pairing: art donaldson x patrick zweig x fem!reader
summary: you sit in the angry silence, gears slowly turning in your head as you look between your boys. you should have known that this wasn't going to work, clearly just talking isn’t going to get the three of you anywhere.
—or: three tennis players walk into a hotel room.
word count: 5.5k
contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, smoking, fighting as foreplay, mean!reader my beloved, the patrick and art gay agenda, threesome, p in v, rough sex, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it y'all!), not quite hate sex more like angry sex, double penetration, oral sex (m!receiving), choking, finger sucking, degradation, creampies, lowkey sub!patrick coded, switch!art ofc, porn with a plot, no use of y/n.
author’s note: oh em gee part three is here!!! i literally always say this but i had so much fun writing this one lol thank you so much for showing this series so much love right off the bat! i've loved loved loved reading all the ideas you guys have sent me for future chapters and trust when i say that i'll definitely be featuring as many as i can. okay bye! hope you love it! xoxo mwah.
tftw series masterlist!
Art is fuming. You keep glancing over at him to check that smoke isn't starting to blow out of his ears. It doesn't, but he's just as mad every time. Standing in the doorway huffing and puffing, arms crossed over his chest as he stares Patrick down from across the room.
Patrick is the complete opposite, all relaxed body language and easy half-smiles as he coolly stares back. You’d make a fire and ice joke if you didn’t think it would send Art over the edge.
He’s sitting in the room’s single chair, window cracked open so he can smoke. He’s practically naked, wearing an unbuttoned long sleeve and the tiniest boxers you’ve ever seen. His bare feet are propped up on the corner of the bed you’re sitting on.
You’re perched cross legged on the mattress, basically stuck in the middle of them.
You’re still surprised you even got Art to show up at all. You thought he almost flipped the table when you brought up Patrick at lunch, casually mentioning that you’ve been texting him for the past couple of days and you think the three of you need to talk. He was quiet for a long time before he finally asked if that meant Patrick was, has been, in town. You just shook your head yes.
You didn’t tell him you and Patrick slept together, you didn’t need to.
He went quiet again, stood up from his chair with an excuse of being late to class and stomped out of the dining hall. You texted him the address to Patrick’s hotel an hour later.
Art never responded, but his jeep was still waiting for you outside the biology building after your last lecture got out. He would always drive you back to your dorm since you’d get out so late, but this time he turned out of the campus lot and silently drove until you realized he was going to the hotel.
Now you’re here, and it's been almost ten minutes since you knocked on the door to Patrick’s room. And no one has said anything the entire time. No one has even moved, only Patrick every so often when he needs to flick his ashes out the window. A thick blanket of tense silence falls heavy over the three of you. It makes the room’s temperature feel that much hotter. The shitty air conditioner hums faintly in the background.
“So,” you say slowly, voice finally piercing through the quiet, “Am I gonna have to be the first to talk again or–”
“God, I don’t know,” Art cuts in tersely, not looking away from Patrick as he does, ”I can’t believe I don’t have anything to say to the guy that fucked my girlfriend.”
“Girlfriend?” Both you and Patrick ask sharply, opposing tones of shock and amusement blending together.
Art's eyes narrow, a storm brewing in the blue of them. He’s still looking at Patrick, talking about you like you’re not sitting right in front of him. "Yeah, my girlfriend. Did I stutter?" His chest is puffed out just enough for you to notice, his mouth pulled down at the corners in a deep frown.
You blink, caught off guard. Art’s never asked you to go steady with him, you’ve never even been on a date. Unless you count fucking in the back of his jeep at a drive in theater a date, then sure, you’ve been on one date. Regardless, the possessive timbre of his voice has something warm simmering under your skin.
Patrick laughs, loud and abrasive. “Well, this is fucking news to me,” he says through a chuckle, eyes flicking between the two of you bemusedly, “I didn’t realize you guys were playing house, but that does makes a lot more sense now.” He gestures to your chest with his free hand, pointing out the dark blue sweatshirt you’re wearing.
‘Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy’ is stitched across the front in thin black thread; you'd stolen it from Art’s closet when you slept over at his dorm a few nights ago. He never asked for it back.
“It’s cute that you kept my shirt, Donaldson.” Patrick teases, lolling his head to the side lazily so he can look at Art through his lashes. A plume of smoke billows from between his lips, slipping through the open window slowly. “Even after you tried to turn my girlfriend against me and fucked her behind my back first–”
“Fuck you, Patrick–” Art starts, face twisted in a scowl. His hands ball into fists at his side, jaw ticking with anger.
Patrick doesn’t look deterred, leaning forward in his chair as he tries to talk over Art, “You’re such a fucking hypocrite–”
“I’m not anyone’s girlfriend,” you cut them both off, brows drawn together in frustration, “—and I’m not going to let this turn into some weird pissing contest between you two. We’re here to talk.”
Art scoffs agitatedly, casting his eyes to the ceiling. “Looks like the two of you have done plenty of talking without me,” he says bitterly. “Do you get off on this shit or something? On sticking your dick where it doesn’t fucking belong?”
Patrick smirks, leaning back in his chair, arms draped lazily over the armrests. “God, you really do think you’re innocent in this,” he laughs incredulously, leaning back in his chair. “You’re acting like you’ve got some moral high ground, but you don’t. You’re just as guilty of playing the game as I am.”
Art’s face darkens further, anger threatening to boil over. “This isn’t a game to me, Patrick,” he spits, tone hard and low, “I’m so sick of you treating everything like a goddamn joke.”
Patrick’s smirk doesn’t falter. “I never said it was a joke,” he says with a shrug, tone easy and nonchalant. “I’m just saying, maybe you should take a good look in the mirror before you start pointing fucking fingers. I’m not the only one who’s played dirty here.”
“Patrick–” you warn, sitting up straighter. You can feel the way the air changes, the way the animosity gets turned up. The last thing you need is for them to start throwing punches.
Art cuts you off, shaking his head in contempt. “You’re so full of shit. You don’t fucking care about her. You never did. You just want to win, because you can’t stand the thought of losing to me.”
Patrick groans loudly, throwing his head back with it. “We’re really going back to this again? Jesus Christ, give it up man. It’s not like she was ever really yours to begin with.” He takes another slow drag from his cigarette, eyes never leaving Art.
The jab hits its mark, you can see it on Art’s face. In the way he physically recoils, the way he takes a ragged breath through his nose, the way the muscles of his jaw work furiously. For the first time since you fucked Patrick, you feel like a fucking bitch. The familiar feeling of guilt wraps its tendrils around you, weighing you down into the mattress like a physical force.
It gives you an idea, the guilt. It's a filthy idea, one that has heat stirring between your legs at just the thought. It’s a good way to make this whole situation up to Art, a good way to let him get under Patrick’s skin the same way he’s getting under his.
You sit in the angry silence, gears slowly turning in your head as you look between your boys. You should have known that this wasn't going to work, clearly just talking isn’t getting the three of you anywhere.
You sigh, overly dramatic and long suffering, scooting down until your legs are hanging over the edge of the mattress. Art and Patrick watch you the entire time, eyes finally leaving each other to watch your hands settle on the hem of Patrick’s sweatshirt.
“You guys are being so difficult. Why did I think that you could behave enough to talk this out like big boys?” You tug it off in one swift move, tossing it to the side carelessly. Two sharp gasps ring out, two sets of greedy eyes roam the bare expanse of your torso. You hadn’t worn a bra today.
You smirk, standing from the mattress and hooking your thumbs in the waistband of your sweats. You push them down your legs slowly, making a show of it until you're only in the pair of light purple panties you slipped on this morning. Patrick smirks, flicking his cigarette butt out the window and yanking it closed. He goes to stand, Art pointedly takes a single threatening step forward as he does but you stop both of them in their tracks.
“No.” Your voice rings through the small room, loud and commanding. Patrick sits back down almost immediately, his brow raising in confusion. Art does the same, freezing with one foot in front of him. They’re both hard, cocks tenting the fabric of their bottoms. Their boners point towards each other, you bite your lip to hide your smile.
“You’ve been so bad, Ricky.” you scold softly, voice syrupy sweet as you lean back on the bed. “Dressed up like an easy whore in here waiting for us, being so mean to Art, fucking his girl…” You trail off boredly, palms braced flat on the bed behind you so you can lean back as casually as you can muster. You let your legs fall open, spread enough to let Patrick and Art see the wet spot slowly seeping into the fabric.
You can hear Art’s sharp inhale from across the room at your words, his girl. You’re still careful not to say girlfriend, that’s a whole other talk. Patrick squirms in his chair, practically itching with the need to say something. You level him with a hard look, a firm shake of your head keeps him quiet. When you finally turn your attention to Art, he meets your gaze easily, eyes already blown out and glassy. Even from here you can see the way his pupils swallow the pretty blue color.
You smile, lips curling up in a wicked smile. “Art,” you coo softly, reaching your hand out in offering, “come here.”
Art’s walking towards you without a second thought, crossing the room in just a few large steps. You smile at him, patting the spot next to you. The bed creaks as he sits down, the mattress dipping under his weight slides you closer to him. ”I think,” you say slowly, resting your hand high up on his thigh, so close to the hard line of his cock straining against the fabric, “that we need to teach Patrick a lesson on manners.”
“What! No fucking way, that’s bullshi–” Patrick fusses from the corner, sitting up straighter in seat, the armrest gripped tight in his left hand.
“Shut the fuck up,” you snap, whipping your head to the side to glare at him. “This isn’t about you.”
He frowns, pushing out his bottom lip like an actual child. You just barely fight the urge to roll your eyes, an evil smile spreading across your face as you watch him honest-to-God pout.
“This is about Art,” you slide your hand up higher, cupping him through his loose shorts. You can hear his sharp intake of breath, a quiet ‘fuck’ falls from his lips as you apply more pressure to where your hand is steadily rubbing him up and down. “Plus, you’re already in the cuck chair,” you aren’t able to stop the small chuckle that falls from your lips, “you’ve got a perfect view.”
His pink lips part ever so slightly, eyes going wide and hungry at your words. You throw him one last devilish smile before you’re sinking to your knees in front of the bed. The scratchy carpet digs into your knees but you don’t care, not when Art is towering in front of you with the ceiling lights shining around him like he’s an angel.
You smile up at him, dragging the palms of your hands up and down his thighs. “Take your shirt off,” you encourage, slipping your hands up to toy with the hem of his shorts.
He complies beautifully, pulling his shirt up and over his head and tossing it aside, revealing the lean, toned muscles of his torso. You let your eyes linger on him for a moment, appreciating the sight before returning your attention to your task. Your fingers deftly undo the drawstring of his shorts, and start tugging them down. Art lifts his hips enough for you to drag them all the way down his legs, taking his boxers with them to free his hard cock.
Again, you slide your hands up the bare skin of his thighs, inches away from where he wants them. He’s so hard, cock standing straight up in an angry red line against his stomach. The tip drools pre-cum that leaks down the length of him slowly.
Art's breath hitches, his eyes locked onto you with a mix of anticipation and desperation. Your fingers brush lightly over his upper thighs, before you wrap your hand around the base of his cock, feeling the heat of his arousal pulse against your palm. His gasp is sharp, and you silently revel in the power you hold over him in this moment.
You glance over at Patrick, who is staring wide-eyed, his earlier irritation replaced with a raw, unfiltered hunger.
Your lips curl into a smug smile at the sight of his flushed cheeks and the way his chest rises and falls with each heavy breath. “See something you like, Patrick?” you taunt, giving Art a slow, deliberate stroke that has him groaning softly. Patrick’s eyes narrow, his jaw clenching, but he stays silent, his gaze locked on the two of you.
Art's hands grip the sheets beneath him, his knuckles turning white. "Fuck," he breathes out, his voice strained, "you're killing me."
You laugh softly, a dark, melodic sound, and lean forward, letting your tongue flick out to taste the bead of precum at the tip of his cock. Art moans, the sound vibrating through you. You glance up at him through your lashes, seeing the way his head tilts back, his eyes half-lidded in pleasure.
You slide your lips up the length of his leaking cock, teasing and slow. Art stares down at you, not breaking eye contact as he breathes raggedly through his nose.
“Tell him how it feels,” you whisper against the pink tip of his cock, sliding it back and forth across your lips teasingly. Art swallows hard, skin flushing in embarrassment.
“So good…” he whispers, eyes still locked onto yours. His blush goes from his cheeks all the way down to his chest, spreading pink and warm across the strong muscle of his pecs.
You smile, shaking your head softly. “Don’t tell me, tell him.” You jerk your head in Patrick’s direction once before you sink down until your nose is nestled against the soft blonde hair at the base of his cock, working your throat around the length of him.
Art moans loudly, his hands coming up to tangle into your hair. You keep going, fighting his grip on you as you start to bob your head over his cock in a steady rhythm, working your hand in time with your mouth.
He forces himself to look at Patrick, catching his eyes.
Patrick looks fucked, lips slick and dropped open as he stares back Art, hungry gaze not wavering. His cock is still hard, pressed against the seam of his boxers and leaking a steady patch of wetness around the head.
A silent challenge seems to pass between the two of them.
We doing this or what?
Art refuses to back down, hardening his resolve. “Feels so fucking good,” he groans, not looking away from Patrick, “her throat’s so tight, so– God, it’s so good. Best I’ve ever had.”
He’s rambling, not even making any sense but you hum in approval all the same, your tongue curling around the crown. Patrick doesn’t look like he minds too much either, pink tongue coming out to swipe along his bottom lip. "Please," he whispers, almost too quiet to hear. "Let me..."
You pull off Art with a wet pop, turning your head as best you can with his hand still tangled in your hair to fix Patrick with a steely gaze. "You don't get to make requests," you say, your voice hard. "You get to watch and learn."
Patrick's eyes darken, his lips pressing into a thin line, but he doesn't protest. Art lets out a low growl, his hand tightening its grip on your hair and dragging your mouth back to his cock.
“Stop fucking talking to him,” he demands, hips thrusting to fuck back into your mouth. You choke on the sudden fullness, wetness floods your panties as you moan around him.
Yes, you think, eyes squeezing close as you force your throat to relax around his cock, this is what I wanted.
You were waiting to see how long it’d take Art to snap, he lasted longer than you thought he would. The head of his cock punches against the soft, spongy part at the back of your throat. You fight to not gag around him, hands scrambling for purchase on his thighs. His balls slap against your chin roughly, sticking wetly to the drool that's starting to fall from the corners of your lips.
Art meets Patrick’s eye again, a smug smirk on his face as he jerks his head in a clear invitation, “Come here.” He grunts simply, dragging you up and down the length of his cock by his tight grip on your hair.
Patrick practically sprints from the chair, ripping his shirt off while he tries to kick his boxers off before he reaches the bed. He sits next to Art, chest heaving as he stares down at where your lips stretched obscenely over his best friend's cock.
Art pulls you off by your hair, holding your face a few inches away from his spit covered cock. He tuts at you sympathetically, tilting his head to the side with a tiny frown at the sight of you all teary eyed. “Bet you feel real empty, right?” he asks sadly, shaking your head back and forth like a dog. “That greedy pussy wants our cocks stretching her open, doesn't she?”
You whine loudly, nodding your head as best you can as the meaning of Art’s words sink over you. You feel far away, like you’ve already been fucked six ways to Sunday. You cunt clenches around nothing, aching for Art and Patrick’s cocks bullying their way inside you. You’ve never done anything like that before, taken two guys at once, but God do you need it.
Art nods back, brows pulled together in faux pity. “Pat and I will help baby,” he says sweetly, “You just gotta get nice and stretched out first, need to fuck yourself open on Patrick’s cock so you can take us.”
“Fuck yeah,” Patrick breathes, already moving up the bed to lay flat on his back agasint the pillows. His cock sticking straight out from his body, pointing to the ceiling desperately.
Art lets go of your hair, cupping the side of your face tenderly. His thumb rubs against the soft skin of your cheekbone a few times, you know it’s a question.
Do you want this?
You smile, nuzzling his palm and giving his thumb a playful nip. The answer to his question written all over your face.
Fuck yes.
Art smiles back, nodding his head once. You take the hint, rising from your knees to climb onto the mattress. You slide your panties off, tossing them aside as you crawl up the length of Patrick’s body, straddling his hips and wasting no time in sinking down on his cock.
Art settles next to the two of you, hand loosely gripped around his cock as he starts to lazily stroke himself to the sight of you and Patrick.
“Fuck!” Patrick hisses, his hands coming up to grip your hips fiercely as you start to ride him, not giving either of you anytime to adjust. The stretch burns, the lack of prepping before hand makes it sting. You don’t mind, too worked up to care.
“God, you’re such a fucking slut,” He tries, but you cut him off bringing your free hand to wrap around the column of his throat just like he did to you back in the shower.
“You’re the slut,” you growl, fingers digging into his skin roughly. His eyes widen, plush lips going slack. You speed your hips up, the loud smack each time you drop down onto him echoes through the room. “You’re the easy fucking whore that soaked your panties watching your best friend fuck my throat."
Art huffs out a breath, hand slipping over his cock faster as he watches you ride Patrick. His eyes are trained on the way your hand is wrapped against Patrick’s throat. He slips his free hand down, pressing two fingers against Patrick’s cock so you slide down onto them on the next bounce.
“Fuck!” You keen loudly, grip tightening on Patrick’s throat. Art’s fingers add to the sting of your cunt, but your hips don’t stop moving, even as he slips in a third just as fast.
You get lost in it, in the feeling of Patrick’s dick fucking into you so deeply you swear he’s hitting your cervix with every roll of your hips, Art’s fingers stretching you that much wider.
Suddenly, Art drops his cock so his free hand can latch onto your hips, his strong grip forcing you to stop your desperate bouncing. His fingers slip out of you, you immediately miss the stretch.
Patrick groans in displeasure, his hips buck up like he’s trying to slide back into the warmth of your fucked open cunt. His leaking head bumps against your sensitive clit a few times before Art’s dropping his hand down, gripping Patrick’s cock to line it up with his own.
Art slides up behind you, his sweaty chest pressing firmly against your back. “Should be stretched out enough,” He whispers into the nape of your neck, pressing both tips against your fluttering hole.
The shock of it has your hand slipping off Patrick’s throat to anchor onto his shoulders in a feeble attempt to brace yourself. He sucks in large gasps of air, chest heaving as he stares down to where his cock is pressed snug against Art’s, his hand big enough to almost wrap around them both. He throws his head back against the pillows, eyes screwed shut, “Fuck, I can’t watch,” he gasps, voice low and ragged.
Art laughs smugly, but it’s breathy around the edges and you can feel the way his hand shakes on your hip. “Close already, Pat?” He asks condescendingly, as his fingers dig in a little tighter. “You’re not even doing any of the work.”
You try to focus on the sensation of Art’s grip, but your mind is a haze of overstimulation and the throb of Patrick’s cock against you. Art’s mocking tone sends a shiver down your spine, making you acutely aware of how close you are to the edge yourself. Your greedy cunt clenches around them, trying to suck them in you.
Patrick’s breath stutters, his hips jerking up involuntarily, making a strangled noise that’s half-groan, half-whimper. “Fuck you, man,” he manages to grind out, but his voice is trembling and strained, the bite in his tone gets undercut by how wrecked he sounds. You can feel the barely there twitches of his hips, like he’s physically pained from having to wait any longer.
A sharp cry rips from your throat as they finally start to slide in, both heads popping into your tight hole all at once. Your eyes screw shut at the stretch, thighs shaking where they’re spread over Patrick’s hips.
“Someone kiss me,” you gasp desperately, chin lowering to your chest. Art’s moving before the words finish leaving your mouth, gripping a fistful of Patrick’s hair and dragging him up to your lips. You whine into his mouth, letting his tongue slide between your lips to claim your mouth.
The familiar feeling of his lips on yours relaxes you the tiniest bit, letting Art lower you down a few more inches. It feels like hours as you sink onto them, Art’s big hands gently massaging your hips while Patrick’s greedy fingers pull and paw at your thighs.
It’s the quietest you’ve ever heard Patrick. His lips going slack in awe against yours as Art’s cock slides up next to his, moaning into your mouth when your hips go flush with his.
They feel so huge inside you, so thick you swear you can feel them in your stomach. Bullying your insides into making more room for the both of them.
“Fuck," you gasp, nails digging little crescent moons into Patrick’s shoulders. Every inch of you is alive with sensation, a burning mix of pleasure and pain. Art’s breath is hot and ragged against your ear, whispering sweet encouragements, “It’s okay baby, you’re okay, taking us so fucking good–”
You nod, slowly starting to grind your hips back and forth, gasping when they rub up against the soft spot inside of you that has you clenching in pleasure– practically choking them off at the base. A high moan falls from your lips, hips swirling the tiniest bit faster that have both Art and Patrick growl out matching groans of approval.
“Just like that,” Art whispers into your ear, his breath hot and ragged. “Gonna make him come first, or are you gonna beat him to it?” The challenge in his voice sends a jolt of heat through you, your thighs starting to shake with every pass of them over that spot.
“God, ah! Art– fuck, mh, Patrick–” You slur, head already starting to go fuzzy
“Fuck,” Art gasps out your name sharply, pushing you down onto Patrick’s chest so he can start fucking into your loose, sloppy cunt. “God, you’re so fucking tight,” his hand grips the back of your neck to pin you down, throwing all his strength behind the snap of his hips.
“Shit, look at you,” Patrick chuckles weakly pinching your hips hard, trying to seem less affected than he really is. “You’re so fucking gone. All that attitude needs is some dick to fix it, huh?”
You crack your eyes open, blearily searching until you zero in on his face. He’s smiling smugly, eyes blown out and hazy.
“Shut the fuck up,” you spit weakly, raising your hand to shove your index and middle finger between his parted lips. You push back far enough to feel his throat constricting against your fingers, letting him gag on you. Your eyes trace the side of his face, down the slope of his nose to where his cherry red lips are lewdly spread around your fingers.
You can distantly hear Art groan behind you, his hips speeding up impossibly faster. His hand squeezes your neck, fingers digging into your sensitive skin meanly. You hook your fingers behind Patrick’s teeth, dragging his face to the side to meet your eye. Patrick moans around your fingers, gazing at you pleading through half lidded eyes. Drool leaks from the corners of his mouth and down his chin, drenching your wrist. His hot, wet tongue sliding along the pads of your fingers feels scalding.
Patrick's hands are everywhere, pulling, pinching, caressing, his touch a maddening mix of rough and tender. The feeling of him inside you, alongside Art, is almost too much to bear, making you gasp for breath. Your moans are a symphony of pleasure and desperation, each one a plea for more, more, more the closer you get the edge.
“Shit, ah, Art, ah!” Your feet scrabbled uselessly against the sheets, the fingers of your free hand twist Patrick’s hair roughly. “I’m gonna come— Mm, ah! I’m gonna—”
“Do it,” Art goads, the rhythm of his hips not faltering, “Come on baby– fuck yeah– fucking soak these dicks–”
Your mouth falls open in a silent scream as you come, your vision whites out around you as the entire world shrinks down to the stretch of your gushing cunt around Art and Patrick. The slight burn of them, the fullness, the unrelenting pace of Art’s hips stinging the skin of your ass on each thrust.
Patrick bites down on your fingers with a broken whine just as Art sinks his teeth into your neck, both of them groaning so loud it’s all you can hear. That and the faulty rhythm of Art’s hips snapping against the meat of your ass in loud ‘cracks’.
They come together, and you can feel it.
You can feel every twitch and jerk of their cocks inside you as they spray the walls of your cunt with their releases. Spurt after spurt of hot come claiming you as theirs, filling you to the brim. Art doesn’t stop, working the three of you through your orgasms. Each thrust fucks more of their come out of you, the lewd squelch of it leaking from of your loose hole to gather around the base of their cocks in two matching creamy rings makes your ears burn.
Just as it gets to be too much, when the pleasure starts to give way into biting overstimulation, Art stops. You’re slumped against Patrick, shaking like a leaf when Art starts to pull out as gently as he can. You hiss when the head of his cock slips out, thighs clenching together.
“Sorry,” he whispers sweetly, giving your shoulder a gentle kiss. He practically man handles you off of Patrick’s cock, lifting your hips up and off of him.
Patrick groans, stomach twitching in oversensitivity as your slick walls slide against his spent dick. Finally he slips out, his drenched cock falling to slap onto his stomach. There come rushes out of you, dripping sticky and thick down your inner thighs.
There’s sweat dripping down your temple when you fall onto the mattress, your back sticks to the sheets but you’re too out of it to care. Art collapses next to you, sandwiching you between him and Patrick. The three of you are quiet, chests heaving as you catch your breath. Patrick’s hairy thigh is pressed to yours, firm and toned. Art’s got an arm slung over your waist, his breath puffs hot against your neck.
“It doesn’t have to be one or the other,” you say breathlessly, voice raspy and hoarse. “It could work. We could make it work, the three of us.”
Art and Patrick are quiet, their silence heavy with contemplation. You keep your eyes trained on the ceiling, more nervous bringing this up than you thought you’d be. The room is filled with the sounds of your collective breaths, mingling with the lingering scent of sweat and sex.
