movies daenerys targaryen batman deftones fcb greek mythology megan thee stallion garrett graham lh44 + more.
masterlist (under construction…)
keep reading for… extras-requests-&-rules !
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before requesting, please keep reading ! requests are currently open.
extras~
if you’re any of the following, please exit this blog; know that this isn’t a safe space for you. dni if you’re racist, ableist, homophobic, zionist, misogynist, islamophobic, pro trump, pro life or pro ice.
if you’re a minor, i hope you’re selective about what you read ! therefore, please do NOT interact with the mature works on this blog.
i am a very new (fanfic) writer so i’m open to suggestions, tips and any resources that might help me !! id love to make friends on here, so please don’t shy away ^^ if you spot any typo or mistake, please just shoot an anon ask pointing it out and i’ll modify it (i greatly appreciate that, i wouldn’t feel offended in any way. i triple check everything usually 🥹). english isn’t my native language, but i’m trying my best. i might use semicolons a bit too much since i use them a lot in my native language (please don’t think i use ai to write for that reason, bcs apparently using semicolons isn’t human anymore…).
please do NOT feed my works into any type of ai program. i beg, read fanfiction written by real authors and appreciate them for what they do.
request faq~
i take my time with writing, so requests won’t be posted immediately ! i also won’t always be able to fulfil every request; sometimes it’s just not up my alley (smut with certain kinks), or i’m just too busy to write (which is pretty often now, unfortunately). if a request is something i don’t see myself writing, i’ll just reply to the ask, declining it :3 BUT! please don’t hesitate to send requests if they’re open <33
i am currently writing only for garrett graham, but i’ll definitely be open to other off campus character in the future (heavy on the girlies !!!). reader’s race is not specified, as well as gender neutral (i will always mention any terminology that suggests otherwise). when it comes to smut, i feel most comfortable writing afab!reader.
request do’s & don’ts~
do’s: send fluff, angst and smut requests; please be nice and respectful <3
don’ts: send a request too specific. please describe the situation, but if you request reader to be blonde, have a name, etc. i won’t be writing that (it’s no longer character x reader atp). BUT ! i’m happy to accept requests wherein reader is curvy, plus size, generally smaller than the character (height difference 😛), etc.
i will in no way write pedophilia, incest (including stepcest), rape (non-con + dub-con) , anything involving bodily fluids (besides cum and spit), age play, omega-verse (too confusing for me to write, sorry!). there’s probably more things that can be added here, but i’ll update it as i go :)
i’m ngl, but so much of the cast being “exposed” for being pro-trumpies (also as a canadian… literally wtf is your problem) made me lose a whole lot of interest in writing for the show. i haven’t been active as of late anyway, but it’s really making it even worse.
sorry if i’ve let anybody down, especially all of you that were super enthusiastic and submitted lots of ideas that i’ve already started to write out. maybe i will get those fics up and running in a while :)
i haven’t been feeling very well as of lately, and currently my left wrist is hurting, maybe possibly 50% chance that it’s broken (but it’s probably sprained and i’m just thinking abt the worst case scenario) so typing hasn’t been easy at all.
summary: in the midst of trying something new in bed, your girlfriend, clark, manages to fuck you better than she ever has—if that’s even possible.
word count: 595
tag list: @punksnotdeadbutiam, @unabashedlyinlovewithyou,@whotfisthatsblog,@wildernessmuse, @starwarsbian, @lilacsandlavenderhaze, @florayli, @gingerfemme22, @peachyvillehorror, @cerezzzita, @kryptidfiles, @garrettgr4h4m, @rynwritesstuff, & @bellathebookdevouer | wanna be added?
content warning: 18+ only!!! clark fucks you with your head hanging over the edge of the mattress. not sure if there’s a term for that certain thing. strap on sex (reader receiving) and plenty of praise. strap being referred to as her cock. not proofread like always, i apologize.
a/n: hi guys. I KNOW I KNOW that i just posted like two days ago, but i had to get this idea out of my brain so enjoy. go read suga mama if you haven’t yet since that one took me almost two weeks to finish 😭😭😭
listen to the song for the full experience
“I wanna try something new,” Clark told you before she guided you to the edge of the mattress, your head hanging off it while your body lay flat against the cotton sheets.
Now you’re watching yourself get split in two as the position sends blood rushing to your head, breasts bouncing with each deep thrust of Clark’s strap.
She hovers over you, hot breath fanning your face as she pumps in and out.
“Golly, sweetheart. Look at you… so pretty.”
She leans in to mark your neck with more hickeys, as if you already didn’t have enough of them.c
You cry out when the tip hits that sweet spot of yours, legs wrapped around her waist.
Her fingernails dig into the sides of your thighs as yours sink into her shoulder blades, slightly fearful that you might still fall, despite her tight grip on you.
Clark watches your back arch while you choke on your own moans, her pace completely and utterly relentless.
You try lifting your head to see her, but she shakes her head no. She wraps one of her hands around your neck, fingers pressing into your skin, attempting to keep you down.
“No, sweetie. Just let yourself go and feel it for me, alright?”
You nod, the dizziness returning as she continues to stretch you out.
The wet sounds of your whimpers and skin slapping together echo throughout your bedroom.
“Oh, fuck, Clark!”
She spreads your legs wider, causing your brain to short-circuit before pulling out just to push back in harshly.
Clark buries herself in the crook of your neck, her kisses becoming sloppier, groaning as if she could feel you tightening around the toy.
“Come on, pretty girl… can feel you milking me…”
Your body reacts to each surge she gives you, letting out a loud cry when the strap hits so profound that you feel it in your lower gut.
“Y-yes Clark, please, it’s so good.”
She nibbles on your earlobe, sensually whispering into it, “Yeah? Are you close… Can you do that for me?”
A gasp escapes your lips in response, your mind hazing as the tension within your core dares to snap—washing over you like a wave.
Clark hovers over to your mouth to kiss you, swallowing your soft cries as she doubles down on her pace, driving the strap further into you.
You close your eyes momentarily and see nothing but stars, but then her hand lightly grips your jaw, forcing them open again.
“No, sweetie… Eyes on me when you come.”
The tension heightens, making it almost impossible to breathe. “Oh, Clark— I’m so close… please.”
She smirks, her eyes darkening with affection.
“Oh, I know… I got you, just come for me, alright?”
You shudder as she orders your compliance, fucking you harder. The pleasure finally breaks, and your world shatters into pure, blinding color. You sob into her mouth as the orgasm crashes over you, melting your body into warm jelly.
She lets out a low, gravelly groan at the sensation, her pace faltering as she slowly rides out your climax.
She keeps you completely still against the mattress, holding you through your heavy tremors beneath your thighs.
In your afterglow haze, you whine at the feeling of loss as the strap slowly draws out of you.
Clark teasingly pouts, her face flushed and her blue eyes incredibly soft.
“Don't cry, babygirl, I'm right here.”
She presses a gentle, lingering kiss to your sweaty forehead, brushing back loose strands behind your ear.
“You did so good for me, sweetheart. Just breathe.”
Seems like study sessions are never really about studying…
pairing: garrett graham x afab!artistic!reader (established relationship)
word count: almost 4.3k !
warnings: SMUT ! MDNI !!! pet-names (baby, pretty girl, good girl, angel), reader’s curvy in my mind, but it’s not explicitly mentioned, p-in-v, unprotected sex (don’t be like them), oral (f. receiving, munch!garrett 🫦), fingering (f. receiving), overstim, mirror sex (barely), cowgirl, boobs play, body worship, strength kink if you squint-garrett is once again bigger than reader.
notes: it’s almost 2 am and i’m fighting for my life. i hope you enjoy and if you do, please reblog and comment your thoughts, don’t be a silent reader <33
if you haven’t read it yet, i recommend checking out part.1 !!
“You spent all that time studying me. I think it’s only fair that I return the sentiment.”
The heat between you is stifling, making the air in the room thick and impossible to breathe. You try to find your voice, but the words die in your throat as soon as they form. “Well, I-“ You stumble, your voice barely making it to his ears. Your hands, still curled tightly around his biceps, tremble slightly. The sheer presence of him, the solid weight of his muscular thighs beneath you, and the radiating heat of his chest send a jolt through you as your nipples harden against the thin fabric of his t-shirt. Everything is making your brain feel like it’s short-circuiting; you squeeze his arms harder, grounding yourself.
“Even before you started drawing, I saw you having a hard time focusing on studying,” Garrett murmurs, his voice dropping into a lower register. He doesn’t pull away; he’s somehow able to lean in closer, his forehead still firmly pressed against yours, forcing you to meet his intense gaze. “You’ve been looking at me all night long, baby. Let me look at you now.”
His eyes aren’t just watching you, they’re consuming your entire being. They track the frantic pulse in your neck, the way your lips are parted and damp from your heavy kisses, the way your eyes are wide and unfocused. Even after all this time, he still finds a way to make your breath catch, to make you feel this undone.
You try to find a retort, something to reclaim the composure you lost the moment his gaze locked onto yours. Your eyes keep dropping to his lips and he can’t help but do the same. “The light was perfect… ‘nd you were there, so-“ You voice, but it’s so breathless.
Garrett lets out a low laugh, the sound rumbling deep in his chest and echoing against yours. It’s warm, indulging and devastatingly fond. “A mess,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing your jaw with a softness that makes your eyes flutter shut. “You’re a beautiful and breathtaking mess.”
He doesn’t give you time to protest (truthfully, there’s nothing to protest about). With a sudden, effortless strength that makes your heart lurch, he shifts. His hands slide from your waist to the underside of your plush thighs, his grip unyielding. He lifts you, his muscles flexing underneath his skin, and settles you back against the pillows. The mattress shifts under you, the springs creaking in the quiet room.
He hovers over you, smirking down at your dumbfounded reaction. “It seems we’ve found ourselves in this position once again.”
