me sound stupid.”
Scott looked back at the laptop fast enough to make the movement obvious. He pretended to scroll through data he’d stopped reading the second you started undressing in the next room.
“I’m ready,” you said. “Good to go?”
“Need five minutes,” he muttered.
You walked behind him toward the front door, tapping his shoulder as you passed. “The data will still be there tomorrow. C’mon, Scotty.”
The teasing grin in your voice made something in his jaw tighten. You disappeared outside before he could even think of an answer.
Scott closed the laptop harder than necessary and stood, quietly adjusting himself through his jeans with the irritation of a man betrayed by his own body. He shut off the lights one by one and grabbed your keys from the counter before locking the door behind him.
The porch light was off so you couldn’t see the tent in his jeans. Thank fuck for that.
“Scotty was an eight-year-old with chubby cheeks,” he muttered while locking the deadbolt. He glanced over at you waiting by the passenger side of his truck. “It’s Scott.”
“It’s whatever I decide it is,” you replied easily.
He rolled his eyes and walked down the porch steps, unlocking the truck with a sharp click.
“Come open my door.”
“Since when do you need me to do that?” he complained, already circling the hood anyway.
“Since you got comfortable commenting on my bras.”
Scott stopped in front of you to stare before reaching around your waist to pull the handle open. The movement brought him close enough to smell your perfume underneath detergent and beer.
You smiled to yourself while climbing into the passenger seat because for once, Scott didn’t have anything smart to say.
Talking about sex with your coworkers was probably the least professional habit you could develop but professionalism stopped mattering after twelve-hour drives, shared motel rooms, gas station dinners at midnight and enough close calls together to make normal boundaries feel unnecessary. There were barely any women in the field to begin with, which meant the few of you that existed clung together fast and Scott, despite being deeply irritating most of the time, was easier to talk to than most people.
Brutally honest people usually were.
At some point, conversations that started as jokes during long drives turned into real discussions about relationships, sex, exes and every disappointing person either of you had ever slept with. It happened slowly enough neither of you noticed the line moving until it was already somewhere far behind you.
HR would’ve had a heart attack.
That night, you learned Scott Miller did not do good sex. If good sex existed to him at all, it involved two people fully clothed and standing on opposite ends of a room.
The bar was more crowded than you expected, packed wall to wall with storm chasers, meteorologists, researchers and people who somehow always smelled faintly like dust and gasoline no matter how clean they looked. Whenever women in the field found each other, there was an unspoken tendency to group together immediately, so you spent most of the night at the bar talking with another researcher from Oklahoma while music pounded so loud you felt it vibrate through the floor beneath your heels.
Eventually Javi appeared beside you carrying drinks you absolutely weren’t going to refuse. He handed one over before leaning closer, lowering his voice.
“What’s wrong with Scott?”
You blinked at him. The question caught you off guard enough to make your brows pull together immediately because nobody ever asked about Scott. People either tolerated him, argued with him or avoided him entirely. Whatever problem Scott had, he usually fixed it himself before anyone could notice it existed.
Your eyes scanned the crowd automatically until you found him near the back corner of the bar with a soda in his hand. Of course he wasn’t drinking, he stood half-shadowed against the wall looking deeply unimpressed by the concept of social interaction…and staring directly at you.
Your eyes narrowed slightly until Scott finally got the message and looked away first.
You turned back to Javi. “Do you mean tonight or in general?” you asked dryly. “Because I’m pretty sure he was dropped as a child, but you’d have to ask his mother for confirmation.”
Javi frowned harder. “I mean tonight. He looks tense and it’s making me uneasy.”
“It’s Scott. He always looks tense.”
“More than usual.” Javi glanced over his shoulder carefully. “Tell him to relax for once…and to make some friends. That’s literally why we came here.”
You pointed at yourself immediately. “Why am I responsible for that?”
Javi shrugged like the answer was obvious. “Because you speak ‘Scott’ fluently. Translate what I just said into something he’ll actually understand.”
Your gaze dropped to the drink in your hand. “You’re bribing me.”
“And that drink cost me twenty-five dollars,” he replied. “So yes. Go.”
You snorted into the rim of your glass. “Pretty sure stress is what’s making you bald, by the way…not Scott’s burning gaze.”
Javi adjusted his baseball cap defensively. “Just go talk to him.”
You shook your head, already grinning despite yourself and pushed through the crowd toward the back of the bar, which Scott noticed immediately.
The music got louder the closer you got to him, voices bleeding together into useless noise, so instead of trying to shout over it, you reached forward and hooked one finger through the belt loop of his jeans.
“Outside,” you said simply, tugging once as you moved toward the exit.
Scott followed without argument, that alone should’ve concerned you more than it did.
The plan was for him to ask what you wanted once you got outside. Instead, somewhere between the crowded bar and the exit door, he got distracted watching you walk ahead of him. Your dress moved against your hips every few steps, exposing flashes of leg skin under the low bar lights and the muscles in your bare back moved subtly every time you pushed through another cluster of people.
Inevitably, Scott’s eyes dropped lower before he caught himself.
By the time the two of you stepped outside into the cooler night air, he still hadn’t said a word.
You finally let go of his belt loop once the two of you were far enough from the entrance that the music had dulled into muffled bass behind you. You turned to face him properly, folding your arms across your chest as you looked up at him.
“What’s your current issue?” you asked.
“Current?” Scott repeated, brows pulling together.
You nodded once like the question made perfect sense.
“When’s the last time you had sex?”
A startled laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Excuse me?”
He shrugged carelessly, shoving one hand into the pocket of his jeans. “What? Are you the only one allowed to ask those questions?”
You laughed again, this time shaking your head as you pointed at him. “Yes. Obviously.”
Scott snorted.
“And those are long-drive questions,” you continued, motioning vaguely toward his truck behind you before pointing back toward the crowded bar. “Not ‘parking lot outside a packed bar’ questions.”
“You still need to answer.” He shrugged again. “Those are the rules.”
“Have I ever told you how stupid those rules are?”
“First time I’m hearing complaints since you’re the one who made them,” he replied with a grin.
“You’re insufferable,” you muttered under your breath before taking another sip of your drink.
Scott stayed quiet as he just watched you over the rim of his own soda, patient and expectant in a way that immediately irritated you because he clearly thought he was getting an answer eventually.
“Are you seriously gonna make me answer?”
“I can’t make you do anything,” he said calmly. “But I can wait. I still have to drive you home.”
You looked up toward the entrance of the bar. Through the windows you could still see people packed together under neon lights, laughing too loud, talking over each other about work, storm patterns and equipment failures. You’d already reached the point of the night where conversations started blending together into white noise.
“Can we leave now?” you asked.
Scott didn’t answer verbally. He just pulled his keys from his pocket, unlocked the truck with a click, then held his hand out toward your drink.
“Get in and lock the doors,” he said as he took the glass from you and turned back toward the bar to return it.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” you called after him while walking directly to the passenger side and doing exactly that.
Honestly, you didn’t mind answering the question. The problem was that once you actually thought about it, you realized you weren’t entirely sure how long it had been. It had been long enough that you had to start considering technicalities and long enough that the answer became embarrassing and unfortunately, thinking about sex while sitting alone in Scott’s truck immediately led your brain somewhere unhelpful…
Scott eventually climbed back into the truck and shut the door behind him. He didn’t start driving right away, he just sat there in the dark, one hand resting on the wheel while the dashboard lights cut sharp shadows across his face…waiting, because the thing about car questions was that silence usually came first.
“A year and a half,” you blurted out finally. “Give or take.”
Scott’s head turned toward you so fast it almost looked painful. “No,” he said immediately. “I don’t believe that.”
You laughed in disbelief and looked toward him. “Believe whatever you want, Scott. I answered the fucking question. That’s the game.”
“A year and a half?” he repeated, staring at you like you’d confessed to murder. “What the hell do you even do on weekends?”
“Currently?” you replied dryly. “Sit in your truck while you annoy me.”
“No,” he said, already turning the key in the ignition. “You’re irritated because you’re sexually frustrated.”
You barked out another incredulous laugh.
“And you’ve been sexually frustrated since I met you,” he continued as he shifted the truck into reverse. “Which explains why you piss me off every single fucking day.”
“Excuse you?” You turned toward him fully now, half laughing from sheer disbelief. “First the bra comments and now this? What’s next? Are you gonna set me up with one of your friends so he can fix me?”
“Put your seatbelt on.” The command came out flat and automatic.
You narrowed your eyes at him. “Don’t fucking tell me what to do, Scott. I’m not drunk enough to–”
The words died in your throat the second he reached across you.
His arm slid in front of your chest while the truck reversed smoothly with his other hand still turning the wheel. His forearm brushed against the underside of your breasts accidentally…or maybe not so accidentally and your breath caught hard at the sudden closeness. Scott grabbed the seatbelt beside your shoulder, pulled it across your body in one sharp movement, then clicked it into place at your hip without looking away from the rear window once.
You drove home in complete silence.
No radio or conversation, just the steady sound of tires against asphalt and the occasional flick of the blinker while Scott kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead. You’d heard every version of his voice over the last two years, sarcastic, irritated or sharp enough to make grown men defensive in meetings but hearing him tell you to put your seatbelt on while his arm pressed across your breasts had done something deeply unfortunate to your brain.
This was entirely your fault. You were the one who made sex an acceptable topic between the two of you, you were the one who turned it into a game, into background conversation during long drives and late nights. Somewhere along the way home, your definition of good sex had rewritten itself around that precise moment.
For most people, that probably counted as foreplay, but for you? It counted as a serious fucking problem.
By the time Scott parked outside your house, your thoughts had spiraled so badly that you barely registered the truck stopping. You stayed seated even after he cut the engine, staring forward blankly while the silence settled heavier around you.
Scott got out first without saying anything and walked around the front of the truck toward your side.
The passenger door opened. You looked up just in time to feel him lean in and reach across you again, fingers brushing lightly against the fabric stretched over your waist as he unclipped the seatbelt. The contact lasted maybe a second but that was already too long.
Only then did you finally move. You climbed out quickly, making an effort to keep close to the truck instead of brushing against him, then headed straight for your front door while digging through your purse for your keys even if it was practically empty and somehow that made it worse. You found lip balm…receipts…some loose cash, everything except what you actually needed.
Scott followed behind you quietly.
You still hadn’t found the keys when his arm appeared beside you, reaching around your body with frustrating familiarity. He’d had your keys the entire night, he usually did whenever the two of you went out together because you constantly lost track of them.
The metal clicked softly as he unlocked the door for you.
Your breath stalled as Scott stood so close behind you that you could feel the heat coming off him through the thin fabric of your dress. His chest nearly touched your back, one arm still braced near your shoulder while he turned the lock. It boxed you in completely, your body caught between the door and him and the worst part was that it felt good.
The sharp heat low in your stomach made that painfully obvious.
Good sex, apparently, was standing fully clothed on your own porch while your coworker unlocked your front door…all while standing right behind you.
The lock finally clicked open. You pushed the door open and stepped inside fast to put distance between you before turning back toward him.
Determination sat stiffly in your chest now…You were staying dressed. Whatever this weird tension was had to be alcohol-fueled, temporary, deeply stupid or preferably all three and gone by morning.
Unfortunately, Scott looked unfairly good standing on your porch under weak yellow light.
At some point he’d taken off his cap, you didn’t know when and hadn’t realized until now. Why did he look dreamy!? His hair was messy from running his hands through it all night and the expression on his face had settled back into that unreadable calm that somehow made things worse.
“Night, Scott,” you said quickly, then shut the door directly in his face…very determined to remain dressed.
“Are you gonna set me up with one of your friends so he can fix me?” That sentence replayed in your head later for one humiliating reason: Scott Miller had never been the kind of man to hand off work he could do himself.
You’d been wrong earlier, completely wrong.
Great sex didn’t happen on weekends or after parties or during long-awaited moments with somebody you trusted. Sometimes it happened five minutes after you slammed your front door in a man’s face and tried convincing yourself you still had common sense.
You stayed standing by the door after closing it, palms warm against the wood, waiting to hear his truck start. You expected the familiar sound of the driver’s side door opening, shutting and the low rumble of the engine before he pulled away but nothing happened.
At first you told yourself you were imagining the silence because you were still too aware of him…then a full minute passed…followed by another and then three more.
Five long, miserable minutes where your brain refused to focus on anything except the fact Scott was still outside your house.
You opened the door expecting embarrassment or maybe annoyance, maybe him realizing he forgot something. Instead, he was still standing there in the same position with that same unreadable expression, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans like you hadn’t just shut the door on him…five minutes ago.
You stared at each other for a second too long.
You never figured out what exactly snapped first. Pride, self-control or curiosity…maybe all of it at once again.
One second he was standing on your porch and the next you were grabbing a fistful of his shirt and pulling him forward hard enough to make him stumble into you as your mouth crashed against his.
The moment the door clicked shut behind you, the fragile determination to stay dressed shattered. You didn't just invite Scott in, you practically hauled him across the threshold, pulling him into a kiss that tasted of alcohol and months of suppressed frustration. It was messy and desperate, a collision of teeth and tongues that left you both breathless.
You stumbled backward, the friction of your bodies fueling a fire that had been simmering for far too long. As you navigated the space, your heels clicked erratically against the floor until you kicked them off with frantic movements, one flying toward the wall and the other sliding away as you backed into the dining area.
You hit the edge of the heavy wooden table and Scott didn't miss a beat. He gripped your waist with bruising force and hoisted you up, the sudden elevation making you gasp into his mouth. He didn't stop kissing you but his path shifted, lips sliding down your jawline to your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. His hands were everywhere, frantic and demanding, sliding up the fabric of your dress and bunching it up around your waist until your thighs were bare and shivering against the cool wood.
You felt his fingers hook into the elastic of your panties, tugging them down with a sharp, decisive motion until you could kick them off, exposing you to the air. As he lowered himself, his mouth found the swell of your breasts through your dress, biting lightly against the fabric on his way down between your legs.
"You don't need to do that," you managed to moan, your voice trembling as he moved your weight, sliding you toward the edge of the table until you were perched precariously, your legs naturally falling open.
"Shut up," Scott muttered against your skin, his voice a low, arrogant growl that sent a jolt of electricity straight to your clit as he finally settled himself firmly between your thighs, the heat of his body radiating against your wetness.
Then, he dipped his head. The first touch of his tongue was a shock of heat, it was wet and precise. He dove right in, tongue licking upward from your perineum to your clit in one long, sweeping stroke. You arched your back as a loud moan escaped you since it had been so long since you’d felt anything this raw, this focused. You were starving for it and Scott was feeding off of you with a primal intensity that blurred everything else out.
He used his hands to grip your hips, pulling you closer to the edge so he could bury his face in you as he kneeled. He began to lap at you with a rhythmic, punishing speed, his tongue flattening out to cover as much surface area as possible before narrowing into a sharp point to flick relentlessly against your clit.
The sensation was overwhelming. You began to squirm, hips jerking instinctively against his mouth as your fingernails clawed at the tabletop. You weren't just enjoying it, you were unraveling.
"Fuck…Scott...please," you whimpered, though you didn't know what you were asking for.
He responded by changing your position. He pushed you flat onto your back on the table, the hard wood pressing into your spine and hauled your legs up, draping them over his broad shoulders. The position left you completely exposed, your pussy flared open and glistening in the dark room.
He didn't stop the oral but added more by sliding two fingers deep inside you, stretching you open while his tongue continued to hammer away at your clit. The combination of the internal pressure and the external friction was too much. You were shaking, breath coming in short, jagged gasps as your feet drummed against his back.
He could tell you were close, encouraging him to increase the pressure, fingers curling inside you to hit your G-spot while his tongue sucked your clit into his mouth, creating a vacuum of pleasure that felt like it was pulling your entire soul out through your cunt.
“Holy s-shit!” Your head thrashed from side to side, a loud, unrestrained scream tearing from your throat as the orgasm hit you like a freight train. It was violent and all-consuming, your internal muscles clamping down hard on his fingers as waves of intense pleasure crashed over you, leaving you whimpering and twitching on the table.
As the peak slowly subsided, Scott didn't pull away immediately. He stayed there, his breath hot against your sensitive skin, slowly lapping the remaining juices from your pussy. He cleaned you thoroughly, his tongue lingering on every inch of your swollen cunt until you were completely spent, lying limp and shivering on the table, finally satisfied.
He straightened slowly from between your legs, chest rising hard with uneven breaths that matched your own. His mouth was swollen and wet when he licked across his lips absentmindedly, eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made heat crawl back under your skin even while your body still twitched from the orgasm.
From your place sprawled across the dining table, you stared up at him in stunned silence. Your thighs were still trembling now against his sides and you were almost certain your expression looked ridiculous, wide-eyed and dazed in a way you hadn’t allowed yourself to look around another person in years.
Scott held a hand out toward you and you took it automatically.
He helped you sit up first before guiding you carefully off the table, one hand steady on your waist while your legs struggled to cooperate beneath you. The second your feet touched the floor, your knees nearly gave out entirely.
Scott wiped his mouth with his palm. “Goodnight,” he said and the gentleness of it caught you off guard more than anything else that night had.
His hand slipped away from your waist and the two of you just stood there for a second, staring at each other while trying and failing to breathe normally again.
Then Scott turned and walked toward the front door.
You stayed frozen in place while he opened it and left your house without another word. A few seconds later you finally heard the sounds you’d been waiting for earlier, the truck door opening, shutting and the engine starting before he drove off into the night.
You tried walking toward your bedroom afterward and immediately realized your legs barely worked. You ended up half stumbling down the hallway, one hand dragging along the wall for balance because your entire lower body still felt weak and oversensitive.
Great sex…that had been unbelievably, painfully great sex.
You thought about it constantly afterward. In the shower, during calls and meetings, while sitting in traffic or lying awake at night staring at the ceiling with your thighs pressed together. You didn’t mention it to your friends or talked to Scott about it, even during the long stretches of silence that filled the truck during drives. The two of you understood what happened without discussing it directly, you’d crossed a line and both of you seemed aware that talking about it too much would probably drag you over it again.
The following mornings, you waited for him outside on your porch instead of letting him walk into your house like usual. Mostly because you’d spent the entire week masturbating to the memory of him between your legs on your dining table before getting ready for the day and you didn’t trust yourself to survive seeing him inside your kitchen before sunrise.
For one solid week, you slept perfectly. No insomnia or late-night work spirals, no pacing around rooms or answering emails at one in the morning just to keep your brain occupied. Whatever tension usually sat under your skin had disappeared completely and now it sat between you both instead.
Every drive felt heavier, the silence stretched longer and every sharp inhale from him made your stomach tighten unexpectedly until eventually you got sick of pretending neither of you noticed it.
“We don’t have to talk about it,” you interrupted suddenly.
Scott glanced toward you briefly, eyes leaving the road for barely a second before returning forward. “Do you want to?” he asked.
“I don’t,” you admitted. “I feel like you do though.”
“You’re right.”
You snorted quietly and looked back down at the laptop balanced across your knees.
“I thought you liked being right.” Scott added.
“Fucking love it,” you replied automatically before grimacing. “Usually.”
Silence settled again until you broke it. “Okay,” you sighed eventually. “Maybe one thing.” You turned to him properly this time. “I wasn’t that drunk that night. Actually, I wasn’t drunk at all. I had that one beer before we left my place and the rest were mocktails.”
Scott turned his head enough to study your face for a second. “I wouldn’t have touched you if you were drunk,” he said flatly. “I’m an asshole, not fucking stupid.”
You leaned back against the seat slowly. “Even that’s changed.”
His brows furrowed. “What does that mean?”
“The coffee for starters,” you said. “The lunches, too. You stopped buying disgusting gas station sandwiches and now we actually eat dinner out like normal people.” You gestured vaguely toward him. “You used to hand me coffee with five sugar packets on the side because you couldn’t remember how I took it. Now it’s magically perfect every fucking morning.”
Scott adjusted his grip on the steering wheel.
“I thought eating around other people would make this less weird,” he admitted. “And I got tired of sugar packets all over my truck.”
“Our truck,” you corrected automatically before pointing at him accusingly. “And nothing about this is normal, Scott! You ate me out on my dining table!”
“Stop yelling at me.” His tone stayed frustratingly calm.
“Why?” you shot back. “Is it making you hard?”
Scott shifted in his seat hard enough that you noticed instantly. Both his hands locked tighter around the steering wheel while he stared straight ahead at the road. The tension in his jaw became visible because unfortunately for him, you weren’t wrong.
The last week had changed things. You looked less exhausted and less tightly wound. You hadn’t snapped at him once during work and he hadn’t gotten a single unhinged one a.m. email from you all week because for the first time since he’d met you, you were actually sleeping.
“So when are we doing it again?” he asked finally, against every ounce of common sense he had left.
NEVER…that should’ve been the answer. It was the logical answer, the responsible one, the answer two coworkers with already questionable boundaries should’ve landed on immediately.
It just wasn’t the truth.
You had always maintained that getting fucked couldn’t happen in motel rooms. It didn't matter how good the sex was, the second cheap carpet, bad lighting and a rattling air conditioner got involved, the whole thing dropped several levels automatically.
Motel sex could be great, sometimes even memorable but it couldn’t be that, so the next time it happened definitely wasn’t in a motel room.
The weather that day had turned bad enough to keep everyone grounded but not dangerous enough to send your team chasing storms through three different counties. There was heavy rain, low visibility and too much lightning for comfort but not enough rotation to justify going out.
At some point, without either of you actually saying it outright, waiting the storm out in Scott’s apartment became the plan instead of sitting cramped inside the truck for hours pretending the tension between you didn’t exist.
You still couldn’t pinpoint who made the first move once the elevator doors closed behind you.
One second you were standing beside him soaked at the edges from the rain, listening to distant thunder through the concrete parking garage and the next, Scott’s hand was inside your pants like it belonged there.
You gasped hard into his mouth as his fingers slid against you immediately, already somewhat familiar with exactly what made your hips jerk forward. The kiss that came after barely counted as one, it was messy and distracted, interrupted constantly by your breathing and the quiet sounds you kept failing to swallow down.
The elevator ride lasted less than a minute but by the time the doors opened onto his floor, your orgasm was already hitting you in sharp waves around his fingers while your forehead pressed against his shoulder to keep yourself standing.
If you weren’t already fucked, you were about to be.
You’d been inside Scott’s apartment before. A handful of times after late nights working or when weather reports needed reviewing somewhere quieter than a crowded diner. You remembered the big windows first, stretching across the living room area with a full view of the skyline in the distance. Tonight they framed heavy gray clouds and rain pouring so hard that it blurred the city lights into smears of white and yellow.
Scott barely gave you time to look around because the second the apartment door shut behind you, his hands were on you again. He walked you toward the living room with rough impatience, pulling your pants down from behind while you stumbled against the edge of an armchair. Your underwear followed immediately after, dragged down together in one quick motion before pooling around your ankles.
The air in Scott’s apartment was heavy, charged with the static of the storm raging outside. The gray light of the overcast sky filtered through the windows but the atmosphere inside was scorching.
"Kneel," he commanded as he pointed toward the armchair, his voice a low, authoritative rumble.
You didn't hesitate. The tension that had been building between you for weeks, the unspoken glances and lingering touches, had finally snapped. You sank to your knees on the plush seat, your heart hammering against your ribs. You leaned forward, gripping the headrest with both hands, body already trembling in anticipation. You were completely exposed to him, your ass tilted back and waiting.
Scott disappeared for a moment, leaving you in a silence broken only by the distant roll of thunder. When he returned, the sound of a foil packet tearing echoed in the room. You heard the metallic click of his belt unbuckling and the slide of a zipper.
The anticipation was agonizing. You heard him roll the condom on, followed by the wet sound of him spitting on the head of his cock to make the entry smoother.
He stepped up behind you, heat radiating against your backside. He lined himself up and then, with one powerful, decisive surge, he thrust deep inside you.
You let out a sharp, strangled whine, your fingers digging into the fabric of the headrest. It had been so long since you’d felt a man inside you and Scott was massive. The initial stretch was borderline painful, a blunt force that filled every millimeter of your tight, starving pussy. You blinked rapidly, tears pricking your eyes as your body struggled to accommodate his size, your breath hitching in your throat.
Scott didn't give you time to adjust. He reached forward, his large hands clamping onto your hips with bruising force and yanked you backward, pulling you deeper onto his cock until there was no space left between you.
"I wanna see you," you moaned, your voice broken and desperate, trying to twist your torso around to look at him.
He didn't let you. Instead, he leaned in and sank his teeth into the skin of your shoulder, a sharp bite that made you moan despite your best efforts. His hand moved from your hip to your jaw, gripping it firmly to keep your head pinned forward.
"Just focus," he rasped calmly against your skin, the contrast of his steady voice and his firm grip sending a shiver of submission down your spine.
He let go of your jaw and began to thrust. He didn't start slowly, he hit you with a rhythmic, punishing intensity. The apartment was suddenly filled with the sound of your sudden, loud moans and frantic curses. You collapsed forward, your chest pressed against the headrest, your body jarring with every hit.
As he hammered into you, Scott reached around, his hands finding your breasts. He didn't bother undressing you further, he grabbed your boobs firmly over your clothes, squeezing and kneading them with a rough, possessive grip that matched the violence of his hips.
"I'm gonna fuck you on every surface of this apartment," he growled. "You'll be seeing a lot of me."
The sex quickly became raw and primal and so, so fucking good. The sound of skin slapping against skin, mixed with the wet, rhythmic thud of his pelvis hitting your ass filled the room, competing with the roar of the thunder outside. Every thrust shook your entire frame, quaking your body from your head to your toes. You were whimpering loudly now, the pain of the initial stretch having completely melted into an overwhelming, white-hot pleasure you never thought you could feel.
Your eyes watered, staring out into the distance of the room, the world blurring as the friction built. It was fast, harsh and so perfect that you found yourself wanting to bite the armchair, your teeth sinking into the fabric as your back arched violently. You were unraveling, the long period of abstinence making you hypersensitive to every inch of him.
"I'm right there, keep going! Scott, please! Don’t fuckin’ stop." you whined, voice echoing through the apartment.
He didn't, he instead increased the pace, his thrusts becoming shorter and more frantic, drilling into you with an obsession that felt like he wanted to merge his body with yours. The thunder peaked with a deafening crash that seemed to trigger something inside you.
Suddenly, your internal muscles spasmed. A wave of heat exploded from your core and you felt a sudden, uncontrollable gush of fluid. You were squirting, something that had never happened to you before, the hot spray soaking the armchair and your own thighs. You began to shake uncontrollably, your legs giving out as you sobbed out of pure pleasure into the headrest.
Scott let out a guttural groan, the feeling of you flooding around him driving him over the edge. He loved it, hell, he was obsessed with the way you were falling apart under him. He kept going, ignoring your tremors, continuously driving himself into you as you peaked into a mind-blowing, screaming orgasm that left you completely breathless.
With a final, deep thrust, he groaned loudly, coming hard into the condom.
The momentum stopped abruptly. He stayed buried inside you for a long moment, both of you frozen, chests heaving in unison.
Slowly, he withdrew, the wet sound of his exit punctuating the silence with an obscene pop.
You both watch the rain lash against the glass, the gray light illuminating the wreckage of your passion. You took a long, shuddering breath, body still twitching from the aftershocks as your pussy twitched around nothing, back arching further needily, earning a smack from him.
"Holy fuck," you both breathed simultaneously, the weight of the encounter settling over you in the heavy, humid air.
There was no going back after that day. Not to abstinence, not to disappointing hookups or to pretending sex was something casual and forgettable that fit neatly between work schedules and storm reports.
Once Scott got his hands on you, everything else lost appeal embarrassingly fast.
What started as isolated incidents quickly turned into a pattern neither of you seriously attempted to stop. It was a terrible idea professionally, obviously, but somehow the two of you functioned better afterward. Meetings became easier, long drives felt lighter and you argued less viciously because the tension always had somewhere to go now instead of festering under your skin for weeks.
You started going home together most nights under the excuse of saving gas money. Then showering together afterward became another practical decision because apparently water bills mattered too now. Somewhere between shared coffee in the mornings and him keeping spare clothes for you at his apartment, things moved quietly into something neither of you had planned for and the worst part was that it worked.
The sex stayed incredible. Sometimes rough enough to leave hickeys along your skin and fingerprints fading across your thighs and hips by morning, or other times slow enough that you ended up tangled together for hours afterward while thunderstorms rolled outside the windows. Every now and then he fucked you hard enough to leave you shaking afterward, staring blankly at the ceiling while he stood in the kitchen making you food like that was a normal sequence of events but eventually you realized it wasn’t just about that anymore.
You started having actual dates without calling them dates, it was dinner after work that lasted until restaurants closed around you. You went grocery shopping together because both of you were too exhausted to go separately and you began falling asleep on opposite ends of his couch while weather models played quietly on television screens neither of you were really watching.
Off-season made it worse.
Without constant travel, motel rooms and adrenaline keeping you both distracted, there was finally time to explore whatever this thing between you had become. You drifted naturally between your house and his apartment depending on whose place seemed closer to the office that day. Half your belongings somehow ended up at his place and vice versa. You texted each other constantly during meetings despite sitting twenty feet apart, phones hidden beneath desks while coworkers talked around you.
Scott started bringing your coffee to your desk already made exactly how you liked it before you even decided you needed one. You started buying his preferred cereal without asking if he wanted any. He slept better with you in his bed and you stopped grinding your teeth in your sleep when he stayed over.
So naturally, being made love to finally happened exactly the way you once thought it would and it wasn’t some exaggerated version of romance men convinced themselves they were capable of after two drinks and mediocre conversation.
It sort of snuck up on you. It was Scott pulling you into his lap while both of you were exhausted after work, kissing your shoulder absentmindedly while you read through data on his laptop. It was him waking you up slowly on Sunday mornings with his hand sliding under your shirt and nowhere either of you needed to be. It was sex that lasted forever because he knew your body well enough to take his time with it, knew exactly what made you gasp, what made your legs tense and what made you hide your face against his neck when the pleasure became too much.