Patrick chuckles, you can feel his curls brushing against your shoulder as he shakes his head in dry amusement. "Yeah, because everything about this screams 'healthy relationship,'" he quips, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
Art lets out a soft, exasperated sigh, his grip on your waist tightening just a little. "We don't have to decide anything right now," he says, his voice low and steady. "Let's just...see where this goes."
You feel a rush of relief at his words, but Patrick’s hesitancy still gnaws at the edges of your mind. Patrick shifts beside you, his hand skirting lightly over your arm in a rare moment of tenderness.
"Guess we're in uncharted territory, huh?" he murmurs, his tone uncharacteristically serious.
You laugh, finally daring to glance at both of them, a tentative smile forming on your lips. "Yeah, but maybe that's not such a bad thing."
Art and Patrick look back at you with matching grins wide enough to show their teeth, blonde and black hair fanning around their faces like halo’s under the room’s shitty fluorescent light. Your heart swells under the intense stare of two pairs of eyes, one blue and one green. You can feel the room start to fade away until it’s just the three of you and nothing else seems to matter.
Art leans down, giving your right shoulder a quick kiss. “If we’re doing this, we have to be honest with each other.” He looks between you and Patrick pointedly, but he’s still smiling. “No more bullshit games.”
Patrick snorts, letting his head fall back onto the pillows, “Yes sir.”
You nod, not bothering to hide your smile. "No bullshit, no games," you agree, moving to squeeze Art's hand. He squeezes back in a silent promise.
The three of you lie there in a comfortable silence, the weight of your decision settling over you. It's definitely not going to be easy, but maybe, just maybe, it could work.
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standford!art having a huge crush on the women's volleyball team captain with plump thighs, soft and curvy in all the best places who giggles and makes fun of his stuttering when he tries to talk to her and when he finally gets her in hes bed he doesnt even know what to do with all that 🍑😛
CAPTAIN’S ORDER
summary: Art just got dragged to watch the women’s volleyball team practice and he didn’t expect to see you. Didn’t expect to keep showing up like it wasn’t obvious. Keeps telling himself he’s just supporting the university, which is bullshit, because his eyes stay locked on your thighs every time you move. And when you look at him? Game over.
pairings: stanford!art donaldson x vball captain!reader
warnings: 13.9k words. mature themes. unprotected p in v. cunnilingus. tongue fucking. creampie. cockwarming. dacryphilia. overstimulation. praise kink. breast play (sucking/groping). semi-public teasing. implied somnophilia. light d/s dynamic. read responsibly.
note: another ask that’s been sitting in my inbox for over a month but never forgotten. i hope this fic brings to life exactly what you were imagining when you sent it in, anon, because when art finally gets between reader’s thighs, he really does cry about it.
It starts with your thighs. Thick, strong, impossible not to stare at. He doesn’t even mean to stare. But it’s the kind that flexes when you move and bounces when you laugh. Most of the time, it’s half-visible beneath shorts that never quite stay put when you play. He wasn’t even supposed to be there. He’s too tired to go… but his teammates are annoying as hell. So only came because the guys were going. Not because of you. Someone mentioned a late-night volleyball practice and the whole crew was already lacing up. He doesn’t even pay attention to what they are saying when they’re joking like idiots, half-bored and desperate for anything that wasn’t another silent evening in the dorms. Art just shrugged, and dragged himself along. He wasn’t expecting anything. He wasn’t even paying attention.
But then he walked into the gym and saw you. You were on the court, hand braced against your hip, and holding a volleyball like you weren’t even thinking about it. You are barking instructions to your teammates without raising your voice. The authority is there, and he can feel it in his spine. And don’t get started with the shirt you wore because it was damp at the collar, clinging to your lower back, sleeves shoved up past your elbows. Hair is fixed and tied with a scrunchie. Shorts are tight and snug across your hips, it’s hugging your body curves. Pacing along the court lines, pointing to each mistake your team makes, and calling formations like you own the whole goddamn space.
And maybe you did. That- that kind of person does not come easily to other people. Authoritative. Leading. Intimidating. Confident. You didn’t look like you were trying to be impressive. It’s not like he feels threatened, no… he feels like he’s been enchanted, honestly. You weren’t showing off to those eyes who are watching you. Just moving with the kind of natural authority that made it impossible not to watch. Even when you smiled, it was focused- half-distracted, half-mocking. Like you had bigger things on your mind than being stared at. Like you knew they were there and didn’t give a shit. Maybe you don’t, but it doesn’t stop people from watching you. Then you dropped low into a crouch and called for a set, Art thought he might actually forget how to breathe. Or he might have seen God and gone to heaven. Your legs coiled under you, tense and clean and perfect, then released as you sprang up and swung. Damn, look at that… The sound of your spike echoing sharply against the gym walls.
He was already sitting by then- front row of the bleachers with a Gatorade bottle loose in his hand that was warm by now. His hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, still slightly damp from his own practice- but he hadn’t even registered the feeling of it in his skin. He didn’t remember walking over. It’s like the last thing he can remember is being at the tennis court and now he’s in the gym watching you. Didn’t hear whatever dumb thing the guy next to him said. All he could do was watch. Like target locked. He’s like Cupid who can’t let go of someone until he gets them.
He thinks he’s going crazy because he can’t even form clear thoughts when you turn. Jogged a few steps. Adjust your shorts with one hand, your shirt with the other. Glanced up. Just once. Just briefly. But it’s enough to scan the bleachers where half the tennis team sat slouched in their t-shirts, hoodies, or whatever they are wearing, and yeah don’t forget the backward caps as if they’re pretending not to ogle. Your gaze passed right over them- right over him- without slowing. You didn’t wave. Didn’t smile. Didn’t acknowledge a single one of them. But okay, you might stare a little at that blonde boy who looks like he just pissed his pants. His flushed cheeks that can pass like someone slapped him. Cute.
It literally took him three seconds from squashing the bottle he’s holding when he gets a glimpse of you turning your head to their side. You hadn’t even looked at him directly. Might not have seen him at all. Well, that’s what he thought. But it didn’t matter. He could already feel the image sinking under his skin- especially the curve of your ass jiggle when you jump, and the way your thighs moved when you walked back into position. He saved and locked the whole thing into memory like it’s his storage which has a lot of space for it. Just for you. You can’t really blame him, right? He’s just a guy! He’s blonde and maybe he’s also a little dumb when it comes to girls. And… he’s just admiring, that’s all. You have a good… thick… thighs… big… ass… of course, he will appreciate them.
From watching your practice because his teammates forced him turned into a pattern. A routine. It was just supposed to be one time thing, just him sitting there with the guys, pretending he didn’t care, pretending you didn’t fuck him up a little and make a mark in his mind. But then it happened again. And again. A few days later, he just happened to be walking past the gym after eating outside the campus. The next week, he quickly finished his workout at the gym and the doors were open. Eventually, he just started going. Not with the guys. Not with anyone. Just him. Alone in the bleachers. Always in hoodies. He’s just quiet. Just watching the team. He told himself it was nothing. It was relaxing. At some point, it is because it’s not his own practice being watched on, but others. Well, that’s almost the reason. That he liked the pace of the drills, the echo of sneakers on hardwood, the slap of their hands on the ball. He liked studying athletes outside his sport. Which was bullshit. He knows he’s not fooling anyone but himself. Because all he really did was track you on the court. He doesn’t give a fuck about other girls in the court.
Eyes just stuck on you. The way you moved. The way you drink your water. The way you stood when you weren’t thinking about it- hip cocked, one leg bent, hands loose at your sides. The way you glare at your teammates when they do something stupid for multiple times in a row. The way your shorts never quite stayed put when you called plays. The way your shirt clings to your body when you are sweaty. You always looked a little flushed. A little shiny from the sweat. Your thighs flex when bent a little as you wait for the ball. Your ass shifted when you turned. And he watched. Silently. Obsessively. Dumb as hell about it. It’s like he’s having a massive crush on you. He didn’t think anyone noticed. But they did. They just walk up to gang him up and ask why he’s always here. But maybe they notice his attention is always on their captain- always looking at you.
It actually started with small things. One of the middle blockers nudges you during the water break, muttering something under her breath, and both of you snickering behind your bottles. Another girl glanced toward the bleachers while they stretched. The new recruit smirked as you spiked, yelling “someone’s watchingggg you.” And you- you said nothing. Of course you didn’t. You don’t have time for guys. Until one night, when practice was ending, and he was still sitting there, hands folded over his knee, pretending to scroll on his phone even though the screen was black.
You walked straight over him. He looked up too fast when he saw you were already halfway to him. Hair sweaty. Face glowing like a glazed donut. Breath was a little uneven from the last round of drills you did with the girls. Shirt clinging to your back, and shorts hugging every inch of your ass. You looked confident. Effortless. Beautiful. Sexy. Hot. He would suck the shit out of your thighs and bite your ass if you gave him the chance. Because how can he not when you are curvy in the best places he can imagine? It’s proportioned just right. Like it really fits you. You are a girl who knows how to carry it with confidence. He must be in heaven right now because you just stopped in front of him with your hands on your hips and your eyebrows are slightly raised like you are asking him something he doesn’t know. He blinked like he was buffering. He’s thanking all the gods existing for this moment brought to his feet. Thank you. Thank. You.
“I know you,” you said. Your tone is casual. He blinked, too stunned to say anything other than a “Huh?” Why are you talking to him? He’s not prepared. He’s not mentally ready! He looks like shit. It’s not like he doesn’t want you here… but it’s just surprising. He didn’t actually think he would face you like this. “You’re a player too,” you added and cocking your head like you were already teasing him. “I-uh. Tennis,” he stuttered, nodding too fast. You chuckle. God, it was unfair how easy it sounded. “Thought I recognized you. You’ve been watching practice for days, right?”
He hesitated. Maybe it’s been weeks already but you are just being a kid by just saying days as if he only watches you for three days and not longer. “No-I mean-I just happened to be” He can’t even form a proper sentence and he’s stuttering like a fucking kid who’s in front of his whole class for the first time. “Mmhm.” You took a half-step closer. “You’re cute when you lie.” His face burned. Oh, shit. Please, is he already blushing just because you said he’s cute? Anyone, save him.
He dropped his eyes to your shoes like they could save him. You smiled like you’d already won. “You coming next week?” He nodded. Then panicked. “I mean- if you don’t mind.” Saying this only to make him not look like he’s too eager to come next week and see you again. “I don’t,” you said. “See you, tennis boy.” After making him stutter and blush you just walk back to your team with the same confident sway he’d been watching for two weeks straight- only now he had permission.
Oh, boy and then it happened… after that interaction, you started wearing the tighter shorts. Not dramatically, not all at once. Just a subtle shift- fabric that clung a little closer, hem that sat a little higher, waistband that hugged your hips just right. They were still athletic, still comfortable, still your best pair to move in. But they moved differently. They rode up when you crouched. Bunched when you served.
Showed more of your thighs when you paced. And every time you reached for the ball cart, it felt like just a little more of your ass peeked out than it should’ve. The girls didn’t care. It was off-season, half the team was showing skin, and you were all just trying to survive the sweat. But when they noticed you tugging the waistband up before warmups? When they caught you adjusting the tightest pair right before water breaks? That’s when the comments started.
“Shorts getting smaller?”
“He’s already looking, babe.”
“Make it bounce. Just once.”
And maybe you did. Not for them. Not even to be mean. But because he kept showing up. Quiet. Hoodied. Alone. Sitting in the same spot near the front with his knees apart, fingers clenched around a bottle he never drank from, eyes locked to the court like he wasn’t even aware he was staring.
He thought he was subtle. He wasn’t. You started watching for it- those little flickers of panic when your eyes met his, the way he’d immediately drop his gaze, sometimes all the way to the floor, sometimes straight to your legs like it made things worse. The flush on his neck gave him away every time. It would rise slowly, just under his jaw, spreading red until his ears burned and he had to shift in his seat like that would make it go away.
You never called him out for it but you turned in his direction just to see if he was still there. And every time? He was. He didn’t say a word. But he kept showing up. Watching like he couldn’t help it. Like the way your ass bounced when you landed a jump set was going to kill him slowly. And you let him. Every single night. Because if he wanted to look? You were going to give him something to remember. And the worst part was, you knew. You always did every time he came to the practices. And now? Now it’s over.
You’d won the whole thing- the NCAA championship, the final match, the fucking moment-and campus feels like it’s glowing. The house is packed, music shaking the walls, and the rest of your team is already half-drunk. Everything smells like sweat and sugar and noise. And he’s here, too. Of course he is. It’s not hard to spot him. He’s just in the corner with someone else, maybe his friends or his teammates, not that it matters.
He’s holding the red cup with alcohol in it, and he’s in his typical hoodie that covers his neck like it’s calming his nerves. Legs spread too wide for your liking and it’s definitely taking up much space for someone who doesn’t want to get noticed. Curls are damp and a little flattened at his forehead which have not fully dried off after he showered. Just staying there and he hasn’t moved in a while ever since he sat down. Just sips from his drink and watches the crowd like he’s still on the sidelines.
But his eyes keep coming back to you. Every time you laugh. Every time your medal catches the light. Every time you raise your arms and your shirt lifts a little- he’s looking. And then he’s not. But you know he is. So you take your time getting there. You weave through people slowly, nodding, laughing, swaying with the music until you’re close enough that your thighs brush his knee when you stop. You lean one shoulder against the couch arm beside him and look down like you didn’t plan it.
“You hiding?” you ask. His eyes snap up, wide. His cup dips slightly in his hand. “No- just, um. Sitting,” he says. His voice is soft. Almost careful. “Congrats. You were… insane tonight.” Your lips twitch. “Yeah?” He nods. Quick. A little nervous. “Yeah. I mean-you always are. But tonight-yeah.” You let your smile show. Slow. Knowing. “You watched?”
“Of course.”
“Cute.”
His gaze drops to his drink like it might help. You don’t move. Just let the music thump around you while the silence between you gets heavier. His cup shifts in his hands. His fingers tap once against the rim. “God you are drunk already, aren’t you?” you tease him. Smirk on your face and lashes flutter as you look at him. “I’m not drunk.” You laugh softly. “You are.” He doesn’t argue again. Just looking at you. Really look this time. You’re still flushed from the win, still glowing, your legs pressed close to his, your medal glinting against your chest. You don’t say anything else. You just let it hang there- like you’re giving him space to figure out what he wants to do about it.
He doesn’t move. You do. You don’t wait. You don’t ask. Don’t hesitate. Don’t even give him time to shift his cup out of the way. You just move in one slow, easy motion, medal tapping against your chest as you drop straight into his lap like it’s the most obvious seat in the room. The couch dips hard. His breath stutters. And then he just… freezes. One hand was still holding his drink. The other stiff against his thigh. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stares straight ahead like he can’t trust his own body. You’re warm in his lap. Solid. Real. Pressed against him in a way that feels permanent.
Your back settles comfortably to his chest as if you've done this before, like you just have your own seat on his lap. Like you belong there. Like he belongs to you. He doesn’t know where to look. His eyes bounce from your shoulder to your hand to the empty space across the room like maybe it’ll swallow him. But his neck is already flushed. His jaw’s tight. The tension under his hoodie is so loud to the point you can feel it vibrate straight into your system.
And then someone sees you. “OH MY GOD!” one of your teammates screams across the room, slapping another girl’s arm. “She actually sat on him,” another gasps, fake shocked. “You’re so done for, babe,” a third adds, giggling as they start crossing the room like sharks smelling blood. You don’t look at them. You don’t even blink. Instead, you press a little closer, leaning back against his chest just enough that your hips shift in his lap, and lift your drink to your mouth with a lazy smile.
“Hey,” you call out casually, waving over someone you know near the edge of the couch, “did you see that last point? Setter almost tripped over me.” They laugh, sliding into the conversation like nothing’s burning beneath you. You keep your voice light. Breathless. Like sitting on Art Donaldson’s lap in front of ten people is just another end-of-season ritual. “Oh my god, yeah,” someone else chimes in, “you looked pissed.”
“I was,” you hum, grinning as you take another sip. “They would’ve blamed me if it went out. And I’m the one carrying the whole backline, apparently.” The girls laugh again. One of them crouches next to the couch just to whisper, “Is he breathing?” loud enough that you know he can hear it. You still don’t flinch. Instead, mid-laugh, you slide your hand down and take his free one gently from his thigh- like it’s just been waiting and place it directly onto yours. His palm lands warm on your skin. Just above the knee. You leave it there.
He twitches, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to stay. But you keep talking. Smiling. Turning your head to the conversation without moving anything else. His hand stays. And god, the way he’s holding his breath? Like it might all vanish if he shifts too hard. Like one wrong move might wake him up. But this is real. You’re glowing. He’s still not going anywhere. The conversation doesn’t stop. Someone’s halfway through retelling a point from the second set-badly- while another girl keeps waving her drink for emphasis, sloshing liquid over her hand with every exaggerated detail. Everything is loud, flushed, and breathless. Post-championship high. But in that corner of the couch, you’re still pressed into his lap, drink in hand, posture easy like you’re not doing anything at all. Like this is just comfort. Like his thighs weren’t tensed under you from the second you sat down.
You keep your smile soft, eyes tracking the group in front of you, nodding along like you’re listening. But your weight shifts slightly- just enough to adjust your seat, just enough to reposition the hem of your shorts, just enough that your hips roll forward in the smallest, slowest arc over his lap. It could pass for nothing. It probably does. No one flinches. No one calls it out. You’re laughing at something someone says across the couch, your drink raised, your medal still cold against your chest. You look relaxed. Still glowing. But under you, his body reacts like he’s been struck. He stiffens. Breath stutters. His hand tightens just slightly on your thigh- barely there, more instinct than decision and you feel it. The way his legs shift. The way his jaw clenches. The way his eyes flick downward like looking anywhere else might help.
It doesn’t. So you do it again. Another soft shift. Another innocent adjustment. Another drag of pressure that’s barely anything-but still enough to make his cup tilt in his grip. You glance down, watching his knuckles go pale where he grips the rim. Then you lean in. Not dramatically. Just enough. Your head dips toward his like you’re reacting to something someone said, like you’re about to whisper a joke. Your mouth grazes the shell of his ear. And without looking at him, without breaking rhythm, you murmur: “I can feel how hard you are, you know.” Soft. Easy. Like it’s a fact.
And before he can even begin to answer, you’re smiling again. Turning slightly, laughing at something across the couch, like nothing happened. You take another sip from your cup. Your free hand presses lightly against his thigh, thumb brushing the edge of your own skin, grounding the heat between you like you don’t even notice it. But he does. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. You feel the tension ripple through him- contained, barely managed, and absolutely wrecked. You can feel the way his fingers twitch on your leg as he lays them there to rest.
His breath is shallow like he’s trying to keep himself together like a puzzle piece. You don’t have to say another word. Not really because you don’t need to. His body says everything for him. You couldn’t leave early. Of course not. You were the captain. You had speeches to give. Teammates to hug. People to thank and photos to smile through and drinks to toast. You had to carry the trophy into the second location and take ten thousand blurry selfies and act like your legs weren’t already tired from the five-set match and hours of celebration.
But he waited. Quiet. Patient. Still buzzing from the way you’d whispered in his ear like it’s some secret he needs to keep. Still hard beneath the waistband of his jeans long after you stood up from his lap and vanished into the crowd. He didn’t follow you. Didn’t ask. Just watched you walk away with your medal still swinging and your voice echoing in his head like you’d dropped a match into his lungs. He waited until the lights were low and the house started emptying. Until someone tossed him a bottle of water and a spare sweatshirt and told him to “get out of there before you combust.”
Now he’s here. On his knees. Face buried between your thighs like he’s praying. His hands grip the back of your legs as if it’s the only thing keeping him motivated to be here. And you’re still wearing his goddamn hoodie he gave you in the middle of the party because of your soaked shirt. You’re still wearing the medal. Your shorts are somewhere on the floor. And his mouth is slow. Careful. Worshipful. Like this is a favor you’re letting him perform. Like he’s just lucky to be allowed here between your thighs, under your fingers, lips dragging wet across your skin as he licks and kisses and breathes you in like this is the win he’s been chasing all year. You let your head fall back against the pillows. Fingers curling in his hair. He groans low when you pull quietly, desperate, like he loves it and you feel it all the way through you.
You haven’t said a word since you let him in. You didn’t have to. He’s now where he wants to be and he’s been dreaming of this moment ever since he saw you the first time. He waited. Through the noise, the bodies, the championship high that kept everyone buzzing long after the final whistle. Through photos and toasts and too many sticky drinks, through the sweat clinging to your skin and the way your shirt had started to turn see-through beneath the lights-clinging where it shouldn’t, sheer enough to show everything beneath. You hadn’t noticed. You were still laughing, flushed and sparkling from the win, from the way everyone was looking at you like you’d won it alone.
He noticed. He always noticed. He was still quiet, still sitting off to the side like he didn’t want to take up space, but he got brave, just once. Pulled his hoodie off over his head, walked over without meeting your eyes, and held it out like a peace offering. “You look cold,” he mumbled, even though you didn’t. Even though he was the one shivering. You took it anyway. Slipped it over your shoulders, your sticky shirt bunched underneath, the sleeves falling past your hands. You didn’t say thank you. You didn’t have to. The look you gave him- tired and soft and knowing. It was more than enough. It stayed with him all night.
And now you’re in his dorm. Your back against his pillows, his hoodie still on, legs bare and spread over the sheets like you’ve always belonged here. Your shorts are somewhere on the floor. Your hair’s a mess. There’s a fading smudge of glitter near your collarbone from someone else’s celebration. He’s on his knees in front of you, his eyes wide- beautiful blue eyes gazing up to you with full adoration behind them. He can’t believe this is happening, that you are here, perfect and real.
Because he can't, not really. Sure, he imagined what the possible things could happen when you’re in front of him but this isn’t part of it. He definitely has fantasized how about having you, to touch you, to have you in his bed, to press his lips on your thighs. And now you are open and waiting for him with that big smile of yours like this isn’t breaking the shit out of him. Like this is not a big deal. Didn’t even know where the fuck he should begin with all of this. There’s so much of you. So much thigh. So much curve. Your ass spilling over the edge of the mattress when you shift, soft and devastating. He doesn’t speak. Just moves closer. Places both hands on your legs and strokes slowly, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.
Then he leans in. Presses a kiss to your inner thigh. Then another. Then a third, dragging his lips over your skin like he’s trying to prove he deserves this- every inch, every breath, every second of it. You sigh, tilting your hips slightly toward him. “Hey,” you murmur, lazy, playful, and voice curling under the low hum of the dorm fan. “You good down there?” He looks up, dazed. Swallows. “I just…” He shakes his head, almost laughs, eyes dropping again to your legs spread in front of him. “I don’t even know what to do with all of you.” You smile. Really smile. It’s a little smug. A little sweet. You lean back further, stretching out in his hoodie, your medal glinting faintly against the fabric. “Then take your time,” you whisper. “I’m not going anywhere.” And neither is he.
He still hasn’t touched your panties. Not really. Not yet. If someone asks him how he’s doing, his answer will be 50-50. He will be the happiest man in the world right now, but he’s also the one who’s so fucked up and going spiraling inside. Why? Because he’s been kneeling between your thighs and just staring like he’s processing all of this before he touches and tastes you for the first time. His hands are warm and shaking when he moves them slowly towards your thighs, tracing their flesh and curve as if he’s memorizing the feeling and the shape of them in his palms. Both of his hands move to squish and squeeze it once… feeling and testing the water first. Then again, nails digging a little into the flesh and both of them gripping your thighs fully like he doesn’t want to let go.
There are no words that can be found in his mouth. Eyes not looking up at you, he just keeps kneading and gently stroking the softest parts of them, where no one gets to touch unless you let them. His thumb slides up inside your inner thighs, and it’s close enough where you want him to touch you. When he exhales, it’s shaky as if he’s getting triggered by just holding your thighs. Then came the kisses. They’re soft at first. Careful. Barely there. Just slow presses of his lips along the edge of your thigh, then a little higher, then lower again. He’s not trying to tease you. He’s not playing a game. He’s just trying to understand you through touch. Through taste. He doesn’t want to take it because he’s scared to take it so fast, and it will be gone in the blink of an eye.
You watch him as you lean back slightly while being propped on your elbows. Didn’t even notice how the fabric of your panties got a wet patch in the middle and is clinging more to your cunt with a sticky feeling. But it’s frustrating because he still doesn’t touch you. He just keeps kissing your thighs, your hips, and the very tops where skin gets soft and sensitive, his mouth dragging slowly and softly like he’s praying. You thread your fingers through his curls. Tug gently. Tilt his face just a little closer to where you want him. And he moans. Not loud. Not for anyone but you. Just a low, helpless sound against your skin that makes your thighs twitch and your stomach pull tight.
You wait a beat. Let him breathe. Then, sweet and quiet: “You like my thighs, baby?” He stills. You feel it- every inch of him freezing for just a moment, like he forgot how to answer. His breath fans against your skin. He doesn’t even take off his lips off your thigh when he nods. So afraid to let go when he doesn’t even get all of the taste he can get. His voice is low and a little cracked when he speaks, like he’s thinking of many possible responses he can give to you, but this is the only one he can give and probably enough: “Yeah. Fuck. I- yeah.”