You giggle at his words, a softness in the sound, but you cease once his hands begin their slow, agonising journey. He traces the swell of your hips, his palms warm and slightly calloused, pressing into the soft give of your skin. Garrett’s gaze remains locked on yours, intense and unswayed, before he reaches for the hem of your t-shirt. He moves with a steady confidence; he pulls the fabric up and over your head, tossing it somewhere into the shadows of the room, leaving you shivering slightly in the cool air of the bedroom. You are left in nothing but your underwear, your skin flushed and sensitive under the amber glow of the lamp.
His eyes darken as they sweep over you, a low appreciative grunt vibrating in his chest. “God, you’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, the sound close to a moan.
He leans down, his large, warm hands sliding up to cup your breasts, his thumbs grazing your nipples until they are aching. He licks a slow, wet path, upward from your stomach, his tongue tracing the curve of your ribs before he focuses on your breasts. He takes one in his mouth, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak, his teeth grazing you, making you cry out. He licks and nuzzles, his breath hot against your chest, making you roll your hips in a desperate search for more.
The sound of your own ragged breathing fills the quiet space, highlighted by the wet sounds of his appreciation. Your hands instinctively find their way into his dark curls, your fingers tangling deep in the hair to anchor him to you. You pull him closer, as you arch your back to meet his mouth. At the sudden tug of your fingers, a guttural moan escapes him, vibrating against your skin.
He is devastatingly thorough. He alternates between your breasts; one moment, your left breast is being engulfed by the warmth of his mouth, and the next, he has shifted to the right, his tongue swirling around the peak. His hands are never still; they are a constant presence, fondling the weight of your breasts and twisting your nipples between his calloused fingers. Every time he tugs at a nipple, a small, broken sound escapes your throat.
The heat of his mouth starts to shift. He doesn’t pull away entirely; instead, he begins a slow descent. His kisses move from the swell of your breasts to the valley of your cleavage, his lips grazing the skin of your stomach. You find yourself gasping, your hips lifting off the mattress in anticipation, your body needing the contact.
“Garrett…” you whine, the name breaking with a breathy exhale. You’re chasing him, your hands still anchored in his hair, guiding his head downward.
He responds in a low chuckle that vibrates against your abdomen. As he looks up with a mischievous glint in his eyes, you can tell he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. His hands slide down from your waist, his large palms sweeping over the curve of your hips to hook into the elastic of your underwear. With a gentle, deliberate tug, he slides the fabric down your legs. The cool air of the room hits your skin for only a second before the warmth of his breath replaces it. He pauses there, hovering just inches away. His eyes lift for a moment; it’s a silent, heavy question, as if he’s looking for permission to carry on further. When you answer by arching toward him, a desperate invitation, he moves in closer.
His gaze drops, taking you in. The dim light of the lamp catches the glistening sheen of your skin, and his eyes narrow, noting the way you’re already slick for him. Your body responded to the way he’s been worshiping you, leaving you helplessly wet. He doesn’t look away; instead, he memorises the way you reacted to him, feeling prideful.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, his rough voice making your toes curl. “So ready and beautiful for me, baby.”
“Please,” you gasp. Your voice is thick, the word sounding more like a broken plea than a request. “Garrett, please. Don’t make me beg, baby.”
He finally gives in, his gaze never leaving yours. The first brush of his tongue against you is so sudden and intense that your entire body jolts. A loud cry breaks from your chest, breaking the silence of the room once again as your head tosses back against the pillows, your fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulder.
He devours you completely. Garrett’s focus has narrowed down to the way you taste and the way you sound. His warm, wet mouth leaves you gasping for more; his tongue lapping and pressing against you with a hunger. He wants to be as close as possible to you; he reaches up, his large hands sliding beneath your knees to lift and drape them over his broad shoulders, opening you up even further, tilting your pelvis to grant him more access.
Somehow, in your delirious state, your hands find his, your fingers intertwining. You squeeze his hands so hard, nails digging into his skin as you try to anchor yourself to him. Every time his tongue grazes the sensitive bud of your clit, your fingers tighten and a broken sound escapes you. His mouth moves from the soft, swollen folds and back to your clit; his breath hot and ragged against you. He licks and laps, his tongue flattening before narrowing to focus on the center of your pleasure.
As he intensifies his pace, his movements become more urgent. He separates your hold on his hands; instead, he uses them to spread you out even wider. Your hands make their way back to his hair, tugging on the curls, causing him to moan against you, sending a shiver up your spine. He drives his tongue in and out of you, the sensation overwhelming-a heat that makes your hips buck against his face. His hands move onto your hips, pulling you closer and closer. He focuses his attention on your clit with a sharp intensity.
The sound of his heavy breathing and wet lapping against your heat, the firm grip of his hands all create a sensation that urges you closer and closer to the edge. Your breath is coming in short, jagged gasps, as the tension in your lower belly coils tighter, ready to snap.
Garrett senses you. He feels the way your muscles are beginning to quiver. He doesn’t pull back, his tongue flattening and his fingers make their way to your clit, applying increasing pressure. “That’s it,” he murmurs against your folds, his voice a rumble that you feel more than hear. “Just let go. Give it to me like a good girl.”
His words send you over the edge. The tension snaps, and a surreal wave of pleasure crashes through you. Your hips buck hard against his face, your body arching off the mattress as a long, broken moan escapes your throat.
But Garrett isn’t finished with you, not even close. Just as the first wave of climax begins to ebb, he leans back in, refusing to let the sensation fade. His tongue returns to your clit with a sudden intensity that has your legs shaking, still propped up on his shoulders. In your delirious state, your eyes drift upward, changing the view of Garrett’s face between your thighs with the hazy reflection of the mirror behind him. You see the shape of his broad back, his shoulders tensed as he pleasures you.
Overstimulation settles in, urging you to make him cease the onslaught. Overwhelmed, you try to pull away, but his hands shift. He clamps down on your hips, fingers digging into your skin. He holds you in place, pinning you down so he can continue his work, like a man starved. You moan in protest, feeling another orgasm forming, waiting to crash over you.
“Garrett, stop, it’s too much-“ Your voice breaks. “I can’t.” You try to shake your head against the pillows, your fingers tangling in his hair, trying to pull him away. “You’re too greedy! You-you’re going to kill me,” you whimper, but a breathless laugh escapes you.
His response is a low growl against your skin. “Don’t fight it,” He murmurs, his fingers tightening on your hips. You try to find the breath to argue, but the words die in your throat as one of his hands leaves your hips and makes its way to your center. His fingers slide between your thighs, now accompanying his wet tongue. As his tongue swirls against your clit, his middle finger slides deep inside with ease. “Look at you, baby. It slipped right in.” he looks up at you, finding your eyes half open, already staring at him.“Just a little longer. Can tell you’re almost there.” His words are slurred against your skin.
He picks up the pace, his tongue lashing against you while he slips another finger in, stretching and filling you. The sensation is so strong; you cry out, eyes closing tightly, hands now finding the tensed planes of his back grounding, nails leaving behind moon crescents on the skin. He doesn’t flinch, the sting fuelling the want. “That’s it, angel.”
You come panting for the second time tonight, moaning his name over and over again. Your hips buck against his face one last time, before your muscles give up, turning to putty beneath his hands.
He doesn’t pull away; instead, he reaches up and guides your legs off his shoulders, sliding them down until they wrap around his waist. He readjusts his weight between your thighs, pulling you flush against him. Garrett lowers his head, pressing his face against your lower stomach. He lingers there, his nose brushing against your skin, breathing steadily. When you open your eyes, you see him looking at you with a soft, tender gaze.
You can’t help it; the stark difference between him now and him earlier makes you giggle. “Hmm, what happened to the guy who was trying to tear me apart?”
He lets out a quiet sound, something between a chuckle and a sigh. He doesn’t take his eyes away from you, staring at you lovingly. Slowly, he rises, his body sliding up against yours until his chest is pressed against your breasts. He captures your lips in a sweet kiss; there’s no urgency in him now, no rush to take your breath away.
When Garrett pulls back, he stays close, his eyes searching yours. Before he can say anything, you lean closer, rubbing your nose playfully against his. “Hi, baby,” you say, closing your eyes and smiling in response to the comforting presence of him. He grins at your warm smile, eyes softening.
“Hi.” he breathes back, the word a low, vibrating caress. For a long moment, you just stay there, together; his eyes trace every line of your face as if he’s memorizing you. The air in the room is thick, heavy with the scent of skin, but the desperate edge has been replaced by a simmering, intentional heat.
"You're still shaking," he murmurs, his voice dropping into that quiet register that makes your toes curl. He leans down, pressing a series of slow, lingering kisses along your jawline, his lips grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear.
"Garrett," you whisper, your breath hitching as his hand slides from your hip to the soft curve of your waist, his thumb tracing the dip of your side. "You're going to make me lose it all over again."
He lets out a low, melodic laugh against your neck, the sound vibrating through your entire body. "Is that a warning or an invitation?"
"An invitation," you murmur sheepishly, the word a breathless confession.
Garrett doesn't need to be told twice. He shifts, his large hands sliding under your thighs to lift you. He doesn't lay you back down; instead, he maneuvers you so you’re straddling him, your back to his chest as he settles you onto his lap.
The position forces you to face the large mirror at the foot of the bed, through which you had earlier been admiring Garrett. In the dim glow of the lamp, the reflection is a hazy blur of skin. You can see the broad, tensed expanse of his chest behind you and the way his powerful thighs frame yours. The sight of the two of you intertwined, flushed, and messy is enough to make your head jump.
As he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling your hips flush against his, he takes the opportunity to lean forward, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin. He shifts, his hips tilting upward to press firmly against you. The sensation is immediate: through the thin fabric of his gray sweatpants, you feel the unmistakable length of him pressing right against your center. The shape of him is searing, making your breath hitch.
You tilt your head back against his shoulder, looking at your own dazed reflection in the mirror. "You know," you tease, your voice trembling slightly as you catch his eyes in the glass, "for a man who's supposed to be studying psychology... you're being very... unscientific right now."