He paid attention and it made all of the difference. Scott learned your body like he learned storm patterns, thoroughly and obsessively, until touching you became instinct to him and it showed…
The morning light filtered through the curtains of your bedroom in soft, golden slats, painting the sheets in hues of amber and cream. The house was silent, save for the rhythmic sound of your shared breathing and the distant chirp of birds welcoming the dawn. You were tangled together, skin on skin, the warmth of the duvet trapping the heat of your bodies in a private, humid cocoon.
There was no rush, no storm to outrun and no urgency born of desperation. There was only the heavy, sweet weight of Scott pressing you into the mattress. You were both fully naked, your limbs entwined in a lazy, possessive knot.
Scott began slowly, his lips tracing a path of fire across your collarbone. He wasn't just kissing you, he was tasting you, tongue swirling against your skin in slow circles that made you shiver. He moved lower, mouth finding the sensitive curve of your breast as you let out a soft, airy moan. He took your nipple into his mouth, sucking firmly while his thumb and forefinger pinched the other peak, twisting it just enough to send a jolt of electricity straight to your core.
You arched your back, your fingers sliding into the thick hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. The friction of his chest against your breasts was intoxicating, the rough hair of his torso grazing your sensitive skin.
He shifted, sliding his body up so he could look into your eyes. His gaze was dark, filled with an intensity that felt more overwhelming than any of the rougher encounters you'd had. He didn't move to flip you or push you into a different position, instead, he settled between your thighs in a classic missionary stance and pushed inside. There was no latex barrier this time, no clinical snap of a condom. It was raw, wet and absolute.
The sensation of his bare skin sliding against yours was a revelation. You gasped, your eyes fluttering shut as you felt the full, throbbing heat of him filling you completely. It felt different, more intimate and permanent. The lack of a barrier made every ridge of his cock feel amplified, every pulse of his blood echoing against your own internal walls.
He didn't start with the punishing pace of the past. Instead, he began to rock, his movements slow and agonizingly deep. He pressed his palm flat against your stomach, pushing down firmly to tilt your pelvis, ensuring that every thrust hit the deepest part of you.
"Gripping me like a fucking vise…so perfect." he groaned, his voice a gravelly morning rumble that vibrated through your chest.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, locking your ankles to pull him even deeper. You were lost in the rhythm, the slow, sliding friction creating a build-up of tension that felt like a tightening coil in your belly. You ran your hands through his hair, your nails lightly scratching his scalp as you moaned into the first rays of the morning sun.
The intimacy was suffocating in the best way possible. As he continued to rock, his movements grew slightly more urgent, the slow glide turning into a passionate, driving force. He leaned down, his lips brushing against yours, tasting the salt and sweetness of your skin while he continued to pinch and tease your nipples, hand roaming your curves with a familiarity that spoke of a deep, obsessive knowledge of your body.
It didn’t take long for your breath to become shallow, chest heaving as the pleasure began to peak. You could feel the walls of your pussy clenching around him, milking him with every deep stroke. Your body tensed, toes curling into the sheets as a wave of heat crashed over you. You cried out, a long, melodic sound of surrender, as your orgasm ripped through you in slow, pulsing waves that left you shaking beneath him.
Scott didn’t slow his pace as his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing heavily. He continued moving, the intimacy of the connection almost too much to bear.
"Want to be done?" he whispered, his voice strained, muscles trembling with the effort of holding back.
You looked up at him, eyes hazy with pleasure and affection. The thought of him pulling away felt wrong because you wanted everything. You wanted the weight, the heat and the mark of him.
You shook your head with an escaped whimper, pulling his face down to yours. "Don’t you dare pull out…’want you to come inside." You breathed.
The request broke the last of his restraint. Scott let out a guttural sound, a mix of a groan and a sob and began to drive into you with a renewed, primal intensity. It was a desperate, loving hunger. He hammered into you, movements strong and deep, each thrust a claim and a promise.
As he reached his limit, his grip on your hip tightened, fingers digging into your skin. He thrust one last time, burying himself as deep as physically possible and you felt the hot, thick bursts of his cum flooding into you. The sensation of him filling you from the inside out was the most intense feeling you had ever experienced, a physical manifestation of the bond that had grown between you.
In the height of his release, as his body shuddered violently against yours, he gasped out the words he had been holding back.
"I love you," he choked out, the confession raw and unplanned.
The world seemed to stop for a heartbeat. You felt a surge of emotion that rivaled the intensity of the orgasm, a warmth that started in your chest and radiated to your fingertips. You tightened your hold on him, pulling him down for a deep, searing kiss.
"I love you too," you whispered against his lips.
He collapsed onto you, heart drumming a frantic rhythm against your own, both of you spent and glowing in the morning light, finally and completely entwined.
A few years ago, you would’ve hated the idea that Scott Miller of all people would end up teaching you everything worth knowing about sex. It would’ve bruised your ego badly, especially considering how seriously you once took those stupid categories and scales in your head before Scott showed up and ruined all of them completely.
Good sex stopped mattering.
Great sex became expected.
Getting fucked became routine enough that you lost count somewhere along the line, usually around the third orgasm of the day and definitely before he started dragging you into his lap halfway through work calls just because he felt like bothering you…with his hands and dick.
But somehow, even after all the rough sex and ruined schedules, Scott still managed to make love to you exactly the way you once imagined it should feel.
So if somebody offered you the chance to go back and do it all over again, you would without hesitation.
You were an absolute HR nightmare now and what a fucking delight that was!
A/N: If you enjoyed this story, feel free to explore the archive for more! Liking and reblogging helps others discover my writing and comments always make my day, they’re a huge encouragement for me to keep creating. Thank you so much for reading!
Look at him just chewing the FAWK out of that gum 😭 (wait chew me next)
when Planet Publishing’s editor Clark Kent was given a steamy romance for his next project, he vowed to treat it like any other assignment: professionally. a sentiment he shared with the author herself—except it wasn’t the only thing they had in common…
🖊️ WARNINGS & TAGS: coworkers to friends with benefits?; virgins; mutual yearning; some jealousy; drunken confessions; SMUT (mentions of masturbation, oral, they're both switches, big dick clark, fingering, dirty talk, praise, size kink, tummy bulge, virginity loss, unprotected sex, creampie)
📓 READER NOTES: afab!reader; no use of y/n; reader drinks alcohol and eats meat... not clark's meat, although she does that too
☕️ AUTHOR'S NOTES: @theworstwolvie @pinksplace @tw1sters thank you for giving this a quick read while it was still a fetus—your encouragement carried me here to the post button <3
i hope everyone likes this fic because between this and another in july i don't think i'll be working on anything else... alexa play see you again by charlie puth wiz khalifa
1
Cassius traced a line with his darkened eyes. It dragged heat down Vesra’s body: first her lips, then her throat, then her naked, heaving chest. The corset that damned him all night was tugged loose, but not off, instead supporting her flesh in a way more salacious than it was designed to.
“Look at you,” he growled, the rumble reverberating in the inches between their bodies. “Better than I’ve dreamed.”
Vesra had a tease at the tip of her tongue—something about Cassius having dreamt of her—but the words evaporated the moment his lips took a pert nipple between them. She gasped instead, fingers finding his dark locks, tugging gently at them in a plea for more. If he was bothered by the touch, he didn’t show it: the first kisses turned quickly into suckles and testing bites.
The warmth of Cassius’s mouth bled into her veins. It spiked into a fever when he ground his hips into hers.
“Cass,” she cried, unbidden.
He groaned, mouth still on her tit. “Feel what you do to me? That’s all your fault.”
The question was rhetorical. Vesra felt it more than enough to answer: the outline of his shaft pressed against—
Someone clears their throat.
Clark Kent looks up. So do you from the book you’re reciting.
A waiter is there: young and blonde with a face that spelled jadedness earned from countless shifts toiling in this restaurant. He’s clearly walked into worse in his career.
“More water?” he offers, tone deadpan.
“I’m good, thanks,” you smile sweetly in response, “but please get me another bottle of soju.”
“One soju, then,” he repeats, before stepping away from your table.
Meanwhile, Clark sits across you with his face on fire. He manages an apologetic look at the waiter before throwing his gaze up, silently thanking the company for booking you a private room.
A warm pendant light looks back at him.
The Korean barbecue dinner is billable to Planet Publishing for two reasons: your birthday, and the success of your second novel under the house’s wing.
It’s the book you have open in your hands: Owls on a Moonlit Marsh, a gateway drug to fantasy for romance readers, and a steamy page-turner for fantasy readers.
Now Clark didn’t edit that book. He’s just invited to this company-expensed dinner because the two of you were in Gotham for a creative writing event, in which you were one of the panelists.
And you certainly didn’t let his politeness deter you from dragging him along, pushing past his insistence that you should spend Planet Publishing’s money with someone special—maybe a boyfriend.
(Was it rude to feel relief when you told him you didn’t have one?)
So, here he is. With you. Slightly full from an extremely delicious assortment of meats and banchan, listening to you complain about the pain in writing pleasure.
Clark Kent convinces himself that you brought him along because it’s the kind thing to do. The convenient thing, even. For once, you’re in Gotham, and this place has crossed your socials too many times. He just happened to be on a business trip with you.
That dress you are wearing isn’t low-cut to seduce him so much as to make yourself look beautiful. (And God, do you look beautiful.) It’s not flirtation that flashes in your eyes, just everyday mischief. Maybe soju-induced intoxication.
But that smile… The curl of it is so dangerously familiar, he finds his eyes averting from it to not provoke any untoward ideas—because the only ideas he’s getting are rather untoward.
Between the thoughts Clark Kent thinks to avoid heartbreak, there’s no way to misinterpret that smile.
Six months of working with someone is enough time to figure out whether you’re into them. Except Clark—if he were to admit at gunpoint—would say that being ‘into’ you is a massively understated way of expressing the specific feeling he’s dealing with.
You’re under his skin like an influence.
“Now where was I…?” you hum, scanning the page of an open book.
You point at the page. “Oh, right. His shaft.”
Once again, thank God and Perry White for the private room. Otherwise, saying the word ‘shaft’ while you read smut out loud might get you kicked out of this sleek restaurant.
“That scene was good,” Clark coughs. And he doesn’t just say that because he likes you, but in all honesty. “It’s sexy. And vulnerable.”
The main characters have gone through a literal book-load of feelings, which culminated into what has been described by Tumblr users as a “clit-throbbing” smut scene. In working with you for half a year, he deeply understands—the first part about going through a lot of feelings, that is.
The latter part? He can only dream.
“Thanks, Clark. Flattery gets you everywhere,” you beam. “I have a praise kink.”
Gosh, it’s so darn warm in here. (The charcoal’s been dead for a while now.)
“I was being serious.”
“Really? You think it was good?” you reply so earnestly he sits up straighter at the attention. “I was worried we were getting repetitive—M and I could only substitute the word ‘cock’ so many times.”
Clark nearly chokes on his rice wine.
If the publishing house let you loose with your word choices, people will get ID’ed at the counter for wanting to buy your books.
And M? She’s the reason he’s working with you: the editor for your first two novels, now on maternity leave.
M stands for Mary, but only those closest to her would know that her full given name is Mary Magdalene.
Alanis Morissette would like a word.
“I’m sure ‘thrust’ is the same,” Clark murmurs, fixing his glasses.
You give the comment a thought. “Actually, not really.”
“Yeah?”
“Mm-hmm,” you nod. The green soju bottle glints in the dim as you swirl it around. “I suppose… it’s the sensation that I find difficult to write.”
Clark tries to school his heartbeat. Be professional. That’s the one thing he vowed when taking up this job: you can’t edit a critically acclaimed romantasy if you don’t take it seriously.
And the two of you haven’t gotten there. Writing the sex, he means, not having sex. There’s nowhere for you and him to go on that part. And he definitely has not thought about it. Not in the slightest.
Professional, Clark scolds himself internally.
“How so?” he asks.
Your gaze shifts away from his. That’s rare.
“Well,” you begin, tone light as a feather, “it’s hard to write about something I haven’t felt before.”
A beat of silence. Then two.
“Sorry, what?” he pipes up, voice comically tiny. “I don’t think I heard you right.”
There’s nothing for him to be nervous about, though, because you’re grinning back at him like that wasn’t a dropped bomb. He’d blame it on the alcohol in your veins, but even while sober, you’re the kind of woman who just… shoots it straight.
God knows he loves it—his heart blooms in secret joy with every flash of honesty.
Like right now.
“I think you did, Clark,” you giggle, “and now you’re getting shy about it.”
“It’s the makgeolli,” he defends, though feebly.
“I’m a virgin,” you announce.
As if it’s the Declaration of Independence.
As if the waiter didn’t just enter and place another bottle of soju on your table.
You throw him a thank you with a pretty smile, to which the young man nodded. He leaves the room without asking if you need anything else.
You have the decency to continue after the door slides shut.
“And I mean that in the PIV sense. Not that the notion of virginity makes any sense, let alone penetrative virginity.”
“No, yes, of course,” Clark stammers in reply, all while his mind asks what have you done, then, and how do I stop picturing you doing it?
Because you did things with someone else. At some point in time, you were doing things with someone else. That makes him jealous.
Clark Kent doesn’t like feeling that green thing.
He’s jolted out of his slightly bitter reverie by a nudge on his calf.
It’s the tip of your high-heeled shoe. He doesn’t need to peek under the table to see, he can picture it just fine: maroon patent leather with a pointed tip brushing short, playful strokes over the fabric of his dress pants.
His heartbeat snags. The pulse floods south.
“But with your experience, Mr. Editor,” you smile coyly, “you’ll ensure my written work is as accurate as possible, yes?”
Call it in vino veritas, or call it Ma and Pa’s education, but Clark Kent can’t lie. Not well, anyway. The truth stumbles out of his lips soon as you stop talking.
He tries to make it sound casual.
“You know, I haven’t done it, either.”
Your eyes widen, gasping out in drunken surprise.
“Really. A catch like you? The world truly is ending.”
There are many graces offered to Clark Kent tonight, and maybe the small kindnesses he did in the past are paid back in this exact moment: the waiter saunters in again to announce that the restaurant is closing soon, giving Clark a second or two to collect himself after your remark.
A catch, you called him, while he catches his breath and gathers your coats from their hangers, while his heart flies away on wings of joy. You think he’s a catch.
Or maybe you’re just being nice.
You stand and turn around. He helps you with your sleeves.
“The meal was fantastic,” you tell the waiter on your way out, appearing completely sober—save for the warm lilt in your voice.
The subject is dropped just like that.
Meanwhile, on the short walk back to the hotel, Clark Kent can only think of how you’ve never.
And how you know he’s never, either.
୨୧
When you reach the hotel, he’s not sure if you’ll even remember anything in the morning, because you’re giggling in the elevator up when the height pops your ears.
He’s not just walking you to your room, but walking himself inside your room—to make sure you’re safe, of course.
The bedroom is a mirrored layout of his just next door. He watches as you cross the threshold, dump your coat on the floor, and kick your heels off before jumping face-first onto the queen bed.
He shakes his head, but everything he does bleeds affection: he hangs up your coat and places your shoes neatly onto the side.
Then you sigh into the cold sheets, as if laying there is the best feeling in the world, and Clark tenses.
You’re safe. He isn’t.
Because that sigh reminds him of another sound.
A moan—airy, short.
Yours.
It happened last night. He could only hear it because the hotel walls aren’t as thick as he thought, or maybe because your beds were pressed up on the same side. It wasn’t loud—just him being really cognizant that your private existence and his are separated by one slab.
A concrete slab, sure, but still.
And his mind got the better of him, as it always does when you’re involved. The little noise was enough to make him think about you touching yourself. The image alone inspired him to do the same in the shower.
He’d spent a long time after feeling guilty for morphing that beautiful sound into something that resembled his name—that’s how inconceivable it is, a person like you being into a person like him.
Still, if he has a character flaw, it would be the endless hope that pours out of him. It’s in the way he tucks you under the covers and fixes a strand of your hair after.
He’s about to leave when you grab his hand.
“Don’t go,” you murmur, eyes half-closed. Even so, he sees them glazed—with both alcohol and a brand of loneliness he can’t bare to subject you to—and he folds easily.
The smile you smile when he slips under the covers is just about worth the torture of holding you in your bed.
You snuggle up into him, face buried in his chest.
But then you go and make things even harder for him. Something you keep doing even while drunk.
“Clark?” you slur.
“Hm?”
“You know I’d give it to you, right?”
“Give me what?”
“My virginity.”
Oh.
How cruel, he thinks to himself. The things people say under the influence.
“Go to sleep,” he says softly, stroking the top of your head. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about, is what he tells himself to keep the feelings at bay.
But his mind recalls the shape of your moan, and how perhaps he didn’t make it sound like his name.
You murmur something unintelligible. He wonders if you can hear the wild bang of his heart. Your prolonged silence and even breaths mean no.
He drifts off soon after.
2
You wake up feeling like a person in a daytime pad commercial who just slept like a person in a nighttime pad commercial.
That is to say: you wake up comfortable because you slept amazing. The only minor complaint would be the lack of bodily warmth on your sheets.
On the other side of the bed are wrinkled sheets, suspiciously Clark-shaped. Flashes of last night play in your head: the Korean barbecue, alcohol burning your throat, the smell of him under your sheets…
…and the things you told him.
Oh.
Well, you said what you said. It certainly isn’t the first time you embarrassed yourself just to make him look your way. The dress last night is another recent example.
Life goes on, and you figure your colleague-slash-friend probably returned to his room right after he woke, most likely flustered even with no one looking.
On the nightstand is a tall glass of water and Advil. Must be Clark’s doing.
You drink the medicine down despite 1) feeling in perfect health and 2) knowing that the water won’t quench the thirst you have for the man who poured the glass for you.
And boy, does Clark look like a tall glass of water when you see him again in the lobby, seated in one of the plush armchairs. You keep telling yourself it’s the suit, but the hotel receptionist is wearing the same color and cut—yet you’re not salivating at the sight.
“Good morning,” you chirp, wheeling your small suitcase while you walk towards Clark.
He stands. He always does when you enter a room. Those manners and looks in one person would incur panic upon suburban mothers everywhere.
“Thanks for the Advil.”
“It’s no problem.” He smiles back at you. You sense immense politeness—more than usual. “How did you sleep?”
“Really well. You?”
“Yup, out like a light.”
“Must be the alcohol,” you reply.
It would’ve been a decent lie, if not for the whole beat that passed silently before Clark coughs out a response equally weak to yours.
“Yes, it was… really good alcohol.”
You agree that the soju was excellent, but the better the booze, the worse the sleep.
You know you slept well because he was in your bed. You just don’t know if this is his normal display of shyness or if he’d rather die than admit it.
Either way, it’s just who he is: Clark is too kind to turn you down and too professional to ever address what you told him last night.
Lucky for you, there’s plenty of time to lick your wounds.
The two of you drive back to Metropolis. Clark sits behind the wheel of his car. The traffic leading up to the Interstate is egregiously heavy, just like the air inside the vehicle.
Small talk makes it worse—and for the record, the two of you usually converse just fine. His mindless distraction is changing radio stations as if he knows what he wants to listen to. Meanwhile, you pretend to do something productive on your laptop: developments for your third novel, the last of the installment.
Developments. Psh. All you have are bullet points.
ves forced into divine deal with zalrythar god of secrets
she can’t tell anyone including cass
figure out b plot
cass thinks ves is pulling away and confronts her
she obv stonewalls
angst haha
resolve b plot
cass and ves both end up in god-mandated sex
That takes you less than a minute to type out. The car hasn’t moved for the last seven.
You spend the next three staring at his hands on the steering wheel.
୨୧
Even when traffic eases as you reach Metropolis, the tension doesn’t. It thickens the closer he gets to your destination, palpable by the time Clark turns into your street. The GPS lady shuts up at this point, leaving you and him to stew in silence.
Your apartment is just up ahead. He’s slowing the car down and you internally curse yourself.
There’s no way you can take any more of this, the tip-toeing a shared truth like it’s a secret. There’s no way he isn’t aware—he wouldn’t be so quiet otherwise. And you’ve seen him truly oblivious: someone would ask him out to dinner and he’d think it’s because they want to talk business.
If you do this, he’s probably going to think you’re even more shameless than he initially thought.
What he doesn’t know is that you want to be an honest person around him. Just your luck that, in your case, being honest means shamelessly wanting him.
“Clark?” you call out as he tugs at the handbrake. Your voice isn’t fully gathered, underused in the silence of the ride back, and you sound a little less sure than you’re used to.
“Hm?” he hums back, looking over at you. The car hums, too.
You shift your body to face his, seatbelt clicked free, like that’s going to help you breathe in better.
“Something happened yesterday.”
His jaws clench once. Eyes widen a fraction. You aren’t asking a question.
“Yes. We slept toge—I mean, I fell asleep on your bed.”
Clark Kent isn’t a good liar by nature, but you’d be lying, too, if you said you didn’t pay special attention to his voice. The words come out too fast, and there’s a slight pinched quality to his voice that clues you in on his farce. You’ve known him long enough to learn his tells.
“And?” you ask.
He thrums his fingers on the steering wheel.
“You also told me… you’re a virgin.”
You don’t spare a beat, lest he finds a way to escape this situation.
“And so are you.”
He nods. “Yep.” There’s a pop on the ‘p’, heavy with an acceptance of his fate.
Your lip twitches up in amusement—he looks so close to spontaneous combustion, the tapping of his fingers like a ticking time bomb.
“Gosh,” Clark smiles, the shaky, worried kind, “you don’t think that’s funny, do you?”
That catches you off-guard and a little offended. “Why would I? We’re in the same boat.”
“No, yes, of course,” he stammers. “I'm sorry, I just—"
“—thought an erotic novelist can’t possibly be a virgin?"
There’s a pause.
" Yes,” he admits. “I mean, it’s my fault. I assumed. From your books, of course! Not from anything else.”
You laugh a little at his jitteriness, and funnily enough, he seems to relax.
“It’s okay. I was just—” you search for the right word, “tickled. Two virgins writing and editing paperback smut.”
He laughs this time. You take in the dimples of his cheeks, and suddenly the totally silent car ride home fizzles out like a distant memory.
“Not that I think sex is a prerequisite, by the way,” you add, just to make sure you’re not staring at him too much. “You’re a good editor, Clark.”
He seems to be taken aback, eyes locked on yours.
“That’s because you’re a great writer.”
He ends that sentence with your name, spoken it’s holy. Something in you cracks open.
The reality is that writing comes easy because he fuels your dreams. All you do is extend them. You take every little thing he gives you in real life, surgically pluck it out of context, and blow it out of proportion. The lingering brush of his hand after a hug. A touch on your lower back in a crowded room. Him leaning down to hear you better.
He’s the fire that kindles your prose. Inspires your imagination until he’s shaped like a man who wants you.
Writing is the highest form of wishful thinking, after all.
You used to think Clark Kent wanting you is an impossible thing, but now? Maybe it’s not.
Because his face takes on a kind of expression you’ve only written about.
His eyes darken.
“Clark?”
“Yes?” he replies, a microsecond too fast. He’s scared. Or nervous. Or both.
Either way, you are too—because there’s no turning back after this.
“That’s not all I told you, was it?”
You catch his throat bob. When he speaks, his voice is taut, like the air in the car.
“No.”
Your fingers twitch from seeing his jaw clench.
The urge to touch him wins out, and you find yourself moving both hands to cradle his face, thumbing at the tense spot. His breath visibly hitches: you can tell from the rise of his chest when you bridge the gap between your seats.
“I meant what I said, you know,” you murmur, not even looking him in the eye anymore. Your gaze lands lower.
His lips are parted so beautifully… but you make sure to stare straight into him when you nail your own coffin shut.
“I’d give it to you.”
He needs to know you mean it.
As if those words were permission, he leaned down and closed the gap entirely, kissing you.
He’s more sure than you thought he’d be—and God, that’s past tense, because you now know how he kisses: slow, deep, with the rumbly beginning of a groan brewing in his chest. You melt into his body as much as the car will allow, the hand on his face slipping back to card through dark locks.
That’s when he feeds the sound straight into your mouth.
The groan isn’t the only thing that travels. His hands do too. One drags a path up your side to tug you closer. Another snakes to your nape, as if the kiss could get any deeper.
Your tongues dance and you moan at his taste.
“Fuck,” you breathe, lips still on his. You nip at his bottom lip in between words. “You want it? Want me to give it to you?”
His reply is hazy above all yes, like he just woke from a dream or is drifting into one.
“Yes. Please. I want it—want you.”
“Good,” you smile, releasing his lip with a pop, “wanna take yours, too.”
The look on his face is something you wish you could photograph.
He’s red—just from kissing—lips swollen and rosy, a tiny, faint pool of drool out one corner. His glasses are askew.
You fix it with a smile.
“Come upstairs.”
3
Upstairs takes an elevator ride where he stands behind you to hide his boner—just in case someone walks in, he reasons—but you make it through your door soon enough.
Not without you fumbling with your keys and giggling into his mouth.
By the time Clark tumbles into your bed, bringing you down with him, he’s already painfully hard under his slacks.
Everything smells like you.
Your hand on his chest draws a cheeky line down his stomach past his belt, and he sighs in relief. You sit back on your haunches, still straddling him, finally palming the tent that’s formed in his pants.
He gasps at the touch, mouth open, already missing your lips on his.
“So hard already,” you murmur. “Take this belt off.”
He obeys, quiet except for the clink of metal. The belt drops somewhere on the floor with a thunk. Your pretty hands work his zip, tugging just enough to reveal a dark blue pair of boxer-briefs.
Then he feels your weight shift on the bed. Watches you move down until you’re face-to-cock with his still-clothed erection.
“How far have you gone, Clark?” you ask, light as a feather, breath warm against the fibers of his underwear. The sight of you smiling between his legs is so dizzying, he grips the sheets for anchor. “Did you at least get blown?”
“Yea—ah,” he pants, because your hand is on his cock again. Palming. Squeezing.
You hum. Fingertips playfully stroke down his length from over the boxer-briefs, fondling his balls. “When was the last time?”
“Don’t know,” is his immediate, husked-out answer. There’s no past in his mind. Just the present, as unbelievable as it is—your bed, you, your hand, your pretty face… “Don’t care, just, please—”
As if triggered by his begging, you sit back up, leaving his cock completely touch-starved.
He sighs, because you’re thumbing his bottom lip. The touch isn’t kind. As a matter of fact, it’s a little mean: your finger is pushing his lip to the side, teasing the plush of it, pulling it down just a bit before letting it bounce back.
He likes it.
You chuckle when he takes your thumb in his mouth, even before you push it past his lips.
“So eager,” you drone, your other hand stroking his hair. “You want it that bad?”
“Yes,” he says, except it sounds more like mmph with his mouth occupied.
He lets your thumb go, only to kiss at your open palm. One quiet sound after the other, he presses his lips into your hand more—until very soon, he’s literally making out with it. His own hand is gripping yours close to his face, keeping you still.
“What exactly do you want, Clark?” Your words carry more breath than voice, and his blood sings.
“Anything you’d give to me,” he answers.
It’s at that point you choose to wrest your hand away, settling back down between his legs. You lean down to peck on his hard-on—it jumps excitedly under the fabric. You laugh, thumbing at the waistband.
Then you pull his boxer-briefs down, and there he is.
All of his inches, eight or nine, you’re not sure, but the exact measurement doesn’t matter—not when he’s relatively equal to the length of your forearm.
Surprise, surprise. Your big sloppy crush has a big fucking dick.
A dick so pretty you might cry—especially because it’s already crying a pearly bead at the tip. You trace a prominent vein that runs on the underside, lick your lips as he bucks into your hand.
You look at his face and a cruel amusement takes over you: Clark is propped on his elbows, cheeks bathed red, jaw slack like he’s just ran up fifty flights of stairs.
And you haven’t even done anything.
Rising up to your knees, you move to his face. A kiss on his lips, slow and deep. Then ten more light ones all over his cheekbone, jaw, neck, throat, up to his ears, at which point he’s stuttering out the beginnings of your name.
Your hands part his legs wider, letting you situate yourself more comfortably between them. He gulps. You move back down to the center of his expanse. Your head tilts, mouth a dangerous distance from where he’s most sensitive.
“Can I kiss you here?”
Your fingerpad teases the tip. Pre meets your skin, warm and sticky. You smear it on his fat head.
“Yes.”
Christ, was that a whine? Your little smile turns devious, nose nudging his cock. It twitches again, as if autonomous from the rest of him—like it’s developed its own mind and is begging you greedily to give it more.
“You’re so big, Clark. Will you even fit?” you muse, fingers curling around him, pumping once, twice. He throws his head back with a grunt, the movement so sharp you think he might be pulled at with a leash.
Well. You’ll figure out the answer to that later. For now, you should play with your meal.
You slip the tip into his mouth and watch shivers wrack his body. After swirling your tongue on it once, you let go with a pop, purring.
“So sensitive. What am I gonna do with you?”
Meanwhile, Clark is losing his mind.
“Your—f-fuhh—fault,” comes his raspy reply just as you descend one, two, three inches more. Gosh, your mouth is so warm, so tight…
You chuckle, and the vibrations rattle him up to his ribcage. It occurs to him that he might’ve said those things about your mouth out loud. Rather than mortification, he feels elation, because even when you move up and the warmth is gone, you’re teasing his tip with your tongue again, and it feels so good he might cry.
The circles in his vision must be mimicking your wet heat drawing patterns on him.
One of his hand sinks into a pillow, the other cards digits through your hair.
An expletive escapes the moment you hollow your cheeks, far too sudden for him to take back.
“Fuck,” he gasps, the sound tailing off with dumb, repeated attempts of forming your name. Most of his brain is in his hips now as they swivel in hopes to get more of him in your mouth, but your fingers splay beautifully on the rippling muscles of his abdomen.
“Uh-uh. Stay still.”
Following orders is usually a thing he’s good at. Just not today. Not now.
Now, all he can think of is how good it feels—his mouth echoes those thoughts with babbles of “so good, feels so g-good, you’re perfect”—and how if you keep this up, he’ll come in an embarrassing amount of time.
It’s already taking everything in him not to let that happen.
But then he catches you look up at him.
The sun’s still out, bathing the room with enough light to show him exactly what makes him nearly crumble:
Your pretty lips, wrapped around his thick cock, head bobbing up and down to reveal the glisten on him—a mix of precum and spit—your hair messy around his hand.