That made you smile. Can’t help it. You tilt your hips just a little closer to his face and let your knees fall wider. “Thought so.” He hums like he might fall apart. Kisses your thigh again, slower this time, then noses gently against the edge of your panties, still not pulling them aside. His hands move up to your hips, holding them steady, like you are the only thing grounding him right now. You’re still wearing his hoodie. He’s still on his knees. And he hasn’t even tasted you yet. But god- he already looks wrecked. He doesn’t move until you let him.
You let him take his time kneeling between your thighs, and his lips drag slowly along your skin. You just let him even though his breath is warm and uneven. You let him even though he’s almost breaking himself by just doing this slowly just to ground himself and not get so lost in it. You let him hold your hip with his hand while the other one is grazing his thumb on your outer thigh. You let him even though what you want is for him just to eat your pussy out. You’re still in your panties- thin, soaked, and clinging- and he’s close enough to feel everything but hasn’t touched the center of you yet. Not really. Not until you say so.
When he finally looks up, he’s flushed. Eyes wide. Jaw slack. He doesn’t speak, but you feel that he’s asking. Needing. Like he wants it so bad it hurts, but he’s still too careful to assume. You nod. Just a little. Your fingers slip into his curls, light and gentle, and you guide his head forward- not forceful, not rushed, just there. Letting him know. “Go ahead, baby,” you say quietly. “I want you to.” That’s the key to open the gates, and the floods flood in quickly.
He takes a breath before he leans in. The mouth found the fabric first, lips parted, and moved against the soaked panties. Tongue dragging flat and licking it softly and slowly like he doesn’t care if there’s a barrier or not. He can taste you still. He doesn’t push. Don't bite. He exhales like he’s smelling the scent of you, and this is making you feel a little shy even though you are a confident person. He’s making your knees weak by just doing that through the fabric. God, you even feel the way his hand tightens in your skin, the way it presses deeper in the flesh. You feel it in the way his moan rumbles low and soft into your heat, his mouth working a little more intentionally now- open kisses, wet and steady, dragging through your folds beneath the fabric.
It’s not perfect. It’s not practiced. But it’s hungry. It’s real. He licks again, slower this time. Tongue flat, broad, and firm. Then again. Each one a little deeper, more sure. And when he starts sucking softly through the fabric, you tug his hair just enough to make his eyes flutter closed. “That’s it,” you murmur, voice low. “Right there.” You’re not teasing. Not guiding out of pity. You’re just showing him what you like, but you are showing him what he’s doing right. Because he is. And you want him to know it.
He moans quietly against it and even grunts there like the sound came straight from his abdomen, and you can feel how it vibrates right and straight to your pussy. It makes your breath catch with just that action he made. Hips rolled instinctively, and he likes the way it’s benefiting him that you grind into his mouth because he can taste more of you; it also means you feel good, and he’s going to enjoy it more, which he shows by pressing his tongue harder, dragging his lips, and burying his face deeper like this is the most important thing in the world. He doesn’t ask for more. But he’s aching for it. Still licking you through your panties, sloppy and slow and completely gone for it- hands gripping, thighs flexed, body trembling just slightly from how long he’s been holding himself together- he looks like a mess. And you haven’t even let him take them off yet.
He’s not as gentle anymore. Still slow, still careful, but there’s something deeper in the way he moves now- like need is starting to win out over hesitation. His mouth presses harder. His tongue drags with more weight. Each kiss sinks lower, each stroke of his tongue lingers longer, and when you shift under him, hips rocking just slightly into his face, he moans like it hurts. It’s all through the fabric- your panties wet, clinging, soaked with how long he’s been teasing, but it doesn’t stop him. If anything, it makes him greedier. Hungrier. He licks right through it, like he wants to memorize your heat before he’s ever allowed to feel it bare.
And then he finds it. Right there- your clit, swollen and sensitive under the thin cotton and the second he locks his mouth around it, everything gets hotter. He doesn’t rush. He just sucks. Open-mouthed and slow, the fabric darkening with every breath, his lips wet and shaky as he pulls soft sounds from you without ever touching skin. His fingers dig into your hips like he’s trying to hold you steady, keep you right there, and keep himself from going insane. You arch your back for him. You whimper but barely audibly. And then he pulls back. Just a little. Just enough. But his mouth is still parted. His lips look shiny, and his breathing is unsteady, with his pupils blown widely like he’s love-struck by it. “Can I?” he asks, voice raw, barely there. “Please?”
You don’t speak. Hands just reach down gently, and you slip your fingers beneath the waistband of your panties to drag the wet panties slowly to the side. Hold it there for him. The second you do, he exhales like it’s a relief. Like gratitude because he’s been waiting for this moment- to lean in, to part his mouth against it, to lick it directly without any fabric from it. He’s not teasing; he just continues what he’s doing- licking and sucking your pussy. He doesn’t even care if the fabric is just pulled aside; his hands still come up. It’s steady and soft when he brushes yours to push them from holding your panties.
He didn’t even second-guess or hesitate to do it; he just did. He replaces your grip with his own to hold your panties now. Fingers slip beneath the band like it’s some instinct he has over you. Didn’t even yank or fumble over it. He just takes over gently, like this is something to be careful with. Something he should do, not you. And it shows in how he holds it tightly and how his thumb is tucked against your hips and how his knuckles graze your skin when he leans in. The look in his eyes is low, and it even rolled behind when he dragged his tongue in full length to your pussy lips in one slow stroke. That one is not slick or sloppy, nor is it hurried, but it’s deep and intentional to be like that. It’s a continuous movement that starts from the bottom end, and it doesn’t stop until his tongue reaches your clit, and he doesn’t tease you.
He carefully licks and enjoys the moment like he’s trying to understand and learn how you taste and feel in his mouth. The sounds released against your cunt are barely audible; it’s a quiet groan, but it vibrates through your body, and he does it again when he notices that you reacted when he does that. It doesn’t take long before he gives another slow stroke of his tongue, thicker and firmer this time, before it flattens and spreads each pass of it from the base up to the clit. The other hand settles on your thigh, and fingers that hold you are grounding him as he eats you deeper, like pulling him away will be more of a fight than just pushing his head out there.
He keeps holding your panties to the side. His grip is firm now, not letting them slip even as his tongue moves in long, languid motions- up and down, again and again as if he wants to open you with his mouth alone. His nose nudges your clit, and he doesn’t even flinch. He leans into it. Stay there. Letting the pace be guided by how your hips move, your breath hitches and catches, and the way your thighs can’t help but close around his head without your control. And he doesn’t stop. If anything, he presses in closer. He’s not licking anymore. His tongue is fucking you now, steadily thrusting it beyond the slit and inside of you, which makes your body twitch.
He’s not messy with what he’s doing; he’s gentle and doing it softly, which makes you want to cry because all you want is for him to eat you like he’s hungry for it. But there’s an appeal to how controlled the pressure he’s doing is, how each stroke drags through the slick like he’s syncing his body to yours. His grip tightens around the panties he’s holding to the side while his other hand remains on your thigh to keep your legs open before he guides it to his shoulder and you let him without any hesitation. You also did the same to your other leg so you can wrap it around him. Locking him in place where he belongs, and you are sure he likes it in the way he groans when your ankles cross behind his back.
The sound is low and deep as if he's been suppressing it ever since he latched his mouth there. His tongue thrusting slowly, rolling it, and focusing on getting it deeper if that’s even possible. Your hips roll up to meet it, fingers tangled in his hair, breath breaking against your lips, and you can feel the heat climbing fast now, climbing hard. It’s too good. Too much. You can’t stay quiet. “God, baby…” You breathe, one hand sliding down to cradle the back of his head. “You’re really doing that, huh?” He moans into you, deeper this time, and it shakes through your core. You feel it all the way down. You let out a soft laugh, breathless and messy, and your voice dips low as your thighs pull him closer. “Using your tongue like it’s your cock,” you murmur, lifting your hips right into his face. “Is that what you wanted?” Your fingers tighten. “Wanted to fuck me like this?”
Another thrust of his tongue, firmer this time, slower. You gasp. Try again. “Do you feel how wet I am for you?” He can’t answer. He doesn’t even try. He just groans- long and drawn out and devoted- and keeps going. His tongue sinks deeper, mouth dragging, face flushed and buried, like this is the only thing he’s ever wanted. You’re open for him, shaking under him, and he just keeps fucking you- tongue pushing in, lips catching on your clit, hands gripping tighter now, holding you open like he needs to feel you fall apart around his mouth. His hips rock subtly into the mattress, like even his body can’t take it anymore, like he’s getting off just from the sounds you make. And still- he doesn’t stop. He holds your panties aside with a hand that’s almost trembling, rubs softly against his sheets, and fucks you with his tongue like he’d die if you told him to stop. Thighs start to squeeze his head instinctively, body responding to how he’s thrusting and moving his tongue in your cunt; he also does it fast. Switching from shoving inside and sucking it.
You like how steady his mouth is and how devoted he is to what he’s doing and how fucking real this feels now. Sounds were released and made by him when you do it, not because he’s overwhelmed but because this is exactly what he wanted. He’s proving that with how his fingers dig into your hips to keep you down in place while his tongue is still licking, slower now, deeper at your entrance. And then he sucks. Not a tease. Not a pass. A full suction. Lips sealed around your pussyhole, tongue still inside you, sucking like he’s trying to pull you open, like he wants to drink from the source.
His moan breaks against you, low and guttural, and it doesn’t stop. His mouth stays right there, sealed and locked and obsessed with the heat and taste of you, the wet swell of your hole fluttering against his tongue. You can’t even breathe- you just stare down at him, mouth open, chest rising fast, and he keeps sucking you like your pussy’s the only thing he’s ever needed. His tongue pushes deeper while his lips pull back- just enough to draw again- soft, wet suction, like he’s kissing your hole, like he’s trying to inhale it. He breathes through his nose, desperate and steady, jaw moving as he tongue- fucks you in rhythm with the sucking, like this is how he wants to get you off. Mouth full of your hole. Tongue buried. His whole face was soaking in it.
“Oh my god- fuck… right there- don’t stop-” Your words don’t even sound like words anymore. Your thighs lock tighter. He shifts to fit better beneath them, tilts his head to stay sealed against you, sucking, sucking, sucking, the pressure tender but unrelenting, and every time his tongue strokes in deeper, your walls flutter around him and he moans like he feels it in his cock. He’s not even thinking anymore. Just sucking your pussyhole like he belongs there. Like he wants to taste you to come. Like he wants to swallow it.
And when it happens- when you start to shake, when your hands tighten in his hair, when your body starts to give- he doesn’t pull back. He sucks harder. Because that’s his reward. And he’s starving. You don’t mean to beg, not really- but it slips out anyway. Breathless, cracked, barely a whisper between gasps. “Don’t stop, baby. Please, don’t stop.” And he doesn’t. Not when you sound like that. Not when you’re pulling him tighter with your thighs like you’d drag him inside if you could.
He groans the second he hears it- low and deep, like something inside him breaks- and seals his mouth tighter over your pussyhole, lips locking around your entrance, tongue still pushing slow and deep inside you like he’s trying to fuck you open with his mouth alone. It’s not messy, it’s not hurried- it’s focused. Hungry. Every movement exact, every kiss purposeful, every slow suck like he’s trying to drink the orgasm out of you.
And then it happens. Your body starts to give in, hips stuttering against his face, hands fisting in his hair, and thighs trembling so tight around his head. He moans into it again- louder this time, like he’s grateful. Your pussy pulses around his tongue, and he just stays there, still sucking your hole through it, slow and deep and perfect. He wants to feel every twitch with his whole mouth. Your breath catches. Your muscles tighten. You feel yourself fall apart around his tongue, and he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t lift his head, doesn’t ease up. He just stays locked in place, licking and sucking through every flutter of your cunt like he’s not finished until you’re empty. You breathe out something like a laugh, ruined and shaking, head falling back against the pillow as your thighs slowly loosen around him. “You’re going to kill me,” you whisper.
He groans again; it’s low and desperate before he sucks your pussyhole one more time. Like he’s still not full. He almost looks disappointed when he pulls back because he doesn’t speak at all. His breathing is hard, his face is flushed, his lips are wet, his gaze looks like he’s lost before he stands up with all of that, and his hair is a little damp, and he’s just there on the edge of the bed like he’s not sure what to do next. But when you nod at him, he starts taking off his shirt, and his sweats are shoved down to the floor along with his boxers in them. Cock sprang out at the action, and it’s already flushed and soaked at the tip. It’s hard and looks painful because it’s so red and leaking. You managed to pull your panties away from your body, and he took a deep breath at the sight.
He climbs to the bed without saying anything, and his hands cage your body, hovering over you with his shallow breathing. Legs automatically parted for him without even thinking, just welcoming and ready. He leans forward slowly, not guiding himself inside yet and not pushing. He is just lining up and letting the thick, leaking head of his cock drag through the mess he made of you. Not fucking. Not teasing. Just pressing himself along your slit like he needs the friction just to stay alive.
His hips rock gently, slow and unsteady, and his cock slides wetly between your folds- bare, deliberate glides that catch on your clit just enough to make him shiver. He didn’t even look at you; he just buried his face in your neck the moment his cock made contact with your pussy. Breath hot against your skin, and his voice could pass as a whisper, how low or shy he sounds when he’s fucked up and speaking through the strain stuck in his throat. “Fuck- I don’t- I can’t… this is-”
He doesn’t finish. Just hides there, panting, letting the length of his cock rub again and again against your pussy like he’s afraid to go further, like this alone might undo him. You feel the tip drag up over your clit and down again, slick and thick and so careful, like he’s savoring every inch of pressure he gets without fully slipping inside. You smile into his hair, fingers running down his back, soft and slow, as you press your lips to his temple. “You feel so good,” you murmur, barely above a whisper. “You’re okay, baby.”
He lets out a sound that isn’t quite a moan, hips stuttering, forehead pressed to your shoulder like he needs to hide from how much he feels. His cock drags down again- thick and hot and heavy- grinding softly against your clit until your breath hitches. “You’re shy now?” You tease, you say gently, still breathless, still smiling. “After everything you just did to me?” He laughs, but it’s ruined- broken into your neck, quiet and trembling- and he just keeps moving. Not pushing in. Not yet. Just rubbing slowly, back and forth, dragging the head through your folds like he’s trying to memorize what it feels like to be this close. Like, this is the whole thing. Like you’re already enough.
And all you can do is hold him. Let him rut into your cunt like you’re his first and last. Let him feel it. Because he’s not fucking yet. He’s falling. You shift under him, just enough to let your hips tilt and your thighs open wider, guiding him in closer with the softest squeeze of your legs. His cock slides through your slickness as if it belongs there, thick and hot and already flushed deep, the tip catching at your entrance before gliding back up to your clit again- slow, shaky, almost desperate. Breath shaky against your skin, warm and making you shiver. Your neck could feel how he’s shaking and the way his arms get tense on either side of your body like he’s holding back from being fucked up completely.
“Put it in,” you tell him, commanding even. Your lips brushed against his ear when you told him that. “I want you.” But he doesn’t move. Not in the way you expect. He doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t look at you. He just thrusts forward again, dragging himself through your folds like he can’t stop, like he’s too far gone to do anything else. His face stays hidden in your neck, lips parted, breath catching as his cock glides through your slick with slow, shaky pressure.
“I-I can’t,” he whispers, and it breaks right out of him, raw and low. “Your thighs…” He grunts against your skin with his hips twitching and the head of his cock sliding between your wet slit every time he rocks forward, but it’s slower this time. He’s trying to feel every skin and shape with each thrust while his whole body trembles above you, yet he still keeps going. He keeps rubbing his cock between your folds, enjoying the press and drag again and again.
“They’re so soft,” he breathes, voice shaking. “You’re so warm- I can’t think- fuck, you feel too good…” Each glide is heavier than the last. His cock pulses every time he passes over your clit, and still, he doesn’t lift his head. He just stays there, breath stuttering, mouth hot against your throat as he keeps rutting into you like your thighs are going to make him come. But he feels overwhelmed and flushed over you regardless of how he stays still but loses and goes crazy about how you feel.
“Just- just a little more,” he says, but it’s not really towards you but to himself, as if he’s trying to justify how his cock keeps chasing the friction you can give to him. “Just… like this. Just a little longer…” You can feel it- the way his cock slips and stutters along your entrance, how your pussy clenches around nothing with every pass, and how his whole body’s begging for you to pull him in. But he won’t do it until you ask again. Or until you guide him. Because right now? He’s too deep in it. Too shy to look at you. Too obsessed with your thighs. Too gone to stop.
He keeps rutting between your folds, cock dragging slowly and soaked through your slick, trembling above you like he’s trying so hard to stay composed, but his body’s already begging. His breath breaks into your skin, face still tucked into your neck like he can’t look at you, like he’s too shy to see what he’s doing to you. The tip of his cock catches against your clit and then slides down again, dragging over your entrance in a slow, sticky glide that makes you ache- and still, he doesn’t push in. He just keeps rocking, lost, murmuring into your throat like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.
“Feels so good… I can’t- fuck your thighs- your pussy is so…” It’s too much for him. So you help. You reach between your bodies without saying anything; your hand is steady and slow before your fingers wrap around the base of his cock. You feel him twitch and shudder the second you make contact with it, and there’s also a breathless gasp muffled into your shoulder while you guide him down. Not forceful. Not demanding. Just be careful. Sweet. Like you’re lining up a child’s spoon to their mouth. Like he needs help eating.
“Shhh,” you whisper, hand soft over his cock, guiding the head back to your entrance. “Let me, baby. I’ve got you,” he whined. He buries deeper into your neck, one hand fisting the sheets, the other slipping under your back like he’s holding on for dear life. And when your pussy flutters as the tip of his cock finally nests right against you, ready to sink in, that’s when you feel everything in him falter.
“You don’t have to think,” you murmur, rocking your hips up just slightly to help. “Just let me do it for you.” He nods. It’s tiny and slow, and he follows your hand. And then he pushes. Just an inch. Then another. That made him moan. Loud, desperate, shaking. The sound breaks into your throat, echoing into your skin like he’s never felt anything like it before, like it’s too much, like you’re too much, like being inside you might kill him.
But you just hold him there. Your hand was still wrapped around the base of his cock, and your other arm was around his back. Keeping him close as his body sinks slowly into yours like this is how he learns what love feels like. And when he bottoms out, trembling and silent, stuffed full into the wet heat of you. Then you feel him fall apart- without moving.
Just shaking, moaning, hiding, and finally… finally inside. He doesn’t move at first. Just stays there, buried as deep as he can go. His cock is thick and warm and pulsing inside you like he’s been waiting his whole life to fit somewhere like this. His face is hidden in your neck with his breath shaking, skin damp. The rest of his body feels like it’s trying to remember how to exist. He isn’t tense- he’s soft all over, like just being inside you has taken something out of him. You hold the back of his head as his hips stay still. His full weight is against you as his chest presses to yours, and you don’t rush him. You just let him feel it and let him just take his moment there.
“You did so good,” you praise him like your breath almost catches. You make sure your voice sounds soft against his ear with your hand still cradling him like he’s some precious diamond that might fall apart and break if you stopped holding him. “You’re doing so good, baby.” He exhales like it hurts to hear that. A sound low in his throat, muffled by your skin, but real. His fingers push deeper to the point his nails dig into your waist, but not painfully enough to leave a bruise, just enough to grip you like you are the only one grounding him. You could feel the tremble run through his system before he said something again.
“Thank you,” he mutters before repeating the same words again and again like he can’t just stop himself, “Thank you- f-fuck, thank you-” Your lips touch his hair and hum while you let him keep hiding there. Let him fall apart gently, slowly, and all the way inside you. He’s so deep. You can feel every twitch of his cock that makes your breath catch, but he’s still not moving- just holding. Just staying. And when your hips shift up ever so slightly, when your walls flutter around him from just the weight of it, he moans. It’s not loud. It’s not showy. It’s helpless.
“Feels good, baby?” you ask him. It’s like you are rocking him in your arms, the way your words are warm and slow. When he nods, it makes you smile, and it’s so endearing how he still presses into your throat like he’s not ready to do that yet because he might cum quickly. “So good,” he whispers. “You’re so warm. I didn’t know- I didn’t know it could feel like this.” He starts to move. Not much. Just a slow roll of his hips, the tiniest drag of his cock inside you, but it’s enough to make both of you gasp. He does it again, just a little deeper, and you tighten your arm around him like he’s about to slip through you.
“That’s it,” you murmur. “You’re doing so well. You feel so good inside me, baby.” He breathes something that isn’t even a word- just a noise, a broken sound caught halfway between a moan and a prayer- and rocks into you again. Slow. Careful. So present it aches. And still, he thanks you. “Thank you,” he murmurs again. “I want to make you feel good. I just want to make you come. I just want to be good.”
“You are,” you assure him, brushing your lips against his temple. “You are. You’re so good. You’re perfect, baby.” He makes another sound into your neck, and it’s almost a sob but soft. Grateful. His cock pulses as he starts to move a little more, hips finding rhythm, but it’s slow and shallow, like he wants to make love to you with every inch he has.
And the whole time, you hold him like he’s yours. Because he is. The moment you let him inside your world, you consider him yours. You know he’s not just fucking and pushing his cock inside of you. You know he’s thanking you for letting him be here, and it’s not hard to pick up by the way he’s acting. He figured out how you like the rhythm, and he has this attitude where he wants to please people, so he wants to match it. There’s something gentle in the way he moves. It’s still restricted because, you know, he’s shy in the way you can feel it, like he’s not certain if he’s allowed to want you this much as he does. His hips rolled, and he thrust smoothly and deeply. You can feel each stroke of his cock; it’s enough to make your back arch into him and moan your lungs out to show him that you like it.
He responded with the way he holds you, like he’s asking for something, but not with words. With his whole body. With the way he keeps you wrapped up. The way he trembles. He doesn’t pull back to look at you. He stays close, mouth brushing your cheek, breath caught in his throat as he starts to move a little deeper. His cock slowly thrusts inside of you. You can feel its thickness and size filling you up, and you can feel it every time he pushes it inside. His voice is shaky and low. “Does that feel good?” And then he asks another, but it’s barely louder than a breath. Thankfully, you are skin to skin, so you heard it: “Am I doing it right?” You gasp, clenching around him, hands sliding down his back to hold him closer, and you nod into his skin as you whisper,
“Yes, baby. So good. You fuck me so good.” That breaks something open in him. It’s like your praises are fucking him up but not in a loud way. It shows the way his hips stutter every time he hears it, as your words land exactly and hit what he wants to hear. His cock goes deeper, if that’s even possible, but it kisses your cervix because the angle is just right. It earns a low groan from him before he thrusts another again and repeats what he did. One of his hands remains beneath your lower back while the other is resting at your waist. Both hands holding you gently and firmly at the same time to anchor himself to your body.
“S-shit. You’re so tight,” he mutters when he feels you clench around him, and he doesn’t even care if he doesn’t sound in control anymore. “Feels like you’re pulling me in.” It’s obvious how he’s trying hard to keep everything under control and slow, to make everything last, and how he wants to stay in the moment. Every thrust is deep, full, and intentional. There’s no rush. Just this overwhelming need to stay connected, to do it right, to make you feel everything he’s too shy to say out loud. He lets out a shaky breath, and then- “Can I go a little harder?” It comes out hesitant, like he’s asking permission for something he already aches for.
He doesn’t move until you give it. “Yes, baby,” you breathe, tilting your hips for him. “Take what you need. I’ve got you.” He moans into your skin and starts again, but this time with a little more pressure behind each thrust of his hips. Not fast. Not rough. But with more rhythm and not sloppy. His cock pushes in and out of you with steady movements before he kisses your jaw down to your neck like he’s dreaming and can’t believe that you let him do this. “I love how you feel- p-please- mhngh-” he moans out softly even though he’s not really starting yet, and his words feel dreamy. “I love being inside you. I love how you wrap around me…”
How he moans, how he breaks, how he twitches, and how his movements stutter just drive you to purposely squeeze him tighter just to earn another sound from him, and his body even reacts. He’s so fucked out already, and you don’t even care at this point if you will cum or not because just watching the way he thrusts, the way his breath catches, and the way his cock stays inside like he never wants to leave is enough for you just to get pleasure out of it.
You can even feel how close he’s getting, but he’s still holding it. There’s already tension bubbling through his stomach and the shake that traveled down to his thighs, and how his hips twitch when your pussy grips around him. But he doesn’t let go. Not yet. Not until you tell him. Because even now, even while he’s fucking you perfectly, filling you completely, thrusting deep and soft and full like he’s learning what devotion feels like, he still needs your voice to carry him through.
He continues to rock and move inside you. His hips rolling with a slow but focused rhythm and his cock dragging deeper with each roll of his hips. It’s like his cock has already imprinted the shape of him inside of your pussy by now, and he certainly knows your body now too. He’s hitting the right angle, how to press it right, and how to stay deep like he’s cock-warming from your pussy for a few moments before he pulls out and pushes again. And you moan just from the stretch alone he’s giving you. Warm breath stays against your throat, and arms hold you carefully as his pace gets faster and heavier.