Garrett lets out a laugh. He nuzzles the sensitive spot behind your ear, his teeth grazing the lobe. "Psychology can wait," he murmurs. He tightens his grip on your waist, his fingers digging into the soft curve of your hips. "Right now, there's only one thing that’s on my mind."
"And what's that?" you whisper, your hands reaching back to grip his forearms, feeling the hard muscle of him.
"You," he says.
"Well," you murmur, a sudden spark of defiance lighting up your gaze as you meet his eyes in the mirror. "You should do something about that… Actually, maybe I’ll start.”
Before he can react, you slide off his lap, but you don't pull away. Instead, you turn around, your hands sliding to his chest as you press him back. Garrett lets out a surprised, low grunt as you guide him down, his muscular back hitting the mattress with a soft thud.
You settle back over him, straddling his hips, your knees digging into the bed on either side of him. The look on his face is a mixture of shock and hunger; his eyes meet your mischievous gaze, a smirk painted on your lips.
His hands fly to the waistband of his sweatpants, his movements uncharacteristically hurried. "Let's get these off," he rasps, more to himself, his voice breaking on the last word.
You reach down to help him, your fingers trembling slightly as you hook them into the soft fabric. You peel the sweatpants down, along with his boxers, exposing him. Even after all this time, the size of him still steals the air from your lungs. His member is a thick, heavy weight, looking even more imposing as it stands proud and hard against his stomach. His chest is heaving, the skin slick with a sheen of sweat. His abs ripple with every breath, the deep ridges flexing unconsciously. As you place your hands on them to balance yourself, your gaze fixes on the two, small, faint indents on the left side of his stomach, intimate details only you’re able to admire from so close.
Guiding the head of his cock towards your entrance, you sink onto it; the first contact of him against the entrance of your pussy making your head fall back in a silent, soaring moan. The sensation is overwhelming, a slow, stretching fullness. You stop for a second, letting your body adjust to the size of him, your eyes fluttering shut.
"There you go," Garrett whispers, his voice a low, encouraging rumble. He doesn't push; he waits, his hands steady and strong on your hips, guiding you as you begin the slow, rhythmic motion of taking him in. "Just like that. Look at me, pretty girl."
You open your eyes, finding his in the dim light as you begin to move. His eyes are dark, darting from your eyes to your lips, searching for any reaction that might suggest you’re not comfortable. His thumbs trace circles against your hip bones, enjoying the stretch of you around him.
“That’s it,” he rasps. “You feel amazing, baby. So tight for me.”
His words of encouragement make you pick up the pace, a needy rhythm; the sound of your skin slapping against his fills the room. You lean forward, your breasts brushing against his heaving chest, and a small sob escapes your mouth, overwhelmed by the position.
“Shh, easy,” he murmurs, his hands taking a firmer grip on your hips. “Don’t rush, I got you.” He tilts his hips up, meeting you in the middle with a force that makes your entire body jolt.
“Garrett,” you gasp, your voice breaking as you arch your back, trying to let him sink even deeper into you. “It’s too much... you’re so big.”
The sound of your voice, the way you whimper his name, causes a long moan to exit his mouth. His head lolls to the side, and his gaze drifts toward the mirror. He freezes for a second, his breathing getting deeper as he catches the reflection.
In the faint light, he sees you. He sees the curve of your back and the way your skin glows as you move rhythmically atop him. From his angle, you are a vision of desire, your head thrown back in pleasure.
"Don't stop," he commands, his voice dropping to a rasp. He reaches up, one of his large hands sliding from your hips to your jaw, directing your eyes to the glass, his eyes locked on your reflection in the mirror as he watches you take him. "Look at yourself, baby. Look at how you're taking me."
You look back over your shoulder to catch the reflection. In the mirror, you see the arch of your spine and the heavy, rhythmic bounce of your ass as you ride him, the friction creating a filthy, squelching sound that makes your face flush. You are so drenched; as he thrusts up to meet you, you coat his shaft in a translucent sheen that smears across your skin and his.
"God, you're so fucking wet," Garrett groans, his eyes now fixed between you, on your pussy stretching around him. He’s admiring the way he easily slips inside, engulfed by your swollen folds.
You’re moving with a desperate, rhythmic hunger, but as the peak nears, you feel the first hint of your strength beginning to fray at the edges. Your muscles are trembling, your hips feeling heavy and sluggish.
Garrett notices; he sees the way your movements are starting to falter, the way your breath is hitching in a way that sounds like exhaustion.
Instead of letting you slow down, he decides to take the burden from you.
With a grunt, he shifts his weight. He guides you back, his large hands gripping your hips to guide you down until you're pinned against the mattress. Before you can even process the change, his massive frame is looming over you.
Garrett tilts your head back to catch your lips against his. The kiss is eager, but sweet, as if he’s checking in with you. He shifts his weight, settling over you. He supports himself on his elbows.
His hips rock into you unhurriedly, but you urge him closer, locking your legs around his waist. “Faster, please.” you say.
"You're sure?" he murmurs, his eyes searching yours. Your nod causes him to lean down, his chest pressing firmly against yours, and the slow thrusts transform into a relentless rhythm. The tempo picks up, his hips slamming into yours with a purposeful force that leaves you gasping.
The sound in the room changes, it deepens into a wet, frantic slapping accompanied by the deep breaths and moans. He fills you so completely that the deep sensation pushes you closer and closer to the edge.
You’re grasping at the sheets, your knuckles straining against the fabric, your breath coming in jagged gasps that barely count as breathing. Garrett notices the way your body is beginning to tremble, the way your eyes have clouded over. He doesn't slow down; instead, he keeps up the pace and leans closer into you, his voice a rasp in your ear. "Almost there," he murmurs, his breath hot and ragged. "A little more."
He drives into you once more, harder and deeper than before, and the tension finally snaps.
A violent wave of pleasure crashes over you, and you arch your back, your fingers digging into his shoulders as you cry out his name. Your internal muscles squeeze around him in rhythmic pulses, and the world disappears, leaving nothing but the white-hot intensity of the release.
Garrett lets out a guttural groan, his own composure finally fracturing. He thrusts one last time, burying himself as deep as possible, and you feel him come, filling you completely. He collapses against you, his face buried in your neck, his body shaking with the aftershocks of his own release.
For a long time, neither of you moves. The only sounds are your shared, ragged breaths.
When he finally pulls back, his eyes are dark and clouded, but there is a tenderness in them. He kisses your forehead, a brief, lingering touch, before sliding off the bed. He disappears into the bathroom and returns a moment later with a warm, damp washcloth.
He doesn't ask; he just sets himself between your legs and begins to clean you up with gentle care. His hands are steady, his touch light; he doesn't say anything, but he focuses on the task, making sure you're perfectly comfortable.
Once you're clean, he reaches for the duvet, pulling it up over both of you and drawing you against his chest. He wraps his arms around you tightly, his chin resting on the top of your head.
"’m here. Just rest." he whispers, his voice low and grounding.
You feel the weight of your own limbs, the pleasant, heavy ache of your muscles. You find yourself tracing the faint lines of his forearm with your fingertips, the skin is soft and warm.
Garrett doesn't say much, but he doesn't have to. He shifts slightly, pulling the duvet higher up your shoulders. His fingers, large and warm, start tracking soothing circles in the palm of your hand.
You find yourself leaning into him, your cheek pressed against the warm and slightly sweaty plane of his chest, listening to the thrum of his heart. A sleepy warmth settles within you.
“Garrett?” you mumble against his chest.
“Yeah?” His voice is sleepy, his chin still resting on the top of your head.
“I love you.”
At the words, his arms tighten around you. He shifts, pressing a warm, lingering kiss against your temple.
The last thing you hear before you drift off into sleep is his quiet “I love you, too.”.
Studying for philosophy ends up being an… anatomy arts class?
pairing: garrett graham x artistic!reader (established relationship)
word count: 2.6k !
warnings: suggestive !!! innuendos + a bit of a steamy make out sesh at the end ! non-descriptive reader, but terminology such as “lady” , “pretty” is used. it’s implied that garrett is bigger than reader (i mean in all ways, he’s a big boy after all).
notes: there might be a part 2 with smut, but please tell me what you think ! this is my first fic (ever) :3 @musingsofheaven was of great help, thank you sm !! ur tips were life saving <3 sneak peek of part 2 is here, i couldn’t control myself. oops !
UPDATE ! part.2 has been posted !!!
reblogs are GREATLYYY appreciated !
“Do you need help with philosophy still?”
You ask the question softly, not wanting to disturb Garrett’s reading. He’s sprawled out on his stomach across the center of his bed, his head turned to the side on his pillow, staring at his textbook like it offended him. He’s shirtless, his skin still warm after the shower he took in the locker room following today’s training. His back muscles are taut, highlighted by the lamp’s yellow light.
He lets out a low groan into his pillow, half frustration and half exhaustion. “I think Nietzsche is personally trying to insult me at this point,” he mutters, voice muffled. “His work clashes against itself.“
You giggle at his words, enjoying his complaints. “I know, baby. I think that’s the point of us learning philosophy.” You move from his side and instead settle yourself on his lower back, your legs tucked on either side of his hips.
He doesn’t protest; he never does. He shifts slightly, the taut muscles of his back now relaxing, allowing you to feel every rise and fall of his body against your thighs.
“You’re not even looking over your notes,” he says, though there’s no bite behind it. He doesn’t turn around, but you can hear the smirk in his words. “What are you planning to do now, huh, pretty?”
“Don’t worry about it, I am being productive! It’s just in a different way. Now, don’t move,” you say, already reaching for your sketchbook and pencil.
Garrett laughs at your words, already used to modeling for your drawings. This time, he’s actually aware he’s being drawn. Usually, he’d learn you decided to sketch him when you’ve already finished, showing him the final portrait. He’s still not used to it; he feels an array of different emotions - admiration because he will never be able to understand how you do it, shyness because he’s still not used to anybody (especially you) paying this much attention to him and all the little details that make who he is, and last but not least, pride because you chose to draw him instead of somebody else (he’s your muse, after all).