“Stop,” he groans, holding your skull still so he can gently pull himself out of you. There’s a line of drool that connects your mouth and his cock. “Stop, don’t wanna come—”
The surprised tinge in your reply almost breaks his heart. “You don’t want to?”
He shakes his head, reconstructing his breaths. “Not until I’m inside you.”
For once in his life, you don’t talk back, and he’d be damned to let the opportunity slip.
Clark Kent grew up learning how to take things into his own hands. He puts that into practice with you, grabbing you up by the waist, laying you down on the bed. He takes your clothes off: slowly, because every inch of bare skin is the closest he’s been to heaven, because he wants to savor this, because he thinks you’re beautiful.
Says it too, even if it’s whispered.
He has you in your underwear, teasing the strap of your bra. “Can I take this off, sweetheart?”
You nod instead of giving him mouth. A rarity.
He’ll give you mouth, instead: by kissing you as he unclasps your bra with one hand (still no comment from you). Once it’s off, he drags his lips down your throat, then collarbone, then your heaving chest, where he lets himself stare for once. His warm breath caresses your skin, while heat pours out from his gaze.
He finally leans down, laving at a nipple. Polite first, hungry just two seconds later. His entire mouth is involved: sucking at your chest, a large hand squeezing around your flesh to feed more into him. Your hand digs into his curls when he hums, teeth grazing playfully as you arch for more.
He looks up.
You’re a dream. He’s sure he’s dreamed of this once—except instead of blurred images and hazy glows that tortures him at night, the scene is crystal. He sees everything through his glasses: each strand of lashes on your pretty eyes, the color of your skin against the sheets, how your hair splays on the pillows.
Actually, speaking of pillows—and dreams…
“Here,” he wrests one from under your head and taps the side of your hips, “lift your hips up for me.”
You do it, but it seems you’ve found your voice again. The cheeky retort comes out breathless.
“Really, Clark? You’re gonna use that line on me?”
He adjusts you on the pillow, lips pursed—both from your tease and the sight of you, naked, save for the cute underwear raised up to meet him.
It’s already wet at the gusset. There isn’t much for him left to imagine.
“Just because you’re a writer doesn’t mean you’re immune to it,” he hums, peeling the material off of you. You instantly fall silent.
He groans at the sight of you clenching around nothing, slick threatening to dirty the pillowcase you’re resting on.
Two fingers drag a path down your mound to your wet entrance. Two moans erupt when he circles there—yours higher pitched than his, because he touches like it’s payback for some unseen grudge. Surely you don’t know how long he’s thought of you like this, how long he’s struggled with the guilt of fantasizing about his hot colleague, only to find this.
Your soaked cunt winking at him.
“You’re so wet,” his digits dip, collecting your juices. Your hips buck. “Is this from sucking me off?”
“No, I was thinking about winning the lottery,” you moan, betraying your impatience, “yes, it’s because of you, stupid!”
He laughs. He’s wanted you way too long—you can wait a little longer.
“Need to prep you,” a thumb pushes the hood off your clit, only for him to do nothing but look at it.
You shiver under his gaze, tease audibly lacking the bite. “Is this how you do it—stare?”
His eyes meet yours, blue eyes almost burning. Your throat bobs. That’s what fuels him.
“You tell me,” he murmurs, “you’re the erotic novelist.”
Fingers explore again, barely touching, always circling, and he bites back a moan at the sight of you arched like that, like your hips are hungry for more. His touch doesn’t relent, although it’s taking everything in him not to take every part of you right then and there.
“Clark—”
“You wrote something like this before,” his thumb swipes your clit. His name on your lips breaks, but those eyes on your face never does. “Page 347 of Owls. ‘When his finger sinks inside her, she gasps like she’s never breathed air’…”
Just then, he does as he says. His middle finger stretches you, one knuckle deep at first, then two, then all the way in. You writhe, stuttering a moan at how slow he is, before the sound dies in your throat with a gasp.
The base of his palm presses against your clit.
Clark catalogs your reactions with the precision of a machine. The warmth of his touch is anything but. So is the slight crinkle between his brows: signs that he’s testing his own boundaries by stretching yours so slowly.
“Or is it the next page? ‘The rhythm he sets replaces the beat of her heart—except nothing about the slow scrape of his fingers echoes the relentless thumping in her chest.’”
When he moves his fingers, the dimples on his cheeks begin to show. He smiles down at you, free from the pretense of professionalism:
He doesn’t commit your lines to memory because he’s a dedicated editor. He does it because he thinks about doing those things with you—so, so often.
“Fuck—Clark—” you whimper, the syllables choked out as his other hand pins your hip.
One finger becomes two, but the pace doesn’t change. Still arduous, still torture. Clark’s eyes are glazed: in watching you lose your mind underneath him, he loses his in trying to erase true words laced with alcohol. Your voice floats in his memory:
And I mean that in the PIV sense.
Does that mean you’ve done this before, with men who aren’t him? Were they any good? Did you like them, or did you let them in your bed just to use them? Doesn’t make a difference, Clark decides, because they still got to be with you. Were they the reason you wrote passion so well, or was it because they were so shit at it you had to take matters into your own hands?
Speaking of taking matters into your own hands, your voice floats in his memory again. Not words this time.
“You touched yourself, didn’t you?” Clark grunts, fingertips kissing your cervix at the word touched, “Two nights ago. In the hotel.”
You don’t answer, but your widened eyes said enough.
He leans down. Presses his forehead against yours.
“Heard you through the wall. Sound so sweet. Wanna hear it again.”
He kisses your lips once before moving down the expanse of you, flat on the bed between your very open legs—thanks to his gentle grip around one ankle, spreading you out for him to see.
But before you can shiver at the loss of his warm shadow, his lips closes around your clit, and you give him what he wants.
An open moan, loud enough to bounce off the walls.
Clark moans, too. The sound vibrates directly onto your cunt, you can’t help but spasm. He doesn’t stop. The flat of his tongue presses entirely on you, never really still: soon, he starts sucking and licking and teasing your poor clit. He tastes you, and a steady stream of muffled groans leak from his mouth—the same way your pussy leaks juices around his thrusting fingers, the squelch squelch squelch growing faster and louder in the room.
“You wrote about this so many times,” he murmurs against your slick, “d’you like it that much?”
Your answer is an unintelligibly keen noise.
“I love it,” Clark is purring now, hazy with your taste, “I’ll help you write lines later, m’kay? Want you to soak my hand, my tongue—”
Your body must’ve mistook that as an order, because the orgasm hits you out of nowhere, hot-white and sparking off your every nerve. You arch, convulse, slurring his name like you can’t speak while your pussy gushes around his fingers as they thrust through your spasms, unrelenting.
He breathes out a blasphemy, the first “oh my God” you’ve ever heard coming out of his mouth. Your senses are only starting to come back, but he replaces his fingers with his tongue, and you can’t hear anything past your own scream.
He fucks you just like that, lapping at your juices like he hasn’t drank in ages.
Something within you unstitches, and you feel your body leaping past overstimulation to overwhelming pleasure. You don’t tell him to stop—how can you, when he’s so clearly drunk on your pussy? He moans words into you like it’s a pet, coos of “You’re so pretty when you come”, “Tastes so good for me” vibrating against your core.
The cool frame of his glasses bumping against your inner thigh only makes everything feel better.
“Clark,” you cry, and he already knows. Already mumbling encouragements into your cunt.
“Want you to come again, honey, c’mon, you can do it, yeah?”
You do. The crest tugs at your spine like a string, and your hips seek his mouth as if looking for a place to give.
He takes it—slurping, licking, kissing.
When your white-edged vision comes back from the dappled blurs, he’s already shirtless and sitting on his heels, looking down at something.
You follow his gaze.
It stops at his cock resting on your stomach—the exact measure of how deep he’ll be.
There’s a smile on Clark’s face. Kind, but not kind enough that he won’t fuck you into the mattress.
“See that, sweetheart?” he leans down, feeding the words straight into your ear. “We’ll make sure you take everything, m’kay?”
When you whimper and close your eyes—because how is that thing going inside you?—he tuts once. Cups your jaw with a broad palm, still sticky with your juices. Another time and place, you’d scold him, but now?
“You need to watch,” he says, “so you can write about it.”
Your eyes blink open, only to find his pupils blown out black.
Now you’re screwed—or just about to be.
The fat head of his cock rubs against your hole, hot, smearing precum on your cunt. You mewl, eyes fluttering shut again, but he tightens his hold on your jaw, whispering “c’mon, honey, look at me” like his voice doesn’t make things worse.
Like he’s not just as wrecked.
Lips slick, parted, and a little swollen, hazy eyes half-lidded, Clark Kent is the picture they put next to the definition of lust.
But you’re the same, because his cock nudges your clit again and you melt, stammering your truest wish into his mouth:
“Please, Clark, please fuck me, need you to fuck me—”
How he isn’t already cumming all over you is beyond his comprehension.
“Oh, attagirl,” he breathes, before finally sinking in.
The stretch isn’t as painful as you thought it’d be, but maybe that’s just how desperate you are for him. Clark doesn’t seem to be holding up so well, though: he’s panting just a breath away from your lips, exhales shaky at the tightness that wraps around him, holding back the need to just slam into your perfect heat.
Inch by excruciating inch, he sinks into you, then stops. You gasp at the feeling: full. How you managed to take him all so easily is a mystery.
You call his name, clenching around him. His answer is strained, brows knitted.
“I’m only halfway in, baby.”
A wave of desire and dread washes over you at the realization. Those blue eyes, though black now from dilated pupils, drift momentarily down, before they lock onto yours again.
He pushes in.
Your jaw falls slack in disbelief, walls stretched by the veiny ridges of him. His girth bullies your cunt to take his shape. He watches as he thrusts the thickest part of him inside you, studying each twitch and blink and stutter, looking out for pain, but finding pleasure above all else.
This time, you know he’s all the way in. Your vision blacks out a little at the heft.
“There we go, good girl, so good for me, you’re perfect…”
Those words come tumbling out, both a reassurance for you and a distraction for Clark—because you’re so warm and tight and wet around him, he might lose himself if he doesn’t focus.
“Breathe for me,” he hums, but he’s not breathing right either.
This is it. His cock is inside of you—the first one to ruin you, if he doesn’t mess this up and ruin himself first.
Meanwhile, you watch Clark pant above you, his forearms flexing as they bracket your head, face red from restraint.
The sight makes you clench and he moans.
“D-Don’t—a—ah,” his chest heaves.
That pulls a grin out of you, weak as it is. You clench again, this time intentionally.
He grits your name out between teeth. “I said, don’t.”
“Why?” you husk, even though you know the answer.
“Gonna make me c-come.”
You stroke his cheek to guise the fact that you’re not doing much better yourself—not with all eight, nine inches of his hard cock pulsing directly against your walls like that.
The thought strikes you then: this is the closest you’ve ever been to someone—quite literally speaking.
And it’s Clark who’s holding you right now. Clark. Endlessly polite and often sweet Clark. Easily ragebaited into a rant Clark. Charming without meaning to, helps with the best of intentions Clark.
It’s precisely because you’re with him that your mouth decides to say something stupid. Call it a defense mechanism—from what, you’re not sure, because he’s already inside you, what the fuck are you defending yourself from?—but the words slither out anyway.
Playful. Teasing. You say it right by his lips, the exact opposite of what you had in mind.
“You can cum, Clark. I’ll just find someone else to help me write my book.”
When in fact you’ll never let anyone else between your legs ever again.
Something in Clark shifts. His throat bobs with it, eyes sharpening past the haze of lust.
Then he’s on his knees, gripping your hips with both hands, before thrusting up without pulling out even an inch—like deeper is possible. You feel him in your lungs. He does it again.
This time, both your eyes and his snap down to the faint bulge near your stomach.
The view doesn’t stay for long. He drags his inches out of you, slowly, all the way to the tip, before plunging deep once more.
“Fuck—!”
You’re busy crying out when he leans back down. His hand gathers your wrists above your head, the other firm on the side of your hip—both anchors to the slow pace he builds.
“‘s this what you need?” he rasps, voice broken between lazy thrusts that ring loud, “Writing—nmm—material?”
“Aah—”
“You gonna write about how,” thrust, “he’s so deep, she can see him in her stomach?”
Your eyes widen, first at the bulge on your lower belly, then at him.
“About how she cries out for him?” Thrust.
“—a-nghh—”
“How she’s clenching around him,” he mouths against your ear, words slurred, “like she doesn’t want him to leave?”
The cant of his hips pick up speed, and soon there are plap plap plaps of his balls slapping your ass under your moans and his. His hand on your wrists becomes a lever from which he thrusts.
The air hangs heavy with sweat and a heady scent. The bed begins to creak.
You’re rutting up into him, the swivel of your hips growing more and more desperate with each murmur of his name—he watches you the entire time, entranced by the roll of your bodies.
“Fuck, look at you,” he whines at the sight, eyes glazed over.
“Wanna touch,” you mumble, drool beginning to pool on one side of your lip. Your fingers claw the air. “Please, let me touch—”
He lets go of your hands. You drag him into a kiss that tangles your moans together, all while his hipbone bumps into yours again and again.
The freedom he gives you damns him: your hands raking down his chest makes him shiver, so do your nails digging into his bicep. The worst part happens when you tug at his hair: a response to one particular slam that hits a spot in you, in turn drawing a garbled moan out of him.
You can’t stop touching him, and he’s all the worse for it.
With each fuse of your hips and his, your walls clutch him like you’re trying to keep him inside. Out to the tip, in to the hilt, splitting you open with each store, coating his cock with you while he bullies that spot that makes you beg so beautifully: “yes, Clark, please!”
It’s clear you’re close. It hasn’t been long since Clark got acquainted with your pretty pussy, but the way she clenches is enough to clue him in.
He’s not doing any better: eyes dark behind glasses that sit askew, swollen lips parted. His only hope now is to pound into that gummy spot in you again and again and again while he spews praise in your ear—make you come before he does, because it’s too good for him not too: he’s so hard and you’re squeezing him so tight, rubbing delicious friction that’s all at once too much and not enough.
You respond with nails raked down his naked back, the mantra of ‘Clark Clark Clark’ shooting ecstasy straight to his head, fueling the piston of his hips.
The sounds of your bodies aren’t helping him hold on: wet slaps betray the mess he’s making out of your pussy. Every thrust makes him yours. Make you his.
He groans at the thought. Depraved as it is, his cock being the first to ruin your pussy does something indescribable to him. At the tail end of that thought is something sweeter:
The same way that he’s your first, you’re his. He doesn’t want any other.
He paraphrases professions of love into everything else but the words he loves working with. Instead he employs a language said by the body: through his hips now ramming deep strokes into you, the way his arms wrap around you until you can’t see anything except him. Your heels drag on his back now—he spares a second to hook one over his shoulder before plunging back into you, deepening the angle.
He glances down. Your nails sink into his arms. They look pretty.
You look pretty: eyes blank, hair a mess, skin misted with sweat as you lay arched underneath him…
“God, you’re perfect,” he breathes.
Meanwhile, you're so full your brain decides to empty itself. Its only care right now is your basest of needs.
“So good,” you whimper, “Clark you feel so good, gonna cum…”
“Yeah? Me too, honey,” he pants, voice reedy, “where do you want me?”
“Inside, p-please, need you inside—”
That answer unspools all restraint in him, and he lets his hips go of their very last bit of restraint: he pistons into you with abandon as he siphons groans into your lips in exchange for your climbing moans, the two of you feeding into each other’s lust until your heat is too much.
“I can’t, honey, I—”
It’s too late: he’s spurting all the way inside you, breathlessly gasping your name.
“Gah—nggh—”
The flooding sensation of his orgasm, hot and sticky, triggers your own. The tension shatters in your body: your legs quiver on his shoulder and around his waist, voice broken as your nerves turn into livewires that burn bright at the edges of your vision, electrifying everything to white.
He’s on you the entire time you come, breath warming your ear. The spurts don’t stop. You’ve never been fuller—until he pulls out of you and you moan, not just from the loss of his cock, but also the messy splatter of him on your stomach and tits.
The thought is faint, but the sensations are real: he’s still fucking cumming.
Now you’re just not quivering, you’re a quivering mess. Even with your senses flashbanged, slowly reconstructing themselves from that orgasm, you register the warmth that drips down your hole and onto the bedsheets.
Then the quiet lands. Your breaths even. He still hovers over you, glasses fully fogged up and crooked. The sight is stupidly hot, but you don’t like that you can’t see him.
You slowly take them off.
Blue eyes look back at you. His pupils aren’t so dilated now, and you see a different emotion in them as they widen.
Concern.
“Gosh—I—are you okay? did I hurt you? ”
He thumbs at your cheek. It’s wet. When did you start crying?
“No, no,” you stammer, “I’m fine. It’s just… that was—”
You stare, wordless. He stares back.
“It’s perfect. You’re perfect, Clark.”
His shoulders drop with heavy relief, warm breath fanning your face as he leans over you again.
“Thank goodness.”
That makes you giggle.
“Don’t laugh. I’ve wanted you for so long, I can’t possibly mess this up.”
A beat. You blink up at him. “You have?”
He doesn’t answer. Just buries his face in your neck, undoubtedly redder than before. His voice is muffled against your skin.
“I just—I like you so much it hurts.”
You huff in amusement, raking your fingers through his hair. A silent plea for him to look up at you.
He obeys. You smile, thumbing the fat of his cheek.
“When I touched myself two nights ago, I was thinking about you.”
His eyes widen, though just a fraction. Maybe it’s not so unbelievable, after all—but he allows himself to expend the last ounce of his surprise.
You raise your brow. “Is it really that unexpected?”
He kisses your fingers. Sweetly this time. “I… It’s an outcome I’ve never considered.”
You lean up. The peck lands on his chin. “Why else would I invite you to an expensive Korean barbecue, silly?”
Clark smiles so earnestly it almost blinds you. Thank God he hides in your neck again.
“So you like me, too?”
“Yep. Like, a lot.”
୨୧
Ten minutes later, you’re in the bathtub, back pressed against his chest.
The sun is setting outside, the drawn blinds creating light serrations that spill across your bathroom tiles. Metropolis is strangely quiet. The only thing you perceive is the lazy drip of the faucet into the water’s surface.
Maybe you’re just preoccupied by the replaying of your memories. Every little detail collects in the forefront like the soap suds Clark massages into your shoulders—before you know it, you’re stringing together words in your head, a momentum you can’t stop even if you wanted to.
Huh. You’re… inspired.
Maybe you should do this more often.
Clark kisses the nape of your neck as you bask in the silence. The sensation grounds you back to reality, and a realization dawns. You sit up straighter in the water.
He notices.
You turn to face him.
“What’s wrong, honey?”
“My suitcase,” you say, “it’s still in your car.”
He smiles so warmly you think you might melt and be one with the bath water. The expression looks so sweet and innocent on him… except you feel his cock hardening against your ass.
“Sweetheart, I don’t think you’ll be needing clothes for a while.”
THREE MONTHS LATER
“C’mon, write something,” Clark pants playfully, hands on your hips, driving his cock into your weeping cunt as he watches the fat of your ass bounce with each thrust, “You can do it—you’re a smart girl, aren’t you?”
Time doesn’t make any sense, not when he’s rubbing against your walls so good, but you do know you’ve been at this for a while. Your body can’t even hold itself up: chest glued to the damp sheets, ass held up by his hands, arms limp in front of you.
Your hands rest above the keypad of a laptop. On its screen is a word processor, its typing cursor blinking back at you tauntingly. The page’s contents are measly, only about halfway filled—unlike your cunt that’s full with his length.
It’s your fault for planning so many sex scenes. But it’s the final installment of your trilogy, the perfect breeding ground for emotional sex.
You’re guessing that breeding ground is what Clark thinks about you, too, aside from his undying respect for you: because his thrusts are getting messier the way you know he’s about to cum, and sure enough, with his chest against your back and his mouth sputtering “that’s it, take it, gonna fill you up, sweetheart, you’ll let me?” in your ear.
He waits for your pathetic mewl of an okay to spill inside you.
His orgasm pulls a weak one out of you, because God knows how many times he’s made you. You shake underneath him, gasping for air while he does the same.
Then it begins: the delicious replay your mind does after every tangle with him. While the shivers ebb, your memory picks up the details…
Your feeble fingers begin to type. Slowly, as if each key ignites a thing he said not ten minutes ago.
You can hear Clark smile in his voice. He buries his lips in your hair.
“One week till the manuscript deadline,” he husks. “Let’s work hard together, yeah?”
Then his hand drifts down to play with your clit and you lose your train of thought.
Oh, well. Surely Planet Publishing can extend a deadline for their bestselling writer.
BONUS
Herons Under Sycamore Shade — Author Interview with Cat Grant
Q: Speaking of sex, there’s a lot more this time around.
A: Well, it’s the last book. I wanted it to go out with a bang, so to speak.
Q: This is a personal opinion of mine, having read all three, but you should also know that many reviewers thought the quality of erotica was somehow better in this one. To quote the Gotham Gazette: “…breathtakingly real while making you forget about reality.”
A: That’s such high praise. Thank you!
Q: What changed (between the first two installments)?
At this point, the author smiles in a way that I can only describe as coy. Don’t believe me? Ask the photographer.
summary: clark looks sinfully good in his work attire, and you're far too feral for your own well-being.
tags & cw: 18+ MINORS SEE YA, fem afab reader, established relationship (married), the sloppiest of sloppy toppy, deepthroating, slight power exchange, clark whimpering because....well yes, grinding, m and f orgasm
wc: 5.6k of PURE CLARK WORSHIP (you're welcome)
a/n: CLARK UPDATE IS HERE!! it should go without saying that I am a SLUT for men with tucked in shirts, especially when they look like clark fucking kent. y'all seriously can't grasp how fucking feral that look makes me...well, actually, this one shot was born from that horniness so maybe you can, but I digress. anyway, I hope you guys, uh, get as much out of reading this as I did writing it! ☺️
want some more clark content? Check out my clark masterlist!
The evening had started innocently enough.
Clark had gotten off early from the Planet, beating you home and surprising you with a clean apartment and dinner on the stove by the time you walked through the door. He greeted you as he always did, a kiss pressed to your lips, soft smile warm and welcoming as it moved against your mouth. Your eyes were glued to him instantly, like a moth to flame, as he helped you out of your jacket and pressed another sweet kiss to your temple.
While Clark was oblivious to the way your stare followed him around the kitchen, you could think of nothing but the size of his shirt—2XL, fuck—as it stretched across his chest.
Because he was still wearing it. The shirt. The godforsaken Oxford.
Surely there was some sort of scientific, biochemical explanation as to why your nervous system went haywire whenever Clark was in this getup (which he commonly was, it was his work attire for god’s sake)—white Oxford, black slacks with matching cap toes. Cuffs undone, rolled to reveal tantalizing wrists and forearms. Shirt tucked in, because for some unknown reason it was inexplicably more attractive than the unkempt, casual veneer that the untucked look gave off.
His behavior certainly didn’t help, either.
Seeing your husband in his element—his domestic element, that was—did irreparable damage to your insides. You were content to watch him putz in the kitchen, head resting in your chin as he talked to you about his day. Tonight it was something about Jimmy’s failed date last weekend…you think. You aren’t really paying attention. The sinful way his Oxford looks tucked into his work slacks has your undivided attention.
God, those thighs. They’re so massive it’s practically a sin—you want to suffocate between them. His broad shoulders and chest need their own zipcode. And something about his hair after a long shift at work…he didn’t have Superman duties tonight, but his curls are wind-mussed from his stroll home. You adore his glasses, but without them he just looks so…sophisticated. Mature. Good enough to eat.
The thought has you absently gnawing on your lower lip like some kind of sex-crazed fiend.
“—and I told him that’s a bit of a stretch, but what do you think?”
I can think of something else you can stretch.
“Honey?”
You blinked. “Huh?”
He’s turned over his shoulder to look at you, stirring the pot of soup on the stove. Totally oblivious to the way you were blatantly ogling his ass.
“Jimmy’s date, Stephanie? That she’s probably an ‘astrology’ witch, not an actual, like, ‘casting spells’ witch?”
“Oh, uh,” you struggled to recall what he’d been talking about. “Yeah, no. I agree. That’s a bit of a…stretch.”
Blue eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You didn’t hear a thing I said, did you?”
You were quick to deny it. “No, no. I was listening.”
His mildly amused expression said he didn’t believe you. You watched as his eyes dropped to the poorly concealed grin on your face; you were still chewing on your lip, and there was no mistaking your intent as your gaze moved painstakingly slowly down his body.
Clark took a deep breath.
And turned back to the stove.
Hm. So he was playing coy tonight, then.
“So…your day was good?”
God, his back was truly glorious. You wanted to drag your nails down his shoulder blades as he fucked you into the mattress. Listen to the headboard shake. Grip the downy curls at the nape of his neck as he sucked bruises into your skin.
“I mean…I’ll, uh, I’ll take the silence as a yes?”
How sweet—his voice trembled a bit as he stirred the pot on the stove. Were you making him nervous? Yes, yes you were, you realized with a triumphant grin. You kept quiet, but the silence was deafening.
“You know, Lois was telling me about this cool new art exhibit that’s opening downtown—” the chair scraped across the hardwood as you stood up, “—and she thought you’d like it, since the paintings focus more on realism as it was portrayed in the Renaissance—”
Standing behind him, your forehead could rest just between his shoulder blades—Clark was massive. You looped your arms around his waist, hands finding the two front pockets of his dress pants and sliding into them casually. He didn’t turn to look at you, but you felt his acknowledgment of your presence in the way his spine straightened.
“—so I was thinking we could stop by, maybe next weekend? I know my folks wanted to come visit soon—”
“Mhm. Sure.”
“—but it would be a great little outing! Maybe Ma and Pa would want to go with us?”
You kissed the back of his neck. “Clark.”
“You think they would like it, right? I mean, maybe not Pa, you know how he gets with pretentious people. Not that all artists are pretentious! Just some of the more modern—”
“Clark.”
“Yeah?”
You stood on your tiptoes to nip playfully at his earlobe. “Turn around.”
He obeyed immediately, looking down at you with wide eyes that were anything but innocent. Oh, he absolutely knew what your intentions were. It was unfair—how perfect your Clark was. So beautiful, so big, so tempting that you couldn’t and didn’t want to hold back any longer.
So you didn’t.
The kiss was filthy. Apparently, way filthier than Clark had been expecting, as he let out an adorable squeak of surprise when your tongue immediately sought out his own. His large hands braced on your hips, squeezing tightly as yours slid up his chest before settling on the collar of his shirt. You allowed a moment of silent mourning for the absence of his tie—you loved to drag him around by it, yank him down to your mouth.
But god, the feel of his strong hands—hands you knew could effortlessly lift you onto the counter—made you voracious with need.
You broke away from his lips, leaving him breathless (despite knowing that, realistically, he didn’t need the air, which somehow turned you on even more). Your lips and teeth painted a path across his strong jaw, down the sides of his neck, up behind his ear. Clark melted under your touch, shifting you two slightly over so he could lean back against the countertop rather than the stove. His breath caught when you bit down particularly hard beneath his jaw, desperate to leave a mark that would only last for mere minutes.
“Jesus, sweetheart…” he breathed, hands still gripping your hips as you damn-near attempted to mount him against the kitchen counter.
You pulled back, hands cradling his jaw as you met his eyes, pleased to find them equally as feral as you knew yours looked. “Kiss me,” you said desperately, not giving him time to answer as you smashed your mouths together again.
“I’m…trying…to…hmph!”
He hadn’t been expecting your wandering hands, one of which was presently cupping him through the cotton of his slacks.
“I want to suck you off,” you stated, breathy and bold.
Clark, as you expected he might, made a desperate, whimper-like sound that rumbled from the back of his throat. It almost sounded pained, but you knew him better than that.
“Oh, gosh. You do?” were the half-surprised words that eventually stumbled out.
You almost laughed, barely concealing it behind a grin that you were certain he felt against his lips. You slid your hand lower, squeezing around his balls as you licked back into his mouth. This time he broke the kiss, head thunking against the cabinets as a tremor ran through his body, hips jerking against his will.
“Yes, Clark. I want it so bad.” You let your voice drop into a whisper against his neck as you squeezed him again, “I can feel how badly you need em’ emptied.”
“I—Geez Louise, okay.”
That one made you laugh, a teasing chuckle that you cut off by drawing him back down to your lips. Seeing him this caught off guard was giving you a strange power-trip; your husband was no blushing virgin, but he definitely wasn’t used to you being so vulgar with dirty talk. Usually, surprisingly, it was the other way around—Clark could get you flustered so easily, especially when that deep voice of his was in your ear whispering praises and showering you with affection. And if he used his Superman voice? You were a goner.
It seemed that tonight, however, you had turned the tables.
“Let me help you, baby,” you murmur, rubbing all over the hard length of him. “I can feel how much you need it. It’s making me so wet just thinking about it.”
His protest is weak at best. “Th-the soup…it’s…gonna burn…”
“Put it on simmer.”
You gave him no more time to argue, knees hitting the floor hard enough to bruise. You could tell as much based on Clark’s soft, rushed “baby, careful,” but you were too busy salivating thinking about getting his cock in your mouth to care.
His dress shirt was ripped from his pants, and the sight of his lower belly heaving under your attention was almost enough to make you actually start drooling.
Fuck, you could lick along his happy trail. No, wait, you could, so you did; messily licking and kissing and practically making out with that gorgeous Adonis belt of his, descending lower till you reached the line of his slacks.
Not expecting the heat of your tongue, Clark gasped above you. He was beautifully flushed, eyes saucer-wide and lust-blown. His hands hovered innocently above your shoulders, adorably unsure of where you wanted them as he let you take the lead.
“Golly, honey, what’s gotten into you?”
“This damn shirt, that’s what,” you panted, raking your eyes up his body before locking on his face. It was an effort to force yourself to slow down, wanting to take your time with him despite your ravenous desire to touch touch touch.
Clark looked somewhat mesmerized. “I w-wear these all the time—”
“Exactly.”
He had already tented his slacks, something that your eager cunt was quick to notice as it fluttered between your legs; you forced yourself to stay focused, sliding the black leather of his belt through his pantloops torturously slow.
“Hmm. This the Armani one I got you for Christmas?” you grinned slyly at him.