Then he pulls back a little, just enough to see you better. His eyes flick down, lips parted like he’s been thinking about it this whole time, and his hands slip to the front of the hoodie still wrapped around your body. His hoodie. It’s yanked up halfway and damp with sweat, and he can see how your shirt underneath is still clinging to your skin. Lips found your jaw as his hands pushed up the hoodie from your body more, and it exposed the shape of your body underneath. He takes his time with it and doesn’t rush even though he’s already inside of you. It’s like taking it off his intimate area and resting his cock there in your pussy.
It doesn’t take long before his fingers find the hem of your shirt after your hoodie. He pushes it up too, but inch by inch until it’s bunched above your bra and shows the swell of your chest. He also slides that up too, just enough to let go of your chest and show your nipples to him. His palms cup your tits while he continues to fuck you. And when he sees them- when his thumbs brush over your nipples, and your back arches into his touch- he groans. “God, fuck- look at you…” His voice is unsteady and cracking.
His head lowers, and his mouth is warm against your chest, just hovering above it while he’s still inside of you and still moving. Besides your thighs and ass, your tits are also the ones that always caught his attention, so he’s not forgetting about them today, of course. So he drags his hips forward and deeper and pulls out just enough until it reaches close to the head of his cock while he gropes your tits like he’s been dreaming about it. Hands are big and a little clumsy because of the eagerness to touch them, but he’s also starved for it, so his thumbs keep brushing back and forth. His fingers are curling and gripping under the swell as he continues squeezing it softly like a stress ball, and he wants to feel every part of you in every way he can.
His cock doesn’t stop moving inside of you; he keeps thrusting and pressing, but the difference is he’s watching you now. Eyes on your breasts and how they bounce with every roll of his hips. He likes the way your lips part or how you bite your bottom lip. And he loves the way your legs wrap around his body to pull him deeper and lock him in. “You’re perfect,” he compliments you, voice low but obviously sounding like he’s already pussy-whipped. “So fucking perfect,” he adds before he leans in again and his mouth latches onto your right chest. His tongue licks softly around your breast before he starts sucking your nipple and licking it as he does so. Each suckling earns a groan from him, and it's also because of how your pussy clenches more around him when he starts doing that. And even then- even inside you, even shaking- his hands stay soft.
Because he’s not just fucking you. He’s worshipping. And he wants all of you in his hands. He continues moving inside of you, liking how deliciously his cock drags deep with each thrust and how his mouth is hot on your nipple and wrapped around it like it’s the only thing that keeps him sane. Hips rolling with focused and steady movements, and each thrust was thick and heavy. It presses right into your cervix while everything about what he’s doing feels careful… gentle… attentive… grateful. He’s the kind of boy who knows how to fuck but still puts the person’s pleasure above his and still listens with his whole body, and right now? He’s waiting for you to tell him he’s doing it right.
And then it happens. One thrust lands just a little harder, hips catching the curve of your ass at just the right angle, and the sound it makes- wet and full and sharp- claps. It echoes. He freezes. Just for a second. Like he wasn’t expecting it to sound that loud. Like he didn’t realize how noisy it could be. And then your pussy clenches around him- tight and needy- and your ass jiggles against his hips as he rocks back in..His breath breaks on your neck. And then he groans. “Oh my god-” And he does it again. Another thrust. Deeper. Harder. Just to hear that sound again. Clap. Clap. Clap. The slap of skin-on-skin, the way your ass bounces into him with every push- it wrecks him.
He starts moving faster, hips snapping forward with a rhythm that’s still tender but filthy underneath, all guided by the sound of your body against his. “Fuck- your ass- shit- it’s so- god-” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Just moans into your chest and keeps fucking you, deep and steady, and clap clap clap with every stroke, the rhythm filling the room like he’s addicted to it. His hands slide down to grab the curve of it now, fingers digging in, guiding you into him, watching the way it moves, feeling the way your pussy pulls him in tighter with every sound.
“Feels so good- feels so fucking good- you’re so soft- can’t stop- want to keep watching it- please-” He’s moaning into your skin now, sucking at your tits between each thrust, fucking you harder but still holding you like you’re precious. Like you’re his. His cock presses deep and thick inside you, your body bouncing into his hips over and over, the wet slap making his hips twitch like it’s too much and still not enough. “Thank you- thank you- your pussy’s so warm- I don’t want to come yet- I’m trying- fuck- I’m trying to be good-” And he is. Even now- slamming into you harder with every clap of your ass, breath breaking against your collarbone- he’s still trying to hold back. Still waiting. Still need you to say it’s okay. Because he won’t come until you tell him to. Because you own him now.
Hands travel up to his chest without thinking; it’s warm and steady. Your hand stays there while the other rests on his jaw, and fingers curl around his jaw while his hips move deep. Wet skin slapping against each other echoes in the room, and you guide his face up until his eyes meet yours. He looks completely fucked out when you take a look at him; his eyes are glassy, his lips are parted, and his brows are knit closely as if he’s going to cry because you hold him like that. He’s still moving inside you, slow but hard, cock dragging deep as his breath catches, hips twitching like he’s trying not to fall apart with every thrust. “I-” he gasps, voice already breaking. “I need it… I need your pussy… please…” It’s barely a sentence. Just a tangle of want and panic slipping past his lips like he thinks you might take it away.
And it doesn’t even make sense- he’s already inside you, fucking you so deep your toes curl, the clap of his hips against your ass echoing through the room- but he still asks like he hasn’t earned it. Like he needs permission to feel this good. You tighten your grip on his face, cradling his jaw with both hands, not rough- just firm, grounding. Like you’re keeping him here. Like you want him to feel it. “You’ve got it, baby,” you whisper, voice warm, steady, and made for him. “You’re inside me. You’ve been inside me this whole time.” His eyes flutter shut while he shudders at your words. It took him some moments before he looked at you again, eyes so beautiful and blue, wide, and lashes standing out, the corner of his eyes tearing a little, and he looked like he was not even in the moment and so gone.
Thrust grows faster, deeper, and heavier. His hips snap into your body with a deeper rhythm of his movement. It’s like your words trigger something and unlock the reason for him to let go. It’s not like this with other girls; he’s not this messy. He’s not the one being fucked up. But when it comes to you, he couldn’t just help to press closer and mouth your jaw like he’s some kind of person who’s afraid of distance. Hands grips your hips tighter to keep himself together, but he’s not succeeding with that plan either. “I love your pussy,” he dumbly says, not even realizing what he’s saying. “I love how it feels- I love how it holds me- I don’t want to stop- please let me-” His words got cut off with a whine when you shut him up with a kiss, and it’s slow and deep. Lips sliding together as your thighs wrap tighter around his waist to suffocate and make him closer to you.
You rock up to welcome and meet each thrust he’s doing. His whole body is shaking and trembling now, but you enjoy every thrust he gives because it’s making your pussy flutter even more, and you clench so tight that his cock can barely breathe. He’s pulling back enough so he can rest his forehead against yours. He can’t even form a proper sentence with the way his breath is hitching and voice is shaking: “Please… I’m gonna come. I can’t- I can’t hold it- can I come inside? Please- please tell me I can…” And he means it. Not just the words. Not just the ask. He’s eager for your permission, and it shows in the way he says it and looks at you while he begs. He’s asking for trust. For you. And you owe him.
Your hands are still on his face, thumbs brushing just beneath his eyes as his hips move, slow but firm, cock dragging deep with every thrust like he’s scared to stop. His face is hot and red, soaked with sweat, and his eyes are closing from the pleasure, but it still looks like he’s pleading for something. He’s completely gone. You know he’s closer than before because his hips falter and get more sloppy, and his grip on your body tightens like he needs something to hold. His moans soften and break into little sounds that make you crazy inside when you feel his hot breath on your neck and hear it so close.
Pussy squeezes and clenches around him. It’s tight and unintentional; it goes quickly to his system, and he gasps, hips jerking, and cock twitches deep inside your cunt. Eyes open quickly and find yours again. It’s teary, wide, and desperate. That made you lean in, pressing a kiss to his cheek before you spoke against it. The voice sounded so sweet and tender, teasing him. “Inside or outside, baby?” The question is messing with his head. He takes a deep breath like it hurts just to think which option is the best, but pulling out and busting it in your stomach is the option he likes the least.
He nods even though the question does not require a yes or no answer; his body shudders, and he’s literally a wreck, like he’s about to cry when he starts speaking, “Inside. Please. Inside- please, please.” Your smile is soft, nearly cruel in how sweet it sounds when you murmur back, “You want a creampie, baby?” And that’s all it takes. He whines into your skin, shuddering as his hips stutter, cock throbbing at the edge. Forehead pressed to yours when his head falls forward like he needs to make contact and can’t hold himself together unless he feels you right there keeping him from fucking up more. “Please let me- please- I want to come inside- I want to feel it- I want to fill you up.”
“Are you going to come for me?” you whisper, voice just above a breath. “Gonna fill me up just like that?” He nods again- frantic now, voice trembling as he moans against your mouth. “I need to- fuck- please- I’m trying- I need you-” And you don’t make him wait. You wrap your legs tighter around him, pull him closer, your lips right against his ear as you breathe it out. “Come for me, baby. Fill me up.” And he does. Right then. His whole body jerks, hips slamming forward as his cock throbs inside you, thick spurts spilling deep, soaking you with everything he’s been holding in. He moans into your neck, long and low, shaking as he presses as deep as he can go, whispering over and over, “Thank you, thank you, thank you-” You don’t even realize you’re close until his voice breaks again. Until he whispers ‘Thank you’, like it’s all he knows how to say, his cock throbbing deep inside you, hips stuttering like he’s holding back tears.
And then it crashes all at once- the tight clench of your pussy around him, the ache deep in your belly, your thighs locked around his hips as your orgasm gushes out of you, hard and wet and so full. His voice barely held together. His body was trembling. Your pussy clenches around him as he comes so hard he whimpers. And still- he doesn’t let go of you. Doesn’t stop kissing your cheek, your jaw, or your shoulder. Because you let him have it. Because he asked and you said yes. Because he’ll never want anything else again. He gasps like you just pulled the air out of his lungs, crying out as his cock jerks inside you, spurting hard, filling you, pushing so deep it feels like he’s trying to live inside your body.
And then he collapses. Not away. Not off. But forward. Into you. Face buried between your tits before he groans. His breath is warm against it, and his lips are parted and wet like he’s drooling as he stays there like it’s a safe haven. “Thank you,” he whines, his voice sounding so small and his breath shaking when he says that. “Thank you- fuck- thank you.” You cradle his head gently, your fingers running through his damp curls, your body still fluttering around him as he keeps thrusting- small, slow, aftershock rolls, messy and deep and needy. And then his lips find your nipple again. He sucks. Slow. Soft. Like a baby. Like he needs it. Like it soothes him. His mouth wraps around you, tongue moving gently, cock still twitching inside you, still leaking into your cunt while he moans low and broken.
“Feels so good,” he whispers against your skin, suckling like he can’t stop. “You feel so good- so warm- I don’t want to leave-” His hips rock forward again- shallow, weak little thrusts- as more comes spilling out of him, slippery and wet between your thighs, your bodies pressed so close there’s no space left for anything else. Just his mouth on your tits. His cock is still inside you. His voice said thank you like you saved his life.
And you did. Maybe at some point you do, but God, he feels so blessed right now. His hips continue to move and keep thrusting through it even if it's slowly, weakly, and sloppily. He just doesn’t know how to stop because his cock keeps pulsing before he gives one last slam of his cock inside before he can feel it thick, hot, and pull and settle inside. It feels good and makes your clench and clit pulse. His breath stutters against your chest before he slows down. The pace falters. The tension in his thighs gives way. His moans soften into sighs.
And he drops. Full weight. Skin to skin. Still inside. His body settles into yours like he’s finally come home. Like he belongs there. His chest presses to your breasts, sticky and flushed, his cheek against your skin, and he doesn’t move. Except his mouth. He keeps sucking your nipple- soft now, slower, not even for arousal anymore. Just comfort. Just closeness. Lips parting around you like he’s calmed by the shape of your chest in his mouth, and you just let his tongue brush lazily on your skin. Let his cock twitch and soften while he’s buried inside. Let him, even if it’s heavy, thick, warm, and wet from the mixed cum from both of you.
He groans quietly, like he knows he should pull out but can’t. “Don’t- don’t make me leave,” he murmurs, voice thick and dazed, breath spreading across your chest. “Wanna stay right here…” You hum and pet through his hair, your fingers gentle along the nape of his neck, and he melts. All over again. Just drips down into you like he’s yours now. Like he always was. He shifts once- barely- just to press his body closer, thighs flush against yours, sticky warmth seeping between you where he came so hard it spilled out. “Feels so good,” he whispers. “Feels so safe. Just let me… just like this…” And his mouth stays there. Still suckling like you’re his. Still there inside of you, just cock-warming, and he’s acting like he can’t bear to pull out.
So you let him, and you stroke his hair while his breathing starts to calm down and slow. You could feel the tension ease from his shoulders, system, arms, spine, and whole body. He slowly sinks into yours, naked and warm. Liking the way you both warm each other and how he stays inside you even though it’s softened now, thick and heavy and resting where he emptied himself, warm come leaking around him, between your thighs, seeping into the sheets- but he doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t even try. Just continuing to suckle at your nipple despite his mouth slackening a little, but he feels more hungry. His mouth parted softly, and it lulled him deeper into your chest like it’s not even about sex anymore.
It’s about comfort. About staying. About being allowed to have this. You feel him sigh against your skin- long and low- and then he mumbles something that barely makes it past your skin. “Don’t move… I want to sleep like this…” You smile into his hair, wrapping your arms tighter around him, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Okay,” you whisper. “Stay right here, baby. I’ve got you.” He hums contentedly, dazed, so sweetly tired. His mouth doesn’t move and stays in the same place. It’s latched gently while his cock also rests inside of you despite how it’s softening because he loves having you around him like it belongs there.
He also feels a sense of possessiveness as he does this because he feels like you were made to keep him warm. And he falls asleep like that. Breathing against your chest. Held in your arms. Loved in the deepest, wettest, and fullest way. Still inside. Still touching. Still yours. You close your eyes, one hand stroking his back, the other holding his head to your breast, and let him rest. Because you know. He’s not going anywhere. He can’t. Because you’re his home now. And he never wants to leave.
heated rivalry but instead of hockey it’s tennis and the opponents are tashi and reader. . .
tashi duncan x fem!reader
you and tashi play a long and brutal game at the US open, one that ultimately ends with her as the winner. not surprising.
when tashi gets her trophy, the paparazzi urge you to take a photo with her, and you do—but only because your publicist was in your ear about how it’ll help your image.
you stand next to her, her large silver cup outshining your smaller replica.
tashi keeps a humble smile plastered on her lips while you don’t bother to flash the cameras the slightest hint of enthusiasm.
“ladies, over here!”
“can we get a smile for the picture?”
“do you ladies think this was a fair match?”
“let us see the trophies!”
“will there be a rematch?”
both of you ignore the questions and comments and continue to pose for the photos, before it’s finally time to head out.
in the public eye, you two can barely acknowledge the other’s presence.
but behind closed doors…
a sequence of curses leave your mouth as tashi moves her hips back and forth, her slick cunt grinding against yours.
“someone mad they didn’t win today?” she remarks, the bed creaking faintly with every action.
“i… i wasn’t—i’m not,” you breathe out, your hands tightening around the bedsheets.
“didn’t seem like it.”
tashi straddles one of your legs, her knees on either side of you, while your other is perched up against her chest, her slender fingers surrounding your calf.
she angles her hips a bit more to the right, causing her clit to rub right on yours.
“oh fuck… i’m gonna come if you keep doing that,” you tell her, a moan escaping your throat.
“let me feel your pussy come on mine.” she presses a light kiss to your ankle and increases the speed in her pace.
“oh my god, oh my god, oh my god… shit!” it isn’t long before you’re squirming beneath tashi’s touch, feeling your stomach tense up as you ride out your orgasm.
tashi experiences the same thing as you, a small gasp leaving her lips at the pleasure.
her chest heaves up and down as she slowly comes down from her climax. “holy fuck,” she mutters.
she stays straddling your leg for a quick moment, letting herself regain her composure, before gently putting your leg down and climbing off.
she slumps down next to you, raising her forearm to rest atop her forehead. “seriously though—you mad?” she asks, turning to look at you.
a sigh leaves your lips. “alright, maybe a little. i mean, it’s the us open—anybody would be annoyed about losing,” you murmur.
tashi’s lips quirk up at your response. “fine.” she shifts her body so that she’s propped up on her side.
she presses a slow kiss to your lips. “let me make it up to you.” her hand finds its way to your thigh, giving the supple flesh a soft squeeze.
thought of this randomly and just had to write it out
steel scuffed and dulled from years of use. mud dried along the hem of his cloak, straw and ash clinging where he knelt beside campfires. leather gloves cracked at the knuckles. sun-warmed metal and oiled steel. scars hidden beneath chainmail, one pale line along his jaw. hair always a little unruly from helmets pulled on and off. smells like smoke, horse sweat, and clean linen. careful with you like he’s touching something sacred.
kneels before you. sharpens his blade at dawn while the castle still sleeps. hums old marching songs under his breath. leaves his sword by your door at night, not out of protocol but trust. keeps a strip of your ribbon tied around his wrist, hidden beneath leather and steel. armor set neatly at the foot of his bed, cloak folded with military precision. waits outside your chambers until sunrise. a knight who loves quietly, fiercely—like a vow never meant to be spoken.
SIR PATRICK ZWEIG, personal Knight of the Crowded Royal.
title: knight of the inner guard / royal shield.
sigil: a black hound on a silver field (loyalty without rest is their mantra).
weapon of choice: longsword and rondel dagger.
soldier, poet, king (by the oh hellos).
Patrick Zweig was raised in the shadow of the palace walls.
His father, Sir Zweig, was sworn sword to the reigning monarch; a knight trusted not just with protection, but discretion. Because of that, Patrick grew up alongside royalty!reader in ways no other noble child did: shared lessons, shared corridors, stolen afternoons in the gardens where titles were forgotten.
To Patrick, it was simple: he would become a knight and he would serve the crown. And one day, somehow, inevitably, he would marry you.
No one corrected him about it. Not when he trained beside you under the same masters, not when he stood beside you during festivals, mistaken for a future consort and surely not when he learned courtly manners meant for someone who might one day sit at their side.
But the truth came later, and quietly: you had had been betrothed since childhood; not out of love, but alliance, to a distant prince who would one day become King.
Patrick never confronted you about it, he never asked why he hadn’t been told and never allowed himself the humiliation of hope turning public. Instead, he did the only thing that felt survivable.
He swore himself to you. He'd become your Knight and protect you closely if he couldn't love you.
knight!patrick… never stopped imagining a future that was quietly taken from him. he doesn’t resent you for it; not even for a moment—but sometimes, late at night, he lets himself wonder who he would’ve been if he’d been allowed to hope out loud.
knight!patrick… is devastatingly good at his job. anticipates danger before it arrives, memorizes escape routes in every hall, positions himself between you and everyone else without thinking. other knights trust him with their lives.
knight!patrick… wakes before dawn without an alarm. years of training burned it into him. even on rare days off, his body rises with the light, and he lies there for a moment listening to the world breathe before putting his boots on.
knight!patrick… has a horse named Bran, a dark, steady gelding with a calm temperament and a stubborn streak. patrick talks to him like an equal, low and quiet. brushes him every evening if he can.
knight!patrick… chose to be your personal knight because distance would’ve broken him faster than proximity ever could. he tells himself it’s duty, honor, tradition; but the truth is, he needs to know you are breathing, safe, and alive.
knight!patrick… dislikes crowded feasts and loud halls. he eats simply: bread, stew, fruit when it’s in season. doesn’t drink much, but enjoys warm ale on cold nights. he hates wasting food; old habits from campaign life.
best paired with royalty!reader : opposite to king!art.
standford!art having a huge crush on the women's volleyball team captain with plump thighs, soft and curvy in all the best places who giggles and makes fun of his stuttering when he tries to talk to her and when he finally gets her in hes bed he doesnt even know what to do with all that 🍑😛
CAPTAIN’S ORDER
summary: Art just got dragged to watch the women’s volleyball team practice and he didn’t expect to see you. Didn’t expect to keep showing up like it wasn’t obvious. Keeps telling himself he’s just supporting the university, which is bullshit, because his eyes stay locked on your thighs every time you move. And when you look at him? Game over.
pairings: stanford!art donaldson x vball captain!reader
warnings: 13.9k words. mature themes. unprotected p in v. cunnilingus. tongue fucking. creampie. cockwarming. dacryphilia. overstimulation. praise kink. breast play (sucking/groping). semi-public teasing. implied somnophilia. light d/s dynamic. read responsibly.
note: another ask that’s been sitting in my inbox for over a month but never forgotten. i hope this fic brings to life exactly what you were imagining when you sent it in, anon, because when art finally gets between reader’s thighs, he really does cry about it.
It starts with your thighs. Thick, strong, impossible not to stare at. He doesn’t even mean to stare. But it’s the kind that flexes when you move and bounces when you laugh. Most of the time, it’s half-visible beneath shorts that never quite stay put when you play. He wasn’t even supposed to be there. He’s too tired to go… but his teammates are annoying as hell. So only came because the guys were going. Not because of you. Someone mentioned a late-night volleyball practice and the whole crew was already lacing up. He doesn’t even pay attention to what they are saying when they’re joking like idiots, half-bored and desperate for anything that wasn’t another silent evening in the dorms. Art just shrugged, and dragged himself along. He wasn’t expecting anything. He wasn’t even paying attention.
But then he walked into the gym and saw you. You were on the court, hand braced against your hip, and holding a volleyball like you weren’t even thinking about it. You are barking instructions to your teammates without raising your voice. The authority is there, and he can feel it in his spine. And don’t get started with the shirt you wore because it was damp at the collar, clinging to your lower back, sleeves shoved up past your elbows. Hair is fixed and tied with a scrunchie. Shorts are tight and snug across your hips, it’s hugging your body curves. Pacing along the court lines, pointing to each mistake your team makes, and calling formations like you own the whole goddamn space.
And maybe you did. That- that kind of person does not come easily to other people. Authoritative. Leading. Intimidating. Confident. You didn’t look like you were trying to be impressive. It’s not like he feels threatened, no… he feels like he’s been enchanted, honestly. You weren’t showing off to those eyes who are watching you. Just moving with the kind of natural authority that made it impossible not to watch. Even when you smiled, it was focused- half-distracted, half-mocking. Like you had bigger things on your mind than being stared at. Like you knew they were there and didn’t give a shit. Maybe you don’t, but it doesn’t stop people from watching you. Then you dropped low into a crouch and called for a set, Art thought he might actually forget how to breathe. Or he might have seen God and gone to heaven. Your legs coiled under you, tense and clean and perfect, then released as you sprang up and swung. Damn, look at that… The sound of your spike echoing sharply against the gym walls.
He was already sitting by then- front row of the bleachers with a Gatorade bottle loose in his hand that was warm by now. His hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, still slightly damp from his own practice- but he hadn’t even registered the feeling of it in his skin. He didn’t remember walking over. It’s like the last thing he can remember is being at the tennis court and now he’s in the gym watching you. Didn’t hear whatever dumb thing the guy next to him said. All he could do was watch. Like target locked. He’s like Cupid who can’t let go of someone until he gets them.
He thinks he’s going crazy because he can’t even form clear thoughts when you turn. Jogged a few steps. Adjust your shorts with one hand, your shirt with the other. Glanced up. Just once. Just briefly. But it’s enough to scan the bleachers where half the tennis team sat slouched in their t-shirts, hoodies, or whatever they are wearing, and yeah don’t forget the backward caps as if they’re pretending not to ogle. Your gaze passed right over them- right over him- without slowing. You didn’t wave. Didn’t smile. Didn’t acknowledge a single one of them. But okay, you might stare a little at that blonde boy who looks like he just pissed his pants. His flushed cheeks that can pass like someone slapped him. Cute.
It literally took him three seconds from squashing the bottle he’s holding when he gets a glimpse of you turning your head to their side. You hadn’t even looked at him directly. Might not have seen him at all. Well, that’s what he thought. But it didn’t matter. He could already feel the image sinking under his skin- especially the curve of your ass jiggle when you jump, and the way your thighs moved when you walked back into position. He saved and locked the whole thing into memory like it’s his storage which has a lot of space for it. Just for you. You can’t really blame him, right? He’s just a guy! He’s blonde and maybe he’s also a little dumb when it comes to girls. And… he’s just admiring, that’s all. You have a good… thick… thighs… big… ass… of course, he will appreciate them.