You begin with the broad lines of his shoulders. The pencil scratches softly against the paper, the only sound that can be heard besides your rhythmic breathing and his low hums.
The peace is interrupted, though.
“No, Tucker! You absolute moron! Go to the left!” Dean’s voice booms from the floor below, followed immediately by the clacking of controller buttons and a heavy thud that sounds like someone being pushed off the couch and onto the floor.
“It was part of my strategy, Dean! I had it!” Tucker bellows back.
You feel Garrett’s entire torso shake with amusement, and you can’t help the laugh that escapes you.
“I wonder where Logan is.” Garrett muses, his voice vibrating beneath you. “If he were there too, we wouldn’t be able to hear each other over the three of them and their ‘strategic planning’.”
As soon as those words leave his mouth, a third voice joins the two. “You idiots! We’re being obliterated by fucking bots!” Logan complains.
At the sound of Logan, Garrett shouts back. “We’re trying to study here! Keep the commentary to a minimum, or at least talk quietly!”
A few seconds of silence follow before somebody responds. “Studying, huh? We all know when you’re with your lady, the least of your worries is having to study, G!” Dean shouts back.
Garrett sighs loudly. “That mother-“, he starts, but you interrupt him.
“It’s okay!”, you say, giggling. “You know their teasing doesn’t work on me. Besides, I know just how to respond.”
You take a breath and raise your voice to reply.“Dean! How about you worry about scoring in your video game first, and then you can worry about Garrett scoring? And I mean literally!”
As soon as the words leave your mouth, two sets of giggles erupt from downstairs, followed by a quieter, “Okay, okay!” from Dean.
You turn around to find Garrett already looking at you, a wide smile stretching across his face.
“Did you know that I love you? Like, a lot?”, he asks, his green eyes focused solely on you.
“Hmm,” you reply, smirking at him as you take your previous position and continue sketching. “You’ve told me a few times. But definitely not enough.”
“Not enough,” he repeats, his voice dropping an octave, losing its previously playful edge. He doesn’t move to sit up; his stomach is still glued to the mattress, and his hands are no longer holding onto his textbook. They’re now clenched tightly, holding back from flipping both of you around and grabbing your waist. He yearns to be chest-to-chest with you; you’re currently so close yet so far.
You try to focus. He looks back over his shoulder again for a second, and in doing so, your eyes meet for the second time. Your breath falters under the weight of his gaze, a gaze that holds so much emotion behind. You break eye contact and look back down at your sketchbook; the broad expanse of his shoulders had only just begun to take shape before the chaos from downstairs had torn your focus away. Now, you move to the details, the parts of him that only you can capture.
Your pencil glides over the paper as you trace the dark, unruly texture of his hair. You spend a long time on the curls, trying to capture the way they catch the light and fall in thick, dark waves against the nape of his neck. Moving downward to his upper back, you draw the tiny mole situated on the left side of his tattoo. As soon as you start working on the sharp line-work of the tattoo, Garrett interrupts your movement by uttering two words.
“Hey, pretty,” he says.
“Yes, G?”, you respond. “I’m now drawing a part of you that always makes our showers longer than they should be,” you add.
“You’re going to have to specify. You know, my lips are usually a big distraction, my biceps and abs, but especially my di-“, he adds, but you interrupt him.
“Your tattoo, you big dork. I’m drawing your back after all, get your mind out of the gutter.”, you quip. “What did you want to say before you started boasting about your big, strong biceps and chiseled abs?”
“I never used those adjectives to describe them, but you would be correct.”, he adds proudly. “Anyways, tell me. Am I doing a good job? Being a good subject, a good model?”, he asks.
“You’re doing a very good job, pretty boy.”, you praise him. “You’re not going to have to do it for much longer, hope you’re not feeling stiff. This might not have been the best position for me to take.”, you add.
“None of that. I feel more at ease with you sitting on me, but I would prefer it if we were facing each other. Maybe next time if you want to draw my big pecs, you could be sitting on my lap instead.” You could hear the smirk in his words.
“I don’t think I’d get any work done, you wouldn’t be able to sit still.”, you say, continuing to work on the tattoo. You can’t resist; you lower your body closer to his back, feeling the warmth radiating from him, and touch the lettering. For a short moment, his breathing quickens, but you return to your initial position after briefly caressing him. The distance between your upper body and his back is more noticeable now, and it’s driving him crazy.
As you move lower with your drawing, you capture the delicate glint of the thin gold chain that rests against his spine. You work toward the small, shallow dimples at the base of his back, the shadows there inviting. You once again can’t hold back and gently place your fingers against the skin on his lower back, just above those indents.
A low, almost unnoticeable growl vibrates through his chest. “I was already having a hard time studying, but then you decided to ditch your textbook for your sketchbook and sit on me. That was bad enough, and now you’re feeling me up?” The words are teasing, delivered with that familiar edge, but the way his voice slightly cracks betrays him. He isn’t actually complaining. If he were, he would’ve moved; he would’ve shifted his weight or sat up. Instead, he remains still, his muscles now taut and expectant under your fingertips, as if he’s waiting for you to continue.
You feel a sudden, heavy warmth bloom beneath your skin, but you don’t pull your hand away. If anything, you become more daring, your thumb tracing the curve of his waist with a slow, deliberate pressure. “It’s called observation, Garrett.”, you murmur.
“Observation, huh?” He lets out a breath that is half laugh, half sigh, and finally turns his head just enough to catch your eye again. The playful smirk is there, but his eyes are intense and focused entirely on you. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
He reaches back, his hand finding your thigh where it’s tucked against his hip, his palm warm and heavy against your skin. He doesn’t squeeze, he just holds you there.
“Keep going then,” he says, his voice dropping to a rasp. He turns his head back and settles against the pillow. “I won’t interrupt you anymore.”
The weight of his hand on your thigh is a grounding force. You have a hard time adjusting to it; taking a slow, stabilizing breath, you force your hand to stop its tremor before you return to your paper. Every time you move your hand, you are acutely aware of the friction of your skin against his, the way the heat of his body seems to pulse, clashing with the warmth of your own.
You descend back into your work, your pencil moving with a renewed intent. Because of the way you are positioned, straddling him, your own naked thighs are visible in the periphery of your vision, framing his lower back and hips. You decide to include them, as well as his grip on your thigh. You capture the soft, curved lines of your own legs as they press against the hard muscles of his. Then, you focus on his hand, the way his large, calloused fingers wrap around the swell of your thigh. He almost touches the hem of the t-shirt you’re wearing. His t-shirt.
“How much longer?”, he asks, his voice low and steady. “Even the idiots downstairs have calmed down, miraculously.”
“Almost done,”, you murmur, adding the final details to the sketch. You trace the delicate architecture of his spine, your eyes once again fixed on the dimples at the base of his back. “What were you able to memorise during this extremely informative study session?”, you ask.
Garrett doesn't answer right away, the question hangs in the air unanswered. Instead, the only response you get is the warmth of his hand, the one anchored to your thigh, slowly sliding upward, the loose grip disappearing completely as he inches closer and closer to your hip. His palm is moving with agonizing slowness underneath your shirt, his touch light but deliberate. He doesn't grab; he just grazes the skin, his touch is light, almost teasingly so. He finally lets out a breath, a low, heavy sound that vibrates against the mattress.
“You’re a very hands-on artist, baby,” he murmurs. “Which is something new to me, you’ve not done this before. I do have to say, the other times you’ve drawn me, I was fully clothed.” He still hasn’t turned around to face you, remaining patient and letting you finish the drawing.
“I’m done,” you voice a little softer, a little breathier than intended. You carefully set the sketchbook on his bedside table. You look down at his broad, muscular back and add with a teasing smile, “If you didn’t like it, I’ll remember it for the next time. I’ll keep my hands to myself.”
The second the words leave your lips, he reacts. Before you can process the shift, the world tilts. One moment you’re straddling him, looking down at the expanse of his back, and the next, a powerful hand is anchored at your waist, while the other catches your shoulder, guiding you back against the pillows with immense strength.
In one fluid motion, he has flipped the script; he’s hovering over you, his large frame casting a shadow that swallows you whole. He settles between your thighs, the weight of him solid and grounding, pinning you against the mattress. Curls that were already astray are mussed from the movement, and his green eyes are darker.
For a moment, nobody moves. The two of you stare into each other’s eyes. The air between you feels thick, charged with tension. His gaze drifts away from yours for a second, traveling to the bedside table where your sketchbook lies closed. He reaches out and pulls it towards him, shifting back onto his knees. As he moves, the dim light of the room catches the defined lines of his abdomen. From your vantage point, you have a full, unobstructed view of him. The way the muscles of his stomach ripple with every breath, the sharp V of his hips disappearing into the low waistband of his gray sweatpants.
He flips the cover open. “Holy shit,” he breathes, and the sound is a genuine, breathless laugh of pure awe. “This is amazing. This isn’t the first time you’ve drawn me, but it’s just… different. How-How do you even do that, baby? It’s amazing seeing you do this every single time.”
Before you can tease him about his reaction, he’s moving. He reaches out, his hands sliding to your hips, pulling you forward, settling you firmly into his lap; your bodies slot together like they have many times before. He doesn’t wait for an invitation and leans in, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that is hungry and deep. His mouth parts open and his tongue sweeps against your lips, wanting to intertwine with yours. You oblige and open your mouth, his tongue sweeps against yours, making your head light and your fingers curl around his biceps. Between tongue swipes, he briefly pulls back and smirks at you, watching with a flicker of amusement as you instinctively chase after his lips, desperate to close the gap. He lets out a low, breathy laugh before pulling you back in.
Every time his lips press harder against yours, a low hum releases from his chest. His hands, large and heavy, don’t stay still. One hand slides up to cup your jaw, gently tilting your head back for better access while the other grips your hip, his fingers digging slightly into your skin.