Clark nodded dumbly. Your eyes dropped to his Adam’s apple as it bobbed in his throat. “Mm…mhm.”
The belt thwipped free and instantly your mouth re-attached to his waistline.
“Open your shirt for me, baby,” you requested breathily. He immediately did as you asked, breath already coming in pants as you watched his fingers tremble to undo the buttons.
Holy shit. He looked too good, Oxford hanging open, glasses tucked into the breast pocket, hair a mess, eyes glazed over. If you didn’t know better, you’d say he looked tipsy at the sight of you.
You continued nipping along his scalding skin as your fingers hooked beneath the waistband of his slacks. You pulled them down so slow that they caught on the ridge of his cock, making his breath hitch before you tugged them just low enough to give you access.
He was desperate and swollen beneath his black boxer briefs, and honestly if you weren’t so turned on the sight might even be a little comical. But alas, you were fairly certain you were soaking through your own underwear, head empty save for thoughts of your husband and his perfect body and his sweet voice and the reverential look in his eyes.
Clark’s hands finally leapt to cradle your head when you leaned forward to nuzzle his clothed erection like you were in heat, mouthing along the fabric and feeling him twitch between the thin barrier of his boxers. Your hands moved to cup his heavy balls again, squeezing gently and earning you the first groan of the evening.
He shifted his weight, hips twitching with thinly-veiled restraint, and it sounded like his brain was short-circuiting. “I– you– hon, you…you don’t have to—”
You pulled back far enough to send him a quirked brow. “You want me to stop?”
Bless his soul, Clark hesitated for a millisecond, piercing blue eyes glued to your face, breathing hard; as if he was really considering it. Then, slowly, he shook his head.
No.
Your grin was wicked. “Didn’t think so.”
“But only if you really wan—”
“Clark Joseph Kent,” you cut him off. “I don’t want anything coming from those pretty lips except my name and the sounds of you feeling good. Got it?”
His head knocked against the cabinets again, eyelids fluttering. “Golly…yes ma’am.”
That shot between your legs faster than a lightning bolt. You sighed in satisfaction as you resumed your exploratory touches, fondling him over his boxers as he fought and failed to keep his breathing level.
You eventually pulled the elastic of his boxers halfway down his stupidly hard cock, exposing little more than the flushed-red tip. Mischief on your mind, you placed chaste little kisses along his sensitive frenulum, relishing in the way his breathing stuttered.
“H-honey,” he rasped.
You looked up at him with eyes of pure sin. “Hm?”
His voice broke around a whine, “please don’t tease.”
Arousal burned between your thighs, in your blood, in your ears.
It was tremendously rare that Clark let you go down on him—he was a giver at heart, both inside the bedroom and out of it. You’d lost count of how many times he’d come, totally untouched, humping the bed like a dog as he made you come over and over on his tongue or fingers.
It was all incredibly flattering, but what truly did it for you was knowing that he liked getting head; loved it in fact, but was entirely willing to shove aside his own pleasure for the sake of yours.
But, much like your adoring husband, sometimes the lines of your respective pleasure intersected; sometimes sucking him off was what you craved, and it was more than enough to satisfy you. No matter how many times he argued that “no, honey; it’s different—it’s easier for me to get there than you,” you aggressively denied it in a vehement desperation to make him feel even half as good as he made you feel.
Which was why you cherished every opportunity to get your mouth on him, and also the reason you didn’t tease him half as long as you probably should’ve as punishment for making you wait to do this again.
His fingers twitched atop your head when you finally dragged his boxers down, freeing his massive cock that flinched against his abdomen. You wrapped a fist around him, offering a few firm strokes as you sought out his eyes.
“You have such a beautiful cock, Clark.” He trembled. “It’s so pretty, and so, so hard for me.”
“Gosh, sweetheart. S’all yours,” he said, voice breathy and uneven. “Please, just—”
“Just what?”
“Just…touch me.”
You tightened your fist on the next upstroke. “I am touching you.”
Oh, how you loved to watch him squirm. “You…you know what I mean—”
“I’m not sure that I do.”
You watched the look on his face when he realized you were going to make him beg for exactly what he wanted.
Clark wasn’t one for profanities, but he sure made your name sound like a curse as he shifted above you, frantic and needy. “Please, I- just…don’t keep teasing me like that—”
You only hummed, letting spit dribble from your mouth onto his leaking slit to loosen the glide of your hand over his dick, which was actively throbbing in your hand. “Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.”
His eyes rolled when you suckled gently on his tip. “B-baby…don’t make me beg you to—”
“Say it, Clark. Just tell me.” Your free hand returning to fondle his balls is what finally did it.
“Your mouth!” he blurted at last. “Pleasepleaseplease. Just put your mouth on me. N-need it so bad—”
“Okay. Was that so hard?”
You were true to your word, swallowing as much of him as was humanly possible in one go, a move Clark clearly had not anticipated given the groan that bellowed from his chest and the way his fingers curled in your hair. When you looked up at him, he was slack-jawed and breathing like he’d run a marathon, chest heaving beneath his open shirt.
Much like the rest of him, Clark’s cock was huge—not, like, disproportionately huge, but enough that it was a struggle to take him even on your best days. Clark knew this—hell, he’d spent years married to you and had long since learned how to prepare you for him—but it was a struggle no less to take him as far down your throat as you wanted to.
But given the heavy manner in which he was already breathing, you were determined to deepthroat him tonight, even if only for a few seconds.
You inhaled, forcing yourself to suppress the gag in your throat as you did your best to take him as far as your body would allow.
“Baby,” Clark was whining sharply, “oh gosh, baby. That…thatfeelssogood b-but please be careful—”
As if on cue, your throat unwillingly constricted around him as you gagged, effectively cutting Clark off with his own groan. You could sense the concern in him without even needing to see it on his face; in an attempt to distract him you suctioned your mouth, dragging his cock out halfway to lave your tongue along its sensitive underside, tracing the pulsing vein that wrapped around his shaft.
It worked like a treat as his hips jerked, lower pelvic muscles twitching directly in your line of sight as he shuddered.
He was so fucking perfect you could hardly believe he was real, that he was your husband who loved you and came home to you every night and cooked you dinner and helped with the laundry and wanted to take you to art museums because he knew you loved them.
“You’re so pretty,” he breathed down at you, incapable of not praising you when you were treating him like this. The praise washed over you, and if your underwear wasn’t soaked before it sure as hell was now. “Gosh, honey. D-don’t know what I did to deserve this, but…”
You pulled off of him to catch your breath, but kept your hand pumping him lazily. “Just being you,” you breathed. “It’s just you, Clark.”
For some reason this seemed to affect him more than you thought it would, his eyes swelling with a sudden surge of affection that one might not normally expect when giving a blowjob.
But your Clark was a teddy bear at heart, his innermost parts soft and gooey and sweet like melted chocolate. Even in the midst of lust he didn’t know how to turn that part of himself off, and you never wanted him to.
You let your saliva drip down onto the wet length of him, holding his gaze and watching it re-glaze with unbidden desire. His eyes fluttered when you squeezed just beneath the tip, letting your tongue do the rest of the work as it circled his frenulum.
“Yesss sweetheart,” he hissed, breath stuttering. “That’s…oh, honey. That’s so good. Gosh, you’re so perfect.”
His praise forced a low whine from the back of your throat, the sound vibrating over his length and making him shudder. He relaxed his hold on your hair, running his fingers through it in a gesture so frighteningly tender that you momentarily forgot you were actively sucking him off.
“Mmm…I know you like it when I talk to you like that. It’s all true, you know. You’re so perfect for me.”
Feeling encouraged and oddly heartwarmed, you slowly built the tempo back up, taking him down halfway and jerking off whatever didn’t fit with your fist. You got unapologetically messy with it, knowing the vulgarity of your actions would spark something feral in Clark because, yes, he is still a man, and the sight of his wife slobbering all over his dick with absolutely zero shame was definitely emptying his brain.
If you were honest, it was surprising both of you how obscene you were being; but if the wetness between your thighs and the state of his cock were anything to go by, there were certainly no objections.
One hand continued to grope his balls, swollen with need and begging for attention that made Clark whine deliciously when you massaged them. Your other hand finally moved to grip the wrist of the fist that was still ensnared in your hair, tugging on it so as to encourage him to guide your movements.
Clark took your wordless command in stride, leaving you to wonder when exactly the power dynamic had shifted, and also why you were completely content to let it happen.
Actually, you knew the answer to that.
Clark’s dominance had always been gentle; far sweeter than what you might’ve expected from the Man of Steel. He was so good to you that you were almost always willing—perhaps even subconsciously—to hand over the reins during sex. Even though this encounter had started with you in charge, it became obvious as his hand fisted gently in your hair, guiding your movements over his throbbing dick, that things had changed, even if he was content to let you believe otherwise.
Thankfully though, he didn’t stop whimpering for you, which you were eternally grateful for.
“S-so pretty. You’re so beautiful. Mmm. Takin’ me like this, makin’ me feel so good.”
On the next forward motion, you slid as deep as you could, attempting to deepthroat him yet again and this time succeeding. Your nails on his thigh were enough to reassure him of your comfort, so Clark held you there, his grip firm as he panted down at you.
“Gosh, honey. Look at you.”
You retracted for air, messily tonguing around his sensitive tip. “Use me,” you demanded, voice just this side of raw from the intrusion of his cock. “Please, Clark, please.”
“Honey,” there was worry in his tone, but also underlying need. His cock throbbed in your hands. “Are you…are you sure? I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t, I promise,” you soothed, peppering kisses up and down those massive thighs of his. “It’s nothing we haven’t done before.”
“I know, but…” he trailed off, brows furrowed, hesitation tight across his face.
“Clark,” you said sternly. “I’m asking you to. Please?”
His breathless nod was all the answer you received before his fingers tightened in your hair. That alone was enough to have you moaning in preemptive bliss, letting your jaw go slack, tongue lolling out of your mouth. Clark teased your lips with his head, tapping it gently against your tongue as you shifted your weight around on your knees. Your poor pussy was desperate for attention, your entire body wrought with energy like a live wire.
When he finally pushed his cock into your mouth, it was with a low groan that sent what you would equate to an electrical current between your legs. Staying true to his word and your demand, Clark readily took control, moving your head back and forth, back and forth, nice and slow at first. But his need eventually won out, as it so often did with you, and soon thereafter he was panting as he guided your hot mouth over his cock, hips building a rhythm that matched the bobbing of your head.
“O-oh, honey. That’s- mm. So fu–” he broke off on a low moan when you hollowed your cheeks on the next stroke. “Yes baby, suck it like that. Gosh, y-you’re so pretty and perfect like this f’me…”
Your hands stroked up and down his powerful thighs, squeezing every so often just as a way to stimulate other parts of his body. Clark regarded you with an admiration only he was capable of, even with his cock shoved halfway down your throat.
“My beautiful wife. You love worshipping this cock, don’t you sweetheart?”
The unexpected filth of his words draws a moan from your chest. Clark hums, obviously satisfied at the sensation it provided around his dick. And then he fucking grins, something just shy of smug as he listens to your little mewls.
“Mhm. Yeah, I know you do, hon. Got yourself all worked up for me, desperate to use that pretty mouth.”
Clark’s pace began to pick up, his hips getting sharper in their movement as you made a conscious effort to keep your throat loose. Saliva was dripping down your chin, escaping from the sides of your mouth; the sounds his cock was making between your lips was lewd, succeeding in winding you up even more as Clark started to chase his pleasure.
You sucked around him a few more times, nails biting into his slacks as you silently urged him along. The noise that came out of him then was strangled. “Oh…sweetheart, I’m close,” he stammered, tugging on your hair in warning as his hips kept pumping. “I- honey, m’gonna come– gosh, can I– where do you wan’ me to—”
The simple fact that you ignored his warning was sufficient enough of an answer.
This realization is what seemed to push Clark over the edge, a beautiful shudder wracking his wide frame as he came with a whimper so sharp and so whiny that you almost orgasmed too, your pussy so swollen and aching with neglect that you involuntarily clenched your thighs. Clark’s grip on your hair tightened just a fraction, guiding your mouth over his pulsing dick. His eyes were blazing down at you, the frantic expansion of his lungs making his chest rise and fall beneath his open shirt. His signature Superman curl had fallen in front of his eye.
You swallowed everything he had eagerly—and there was a lot to be had—making pleased little noises as his come slid down your throat.
“Ohhh, gosh, yes,” Clark moaned in relief. “Mm. Mm, that’s so good. Oh, gosh. You’re too good to me baby.” His fist finally went lax in your hair, fingers soothing through it in reassuring caresses as his hips moved in tiny thrusts, seeking that last bit of sensation. “Oh, sweetheart.”
Then he was guiding you to stand, hands gentle yet insistent on your shoulders. You stood, unable to help the satisfied little grin on your face as you tucked him back into his boxers and readjusted his pants. You bit your lip as the zzzip of his pants being done up filled the space between you. You gave his crotch one last little tap, a smug grin of your own forming on your face.
Clark was still a little spaced out, lips parted as he watched you with hooded eyes. You gave him a peck on the nose, and it seemed to break whatever trance he was in. He fell forward, hands cradling your face, and kissed you deeply.
Knowing he could probably taste himself on your tongue reminded you of your own insistent arousal, and you moaned into the kiss, struggling to keep up.
“Thank you,” he said when he finally allowed you oxygen. He pressed his forehead into yours, “you’re incredible, sweetheart. If I had known my dress shirts affected you this much—”
“Oh, don’t act all innocent,” you said. “You absolutely know what they do to me.”
His mischievous little grin confirmed your suspicion. “Okay, yeah. Maybe I have somewhat of an idea.”
Clark kissed you again, his hands travelling down your sides to rest at the hem of your own work slacks. You couldn’t help the way your body arched against his; his question was clear.
“Let me…?”
“If you want to.” It was a stupid thing to say, really.
“Of course I want to, baby.”
You yelped in surprise when he lifted you effortlessly into his arms, backing you up until you were seated on the island counter. Now at eye level, you could more thoroughly enjoy his handsome dimples as he smiled softly before leaning in for a slow kiss.
“Least I could do is return the favor after that.” His voice dipped low in a way that made your gut tighten with need. He was dangerously close to using that voice. “Besides, you think I didn’t notice how tightly you were clenching your thighs, sweetheart? And even if I didn’t, you forget that I can smell how much you need me.”
“Fuck, Clark…” you whined when his fingers ghosted between your legs, rubbing along the seam of your slacks.
“Mmm, that’s it. Bet you could come just from this, huh?” He pulled back just enough to watch your expressions, blue eyes alight with desperation and something far deeper. You could feel his breath across your cheek. “Just some pressure, baby? Yeah? Does that feel good? You’re so worked up for me, honey.”
You couldn’t form a coherent thought. It was like a switch had gone on off in Clark in some lust-addled, post-orgasmic glow. Honestly, screw him for being this irresistable; for making you so goddamn easy for him. Didn’t this start with you seducing him? You were such an easy lay when it came to Clark that it would’ve been humiliating if you hadn’t been married for several years.
He added his whole palm now, giant hand pressing up and down the length of your searing center, palming the entire area of your sensitive clit. It was simple pressure—something firm and real to grind your pussy against, and it was making your head fuzzy with the pleasure of it. You were certain he could feel some of your wetness beginning to seep through the fabric, which was only slightly mortifying—your panties were definitely a lost cause if that were the case.
Perhaps more unbelievable was that yes, you were indeed about to come from simply grinding on his hand between two layers of clothing. Your fingers flew to the bicep of the arm that wasn’t currently flexing between your legs, nails digging into the white sleeve of his Oxford, making you remember just exactly what had gotten you into this predicament in the first place.
Your greedy eyes honed in on your husband, in such close proximity to you; his broad shoulders and strong chest, the soft suggestion of farm-built muscle peeking between that godforsaken shirt. Embarrassingly, seeing his uncuffed sleeves is what pushes you over. Something about the delicious blend of professional and unkempt; the implication of propriety that came with his pristine office attire contrasted against his unruly curls, perspirated face, and borderline slutty forearms.
“G-god, Clark, m’gonna co– I–” You try to warn him, but it’s pointless.
Clark leaned down, free hand caging you into his body as it rested on the countertop beside you. He nuzzled his face into your neck so that his words were a breath right against your ear. “Come for me, Mrs. Kent. Just like that, baby. Let it happen.”
You shook against him, a broken cry falling from your lips as your body finally found its peak. Clark worked you through it, lips pressing kisses against your neck between words.
So good, baby. There we go. You’re so perfect. I love you so much. That’s it, honey…breathe through it, let yourself feel good.
He continued to hold you, hand finally stilling when the twitch of your hips signaled the dip into oversensitivity. You withdrew him from your neck when your pulse had somewhat settled, cradling the back of his skull. Now, it was your turn to smile at him, sated and lazy, fingers scratching soothingly at his nape. Your kiss was finally slow, almost chaste, nothing more than a tired exchange of gratitude.
“The soup,” you halfheartedly mention when you part.
“It’s simmering, it should be fine.” Clark had already preoccupied himself with hugging you as close as physically possible. Almost subconsciously, your legs wrapped around his waist, inviting him closer as he sank into your embrace against the countertop. Your body bowed backwards slightly as he leaned into you, making you giggle at how cuddly he always got post-coitus.
One of his hands rose to your neck, absently stroking the front of your throat in a tender caress. Worry colored his next words. “I didn’t hurt you, right?”
“No, baby,” you reassured him, hands running the length of his back. Your heart swelled with warmth at the concern in his voice. Clark, your gentle giant—capable of crushing planets and he was worried about a little deepthroating. “I would have told you. You know I would’ve.”
He hummed, and though you could tell he wasn’t totally satisfied with your answer he also trusted your word.
“I love you.” He rubbed his face against your neck affectionately and you squirmed at the feel of his five o’clock shadow.
“You better,” you teased, running your fingers through his inky hair. “Though, to be fair, you could probably get me to do just about anything as long as you’re wearing this shirt. Tucked in, of course. Cuffs undone, hair a mess. God, Clark. How are you so perfect?”
He smothered your neck and cheek with kisses, drawing another giggle from you. “Well. I don’t know, but I feel the same way about you, if it’s any comfort.” Clark inhaled sharply, “especially when you wear that one dress. The one with—”
“The open back?”
“Mm. Yes.”
You laugh, ruffling his curls before pecking him on the lips. “I love you so ridiculously much, Clark Kent.”
“That’s good,” he kissed your nose. “Because I was lying. The white bean and sausage soup is definitely burning.”
CONTENT — 18+ minors dni | established relationship, kitchen sex, rough sex, pet names (sweetheart, darling, baby), breast play, oral (f! receiving), fingering, brief hand job, external ejaculation, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), clark bends you over the counter & gets you in a headlock, multiple orgasms, creampie. let me know if i’ve missed anything!
WC — 5.2k
NOTE — thank you to the anon who sent in this request! now i need to go touch some grass…
MASTERLIST | REQUEST
Clark doesn’t make a show of being a gentleman—it isn’t performative, not something he switched on for appearances. It was simply who he was, in the quiet, steady way the sun rose every morning.
Doors, for example. He always got them. His hand would find the handle just before yours did, opening it with an easy motion. Sometimes his palm brushed lightly against your back as you walked through. And he always waited. Even if you were distracted, even if you took a second longer, he never let the door swing shut between you.
Chairs were the same. At dinner, whether it was at home or somewhere nicer in Metropolis, he was already stepping behind you, pulling your chair out smoothly. His hands would hover just slightly at your shoulder as you sit just making sure you’re settled before he’d gently slide the chair back in.
At home, it was even more noticeable. Clark was all quiet domestic habits and thoughtful touches. He’d fold laundry like it actually mattered, his large hands surprisingly precise as he smoothed out creases before stacking everything neatly.
If you were cooking, he was there without needing to be asked. He’d reach past you to grab something from a cupboard, pausing just enough to say a soft ‘sorry’ even though you barely had to move. His hand might settle at your waist for a second as he passed behind you, warm and steady, gone before it lingered too long.
And if you were tired? He noticed. Before you could even say anything, he was already pulling a blanket over the couch, fluffing a pillow with a gentleness that didn’t match his strength. He’d press a lingering kiss to your temple before saying something simple like, ‘c’mere,’ in that warm Kansas drawl.
Even things like carrying groceries turned into something quietly telling. You’d reach for a bag, and he’d give you one—just one—while he effortlessly gathered the rest. Not to prove anything, not to make you feel small, but because taking care of you felt as natural to him as breathing. If you insisted on carrying more, he’d just smile that shy, crooked smile and say, ‘Alright… but I’m still taking the heavy ones.’
It was in those quiet, ordinary moments that his gentleness settled you. So when he wasn’t there, you felt it. The door that you opened yourself, the chair that stayed tucked in, the space beside you in the kitchen that wasn't quietly filled by his presence.
You didn’t think much of it, not really. You just moved through your evening the way you always did, letting routine take over where his quiet care usually lived. And outside, the world carried on.
Rain drummed against the window, streaking the glass in blurred lines that caught the glow of the city outside Metropolis. Thunder rolled somewhere far off as you moved around the kitchen in a pair of sleep shorts and one of Clark’s old tops. Something sizzled on the stove, garlic and onions filling the space with a comforting, familiar scent.
Music played low from the radio—background noise more than anything—while you focused on chopping, stirring, grounding yourself in the routine. You were just reaching for the salt when you heard the door open and you glanced up instinctively, turning halfway toward the sound.
Clark stood in the doorway, glasses wonky and shoulders slumped. His tie was loose, hanging crooked around his neck, the top buttons of his shirt were undone, his sleeves rolled up unevenly, and the fabric clung to his body outlining every inch of him. His hair, usually so carefully styled, was an absolute mess, dark curls stuck to his forehead, water dripping along the line of his jaw.
He looked exhausted and there was something almost endearing about it. For a second, he just stood there, watching you.
“There you are,” he said, his voice low, almost relieved—like he’d been searching for you all day.
You shook your head fondly and turned back to the stove, smiling to yourself. “Rough day?”
“You have no idea,” he muttered, nudging the door shut behind him with his foot as he toed off his shoes. He shrugged out of his jacket and let it fall over the back of a chair, already loosening his tie further as he made his way toward you. “I spent the entire afternoon thinking about how unfair it is that I didn’t get to see you until now.”
You felt him before he touched you—his warmth, his presence filling the space behind you. Then his arms wrapped around your waist, snug and familiar, pulling you back against his chest.
“Hey,” he said softly, the word brushing against your ear.
“Clark—” you laughed under your breath, trying to keep stirring despite the way he’d completely anchored you in place.
“Nope,” he cut in immediately, resting his chin against your shoulder, the faint scratch of stubble warm against your skin. “I missed you all day. I deserve this.” He tightened his hold just to prove the point, swaying you slightly. “Do you have any idea how many times I thought about coming home to you cooking dinner like this?
“Oh, did you?” you teased, though your voice had softened too.
“Mm-hmm,” he hummed, pressing a quick kiss to your shoulder. “Especially this part. Where I get to steal hugs and pretend I help.”
You huffed a small laugh and placed your free hand over his where it rested against your stomach, your fingers threading between his without thinking. Clark let out a deep, slow exhale and you felt his body relax against yours.
“This smells amazing,” he added after a moment, his voice dipping lower as he nudged his face closer, brushing his nose lightly along the curve of your neck. “You’re really setting the bar high. If you keep this up, I’m never leaving.”
You smiled, leaning back into him just slightly, letting your weight rest against his chest. “Pretty sure that’s the plan.”
His lips curved against your skin at that, the ghost of a smile pressed just beneath your ear as his arms stayed wrapped around you. Clark stayed right there, loosely draped around you, his weight relaxed but constant. Every so often, he shifted just enough to press another kiss to your shoulder, or your neck, or wherever he could reach without moving too far.
After a moment, you shifted, turning slightly in his arms. Clark hummed, the corner of his mouth lifting into a subtle grin as you reached a hand up and straightened his glasses. Giving his cheek a gentle pat, you turned again, dipping the spoon into the pan and scooping up a small taste before lifting it toward him.
“Here,” you said. “Try this.”
His eyes lit up immediately. “Oh, I get privileges?”
“Don’t push it,” you warned, though there was no real bite behind it as you held the spoon just in front of his mouth.
He leaned in, lips parting slightly as he took the bite and a low, involuntary groan slipped out of him. His eyes fluttered shut for half a second as he actually processed the taste, his brows lifting just slightly in quiet disbelief.
“Oh—wow,” he breathed, voice softer now, roughened at the edges in a way that made heat immediately rush to your face.
“Is that a good ‘wow’ or…?” you started, but you could already feel yourself flushing, the warmth creeping up your neck to your cheeks.
“That’s—” he shook his head a little, letting out a quiet huff of a laugh, like he couldn’t quite believe it. “That’s really good.”
“You’re being dramatic,” you muttered quickly, already turning back toward the stove to hide the way you were smiling, focusing a little too hard on stirring.
“I’m not,” he insisted softly, but there was a smile in his voice now, one you didn’t have to see to know was there. “I mean it.”
You shook your head again, though it was more to yourself this time, trying to regain some sense of focus as you adjusted the heat slightly. “You’ll eat anything I make.”
You were just about to turn the heat down when Clark shifted behind you, his arms loosening slightly—just enough to make you think, for one brief, foolish second, that he was about to behave.
Then you felt his lips at your neck. It was subtle at first. A warm brush just below your ear that sent a small, immediate shiver down your spine which was followed by a slow, lingering kiss that made your grip on the spoon falter.
“Clark,” you warned, though there was already a smile tugging at your lips.
He hummed against your skin, clearly unrepentant. “What?” Another kiss, this one lower, unhurried.
You tried to focus on the stove, but he was absolutely doing this on purpose now—soft kisses along your neck, one after another, a faint press of his smile there like he knew exactly what he was doing.
“I’m cooking,” you managed, letting out a quiet laugh when he nosed gently at the sensitive spot beneath your jaw.
“Yeah,” he murmured, lips brushing your skin again, voice low and warm. “And I’m distracting you. Multitasking.”
You leaned forward just enough to glance back at him, lifting the spoon in a weak attempt at a threat. “If I burn dinner, I’m blaming you.”
“I trust you,” he grinned, entirely unapologetic. “You’re good under pressure.”
You shook your head, gently bumping your shoulder into his chest. “Menace.”
His thumbs traced slow, absent circles across your stomach, drifting higher inch by inch beneath the hem of your top, his touch warm and unhurried. At the same time, his mouth continued to place open-mouthed kisses lazily along your skin, like he was simply passing the time.
“Watch those hands, farm boy,” you mumbled, trying to sound stern.
His mouth continued its trail along your neck, his tongue and teeth leaving little marks that would fade by morning. Before you could protest again, Clark hands shifted—one sliding to your waist, the other catching your wrist to still it.
“Okay,” he said, voice light but intent, “new plan.”
Before you could question it, he turned you around smoothly, effortlessly, like it was muscle memory. Your back met the counter with a soft thud, and in one easy motion, he lifted you just enough to sit you up beside the stove, the spoon clinking faintly as it was set aside.
“There,” he said, satisfied, stepping in closer. “Much better.”
You blinked at him, a little startled, then laughed. Clark just grinned, hands bracing on either side of you as he leaned in again, his attention dropping back to your jaw, then back to your neck.
You placed a hand against his chest, giving a gentle push, though you were still smiling. “Dinner’s going to burn.”
Clark glanced briefly toward the stove, then back at you, completely unconcerned. “You’ve got it under control.”
He pressed one more quick kiss beneath your ear before pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. He studied your face, eyes flicking back and forth between yours. He leaned forward, but instead of kissing your lips immediately like you’d expected, he shifted to the side.
He rested his forehead against yours, his breath ghosting across your cheek. His hands shifted, fingers grazing the curve of your back, your waist, until they slid up your arms to rest on either side of your neck, tilting your chin up. He kissed you gently, his movements unhurried—almost tender.
Clark’s kisses were slow, thorough, and impossibly sweet. His lips moved against yours leisurely, his hands still holding your neck so gently, like he was cradling something fragile. He pressed a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth, then a little lower, before returning to your lips.
He pulled away just enough to meet your eyes, a mixture of adoration and desire clouding his own. But then his hands shifted, fingers sliding into your hair, and he tilted your head back ever so slightly. His mouth moved down your neck, his teeth grazing your skin, his tongue following the trail his lips left behind.
He lingered at your pulse point, sucking and nipping delicately at the skin. Every touch was slow and calculated—like he was trying to memorise every gasp and shiver his mouth drew from you. His hands slid down your sides until they gripped the backs of your thighs. He pulled you forward, until your legs were wrapped around his waist.
Clark’s mouth continued its slow, deliberate path back up your neck, his hands running over your thighs. You could feel him everywhere, his body hot and solid between your legs. His mouth moved downward, to the junction of your shoulder and neck. He seemed determined to savour every inch of skin, his mouth tracing the curve of your collarbone before lingering at the hollow of your neck.
He shifted his hips, grinding against you slowly, his need for more making itself known, though his pace remained unhurried. You moaned, fingers digging into his shoulders, your legs instinctively tightening around him.
One of Clark’s hands came up to pull at the neckline of your top, giving him more access to your skin. He shifted again, his body pressing shamelessly against yours, his mouth moved lower, down to your collarbone. His lips traced the curve of it, and then his tongue laved at your skin, hot and wet.
“God, sweetheart,” his voice was raspier when he spoke, the vibrations sending goosebumps down your spine. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
His lips attached to your neck again and his hands dropped to your waist. His fingers toyed with the hem of your top for a moment before he finally slipped a hand underneath, palm flattening against your stomach.
“Can I take this off?” he murmured against the hollow of your neck, his hands already starting to lift the material.
You gave a jerky nod and Clark’s hands immediately tugged at the hem of the your top, pulling it up and over your head. He tossed it somewhere behind him, his eyes already tracing the newly exposed skin of your chest.
He paused, just looking at you, something almost reverent in his gaze. His hands rested at your waist, fingers splaying across your rib cage. He leaned in, pressing lingering kisses between your breasts, right above your heart. He nosed at the valley between your breasts, his tongue flattening against the sensitive skin.
“Hmm, sweetheart,” he murmured, like it was a prayer.