From watching your practice because his teammates forced him turned into a pattern. A routine. It was just supposed to be one time thing, just him sitting there with the guys, pretending he didn’t care, pretending you didn’t fuck him up a little and make a mark in his mind. But then it happened again. And again. A few days later, he just happened to be walking past the gym after eating outside the campus. The next week, he quickly finished his workout at the gym and the doors were open. Eventually, he just started going. Not with the guys. Not with anyone. Just him. Alone in the bleachers. Always in hoodies. He’s just quiet. Just watching the team. He told himself it was nothing. It was relaxing. At some point, it is because it’s not his own practice being watched on, but others. Well, that’s almost the reason. That he liked the pace of the drills, the echo of sneakers on hardwood, the slap of their hands on the ball. He liked studying athletes outside his sport. Which was bullshit. He knows he’s not fooling anyone but himself. Because all he really did was track you on the court. He doesn’t give a fuck about other girls in the court.
Eyes just stuck on you. The way you moved. The way you drink your water. The way you stood when you weren’t thinking about it- hip cocked, one leg bent, hands loose at your sides. The way you glare at your teammates when they do something stupid for multiple times in a row. The way your shorts never quite stayed put when you called plays. The way your shirt clings to your body when you are sweaty. You always looked a little flushed. A little shiny from the sweat. Your thighs flex when bent a little as you wait for the ball. Your ass shifted when you turned. And he watched. Silently. Obsessively. Dumb as hell about it. It’s like he’s having a massive crush on you. He didn’t think anyone noticed. But they did. They just walk up to gang him up and ask why he’s always here. But maybe they notice his attention is always on their captain- always looking at you.
It actually started with small things. One of the middle blockers nudges you during the water break, muttering something under her breath, and both of you snickering behind your bottles. Another girl glanced toward the bleachers while they stretched. The new recruit smirked as you spiked, yelling “someone’s watchingggg you.” And you- you said nothing. Of course you didn’t. You don’t have time for guys. Until one night, when practice was ending, and he was still sitting there, hands folded over his knee, pretending to scroll on his phone even though the screen was black.
You walked straight over him. He looked up too fast when he saw you were already halfway to him. Hair sweaty. Face glowing like a glazed donut. Breath was a little uneven from the last round of drills you did with the girls. Shirt clinging to your back, and shorts hugging every inch of your ass. You looked confident. Effortless. Beautiful. Sexy. Hot. He would suck the shit out of your thighs and bite your ass if you gave him the chance. Because how can he not when you are curvy in the best places he can imagine? It’s proportioned just right. Like it really fits you. You are a girl who knows how to carry it with confidence. He must be in heaven right now because you just stopped in front of him with your hands on your hips and your eyebrows are slightly raised like you are asking him something he doesn’t know. He blinked like he was buffering. He’s thanking all the gods existing for this moment brought to his feet. Thank you. Thank. You.
“I know you,” you said. Your tone is casual. He blinked, too stunned to say anything other than a “Huh?” Why are you talking to him? He’s not prepared. He’s not mentally ready! He looks like shit. It’s not like he doesn’t want you here… but it’s just surprising. He didn’t actually think he would face you like this. “You’re a player too,” you added and cocking your head like you were already teasing him. “I-uh. Tennis,” he stuttered, nodding too fast. You chuckle. God, it was unfair how easy it sounded. “Thought I recognized you. You’ve been watching practice for days, right?”
He hesitated. Maybe it’s been weeks already but you are just being a kid by just saying days as if he only watches you for three days and not longer. “No-I mean-I just happened to be” He can’t even form a proper sentence and he’s stuttering like a fucking kid who’s in front of his whole class for the first time. “Mmhm.” You took a half-step closer. “You’re cute when you lie.” His face burned. Oh, shit. Please, is he already blushing just because you said he’s cute? Anyone, save him.
He dropped his eyes to your shoes like they could save him. You smiled like you’d already won. “You coming next week?” He nodded. Then panicked. “I mean- if you don’t mind.” Saying this only to make him not look like he’s too eager to come next week and see you again. “I don’t,” you said. “See you, tennis boy.” After making him stutter and blush you just walk back to your team with the same confident sway he’d been watching for two weeks straight- only now he had permission.
Oh, boy and then it happened… after that interaction, you started wearing the tighter shorts. Not dramatically, not all at once. Just a subtle shift- fabric that clung a little closer, hem that sat a little higher, waistband that hugged your hips just right. They were still athletic, still comfortable, still your best pair to move in. But they moved differently. They rode up when you crouched. Bunched when you served.
Showed more of your thighs when you paced. And every time you reached for the ball cart, it felt like just a little more of your ass peeked out than it should’ve. The girls didn’t care. It was off-season, half the team was showing skin, and you were all just trying to survive the sweat. But when they noticed you tugging the waistband up before warmups? When they caught you adjusting the tightest pair right before water breaks? That’s when the comments started.
“Shorts getting smaller?”
“He’s already looking, babe.”
“Make it bounce. Just once.”
And maybe you did. Not for them. Not even to be mean. But because he kept showing up. Quiet. Hoodied. Alone. Sitting in the same spot near the front with his knees apart, fingers clenched around a bottle he never drank from, eyes locked to the court like he wasn’t even aware he was staring.
He thought he was subtle. He wasn’t. You started watching for it- those little flickers of panic when your eyes met his, the way he’d immediately drop his gaze, sometimes all the way to the floor, sometimes straight to your legs like it made things worse. The flush on his neck gave him away every time. It would rise slowly, just under his jaw, spreading red until his ears burned and he had to shift in his seat like that would make it go away.
You never called him out for it but you turned in his direction just to see if he was still there. And every time? He was. He didn’t say a word. But he kept showing up. Watching like he couldn’t help it. Like the way your ass bounced when you landed a jump set was going to kill him slowly. And you let him. Every single night. Because if he wanted to look? You were going to give him something to remember. And the worst part was, you knew. You always did every time he came to the practices. And now? Now it’s over.
You’d won the whole thing- the NCAA championship, the final match, the fucking moment-and campus feels like it’s glowing. The house is packed, music shaking the walls, and the rest of your team is already half-drunk. Everything smells like sweat and sugar and noise. And he’s here, too. Of course he is. It’s not hard to spot him. He’s just in the corner with someone else, maybe his friends or his teammates, not that it matters.
He’s holding the red cup with alcohol in it, and he’s in his typical hoodie that covers his neck like it’s calming his nerves. Legs spread too wide for your liking and it’s definitely taking up much space for someone who doesn’t want to get noticed. Curls are damp and a little flattened at his forehead which have not fully dried off after he showered. Just staying there and he hasn’t moved in a while ever since he sat down. Just sips from his drink and watches the crowd like he’s still on the sidelines.
But his eyes keep coming back to you. Every time you laugh. Every time your medal catches the light. Every time you raise your arms and your shirt lifts a little- he’s looking. And then he’s not. But you know he is. So you take your time getting there. You weave through people slowly, nodding, laughing, swaying with the music until you’re close enough that your thighs brush his knee when you stop. You lean one shoulder against the couch arm beside him and look down like you didn’t plan it.
“You hiding?” you ask. His eyes snap up, wide. His cup dips slightly in his hand. “No- just, um. Sitting,” he says. His voice is soft. Almost careful. “Congrats. You were… insane tonight.” Your lips twitch. “Yeah?” He nods. Quick. A little nervous. “Yeah. I mean-you always are. But tonight-yeah.” You let your smile show. Slow. Knowing. “You watched?”
“Of course.”
“Cute.”
His gaze drops to his drink like it might help. You don’t move. Just let the music thump around you while the silence between you gets heavier. His cup shifts in his hands. His fingers tap once against the rim. “God you are drunk already, aren’t you?” you tease him. Smirk on your face and lashes flutter as you look at him. “I’m not drunk.” You laugh softly. “You are.” He doesn’t argue again. Just looking at you. Really look this time. You’re still flushed from the win, still glowing, your legs pressed close to his, your medal glinting against your chest. You don’t say anything else. You just let it hang there- like you’re giving him space to figure out what he wants to do about it.
He doesn’t move. You do. You don’t wait. You don’t ask. Don’t hesitate. Don’t even give him time to shift his cup out of the way. You just move in one slow, easy motion, medal tapping against your chest as you drop straight into his lap like it’s the most obvious seat in the room. The couch dips hard. His breath stutters. And then he just… freezes. One hand was still holding his drink. The other stiff against his thigh. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stares straight ahead like he can’t trust his own body. You’re warm in his lap. Solid. Real. Pressed against him in a way that feels permanent.
Your back settles comfortably to his chest as if you've done this before, like you just have your own seat on his lap. Like you belong there. Like he belongs to you. He doesn’t know where to look. His eyes bounce from your shoulder to your hand to the empty space across the room like maybe it’ll swallow him. But his neck is already flushed. His jaw’s tight. The tension under his hoodie is so loud to the point you can feel it vibrate straight into your system.
And then someone sees you. “OH MY GOD!” one of your teammates screams across the room, slapping another girl’s arm. “She actually sat on him,” another gasps, fake shocked. “You’re so done for, babe,” a third adds, giggling as they start crossing the room like sharks smelling blood. You don’t look at them. You don’t even blink. Instead, you press a little closer, leaning back against his chest just enough that your hips shift in his lap, and lift your drink to your mouth with a lazy smile.
“Hey,” you call out casually, waving over someone you know near the edge of the couch, “did you see that last point? Setter almost tripped over me.” They laugh, sliding into the conversation like nothing’s burning beneath you. You keep your voice light. Breathless. Like sitting on Art Donaldson’s lap in front of ten people is just another end-of-season ritual. “Oh my god, yeah,” someone else chimes in, “you looked pissed.”
“I was,” you hum, grinning as you take another sip. “They would’ve blamed me if it went out. And I’m the one carrying the whole backline, apparently.” The girls laugh again. One of them crouches next to the couch just to whisper, “Is he breathing?” loud enough that you know he can hear it. You still don’t flinch. Instead, mid-laugh, you slide your hand down and take his free one gently from his thigh- like it’s just been waiting and place it directly onto yours. His palm lands warm on your skin. Just above the knee. You leave it there.
He twitches, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to stay. But you keep talking. Smiling. Turning your head to the conversation without moving anything else. His hand stays. And god, the way he’s holding his breath? Like it might all vanish if he shifts too hard. Like one wrong move might wake him up. But this is real. You’re glowing. He’s still not going anywhere. The conversation doesn’t stop. Someone’s halfway through retelling a point from the second set-badly- while another girl keeps waving her drink for emphasis, sloshing liquid over her hand with every exaggerated detail. Everything is loud, flushed, and breathless. Post-championship high. But in that corner of the couch, you’re still pressed into his lap, drink in hand, posture easy like you’re not doing anything at all. Like this is just comfort. Like his thighs weren’t tensed under you from the second you sat down.
You keep your smile soft, eyes tracking the group in front of you, nodding along like you’re listening. But your weight shifts slightly- just enough to adjust your seat, just enough to reposition the hem of your shorts, just enough that your hips roll forward in the smallest, slowest arc over his lap. It could pass for nothing. It probably does. No one flinches. No one calls it out. You’re laughing at something someone says across the couch, your drink raised, your medal still cold against your chest. You look relaxed. Still glowing. But under you, his body reacts like he’s been struck. He stiffens. Breath stutters. His hand tightens just slightly on your thigh- barely there, more instinct than decision and you feel it. The way his legs shift. The way his jaw clenches. The way his eyes flick downward like looking anywhere else might help.
It doesn’t. So you do it again. Another soft shift. Another innocent adjustment. Another drag of pressure that’s barely anything-but still enough to make his cup tilt in his grip. You glance down, watching his knuckles go pale where he grips the rim. Then you lean in. Not dramatically. Just enough. Your head dips toward his like you’re reacting to something someone said, like you’re about to whisper a joke. Your mouth grazes the shell of his ear. And without looking at him, without breaking rhythm, you murmur: “I can feel how hard you are, you know.” Soft. Easy. Like it’s a fact.
And before he can even begin to answer, you’re smiling again. Turning slightly, laughing at something across the couch, like nothing happened. You take another sip from your cup. Your free hand presses lightly against his thigh, thumb brushing the edge of your own skin, grounding the heat between you like you don’t even notice it. But he does. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. You feel the tension ripple through him- contained, barely managed, and absolutely wrecked. You can feel the way his fingers twitch on your leg as he lays them there to rest.
His breath is shallow like he’s trying to keep himself together like a puzzle piece. You don’t have to say another word. Not really because you don’t need to. His body says everything for him. You couldn’t leave early. Of course not. You were the captain. You had speeches to give. Teammates to hug. People to thank and photos to smile through and drinks to toast. You had to carry the trophy into the second location and take ten thousand blurry selfies and act like your legs weren’t already tired from the five-set match and hours of celebration.
But he waited. Quiet. Patient. Still buzzing from the way you’d whispered in his ear like it’s some secret he needs to keep. Still hard beneath the waistband of his jeans long after you stood up from his lap and vanished into the crowd. He didn’t follow you. Didn’t ask. Just watched you walk away with your medal still swinging and your voice echoing in his head like you’d dropped a match into his lungs. He waited until the lights were low and the house started emptying. Until someone tossed him a bottle of water and a spare sweatshirt and told him to “get out of there before you combust.”
Now he’s here. On his knees. Face buried between your thighs like he’s praying. His hands grip the back of your legs as if it’s the only thing keeping him motivated to be here. And you’re still wearing his goddamn hoodie he gave you in the middle of the party because of your soaked shirt. You’re still wearing the medal. Your shorts are somewhere on the floor. And his mouth is slow. Careful. Worshipful. Like this is a favor you’re letting him perform. Like he’s just lucky to be allowed here between your thighs, under your fingers, lips dragging wet across your skin as he licks and kisses and breathes you in like this is the win he’s been chasing all year. You let your head fall back against the pillows. Fingers curling in his hair. He groans low when you pull quietly, desperate, like he loves it and you feel it all the way through you.
You haven’t said a word since you let him in. You didn’t have to. He’s now where he wants to be and he’s been dreaming of this moment ever since he saw you the first time. He waited. Through the noise, the bodies, the championship high that kept everyone buzzing long after the final whistle. Through photos and toasts and too many sticky drinks, through the sweat clinging to your skin and the way your shirt had started to turn see-through beneath the lights-clinging where it shouldn’t, sheer enough to show everything beneath. You hadn’t noticed. You were still laughing, flushed and sparkling from the win, from the way everyone was looking at you like you’d won it alone.
He noticed. He always noticed. He was still quiet, still sitting off to the side like he didn’t want to take up space, but he got brave, just once. Pulled his hoodie off over his head, walked over without meeting your eyes, and held it out like a peace offering. “You look cold,” he mumbled, even though you didn’t. Even though he was the one shivering. You took it anyway. Slipped it over your shoulders, your sticky shirt bunched underneath, the sleeves falling past your hands. You didn’t say thank you. You didn’t have to. The look you gave him- tired and soft and knowing. It was more than enough. It stayed with him all night.
And now you’re in his dorm. Your back against his pillows, his hoodie still on, legs bare and spread over the sheets like you’ve always belonged here. Your shorts are somewhere on the floor. Your hair’s a mess. There’s a fading smudge of glitter near your collarbone from someone else’s celebration. He’s on his knees in front of you, his eyes wide- beautiful blue eyes gazing up to you with full adoration behind them. He can’t believe this is happening, that you are here, perfect and real.
Because he can't, not really. Sure, he imagined what the possible things could happen when you’re in front of him but this isn’t part of it. He definitely has fantasized how about having you, to touch you, to have you in his bed, to press his lips on your thighs. And now you are open and waiting for him with that big smile of yours like this isn’t breaking the shit out of him. Like this is not a big deal. Didn’t even know where the fuck he should begin with all of this. There’s so much of you. So much thigh. So much curve. Your ass spilling over the edge of the mattress when you shift, soft and devastating. He doesn’t speak. Just moves closer. Places both hands on your legs and strokes slowly, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.
Then he leans in. Presses a kiss to your inner thigh. Then another. Then a third, dragging his lips over your skin like he’s trying to prove he deserves this- every inch, every breath, every second of it. You sigh, tilting your hips slightly toward him. “Hey,” you murmur, lazy, playful, and voice curling under the low hum of the dorm fan. “You good down there?” He looks up, dazed. Swallows. “I just…” He shakes his head, almost laughs, eyes dropping again to your legs spread in front of him. “I don’t even know what to do with all of you.” You smile. Really smile. It’s a little smug. A little sweet. You lean back further, stretching out in his hoodie, your medal glinting faintly against the fabric. “Then take your time,” you whisper. “I’m not going anywhere.” And neither is he.
He still hasn’t touched your panties. Not really. Not yet. If someone asks him how he’s doing, his answer will be 50-50. He will be the happiest man in the world right now, but he’s also the one who’s so fucked up and going spiraling inside. Why? Because he’s been kneeling between your thighs and just staring like he’s processing all of this before he touches and tastes you for the first time. His hands are warm and shaking when he moves them slowly towards your thighs, tracing their flesh and curve as if he’s memorizing the feeling and the shape of them in his palms. Both of his hands move to squish and squeeze it once… feeling and testing the water first. Then again, nails digging a little into the flesh and both of them gripping your thighs fully like he doesn’t want to let go.
There are no words that can be found in his mouth. Eyes not looking up at you, he just keeps kneading and gently stroking the softest parts of them, where no one gets to touch unless you let them. His thumb slides up inside your inner thighs, and it’s close enough where you want him to touch you. When he exhales, it’s shaky as if he’s getting triggered by just holding your thighs. Then came the kisses. They’re soft at first. Careful. Barely there. Just slow presses of his lips along the edge of your thigh, then a little higher, then lower again. He’s not trying to tease you. He’s not playing a game. He’s just trying to understand you through touch. Through taste. He doesn’t want to take it because he’s scared to take it so fast, and it will be gone in the blink of an eye.
You watch him as you lean back slightly while being propped on your elbows. Didn’t even notice how the fabric of your panties got a wet patch in the middle and is clinging more to your cunt with a sticky feeling. But it’s frustrating because he still doesn’t touch you. He just keeps kissing your thighs, your hips, and the very tops where skin gets soft and sensitive, his mouth dragging slowly and softly like he’s praying. You thread your fingers through his curls. Tug gently. Tilt his face just a little closer to where you want him. And he moans. Not loud. Not for anyone but you. Just a low, helpless sound against your skin that makes your thighs twitch and your stomach pull tight.
You wait a beat. Let him breathe. Then, sweet and quiet: “You like my thighs, baby?” He stills. You feel it- every inch of him freezing for just a moment, like he forgot how to answer. His breath fans against your skin. He doesn’t even take off his lips off your thigh when he nods. So afraid to let go when he doesn’t even get all of the taste he can get. His voice is low and a little cracked when he speaks, like he’s thinking of many possible responses he can give to you, but this is the only one he can give and probably enough: “Yeah. Fuck. I- yeah.”
That made you smile. Can’t help it. You tilt your hips just a little closer to his face and let your knees fall wider. “Thought so.” He hums like he might fall apart. Kisses your thigh again, slower this time, then noses gently against the edge of your panties, still not pulling them aside. His hands move up to your hips, holding them steady, like you are the only thing grounding him right now. You’re still wearing his hoodie. He’s still on his knees. And he hasn’t even tasted you yet. But god- he already looks wrecked. He doesn’t move until you let him.
You let him take his time kneeling between your thighs, and his lips drag slowly along your skin. You just let him even though his breath is warm and uneven. You let him even though he’s almost breaking himself by just doing this slowly just to ground himself and not get so lost in it. You let him hold your hip with his hand while the other one is grazing his thumb on your outer thigh. You let him even though what you want is for him just to eat your pussy out. You’re still in your panties- thin, soaked, and clinging- and he’s close enough to feel everything but hasn’t touched the center of you yet. Not really. Not until you say so.
When he finally looks up, he’s flushed. Eyes wide. Jaw slack. He doesn’t speak, but you feel that he’s asking. Needing. Like he wants it so bad it hurts, but he’s still too careful to assume. You nod. Just a little. Your fingers slip into his curls, light and gentle, and you guide his head forward- not forceful, not rushed, just there. Letting him know. “Go ahead, baby,” you say quietly. “I want you to.” That’s the key to open the gates, and the floods flood in quickly.
He takes a breath before he leans in. The mouth found the fabric first, lips parted, and moved against the soaked panties. Tongue dragging flat and licking it softly and slowly like he doesn’t care if there’s a barrier or not. He can taste you still. He doesn’t push. Don't bite. He exhales like he’s smelling the scent of you, and this is making you feel a little shy even though you are a confident person. He’s making your knees weak by just doing that through the fabric. God, you even feel the way his hand tightens in your skin, the way it presses deeper in the flesh. You feel it in the way his moan rumbles low and soft into your heat, his mouth working a little more intentionally now- open kisses, wet and steady, dragging through your folds beneath the fabric.
It’s not perfect. It’s not practiced. But it’s hungry. It’s real. He licks again, slower this time. Tongue flat, broad, and firm. Then again. Each one a little deeper, more sure. And when he starts sucking softly through the fabric, you tug his hair just enough to make his eyes flutter closed. “That’s it,” you murmur, voice low. “Right there.” You’re not teasing. Not guiding out of pity. You’re just showing him what you like, but you are showing him what he’s doing right. Because he is. And you want him to know it.
He moans quietly against it and even grunts there like the sound came straight from his abdomen, and you can feel how it vibrates right and straight to your pussy. It makes your breath catch with just that action he made. Hips rolled instinctively, and he likes the way it’s benefiting him that you grind into his mouth because he can taste more of you; it also means you feel good, and he’s going to enjoy it more, which he shows by pressing his tongue harder, dragging his lips, and burying his face deeper like this is the most important thing in the world. He doesn’t ask for more. But he’s aching for it. Still licking you through your panties, sloppy and slow and completely gone for it- hands gripping, thighs flexed, body trembling just slightly from how long he’s been holding himself together- he looks like a mess. And you haven’t even let him take them off yet.
He’s not as gentle anymore. Still slow, still careful, but there’s something deeper in the way he moves now- like need is starting to win out over hesitation. His mouth presses harder. His tongue drags with more weight. Each kiss sinks lower, each stroke of his tongue lingers longer, and when you shift under him, hips rocking just slightly into his face, he moans like it hurts. It’s all through the fabric- your panties wet, clinging, soaked with how long he’s been teasing, but it doesn’t stop him. If anything, it makes him greedier. Hungrier. He licks right through it, like he wants to memorize your heat before he’s ever allowed to feel it bare.
And then he finds it. Right there- your clit, swollen and sensitive under the thin cotton and the second he locks his mouth around it, everything gets hotter. He doesn’t rush. He just sucks. Open-mouthed and slow, the fabric darkening with every breath, his lips wet and shaky as he pulls soft sounds from you without ever touching skin. His fingers dig into your hips like he’s trying to hold you steady, keep you right there, and keep himself from going insane. You arch your back for him. You whimper but barely audibly. And then he pulls back. Just a little. Just enough. But his mouth is still parted. His lips look shiny, and his breathing is unsteady, with his pupils blown widely like he’s love-struck by it. “Can I?” he asks, voice raw, barely there. “Please?”
You don’t speak. Hands just reach down gently, and you slip your fingers beneath the waistband of your panties to drag the wet panties slowly to the side. Hold it there for him. The second you do, he exhales like it’s a relief. Like gratitude because he’s been waiting for this moment- to lean in, to part his mouth against it, to lick it directly without any fabric from it. He’s not teasing; he just continues what he’s doing- licking and sucking your pussy. He doesn’t even care if the fabric is just pulled aside; his hands still come up. It’s steady and soft when he brushes yours to push them from holding your panties.
He didn’t even second-guess or hesitate to do it; he just did. He replaces your grip with his own to hold your panties now. Fingers slip beneath the band like it’s some instinct he has over you. Didn’t even yank or fumble over it. He just takes over gently, like this is something to be careful with. Something he should do, not you. And it shows in how he holds it tightly and how his thumb is tucked against your hips and how his knuckles graze your skin when he leans in. The look in his eyes is low, and it even rolled behind when he dragged his tongue in full length to your pussy lips in one slow stroke. That one is not slick or sloppy, nor is it hurried, but it’s deep and intentional to be like that. It’s a continuous movement that starts from the bottom end, and it doesn’t stop until his tongue reaches your clit, and he doesn’t tease you.
He carefully licks and enjoys the moment like he’s trying to understand and learn how you taste and feel in his mouth. The sounds released against your cunt are barely audible; it’s a quiet groan, but it vibrates through your body, and he does it again when he notices that you reacted when he does that. It doesn’t take long before he gives another slow stroke of his tongue, thicker and firmer this time, before it flattens and spreads each pass of it from the base up to the clit. The other hand settles on your thigh, and fingers that hold you are grounding him as he eats you deeper, like pulling him away will be more of a fight than just pushing his head out there.
He keeps holding your panties to the side. His grip is firm now, not letting them slip even as his tongue moves in long, languid motions- up and down, again and again as if he wants to open you with his mouth alone. His nose nudges your clit, and he doesn’t even flinch. He leans into it. Stay there. Letting the pace be guided by how your hips move, your breath hitches and catches, and the way your thighs can’t help but close around his head without your control. And he doesn’t stop. If anything, he presses in closer. He’s not licking anymore. His tongue is fucking you now, steadily thrusting it beyond the slit and inside of you, which makes your body twitch.