The friction of his sweatpants against your thighs, the heat of his bare chest pressing into your front, and the overwhelming sensation of his mouth on yours create a sensory overload that makes you feel like floating.
When he pulls back just an inch, his lips are swollen and glistening, and his breath comes in short, ragged bursts. You are caught in the same feverish state; your own lips are flushed and damp, your breathing just as shallow, and your eyes wide and dark, yearning for more.
“You’re so amazing,” he says, his voice a low rasp against your lips. He sounds breathless. Garrett leans forward until his forehead rests against yours. He doesn’t need to say anything else; the way he looks at you says it all.
A slow, intent smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You spent all that time studying me. I think it’s only fair that I return the sentiment.”
warnings: fluff and more fluff, morning sickness (garrett holds reader’s hair back), pet-names (baby, my girl, tucker calls reader ma’am), she/her pronouns are used twice, the boys being silly and cute, pineapple on pizza (might be a warning for some… ❌).
notes: this was a request ! hope you like it <33 reblogs and comments are much appreciated 💟
Father-to-be Garrett comes in a package deal. The quiet time you spend together sometimes gets interrupted by his friends-slash-roomates, but the chaos never bothers you.
The kitchen is warm, smelling of flour and yeast. You and Garrett are standing at the kitchen countertop, a mess of dough and tomato sauce painting the marble. He finished training earlier so you came up with the idea to make something simple, something you could both participate in. He’s surprisingly good at it, his large hands kneading the dough with a practiced motion that looks more like a sport than cooking.
"More basil?" you ask, holding up the jar.
"Yeah," he says, leaning over to look. He reaches for a piece of pineapple, but you swat his hand away with a wooden spoon.
"Hands off the ingredients until we roll the dough," you tease.
He smirks, that crooked, familiar expression. "I'm just checking to see if it’s good."
You laugh, reaching for the rolling pin, but before you can start, the front door swings open with a bang. Logan, Tucker and Dean stumble in, mid-argument about a play from training.
"Is that pizza?" Logan asks, his eyes lighting up as he spots the dough. He heads straight for the island, leaning over your shoulder. "Tell me there's enough for five."
"There's enough for two. Well, two and a quarter," you say, subconsciously placing a hand on your small bump. "Unless Tuck wants to help us prep more dough? I know you guys are only good at eating this, not making it.”
"Yes ma’am! I’ll change and be right back.” Tucker says happily as he’s making his way up the stairs, never one to dismiss the chance of cooking with you.
Logan groans, but he settles onto the stool next to Dean. "Fine. But we're helping with the toppings. At least that, please." They both stare at the two of you with pleading eyes.
Garrett looks at you, a silent question in his eyes. "What’s gotten into you? You’ve never been so happy to help with cooking.” he says.
You shrug, a small smile tugging at your lips. “You can help. The more the merrier, I guess."
Garrett shakes his head, but he doesn't let go of your flour covered hip; you never even noticed his hands made it there once he finished kneading. "They're going to ruin the dough. They think they can spin and flip it around." he whispers into your ear, smiling at your giggle. As he hands a block of cheese to Logan so he can start shredding it, Dean notices a certain ingredient on the kitchen counter and groans.
“Come on, guys. Why is there pineapple here? Please tell me you’re not putting it on the pizza.” Dean complains.
“If my girl is craving pineapple on pizza, she’s getting pineapple on pizza.” Garrett comes to your defense. “And, it’s actually good!”
“Dean, don’t worry, you can choose your own ingredients. Besides, it’s not your fault your taste buds don’t work; pineapple on pizza is a delicacy.” You tease him and he sticks his tongue out in response.
Father-to-be Garrett is observant. He always pays attention to how you’re feeling, he doesn’t have to hear you voice your discomfort.
You’re halfway through a cup of tea when Malone’s becomes too much: the sound of the espresso machines, the loud laughs from a nearby table of students, and the clanging of cutlery against plates start to blend into an irritating sound. You rub your temples, closing your eyes for a second.
When you open them, Garrett’s already in front of you. He had been previously sitting with the boys, discussing some strategies for this week’s game, not wanting to disturb your calm with hockey talk. He’s standing with his back to the diner, his hands stuffed in his pockets. He’s been paying attention to you from the other side of the room.
"Too much?" he asks.
"Just a little." you answer.
Without another word, he reaches down and gathers up your books and hands you the cup of tea, which you finish. He guides you toward the door, his hand resting firmly on your waist.
"We’ll go to the mine and the boys’," he says, his voice low and steady. "I know how much you like my room, it’s quieter there. Plus, no random shouts from the living room. It’ll only be us." he adds, a slight smile at the mention of his loud friends, who are waving to the two of you as you’re leaving.
Father-to-be Garrett is giving. He loves taking care of you, always putting you above himself (as any man should). To him, there’s nothing better than being able to ease your burden.
The rain is hitting the window of the living room, a steady, rhythmic sound that usually helps you focus, but tonight it just makes the ache in your legs feel heavier. You’re curled up on the couch, a book resting forgotten on your lap, as you try to get rid of the dull pain in your ankles. The front door opens, and the usual chaos of the guys follows Logan’s loud laughter and the thud of a few hockey bags. The guys say their “Hi”’s to you as they make their way up the stairs.
Garrett walks in last, his eyes find you as soon as he enters. He doesn't ask if you're tired. He just sees the way you're rubbing your ankles and drops his bag by the door. He walks over to the couch and sits next to you.
"Move your legs, baby." he says.
You shift, lifting your feet and resting them in his lap. His hands are large, his skin warm and slightly calloused, but as he takes your right foot in his hands, his touch is incredibly careful. He uses his thumbs to apply firm, steady pressure to the soles of your feet, working through the tension with a focused intensity.
"Garrett, you don't have to," you murmur, closing your eyes. "You just got home from practice."
"I'm not tired," he says, his voice low and grounding. He doesn't look up, his gaze fixed on the task at hand, his thumbs tracing the curve of your heel. "Let me do this for you, please."
He works in silence for ten minutes, the only sound the rain and the steady rhythm of his breathing. When he finally finishes, he doesn't pull away. He keeps your feet resting against his thighs, his hands loosely encircling your ankles.
"Better?" he asks, finally looking up.
"Much." you admit.
He gives a small, satisfied nod and leans back against the sofa, his hand moving to rest on your knee. "Good. Whenever you want to, we’ll go upstairs.”
“Mhm,” you reply, eyes gently closing. “We can stay here for a while.”
“As you wish, baby.”
Father-to-be Garrett is part of a family. It’s not a blood one, but he doesn’t need that; he’s building a family with you. The house is often loud, but in moments of need, it turns into quiet support.
You wake up, not to the sound of the alarm, but to a sudden, violent lurch in your stomach. It’s a cold sensation that travels from your gut to your throat in a single second.
You don't even have time to fully open your eyes before you’re scrambling. You throw back the duvet, your hands fumbling for the edge of the mattress, and stagger toward the door. You stumble in the hallway, your feet hitting the cold hardwood, and dash to the bathroom.
Your knees hit the tiles, the cool porcelain of the toilet the only thing keeping you upright. You’re breathless, your eyes watering, the world spinning in slow, nauseating circles. You’re glad you’re wearing Garrett’s long t-shirt since it fits you like a dress, somewhat shielding you from the cold against your legs.
Behind you, you hear the heavy, hurried footsteps of Garrett. He’s in the room in seconds, kneeling on the hard tile beside you.
A large hand settles on the small of your back, steady and grounding. Another hand reaches out to gather your hair, pulling it away from your face and holding it securely.
He stays there, kneeling on the hard tile, completely unbothered by the fact that he’s sitting on the floor in his boxers. "Just breathe," he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "I've got you."
The sound of the commotion has clearly woken the house. A moment later, the heavy door to the hallway creaks open just a smidge.
"Is she alright?" Tucker’s voice is hushed but urgent. "Do we need ginger tea? I also have some crackers in the pantry or I can prepare a toast."
"I’ll get some water and meds.” Logan says, his voice uncharacteristically soft.
Dean’s voice drifts in from the hall. "I'll go check if there's any peppermint in the kitchen. That helps with the stomach."
Garrett doesn't look back at them. He just keeps his focus entirely on you, his hands tracing steady circles on your back.
"They're just worried," Garrett says quietly, his eyes searching yours as the wave begins to subside.
He reaches for a washcloth, soaks it in cool water, and gently presses it to the back of your neck. He stays there, while the muffled sounds of the guys in the kitchen can be heard.
When the wave finally passes, you lean back against the wall, trembling; you feel exhausted.
"I'm fine," you whisper, though your voice cracks. "You and the guys should go back to sleep. You have practice in an hour."
Garrett moves the washcloth to your forehead. “You’re not fine. You’re exhausted and sick. Practice can be delayed. Let me take care of you. Hell, even the boys want to, in their own ways.” he says.
“Okay.” you say, the exhaustion settling in.
He doesn't wait for a second confirmation. With an effortless strength, Garrett slides one arm behind your back and the other beneath your knees, lifting you from the bathroom floor. You instinctively tuck your face into the crook of his neck, the scent of him calming you.
He carries you back into the bedroom and settles you into the center of the bed, pulling the duvet up to your chin.
Within minutes, a quiet knock can be heard before the bedroom door creaks open.
Tucker is in the lead, balancing a tray. He sets it carefully on the nightstand, the aroma of warm ginger and toasted bread drifting toward you. "Small bites, please," he says, his voice a soft, encouraging murmur.
Logan follows close behind, carrying a fresh glass of water and the meds he promised he’d bring. He sets them down beside the tray, his eyes scanning your face for any sign of renewed distress. "Eat something before you take those." he advises quietly, offering a small, reassuring nod.
Then comes Dean. He’s holding a small bowl with a handful of hard peppermint candies. "For the nausea," Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, soothing register as he leans over to place it on the nightstand next to the tray. "They’ll help clear the taste in your mouth. Start with these."