You threw your head back against the cabinet as Clark wrapped his lips around your nipple. He circled the bud with his tongue, sucking at it with just enough pressure to make you gasp. One of his hands moved to your other breast, his thumb and forefinger finding your nipple and pinching it just right.
Your hands snaked up into his curls, tangling and tugging roughly. He groaned at the sensation, glancing up at you and meeting your gaze. He alternated between the two for a moment before switching sides, giving the other the same treatment.
His mouth left a blazing path down your stomach, his hands sliding down to grip your thighs as he dropped to his knees in front of you. He kissed the patch of skin just above the waistband of your shorts, resting his chin against your hip as he rubbed soft circles into your thighs.
“Clark,” you whispered, though it came out like a plea.
He hooked his fingers under the waistband of your shorts, then pulled both them and your underwear down to your ankles where you kicked them off. His hands gripped your knees, urging them apart until you were fully exposed to him. His mouth moved to the inside of your thigh, biting and sucking at the delicate skin, leaving little marks in his wake.
He shifted, placing one of your legs over his shoulder, and leaned forward. Clark’s tongue dragged through every inch of your folds like a man memorising scripture before finding your clit. He started with slow, soft circles, the tip of his tongue swirling against the sensitive bud. His mouth was insistent, his grip on your thigh holding you in place as he continued.
“Just like that,” you whispered, closing your eyes as waves of pleasure began to build within you.
He was holding back, taking his time, but his breaths were already starting to hitch in his chest. He was enjoying this just as much as you were. Clark swirled his tongue around your clit before pushing it inside you.
His nose nudged your clit and you jerked your hips up at the sensation. The action caused Clark’s glasses to slide down the bridge of his nose, the lenses fogged and frame hopelessly crooked.
One hand came up to blindly adjust them and the second they were straight again, he ducked back down with renewed fervour. His lips moved back up to your clit as his fingers traced your entrance.
Clark moaned against you as he slid a finger inside you with ease, the vibrations sending a shiver up your spine. His finger slid deeper, more firmly with every stroke, curling up like he was trying to reach as far as possible.
A second finger joined the first, stretching you just so as they curled and twisted and teased. He worked you like that for a moment, his mouth staying focused on your clit while his fingers moved in and out. His grip on your thigh was bruising now, his face buried between your legs.
“Clark,” you moaned, your hand clenching in his hair.
His name on your lips made him growl, his fingers speeding up their movements. His mouth switched from slow, teasing circles to a rougher, more direct pressure. He sucked your clit into his mouth, the tip of his tongue flicking against it as his fingers curled against that spot.
You could feel your release building, the muscles low in your stomach clenching in anticipation. Your hips rocked forward slightly, but Clark held you in place, his grip tight on your thigh. His mouth kept up its relentless pace, spurred on by the small moans and gasps from your lips.
Clark was a man on a mission, determined to take you apart one piece at a time. He was trembling with the need to please, to give you what you wanted. He could tell you were getting close as your walls clamped down on his fingers tightly, squeezing him.
Your legs were shaking, your heels digging into his back. He curled his fingers inside you one last time, putting pressure on your clit with the flat of his tongue, and sent you over the edge.
You moaned his name as you came, your thighs clamping around his head as your body convulsed. His hands moved to hold your hips in place, his mouth still working you through the aftershocks.
Clark gave one last kiss against your clit before pulling back. He stayed on his knees for a moment, catching his breath and, as he pressed his cheek against the inside of your leg, you could feel his panting breaths against your skin.
Eventually, he rose to his feet with a shaky inhale, body trembling with the aftershocks of what he’d just done. He looked wrecked—hair mussed, glasses crooked, lips red and swollen.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice a little hoarse.
You smiled softly, letting out a small, breathless chuckle. You raised a hand to his face, wiping your release from his chin with your thumb. Clark let out a huff of amusement, his eyes locked on yours as he leaned into your hand, his fingers tightening on your waist.
“Messy, huh?” he asked, his tone teasing.
Clark moved his hand up to catch your wrist, his thumb stroking the delicate skin there. Humming, you bit back a smile and rested your forehead against his. His hand moved up from your wrist and cupped your jaw, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip.
Your fingers danced up his arm, slid across his chest and curled around his tie causing Clark’s breath to catch in his throat. His thumb continued to trace over your lip before dipping past the seam of your mouth; the pad running across your tongue.
Clark couldn’t look away if he tried—completely ensnared by you. You gave his thumb a teasing suck before pulling back with a smile. You tugged on his tie, connecting your lips and being able to taste yourself on his tongue.
Your hands worked at the knot of his tie as Clark undone the buttons of his shirt. You lifted the fabric over his head and dropped it beside you before helping Clark push his shirt off his shoulders.
As the kiss continued, you trailed your hand down his abdomen and cupped the very prominent bulge in his slacks. Clark’s hips bucked involuntarily, pushing against your hand. He broke the kiss, his head falling against your shoulder with a low curse as he tried to hold himself back.
His breathing came in uneven pants against your neck as your fingers unbuckled his belt with a soft clink before moving to undo the button of his slacks and peeling down the zipper. His trousers fell to the floor with a soft thud and your gaze settled on his crotch.
A gasp left your lips as you saw his cock pressing against the wet fabric of his boxers, straining and desperate to get out. Unable to help yourself, you reached out and traced the tip of your index finger over him.
Clark let out a choked-off moan, his hips twitching forward into your touch. Your fingers curled around the waistband of his boxers, gently tugging them down to free his cock from its confines.
You watched as his cock sprung free and slapped against his stomach, the tip flushed an angry red as precum dripped down the thick vein along the underside of his cock. You just couldn't seem to look away.
Your eyes followed the soft trail of hair leading down from his navel, and the darker patch at his base, thick and coarse. Your hand reached out and wrapped around him, feeling the way he throbbed from your touch.
He was heavy in your hand as your thumb circled around his slit. Your name spilled from his lips in a strangled moan, his hips twitching forward.
“Darling…” his voice sounded almost broken now. “Please, I need…”
He didn't even know what he needed, not anymore. The only thing he knew was you. He needed you—everywhere, all around him. He desperately needed to drown in you until he forgot about everything that wasn't you.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer and dragging his tip through your folds. You were soaked, your release ran down your thighs to his base and coating the hair there as he pushed forward, his tip working you open inch by inch.
Finally he gave one slow push, until his hips were flushed against yours—you could feel every ridge, every bump of his thick veins. Clark stayed like that for a moment, his body trembling as he fought to keep himself in check.
Then, very slowly, he started to pull back, his hands gripping your waist as he eased himself out of you. And just as slowly, he pushed back in, just as deeply as before. He repeated the motion, setting a slow, tortuous pace.
You reached your hands up to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. A ragged groan escaped his lips and his hips jerked involuntarily. The feeling of your nails dragging across his skin was enough to drive him wild.
Clark set a slightly faster pace now, still holding back but not as much as before. Your ankles locked at the base of his spine, heels digging into his back and pulling him in deeper. Clark glanced down and watched the way you stretched around him, his hips stuttering at the sight of his cock disappearing inside of you.
“Yes, s’good,” he panted, sweat dripping down his temple.
His pace was picking up, becoming less controlled and more desperate. Clark’s lips found their way to your pulse point; sucking and biting at the sensitive skin there. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your thighs, gripping hard as he snapped his hips forward again and again; each thrust punching a gasp or a moan out of you.
The rhythmic sounds of skin against skin and heavy breathing filled the kitchen, accompanied by the occasional moan or whimper of pleasure. Each thrust from Clark brought a new wave of pleasure, leaving you wanting more.
You were unable to stop the gasps slipping from your lips as he filled you over and over and over again. You were close, so close and one more thrust was all you needed before your orgasm crashed over you.
A broken moan fell from your lips as Clark fucked you through your orgasm, chasing his own. He kept his face buried in your neck as he moaned and groaned—his cock hitting that sweet spot inside you over and over again, prolonging your orgasm.
“Yea—oh fuck,” he cursed, his breath hot against your skin.
Clark’s thrusts soon became sloppy as he reached his impending orgasm. His cock slid out of you and as he thrust into the air, the first hot rope of thick, heavy cum hit your swollen folds. You gasped at the sudden heat of it and Clark groaned deep in his chest as he continued to paint your cunt.
He pressed a soft kiss to the pulse point beneath your jaw and pulled back as another warm pulse landed directly on your clit and dripped down to your entrance. With a shaky breath, Clark stroked himself once, twice, and then pressed the still leaking head of his cock against your folds.
He smeared his release around in slow, deliberate circles—his fat tip dragging through the mess he made. Just when you thought he was going to slide back in you, Clark pulled you off the counter and spun you around to face it.
“Clark?” you gasped, confused.
His chest was hard against your back; hips pressed flush up against your ass as he leaned over you, head dropping onto your shoulder.
“I know, I know, I’m sorry, baby,” he murmured into your neck. “I just can’t help myself…”
He took a breath, pulling back and taking a hold of your wrists before pinning them behind your back. With his free hand, Clark lined himself up with your entrance again and slammed into you in one brutal thrust—the wet slap of skin echoing off the kitchen walls.
You were used to Clark being a gentleman but there was nothing gentle about the size of him. He had you face down, ass up, and back arched as his cock split you apart from behind.
Your skin was on fire beneath him—body arching up to meet his every move with a desperation that would’ve been embarrassing if he didn’t need it so damn badly. He was completely at your mercy, and he didn’t even care; driven wild at the feeling of you clenching around him.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” his voice was a low, filthy whisper in your ear, “you just feel too good…”
Heavy slaps of skin on skin filled the room, spurring Clark on. His thrusts were deep enough to make your legs give out and Clark had to hold you up with his hands. Your cheek pressed against the counter, the cold marble a welcome contrast to the heat of your body.
Clark shifted his grip, releasing your wrists and wrapping an arm around your neck—pulling you up and pressing you flush against his chest. You choked as his bicep tightened in reflex and the sound made his hips stutter.
“I’m sorry, I'm sorry,” he repeated, his cheek resting against yours.
Clark couldn’t help it, he couldn't get enough of you. His hips snapped forward in brutal thrusts now—no rhythm, no control left at all as pleasure wracked through every muscle. His free hand ran down your body, over your hip; your waist; your thighs; your stomach—tracing rough patterns like an artist marking his canvas.
He was desperate to touch you everywhere—to mark every last goddamn inch of you until he was as much a part of you as you were him. The combination of his arm around your throat and his hips snapping into you caused your vision to white out for a second.
“You okay, baby?” he asked breathlessly, his thrusts not relenting. “I’m sorry…”
Sweat slicked your skin where you were pressed together, his chest hot and solid against your back. His lips grazed over the side of your neck, leaving hot, wet open-mouthed kisses down the sensitive skin.
Your voice cracked as you moaned his name, the pressure in your stomach building fast. Clark’s hand that was on your hip slid round and circled your clit causing you to clench tightly around him.
His hips stuttered for a few seconds before finding that brutal rhythm again—chasing his own release with rough, uneven thrusts that had the counter creaking beneath your combined weight.
The coil in your stomach tightened and finally snapped as your climax hit you tenfold; white-hot and blinding. Clark fucked you through it, muttering apologies agaisnt the skin of your neck.
“I’m sor–oh, fuck!” he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut briefly.
Then, with one final thrust, Clark’s hips stuttered as his own orgasm hit. He buried himself to the hilt and stayed there, pulsing hot, thick ropes of cum deep inside of you. He rocked his hips lazily, making sure you milked every last drop of him.
Slowly, he lifted his head from your back, his arm releasing its grip on your throat. He pulled out of you carefully, holding your waist as your legs wobbled and threatened to give way. You let out a small whimper as his release dripped down your thighs, your cunt missing his cock already. Clark frowned softly, turning you around and lifting you back up onto the counter. With a weak, breathless moan, you tilted your head back against the cabinet.
Clark’s thumb traced idle patterns on your waist, seemingly unaware of the action. His other hand slid up to brush a strand of hair away from your face, his expression softening. Clark watched you for a moment longer, his expression almost searching.
“You okay?” he murmured.
“Yeah,” you hummed, resting your hand over his.
“I’m sorry,” he panted, running his fingers through the mess between your thighs.
You laughed breathlessly, shaking your head and slapping him lightly on the chest. He leaned down and pressed a lazy kiss to your temple, breathing in before pulling back. He moved his hands back to your waist, dropping his forehead against yours.
The two of you were in your own little world, everything around you fading away until you were brought back to reality by a loud, repetitive beep. The fire alarm blared to life, loud and jarring, slicing straight through the moment.
Clark’s eyes widened as he glanced toward the stove, then back at you. “Oh—uh. That’s probably not good.”
You rolled your eyes teasingly, not having the energy to do anything else. “This is your fault.”
“Wha—? Hey,” he said defensively, grabbing a dish towel too and wildly waving it at the ceiling, “Okay… hear me out… we order in.”
“I—” you went to protest but eventually gave in. “yeah, okay…”
Pairing: Eddie Munson x reader x Steve Harrington Wc: 10.3k
Description: Eddie accidentally walks in on Steve fucking you in a WSQK storage closet. He thinks he’s doomed to a life of fantasizing over you with the only company of his right hand, until…Steve himself offers him a golden ticket straight to your bed: a threesome.
Warnings/tags: threesome smut, all are adults, fem!reader, established relationship with S5!Steve, no spoilers, Eddie survives S4 bc I say so, mentions of his scars, voyeurism, eddie fantasizes a lot, he jerks off a lot more, porn with plot, dry humping, oral male rec, fingering, piv sex, reverse cowgirl, both men are whipped for you.
Note: Surprise, new boy in the harem✨ No I don’t know how this happened, or how it ended up being so long but all I can say is merry early christmas my dears, enjoy the filth!! 🫦
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he’s so obsessed with me and boy I understand
Eddie Munson had never hated the sun before.
Not until he saw it in your smile.
You were standing in front of him at the crawl meeting, giggling at something Robin had said, soft and golden in the way that only you could be, wearing Steve’s stupid jacket that by this point was pretty much your own.
Because he was.
Steve Harrington, Mr. Perfect Hair himself, asshole turned part time hero, was the guy who got to hold your hand in public. Eddie didn’t hate him. Not really. He wanted to, wanted it bad sometimes, when the jealousy itched too deep to scratch.
He’d hated him at some point, when Dustin wouldn't shut up about how incredible his friend was. But alas, after everything they’d been through last year and Steve being the one who got him out of that hellhole, he really couldn’t hate him anymore.
So, he hated the sun. Because he couldn't have it.
Eddie also hated himself for not speaking up sooner. For watching you fall in love with someone else while he sat in the background. And maybe that was his punishment. Maybe that was the price for every time he chickened out, every time he saw you in the hallway in that little cherry red jacket and panicked, ducking behind his locker like a coward.
Maybe if he hadn’t been, you would be wearing his jacket now.
“Dude, wipe your face. You’re one drool away from filling the bucket,” came a voice from beside him, and undoubtedly by the tone–it had to be Henderson’s.
Eddie snapped out of his trance by the sharp nudge of Dustin’s elbow. Shit. He hadn’t even realized he was watching.
“I’m not,” he lied, even as he tilted his head just enough to catch another glimpse of you, this time laughing as Steve tried to sneak a kiss and Robin dramatically fake gagged next to you.
Jesus, Eddie was about to gag for real.
“You’re staring again,” Dustin chuckled, walking away after patting him condescendingly on the back.
Eddie shot him a glare but didn’t argue back. Because what was the point?
All he could do was fantasize when it came to you. You would never look at him the same way you look at Steve.
You just looked at him like he was funny. Your metalhead friend. And Eddie? Eddie looked at you like you hung the goddamn stars.
Things were finally looking up for Eddie. For once.
Aside from his not so little crush situation, everything else seemed to be getting better.
After almost dying being devoured by supernatural creatures–which, in his opinion would’ve been a very metal death–his uncle’s trailer had gotten split in half, and he’d gotten piles and piles of medical bills from his long recovery. Which led to him having to find a part time job as a mechanic besides his little dealing business.
Oh! And how could he forget? The police department was still investigating him about the murders from last year.
Between that, his job, the incessant crawls every week, and his therapy–both physical and psychological–he had absolutely no time to host hellfire anymore. Dustin had tried to keep it alive, but bless his soul, no one compares to Eddie Munson when it comes to being DM.
But last week, by some miracle, he’d finally, finally been cleared as “innocent” due to lack of evidence and was able to start living a normal life again. His therapy sessions had been reduced to once every two weeks, and he’d also repaired a few fancy cars that earned him a pretty juicy commission.
So yeah. Things were finally looking up for him after whatever the hell ‘86 was.
So, with a pep in his step, he walked through the doors of the WSQK headquarters holding a cardboard box with all his stuff for that day’s campaign. Robin had told him they had a spare room on the back, and Steve said he could go earlier to set everything up. He even whistled as he strolled through the empty hallways of the radio station.
He saw two doors at the end, figuring he’d open both and find out which one he was supposed to settle in.
But as all Munsons tend to run out of luck at some point, it seems like the curse finally hit him again when he opened the wrong one and changed the course of his entire fucking life.
Because what he didn’t expect, what absolutely no one warned him about, was that you and Steve liked to use the storage closet to fuck like bunnies before anyone arrived at the station.
He froze at the door, the box in his hand hanging on for dear life as he took in the scene in front of him.
There you were.
Propped up on a stack of cardboard boxes with Steve between your legs, your skirt was bunched around your hips, and your knees high on his waist. Your face was flushed, hair a mess and you were letting out choked little gasps because you couldn’t form words anymore.
Eddie’s heart stopped. He might’ve as well died for real this time.
You let out a startled sound, grabbing Steve’s shoulders to hide yourself the second you saw Eddie standing there. Steve just glanced back over his shoulder, not even bothering to stop.
“Dude. Do you mind?”
Eddie slammed the door shut.
He walked out of WSQK like he’d seen a ghost. Didn’t even say a word to Dustin, who was just pulling up on his bike.
He just got in his van, and drove straight into the woods far enough to be alone. And for the next ten minutes, the only sound in that van was the furious pumping of his hard cock into his hand and his broken, desperate moans repeating something.
Your name. Again. And again.
And again.
Then, after going back and giving a poor excuse to his boys as to why he couldn’t host that day and had to leave immediately (one that actually meant sorry guys! Gotta jerk off like 10 more times!) He went to repeat the same routine back at the small place Wayne managed to rent after the “earthquakes” had destroyed his trailer.
He turned off the lights of the room he called his now. Lit a blunt just for something to do with his free hand. Threw on a loud tape to drown out the grunts and the pathetic moaning, and his fist went to town–again–to the memory of you.
The way you looked in that closet.
The arch of your back against the boxes. The sound of your voice breaking as you moaned his name–not Eddie’s, no, the one you belonged to. Steve. The way your fingers dug into his shoulders, pulling him closer, as if he wasn’t deep enough. And your face…
God. Your fucking face.
Blissed out and flushed, swollen lips parted, eyes half-lidded and completely lost in it. No cheap porn film he’d ever watched compared to that. No–you were the most obscene thing Eddie had ever seen in his life and it was burned into him now. Engraved into the insides of his lids. No amount of blinking could unsee it.
No amount of jerking off could erase it.
(He tried. Many times.)
People had sex all the time. This shouldn’t be on his head 24/7. But…Eddie couldn’t believe that was you.
He’d always seen you as soft. As the sweet girl giggling at Steve’s dumb jokes while playing with his stupid perfect hair. As the one who would mediate when a crawl meeting got too heated when someone didn’t agree with the plan. As the one who always listened to everyone…even him.
You even called him Eds once, so softly, that he’d walked around with chest pain for a full day like a goddamn lovesick teenager.
But now?
Now he couldn’t stop imagining how your voice sounded when it wasn't innocent. Couldn’t stop remembering how your legs looked parted open, how your thighs shook as Steve thrusted harshly into you.
He should’ve known better though, that was on him. He should’ve known that someone who once held the title of “King Steve” would be the one to corrupt a girl like you.
Who wouldn’t want to?
He couldn’t stop wondering what it’d feel like to be the one between your legs. To have you whimpering like that. To see you fall apart and know he did that. That he got you that high, that far gone…that wrecked.
He was fucking haunted by the fantasy. And it wasn’t lust, it was worse than that. It was curiosity, obsession, need.
The need to be the one who fucks the sweetness out of you.
But now you were probably curled up in Steve’s bed, fast asleep on his hairy chest, wearing one of his shirts and dreaming about getting fucked by him, while Eddie dreamt of you after he didn’t have anything left to milk out.
He dreamt of your hand in his curls. Your thighs around his waist. Your voice in his ear breaking with his name over and over and…over.
Eddie tried to be normal after that. God, he tried.
At least you seemed to be normal. You walked into Thursday movie night at Nancy’s like nothing had happened, dropping onto the couch next to Steve with a bag of popcorn, listening to whatever Robin said, still sweet and smiley and wearing one of Steve’s jackets.
He told himself not to stare. Repeated it like a goddamn mantra.
Don’t look, Munson. Don’t fucking look. You’ll just embarrass yourself. You’ll make it weird.
But then your eyes met, and you smiled at him, and…Eddie forgot his own name.
His mouth opened, but no words came out. Just a squeak that could’ve been the start of a sentence, or a heart attack. He pretended to cough into his fist and buried himself deeper into the armchair.
And Steve? Oh he noticed.
Not just Eddie’s reaction, but all of it. The way Eddie’s eyes had locked onto you from the moment you walked in. The way they dropped lower every time you shifted. The way his fingers gripped the armrest.
And the weird part? Steve didn’t get mad. He just smirked, knowingly, even amused by the whole thing.
The next time something altered Eddie’s brain chemistry, was at the diner.
He’d arrived late, mainly because he wasn’t even sure if he wanted to go in the first place, but the thought of seeing your smile was enough to convince him to walk through that door, and soon it was just him, Robin, and the perfect couple.
Eddie looked at you from across the booth, wearing an outfit that he was sure would ruin his life later when he was alone back in his room. You were sipping from your milkshake, the pink straw pressed between your lips, as you let out a hum of contempt at the sweet taste. All Eddie could think was that could be something else.
Thank God for Robin’s need to ramble about everything that happened on her date with Vicky that weekend, that you and Steve were focused on her and not on Eddie’s anxious leg bouncing under the table.
Or at least that’s what he thought.
“Eds, take some fries,” you offered sweetly when Robin ran out of air, pushing the plate you’d been eating from with Steve toward him.
Eddie hadn’t ordered anything, he wasn’t hungry–at least not for actual food–and of course you’d noticed and offered him some of your own.
“Yeah man, go ahead,” Steve chimed in with a smile that was enough to freak him out. “I don’t mind sharing,” he added with a shrug, placing an arm around your shoulders, hazel eyes piercing into Eddie’s with a devilish glint.
The implication left Eddie frozen in place, hand hovering over the fries as you began talking with Robin again, unaware of the way your boyfriend’s comment had left Eddie stunned.
Steve didn’t say anything else. Just kept looking at him, head tilted, like he knew something. Like he felt it now.
The shift.
Eddie almost got up and left, but then he caught Steve’s eyes, and the bastard just winked.
Jesus Christ.
You’re still breathless when Steve flips you onto your back again, mind stuck somewhere between heaven and passing out as your sore body still feels every inch of him buried deep inside you.
He drapes you across his chest knowing you can’t hold yourself up anymore, bare skin sticky with sweat, your cheek pressed over his heartbeat. Steve's hand goes to your thigh, fingers brushing softly where he’d held you down minutes ago.
You don’t want to move. You never want to after he’s done with you. So you just cling tightly to him, letting out a dreamy sigh and nuzzling closer, planting a soft kiss over his racing heart.
Steve smiles, shifting just enough to see your blissed out face. “You okay over there?”
“Mmhm,” you hum. “Can’t feel my soul. Congratulations, Harrington.”
That makes him chuckle. He kisses the top of your head. “Anytime, baby.”
As his room settles into silence and you begin drifting off in his arms before he can drag you into taking a shower, Steve’s chest vibrates against your skin when he speaks again.
“Hey,” he whispers, absentmindedly playing with your hair which doesn’t help your heavy eyelids closing.
“Hmm?”
“Do you ever notice the way Eddie looks at you?”
Your eyes blink open immediately.
You don’t say anything at first. Just start tracing lazy little circles on a particular scar on his ribs, pretending to think about it, but you already know the answer.
“Yeah,” you smile, “I’ve noticed.”
Steve hums, hand still resting on your thigh.
“It’s probably just a silly little crush,” you add, as if you didn’t know how Eddie’s voice breaks every time you spare a glance at him. Or the way his hands shake when you ask him to hand you a drink on movie night. “He’s just… traumatized from the time he caught us back at the station,” you chuckle.
“Oh, baby. You should’ve seen his face in that closet.” Steve snorts. “You were extra loud that day, you really put on a show for him–the lucky bastard.”
“What?” You ask, straightening up on his chest. “You knew he was going to get there earlier?”
“I was hoping he got there earlier."
You smack his arm with your mouth wide open, but a smile tugs at your lips. He grins like the bastard he is, shifting to ease you again into his embrace.
“Don’t worry baby, I might have a way to fix him right back up,” he says smugly, those impossible hazel eyes glinting with mischief. “…Remember that talk we had a while back? Couple months ago. About maybe…bringing in a third?”
Your heart thumps so fast against your chest that you’re sure Steve can feel it on his.
“…Yeah,” you say. “I remember.”
“What if…it was him?” He shrugs, like he’s discussing what movie to watch. “I’m just saying, we’ve both noticed. And maybe…” His hand drifts lower down your thigh, finding that place where you’re still sensitive. “Maybe it’s fun to imagine what he’d do if we invited him.”
His fingers press against your wet folds, easily sliding in and drawing a gasp out of you. His eyebrows shoot up, like he’d managed exactly what he wanted.
“See? Don't you want to show him again how pretty you sound?”
Maybe it’s the overstimulation of Steve fingers pumping in and out of your pussy like he hadn’t absolutely wrecked it minutes prior, that the word comes out of your mouth before you can stop it.
“Yes,” you exhale in a shaky moan.
The thought alone thrills you. Because the truth is, you’ve been feeling it as much as Steve has. You've been wanting it as much as Steve has.
The forbidden.
Because it is fun to imagine. You guiding Eddie’s hand. Steve watching and telling you what to do. You crying out between the two of them.
God.
“So…Eddie?” You pant, unsure if you’re asking or you're moaning out his name just to try it out on your lips.
Steve just smirks.
“Yeah,” he says, pumping faster. “Eddie.”
The moment that sealed Eddie’s fate was a random Thursday.
He should’ve known better.
The second you said movie night was at your place, he should’ve backed out. Should’ve faked a headache or a gig or even a freak accident involving his uncle.
Anything.
But–like the fucking idiot he was–he’d walked right through your front door that night.
You’d picked a shitty movie on purpose. Something slow without any action scenes, full of long silences and artistic shots that made Robin snore into the couch cushion, with Nancy and Jonathan falling right behind.
Steve sat beside you the whole time, like always, hand on your thigh, like always. Looking casual, almost innocent.
Eddie was on the floor, sitting too close to the TV just so he wouldn’t look at you.
He’d been too busy picking at the skin of his thumb and lost into the mazes of his head, that he didn’t notice you’d disappeared with Steve until he glanced over to the couches and only found the girls and Jonathan dead to the world.
He sat there for a few more minutes pretending to care about the stupid movie, but then–like a fucking idiot, again–he decided to get up, quietly leaving the room like he was going to the kitchen.
He took a hard left to the stairs instead.
Eddie knew where your bedroom was. He’d been there before when you’d asked him to bring more blankets on movie night a few months ago. He still remembers the cute little nightlight plugged into the wall.
As he tiptoed to the top of the stairs like a freak, the hall was dark, but a sliver of light came out of your room through the slightly open door.
Eddie dragged his feet on the carpet, guided by shushing voices and a noise of what he was sure was the creak of a bed. Once he reached, he braced himself for the scene he was about to encounter as he peeked through the door, but no amount of breathing techniques could have ever prepared him for the image before his eyes.
Oh, fuck.
You were on your stomach, face pressed into the mattress, Steve standing behind you with both hands gripping your hips. Your ass–god, your ass–lifted high to meet every thrust.
Your skirt was bunched around your waist, panties pushed to the side, but nothing really hid you from the pervert on the door. Not even Steve’s body blocked the view of him disappearing into your dripping pussy, filling you so deep Eddie could see it, see the way your walls opened for him.
The nightlight glowed behind you, casting just enough light to make it worse.
Pink and soft and obscene.
Eddie’s eyes went over the curve of your spine. The shake of your thighs. Your fingers twisting in the floral sheets, holding on for dear life as your body kept being pushed forward.
And the sounds. Jesus Christ, the sounds.
“Steve,” you gasped, “please–more–don’t stop.”
“Shhh baby, I know,” Steve cooed behind you, doing the exact opposite of what you asked and stopped. “But you gotta keep it down, don’t want to wake up your guests do you?”
The fucking hypocrite then slammed back into you so hard the headboard bumped the wall. You moaned–no, cried out, trying to muffle it against the sheets as Eddie bit down his fist just to keep himself from making a sound.
“Oh baby, you wanna be loud?” Steve chuckled, as he kept thrusting hard. “Go on then, I want to hear you.”
“I–fuck–I love your cock, Steve” you choked the words out. “‘S–s’ so deep.”
Eddie froze at the crack of the door, heart pounding out of his chest as he watched you getting fucked within an inch of your life.
The sweet girl. The sun. The angel he thought he knew. Gripping her sheets like a sinner. Moaning filth like she wanted the guests to hear.
Maybe you wanted him to hear.
Eddie’s hand slipped inside his jeans, he couldn't stop himself. Not after that. He stroked himself fast and hard and desperate, watching your body take it, and your mouth beg for it.
It didn’t take long for Eddie to come harder than he’d ever had in his life. He made a mess in his hand, his pants, and he was sure some of his cum dripped onto the carpet below, but he was too high and too far gone to care.
He nearly collapsed against the stairs wall as he rushed back down, panting, already half hard again within seconds.
The movie was still rolling, the guys were still fast asleep, but he had been changed forever–once again.
Seriously, who the hell leaves the door open? Or unlocked? For two people who seemed to fuck like bunnies none of it made sense.