He’s not messy with what he’s doing; he’s gentle and doing it softly, which makes you want to cry because all you want is for him to eat you like he’s hungry for it. But there’s an appeal to how controlled the pressure he’s doing is, how each stroke drags through the slick like he’s syncing his body to yours. His grip tightens around the panties he’s holding to the side while his other hand remains on your thigh to keep your legs open before he guides it to his shoulder and you let him without any hesitation. You also did the same to your other leg so you can wrap it around him. Locking him in place where he belongs, and you are sure he likes it in the way he groans when your ankles cross behind his back.
The sound is low and deep as if he's been suppressing it ever since he latched his mouth there. His tongue thrusting slowly, rolling it, and focusing on getting it deeper if that’s even possible. Your hips roll up to meet it, fingers tangled in his hair, breath breaking against your lips, and you can feel the heat climbing fast now, climbing hard. It’s too good. Too much. You can’t stay quiet. “God, baby…” You breathe, one hand sliding down to cradle the back of his head. “You’re really doing that, huh?” He moans into you, deeper this time, and it shakes through your core. You feel it all the way down. You let out a soft laugh, breathless and messy, and your voice dips low as your thighs pull him closer. “Using your tongue like it’s your cock,” you murmur, lifting your hips right into his face. “Is that what you wanted?” Your fingers tighten. “Wanted to fuck me like this?”
Another thrust of his tongue, firmer this time, slower. You gasp. Try again. “Do you feel how wet I am for you?” He can’t answer. He doesn’t even try. He just groans- long and drawn out and devoted- and keeps going. His tongue sinks deeper, mouth dragging, face flushed and buried, like this is the only thing he’s ever wanted. You’re open for him, shaking under him, and he just keeps fucking you- tongue pushing in, lips catching on your clit, hands gripping tighter now, holding you open like he needs to feel you fall apart around his mouth. His hips rock subtly into the mattress, like even his body can’t take it anymore, like he’s getting off just from the sounds you make. And still- he doesn’t stop. He holds your panties aside with a hand that’s almost trembling, rubs softly against his sheets, and fucks you with his tongue like he’d die if you told him to stop. Thighs start to squeeze his head instinctively, body responding to how he’s thrusting and moving his tongue in your cunt; he also does it fast. Switching from shoving inside and sucking it.
You like how steady his mouth is and how devoted he is to what he’s doing and how fucking real this feels now. Sounds were released and made by him when you do it, not because he’s overwhelmed but because this is exactly what he wanted. He’s proving that with how his fingers dig into your hips to keep you down in place while his tongue is still licking, slower now, deeper at your entrance. And then he sucks. Not a tease. Not a pass. A full suction. Lips sealed around your pussyhole, tongue still inside you, sucking like he’s trying to pull you open, like he wants to drink from the source.
His moan breaks against you, low and guttural, and it doesn’t stop. His mouth stays right there, sealed and locked and obsessed with the heat and taste of you, the wet swell of your hole fluttering against his tongue. You can’t even breathe- you just stare down at him, mouth open, chest rising fast, and he keeps sucking you like your pussy’s the only thing he’s ever needed. His tongue pushes deeper while his lips pull back- just enough to draw again- soft, wet suction, like he’s kissing your hole, like he’s trying to inhale it. He breathes through his nose, desperate and steady, jaw moving as he tongue- fucks you in rhythm with the sucking, like this is how he wants to get you off. Mouth full of your hole. Tongue buried. His whole face was soaking in it.
“Oh my god- fuck… right there- don’t stop-” Your words don’t even sound like words anymore. Your thighs lock tighter. He shifts to fit better beneath them, tilts his head to stay sealed against you, sucking, sucking, sucking, the pressure tender but unrelenting, and every time his tongue strokes in deeper, your walls flutter around him and he moans like he feels it in his cock. He’s not even thinking anymore. Just sucking your pussyhole like he belongs there. Like he wants to taste you to come. Like he wants to swallow it.
And when it happens- when you start to shake, when your hands tighten in his hair, when your body starts to give- he doesn’t pull back. He sucks harder. Because that’s his reward. And he’s starving. You don’t mean to beg, not really- but it slips out anyway. Breathless, cracked, barely a whisper between gasps. “Don’t stop, baby. Please, don’t stop.” And he doesn’t. Not when you sound like that. Not when you’re pulling him tighter with your thighs like you’d drag him inside if you could.
He groans the second he hears it- low and deep, like something inside him breaks- and seals his mouth tighter over your pussyhole, lips locking around your entrance, tongue still pushing slow and deep inside you like he’s trying to fuck you open with his mouth alone. It’s not messy, it’s not hurried- it’s focused. Hungry. Every movement exact, every kiss purposeful, every slow suck like he’s trying to drink the orgasm out of you.
And then it happens. Your body starts to give in, hips stuttering against his face, hands fisting in his hair, and thighs trembling so tight around his head. He moans into it again- louder this time, like he’s grateful. Your pussy pulses around his tongue, and he just stays there, still sucking your hole through it, slow and deep and perfect. He wants to feel every twitch with his whole mouth. Your breath catches. Your muscles tighten. You feel yourself fall apart around his tongue, and he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t lift his head, doesn’t ease up. He just stays locked in place, licking and sucking through every flutter of your cunt like he’s not finished until you’re empty. You breathe out something like a laugh, ruined and shaking, head falling back against the pillow as your thighs slowly loosen around him. “You’re going to kill me,” you whisper.
He groans again; it’s low and desperate before he sucks your pussyhole one more time. Like he’s still not full. He almost looks disappointed when he pulls back because he doesn’t speak at all. His breathing is hard, his face is flushed, his lips are wet, his gaze looks like he’s lost before he stands up with all of that, and his hair is a little damp, and he’s just there on the edge of the bed like he’s not sure what to do next. But when you nod at him, he starts taking off his shirt, and his sweats are shoved down to the floor along with his boxers in them. Cock sprang out at the action, and it’s already flushed and soaked at the tip. It’s hard and looks painful because it’s so red and leaking. You managed to pull your panties away from your body, and he took a deep breath at the sight.
He climbs to the bed without saying anything, and his hands cage your body, hovering over you with his shallow breathing. Legs automatically parted for him without even thinking, just welcoming and ready. He leans forward slowly, not guiding himself inside yet and not pushing. He is just lining up and letting the thick, leaking head of his cock drag through the mess he made of you. Not fucking. Not teasing. Just pressing himself along your slit like he needs the friction just to stay alive.
His hips rock gently, slow and unsteady, and his cock slides wetly between your folds- bare, deliberate glides that catch on your clit just enough to make him shiver. He didn’t even look at you; he just buried his face in your neck the moment his cock made contact with your pussy. Breath hot against your skin, and his voice could pass as a whisper, how low or shy he sounds when he’s fucked up and speaking through the strain stuck in his throat. “Fuck- I don’t- I can’t… this is-”
He doesn’t finish. Just hides there, panting, letting the length of his cock rub again and again against your pussy like he’s afraid to go further, like this alone might undo him. You feel the tip drag up over your clit and down again, slick and thick and so careful, like he’s savoring every inch of pressure he gets without fully slipping inside. You smile into his hair, fingers running down his back, soft and slow, as you press your lips to his temple. “You feel so good,” you murmur, barely above a whisper. “You’re okay, baby.”
He lets out a sound that isn’t quite a moan, hips stuttering, forehead pressed to your shoulder like he needs to hide from how much he feels. His cock drags down again- thick and hot and heavy- grinding softly against your clit until your breath hitches. “You’re shy now?” You tease, you say gently, still breathless, still smiling. “After everything you just did to me?” He laughs, but it’s ruined- broken into your neck, quiet and trembling- and he just keeps moving. Not pushing in. Not yet. Just rubbing slowly, back and forth, dragging the head through your folds like he’s trying to memorize what it feels like to be this close. Like, this is the whole thing. Like you’re already enough.
And all you can do is hold him. Let him rut into your cunt like you’re his first and last. Let him feel it. Because he’s not fucking yet. He’s falling. You shift under him, just enough to let your hips tilt and your thighs open wider, guiding him in closer with the softest squeeze of your legs. His cock slides through your slickness as if it belongs there, thick and hot and already flushed deep, the tip catching at your entrance before gliding back up to your clit again- slow, shaky, almost desperate. Breath shaky against your skin, warm and making you shiver. Your neck could feel how he’s shaking and the way his arms get tense on either side of your body like he’s holding back from being fucked up completely.
“Put it in,” you tell him, commanding even. Your lips brushed against his ear when you told him that. “I want you.” But he doesn’t move. Not in the way you expect. He doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t look at you. He just thrusts forward again, dragging himself through your folds like he can’t stop, like he’s too far gone to do anything else. His face stays hidden in your neck, lips parted, breath catching as his cock glides through your slick with slow, shaky pressure.
“I-I can’t,” he whispers, and it breaks right out of him, raw and low. “Your thighs…” He grunts against your skin with his hips twitching and the head of his cock sliding between your wet slit every time he rocks forward, but it’s slower this time. He’s trying to feel every skin and shape with each thrust while his whole body trembles above you, yet he still keeps going. He keeps rubbing his cock between your folds, enjoying the press and drag again and again.
“They’re so soft,” he breathes, voice shaking. “You’re so warm- I can’t think- fuck, you feel too good…” Each glide is heavier than the last. His cock pulses every time he passes over your clit, and still, he doesn’t lift his head. He just stays there, breath stuttering, mouth hot against your throat as he keeps rutting into you like your thighs are going to make him come. But he feels overwhelmed and flushed over you regardless of how he stays still but loses and goes crazy about how you feel.
“Just- just a little more,” he says, but it’s not really towards you but to himself, as if he’s trying to justify how his cock keeps chasing the friction you can give to him. “Just… like this. Just a little longer…” You can feel it- the way his cock slips and stutters along your entrance, how your pussy clenches around nothing with every pass, and how his whole body’s begging for you to pull him in. But he won’t do it until you ask again. Or until you guide him. Because right now? He’s too deep in it. Too shy to look at you. Too obsessed with your thighs. Too gone to stop.
He keeps rutting between your folds, cock dragging slowly and soaked through your slick, trembling above you like he’s trying so hard to stay composed, but his body’s already begging. His breath breaks into your skin, face still tucked into your neck like he can’t look at you, like he’s too shy to see what he’s doing to you. The tip of his cock catches against your clit and then slides down again, dragging over your entrance in a slow, sticky glide that makes you ache- and still, he doesn’t push in. He just keeps rocking, lost, murmuring into your throat like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.
“Feels so good… I can’t- fuck your thighs- your pussy is so…” It’s too much for him. So you help. You reach between your bodies without saying anything; your hand is steady and slow before your fingers wrap around the base of his cock. You feel him twitch and shudder the second you make contact with it, and there’s also a breathless gasp muffled into your shoulder while you guide him down. Not forceful. Not demanding. Just be careful. Sweet. Like you’re lining up a child’s spoon to their mouth. Like he needs help eating.
“Shhh,” you whisper, hand soft over his cock, guiding the head back to your entrance. “Let me, baby. I’ve got you,” he whined. He buries deeper into your neck, one hand fisting the sheets, the other slipping under your back like he’s holding on for dear life. And when your pussy flutters as the tip of his cock finally nests right against you, ready to sink in, that’s when you feel everything in him falter.
“You don’t have to think,” you murmur, rocking your hips up just slightly to help. “Just let me do it for you.” He nods. It’s tiny and slow, and he follows your hand. And then he pushes. Just an inch. Then another. That made him moan. Loud, desperate, shaking. The sound breaks into your throat, echoing into your skin like he’s never felt anything like it before, like it’s too much, like you’re too much, like being inside you might kill him.
But you just hold him there. Your hand was still wrapped around the base of his cock, and your other arm was around his back. Keeping him close as his body sinks slowly into yours like this is how he learns what love feels like. And when he bottoms out, trembling and silent, stuffed full into the wet heat of you. Then you feel him fall apart- without moving.
Just shaking, moaning, hiding, and finally… finally inside. He doesn’t move at first. Just stays there, buried as deep as he can go. His cock is thick and warm and pulsing inside you like he’s been waiting his whole life to fit somewhere like this. His face is hidden in your neck with his breath shaking, skin damp. The rest of his body feels like it’s trying to remember how to exist. He isn’t tense- he’s soft all over, like just being inside you has taken something out of him. You hold the back of his head as his hips stay still. His full weight is against you as his chest presses to yours, and you don’t rush him. You just let him feel it and let him just take his moment there.
“You did so good,” you praise him like your breath almost catches. You make sure your voice sounds soft against his ear with your hand still cradling him like he’s some precious diamond that might fall apart and break if you stopped holding him. “You’re doing so good, baby.” He exhales like it hurts to hear that. A sound low in his throat, muffled by your skin, but real. His fingers push deeper to the point his nails dig into your waist, but not painfully enough to leave a bruise, just enough to grip you like you are the only one grounding him. You could feel the tremble run through his system before he said something again.
“Thank you,” he mutters before repeating the same words again and again like he can’t just stop himself, “Thank you- f-fuck, thank you-” Your lips touch his hair and hum while you let him keep hiding there. Let him fall apart gently, slowly, and all the way inside you. He’s so deep. You can feel every twitch of his cock that makes your breath catch, but he’s still not moving- just holding. Just staying. And when your hips shift up ever so slightly, when your walls flutter around him from just the weight of it, he moans. It’s not loud. It’s not showy. It’s helpless.
“Feels good, baby?” you ask him. It’s like you are rocking him in your arms, the way your words are warm and slow. When he nods, it makes you smile, and it’s so endearing how he still presses into your throat like he’s not ready to do that yet because he might cum quickly. “So good,” he whispers. “You’re so warm. I didn’t know- I didn’t know it could feel like this.” He starts to move. Not much. Just a slow roll of his hips, the tiniest drag of his cock inside you, but it’s enough to make both of you gasp. He does it again, just a little deeper, and you tighten your arm around him like he’s about to slip through you.
“That’s it,” you murmur. “You’re doing so well. You feel so good inside me, baby.” He breathes something that isn’t even a word- just a noise, a broken sound caught halfway between a moan and a prayer- and rocks into you again. Slow. Careful. So present it aches. And still, he thanks you. “Thank you,” he murmurs again. “I want to make you feel good. I just want to make you come. I just want to be good.”
“You are,” you assure him, brushing your lips against his temple. “You are. You’re so good. You’re perfect, baby.” He makes another sound into your neck, and it’s almost a sob but soft. Grateful. His cock pulses as he starts to move a little more, hips finding rhythm, but it’s slow and shallow, like he wants to make love to you with every inch he has.
And the whole time, you hold him like he’s yours. Because he is. The moment you let him inside your world, you consider him yours. You know he’s not just fucking and pushing his cock inside of you. You know he’s thanking you for letting him be here, and it’s not hard to pick up by the way he’s acting. He figured out how you like the rhythm, and he has this attitude where he wants to please people, so he wants to match it. There’s something gentle in the way he moves. It’s still restricted because, you know, he’s shy in the way you can feel it, like he’s not certain if he’s allowed to want you this much as he does. His hips rolled, and he thrust smoothly and deeply. You can feel each stroke of his cock; it’s enough to make your back arch into him and moan your lungs out to show him that you like it.
He responded with the way he holds you, like he’s asking for something, but not with words. With his whole body. With the way he keeps you wrapped up. The way he trembles. He doesn’t pull back to look at you. He stays close, mouth brushing your cheek, breath caught in his throat as he starts to move a little deeper. His cock slowly thrusts inside of you. You can feel its thickness and size filling you up, and you can feel it every time he pushes it inside. His voice is shaky and low. “Does that feel good?” And then he asks another, but it’s barely louder than a breath. Thankfully, you are skin to skin, so you heard it: “Am I doing it right?” You gasp, clenching around him, hands sliding down his back to hold him closer, and you nod into his skin as you whisper,
“Yes, baby. So good. You fuck me so good.” That breaks something open in him. It’s like your praises are fucking him up but not in a loud way. It shows the way his hips stutter every time he hears it, as your words land exactly and hit what he wants to hear. His cock goes deeper, if that’s even possible, but it kisses your cervix because the angle is just right. It earns a low groan from him before he thrusts another again and repeats what he did. One of his hands remains beneath your lower back while the other is resting at your waist. Both hands holding you gently and firmly at the same time to anchor himself to your body.
“S-shit. You’re so tight,” he mutters when he feels you clench around him, and he doesn’t even care if he doesn’t sound in control anymore. “Feels like you’re pulling me in.” It’s obvious how he’s trying hard to keep everything under control and slow, to make everything last, and how he wants to stay in the moment. Every thrust is deep, full, and intentional. There’s no rush. Just this overwhelming need to stay connected, to do it right, to make you feel everything he’s too shy to say out loud. He lets out a shaky breath, and then- “Can I go a little harder?” It comes out hesitant, like he’s asking permission for something he already aches for.
He doesn’t move until you give it. “Yes, baby,” you breathe, tilting your hips for him. “Take what you need. I’ve got you.” He moans into your skin and starts again, but this time with a little more pressure behind each thrust of his hips. Not fast. Not rough. But with more rhythm and not sloppy. His cock pushes in and out of you with steady movements before he kisses your jaw down to your neck like he’s dreaming and can’t believe that you let him do this. “I love how you feel- p-please- mhngh-” he moans out softly even though he’s not really starting yet, and his words feel dreamy. “I love being inside you. I love how you wrap around me…”
How he moans, how he breaks, how he twitches, and how his movements stutter just drive you to purposely squeeze him tighter just to earn another sound from him, and his body even reacts. He’s so fucked out already, and you don’t even care at this point if you will cum or not because just watching the way he thrusts, the way his breath catches, and the way his cock stays inside like he never wants to leave is enough for you just to get pleasure out of it.
You can even feel how close he’s getting, but he’s still holding it. There’s already tension bubbling through his stomach and the shake that traveled down to his thighs, and how his hips twitch when your pussy grips around him. But he doesn’t let go. Not yet. Not until you tell him. Because even now, even while he’s fucking you perfectly, filling you completely, thrusting deep and soft and full like he’s learning what devotion feels like, he still needs your voice to carry him through.
He continues to rock and move inside you. His hips rolling with a slow but focused rhythm and his cock dragging deeper with each roll of his hips. It’s like his cock has already imprinted the shape of him inside of your pussy by now, and he certainly knows your body now too. He’s hitting the right angle, how to press it right, and how to stay deep like he’s cock-warming from your pussy for a few moments before he pulls out and pushes again. And you moan just from the stretch alone he’s giving you. Warm breath stays against your throat, and arms hold you carefully as his pace gets faster and heavier.
Then he pulls back a little, just enough to see you better. His eyes flick down, lips parted like he’s been thinking about it this whole time, and his hands slip to the front of the hoodie still wrapped around your body. His hoodie. It’s yanked up halfway and damp with sweat, and he can see how your shirt underneath is still clinging to your skin. Lips found your jaw as his hands pushed up the hoodie from your body more, and it exposed the shape of your body underneath. He takes his time with it and doesn’t rush even though he’s already inside of you. It’s like taking it off his intimate area and resting his cock there in your pussy.
It doesn’t take long before his fingers find the hem of your shirt after your hoodie. He pushes it up too, but inch by inch until it’s bunched above your bra and shows the swell of your chest. He also slides that up too, just enough to let go of your chest and show your nipples to him. His palms cup your tits while he continues to fuck you. And when he sees them- when his thumbs brush over your nipples, and your back arches into his touch- he groans. “God, fuck- look at you…” His voice is unsteady and cracking.
His head lowers, and his mouth is warm against your chest, just hovering above it while he’s still inside of you and still moving. Besides your thighs and ass, your tits are also the ones that always caught his attention, so he’s not forgetting about them today, of course. So he drags his hips forward and deeper and pulls out just enough until it reaches close to the head of his cock while he gropes your tits like he’s been dreaming about it. Hands are big and a little clumsy because of the eagerness to touch them, but he’s also starved for it, so his thumbs keep brushing back and forth. His fingers are curling and gripping under the swell as he continues squeezing it softly like a stress ball, and he wants to feel every part of you in every way he can.
His cock doesn’t stop moving inside of you; he keeps thrusting and pressing, but the difference is he’s watching you now. Eyes on your breasts and how they bounce with every roll of his hips. He likes the way your lips part or how you bite your bottom lip. And he loves the way your legs wrap around his body to pull him deeper and lock him in. “You’re perfect,” he compliments you, voice low but obviously sounding like he’s already pussy-whipped. “So fucking perfect,” he adds before he leans in again and his mouth latches onto your right chest. His tongue licks softly around your breast before he starts sucking your nipple and licking it as he does so. Each suckling earns a groan from him, and it's also because of how your pussy clenches more around him when he starts doing that. And even then- even inside you, even shaking- his hands stay soft.
Because he’s not just fucking you. He’s worshipping. And he wants all of you in his hands. He continues moving inside of you, liking how deliciously his cock drags deep with each thrust and how his mouth is hot on your nipple and wrapped around it like it’s the only thing that keeps him sane. Hips rolling with focused and steady movements, and each thrust was thick and heavy. It presses right into your cervix while everything about what he’s doing feels careful… gentle… attentive… grateful. He’s the kind of boy who knows how to fuck but still puts the person’s pleasure above his and still listens with his whole body, and right now? He’s waiting for you to tell him he’s doing it right.
And then it happens. One thrust lands just a little harder, hips catching the curve of your ass at just the right angle, and the sound it makes- wet and full and sharp- claps. It echoes. He freezes. Just for a second. Like he wasn’t expecting it to sound that loud. Like he didn’t realize how noisy it could be. And then your pussy clenches around him- tight and needy- and your ass jiggles against his hips as he rocks back in..His breath breaks on your neck. And then he groans. “Oh my god-” And he does it again. Another thrust. Deeper. Harder. Just to hear that sound again. Clap. Clap. Clap. The slap of skin-on-skin, the way your ass bounces into him with every push- it wrecks him.
He starts moving faster, hips snapping forward with a rhythm that’s still tender but filthy underneath, all guided by the sound of your body against his. “Fuck- your ass- shit- it’s so- god-” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Just moans into your chest and keeps fucking you, deep and steady, and clap clap clap with every stroke, the rhythm filling the room like he’s addicted to it. His hands slide down to grab the curve of it now, fingers digging in, guiding you into him, watching the way it moves, feeling the way your pussy pulls him in tighter with every sound.
“Feels so good- feels so fucking good- you’re so soft- can’t stop- want to keep watching it- please-” He’s moaning into your skin now, sucking at your tits between each thrust, fucking you harder but still holding you like you’re precious. Like you’re his. His cock presses deep and thick inside you, your body bouncing into his hips over and over, the wet slap making his hips twitch like it’s too much and still not enough. “Thank you- thank you- your pussy’s so warm- I don’t want to come yet- I’m trying- fuck- I’m trying to be good-” And he is. Even now- slamming into you harder with every clap of your ass, breath breaking against your collarbone- he’s still trying to hold back. Still waiting. Still need you to say it’s okay. Because he won’t come until you tell him to. Because you own him now.
Hands travel up to his chest without thinking; it’s warm and steady. Your hand stays there while the other rests on his jaw, and fingers curl around his jaw while his hips move deep. Wet skin slapping against each other echoes in the room, and you guide his face up until his eyes meet yours. He looks completely fucked out when you take a look at him; his eyes are glassy, his lips are parted, and his brows are knit closely as if he’s going to cry because you hold him like that. He’s still moving inside you, slow but hard, cock dragging deep as his breath catches, hips twitching like he’s trying not to fall apart with every thrust. “I-” he gasps, voice already breaking. “I need it… I need your pussy… please…” It’s barely a sentence. Just a tangle of want and panic slipping past his lips like he thinks you might take it away.
And it doesn’t even make sense- he’s already inside you, fucking you so deep your toes curl, the clap of his hips against your ass echoing through the room- but he still asks like he hasn’t earned it. Like he needs permission to feel this good. You tighten your grip on his face, cradling his jaw with both hands, not rough- just firm, grounding. Like you’re keeping him here. Like you want him to feel it. “You’ve got it, baby,” you whisper, voice warm, steady, and made for him. “You’re inside me. You’ve been inside me this whole time.” His eyes flutter shut while he shudders at your words. It took him some moments before he looked at you again, eyes so beautiful and blue, wide, and lashes standing out, the corner of his eyes tearing a little, and he looked like he was not even in the moment and so gone.
Thrust grows faster, deeper, and heavier. His hips snap into your body with a deeper rhythm of his movement. It’s like your words trigger something and unlock the reason for him to let go. It’s not like this with other girls; he’s not this messy. He’s not the one being fucked up. But when it comes to you, he couldn’t just help to press closer and mouth your jaw like he’s some kind of person who’s afraid of distance. Hands grips your hips tighter to keep himself together, but he’s not succeeding with that plan either. “I love your pussy,” he dumbly says, not even realizing what he’s saying. “I love how it feels- I love how it holds me- I don’t want to stop- please let me-” His words got cut off with a whine when you shut him up with a kiss, and it’s slow and deep. Lips sliding together as your thighs wrap tighter around his waist to suffocate and make him closer to you.