He gives you a small, gentle wink as the guys begin to retreat. Tucker gives a final, watchful glance and Logan offers a quiet, "Call us if you need anything". They leave the room as quickly as they entered.
Garrett shifts closer, his presence a warm weight at your side. He unwraps one of the peppermint candies Dean brought, giving it to you. The sweetness immediately gets rid of the lingering taste of sickness in your mouth.
Next, you take a small, tentative sip of the warm ginger tea Tucker prepared. The heat offers a comforting sensation, making it easier to manage a bite of the simple toast he made.
You finally take the meds Logan brought, washing them down with a few sips of the water.
Your eyes begin to slowly, but surely, close. Garrett moves next to you, previously sitting on the edge of the bed, helping you reach the bedside table. You lean your head against his shoulder and a deep sigh escapes your mouth.
“Rest, I’ll be here.” he says, placing a kiss on your forehead.
being an x reader writer and trying to be inclusive of all readers makes me overthink so much like should i write about you having smth with milk in it? no no what if the reader is lactose-intolerant. about the reader being the big spoon? noo what if they wanna be cuddled like a little spoon. about fingers through your hair? noooo what if the person reading it is bald
and while i’m at it, you ppl need to LAY THE FUCK OFF THE DAMN AI AND EITHER START READING OR WRITING FANFIC LIKE REAL, INTELLIGENT PEOPLE DO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Content: smut, oral, heavy petting, some spitting, creamiest of pies, “just the tip”, panties stay on!
Masterlist ❤︎
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Leon is a creature of habit, if not a slave to his compulsions. Which sounds practical considering the absurdity of his job.
Spending decades wading through nightmares is why operating in violent extremes has become a language he intuitively understands. His obsessive streak seems reasonable if he views it as the price of survival, one that steadily rises in proportion to his scars and the amount of bullshit the government loves to toss him into.
Blowing out money is also a habit he enjoys indulging. If hell is where he’s destined to spend most of his days, he might as well do it in style. If he sinks an obscene fortune into the cars and bikes sitting in his garage, it’s only because he’s cheated death from a creature the size of a goddamn tank—crawling massive thing with repulsive hairy legs. A fucking giant spider.
Also happened with liquor, and an excessive streak of the punishing hours at the gym—build as much solid mass on his arms, he persisted.
So yeah, sensible, given the circumstances.
Rational, even, when his capacity for obsession started to redirect itself the moment a new target is acquired. Barreling straight towards you.
Or your panties, specifically.
Although the entirety of you is a perfectly justifiable thing to lose his mind over. It just so happens that your own little habit for pretty underwear has easily rubbed off on him. From silk to lace to whatever impractical mesh he happily bleeds his bank accounts for. Numbers he quickly discovered ran obscenely high for a few measly inches of thread.
Not that he minds. You like to call him your sugar daddy whenever he catches you hesitating over a ridiculously expensive set, and he’d simply shrug and slide you his card in return. Maybe he is. Kind of. He’s your boyfriend above all else, but if his urge to keep you spoiled rotten qualifies him for the role, then maybe the title isn’t so wrong.
Also doesn’t hurt that every dime spent ultimately works in his favor. Every purchase is perfectly rational when he gets to peel his money's worth right off your skin. Gets to appreciate how a splash of color and fabric can accentuate every curve of your body.
He views red as undeniably sexy. Blue as soft and sweet, and thinks black is a staple that never fails. You always look gorgeous in every color of the rainbow. Divine charm, very easy on the eyes.
But this purple. This damn bruised shade of plum hugging your hips has him crossing the room to haul you onto his desk before he’s even made a conscious decision to move. The stack of reports he’s already been neglecting for a week goes completely shoved aside. Now he’s got you sprawled on your back, looking entirely too satisfied with yourself for finally breaking his focus.
Smart girl, weaponizing his own money to sabotage his productivity.
It doesn’t take much prompting for him to map the familiar lines of your body, dragging his fingers over the delicate lace until his thumb pushes over your sheer-clad breast, pinching a tight nipple.
“This new?”
He smiles when you squirm, watching the way your eyes slant over him. “Mhm. D’you like it?”
His mouth quirks higher. What a redundant question to even entertain, as if being asked whether he prefers a clear line of sight, or if he's happy to find a fully loaded rifle when he’s backed into a corner. It’s basically a fundamental law of nature for him at this point. Lacking appreciation for the way the thin stretch of fabric barely covers your crotch isn't even a possibility.
And that little triangle is downright taunting him, doing absolutely nothing but draw his attention. He finds himself taking a sufficient moment to fully appraise what’s in front of him, letting out a rough breath through his nostrils as he grips the edge of the lace. Pulls it up snugly between your folds.
Fuck if it doesn’t make his cock stir.
You’re awfully wet and swollen and he finds guilt gnawing at him for not tending to you much sooner. An idiot, really, can be too blind when he gets caught up in his own head. Quite the irony when he’s typically so attuned to your moods.
When you’re hungry for affection, you’re quick to cling your arms around his neck while settling on his lap. Yearning for comfort, you bury yourself against his chest to chase the solid thud of his heartbeat.
Desperation runs in your blood when you’re fully aroused.
Like what you’re doing now, he acknowledges. With that impatient heat in your eyes and thighs spread wide apart, openly offering yourself on a silver platter like a five-star meal.
He slacks comfortably back in his chair. Ask and you shall receive, because Leon is inherently a selfless person, hardwired to assist any person in distress with a reflex so deeply ingrained in his bones. You’re writhing so restlessly towards his open mouth that his only instinct is to give in.
The first kiss has you shuddering. The second draws a weak gasp from your throat. For the third, your fingers tangle into his hair.
There’s no gentle fourth kiss that follows because he starts making out with your pussy. Drinks you in to quench his parched taste buds. Devours the taste of intoxicating musk and damp skin, of warm arousal and delicate salt, rich flavors that continuously drool into his mouth as he grinds his tongue flat against your panties.
Can’t even be bothered to peel the thing away. Sure, the fabric scratches right along his jaw, but it does absolutely nothing to stop him from finding your clit. Sweet little thing growing desperately hard with the greedy pull of his lips.
Your nails bite sharply into his scalp. “Fuck, b-baby, I’m gonna—”
He quickly draws back, and your hands immediately clench tight against his roots.
“Babe.”
His amused laughter lingers on your skin as he gently unwinds your grip. Brings your hand down to his lips to press a kiss into your palm. “I know, honey. Promise I'll give it to you.”
You let out a keening whine. “This is not the right time to edge me.”
Leon huffs out another chuckle.
He begs to differ, actually. Not because he genuinely enjoys being a sadist. No, of course not. Ignoring you for the better part of the day already has him feeling awful enough. By way of making amends, the least he can do is be generous—selfless, as he likes to consider himself. Put you out of your goddamn misery.
But a little dragging out couldn’t possibly hurt. He couldn’t touch you all day, couldn’t even look at you properly, so why not take his time now?
Just an extra minute to be greedy, he insists. A few more seconds to admire the state he’s left you in. From the perky jut of your tits behind the see-through mesh to the dark, soaked fabric caught between your dripping pussy. Gooey honey he can still taste on the back of his tongue.
He presses his mouth to your belly, under your heart, over it. Then stands to his full height, tugs the waistband of his sweats down an inch and lets his heavy length spring free.
“Baby, come on.” You track the thick line of him, then mewl when he gives himself a stroke. “Just fuck me already.”
He pushes into you over the flimsy lace. “Like this?”
“Fuck—fuck.” Your hips grind back, partially trying to swallow him right through the damp material. “Take it off.”
“I will."
He does, by pulling the material aside, smoothly sliding back the rich purple that compliments your bare skin. It brings out the natural glow of your damp thighs, highlights the slickness coating your exposed pussy. Swollen folds so thoroughly glazed he adds his own spit, driven by another stubborn compulsion of his to see you absolutely drenched.
You can do it, right? Wet his cock to the point he barely has to put in any effort to slide in?
He starts by giving your sensitive opening a rhythmic taptaptap with his tip. Settles with rubbing the blunt length of it through the wetness he spent so much time admiring. He admires the way you submit to him, too, letting him manhandle your thighs a fraction wider. Takes whatever scraps of friction he decides to give with a soft grace.
A lot of patience, he decides. And the kissing cousin to patience is tenacity.
Your hips give a tiny roll. He smiles—grins, even. It’s hard not to when you’re strung out and teetering so precariously on the edge of the desk, fighting gravity itself to grind against him. He rewards your effort with a slow thrust, finally letting the thick crown sink into your hole.
Slowly, steadily. Watches the way he’s splitting you open, barely, before letting himself savor the sensation of you clenching around the little inch of him buried inside. Incredibly warm, so fucking tight.
His eyes travel along your body, comes to a stop to watch the distortion of your pretty face. Eyes heavy and drooping as if you’re barely conscious, your lips parted in a breathless sigh.
“Sweetheart,” he drawls in a gravelly purr. “You’re trying to swallow me.”
An incoherent noise of pure desperation spills past your lips.
“You want all of it?” Your head jerks in a nod, he does the same. “Okay, okay. You'll get it, honey, don’t worry.”
Later, he adds to himself. Later, when you’re drenching his thighs in so much slick. He settles with rutting against your tightest ring of muscle, instead, relishing the sloppy sound that blends with your high-pitched whines and the destructive crinkle of whatever document you’re currently crushing in your fist.
“I—shit," you whimper. “I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head, tosses a damp piece of hair across his brow. “Ruin everything for all I care.”
You huff out a small, thin laugh. “But you’ve worked so hard on it.”
“I can work hard on it again.”
Your smile is sweet and soft as your hands blindly paw into the empty air, searching for some leverage that doesn’t end in shredding the rest of his papers. He groans when they find purchase on your chest. Moans even louder when you unceremoniously yank the cups down, holding greedy handfuls in your palms.
“That’s it, play with ‘em,” he rasps. “Show me.”