Unless…you’d wanted him to watch.
Eddie was in the middle of jerking off when someone started pounding on his front door.
Of course.
He’d found his rhythm, music blasting, hips grinding into his palm, eyes squeezed shut and in his head, his filthy, freaky little head, you kept running your dirty mouth over and over.
He’d been at it for twenty minutes. Maybe more. His dick was red and raw but he didn’t care because the only thing worse than jerking off to the memory of you was not jerking off to it.
Bang, bang, bang.
“Jesus–fuck,” he curses, pulling up his briefs with a groan, finding a pair of jeans from the floor as the knocking continues.
“EDDIE!!” A familiar voice calls over the music.
Oh no.
Eddie walks out of his room shirtless, crosses the hall in dragged strides, and opens the door wide enough to peek out, and yeah, there he is.
Steve fucking Harrington.
The absolute last person on earth he wanted to catch him red handed with his dick in his hand fantasizing about his girlfriend.
“Hey, man,” Eddie manages, clearing his throat when his voice cracks a little. “Uh…what’s up?”
“Hey!” Steve beams, that preppy boy smile spreading wide on his face. “Mind if I come in?”
Eddie hesitates only for a second, then opens the door wider and steps back. Steve walks in, glances around, his gaze landing on Eddie’s bedroom. More specifically, on the bottle of lotion on his nightstand and the constellation of crumpled paper tissues on the floor next to his bed.
Steve chuckles. “Sorry man, didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“Wh–what?”
“You know. That thing you were doing.” Steve smirks, nodding his head toward the room. “Thinking about my girl?”
Eddie’s whole face goes red. “Dude, what the fuck–”
“You like her,” Steve says plainly, not as a question, not mad, not teasing. Just a matter of fact. “I know you’ve always liked her. But now you’ve seen her like I have. And now you can’t stop thinking about her.”
Eddie stands frozen in the middle of the living room, unsure of what he’s supposed to say to save his case. Although, given the evidence, there isn’t much to hope for.
“Is this the part where you punch me?” Eddie asks, almost bracing for the impact.
But Steve just laughs in his face.
“No, man. No punches.” He shakes his head, amused. “You know…she likes it when you stare.”
You like it when he stares? You know he stares?
“Alright Harrington, if you wanna hit me, just do it. Don’t fuck with me.” Eddie chuckles bitterly, already wishing he could just go back to his little twisted fantasies instead of hearing this bullshit.
“Don’t you get what I’m saying Eddie?”
Eddie narrows his eyes. “No…?”
Steve sighs, then steps closer to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I’m saying…she wants you to fuck her.”
There’s a moment of deafening silence where Eddie questions if he actually speaks the English language, because there’s no fucking way in the world he heard that right.
“...What??”
“She does,” Steve repeats, then chuckles again, “Hell, even I want you to fuck her.”
“You’re not being serious,” Eddie accuses, backing off from Steve’s grasp to pace in circles with his hands on his hips.
“Fucking hell man,” Steve groans. “Look–I’ve seen the way you look at her. And I get it, okay? She’s a dream, I know.” He laughs, but Eddie keeps pacing like a madman, shaking his head. “Dude–you ever wonder what she tastes like when she’s already come twice?”
That makes him stop right in his tracks. He turns to Steve in disbelief, but once again he doesn’t see anger, or teasing. He’s genuinely asking him if he fantasizes about his girlfriend.
“Man, I wonder about everything,” Eddie finally blurts out, exhaling like he just lifted a weight off his chest that’s been dragging him down for weeks.
Steve grins.
“I wouldn’t offer you this if I didn’t trust you with her.”
He walks closer to Eddie–again–but this time he doesn’t place his hand on his shoulder, just looks at him dead in the eye as his grin turns darker.
“You’d be gentle with her, wouldn’t you, Eddie?” He asks, pupils taking over the hazel of his eyes. “You wouldn’t fuck her too hard the first time, right? She’s too sensitive after–and trust me, you’re gonna want her to keep going.”
Eddie is speechless for the 124378th time in that month. Which should be an achievement, considering he likes to talk as much as Robin does.
“I’m not gonna say it twice, Munson.” Steve lifts a hand to clap him on the shoulder. “But she really wants it. So are you in?”
Eddie doesn’t even think anymore. He just nods frantically.
Oh, he’s so in.
Oh, he’s so having a full blown existential crisis.
He hadn’t slept the night before. Who could sleep after that conversation? Steve, poster boy for everything Eddie is not, just casually walked into his place, dropping that line like it was no big deal:
She wants you to fuck her.
Which is how he ended up now, standing outside your goddamn house, sweating through his jacket and wondering if he’d actually never woken up from the demobats attack and this was all a coma dream.
Because now you apparently wanted him.
In your house. In your bed.
On those stupidly adorable floral sheets he couldn’t stop thinking about. That’s what he came thinking about. That’s what he dreamed about every night.
Steve’d said to just “roll by tonight.” Well, tonight is here, and Eddie stands outside the door contemplating his options.
Does he knock? Does he just open it and walk into a fucking orgy?
Jesus.
He adjusts his jacket, runs a hand through his curly hair, and tells himself it’s going to be fine. He’s already been through things someone his age should never have to in their entire lifetime. Strange things. He can handle a little threesome.
Right?
He rings the doorbell before he chickens out like he’s done his whole life.
Eddie hears footsteps approaching the front door. He expects you, for some reason, but instead it’s Steve who opens it, shirtless, barefoot, only wearing some sweatpants, and smiling bright as if he’d just invited Eddie over to watch some sports game.
“Hey, dude! Glad you made it,” he beams, stepping aside.
Eddie walks through the threshold, and stops in the middle of the entrance hall pressing his lips tight.
“You want water or something?” Steve offers casually, noticing Eddie’s looking around nervously. “She’s upstairs. All ready.”
“She’s what?”
“All ready,” Steve repeats with a grin. “You know, for you.”
Steve laughs at Eddie’s loss for words, claps him reassuringly on the back, and gestures toward the stairs.
“Come on, man. Don’t leave her waiting.”
He walks up the stairs with Steve trailing behind. Eddie’s already hard under his ripped jeans, stopping right outside your door thinking what on earth does ready for me mean?
Are you naked? Are you touching yourself? Do you know how hard he is? Can you feel him on the other side of the door?
He can even see the damn nightlight is on behind it. His hand hovers over the doorknob, but for one second, the doubt comes crawling back in.
What if this is a joke? What if he opens the door and all your friends are inside pointing at him and laughing like “Look who actually believed it! You’re a pervert, Eddie!”
Wouldn’t be the first time someone pulls a cruel prank on him–or calls him that. Wouldn’t even be the worst. But–
“You gonna open it, Eddie? Or are you too scared of my girl?” Steve’s teasing voice cuts off his spiraling thoughts.
Eddie takes a deep breath, finally twists the knob, and he swears time slows down when he sees you there.
You’re sitting–no, half kneeling on the bed in the center of the room. Those floral sheets are bunched under your knees. And you’re wearing a little dainty lace set. The fabric is barely there, but the little bows on the straps make it sweet enough for Eddie’s mouth to go dry. Your exposed skin looks soft under the warm pink glow the nightlight casts against the walls.
You’re all ready for him.
Eddie nearly fucking dies. Again.
You smile when you see him. It’s soft and warm and welcoming, like always. Except–nearly naked. Not like he hadn’t seen your guts getting rearranged about two times too much these past weeks anyways.
“Hi, Eds,” you say, waving your hand as if you aren’t currently rewiring his entire nervous system.
He stands frozen in the doorway as Steve brushes past him, casual as hell. He walks straight up to you, bends down just enough to pet your chin with two fingers, making you laugh softly.
“Hi again, baby,” Steve whispers sweetly. “Let’s give him a warm welcome, hm?”
You hum in agreement, watching Steve walk away and drop onto the puff in the corner of the room, manspreading like a king waiting for his entertainment to start.
But Eddie…Eddie’s still standing by the door like 🧍🏻
“So uh…what–what are the rules?” He stammers. “Or, like boundaries? Or–fuck, I don’t know, a safe word?”
He means it for him, of course.
You cover your mouth to stifle a laugh. “Oh my god. Eddie, you're adorable.”
Steve is not as delicate as you, “Dude,” he snorts. “You can’t be serious. Relax. No one's handing out instructions.”
Eddie shifts anxiously on his feet. “I–there should be instructions.”
When the hell has ever cared about those?
“You’re here to make her feel good, that’s it.” Steve says quite harshly, crossing his arms over his chest, then looks at you and everything in him softens. “You decide how far he goes, baby.”
You melt. Right there on the bed. Blow him a kiss and then turn your full attention to the very shy boy at your doorstep.
“It’s okay, Eddie. Can you come closer?” You ask, extending your arm and gesturing toward the bed.
Eddie gives one step, that’s all he manages.
You smile wider, just enough to coax him. “Closer, Eddie. Please.”
Fuck.
He takes another step, then another, until he’s right by the edge of the bed, so close he can see the pattern of the fine lace of your lingerie, the way your chest rises when you breathe, the way you’re giving him the most deadly case of bedroom eyes he’s ever seen in his entire life.
You don’t look shy, or unsure, you look…eager.
Before he can overthink it, you slide off the bed to round him, and gently push his chest to sit down. Eddie falls easily, his body already knowing it’s not in charge anymore. The mattress dips under his weight, bouncing softly along with the curls in his head.
“Kick those shoes off,” you say.
He obeys. Oh–he obeys. A little clumsily, but they’re off in less than three seconds.
Only then you climb onto his lap. Eddie’s breath comes out in a shaky exhale when your ass lands on his thighs. His hands hover uselessly at his sides. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t really dare yet. He doesn’t even know where to look. His eyes dart from your shoulder to the wall to Steve, who has now thrown his arms behind his head like he’s watching his favorite movie.
“Well, don’t mind me,” he says. “Just enjoying the show.”
You cradle Eddie’s face to get his attention back to you. All he can think is your hands are warm, and too soft for his own good. Your thumbs brush his cheeks in such a normal, easy way, that still feels deeply intimate.
“Pretty boy,” you whisper, smiling at him. “Such pretty eyes.”
Eddie’s heart does an entire somersault routine. He can feel the little feet of the people inside his head running around to process the compliment.
We’re starting already???
He doesn’t even finish that line of thought when you lean in and kiss him. The kiss is slow and unrushed, but so so passionate. Your soft lips move against his, showing him you know exactly what you’re doing. Eddie melts into it instantly. He kisses you back desperately, starving, because he’d been feeling withdrawal for something he never had, and now–holy shit now he’s finally getting his fix.
Still, he doesn’t touch. Not until you take his wrists and guide them yourself, first on your waist, but then trailing down, lower, to where the lace sits and barely covers anything. His hands pinch your skin when he realizes what he’s touching.
You.
“Oh,” he breathes in to the kiss, and had you known Eddie let out those pretty little sounds, you'd have brought him in sooner.
You smile against his mouth and roll your hips, just a little, just to get more out. Grabbing him by the collar of his jacket, you grind down on him. Slow at first, just gentle little moves that made Eddie’s head tip back, and a symphony of broken sounds left his throat. Every grind of your body made his cock throb harder against his jeans. His eyes went between your chest, your mouth and the way your lashes fluttered when you finally found the spot.
“Jesus–fuck yes, use me angel.”
He didn’t even realize he’d said it out loud until you let out a little whimper at the pet name, and picked up the pace.
You are used to terms of endearment from Steve, he’s the sweetest with you, but never in the years of your relationship has he ever called you something so divine as angel.
Alas, your boyfriend still knows you better than anyone. You keep moving on top of Eddie, and even though his hard cock under the jeans is already making you see stars, there’s something…missing. By this point Steve’s fingers would already be deep inside you without even having to ask.
Across the room, he watches your frantic moves and hears your moans getting needier. Eddie doesn't notice at first, but he does.
“Hey man,” he calls casually. “Play with her.”
Eddie, too lost in the way you keep rolling your hips, blinks like he misheard. “–What?”
Steve chuckles, “She’s used to it. Go on, don’t make her wait.”
Eddie turns back to you, but you don’t say anything, just look at him, chest rising faster, lips parted, a thin sheen of sweat starting to gather at your temples. And when his eyes search yours for permission, you nod.
That’s all it takes. Eddie’s hand slides down your stomach, dipping lower and lower, until he finds the paradise between your legs.
Oh fuck.
“Baby–you’re soaking through my jeans,” he groans, trailing the wet patch seeping through your panties.
You giggle, but the second his fingers go past the lace and brush over your clit, you let out the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. A little gasp of surprise, hips bucking slightly since you've been waiting for him to touch you right there all night.
Eddie almost comes in his pants. “Jesus–you’re perfect.”
He doesn't slide his fingers in yet, he doesn't need to, your slick is already dripping onto his jeans, smearing over his rings. You just grind into his hand, chasing your high. Every sound you make goes straight to his dick, every breath, every flutter of your lashes, every soft whimper of his name. He’s about to put a finger in when–
“Stop.”
Eddie freezes at your firm voice, his hand stills as panic takes over his chest. “Did I–did I do something wrong?”
Steve’s already standing from the couch, ready to lift you off Eddie’s lap if you need him to. But you just let out a sweet little laugh and shake your head.
“No, you’re perfect. I want you to take your shirt off first,” you shrug, as if you hadn't caused both men a near heart attack.
Steve exhales, muttering something about “always testing him” as he plops back onto the puff. You smile at him apologetically, he just shakes his head pretending to be annoyed but you see the smile tugging at his lips.
“Oh,” Eddie says, blinking a few times before actually breathing again. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that, sweetheart.”
He fumbles a little, taking off his vest first, then his jacket, then–he hesitates for a second. It’s not that he’s insecure about his chest, but his tattoos now have fresh new roommates in the shape of multiple scars scattered across his skin from where he’d been attacked. And he doesn’t know how you’ll react to them.
You notice the doubt flashing across his eyes as his hands stop reaching for the shirt. “Are you okay, Eddie?” You ask, and now you’re the one wondering if you did something wrong.
“Yeah,” he chuckles, trying to not sound too pathetic. “It’s just–my…my scars,” he says, avoiding your gaze.
You hum softly, “Steve has them too.”
Eddie’s head perks up at that, and his eyes go to the shirtless man on the couch.
“Yeah man,” Steve breathes, straightening up, pointing at the lovely little bite marks the bats had left on his skin.
Eddie squints and sees them washed in the glow of the nightlamp. He’d been so busy freaking the hell out when he arrived that he hadn’t even noticed that Steve’s chest indeed had marks. But not as many as him, and at least the hair around it makes up for it, he’s not sure his pale chest–
“Eddie…” You cup his face to gently guide it towards you. “You can keep your shirt on if you feel more comfortable that way, but know that I don’t care about what’s under there. I just want to feel your skin closer,” you reassure.
Eddie almost proposes right there and then.
Okay–maybe he’s getting ahead of himself. But shit. He decides it’s wiser to just nod, and peels off his shirt in one rough pull. You look him in the eyes before looking down, and he nods again. Your eyes go down his bare chest, pale as you expected, not as filled out as Steve’s, and not nearly as hairy–but the tattoos and the scars make him the most badass rockstar you’d ever seen.
Eddie’s breath stills as you look at him like you like what you see. Like he’s the prettiest thing in the room. And then you make sure he hears it.
“You’re so pretty, Eddie,” you smile, pulling him in for another kiss. Your hands smooth over his skin, fingers tracing the tattoos on his chest, the scars down his sides, the happy trail leading to a happier place. “So hot.”
You whine into the kiss, hips rolling again making him forget about the fact that he’s shirtless in front of you and instead he remembers–right. His fingers.
Eddie reaches for you, pulling your panties to the side again. He slides two fingers between your folds, slow enough to drink every second of the way your jaw drops when you feel his rings deep inside you, the way your eyes flutter shut, how you let out a desperate little sound that goes straight to his cock.
“Eds…” you moan, walls clenching around fingers and metal.
“You feel–fuck, baby, you feel so good…so tight…”
He finds his rhythm easily, all insecurities set aside by how fast you’re falling apart on his fingers.
Eddie knows what he’s doing. Those hands–those guitarist fingers don’t play. They move with instinct, with intention. His fingers curl, dragging quickly through your walls before pressing back in. The rings are a plus, cold metal against heat, and you gasp when one of them hits the spot.
“Oh–Eddie–”
“That’s it angel, keep dripping all over me,” he coos, pumping harder. “Can feel you clenching when I talk like this. You like being a good girl for me?”
You nod, it’s all you can do. Steve just watches. Watches the way your body moves. The way your face twists with pleasure. The way your mouth drops open with every stroke.
But he catches something else. He always does.
Your head tips forward, forehead pressing into Eddie’s shoulder, breaths coming out in little broken sounds against Eddie’s skin as he works every inch of you. You keep grinding your hips, chasing more even as it starts to overwhelm you. A sudden wave makes your moan turn into a whimper, and your nails dig on his shoulder instinctively pushing him away.
You cry out, that’s when Steve speaks.
“Hey–easy, Munson,” he calls out, not angry, but still firm enough that it makes Eddie slow down. “Remember what I said about going easy the first time? You go too rough too soon and she’s gonna be shaking for the rest of the night.”
“Sorry–” Eddie says immediately, but you cut him off.
“It’s okay, Eds. We’re still learning each other,” you reassure, still giving him that dazed, happy look. He exhales in relief. “Just…a little slower, that’s all. I’m not really used to the rings.” You say it so sweetly, that he just nods like a little puppy eager to please.
“You’ll get used to them soon, sweetheart. Promise.”
He pulls his fingers back in slower, watching your face the whole time, memorizing every reaction. It doesn't take long before you’re grinding his hand again and letting out soft moans of pleasure as you find a more comfortable rhythm.
“There you go,,” Steve chuckles, approving. “She’s squeezing you, isn’t she?”
Eddie chuckles back, because he can feel how close you are. Your forehead presses into his shoulder again, mouth brushing his skin as you let out a sound that’s half gasp, half moan.
“Hmm, that sound,” Steve hums, leaning further into the puff, stroking over his crotch. “She sounds like that when she’s about to come.”
“Yeah?” Eddie asks, curling his fingers just right. “Are you close, angel?”
You whimper, hiding your face knowing exactly what they are talking about, but it only makes it hotter for both men to see you like that.
“Don’t you wanna tell him, baby?” Steve asks from his spot, but all that comes out of your mouth is another moan against Eddie’s shoulder. “Hey–eyes on me.”
You obey, turning to meet those wide, hazel eyes. You’re barely holding it together, already breathless. A literal mess on Eddie’s fingers.
But Steve just smiles, wide and bright when you look at him. “Now tell him what you need, sweetheart.”
Your eyes keep locked on your boyfriend as you whisper, “I–I wanna come, Eds…please.”
“Then come, baby. Drench my fucking rings,” he groans in your ear. His raw voice and another curl of his fingers is what gets you there.
Your whole body tenses when the orgasm hits. You let out a broken moan that vibrates in Eddie’s chest and your walls clench around his fingers so tight he thinks you might break them. Your wetness coats his rings, soaks into your panties, his jeans, everywhere.
You collapse, arms flailing to hold on to him, but before Eddie can catch you, you’re already falling back.
“Whoa, hey–” Eddie’s arms scramble to hold you, but Steve is faster.
He’s behind you instantly, steadying you with one hand on your back, the other cupping the back of your head easing you back into Eddie’s lap.
“She goes all soft after,” Steve says, with that fondness he always uses when referring to you. “You gotta hold her up for a second.”
Eddie’s arms wrap around you immediately, as you curl into him still trying to catch your breath. Steve leans to see you, brushing your hair back. He presses a soft kiss to your forehead that makes you smile.
“Hey,” he whispers, eyes scanning your flushed face. “You okay?”
You nod against Eddie’s chest.
“You wanna keep going?”
You nod again.
“Words, baby,” Steve coaxes, and you let out a little breathless giggle when he pinches your side.
“I do,” you whisper, loud enough for both to hear. Then you turn to him. “Thank you.”
For catching me. For checking on me. For letting another man fuck me while you watch.
You don’t even have to say it out loud for Steve to know what you’re thinking. He just brushes your cheek, with an amused smile on his face. “Anytime, baby.”
You shift on Eddie’s lap, turning back to him, lips brushing his cheek before placing your hands on his chest to look at those pretty brown eyes. “Thank you too, Eds. You made me feel so good.”
“Y-Yeah?”
You hum, patting the spider tattoo on his left peck. Once you feel like you regained your strength back again, you slide off his lap and drop to your knees in front of him.
“That’s my girl.” Steve praises. So pretty on her knees.”
He rounds the bed to grab a small pillow, then drops it to the floor next to your knees, nudging it with his foot until you shift just enough to be on top of it. You lean to kiss the back of his hand as a silent thank you.
Eddie is too busy remembering how to breathe for the 100th time to say anything.
You settle between Eddie’s legs, hands resting on his thighs, your lashes fluttering as you look up with all your attention back on him. “I wanna thank you properly.”
Eddie laughs nervously, then whistles low. “Shit–then go ahead, sweetheart.”
Your fingers go to his belt–because of course he wore a fucking belt–and Steve chuckles from your side, one judging eyebrow raised. “Why did you even wear a belt, dude?”
“I thought I was coming over to watch, not to get fucking blessed,” Eddie shakes his head in disbelief, pushing himself up to help you lower his pants.
His ass barely touches the mattress when your hands are already tugging his briefs. He laughs, out of sheer nerves and excitement, lifting again to take off the last piece covering him.
He springs out.
And just as you thought. Just as you dreamed, he’s big. Eddie fucking Munson is packing a thick, flushed pink, already leaking cock just inches away from your face.
Pretty boy with pretty eyes and an even prettier dick.
You let out a sweet, pleased little dreamy sigh, when you feel his heaviness in your hand. “So pretty,” you praise, then lean in and press a soft kiss to the tip of his cock.
You reach out, eager, hand wrapping around him to guide him toward your mouth like a lollipop. Eddie makes a noise no one in that room knew he was capable of.
Eddie sees heaven. Sees the clouds, hears all the symphonies and shit.
“Jesus fuck–”
Steve steps behind you again, crouching down. He runs his fingers over your spine, drawing delicate circles that don’t match the words that come out of his mouth.
“You think you can take another, baby?” He asks, kissing the back of your neck. “Getting bored of just watching…”
You glance back at him, hand still wrapped around Eddie’s cock, and look down to see the fabric of his pants barely containing his.
“Let me take care of you too, babe,” you chuckle, lifting your free hand to reach sideways, tugging Steve’s sweats and briefs down in one pull. He steps forward, letting you take him in your hand like you’ve done a hundred times.
Now you have two, very hard, very beautiful, very yours, dicks in your hands.
You give Steve one long, wet stroke with your tongue that makes him drop his head back and groan. Then, with a little giggle, you turn and give Eddie the same treatment.
“Fucking hell, Harrington,” he gasps.
Steve smiles, watching you go from one the other, teasing both. “Oh, I know.” He cups the back of your head, stroking your hair. “Show him, baby. Show him how good you are.”
You hum with Eddie in your mouth, the sound vibrating just enough to make him curse under his breath.
You begin taking turns. Your lips are glossy and warm and full, as you switch between them.
Steve. Then back to Eddie. Then back to Steve again.
Your hand stroking one while your lips wrap around the other. Back and forth. Eddie’s thighs start shaking with the effort of not coming in the first thirty seconds of this glorious torture.
He’d never seen anything like it.
He has both hands fisted in the floral sheets, barely keeping himself together as you take him halfway down and then pull away with a soft, wet pop that makes his vision go white, only to switch to the one who’s supposed to be your man.
And if it wasn’t enough, Steve hands reach behind your back when you put him in your mouth, bending over you with his cock so going deep it makes you gag, to unclasp your bra, freeing your titties for both of them.
He’s fighting for his soul at this point.
You split apart from Steve, taking a deep breath to recover from his dick touching the back of your throat, and wipe your mouth before looking up at Eddie with a smile.
“Hey Steve?” You call, eyes fixed on Eddie’s to catch his reaction. “Why don’t you get the camera?”
The…camera???
“Wait–what?”
“Don’t you want a little souvenir?” You tease, titling your head.
“What the fuck–what–do I want a–?”
“Steve likes it,” you shrug.
“Oh yeah,” Steve chuckles, already crossing to the bookshelf in the corner of your room. “I like it–but she loves it, man,” he adds smugly,
“You have photos…doing it?”
“Whooole collection.” Steve drawls, finding what he was looking for. “You’d go crazy.”
He is going crazy.
Steve walks back over holding a black Polaroid camera, and hands it directly to Eddie, who’s still gripping onto the sheets for dear life.
“I–” He stammers, looking at you.
You shrug. “My hands are busy,” you smile apologetically, too damn sweet for the situation.
Eddie finally takes the camera after a deep exhale, and leans back to lift it. He frames your pretty face between his thighs, lips parted open, spit shining on his cock. Then your mouth wraps around his tip again, and Eddie moans, loud and shaky, nearly dropping the camera.
He captures the grip of your lips, the way your tongue flicks over his slit, the stretch of your mouth when you sink deeper. Then you pull away and take Steve into your mouth instead, and Eddie moves the camera closer, watching your throat move, your hand still stroking him at the base.
It’s a miracle you are alternating, because if it had been just him, he would’ve busted in your mouth in under a minute.
You feel flash after flash after flash. Picture falling one after another, scattering on Eddie’s thighs.
“Holy shit,” Eddie chuckles. “This is filthy. God, you look so fucking good like that.”
Another flash. Another picture falling next to his balls.
You pop off of him with a messy sound and a smile at the compliment, licking your lips as you turn to Steve.
“Your turn, baby,” you whisper.
Steve steps closer, and you feel the way he starts twitching in your mouth. It doesn’t take long before he grabs your hair, and starts thrusting to get himself off.
Eddie’s eyes widen, pulling the camera aside to enjoy the view. The way Steve holds you there. The way he fucks into your mouth, chasing his release, his fist tangled in your hair, his chest rising hard and fast as you take all of him.
Steve finally comes in a few strangled moans, making sure he stays inside until you swallow every drop of his cum. He strokes your cheek with one hand, pulling out, reaching down to wipe the corner of your mouth. “There you go, baby,” he praises, still breathless. “So good for us.”
You don’t take more than a few seconds when you turn to Eddie, chest heaving, but before you can lean down again his hand comes up, stopping you.
“Wait!” He says, coming off a little louder than he means to.
Your brows furrow. “Are you–are you not enjoying it?”
“No no, Jesus–no,” he rushes, “You’re–you’re perfect. You’re actually heaven. I swear. It’s just…if you keep going like that…I won’t last.”
Steve huffs out a laugh, immediately understanding where he’s coming from.
Eddie wants to save his cum for when he gets lucky to actually fuck you.
Steve steps forward, helping you get to your feet. “Well,” he says, amused, “you’re a lucky bastard, Munson. I’m a man of my word, so I’m gonna let you fuck her properly now.”
Eddie gulps. Your eyes light up.
“That’ll get you going just fine.” Steve adds.
He takes the camera from Eddie’s side, then walks back to settle onto the puff in the corner again, naked, angling the Polaroid camera like a professional.
You take a moment to get rid of your panties, before pushing Eddie back onto the bed, making him crawl back until he’s in the center on the mattress, his curly hair draping over your multiple pillows. You climb over the pictures and his body until you’re hovering over him.
Eddie doesn’t expect you to turn around, but there you are, moving away to straddle him in reverse, giving him a perfect view of your ass. His heart is racing so hard he can hear it in his ears, yet a devilish chuckle still comes out before he can stop it.
“You want Steve to see your face while you bounce on my cock, sweetheart?”
You nod, biting your lip even if he can’t see you–because Steve sure can–lifting yourself up with your hands on his thighs. “God, yes.”
You reach to line him up beneath you, teasing the tip only for a second because you can’t wait any longer than that to feel him inside.
You sink down without giving him any warning.
“Holy–fuck,” Eddie groans, throwing his head back onto the pillows. “Jesus fucking Christ, you’re so tight–”
He only shuts up when he hears the moans you let out as he stretches your walls so painfully good. He feels as huge as he looks, he fills you as well as you thought he would. He’s balls deep inside you. Your knees are on either side of his hips, ass to his stomach, fingers digging into his thighs as you begin to fuck yourself on him.
From the corner, Steve lets out a low hum of approval as you bounce harder on Eddie’s cock, chasing your second orgasm. He strokes himself with one hand, the other snapping shots of the way your tits bounce, the way your face twists every time you sink down, the way you never stop looking at him.
Flash. Flash. Flash. Tug. Tug. Tug.
“Fuck yes, baby–look at you. You look like a fucking porn star.”
You smile at him, then turn over your shoulder, just a little to see how your other boy is doing.
Eddie’s falling apart.
His eyes are glued to where your bodies meet. To his cock disappearing inside your folds. And if the sounds were obscene before–they’re so much worse now. Between Eddie’s grunts, your moans as you ride him, and the clicking sound of Steve’s camera, this was a full blown production.
A priceless one.
And then you make that sound again.
The same sound you made the second time Eddie saw you fall apart on Steve’s cock. The sound you made with his fingers deep inside you. The sound that haunted his fucking dreams.
“You’re getting her there, man,” Steve says, stroking himself faster to the next series of whimpers you let out. “Make her feel good, then cum inside her. She loves that shit.”
Eddie nods. “That okay, angel? Want me to fill you up?”
You can't even speak. You just nod frantically, gasping as your rhythm begins to falter, and your thighs start shaking.
“You gotta come again first, sweetheart,” Eddie says through gritted teeth, grabbing your hips to push himself up into you. He can feel you pulsing around him.
“Steve–fuck–I’m gonna–”
“Then do it, baby,” he growls. “Come on his cock.”
You come harder than the first time. Your mouth drops open in a choked moan as your orgasm tears through you. Eddie nearly comes from how tight you clench around him.
But no. He still wants more from you. Needs it like he needs oxygen.
This time he does catch you when you slump forward, sitting up still buried inside you, placing a kiss on your shoulder as you both catch your breath. But the quiet doesn’t last long. He’s still hard inside you, and the devil on his shoulder tells him to finish what he started.