You rock up to welcome and meet each thrust he’s doing. His whole body is shaking and trembling now, but you enjoy every thrust he gives because it’s making your pussy flutter even more, and you clench so tight that his cock can barely breathe. He’s pulling back enough so he can rest his forehead against yours. He can’t even form a proper sentence with the way his breath is hitching and voice is shaking: “Please… I’m gonna come. I can’t- I can’t hold it- can I come inside? Please- please tell me I can…” And he means it. Not just the words. Not just the ask. He’s eager for your permission, and it shows in the way he says it and looks at you while he begs. He’s asking for trust. For you. And you owe him.
Your hands are still on his face, thumbs brushing just beneath his eyes as his hips move, slow but firm, cock dragging deep with every thrust like he’s scared to stop. His face is hot and red, soaked with sweat, and his eyes are closing from the pleasure, but it still looks like he’s pleading for something. He’s completely gone. You know he’s closer than before because his hips falter and get more sloppy, and his grip on your body tightens like he needs something to hold. His moans soften and break into little sounds that make you crazy inside when you feel his hot breath on your neck and hear it so close.
Pussy squeezes and clenches around him. It’s tight and unintentional; it goes quickly to his system, and he gasps, hips jerking, and cock twitches deep inside your cunt. Eyes open quickly and find yours again. It’s teary, wide, and desperate. That made you lean in, pressing a kiss to his cheek before you spoke against it. The voice sounded so sweet and tender, teasing him. “Inside or outside, baby?” The question is messing with his head. He takes a deep breath like it hurts just to think which option is the best, but pulling out and busting it in your stomach is the option he likes the least.
He nods even though the question does not require a yes or no answer; his body shudders, and he’s literally a wreck, like he’s about to cry when he starts speaking, “Inside. Please. Inside- please, please.” Your smile is soft, nearly cruel in how sweet it sounds when you murmur back, “You want a creampie, baby?” And that’s all it takes. He whines into your skin, shuddering as his hips stutter, cock throbbing at the edge. Forehead pressed to yours when his head falls forward like he needs to make contact and can’t hold himself together unless he feels you right there keeping him from fucking up more. “Please let me- please- I want to come inside- I want to feel it- I want to fill you up.”
“Are you going to come for me?” you whisper, voice just above a breath. “Gonna fill me up just like that?” He nods again- frantic now, voice trembling as he moans against your mouth. “I need to- fuck- please- I’m trying- I need you-” And you don’t make him wait. You wrap your legs tighter around him, pull him closer, your lips right against his ear as you breathe it out. “Come for me, baby. Fill me up.” And he does. Right then. His whole body jerks, hips slamming forward as his cock throbs inside you, thick spurts spilling deep, soaking you with everything he’s been holding in. He moans into your neck, long and low, shaking as he presses as deep as he can go, whispering over and over, “Thank you, thank you, thank you-” You don’t even realize you’re close until his voice breaks again. Until he whispers ‘Thank you’, like it’s all he knows how to say, his cock throbbing deep inside you, hips stuttering like he’s holding back tears.
And then it crashes all at once- the tight clench of your pussy around him, the ache deep in your belly, your thighs locked around his hips as your orgasm gushes out of you, hard and wet and so full. His voice barely held together. His body was trembling. Your pussy clenches around him as he comes so hard he whimpers. And still- he doesn’t let go of you. Doesn’t stop kissing your cheek, your jaw, or your shoulder. Because you let him have it. Because he asked and you said yes. Because he’ll never want anything else again. He gasps like you just pulled the air out of his lungs, crying out as his cock jerks inside you, spurting hard, filling you, pushing so deep it feels like he’s trying to live inside your body.
And then he collapses. Not away. Not off. But forward. Into you. Face buried between your tits before he groans. His breath is warm against it, and his lips are parted and wet like he’s drooling as he stays there like it’s a safe haven. “Thank you,” he whines, his voice sounding so small and his breath shaking when he says that. “Thank you- fuck- thank you.” You cradle his head gently, your fingers running through his damp curls, your body still fluttering around him as he keeps thrusting- small, slow, aftershock rolls, messy and deep and needy. And then his lips find your nipple again. He sucks. Slow. Soft. Like a baby. Like he needs it. Like it soothes him. His mouth wraps around you, tongue moving gently, cock still twitching inside you, still leaking into your cunt while he moans low and broken.
“Feels so good,” he whispers against your skin, suckling like he can’t stop. “You feel so good- so warm- I don’t want to leave-” His hips rock forward again- shallow, weak little thrusts- as more comes spilling out of him, slippery and wet between your thighs, your bodies pressed so close there’s no space left for anything else. Just his mouth on your tits. His cock is still inside you. His voice said thank you like you saved his life.
And you did. Maybe at some point you do, but God, he feels so blessed right now. His hips continue to move and keep thrusting through it even if it's slowly, weakly, and sloppily. He just doesn’t know how to stop because his cock keeps pulsing before he gives one last slam of his cock inside before he can feel it thick, hot, and pull and settle inside. It feels good and makes your clench and clit pulse. His breath stutters against your chest before he slows down. The pace falters. The tension in his thighs gives way. His moans soften into sighs.
And he drops. Full weight. Skin to skin. Still inside. His body settles into yours like he’s finally come home. Like he belongs there. His chest presses to your breasts, sticky and flushed, his cheek against your skin, and he doesn’t move. Except his mouth. He keeps sucking your nipple- soft now, slower, not even for arousal anymore. Just comfort. Just closeness. Lips parting around you like he’s calmed by the shape of your chest in his mouth, and you just let his tongue brush lazily on your skin. Let his cock twitch and soften while he’s buried inside. Let him, even if it’s heavy, thick, warm, and wet from the mixed cum from both of you.
He groans quietly, like he knows he should pull out but can’t. “Don’t- don’t make me leave,” he murmurs, voice thick and dazed, breath spreading across your chest. “Wanna stay right here…” You hum and pet through his hair, your fingers gentle along the nape of his neck, and he melts. All over again. Just drips down into you like he’s yours now. Like he always was. He shifts once- barely- just to press his body closer, thighs flush against yours, sticky warmth seeping between you where he came so hard it spilled out. “Feels so good,” he whispers. “Feels so safe. Just let me… just like this…” And his mouth stays there. Still suckling like you’re his. Still there inside of you, just cock-warming, and he’s acting like he can’t bear to pull out.
So you let him, and you stroke his hair while his breathing starts to calm down and slow. You could feel the tension ease from his shoulders, system, arms, spine, and whole body. He slowly sinks into yours, naked and warm. Liking the way you both warm each other and how he stays inside you even though it’s softened now, thick and heavy and resting where he emptied himself, warm come leaking around him, between your thighs, seeping into the sheets- but he doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t even try. Just continuing to suckle at your nipple despite his mouth slackening a little, but he feels more hungry. His mouth parted softly, and it lulled him deeper into your chest like it’s not even about sex anymore.
It’s about comfort. About staying. About being allowed to have this. You feel him sigh against your skin- long and low- and then he mumbles something that barely makes it past your skin. “Don’t move… I want to sleep like this…” You smile into his hair, wrapping your arms tighter around him, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Okay,” you whisper. “Stay right here, baby. I’ve got you.” He hums contentedly, dazed, so sweetly tired. His mouth doesn’t move and stays in the same place. It’s latched gently while his cock also rests inside of you despite how it’s softening because he loves having you around him like it belongs there.
He also feels a sense of possessiveness as he does this because he feels like you were made to keep him warm. And he falls asleep like that. Breathing against your chest. Held in your arms. Loved in the deepest, wettest, and fullest way. Still inside. Still touching. Still yours. You close your eyes, one hand stroking his back, the other holding his head to your breast, and let him rest. Because you know. He’s not going anywhere. He can’t. Because you’re his home now. And he never wants to leave.
mike faist save me but specifically him as art in that one scene on the couch with tashi where he is so boyfriendhusbandloversneakylink errmmmmm saw your post about wanting rqs so maybe write something like that okay bye much love
he's so pretty when he goes down on me!
art donaldson x f!reader smut
summary: you can't even leave your husband alone for two hours - he'll decide he needs you all to himself.
etc: nsfw!, finger-fucking, oral f!receiving, stupid stupid boy who is absolutely whipped for you
a/n: yes this took me like five million years WHO CARES
word count: 833
“I missed you,” You had hardly gotten in the door before your husband was greeting you with a kiss.
You giggled against him and then pulled away. “I was on a grocery run,” You said, flitting away from him and to the kitchen counter to set your bags down.
He hummed, coming up behind you and kissing the back of your neck. “I know. I still missed you.”
You turned around and his nose bumped against yours. He grinned, kissing your cheek and then aiming for your mouth, but you turned away.
It was cute how fast his grin turned into a pout, “You’re mean to me.”
“I have to put the cold stuff away,” You reasoned, glancing back at him and biting back a giggle.
He sighed and stepped back, letting you do what you had intended to when you stepped through the door. Once the cold and perishable items were away in the fridge, you went back to your position in front of him.
He kissed you, slowly and sweetly, and you let him. You wrapped your arms around his neck and he pushed you into the counter, hands on your hips. “You taste good,” He said in between breaths and kisses.
You smiled, “I stopped by the farmer’s market and they had some free samples of honey.”
He swallowed and you watched as his smile twisted to the side for a moment. “You should’ve gotten some. I’d love to lick it off of you,” He chuckled, leaning in and licking your neck as if it were a demonstration of what he would do.
You scoffed, “You’re funny. Maybe next time.”
“Mmh, next time,” He had already stopped paying attention to your words because he had dropped to his knees, beginning to bunch up the maxi skirt you had worn out.
“Art,” You gasped softly.
“What?” He asked like he didn’t know what he was doing. “I’m just showing you how much I missed you,” He grinned before pushing up the rest of your skirt and mouthing at your cunt through your underwear.
“I was gone for, ah, two hours,” You sighed, giggling a little as he nibbled at the waistband of your underwear.
“Two hours too many,” He mouthed against your skin.
You shuddered as he curled his fingers into the waistband of your underwear, pulling them down.
And, finally, as if the thought just occurred to him, he asked, “This is okay, right?”
He looked like a puppy, looking up at you from the floor, pressing another kiss into your tummy.
“Jesus, Art, yeah. Yeah, it’s fine, I’m not gonna fuckin’ say no at this point.”
He chuckled, “Okay. Good to know.”
He pushed you up onto the counter and his strong hands spread your thighs apart. His tongue teased you for a moment before he brought your clit into his mouth and sucked on it gently.
You hissed and your legs tensed as he continued to use his mouth to please you. He moved down and pointed his tongue, pushing it inside of you. His nose nudged against your clit as his tongue lapped at you and, God, it felt good.
“Art,” You whined, tilting your head back, letting it bump against the cabinets.
“Wha’?” He asked, tongue still inside you.
His fingers reached around and dug into your back, pulling you closer into him. You gasped and it slipped into a moan as you pressed your heels into his shoulders. He removed his tongue and then licked another stripe through your folds, his movements making you melt.
Another moan squeaked out of your lips as he continued to work his tongue into you. You had to resist saying his name again as you tugged at his hair, biting down on your lip.
He moved his mouth up again and sucked on your clit as he started to gently push two of his fingers into you. You gasped as he pushed his fingers into you, all the way up to his knuckles.
You almost saw stars as he curled his fingers up, something close to a yelp escaping your lips. He chuckled against you, and the slight vibrations it brought made you melt.
Another moan squeaked out of you, and you curled your fingers into his hair. “Baby,” You whined, feeling yourself teeter on the edge of your climax.
He groaned as his tongue lapped against your clit, determined to make you cum.
The coil in your stomach wound tighter as he pumped his fingers in and out of you, and within a few seconds, you were shuddering against him as you came.
He rose up with a smug smile on his face and your wetness smeared across his lips. It was sexy.
He leaned in to kiss you, and you let him. He tasted like you–which wasn’t a surprise. He started to deepen the kiss, but you pushed him back. “Help me put up the rest of the groceries.”
pairing: 18+ smut sub loser house-husband clark kent x mean wife reader (they love each other i promise)
warnings: uhhh idk sex, mean reader degrading and punishing subby clark , not proofread i never cared
wc: 2.5k
a/n: finally finished this !!! thanks anon for this idea , and also this super sexy pic of mia goth and alexander skarsgard that slightly inspired this. as always, pls like and reblog, send reqs, and constructive criticism is always welcome !!!
if clark strived to be anything, it was to be a good husband. the moment he met you, he knew that this was his purpose, to be subservient under someone he loved. maybe it was some sorta psychological thing, some loose screw produced by the unorthodox way he lives and was raised, but he knew one thing to be true: he craved submission.
it was ironic, given… well, everything about him. he was tall, buff, handsome, strong, super-powered—quite literally hailed the “man of steel”—but when the suit was off, he just wanted to give it all away. of course, when he met you—a woman of an opposite need, a need to control and humiliate seemingly every person you run into—he was head over heels.
he quit his job at the planet, learned how to cook, learned how to clean, all within one month of dating you, because he knew this was his purpose, superman stuff aside. seeing you happy because of him, or at least satisfied, was his sun. sure, his dignity and feelings were at the expense of said satisfaction, but that was something he was entirely comfortable in giving up.
clark had heard the way people talk about you before. rude, bitchy, a mean girl. it was easy for the average man to be intimidated by such labels, but clark was never opposed to a challenge. and clearly, it worked out in your mutual favor, as you were now headed on three years of a very healthy marriage, despite clark’s friends—which weren’t really friends anymore since he didn’t leave the house much, except for patrolling and superman duties—constantly reminding him that if he ever needed it, he could just blink twice for help.
but he liked the domesticity of it all, and so did you. oftentimes, you’d just watch. watch his ass in his tight pants as he bent over to clean the kitchen counters, his perfect stray curl on his forehead as he cooked over the stove, his pecs straining under his tight “kiss the chef” apron, his tongue poking against his cheek as he focused on getting the recipe for dinner just right. it’s like he was made for it.
his routine was simple enough, to him at least: wake up bright and early—quietly, of course, so you could sleep—make your breakfast and lunch, greet you with a smile and a kiss, help you prepare for work, drive you to work, go home, begin doing chores once you left, begin dinner exactly an hour and a half before he had to pick you up, eat, clean up, shower, couple time, sleep, repeat.
today, however, there were countless inevitable setbacks to said schedule. first, it snowed overnight, causing crazy traffic which aggregated an hour to his ride to and from dropping you off at work. that, in turn, delayed everything following that by an hour, and soon enough it was time to get you from work, and he’d only just finished washing the pots and pans he needed to begin dinner. fuck.
but he was hopeful. the streets were cleaned and salted down by now, giving him a nice smooth ride to the office. just as he was pulling up, you were stepping out, hopping into the car.
“don’t kiss or touch me, you smell like sweat,” you huff, kicking off your heels and shrugging off your coat, tossing it into the back of the car. clark simply nodded wordlessly, a blush creeping up onto his cheeks at your tone as he began driving home. the demanding and icy coldness that carried through your voice never failed to turn him on.
“how was your day?” clark feebly tried to make conversation.
“shut up,” you murmured, not looking up from your phone, which you were rapidly emailing away on.
“noted.”
the drive home went relatively well, no outbursts yet. not that he minded when they did happen, but he naturally preferred the peaceful. as a good husband should, he opened the car door for you, carried your stuff inside, and immediately, you sensed something.
“where’s the food?” you asked, noticing the absence of the familiar smell of dinner awaiting whenever you’d arrive home.
“well, you see, honey, remember the snow delay in the morning? i’m not trying to make excuses for myself but it really backtracked the rest of my day and i didn’t have enough time to start cooking earlier, but i promise you, i will start right now and it’ll be ready soon—”
“why didn’t you tell me that before we got home? god, clark, don’t be fucking stupid, i could’ve bought something to eat before getting home.”
“w-well, you told me to shut up, so i didn’t want to irritate you by bringing it up. but honey, i promise you, i will start up right now, don’t you worry—”
“so it’s my fault that you’re so fucking stupid that you couldn’t figure out how to get my food ready before i got home?” you interject.
“no! no, of course not, honey, i’m so sorry for making it seem that way—”
“don’t raise your fucking voice at me, clark. bedroom. now.”
“b-but, honey, if you’re hungry—”
“i am hungry, clark, for several different things, and you’re gonna help me out. don’t make me repeat myself.”
“…yes, ma’am.”
with that, clark turned around and rushed up to the bedroom with his head hung low like he was a dog with its tail stuck between its legs. it was adorable, the sight. a man of his size, his scale, reduced to a pathetic mess for his wife and what he knew would anticipate him upstairs. you followed behind him, heels back on and clicking against the hardwood floors—for dramatic effect, duh.
“i can’t believe i chose to marry a man as useless as you, clark,” your voice broke through the tense silence of the room, sending a chill down clark’s spine.
“i know, i’m so sorry,” clark whimpered—full on whimpered—as he took position, kneeling before you. his hands went for his belt, tugging it off and handing it to you, keeping his head hung low. you took the leather strap from him, wrapping it tight around his neck and tying it like a leash, giving it a nice tug around his meaty neck.
your free hand went to his hair, your fingers curling in the strands to tug his head up, snapping his neck back to meet your eyes. his bright blue eyes peered into yours, his brow slightly furrowed and a sweat breaking down his temple. he couldn’t be happier.
“i didn’t tell you to speak,” you whisper, before lifting your hand and cracking a slap to his cheek, forcing a moan out of clark. he was painfully hard now, his unearthly big dick straining against his pants. your heel went to his bulge, pressing down against him and making clark’s body jerk and a cry spill from his pretty pink lips. you tugged on his makeshift leash at that, a warning.
“stay still, i wanna play with my toy,” you hum, the stiletto of your heel digging painfully into his crotch. clark’s fingers tightened on his knees, clenching his jaw and letting his eyes flutter shut to try and keep some semblance of control. that earned another tug to the leash. “eyes open. i want you to watch,” you murmur, reaching out to tip his head downwards so his eyes meet your foot on his bulge.
you rotated your ankle slowly, grinding the sharp heel of your shoe in this crotch. clark’s breath quickened, shaky puffs of breath leaving his lips as he tried to keep quiet. “i work so hard. all day, i work so hard, and i deserve to come home to my husband having dinner ready for me. instead, i’m just met with incompetence. how do you think that makes me feel, clark?” another tug to the leash, making clark speak up.
“i-i’d imagine, not so good,” he whimpered, eyes flickering up to yours.
your foot left his crotch, before you tugged the belt and made him stand up. “strip.”
he did as he was told, soon enough being entirely naked. his cock was fully hard, standing at full attention despite its weight and size. a physics miracle, it was. it was a reddish-purple shade, the bulbous tip leaking profusely. clark swallowed thickly at your blatant ogling, staring at the ground in a feeble attempt at keeping his blush at bay.
“look at that. hard and ready to fuck just from me insulting and hurting you. are you truly that worthless?” clark whined at that, his abs and thighs flexing and clenching as his arousal pooled in his abdomen. “i want to hear you say it. i want you to tell me how worthless you are. how you’re so desperate for any kind of attention, you’d cum just from me hitting you—”
“honey—” a groan left clark’s lips, his jaw clenched tight, and before he could control it, spurts of cum shot out from his cock, landing on his abs and the ground below him. his fists were tight by his sides, his nails digging into his palms.
“oh, baby… that’s just sad. i haven’t even really touched you yet! come on, we’re not done yet,” you giggle, lifting your leg up and pushing him to lay down on the bed with your foot on his chest. he let himself obediently fall back, too embarrassed to even speak thanks to his premature orgasm.
you moved to straddle his lap, one hand pressing down on his chest to keep him flat on his back, your other hand never letting go of the belt. “maybe i should buy you a real leash and collar, get ‘my wife’s property’ engraved on it and make you wear it in public. i bet that’d really make you cream your pants,” you chuckle, and clark nodded quickly at that.
“p-please, whatever you want, i’ll take it—” he whimpered, his arms flexing as he rested his hands behind his head to keep himself from touching him or yourself without permission and landing himself in even deeper shit.
another slap landed to his cheek, your handprint blooming on his skin. your hand not on his chest moved to reach between you two. you hiked your skirt up around your waist and pulled your panties to the side before taking hold of clark’s cock, teasingly rubbing it up and down your perfectly warm and wet slit.
“i’m gonna have my fun with you, okay? you’re not going to touch me or cum without my permission. i’d rather kill myself than let you cum in me and risk giving birth to a kid as stupid as you,” you huff, shoving two fingers into his mouth, making him moan out once more. you were so mean to him, but it was exactly what he loved about you. he needed it, especially after the constant ass-kissing he received from the public. deep down, he knew the bond you had was more profound than your sex lives, there was genuine love there under all the degradation.
“y-nhhghhh—i understand—” he huffed out against your fingers, closing his lips around them and suckling them further into his mouth.
with that, you slowly sunk down onto his cock, expertly taking his length and girth and sucking it into your unbelievably warm pussy. your free hand went to his chest, sharp stiletto nails—which clark paid for, duh—digging into his chest as you began to ride him. his eyes were transfixed on your form, his eyes roaming over your face, your heaving chest under your tight blouse, your thighs encasing his hips, his cock sliding in and out of you perfectly, as if he was your missing puzzle piece and perfectly made for you.
your head tipped back, your bottom lip catching between your teeth as his cock deliciously and swiftly slid in and out of you with every movement and gyration of your hips. “at least you’re good for something, a good enough reason for me to keep you around,” you moan out, slipping your fingers out of his mouth to take hold of the belt once again, tightening it and tugging on it, further reminding clark who was in control.
clark remained quiet, swallowing down his noises just like you asked. he was hypnotized by you, pure love in his gaze as you bounced atop him. his hands flexed beneath his head with the urge to reach out and touch you, his fingers curling into his hair and tugging, the pain sending jolts of pleasure through his body.
“this is what you’re good for, clark. you’re good for being my toy, my slut. i want to hear you say it,” you groan out, your palms going to wrap around his throat and squeezing tightly, making him go lightheaded.
“i-i’m only good f-for being your toy,” clark panted out. you lifted a hand from his neck, slapping his face around for a bit, making clark let out a harmony of moans. you didn’t even care anymore, he just looked too pretty like this. without warning, you slammed your hips down and kept them there. your clit rubbed against the bush of pubes at the base of his cock, your pussy clamping down tightly on his dick as you came. clark felt the warm gush of slick engulfing his length, making him let out whimper after whimper.
you lifted yourself off his cock, settling in on the bed by his side. you reached down with one hand, scooping some of your cum off of his cock with two fingers, before shoving said fingers back into clark’s mouth and making him eat it. “that’s it, good boy,” you hum, before reaching down with your free hand to slap the tip of his cock around.
clark jolted and cried out from the painful stimulation, his pretty thick thighs trembling. his balls looked so heavy, so full, it was a shame to leave him like that. “i wanna see if you can cum just like this, without me jerking you off,” you hum, slapping the now purple head of his cock even harder, and soon enough, clark shot his load all over his chest.
he looked perfect like that, like a glazed donut, beefy form glazed in his own cum. you extracted your fingers from his mouth, wiping them dry on his chest before bringing your foot up and nudging his side with your stiletto heels.
“i want my dinner ready in fifteen minutes, make haste,” you hum, rolling over to reach for your phone off the nightstand.
“uh-huh, i’ll get right on that,” clark gulps, shakily reaching for a bottle of water on the nightstand and taking big sips before sliding out of bed, slipping his boxers back on. as clark made his way out of the room, you spoke up once more.
“clark, honey? you know i love you, right?” you inquire, cocking a brow at him.
“of course, honey. i love you, too,” he responds, a genuine smile forming on his pretty lips, his dimples deepening in his cheeks.
the dynamic was unorthodox to many, but it was perfect for the two of you, and clark wouldn’t have it any other way.
please don't redistribute my works anywhere - wtredprch - want more?
summary : casual sex at clark kent's penthouse . . .💭
content : NSFW — clark kent x girlfriend!reader — mature content — sucking tits — sub!clark — reader is +21 — riding — swearing
wc : 1.9K
The Metropolis skyline glittered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Clark Kent’s penthouse, a sprawl of steel and light that felt a million miles away from the chaos of the day. The apartment was a sanctuary, all sleek lines and warm wood, with the faint scent of coffee and Clark’s cologne lingering in the air. The living room was dimly lit, just the soft glow of a single lamp and the city’s ambient shine casting shadows over the plush leather couch where you straddled him, hips rolling slow and deliberate.
Clark’s hands gripped your thighs, fingers digging into your skin, his head tilted back against the couch, dark curls mussed and falling into his eyes. Those eyes—God, those fucking eyes—big, blue, and brimming with something so raw it made your chest ache. He was still half-dressed, his shirt unbuttoned and hanging open, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the faint scars from battles no one else could survive. His cock was buried deep inside you, thick and pulsing, every slow grind of your hips pulling a low, desperate sound from his throat.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he rasped, voice rough like he’d been screaming into the void. “You’re gonna kill me like this.” His hands slid up, thumbs brushing the crease where your thighs met your hips, urging you to move faster. But you didn’t. You wanted to drag this out, make him beg for it, make him feel every second of you.