You do, and it takes a huge amount of effort for him not to blow his load right there and then. He could. He would. Yeah, he definitely would. It’s become an ingrained habit for him to empty himself while being buried deep inside you. Stopped buying condoms the first time you guided him bare.
He’s never looked back since then. Might be a kink of his, come to think of it. The sensation of becoming entirely one with you, of leaving a warm part of his very soul that it feels like the ultimate culmination of a hundred different overlapping obsessions. Your immaculate taste in underwear, the very intoxicating taste of you.
Your voice. The deliberate way you pronounce his name. Your restless, wandering hands now gripping your chest, hard nipples peaking between keen fingers.
The sound your body is making. Squelching and sloshing and spilling and dripping as you openly drown in your own pleasure.
You’re wet enough, he decides. Although it doesn’t stop him from gathering a thick pool of saliva behind his teeth again. Lets the string of drool land directly onto your clit before his thumb lands right on top of it. Swirls the little nub with eager eyes as he visibly drinks in another spill of arousal leaking right through the desperate clench of your cunt.
Clench, unclench. Suck, squeeze, hold. You’re practically making a mess on his desk, squirming erratically against the wood in your own puddle the second he quickens the pressure of his thumb.
He wonders if you can cum with just the tip of his cock and the focused burn on your clit.
You show him that you can. Easily. With a tremor that forcefully smears your slickness further across the polished mahogany while your back bows sharply and your eyes roll back in absolute delirium. Watching you swim in a mindless haze is enough to shatter whatever control he had left.
He cums easily, too. Does so by dropping his head with a wildly heaving chest as he quickly strokes the remaining inches of his cock. Pleasure melts right into his bones, as does his cum, spilling hot and thick inside you before letting it overflow across your stretched folds, along the quivering juncture of your legs.
He makes sure it seeps into the edge of your panties. White on purple. Like a painter aggressively smearing his living canvas by swirling your arousal and his cum and his trail of hot saliva into one glob of a creamy mess.
He spits again. Because he can't help himself.
And you laugh. Weak and fond and amused while you lean back on your elbows to watch him obsess over his art.
“You’re such a perv, you know that?”
He does, there’s no point in denying it. But admittedly, he's your perv. And you are his, considering you’re already trying to swallow him whole the moment he tries to nudge back in. Sure, his obsessive streak can be a little overwhelming for polite society, a definite negative for most people to handle. But it’s a good thing two distinct negatives have always made a positive.
Reasonable, then, when it's both of you in the equation.
So he throws you a smirk in return, drags you flush against his hips, and finally fucks you deep.
the charity car wash fic is a work in progress, it’ll be a bit lengthier than what i’ve posted so far :3 as for the father-to-be garrett, i’ve read all of your requests and written down the main ideas i’d like to expand in the next part ! if you’d like something specific, please let me know by sending a request !!!
if you haven’t read it yet, here’s the first part 💟
summary: your girlfriend starts working at the metropolis fire station and it becomes the best and worst thing that has ever happened to you.
word count: 3.1k words
tag list: @punksnotdeadbutiam, @unabashedlyinlovewithyou, @whotfisthatsblog, @wildernessmuse, @starwarsbian, @lilacsandlavenderhaze, @florayli, @cerezzzita, @gingerfemme22 & @peachyvillehorror wanna be added?
content warning: 18+ only!! firefighter!clark obviously. reader gets very desperate and horny (so does clark at one point). no use of y/n. CLARK HAS A MULLET!!! (got inspired by all the man of tomorrow bts pictures of david @kryptidfiles and @maiamore were posting. thank you darlings!!) sub top!clark if you squint real hard, oral sex (r!receiving), and some light fingering (r!receiving) too. light BDSM and restraints. clark kent loves your tits. VERY brief mention of the strap. TRIBBING <333
a/n: hiiii guys!! i am so fucking sorry for not posting as much as i used to. my life has gotten so busy lately and writer’s block is definitely kicking my ass. i hope everyone enjoys this! i apologize if it’s rushed. i’ve been trying my best to finish this and my brain has been slowly rotting away i fear 😭. if there’s any glaring issues, let me know!!
LISTEN TO THE SONG FOR THE FULL EXPERIENCE
You never understood the appeal of firefighters. Or firemen, to be more specific.
When your mother used to take you on errands growing up, she’d pass the fire station and slowly glance at the men on duty, as if they were something sacred, something worth staring at.
It even followed you into adulthood. Your friends would ramble about their fantasies involving “hot firefighters.” You’d bite down on your tongue and let them indulge, not wanting to be an asshole.
You just never got it. It felt like you were missing some inside joke nobody bothered to explain.
That was until your girlfriend decided to become one.
You only meant to drop by for a second.
Clark had forgotten her lunch in the fridge, and even though she could go without food for months, it was the perfect excuse to visit her.
Once you walked inside the building, you were met with noise, heat, and motion. Men with what could only be described as porn-staches and fresh buzz cuts eyed you as they sized you up.
Most of them were lounging around the bay, laughing or clapping each other on the shoulders while you stood there with a tight-lipped smile, looking for Clark.
Eventually, one guy leaning against a counter noticed you and flashed a grin.
He pushed off the counter. “You’re Kent’s girl. I remember you from the pictures…”
You immediately covered your face with your hand, mortified.
Pictures?
Of course she did.
He jerked a thumb toward the back. “Yeah… she talks about you all the time. We all tease her about it. Want me to go get her?”
You were still flustered. “Uh, yeah. She forgot her lunch today. Is she in the back?”
The man nodded. “Yup, training bay. She’ll be right out.”
Moments later, Clark ran out from somewhere, glowing. A few other guys followed behind her, curious to see you in person.
She didn’t hesitate before folding you against her chest and lifting you off the ground.
“Hi, sweetie!”
Somebody behind her whistled.
“Ooo, Kent’s got company.”
Clark ignored them, murmuring into your ear as she set you down.
“Thought I heard your heartbeat outside.”
You chuckled as she pulled away. When she did, you finally got a good look at her.
She was wearing a tight black shirt stretched over her shoulders. It was damp in places that made you wonder if she had just come off a drill. Her bunker pants sat heavy on her hips while the utility straps hung loose at her sides. Aviator glasses rested on her face despite being indoors.
Your mind blanked.
You forgot what you were supposed to be doing—why you came here.
You almost forgot how to stand.
And the mullet—
Fucking hell.
It lay messily at the nape of her neck, curls falling forward just enough to make it unfair.
You didn’t remember having this sort of reaction when you saw her in the super-suit.
Clark’s eyes trailed down to the lunch bag.
“Is that my lunch?”
Despite her question, your attention was snagged on the way her arm muscles flexed as she pointed, and the traces of soot smudged across her forearms. It made your heartbeat spike.
She turned her head, a faint smirk tugging at her mouth.
“You okay?”
You regained focus, stuttering, “Y-yeah… Um, you forgot it… in the fridge… this morning.”
She leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss to your lips, “Thank you, darling.”
The next week was utter madness.
Your girlfriend in a firefighter uniform had completely rewired every inch of your mind and body. Now you were hoping to undo it through logic.
You tried subtle things first.
“Hey, do you think you could come home early? I made your favorite. Breakfast for dinner!”
“The oven’s acting up again.”
“Think there’s a spider in the shower. Come quickly!!!”
Unfortunately, she responded to all of it with the same infuriating calm.
“Sorry, honey. I can’t tonight. Rain check?”
“Maybe get our neighbor to do it. He’s pretty handy. Good luck.”
“Can’t right now, babe. In the middle of training. Just use a piece of paper and a cup and put it outside. Don’t need to kill the poor thing.”
You even tried sending pictures of yourself in bed, hair fanned across the pillow, giving her a glimpse of your bare shoulder as your bralette strap slipped down your arm.
Missed you this morning. The bed’s so cold without you.
Clark only responded with:
Miss you too, pretty girl. Try stealing my pillow. Love you.
You frowned at your phone as it dawned on you that she just might be immune to the spell you’d been tirelessly casting on her.
The night it did happen, you weren’t actually trying. Well, maybe a little bit.
You were in the kitchen, hunched over your phone on the counter, debating whether you followed the recipe correctly. It was supposed to be something simple and comforting.
Just a little roasted dinner.
But once the burnt smell filled your small kitchen, you began to think you’d be the first person to give Superwoman food poisoning. You were already dashing toward the oven when the smoke came.
As you snatched a nearby dish towel and began flapping it around, the beeping from the smoke alarm echoed throughout the apartment.
“Shit—no, no, no—”
You yanked open the oven door and pulled out what was supposed to be your dinner, setting it on the stove. You glared at the pan, your chest tightening with disappointment.
“This was supposed to be nice,” you muttered as tears threatened to spill.
Here you were standing in the middle of your kitchen wearing a sundress in Clark’s favorite color, having cooked the food to the point where you couldn’t even eat it yourself.
Right as you were about to completely lose it, the living room window slid open and Clark flew in. When she found you, you were pacing.
“Baby?”
You stopped in your tracks, your head snapping toward her voice. The mere sight of her in that damn firefighter uniform made something inside you unclench.
You let out a weak hello when she gently reached for you. Clark hooked an arm around your shoulders to comfort you.
“I heard the alarm first… then your heartbeat.” Her voice eased against your temple. “I was so scared.”
You whimpered, leaning into her as you waved toward the stove.
“I’m sorry… I tried to make dinner, and I thought I had it, but I didn’t, and then it started smoking, and I think I messed up the timing, or the temperature, or maybe I just—I don’t know, I thought… it was finally your night off… and I’d do something nice for you.”
Clark listened, her expression softening as you rambled.
“And I wore your favorite dress, which sounds ridiculous now that I’m saying it out loud, because—”
She cut you off with a kiss.
It wasn’t rough or unrestrained, just tender. She didn’t do it to unravel you, but to bring you back. She anchored you there with her, the grip firm on your waist. It wasn’t possessive. It was only Clark hoping to dull the noise for you.