He earns a sudden yelp from you when he flips you, pushing you onto your stomach, pulling your hips back, and lining himself up again from behind…just like he’d seen you that day. Face in the sheets. Ass up. Wet pussy glowing under the nightlight. Floral sheets wrinkled under your body.
Deja vu.
But this time, it’s not Steve–no, he’s just watching. Eddie is the one pushing his cock deep inside you with a harsh thrust that makes your whole body rock forward.
He’s not that gentle anymore. Not in a mean way. Never in a mean way, but in a I-need-to-come-inside-you-now way. His hands are gripping your skin, knuckles going pale, holding you down as you become a mess under him.
He looks up to the couch, and he expects to see at least an ounce of the jealousy he’d felt the day he saw you with him, but all he sees is Steve’s fist going up and down furiously on his cock. The camera had been dropped as soon as your cheek had hit the mattress.
He wanted to see it. See you fall apart.
“…Holy shit, dude, go for it,” Steve whistles low in approval, chuckling when he hears your strangled gasps every time Eddie slammed into you. “Let him, baby,” he coos. “Be a good girl and take all of it.”
He really gives you all of it.
Eddie’s sure he only survived ‘86 just to see the way your tight little asshole contracts with every thrust he drills into your swollen pussy.
“Eds–Eddie–”
“I know I know. Almost there, angel. Gonna fill you up real good,” he coaxes over your small whines, “wanna see you dripping with my cum.”
Eddie slams into you once more, then groans so loud it echoes across the wallpaper walls, and finally spills inside you with a cry.
Steve comes in his own hand as Eddie pulls out of you, slapping your ass a few times with his cock before you collapse onto the bedsheets. Eddie falls right behind you, blinking up at the ceiling, coming down from his high.
In the middle of all the panting, your chests rising up and down, he doesn’t really know what he’s supposed to do next. Part of him expects to be handed his clothes and a polite “thanks for coming.” But instead, you instinctively roll over to him, wrapping your arms around his body and burying your face against his chest.
Steve just chuckles, finding his briefs on the floor and throwing them on, then finally walking over to where you’re cuddling Eddie, running his hand through your hair with a little smile.
“She gets kinda clingy after.”
You don’t even lift your head. “Don’t be rude.”
Steve grins wider. “Sorry, baby. Cute is the word. She gets cute after.”
You hum again, approving this time. Then, you let out a sigh of exhaustion, voice muffled in Eddie’s chest, “you guys are fucking crazy.”
Steve snorts. “We are crazy?”
“I didn’t exactly suggest a threesome, sweetheart,” Eddie chuckles, hugging you tighter.
“Whatever,” you giggle. “Just…don’t let me fall asleep like this.”
Steve kneels beside the bed and rubs your back gently. “Want a shower, baby?”
You shake your head. “Bath.”
“Bath it is.”
He places a kiss on your shoulder, then stands and walks to your bathroom. A few moments later, Eddie hears the water running.
He could’ve stayed like that forever, really. With you curled into his arms, naked with his seed still inside you, surrounded by the filthy pictures he’d taken of you. His hand comes up hesitantly, brushing your hair back with the same tenderness he always sees Steve do it.
Where does this leave him though? Is this a one time thing? A hit and run? How can he go back to his normal life after this?
He’d already been losing his mind over you for weeks. He’s never getting over this.
“Are you okay?” You ask, snapping him out of his thoughts.
“Me?”
“Yeah, your heart is beating really fast,” you say, hand resting lightly on his chest, right over it.
Eddie laughs under his breath. “Uh. Yeah. I’m just…kinda expecting for someone to tell me to get up and leave?”
You hum softly, nuzzling closer to him. “I don’t want you to leave, Eds…”
He doesn’t get to say anything before Steve returns, a pink towel slung over his bare shoulder as he stands on the bathroom door.
“Well, dude,” he says. “You bringing her or what?”
Eddie looks down at you, all cozied up in his arms. You don’t say anything, but you smile, soft and sweet and welcoming as always.
The sun in his arms.
He's not sure what the hell is next for him now. But at least for tonight, he’s staying.
And I ain't gotta tell him, I think he knows
Thank you so much for reading! hope you enjoyed 👀🤭
synopsis: you're all needy and horny, but Clark has to finish writing an article, so you sit on his cock while he tries to work.
cw: porn and no plot, unprotected p in v, cockwarming (duh), slight tummy bulge, reader gets fucked dumb, creampie!
wc: idk, i'm literally in the middle of the amazon rainforest (class field trip lmao) and i usually do the word count on my computer, which i did not bring lol
a/n: i've done, like, three of these but i just love the idea so much. the more the merrier, right? not proofread, so if you see typos, squint.
It's supposed to be a date night, but Clark's article has to be ready first thing tomorrow and he hasn't finished it yet. But you're all needy and eager, you'd really been looking forward to your date, and he can't say no to his girl.
He's sitting at the kitchen counter, just writing his article, all calm and indifferent, while you squirm on his cock.
Pussy stretched wide open, completely full of him, a little bulge forming on your lower belly from how deep he is in you.
You whine lowly, pressing your face into his neck. “Clark,” you say breathlessly, the warm air against his throat making goosebumps rise on his skin.
“I know, baby. Just gimme a minute,” he replies, his cock twitching in you. God, he wishes he could just say to hell with the article.
Your slick is dripping down his cock, smeared all over the tops of his thighs, coating his heavy balls. The air is thick with the scent of you, and it's making Clark's mind is all hazy. God, you smell sweet. It's making it difficult for him to focus.
It's a sort of cruel, endless cycle. The longer you sit on his cock, the wetter you get, the more aroused he gets, the less he can focus, the longer it takes him to write the article, the longer you sit on his cock.
“Clark,” you whine again, about ten minutes later, your tight pussy fluttering around him as little shivers of need travel through you.
“I know, honey, I'm sorry,” he says, his voice rough with desire. His hand caresses your lower belly, feeling how full you are of him. Fuck, all he wants to do is lay you down on the counter and fuck you dumb. But this stupid article... “I'm almost done.” It's a lie, but he hopes it'll make you feel a little better.
The words on the screen make no sense to him. He erases entire sentences, rewrites them, edits them, only to end up with the sentence he'd started with.
It's grating on his nerves, and the fact that you've now taken to rocking back and forth on him isn't helping.
“Baby,” Clark warns, “don't distract me. I'm trying to work.”
“Work later,” you beg, nibbling over his jaw, leaving wet kisses on his skin.
Clark's cock twitches in you again. Precum is slowly leaking from him, mixing with your arousal. He's so hard, it almost hurts.
You can feel him pulsing in you, thick and engorged, filling you to the brim. Your skin is sticky with sweat, the hot coil of desire pulled tight in your womb. You feel like you're burning from the inside out and Clark is the only one that can help you.
“Baby, this has to be ready for tomorrow,” he groans, moving his head to the side as you kiss over his throat.
“You'll have plenty of time to finish it after...” you say lowly, your lips moving up to his ear.
Clark lets out a sound that's between a groan and a moan. “Fuck it.” He pulls you off his lap, his hard cock slipping out of you, and he carries you over to the bedroom.
He lays you on the bed, his huge body following right after. He presses his hips against yours, feeling how wet you are, and his mouth focuses on kissing over your neck.
“I'm sorry, baby. I'm sorry I kept you waiting,” he murmurs, voice rough as he nibbles over your jaw. He wastes no more time as he reaches down, grabbing himself in hand and slowly pushing himself into you again.
You mewl sweetly, your back arching as he fills you completely, his girthy cock always a tight fit. You grab onto his arms, whining as he pushes in inch by inch, the thick mushroom head stretching your gummy walls before the rest follows.
Clark groans once he's all the way in you and he pauses, just relishing the feeling of your wet, warm cunt squeezing around him.
“God, baby, you're so good. You feel so good,” he murmurs, voice rough as he kisses over your shoulder. He starts moving his hips slowly, deep, gentle rolls that have your eyes rolling back.
Your nails dig into the large, strong muscles in his arms, leaving red marks on his skin. You're seeing stars, the breath pushed out of your lungs each time Clark thrusts back into you.
He does it so well, fucks you so good every time, and you're already worked up from how long you were sitting on his cock. A warm coil of heat and desire forms low in your belly, growing hotter and tighter as Clark starts fucking you faster.
Clark grunts as your pussy clenches around him tighter, breathless moans leaving your beautiful lips. “I know, baby. Fuck, you feel so fucking good.”
He glances down, watching the way his cock moves in and out of you with ease, the width of him stretching you wide. Your folds are all soaked and puffy, your clit swollen and begging for attention.
He reaches down, splaying a huge hand over your womb, his thumb landing on your clit and rubbing messy shapes on it.
In response, you squeal and grab onto his shoulders, dragging your nails down his back. “Please, please, please, please, please!” you gasp, thighs starting to shake as you wrap your legs around his waist to push him deeper.
Clark moans, thrusting harder, his cock pushing in deeper until the bulbous tip is brushing against your cervix. “I know, I know. I'm gonna make you come, baby. You know I always do,” he says between rough puffs of breath, feeling his own orgasm growing low in his abdomen.
You're squirming underneath him, your eyes shut tight, mouth open as you moan and whine his name. The heat in your womb spreads over your skin, leaving every nerve alight with pleasure until all you can feel is Clark.
Between his fingers and his deep thrusts, it doesn't take him long to get you over the edge.
You come hard, your gummy walls squeezing his cock until he can barely move anymore. Stars dance behind your eyelids as you mewl incoherently and your nails bite into his skin.
Clark follows right after. With a few last, shallow thrusts, he comes, spurting his thick cum into you. Warm and sticky, it gathers right against your cervix, and there's just so much of it. Something about how his body works, who knows.
It drips out of you the second he pulls out to lie down beside you. The bed sheets underneath you are soaked, sticky with sweat and your slick and his cum.
He pulls you to him, wrapping you in his arms and kissing the side of your gorgeous face. “You okay, baby?” he asks.
“‘m good,” you reply, rolling over to face him before cuddling against his warm, sweaty chest.
He holds you close, kissing your temple. He has no intention of getting out of bed now. He figures he can just wake up super super super early tomorrow morning and finish his article — you're more important.
♡ please comment and reblog my work, it means so much to me and inspires me to keep writing
---
𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 - if you wanna be added to my Clark Kent taglist, lmk <3
you swiftly roll over him when he least expects it — when his guard is completely down from his first orgasm. it's a welcome switch in your positions, your weight settles atop him and clark's appreciatively rubbing at your hips.
the bed frame whines at the shift, the man beneath you, looks at you in pure and utter reverence. he watches in awe, in the manner your canines catch at your bottom lip, sizing him with a hungry look.
…whoa..
clark clearly hasn't expected your sudden burst of energy, especially when you'd just been whining about his size moments prior. a lop-sided grin stretches across his face, hand settled by the softness of your thighs.
your nails drag down his bare chest, skimming past his sensitive nipples. clark protests with a low grunt, catching your wrists, and forcing them to flatten against his sternum.
c'mon. quit playing..
his complaint rumbles low in his chest, and it only encourages you to want to tease him more, with a subtle nudge, the stretch around your pussy further reminding you of where you both remain connected.
don't tell me you're tired?
you tuck your ankles comfortably beneath your thighs as you properly straddle his hips. not without a wince when his flushed, thick head probes deeper into you. clark lays back all relaxed, his body still hot to touch, not yet cooled from your earlier combined orgasm.
an airy, breathy laugh leaves him, hands having slowly slid up your thighs, to your hips.
tired. me?
clark deliberately rolls his hips then. a motion that presses his cock deeper into you. a sharp gasp leaves you, fisting against his chest. he's enjoying the view of you selfishly, having you so bravely trying to ride him, with little rolls of your hips. the gentle pulse of your cunt along his length is notably appreciated — low, steady grunts rewarding you at every grind. his hands tighten at the fat of your hips, thumbs circling your hips as he savoury the feel of your eager cunt.
mm. not a chance.
you've slowly gotten used to the sheer stretch of his cock, every dull thrust driving deep into you in an agonisingly persistent manner. clark's jaw is clenched tight, eyes darkened with a lust haze. a renewed confidence fills you in way he's looking at you.
yeah?
your words come out breathy, the softness of your duvet creating a soft friction by your knees as you settle to a rhythm. clark's palms wander upward, to your ribs, rubbing you up and down slowly, mirroring your teasing yeah, with a strained, gravelly one.
y-yeah. for you. i could go — …hahh…f'rever.
his thumbs wander to the underside of your breasts. deep, blue eyes in awe of you. in the manner your hair's stuck to your cheeks, the way your lips have parted with shallow, hasty pants with every roll of your hips.
he'd never admit it, in fear that he might scare you away, but it was moments exactly like this that he'd misuse his super-hearing, using every shy moan you let escape echo in his mind like a siren.
a shadow slowly caresses him as you move, he's transfixed at the sight, of your stretch, to rest your arms above his head. continuing the lazy roll of your hips despite the ache in your thighs.
clark's left to look up in a daze, looking past the gently sway of your breasts as you're arched comfortably above him.
gosh…y're so fuckin' beautiful.
you gasp softly when his mouth drags along the curve of your breast. lips warm as they close around one of your nipples. his heavy palm cases the expanse of it, flicking his tongue past the sensitive nubs in teasing little flicks.
the sensation is instant. electric — sent straight to your core that makes your hips stutter in its' motion. his mouth, so fucking hot, and wet, greedily laps around your mounds. forcing your back to arch even more. clark's free palm drags down to your hips, encouraging you to move after having stopped. they squeeze by the globes of your ass, giving you more momentum to lift your thighs for him.
he hears it in your whines that you were getting tired, and the slump of your torso against him, further flaunting your tits in his eyeline.
greedy thing. getting tired on me?
you don't offer anything more than a groan of protest. focusing on the stretch of him.
he laughs softly, meeting you halfway to rock his hips upward. every tired, downward motion — the slump of your pelvis is met with his assured, sturdy snap. steadily, his thick cock begins to fuck into you. the feeling is too much, and somehow, not enough. he knows what you want, and it started with making sure he's angled just. it takes him a few thrusts until your body decidedly goes taut. nodding quickly when his tip is directly hitting your g-spot.
h-hnn..ahh…right there. there! clark — wanna c'm..pl—ease.
he lifts his head, suckling at your tit with a little more pressure this time. panting hard into your chest.
m—hm. i know baby. m'close too.
you let out a choked gasp when his canines graze your sensitive, hardened nubs. the initial pace of slow, lazy grinds turning more frenzied after having found the right angle. the nip at your nipples — were setting your nerves on fire. and clark notices the visceral, pulsing reaction it came with beneath.
shit, you're —
his words turn to a growl, desperate to feel those deep pulses you'd reward him with. he sucks your tits messier, uncaring of his teeth grazing you. shockwaves of that, paired with his thick cock relentlessly suctioning your cunt, pulls incoherent whines from you.
sudden flutters of your cunt taking his entire length without warning. clark's mouth works you, without faltering. your hands slides down where you were both connected, frantically rubbing at your clit to give you the final push you needed to finally come undone on his cock.
you feel clark's hips buck beneath you as you finally come.
shit. shit. g-g'na come in you, okay? hm?
he continues driving deep into those velvety, tight hot walls of yours, breath stuttering in the wake of his release, his own thighs quivering uncontrollably beneath you. waves after waves of cum fill you deep until it bubbles out from exertion. you slump into him, panting heavily as you lick his tongue. he grumbles low into your mouth, messily kissing you in the aftermath.
claaark…
he lifts his head, half-lidded, feeling a significant lift of the weight on his body. they search for you clumsily, the figure now balled between his thighs.
yeah, baby.
clark winces when you pick his half-hard cock up, rubbing your cheeks against his sensitive length with a fucked-out look on your features.
can i suck 'im?
his cock twitches. hard. a completely biological reaction that fully hasn't been coordinated with his mind — instigated at the sight of his unfairly insatiable girl. he slumps back, proper exhausted.
Rock star eddie, you're his drummer. One of his songs requires moans in the background. He wants it live. Wear special panties during show, boom live moans or if that's too much maybe just has you in the sound booth since he doesn't want some random chick's moans, the grand finale is the sound of you coming during the climax of the song 👀
Glitter Girl
Rockstar!Eddie Munson x Reader
Summary: Corroded Coffin’s new song is missing a little oomf. Eddie knows exactly what it needs…
Word Count: 4.6k
Warnings: SMUT 18+ mdni!!! unprotected sex, PiV sex, masturbation (fem), voyeurism, ass slapping, cum eating, oral sex kinda (fem rec), cum swapping lol, kinda dirty talk, edging, talk of fingering, audio recording sex, some feelings
Song Rec: Glitter Girl by Dixie Dragster (Eddie's song in the fic)
A/N: I was editing this and I was like ugh this is ass, but then I got to the smut and I was like okay this is good actually lmao. This is my attempt at not answering a request with an overarching storyline like I did here, but this still ended up being about 4.6k Thank you for the request it was very slutty, perfect for rockstar!eddie.
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My asks are open, come talk to me about Eddie!!!
You came into the studio looking for Eddie, finding him next to the band’s producer, Jared, at the soundboard.
Gareth had left a message on your machine saying Eddie needed some more backing vocals for the new song. The song was a little different from what the band had done before—more eccentric, more glam-rock—but Eddie said it would be a blast to perform live so you didn’t mind, always up for making the shows more electric.
Eddie told you he wrote the song in two hours after the insane New Year’s Eve bash the band threw at a club. You remember bits and pieces of the party—glitter falling at midnight, spitting a shot of vodka into Eddie’s mouth, making Gareth give you a lap dance, watching Jeff motorboat a bottle girl. Definitely one for the books.
But as daybreak neared and guests began drunkenly shuffling home, the night became a little clearer in your memory—leaving you and Eddie covered in glitter and confetti, giggling about how he’d be finding that shit in his hair forever. Three days later, he played the song for you and the rest of the band.
You laid down the drums for the song last Friday and your vocals the following Monday. Eddie had told the band it was a wrap, but it seems he’s changed his mind—deciding something was missing, rendering the song incomplete in his eyes.
Music is the only thing he’s ever been picky about, the one area where his usual chaos shifts into precision. It’s like he develops a Type-A personality just for that.
When he hears the door open, Eddie looks up to see you walking in, tattered jean shorts and an old band tee hanging loose on your body. He waves you into the room, ushering you over to the soundboard with him and Jared.
“Hey! Glad you got my message, sorry about the game of telephone. Apparently there’s no landline in this fucking place.” He exclaims, throwing a pointed look at Jared—like the poor guy owns the building and has a say in its architectural decisions.
You huff at his attitude, tilting your head, giving him a reprimanding, deadpan stare. Eddie loves to give the guy a hard time, much to your chagrin. It’s only because Jared’s genuinely the nicest person all of you know, especially in the LA music scene.
“No problem, although I am confused because I thought we finished everything.”
You watch as Jared starts fiddling with some buttons, getting the sound booth ready.
“Yeah, okay. See, I thought it was good–great even!” He obfuscates, “But then I had this idea…and now I wanna see how it’ll sound, and you’re the only girl…”
Your brows furrow as a confused smile overtakes your face. It sounded like he said a whole lot of nothing just now, and what does being the only girl in the band have to do with anything?
“What are you talking about?”
“Okay, force my hand,” he groans dramatically. “I think some moans would sound really fucking cool on the R–O–C–K part.”
He says it so fast, you have to take a moment to replay what you heard in your head to understand. Nervous for what you’ll say, he’s shoving his hands in the back pockets of his jeans and eyeing you intently. You hesitate, gauging whether he’s serious or not, but he doesn’t back track.
“Alright, I mean–,” you gesture to him, deferring, “you’re the musical genius.”
It’ll be a little weird moaning in a sound booth by yourself, having poor, innocent Jared monitoring the levels and Eddie coaching you, but if it’ll make the song even cooler—you’re in.
Eddie appears shocked at your deference, he really thought he’d have to run down the list he made of why it would be sick as fuck. He’s suddenly feeling very thankful to not only have a talented female drummer, but one who appreciates his artistry as much as you.
“Really?”
Shrugging, you respond, “Yeah, if you think it’ll sound cool. I trust you.” The last part is so simple but it makes him grin, excited that you’re down for this.
“Yes! Thank you!” Rushing to hug you, he lifts you off your feet in a bone crushing embrace.
When he sets you back down, you’re laughing at the child-like giddiness written all over his face. Jared lets you know the booth is ready for you, heading in there you stand behind the microphone, placing the headphones over your ears so you can hear the backing track and cues.
Jared counts you in over the master microphone, hearing the metronome. you nod your head to the beat, keeping time. When the part approaches, you stand up straight, breathily moaning the letters, spelling out ‘ROCK.’
Once you’ve done it, Jared cuts the music, turning on the soundboard mic for Eddie to give notes. You watch through the glass window as he leans down, sounding less than satisfied. “Okay…that was good, um–let’s take it from the top, okay? Gimme a little more oomf.”
Nodding your head—only slightly understanding what he means—you begin keeping time with the metronome again. You do it about three more times for him before Eddie starts running his hands through the roots of his hair, clearly frustrated at your inability to portray the tone he’s looking for.
“Eddie, I’m sorry. I don’t know what you want me to do differently.” You don’t mean to be so difficult, honestly not comprehending what’s off about your performance. And he’s not being very helpful with his notes, you’re pretty sure you’re all out of ‘oomf.’ You’re certain the last two renditions are as oomf-y as he’s going to get from you.
He shakes his head, curling his lips into his mouth, “No, it’s–uh, hold on.”
The sound from outside the booth cuts out, you watch as Eddie leans down to Jared telling him something. The guy looks at him, appearing to ask him something before Eddie nods his head, then the guy stands up and leaves. You frown at the sudden exit, Eddie sits down into the command chair, clicking the microphone back on and leaning in.
“Okay, so I asked Jared to take five. We’re gonna try this again, but—hear me out—do you think you could–,” he hesitates, working through how to make his request. “How about this, what if you—okay, this is gonna sound insane–”
Losing your patience, you speak up, “Eddie, just spit it out!”
“What about if you touched yourself? While you–you know, did the vocals…,” his words come out stilted, eyes squinting like he’s expecting you to blow up at him for his outrageous request.
Instead, you just laugh. He’s got to be joking, that’d be insane! Your eyes widen when he doesn’t laugh with you—just curling his lips inward again.
“Eddie, you can’t be serious…,” you shake your head incredulously. “Just get a porn star, or something, if you want real moans.”
He clearly rejects that sentiment, shaking his head and holding his hands out in front of him like he’s presenting at a business meeting, “No, I don’t want just any girl on this track! Plus, there’s like legal shit I don’t even wanna touch with a ten foot pole.”
Scoffing, your jaw agape, “What, and I’m easier?”
Frantically shaking his head, placating hands held out in front of him, “No! Of course not!” His voice lowers to a nervous mutter, but it still comes through loud and clear in your headphones, “I just think the muse should be on the track, that’s all.”
Your brows draw together, jerking your head back in confusion. “You wrote this song–about me?” He’s never written a song about anybody other than random hookups. Most of his songwriting is inspired by life stuff anyway. Not even his best friends got songs written for them, but he wrote this for you—about you?
When you think about the lyrics, your face heats up—to be seen in that way, to be romanticized like that…You had no idea he felt…things…for you. But now the way he stuck to your side at the party makes sense.
Usually, he’s all over the groupies and the women throwing themselves at him, he’s a gluttonous guy—he likes to have them all. But that party was notably different, he even took you to breakfast after the wild night, making you laugh as he shook more glitter from his hair into the pancakes he ordered.
Eddie shrugs, very clearly trying to seem passive, “Well, yeah, you’re my glitter girl.” He voices the nickname like it’s obvious, like it’s an endearment—he did put ‘my’ in front of it.
Huffing out a fond laugh, smile growing on your soft lips, you nod, “Fine. But you can’t watch, okay, perv?”
You tease him, but the thought of him watching is far too overwhelming for you. You just found out he feels a certain way for you. Unsure if it’s just fondness, care, like—love, even? No, that’d be preposterous. He’s your friend! Lead singer of one of the top bands right now, and you’re his drummer! You’re just like one of the guys—at least that’s what Gareth always says.
Now you’re not sure what you are—to him, at least. But you know you couldn’t handle him watching you do something so intimate.
He nods his head vigorously, “Yeah, of course! How about this, I’ll turn around and you–do your thing.”
Nodding at his earnest face, you move to unbutton your shorts. Shaking your head in disbelief that this is happening, you watch as he turns around.
“Although, to be clear—I do still need to listen to make sure I–,” he pauses, unable to choose better wording, “like–what I hear, I guess. Sorry.”
You huff, rolling your eyes at his poor choice of wording. “Yes, Eddie, I know. Don’t look!”
Raising his hands in surrender as his back is turned, “Let me know when you want me to start the track.” He wants to give you enough time to work yourself up—for lack of better words.
Taking a deep breath, shaking the nerves out of your body, you reach into your panties. It isn’t the best angle with you standing so you quickly turn around, pulling the stool up to the mic, adjusting the equipment to your new height as you sit on the edge of the wooden seat. Propping your foot on the rung of the stool, you spread your thighs, reaching back into your panties to gather the wetness at your hole.
Thankfully, Eddie is hot enough to get you going any time you see him—his long, dark curly hair, obsidian eyes, the contrast of black tattoos on pale white skin. Today, he’s wearing an old Dio band tee he cut into a muscle shirt and a pair of ripped black jeans.
Every time he leaned over the soundboard—reaching to fiddle with some controls—the gaping armholes of his shirt gave you a perfect view of his biceps, his body. It had you pressing your thighs together. Yeah, you’re good to go just looking at him.
Spreading the wetness across your folds as much as you can in the confines of your shorts, you bring your soaked fingers to your clit, catching the little nub just right, making your breath hitch. When your breath turns shallow and you’re biting your lip to withhold moans, you look up to see a hunched over Eddie through the glass. He looks like he’s straining, turned around with clenched fists, gnawing on the white knuckles.
“I’m ready.” He jumps into action at your breathy comment, reaching behind him for the button, starting the metronome track.
His strained posture doesn’t unfurl, in fact it looks like he gets even more stiff as you do the part. Circling your clit for maximum pleasure, you moan out the letters, stopping completely with shallow breaths as you wait for his notes.
Leaving your shorts unbuttoned, you remove your fingers, resting your arm on your thighs as Eddie turns around with a hand over his eyes.
“I’m decent,” you breathe, letting him know he doesn’t have to feel around the soundboard blindly to shut the track off.
Letting his hand fall, blown eyes take you in as he clears his throat, pressing the ‘on’ button for the microphone. “T–That was–good, uh, yeah, good,” clearing his throat again. “I think–okay you’re gonna hate me for this—and I swear, I’m not doing it on purpose—but when I was blind, I accidentally pressed the wrong button, so I recorded none of that.”
He bares his teeth in nervous expectation for your anger, but you just let out a shaky sigh, rolling your eyes. Par for the course with Eddie.
“Okay, fine. Just–start recording, then close your eyes this time, okay?”
“Yes. Yeah, I’ll do that, I’m sorry!”
Since you’re already worked up, you tell him to go ahead and start the track right off the bat. Precisely following your directions, he starts the track, quickly hits record, and swivels his chair to face the couch against the wall.
You do exactly the same thing as last time—running your index and middle finger through your folds before bringing it to your throbbing clit. You’re working yourself close to the edge, but never surpassing it as you moan the lines.
The notes you receive from him make you want to strangle him, he looks awfully jumpy, continuously letting his hand fall into his lap below the soundboard where you can’t see it. “That was good,” he says lightly, like it’s a consolation compliment.
The frustration of touching yourself with no orgasm at the end is getting to you, you grit out an annoyed, “Eddie!”
“I’m sorry! There’s something off about it! You know? Like it’s too–I don’t know…,” he stops to think as you huff your chest, imagining exactly how you’d run out of this booth and strangle the singer. “It’s missing that oomf,” he repeats, as if that perfectly describes why your performance is not hitting.
Oh, you’re going to kill him. You’re going to skin the fucker alive. “You said that already!”
“Wait! I think I know what it is,” your eyes widen as he pauses, raising your eyebrows expectantly.
“Please, feel free to share with the class,” you bite, thoroughly annoyed at this point.
“How exactly are you touching yourself?” He asks the question so casually like he’s asking you which football team you’re supporting in this year’s Super Bowl, like he’s an engineer trying to figure out the faulty cog in the machine.
You throw your head back, eyes on a god you know isn’t watching, praying for enough strength to spare your bandmate from your fiery fury. You laugh—sharp, incredulous. “Oh, we’re doing this?” Resigning yourself to the present situation, you answer without shame—your frustration is far too overpowering. “Okay, I’m rubbing my clit.”
He shakes his head, unruly curls shimmying with the gesture, “No, see I want like–a thrusting oomf, you know?” He’s wagging his finger like he just cracked the case, grinning, “See, I knew something was missing!”
“Okay, well, I’m not gonna finger myself for you, Eddie.” You’ve given him enough, plus you know from experience—your own fingers are not going to give him the ‘oomf’ he’s looking for.
Eddie pouts at your rejection, jaw on the floor like an indignant child being told ‘no.’
“Why not?” He’s practically whining and you tilt your head at him in disbelief that this is the ‘man’ so many women drop their panties for.
“Because! Why don’t you do it,” you argue.
His pout is gone as he shrugs his shoulders, nodding his head, “Okay.”
“Wha–,” you’re thrown off by his response, but you watch him hit record and you hear the metronome start in your ears as he joins you in the booth, unbuttoning his jeans.
“I didn’t mean–what the hell are you doing?” You look at him like he’s lost his mind—because, honestly, he has. What exactly is he doing here? Freeing one ear from the headphones, you wait for his—sure to be interesting—explanation.
“You want me to do it,” it’s half–question, half him telling you what he got from that exchange.
Shaking your head, lips parted in awe at his absurdity, “No! I mean like–you do the moans yourself if you’re gonna be so picky about it!”
Disappointment clear on his face, he leaves his jeans unbuttoned, “Well, nobody wants that!”
Laughing at his absurd comment—you, you want that—you shake your head, “I don’t think me fingering myself is really gonna sound good–”
“I beg to differ,” he snorts, eyes shooting to your wet fingers.
Giving him a reprimanding look, you add, “You know what I mean.”