The charred scent of smoke and the screeching wail of the alarm became barely noticeable.
Clark breathed steadily against your ear.
“It’s okay, darlin’… I’ve got you here with me.”
That landed heavier than everything she had said all week, making your breath shake. Her thumb moved gently at your waist.
“Come on, breathe for me… It’s okay.”
The grounding tone of her voice compelled you to indulge in a familiar sense of nirvana.
Your vision steadied, then dropped to her body. Your fingers curled lightly into the front of her shirt as the ache in your chest worsened after tracing a soot mark across her cheek with your gaze.
She murmured while peppering kisses against your neck.
“There she is… there’s my girl.”
You groaned, cranking your neck sideways to give her more access. If it were even possible, her arm tightened around you. Clark’s lips dragged back to the shell of your ear as her hands roamed your backside.
“I’ll get the smoke alarm, and you go on to bed. I’ll be in soon… Alright, sweet girl?”
You nodded, half-adrift, obeying her like a loyal Dalmatian.
You were lying in bed, clutching the bedsheets to your bare chest, listening to Clark’s heavy footsteps outside your bedroom as she disabled the smoke alarm, your dress folded somewhere at the foot of the bed.
In the silence that followed, she slipped back through the crack of the door. Her eyes found yours immediately, her mouth curving into a smile.
She remained silent as she glided through the room to your shared dresser. Anticipation coiled through you as the drawers opened and fabric rustled faintly.
Your back straightened when she turned toward you with one of her ties in hand. Though you had always known this was where it was headed, your breath still caught.
Clark walked over to your side of the bed and stopped beside you. She held the tie loosely between her fingers, bringing it to your wrists.
She wraps the wide blade of the fabric twice around your skin. Without pinching you, she crossed it to secure it in place and guided your hands to the headboard. Clark looped the tie around the iron railing twice before tugging it into a firm knot.
Then she leaned down and kissed your forehead. “Good girl.”
She unbuckled her bunker pants, letting them fall to her ankles. Clark stepped out of them as she pulled her shirt over her head, leaving her in just her sports bra and boxers.
She peeled the bedsheets off you, eyeing how your body was only half covered with your lacy underwear.
Clark couldn’t hold back from kissing along your neck as she straddled you. “Impatient, darling?”
A trembling whimper escaped you, “F-fuck you.”
She places a featherlight kiss on the swell of your breast, amusement coloring her voice, “I’m trying.”
Her mouth finally latched onto your breast, enveloping it wholly, circling your nipple with her tongue, earning a groan from her.
Clark moved to your other tit, mirroring the same attention she had given the first one, while one of her hands slowly moved to your underwear.
You whined as she cupped your clothed cunt, the wetness of it already coating her fingers. She squeezes it when she feels you rub against her hand.
Clark cooed at you while kissing down your midriff, saying, “Oh, I know, sweetheart… already feels good, huh?”
You nod, letting out another soft, high-pitched gasp, “Y-yes… just stop teasing me.”
She snickered, pulling the gusset of your panties to one side. “As you wish, my love.”
Your head snapped back into the pillow, straining within the tie’s hold while she licked a stripe up your center. Her tongue, flat and broad, parting you like the Red Sea.
“Easy, easy, baby,” Clark crooned, her hands sliding beneath your thighs as she guided your legs over her shoulders. “Seems I’ve neglected you for too long.”
She moans into your cunt, sending vibrations throughout your aching body. She eats you out like her whole purpose on this earth was to do this.
And with how the bed began to shake—not from you, but from her rolling her hips against the mattress—you squeeze your thighs around her head.
Her mouth closes in around your sensitive nub while she slips one finger into your hole. You cried out, “Shit, C-Clark…”
She curls her finger as she begins pumping it in and out of you, hitting that one spot that turns you into a giant puddle underneath you.
Your orgasm is near; you can feel it in the way your thighs clench, your back arches, and your jaw falls slack as incoherent praises spill from your mouth.
Like always, she can sense it.
You know she does by the way her free hand holds your hip, keeping you grounded. Clark adds a second finger, doubling down on her efforts.
She whispers against your clit, “Come on, sweetheart… soak my face. Wanna taste it so bad.”
Anchoring yourself in the rapture, it engulfs you, leaving you gasping and trembling as though you’re drowning in it. It’s unlike what your hands have been trying to replicate for the past week.
Still chasing her own release, Clark continued to lap at you even as you shook uncontrollably. You have to physically push her off, bringing your foot up to her shoulder and nudging her.
Reluctantly, she presses a kiss to your inner thigh before crawling up your body. When she looms over you, leaning closer—her mouth isn’t the only thing that’s damp.
There’s a wet patch in the crotch of her boxers, and her glassy eyes are filled with desperation. You were just about to tease her when she beat you to it, silencing you with a firm kiss.
You hummed into the kiss as you tasted yourself on Clark’s lips. Her hands scrambled to undo the tie around your wrists. She needed your hands on her. Your fingers in her hair. Your nails down her back.
Without hesitation, you cupped her face, matching her intensity. She gave a broken, needy little sound, involuntarily bucking into you. The slight friction sends you both reeling.
Usually, she’d lean over toward the nightstand and pull out the strap, and fuck you until you were left hollow and sobbing for more. But she was craving something more visceral.
You help Clark pull her boxers off and throw them across the room. She pushes your knees up to your chest, dragging her slick folds against yours as she nestles into the side of your neck.
Her clit catches yours, already tender. Clark’s voice is muffled, but you understand her perfectly.
“Please, baby… I’m so close… Can you do it again… for me?”
You try to nod, your voice fracturing as she speeds up. With how fresh your last orgasm was, you were still coming undone.
“Yes, Clark… Oh, God…”
She speeds up her pace, grinding her pussy into yours vigorously—refusing to cum without you.
Your eyes flicker down momentarily, widening at the sticky string of arousal that’s clinging between you two.
Soon, Clark’s thrusts become sloppy, erratic, and ragged. You attempt to muster the strength to get each other there, but you can’t. You’re too limp even to move.
She doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest, staying close to you. The knot wound tight within her is on the verge of snapping, occupying every corner of her mind.
You’re right behind her, breathlessly showering her with praise. “D-doing so good, Clarkie… right there… Fuck.”
Once you both reach your peak, you swear you see stars. But this time it’s far more intense. It’s almost otherworldly, similar to your girlfriend who’s shuddering above you.
Barely riding out the aftershocks, Clark collapses onto you, still overwhelmed by how good your smile feels. Something she knows she’ll never get over.
She scatters kisses along your face and jaw, playing with your hair as she rolls onto her side of the bed beside you—the spot that’s felt unbearably empty without her.
You watch her with a dazed grin, giggling when her touch tickles you. “I can’t believe you..”
Clark raises a brow, smirking, “Me? What about you? You’re not exactly subtle, y’know?”
You shrug, cuddling into her, “Was never trying to be.”
Clark’s eyes grudgingly opened, hearing something vibrate in the bedroom. It wasn’t loud or sharp, just annoyingly persistent. She reached for the source of the noise.
In the shadows of city lights spilling through the windows, she saw you still asleep, curled against her chest. The buzzing started again.
By the third time, she realized it was most likely her phone. Clark sighed dramatically as she adjusted her grip on you, leaning over you toward her bunker pants to grab it without waking you.
You stirred instantly at the feeling of your sleepy firefighter girlfriend shifting slightly on you.
She immediately felt guilty, pressing a kiss to your shoulder while gently coaxing you back to sleep. “It’s okay, honey… don’t worry.”
You nodded drowsily, a soft noise slipping into her warm skin as the phone buzzed once more.
Clark grabbed her pants, leaning over you, digging through the front pockets to find her phone.
As soon as she found it, she glanced at the bright screen and frowned.
It was one of the guys she worked with, Kyle.
She settled back onto the bed, sliding her thumb across the screen, answering the call, tightening her hold on you.
Still careful not to wake you, she whispered, “Hey, man. What’s up? It’s late.”
For a second, she didn’t hear anything. Until…
“Where the hell did you go, Kent? The whole crew has been looking for you.”
Clark closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. Even across the city, Kyle’s voice managed to stay grating. Still, she did feel bad—at the thought of everyone worrying over her.
“Shoot, I’m sorry. I had something to take care of at home. I thought we were done.”
Kyle snorted, not buying it. “Yeah, sure, clearly we weren’t. Let’s hope the boss doesn’t tear you a new one when you get back.”
She chewed on her bottom lip, a nervous habit she picked up from you, and ran a hand through her curls. “How bad is it?”
He shrugged. “Not sure. You know how stoic he usually is. You’ll have to find out on your own.”
Clark stiffened as you mumbled something unintelligible into her, hoping Kyle didn’t hear it—knowing that was the last thing she needed to be teased about.
“Right.”
He hummed dryly, “Yeah… you’re in for it.”
She groaned, “I know, I know, I know.”
Kyle chuckled before hanging up. “Oh… and Kent?”
“Yes?”
“Say hi to your girlfriend for me.”
Clark choked, staring down at her phone as silence flooded the apartment for three seconds before you shifted against her, whimpering into her chest.
“Baby, I’m cold…”
Clark softened, embarrassment and annoyance melting away as she pulled the sheets up around you.
“Oh, sweetheart… I got you. Go back to sleep.”
But when she lifted her head, she realized both of you were mid-air. Several feet above the bed.
She froze, holding you tightly. And for once in her life, Clark Kent had absolutely no idea what to say.
unfortunately updates will be slow for a while !! i somehow caught a cold (yes, in 25-30 celsius weather, BUT it’s so cold in the mornings) and it’s incredibly irritating :( i’ll try my best to work on the charity car wash fic and also tackle the father (to-be) garrett requests you guys left 💟
i’ve seen all of your requests asking for new papa garrett and i swear i’ll continue it (after completing the the car wash fic) once i get the time :33 ! i’ve been plenty busy with life and i only get the time to write late at night, but being so tired i just prefer to read instead then😣