“Okay, but what if…I did help you,” he implores, it’s like he’s bargaining for your pussy.
“Eddie, you can’t be serious,” smiling at him, waiting for him to crack, but all you see is wide, earnest eyes. “You really want this?”
You’re mainly asking about how badly he wants the song to reflect his vision, but you realize the question takes on a whole new meaning with what’s on the table.
Nodding his head frantically, “Yes, it means a lot to me!”
Sighing at his genuine desire to make the song he wants, you let out a subtle nod. “Fine,” you pause as he pumps his fist in victory, “But don’t be weird about it.” He immediately collects himself, bringing his energy from ‘kid who just won a sweepstakes to Disney’ to ‘solemn mourner.’ It makes you crack a smile.
You can hear the metronome of the song repeating in your ear, you watch his quickly widening eyes as you shimmy your shorts down. A raised eyebrow alerts him he should be doing the same, you put the second pair of headphones onto his hair, flattening a line into his poofy hair. He starts removing his black jeans as you turn and adjust the microphone even lower, nearly at the level of the wooden stool.
When you turn back around, you see his hard cock, standing at attention, his shirt still on—same as you, not bothering to remove the article of clothing because that’d require removing the headphones, which was too much work at the moment. His eyes are lust blown as he looks down at your half-naked body, shallow breaths moving his chest.
“Cute,” you quip at his stiff cock, admiring the jump you get for the compliment. He’s not the first naked man you’ve seen and knowing him—his ego is already enormous. He doesn’t need to get another worshipping compliment on how pretty and big his dick is, he has the groupies for that. You always try to keep him in check, this’ll be no different.
Clearly, you had him remove his pants for more than just fingering, but he wants to make sure. “So you don’t want me to finger you?”
Snorting, you shake your head, “No, if you want this to sound good, it’s gotta be the real deal.” You’ve built up enough frustration that you’re giving him creative directions now, if he’s intertwining music and pleasure—he knows music, and you know your own pleasure. “And you get one take, got it, rockstar?”
Eddie sucks in a breath at the title, nodding his head, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. And it’s recording?”
Another nod.
You smirk at his uncharacteristic silence, turning around to rest your elbows on the seat of the stool, making sure the mic stand is right in front of your face.
“Fuck,” he mutters, the view of you bent over, chest down, ass up—presenting your pretty pussy to him—has his dick jumping, twitching with need. He moves forward, caressing the junction of your hip, squeezing the fat of your ass.
You can’t help but hum at the feel of cold metal rings on his large hands, you’re so worked up you’re practically dripping for him.
He gathers himself enough to remind you the metronome is repeating, meaning you need to pay attention for the cue to the letters.
“Just fuck me already,” you’re almost whine, rolling your hips to jut your pussy out more.
“Holy shit,” he groans, grasping his cock and rubbing it up and down your wet folds. He nearly curses at the way your lips almost suck him into your greedy hole, the way you’re pulsing, trying to lure him into your warm, wet heat.
He teases just a little more, gathering as much of your wetness onto his cock as he can. When you whine, wiggling your hips back, trying to catch the head and slide him in—he decides to put you out of your misery.
With a strong grip on your hips, Eddie thrusts in harshly, fully sinking his cock into your tight cunt. The sudden intrusion has a cross between a moan and squeal erupting from your throat, you thought he’d go slow—boy, were you wrong. He has to take a minute to steady his breathing, wishing away the impending orgasm. His body is curling over you, chest moving with stuttering breaths.
You’re so aware of his pelvis and thighs against your ass, how snug his cock is in your hole. Relishing the feeling of him balls deep inside you, you feel so full. He’s so thick, it’s driving you up the wall. Your pussy is gripping him like any moment he’ll pull out and leave you gaping.
“Oh, fuck, sweetheart,” he huffs. “Holy shit–best fucking pussy I’ve ever felt.” He’s babbling, gone completely out of his mind at the way your walls squeeze his poor cock in a vice grip. You mewl and whine at the compliment, so turned on from all the edging, you just want him to start moving already.
“Move–please, move! Fuck, Eddie,” you draw out his name, sounding pitiful and fucked out already.
He starts thrusting at a bruising pace, you feel every ridge and vein, you’re not even trying to temper your moans. Barely hearing yourself over the metronome anyway, you let him know just how good you feel.
Eddie reaches up, shoving one earphone off so he can hear your noises. All the moaning, mewling, and whining only spur him on. He’s breaking a sweat railing into your cunt, relishing the sound of skin slapping.
You hear the song start over again, knowing the cue is coming up, you try to draw your brain back from your needy pussy long enough to moan the letters. Apparently, you didn’t sound desperate enough because Eddie slaps your ass, eliciting a high-pitched yelp from your throat.
“Again,” he grits, reaching around to messily rub your clit through your shared juices.
The song is short so when it loops back around, you’re at the very precipice of an orgasm.
“Please–Eddie, please let me cum! Oh god, I need it, please!”
He groans when your walls suffocate his cock, needy and pulsing, on the very edge of the most mind blowing orgasm you’ve ever had.
“Be good, and I’ll let you,” he grunts, slapping your ass to cue you in. When you open your mouth to moan out the letters he starts vigorously yanking your body back onto his dick, meeting his already jarring thrusts. Ever the musician, he times each shove of his hips with the ticking metronome.
His hard cock knocks the air out of you as you moan every letter, sounding fucked out and desperate by the time you spell ‘ROCK’ fully.
Once you know you’ve done your part, you wail out in pleasure, “Oh god!”
Slapping your ass particularly hard, he urges you to cum, “Cum for me, baby. Lemme feel that fucking pussy choke my cock, give it to me, honey.”
The slap sent you over the edge and his words had you floating among the stars. You’re crying out in pleasure, absolutely beside yourself. Barely aware of the loss of rhythm, he shutters and jerks, drawing your attention with an urgent, “Where do you want me, baby?”
Feeling full and needy, you whine, “Inside! Please, Eddie, gimme your cum–I wan’ it so fuckin’ bad!”
He stutters out a string of curses, pumping rope after rope of warm cum into your greedy cunt. Slowing to a stop, he hunches over you. You can feel his hot breath against your shoulder blades, the softs wisps of his hair tickling your back.
Resting your chest on the stool, you let your mind come back down to earth. He moves to pull out but you reach behind to grab his hips, holding him to you.
“Holy shit,” he breathes out in disbelief, thanking whatever is out there that he got to experience what he’s dreamed about for so long. Not to mention, the way you don’t want his cock to leave your pulsing pussy. He shudders as your walls twitch with aftershocks.
Eventually, he has to pull out, his soft cock no longer able to stay in. His heart rams against his ribcage at the soft whine you let out as he pulls out, he’d keep you stuffed forever if he could.
You don’t move, even though you’re free to. Staying bent over the stool, your pussy still captivating him as he looks down to see his load slowly inching out of your hole. Admiring the way the cum moves like molasses in the hot summer, he thinks about how many songs he could write just about the view of your gaping hole—still spread open from his girthy cock.
Since you don’t seem to be moving anytime soon—just resting on the stool, relishing his attention—he kneels down, spreading your ass cheeks. Leaning in to lick up the cum dribbling out of your hole, he makes sure to thrust his languid tongue in, scooping out the delicious, tangy combination of juices. A loud moan escapes your scratchy throat, not expecting such raunchy affection after everything that just transpired.
Once he gathers the juices, letting them pool on his tongue, he stands up. Reaching around your neck to pull you up, your back to his front, feeling his now half-hard cock against your ass, he spreads his hand on your jaw, effectively pushing your head to the side. He wraps his free hand around your pelvis as he thrusts his tongues into your open, panting mouth. You moan at the feeling of him swapping spit and the mix of cum into your waiting mouth. Messily kissing you, his tongue dominates your mouth, not letting your head go as he grinds against your ass.
When he pulls away leaving you breathless, you eagerly lick your lips, swallowing all the swapped spit and cum, humming at the taste. He lets you turn around in his hold—facing him, moving both hands to rest on your cheeks, leaning in for another firm kiss. Your eyes are lust blown, he’s panting, bobbing his head closer for another kiss. The kiss you’re wanting doesn’t come, though. Instead, he plants a sweet, chaste, smooch to the corner of your mouth.
“Will you go on a date with me?”
You huff out a laugh, eyes squinting with giddy humor at the backwards order of events. “Yeah.”
He grins at your hazy eyes, kissing you again.
Pulling away, your eyebrows knit with concern, “I think we just accidentally made an audio sex tape.”
“A sex mixtape,” he quips, unworried.
“Poor Jared, he’s gonna have to isolate my vocals over all the ass clapping,” you giggle.
“Eh, that perv will love it.”
A/N: Please like, comment, and reblog if you enjoyed it! Especially comments because they let me know I’m doing things right!!! Because right now I’m going a little coocoo crazy, judging my writing probably too harshly. Idk, y’all tell me what you think
PLSPSLSPSLSPSLS MORE DARK!EDDIE ARTTFJDJSJKDJFH PLEASE😢
Devil Inside
Kinda Dark!Eddie Munson x Innocent!Reader
Summary: Jason Carver sent his sweet, innocent girlfriend to pick up his ‘fix’ from the town freak—a big mistake on his part, but a glorious little surprise for Eddie. An even better surprise comes when he finds out you think you have to foot the bill.
Word Count: 3.8k
Warnings: 18+ MDNI!!!! Smut, cheating (not on Eddie), little bit of dark!Eddie, really Eddie’s just a pervy manipulator who’s kind of in love with you, unprotected anal, slut shaming (the girls of Hawkins—not reader), porn with very little plot, corruption kink, maybe dubcon but you’re fully consenting—you just don’t know Jason already paid, skewed idea of virginity (the classic: butt sex doesn’t count as losing it), virgin!innocent!inexperienced!reader, cream pie in the asssss, Eddie lowkey gets off on your pain but he’s overall very sweet, mentions of drugs and drug dealing, sex in exchange for goods, perv!Eddie, if I missed anything pls lmk
Song Rec: Devil Inside by INXS
A/N: Smut so good it made the author wet fr, I'm not even kidding lmao. I’m really excited for you guys to read this, but I’m trying to prepare myself for low levels of interaction because I fear the label of ‘dark’ will turn people away—no matter how lite I made this. I’ve literally thought about this idea for three years. The moment I saw Eddie and Jason on screen, I was like, ‘I need to read a fic where Eddie manipulates Jason’s girlfriend into fucking the freak.’
Masterlist
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It wasn’t Eddie’s fault that Jason sent his pretty, innocent little girlfriend to collect his weed for him. And it wasn’t Eddie’s fault that you didn’t know Jason had already paid. Of course, being the sweet angel that you are, when Eddie informed you of the outstanding balance, you fretted over your lack of dollar bills. But Eddie’s a gentleman, he’d never make a lady pay…in cash, that is.
“And you’re sure he won’t find out?”
Eddie watches you fiddle with your fingers, then the hem of your skirt. You’re so worried Jason will somehow find out, but you’d rather risk that than get yelled at for failing to pick up the goods.
“No, of course not, angel,” he assures, tilting his head to catch your concerned gaze—god, he’s so hard.
“A–And it’s not…um…I’ll still be a virgin if we do it…”
A wicked grin spreads across his face—you can’t even say the words; he’s going to have so much fun with you. Jason should’ve never trusted The Freak with his girl.
“In the ass?” he finishes, relishing the little flinch you give at his lewd words. “Yeah, baby. You know…I’m surprised you’ve never heard of it before.”
His light tone eases your worries—this is no big deal, just a…well, a deal.
“All the girls do it ‘cause they wanna stay virtuous for their future husbands,” he waves his hands in the air, mocking the meaningless word. Yeah, the girls of Hawkins are pretty virtuous. Taking it up the ass six ways to Sunday—that’ll get God to notice them, alright. “Just like you. You’ll still be all proper and…intact.”
His cock jumps in his pants at the idea that you’ll be any sort of ‘intact’ once he’s done with you. He feels like a predator luring prey into a trap—he’s never been harder.
“O–Okay. As long as…I just wanna give it to…someone I love,” you say shyly, almost embarrassed by the sentiment of saving yourself. You’re not quite sure if Jason is that someone, but he’s enough company for now.
It takes everything in Eddie not to growl at the way you’re like a little lamb, or an unblemished fruit, ripe for the taking. Closing the space between you, he peels off his jacket, smirking as your wide eyes follow his every move.
Once he lays the material down on the wooden bench of the old picnic table behind you, he gently guides you to kneel on the cushioned spot. Your heart flutters at the realization that he wants you to be comfortable. He’s so nice—you really don’t understand why Jason’s always so mean to him.
With a large, warm hand between your shoulder blades, he guides you down to lean onto the table. “Have you ever done anything before, angel?”
Your face heats up at the intrusive question. Despite your current position, the answer feels more revealing. “Um…one time I let Jason touch me, b–but that’s–that’s about it.”
With your attention on the naked trees in front of you and the faintest glimpse of the school in the distance, he reacts freely—rolling his eyes back, looking to the sky, and thanking every obscure force and deity for the plentiful bounty they've so delicately placed in his grasp. Once he’s collected himself, Eddie probes for more information while he gently lifts your pleated skirt to rest on your lower back.
“Touch you where?” he asks, before shoving a strained, white knuckle into his mouth, biting as hard as he can when he sees your pretty pink panties. And there, between your plush thighs, like a sneak peek of heaven, a delicious wet spot taunts him, perfectly accentuating your folds and calling his name.
Torn from his reverie, Eddie doesn’t expect the haphazard motion you make to your breasts pressed against the wood. He really thought Jason ‘The Creep’ Carver would’ve done more than just grope you—like make you suck him off or at least finger bang you underneath the bleachers, as is custom amongst your kind.
“Just there?”
You nod, “Yeah, I didn’t really wanna go any further. He was upset at me for a week after that…”
Your voice, soft and soaked in shame, makes Eddie grit his teeth. Par for the course with Carver, but what really makes his jaw clench with barely restrained need is the idea that you didn’t let your boyfriend of two years go any further than second base. And yet….here you are, about to let the town freak blow through all the bases and fuck your ass. This is, without a doubt, the best day of his whole fucking life.
“Well, I’m sure he’ll be very happy with you when you bring ‘im his fix. You ready, sweetheart?” His fingers wrap around the elastic waistband of your panties, slowly pulling the flimsy material down. As your soaked folds desperately cling to the fabric, he struggles to remain quiet, to fight back the groan crawling up his throat.
You nod, wiggling a bit to readjust on your knees; Eddie bites his lip at the sight, it’s like you’re taunting him.
Entranced, he can’t help but wish he could pull your panties all the way off, not just haphazardly shove them down your thighs. But maybe it’s better this way. After all, he’s not sure how stealthily he could pocket the pair, and he’s not looking to push his luck with you. Not yet at least.
Though, even if he couldn’t swipe your panties for his own personal collection, with you facing away, it would allow him the perfect opportunity to bring the thin material to his nose and take a deep whiff. He’s pretty sure your scent would fix him…or make him worse—he honestly doesn’t care which.
But for now, with you already in position, he’ll just have to settle for being inside you. Pity.
The only sounds in the forest are the crunch of rustling leaves, the clinking of his belt as he undoes his pants, your bated breaths, and the distant chatter of teens meandering to their cars and buses, carried on the wind from the school. If any one of them tries to take a shortcut through the woods on their walk home, they’ll find Jason Carver’s girlfriend with her ass open for Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson—that thought has his stomach jerking with need.
Huffing out a breath, Eddie places both of his ringed hands onto your smooth skin, spreading your cheeks to get a good look at what he’s sure will become his favorite place on earth. “Angel?”
You hum in response, ignoring the pitter-patter your heart makes at the nickname—Jason doesn’t really have any endearments for you, so you’re not used to such easy affection.
“I wanna make sure you feel okay, right?” You nod, urging him to continue. “Well, I need a little…lubricant…and I don’t think my spit is gonna cut it.” He could certainly make it work, but he’s playing the long game here.
Eager to help, you softly suggest, “You can use my spit.”
Sighing, he realizes he should’ve known you’d offer that. Right. Changing strategy. “Um, that’s very sweet o’you, honey. But…I think I’m gonna need a little more.”
Confused at what else there could be, you try to brainstorm. “Um…I don’t know…”
Eddie glances down at your soaked cunt, frail, thin strands of arousal connecting your flowering folds, hanging on for dear life. He shudders at the way your core glistens in the late afternoon sun, smeared wetness practically winking at him.
At this point, he’s almost vibrating with need—he’s so damn close to a place no man has ever explored before and Jesus H. Christ, does he want to be the first.
Trying to restrain himself from shouting the answer or just taking what he needs, he sucks in a calming breath. “What if, um, we use some of the…” he has no clue how to go about this without sounding like this was his plan all along, “wetness, uh, between your…”
Peeking over your shoulder, you let out a noise of surprise. “Oh, uh…if that’s what would work. Um, I t–think that’d be fine. You won’t…go in, will you?”
At your hesitant words, he gives his cock a teasing squeeze, letting out a strained, “No, no, baby. Of course not. I’d never…Only if you wanted me to.” He adds on the last bit knowing it’s a shot in the dark.
“Eddie, you know I can’t. I’m with Jason,” you chide, looking back down to the weathered wood, restless fingers playing with a divot on the surface beneath you.
Worth a shot.
He shakes his head in disbelief, biting his lip; the cognitive dissonance you’re displaying at present is making his cock leak. He knew as soon as he first saw you—you’d be the perfect girl to play with.
“Right! I know, I know,” he hurries, conceding to your virtue. “So silly of me…”
He practically blows his load all over your ass when you quietly mutter your next words.
“Maybe if I saw you first…”
Fuck.
God, if you saw him first…
The shit he would’ve done to you by now, two years in…
It’d make a whore blush.
Though, he doesn’t feel like he missed out on much. You’re currently in a relationship with Jason, but you’re still bent over a table, your tight ass hole on display for him.
Maybe in every timeline you become his. Maybe not fully, but maybe where it counts.
Refocusing on the task at hand, he cautions you, “Now, I won’t go inside, but I’m gonna need to go around. S’that okay?”
With another nod, you let out the sweetest string of words he’s ever heard. “I trust you, Eddie.”
Oh, you really shouldn’t, he thinks.
“Perfect, it’ll be just a second,” he mumbles, gripping his stiff cock and guiding it to your slit. He’s not strong enough to stop the beginning of a groan as he feels your wet arousal coat him in warmth. Luckily, he bites back the rest of the noise, not wanting to scare you off.
He’s thankful you can’t see his length because he’s certain that would really scare you off. He can tell how tight your cunt is just by the look of it—you’ve truly never had anything in there before. The fact that you’re letting him rub his bare, leaking cock on your pussy tells him you don’t know a thing about sex, either. All of his precum is mixing with your slick to make a glorious milky substance and you’re going to go back to your boyfriend pretending to be untouched.
You’re already so wet and getting wetter by the second as he continues to drag his thick length through your fluttering folds. A high-pitched moan escapes your throat when the ridge of his head catches on your clit just right. A pearly-white rope nearly shoots out of his pulsing slit when you quietly apologize for your noise—god, you’re so fucking sweet.
It’s probably overkill at this point—he’s certainly wet enough to fuck your ass, but he’s never been this close to a virgin’s pussy before. If he could just…
Eddie pushes his luck as he glances down, gripping his cock, and guiding the fat head to notch into your hole.
He almost cums inside of you when your entrance squeezes around his tip, trying to suck him in further. Despite your shallow opening pulsing and luring him in, your voice snaps him out of it.
“Eddie!”
Your worried, shrill tone makes his hips buck unconsciously, sinking another centimeter into you, eliciting a guttural moan from deep within your chest. It takes everything in him to pull away, especially with the pretty sound you just made.
Before he does, though, he wraps his index finger and thumb just below the ridge of his cockhead, giving himself a firm squeeze, hoping to leave your sweet cunt with a few drops of his seed.
“Sorry, sorry–it got caught,” he lies, “My bad.” His chest is heaving with red-hot desire—he’s 100% going to think about this moment while he fucks his fist later.
“S’okay,” you mutter breathily, trying not to give in to the tingling goosebumps his touch leaves behind.
“Gonna do it, now, okay?” His words are almost clinical because he doesn’t have to put on an air of romance for you—you’ve got a boyfriend to do all the fluffing for him.
With your quiet ‘mhm’, he starts to breach the tight ring of your ass. The second his soft tip presses into you, you’re moaning brokenly. You’re so tight, Eddie feels like his cock is being choked.
“Oh, god!” Your strained mewl echoes around the empty air, bouncing from tree-to-tree until it comes right back to Eddie’s ears—like pretty music he could listen to forever.
His tongue falls out of his mouth in focus as he spreads your cheeks wider, trying to help you take him. “Shh, shh, sweetheart. Don’t wan’ anybody finding out, do we,” he grits, forcing himself to give it to you slow.
You whine, shaking your head at his words, dropping it against the wooden table as you struggle to breathe through the pain. His tip is so big, you’re wincing as he mutters praises.
“There you go, angel. Takin’ me so well, I know it’s hard. S’gonna be a tight fit.” Punctuating his sentence with a groan, he throws his head back as you yelp, feeling the exact moment his fat cockhead pops into your virgin hole.
“Eddie, Eddie,” you draw out his name in a whine, eliciting a small thrust from his brazen hips.
When he’s met with even more resistance than his initial breach, he tries to calm you down. “Angel, you’re doin’ so well for me, but you gotta relax, baby, you gotta relax.”
“I c–can’t, Eddie, s’too much!” The burn and stretch of his thick cock inside you is making your brain go fuzzy, eyes fluttering as you heave out a dry sob into the splintering grains.
“We can stop whenever you want–”
“No! I wan–I need to have the–the weed, he told me to get it, I need it!”
Spitting onto his length, he rubs the bubbly liquid in before pushing an inch deeper, swooning at the strangled moan you let out, your panting lips brushing against the old wood. “Okay, okay. We’ll keep going, but only if you want to…”
His cock—less than half-way inside—flexes as you nod messily, forehead scraping against the rough surface of the table. But that pain is the least of your concerns, what with the searing burn of your ass hole. You make the mistake of adjusting yourself on the table, accidentally sending your hips back onto him, taking another inch of his cock.
A pained mewl leaves your lips, “Eddie, it–it hurts!”
In his own little world—relishing his throbbing cock snug in your tight ass—he jerks his hips forward, forcing you to take the rest of him in one go, using the ‘rip the bandaid off’ approach. The broken half-scream that peels from your scratchy throat startles a few birds from the treetops, sending them fluttering away in fright.
“Yeah, baby. It’s supposed to, you’re not used to it yet–fuck–but you will be,” he promises, pulling back half-way and sinking in again.
Soon your pained moans turn into pleasured mewls as your body adjusts to his girth, stretching your unused hole to its limit. “Shit, angel, you feel s’fuckin’ good.”
Eddie’s groans of appreciation make you whine, unconsciously grinding your ass back against his pistoning hips. “Ed–Eddie, oh, god!”
His eyes roll in ecstasy, just picturing the way your dripping hole is clenching around nothing right now, needing to be stuffed. Maintaining a bruising grip on the junction of your hips, he fucks into you, hard.
The strong force shoves you up the wooden table in time with his thrusts—your face dragging against the rough surface. He doesn’t let you go far, though, repeatedly yanking your ass back to meet his upper thighs causing a lewd slapping sound that surely gives you away—that, and your barely restrained moans.
“Fuck, you gotta be quiet. Gotta be quiet, baby, somebody’ll hear,” he grunts, as if he truly gives a shit whether he’s found out. He’d fuck you in front of the whole school if you’d let him.
Another mewling whine from you has his hips faltering in their rhythm. A few particularly hard thrusts cause you to stutter over your strained pleas, the words clawing their way out of your mouth in tune with the barreling of his cock. “B-But it feels, unh, s–s–s–so g–good.”
Your pitiful admission makes Eddie’s balls pull taut to his body, a sure sign that he’s not going to last another second. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, shit, baby! Fuck, I’m cumming, oh, god–m’cumming!”
Relishing the flex of his cock as it twitches inside you, you whimper at his words—you’ve never heard a boy sound so anguished. For some reason, the sound makes your pussy ache, you wish you could clench your thighs.
Once Eddie finds his breath, he starts pulling out of you, eliciting a pathetic sounding whine from your panting lips. Before he fully leaves your sweet little hole, he makes sure to give himself another firm squeeze and a small tug—just to leave you with every last drop of his cum.
He watches his milky seed ooze from your gaping ass, heaving out a content sigh before shoving himself back into his jeans. “Oh, fuck, angel.…You really earned that weed for your boy, honey.”
The praise makes you keen, letting out the cutest whimper Eddie’s ever heard. He starts shimmying your panties up your thighs, hesitating, he takes a mental picture of the way your hole pushes out some of his spend as you clear your throat. Securing the thin material over your modesty, he slides a ringed hand between your cheeks, pressing the fabric into his cum, wedging it up your ass.
You jolt at his touch, taking the unsanctioned touch as a simple tease from your new friend. “Eddie,” you giggle, straightening up, and messily climbing off the table.
Your knees are still sore, despite his earnest attempt to bring you comfort by laying his jacket out for you. Once you stand up straight, skirt falling back down, you also realize how stiff your legs are—but another sensation takes precedence.
Shock takes over your face as you fling your hands behind you, pressing them both into your ass, a useless attempt to stop his cum from pouring out of you. “Oh my god!”
A grin stretches across Eddie’s features, his eyes alight as he takes in your little dance—you’re squirming, trying to squeeze your thighs together in an effort to mitigate the mess. “Yeah, sorry about that, sweetheart. Shoulda warned you. Your ass isn’t as…malleable as your pussy,” his grin broadens as your eyes widen at his salacious lesson.
“S’gonna take a second to…shrink, for lack of a better word. Until then, you might feel a little…leaky,” he chuckles, reveling in the way your virgin ass hole took his massive cock—now you have to suffer the…gaping consequences.
Simply nodding your head, you continue to press both your panties and skirt into your ass, hoping they’ll soak up some of the wetness. Unsure why you want to know, you ask Eddie your burning question. “Did…w–was I good?”
His mouth parts in surprise at your question, but then a wave of giddy heat thrums through his whole body, relaxing his features into a pleased smile. Closing the short distance between you, he rubs his fingers across your cheeks, working his way up to the small scrape on your forehead. His eyes are full of awe, and you're going to have to come up with an excuse to your boyfriend about the random scrape on your otherwise unblemished skin—the thought causes his soft cock to twitch.
“You were so good, angel. I hate to say it, but Carver’s a lucky guy. He’s got such a devoted, loyal girlfriend.”
Too busy swooning at his soft touch and compliments, you completely miss the wicked glint in his eyes. The moment your body begins to sway, leaning into the heat of his chest with bated breath and heavy lids over wanting, wandering eyes, he pulls away—shattering the trance he had you under, leaving you nearly stumbling after him.
The clinking of metal draws your attention to a black lunchbox sitting on the wooden bench. From inside it, Eddie pulls a small baggie of a dry, dusty green looking pile of…herbs? You’re pretty sure it’s the weed, but Jason never lets you partake, so you’re not 100% sure what the substance looks like.
“Here you are, sweetheart. And go ahead and tell your little boyfriend he can send you back anytime he wants,” he shoots you a flirtatious grin.
Taking the baggie from him, you try to fight the smile off your face, feeling bashful at his unending flirtation, despite your numerous warnings.
“Eddie,” you chide, only half-serious, now catching onto how playful your new friend tends to be.
Throwing his hands up in surrender, he tips his chin to catch your shy gaze, “I know, I know. I just happen to think you’re a much prettier face to strike a deal with.” He pushes his luck once more—he just can’t help himself. “How ‘bout this, I’ll cut the price in half if he sends you next time.”
Smiling, you shake your head at his audacity. “We’ll see. Thanks for…”
Fucking you?
Cumming in your ass?
Making your virgin hole his?
Letting you pay with your body?
“...Everything,” you finish, leaning up onto your tiptoes to plant a kiss on his cheek. It’s too bad you rubbed all your lipgloss onto the picnic table when you couldn’t stop panting and moaning into the old wood. But your soft lips still smell of cherries, so he’ll take it.
Pulling back, you meet his wide eyes. He's thankful his big brown irises generally give off a sad, puppy-dog look; otherwise, you'd probably catch onto the felonious hunger in his gaze.
“For being sweet,” you add on. The way your blackened lashes flutter at him—if he didn’t know how truly innocent you are, he’d think you’re giving him ‘fuck me again’ eyes. The sight has his cock stirring, already half-hard from just your chaste kiss.
“‘Course, angel.”
You seem to have an almost physical reaction when he uses the endearment on you outside of being in your ass. Your smile widens, body bristling with restlessness as he catches a glimpse of your thighs squeezing. It’s not lost on him that you didn’t get to cum. You’re probably so needy, you’re barely containing it in front of him. He knows how wet you are, he saw the aftermath.
Leaving you so worked up, on the edge of completion as your orgasm recedes like waves before a tsunami—he’s certain this won’t be his last time with you. He’s pretty sure you’re not about to go fuck your boyfriend, so maybe you’ll remember how welcoming and kind Eddie was and turn to him in your time of desperation.
You’ll be back. He’s almost certain of it.
A/N: That'll make your puthy throb. Reblog, like, and comment to support me and lmk your thoughts!!!!!!!!!!
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: +18 MDNI, HEAVY DARK CONTENT! Murder, blood, descriptions of dismembered bodies, heavy description of torture, blood, wounds, knives, kidnapping, homophobia, racism, fatphobia, smut, coercion, unprotected sex, mention of abortion, humiliation. (More to be added).
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 18,5k
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: The quiet town of Hawkins, Indiana has been ravaged by unexplained and sudden murders, bringing terror and panic to the population. Five friends find themselves cornered by a mysterious and sadistic masked figure and forced to reveal their darkest secrets. In a sadistic game, the winner is not the one who comes out alive.
𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: I know I promised to post this as soon as I finished writing, but halfway through I decided to change some things, which ended up delaying the rewriting. I decided to post it in five separate chapters plus a bonus chapter, so I have more control over the writing and you can read it without having to wait for me to finish everything. Just a warning, the chapters are extremely heavy and full of dark content, so if you are not comfortable with this type of content, please do not read. TAGLIST IS OPEN!