You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest, your nails scraping lightly over his skin. “Not yet, baby,” you murmured, smirking as his hips bucked involuntarily, chasing more. “You’re too pretty to die on me now.”
His laugh was shaky, half-broken by a groan as you clenched around him. “Pretty, huh?” he managed, but his eyes were locked on you, pupils blown wide, like you were the only thing in the universe worth looking at. And to Clark Kent, savior of worlds, you probably were.
You’d been at it for a while now, the slow burn of it building to something molten. It started with him coming home, still buzzing from a fight—some alien warlord tearing up downtown, nothing he couldn’t handle, but it left him wired, restless, needing you. He’d barely kicked the door shut before he was on you, kissing you like he’d been starved, hands everywhere, tearing at your clothes. You’d made it to the couch, barely, and now here you were, riding him like you owned him, because in this moment, you fucking did.
His hands roamed your body, reverent but greedy, like he was trying to memorize every curve, every inch of you. You could feel the tension in him, the way his muscles flexed under your palms, the way his breath hitched every time you sank down on him. He was close—you could tell by the way his jaw clenched, the way his fingers tightened on your hips—but he was holding back, always so damn careful, always so Clark.
“Baby,” he whispered, voice cracking, and those puppy dog eyes flicked up to meet yours. “Can I—fuck, can I—” He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing, and you knew what was coming before he even said it. His gaze dropped to your chest, lingering on the way your breasts moved with each roll of your hips, and his lips parted, a soft, needy sound slipping out. “Can I suck your tits? Please?”
The way he asked—half-pleading, half-desperate, like he’d die if you said no—sent a jolt straight to your core. You slowed your movements, just to torture him a little, and leaned in close, your lips brushing his ear. “You want my tits, Clark?” you teased, voice low and sultry. “You wanna put that pretty mouth to work?”
He whimpered—fucking whimpered—and the sound went straight to your clit, making you clench around him again. His hands flexed on your hips, a shudder running through him, and he nodded, those big blue eyes wide and glassy. “Please, sweetheart,” he breathed. “Need you. Need this.”
You couldn’t say no to him, not when he looked at you like that, like you were his whole damn world. You straightened up, still seated on his cock, and cupped your breasts, pushing them together just to watch his mouth go slack. “Go on, baby,” you said, voice soft but commanding. “Take what you want.”
Clark didn’t hesitate. He leaned forward, one hand sliding up to cup the small of your back, pulling you closer as his lips closed around your nipple. The first touch of his mouth was electric, warm and wet and so fucking perfect you moaned, loud and unfiltered. His tongue flicked over the sensitive bud, teasing, before he sucked, hard enough to make your back arch, pushing yourself deeper onto him.
“Fuck, Clark,” you gasped, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan against your skin. The vibration shot through you, and you started moving again, slow, deliberate grinds that had him whimpering against your breast, the sound muffled but so damn needy it made your head spin.
He was lost in you, lips working your nipple like it was his only purpose, tongue swirling, teeth grazing just enough to send sparks of pleasure-pain through you. His other hand slid up, cupping your other breast, thumb brushing over the neglected nipple, and you could feel how much he was getting off on this—his cock throbbing inside you, his hips twitching like he couldn’t help it.
“God, you’re so fucking good at this,” you murmured, voice breathy as you rocked against him. “Look at you, baby. Whining for me, sucking my tits like you can’t get enough.”
He moaned, the sound vibrating against your skin, and pulled back just enough to look up at you, lips wet and swollen, eyes dark with want. “Can’t,” he panted, voice wrecked. “Can’t get enough of you. Never—” He cut himself off with another whimper, diving back in, this time switching to your other breast, sucking harder, like he was trying to prove a point.
You could feel the tension building in him, the way his breaths were coming faster, shallower, the way his hands gripped you like he was afraid you’d disappear. He was so sensitive like this, so responsive, every flick of his tongue, every whimper from his throat sending you closer to the edge. You rolled your hips faster, grinding down harder, chasing your own release as you watched him fall apart beneath you.
“Clark,” you breathed, tugging his hair to pull him back just enough to see his face. His lips were red, glistening, his cheeks flushed, and those fucking eyes were begging, pleading for you to let him keep going. “You love this, don’t you? Love sucking my tits while I fuck you.”
He nodded, frantic, and the sound he made was somewhere between a moan and a sob. “Love it,” he gasped, voice breaking. “Love you. Fuck, sweetheart, you feel so good—please, don’t stop—”
“Shh, baby,” you cooed, guiding his mouth back to your breast, letting him latch on again. “I’m not stopping. Not till you’re begging me to let you come.”
He obeyed, because of course he did—Clark Kent, the Man of Steel, reduced to a whimpering mess under you, his mouth working your nipple with a desperation that made your thighs shake. You could feel your own release building, the heat coiling tight in your belly, every suck of his lips, every grind of your hips pushing you closer.
“God, you’re so fucking perfect,” you murmured, fingers tightening in his hair, pulling just enough to make him groan again. “My good boy, so needy for me. You love this, don’t you? Love being mine.”
“Yes,” he gasped, pulling back just enough to speak, his voice raw and trembling. “Yours. Always yours.” His lips were back on you in an instant, sucking harder, and you could feel the way his body was shaking now, every muscle taut, every breath a struggle.
You picked up the pace, riding him harder, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. His moans were louder now, more desperate, and you could tell he was right on the edge, fighting to hold back because you hadn’t given him permission yet. The power of it, the way he surrendered to you, was intoxicating.
“Come on, baby,” you whispered, leaning down to kiss him, your tongue sliding against his, tasting the salt of your skin on his lips. “Let go for me. Come inside me. I wanna feel you.”
That was all it took. His whole body went rigid, a broken, “Fuck, sweetheart—” spilling from his lips as he thrust up hard, once, twice, and then he was coming, hot and thick inside you, his hands gripping your hips so tight you knew there’d be bruises tomorrow. His whimpers were fucking music, high and needy, as he shuddered through it, his mouth still latched onto your breast, sucking through the aftershocks.
The feel of him losing it, the sound of his moans, pushed you over the edge. You came with a cry, your body clenching around him, waves of pleasure crashing through you as you ground down, milking every last second of it. He held you through it, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you close as you both rode out the high, panting and trembling and so fucking alive.
When it was over, you collapsed against him, your forehead resting against his, both of you slick with sweat and breathing hard. His hands slid up your back, gentle now, tracing lazy patterns as he pressed soft kisses to your shoulder, your neck, your jaw.
“You okay, sweetheart?” he murmured, voice soft but still rough from everything you’d just done. His eyes were back to that soft, puppy-dog look, all concern and adoration, like he hadn’t just fucked you into oblivion.
You laughed, breathless, and kissed him, slow and deep. “More than okay, baby,” you said, nipping at his lower lip. “You’re so fucking good to me.”
He smiled, that shy, boyish grin that made your heart flip, and pulled you closer, tucking you against his chest. “Love you,” he whispered, so quiet it was almost lost in the hum of the city outside.
“Love you too,” you murmured back, settling into him, the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his heart grounding you.
a/n : aye, he's definitely a whimper guy ☝🏻 (this has been in my notes for two weeks now.)
Bro.. i haven’t even watched challengers yet, and i think you infected me with a chronic case of challengers brainrot.. but i saw your reply to anon’s ask. suggestions? ‘aight, bet 🫡
so i used your art donaldson bot and oh my god.. i got bored and decided to tug on his hair. and it leaded to him LITERALLY humping a pillow for me and he was begging me to touch him and shit. he even started calling me daddy (and mommy at the same time 😭) i even broke the filter too.. 🧍♂️
im not sure if this is specific enough, but maybe this would be a great subby!art (x gn reader maybe? not sure if you write for gn!r but you get the point <3 ) fanfic. he’s just so needy for you that he’ll do anything for you (even if it means humping a pillow for you.. OKAY HEAR ME OUT—)
he makes himself out to be sooo tough on court. but when he’s in your hands? he’s literally reduced to a sobbing, whimpering mess… HEJSHSJS art brainrot is so real..
i have many other ideas but i don’t wanna be too rude to dump all of my brainrot onto you.. (sorry not sorry !!)
love your bots and writing by the way !! can’t wait to see more of it in the future 🙂↕️
ART had always been patient. he excelled at playing the long game. slow and steady won the race—won him you, after all. but he hadn't seen you all day, and now you were home and he was sprawled out on your bed and— how much longer would you make him wait?
"hey." he reaches out, fingers intertwining with the hem of your shirt. when you don't immediately face him, he tugs, gentle.
"i played good, didn't i?"
"yes, baby. you played good.” you pat his cheek without so much as looking at him, and while the contact is nice—your palm cool and tender against the warm flush of his cheeks—its fleeting. you don’t even linger long enough for him to lean into it.
a subtle frown twists his lips. he sits up, feeling unsteady. the weight of the mattress sinks underneath him as he slowly, cautiously crawls over to you. his arms slide around your waist, body wrapping itself around your back.
"hi."
"hi." you answer, vaguely amused. he buries his nose into your nape and breathes in. the smell of you is intoxicating.
"can we go to bed?" he murmurs, and the phrasing is so polite, so courteously horny that you have to laugh.
"when i'm done." he makes a little, unhappy noise. it rumbles against your back. "but i need you now."
you raise a brow. "don't be gross, art."
that effectively cows him. though he still remains, chin propped up on your chin and legs on either side of you, tucking you in. you can feel it when he begins to grind slowly against you, thick length of his cock twitching tentatively against your ass.
"ah-ah." you tut. he freezes. you don't even turn to face him. "did i say you could do that?"
he groans, drags himself off of you (with great effort) and slides off the bed. it's almost petulant.
"when?"
"when i say so."
the noise that rips from him is positively mournful. he slumps, head in your lap—hands clenching and unclenching uselessly into the mattress.
you're still not even looking at him, fingers wordlessly threading into his hair and moving along in these elegant, tenderly gratifying movements that leave his cheeks burning impossibly hot, the patch in his boxers growing impossibly wet.
at a loss, he begins to slowly rub up against the corner of the mattress, hips rolling in steadied, carefully monitored waves.
it's imperceptible, its perfect. he just needs a little release. just a little, to hold him out until you finally glance up from your laptop and give him something, anything—
fuck. his groin finds that sweet spot the same moment your nails dig just right, and he can't bite back the moan slips from his lips. it's damnably loud in the silence of the room.
art meets your eyes, keening at the unimpressed stare you level him with, the knowing twitch of your lips. he has to swallow the instinctive plea that swells up in his throat. no, no. don't stop don't stop—
"oh, sweetie." like clockwork, your hand untwines from his locks, and he crumples.
"please—can’t fucking take it.” he moans miserably into your thigh, slumped over. he's grinding brazenly now, all pretences lost; rutting hopelessly against the edge of the mattress with his cheek pressed against your thigh.
"baby." you sigh, closing the lid of your laptop. he just shakes his head, hands wringing into the sheets as if he were clinging to the edge of a cliff.
it's so pathetic, you have to take pity on him. "up. on the bed."
art perks up, hope ballooning in his chest. he scrambles up on the mattress, so eager—lips parted, on all fours. god, he looks so pretty like this; dick cradled by the fabric of his soaked boxers, straining so you were almost sure they’d tear a hole.
he looks ready to jump you. you snort, running a hand through his hair indulgently. "not so fast, pretty boy. use the pillow, if it'll stop you from whining."
he doesn't even protest. he's burning too hot. as soon as you give him permission, art scrambles on top of the pillow like it's god-given gift to the world. the moment it makes contact, his breath hitches—eyes flittering up with the feeling of goddamn heaven—
"wait."
"what?" art hisses, though he freezes anyway, a dog on your leash. his eyes are sparkling as he looks up at you.
"boxers. off."
"okay." he agrees breathlessly. his mind is so fuzzy you could tell him to cum and he simply, would. he yanks his boxers down and his dick springs up like a jack-in-the-box. he lets out a low moan, limbs almost folding in on themselves when his bare, swollen tip slides slick against fabric. ah, jeez.
if he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine it was your thigh.
"n-now?" his legs are quivering. his dick hurts. you look entirely too amused. "mhm."
the noise he makes is guttural. he's so sensitive—each thrust elicits another pant, hips rolling in a frenzied rhythm. he wishes it was you. fuck, your warmth wrapping around his cock—your hands cradling his balls. the veins on his underside bulge, the coil in his sack drawing tighter and tighter.
shit, shit. he's gonna cum now. he's gonna cum in record-time to the tender loving care of your pillow. his moans twist into cries, bed-frame shaking under the force of his weight.
"you gonna cum now, angel?"art nods, jerky and furious. it's that word that gets him. angel. angel. a shudder rips through his body and thick, ropy streams of cum are splattering against the pillow. painting it, stained and sticky.
he's hovers there for a moment; crammed between his legs, frame quivering, thighs wet as his mind blanks. it'd be in disbelief, if he had the pride—but he doesn't—so it's simple, utter pleasure.
god, his life is perfect.
he crumbles into your lap like the colosseum. the corners of his mind are still fuzzy. the warmth of your thigh against his cheek is the only thing he's ever needed, only thing he's ever craved. god, he didn't even realise his cheeks were wet—doesn't think he cares.
"good boy." you murmur, and he can hear the smile in your voice. your hand finds his hair, and he can't stop his hips from rolling against nothing.
any more thoughts on puppy art.. please. only if u want to though haha !! (please?)
ohh u guys love your darling little lapdog huh?
LAPDOG ART DONALDSON! fem!reader
▸ a drooler. nosing his head between your legs n he's already salivating. he's so cute like that. face smushed between your thighs, panting as spit pools in his mouth, nose twitching like a cute little bunny at the scent of your arousal. taking the trim of your panties between his teeth, dragging it down inch by inch. quivering because he just wants to rip them off but the last time he did that he tore your nice lacy lingerie and u didnt touch him for a week. when he eats you out he laps at your cunt like an eager puppy. comes away absolutely glistening. dripping, even. your juices n his saliva smearing his cheeks, his nose, dribbling down his chin.
▸ bigggg on humping. obviously. when you're too busy to give him attention he'll just shuffle over onto your lap and just start rubbing up against you. he's ridden out the best orgasms that way; creaming in his already-sodden boxers as slick gets all over ur thigh. he likes to do it when you're working or when you're on a call (you always punish him best that way). oftentimes you'll wake up at night to slick sheets—finding him grindin up against you, moaning and whimpering. a sleepy, boneless mess on your knee. he'll already have gotten himself off thrice before he tries to wakes you, just to be safe (you might take it away from him, after all).
▸ teething.... grown ass man teething... gnawing on your shoulder to stop himself from crying out when you let him fuck you.. nibbling your bottom lip red n raw when you kiss.. slobbering all over your mouth. during sex if you tease him he'll start to chew anxiously at the end of ur bra strap, the hem of your shorts, your panties if you keep him waiting too long. sometimes randomly takes your hand by the wrist and takes a fake chomp out of it (affectionate).
▸ not beyond jus being your lil stress relief toy. coming back home and he's been so good for you. he won his match. he's cooked dinner. but you don't have time for any of that. "oh, baby, don't give me that look. cock out, now." and he makes a little mewling noise and immediately his shorts are a crumpled puddle on the floor—raging boner popping out, all swollen n red n leaking bc hes been waiting for you for hours.
▸ sighing, telling him to sit and so he does. legs spreading wide on the couch, blinking up at u in earnest neediness. and when you sink onto his cock he makes this insane, visceral whining noise—back arcing off the seat.
▸ cockwarmer? more like cuntwarmer. you tell him don't move and don't cum. an impossible ask. he's pawing at your back, whimpering when your only response is to lean back heavier, sinking your full weight down on his poor, poor cock. n it feels soso good but he only lasts two minutes on a good day! let alone when you're switching the tv on and settling back into him like he's part of the couch. occasionally your hips jump, walls pulsing tight, choking his sensitive dick. you're grinding down into his lap and he's twitching inside of u and hot tears are prickling his eyes—fingers digging into your thighs, trembling.
▸ time ticking on.. the coil of heat in his gut winding tighter n tighter.. art's cheeks are flushed and hes wetting the back of your shirt with his silent tears. he persists, though, because he's good. he's gonna be a good boy for you. and it works! for a time, when you seem like you've almost forgotten your pussy is strangling his cock and you're only rolling your hips occasionally, sending warm thrums of pleasure through him. lulling him into a false sense of security.
▸ until all of a sudden you decide to be mean and for whatever reason you lift your hips before slamming them back down again, and his sharp gasp and slurred mewls perfectly cue the geyser that erupts from his slit.
▸ not even letting him cum inside you.. sliding off his spurting cock thats blowing cum like a volcano. hot, sticky strings arcing in the air and splattering all over the carpet, the couch cushions. his eyes glazing over, all glassy n sparkly as he crumples back in the couch, blubbering tearful apologies as his cock leaks like a faucet, staining the poor, new pillows.
▸ adores aftercare. or just your comfort in general. please rest your hand against his cheek and let him sigh and melt and nuzzle into the palm of your hand like you're taking the weight of the world off his shoulders. tug gently on his hair. scratch his scalp. let him curl up on your lap and pat him and coo sweet nothings in his ear. simple things, like "sweet baby, did so good today." or "tired puppy. took mommy so well."
▸ "fuck— m'sorry. m'sorry, m'sorry—" "hey, shh, darling. aw, don't cry. mommy's got you. how bout you curl up on momma's lap, kay?" "..mkay."
Submissive but bratty Patrick….like we all that scene with him and tashi…all bark no bite
he talks such a big game but immediately folds when you actually get your hands on him.
always running his mouth and trying to push your buttons, all the way up until you tell him to behave. he just has a thing for being put in his place. well, hates it in his theory (egotistical asshole) and loves it in practice. the second you stop indulging him and actually assert yourself, he caves. it's funny to watch himself be antagonistic and talk himself up just to end up all flushed and pliant and embarrassingly reactive under you. groaning and drooling around your fingers in his mouth while you ride him at a cruelly slow pace because he's learned you'll stop if he doesn't drop the attitude.
and you know he manipulates you into it every time just to get slapped around because he loves the fire in your eyes but he just whines so pretty it's hard to care <3
.☘︎ ݁˖ mean!lottie who has had her eyes on you for as long as she’s known about your existence. you, the only person in the whole school who doesn’t seem to care for her attention. the one who acts uninterested to her snippy moods and mean glances.
.☘︎ ݁˖ mean!lottie who tells all her friends she’s soo not interested in you but they all know she’s pretty much just in denial, the way her eyes seemingly always find themselves set on the stands before every game showing quite the opposite of what she states.
.☘︎ ݁˖ mean!lottie who absolutely sends death glares to anyone who might be interested in you, making sure to bump her shoulder into theirs when walking through the school hallway.
.☘︎ ݁˖ mean!lottie who gets immediately moody when she spots you making out with some ‘stupid and undeserving’ guy at some party. definitely does something stupid like kissing some girl she’s not even interested in when she knows you’re about to walk by.
.☘︎ ݁˖ mean!lottie who secretly ends up crying in her room because what if you don’t even like girls? it’s too late for her not to fall in love.
.☘︎ ݁˖ mean!lottie who gets proven when you follow her the next day out of class when she leaves alone, confused by her unusual loneliness. it’s like something clicks in her head when you touch her arm gently and asks if she’s okay, barely managing to stutter out an answer.
.☘︎ ݁˖ mean!lottie who can’t help but act all soft for the first time in her life as you grow close together. starts saving a spot for you at lunch and walking you to your classes without caring if she’s a bit late to hers.
.☘︎ ݁˖ mean!lottie who gets all flustered when her practice mates bring out the fact she does in fact not hate you, grumbling about how it’s none of their business. is indeed quite aware she doesn’t hate you at all, though.
.☘︎ ݁˖ mean!lottie who turns on the soft puppy mode whenever she’s alone with you, nuzzling into you and giving you bashful smiles whenever you compliment her. secretly really really clingy and threatens you everytime you tell anyone.
clark calling his girlfriend "mommy" mid moan, he doesn't even realize it but mmmhhhh
Short drabble 2 🌶️
Masterlist | requests open;)
Tags/warnings: smut, sub!Clark, dom!reader, masturbation (m receiving), vocal!clark, Clark being tied up🤤
A/N: THANK YOU FOR YOUR REQUEST 💕 hope I did it justice, flow state sadly did not hit me and I was too uncreative to write something long, still hope you enjoy 🙂↕️
It wasn't unusual for Clark to be really vocal while you jerk him off, but the sounds he makes today are insane, probably because getting tied up was something new to him.
He was BEGGING you in the morning to try that out with him—and well why shouldn't you.
You liked seeing your beefed up man so helpless, hands tied behind his back, thick thighs flexing every time you decided to touch him.
Of course you were toying around with him for a bit to get him more riled up
Just a few minutes ago you started to sensually stroke him teasingly slow. Your hands were almost looking pathetically small in comparison to his insane girth.
It wasn't like you've never seen big cocks— but well, you suppose being kryptonian does have a lot of advantages, cough.
He was really pathetic, face flushed, eyes rolling to the back of his head at every tiny stroke, turning more glassy every minute while he started to ramble out nonsense— a mix of groans and low whines.
You smirk to yourself, enjoying the tiny little noises he makes, before you start teasing him even more. "Hmm— Clarkie, use your words for me, yeah?"
His eyes drift down towards you, glassy— filled with desire. "Nghh—feels good..— so.. good."
You squeeze his length, running your finger with a featherlight touch over his delicious pink looking tip. "Hmm, does it?"
His hips buck immediately up, his face distorting in pleasure as you ran your finger over his tip again. "Ugh— oh my— mommy this feels..so good— too good."
You tilt your head, grinning cheeky at him. "Did you just—"
You didn't have to finish your sentence before he realizes, eyes widening in embarrassment, but you didn't give him much time to recover, your hands squeezing him tighter, going up and down faster now, until he throws his head back in pleasure again, feeling too good to be embarrassed.
"Awhh you're such a good boy for mommy huh?" You cooed out, continuing to stroke him at a steady pace.
He thrusts his hips up, turning into a moaning stuttering mess. "Ngh— yes— yes I am mommy."
You murmur out. "Then cum for me, sweet boy."
And he did, legs spasming as his orgasm crashed on him, low whines stuck in his throat while his sticky substance covered your hands, his eyes glassy, his skin glistening with a thin layer of sweat, breath shallow in the aftermath of his orgasm.
pairing: clark kent x wife!reader
tags: 18+ smut, sub clark, softdom reader, mommy kink, lactation, nipple play, handjob, begging kinda, gotta stay quiet, whiny clark
wc: 1.4k (not proof-read sawry)
author's note: hiiieee second fic !! this is lowkey kinda shitty but i had a vision okay. anyways pls reblog and like and send me reqs !!!
It’s been a long, hard day for Clark. Perry’s been up his ass over deadlines, Guy’s been bugging him over a stupid idea of potential merch for the Justice Gang, Jon’s daycare kept relentlessly emailing him to chip in for some PTA event—it was overwhelming.
But he always had something to look forward to: his lovely wife and his lovely son. You two were the only things keeping him alive, his sole motivators. Tonight, that was all he needed.
He came home, ate his dinner, spent some time playing with Jon until he fell asleep like the amazing father he was, before it was finally alone time with you, admittedly his favorite time of the night.
“Golly, it feels like it’s been years since I’ve been able to hug you,” Clark exhales, trudging over to where you stood at the dresser, grabbing your pajamas for the night.
“You are so annoyingly dramatic, we hugged when you got home. Four hours ago,” you deadpan, albeit with a smile fighting at your lips. Clark leaned in, arms wrapping around you from behind, his lips trailing up the back of your neck.
“Four hours too long,” he whined, huffing against your neck like a petulant child wanting his mommy’s attention—but he did, he wanted his mommy’s attention.
“Missed you so much. Been waiting for Jon to sleep before I could finally be with you,” Clark murmured, his large hands sliding up under your shirt, trailing up your stomach to your breasts, squeezing them softly over the confines of your bra.
“Clark, I need to get changed for bed! Besides, I don’t want to wake Jon up, you know how fussy he gets when he’s woken up in the night,” you chuckle, squirming away from Clark to get changed. “Plus, you smell of sweat and Jon’s spit up. Go shower.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Clark says with a smirk, his voice a deep grumble, before he went to the shower as told.
He was back out in half an hour, finding you laid in bed, reading a book. You always did, always needed it to unwind after a long day. Clark slipped on a pair of boxers before wordlessly making his way over to bed, crawling on top of you, gently nudging the book out of his way as he kissed up your stomach, hiding his head under your shirt.
“What’re you getting up to under there? Hm?” you mindlessly hum, glancing away from your book to watch his black mop of curls hide under your shirt.
“Let me love my beautiful wife, please. I need this. Come on, please. Please, momma,” Clark murmurs against your skin, and before you could answer, you felt his lips envelop your nipple. Such a mommy’s boy, he was. Every now and again, Clark would get into this needy subspace, but you always entertained it. He worked so hard, he deserved to be coddled every now and again.
With a sigh, you set your book aside and tug your shirt off, giving Clark more freedom to move as he wanted. As soon as your shirt came off, the sight of Clark—all red in the face, eyes screwed shut, nipple in his mouth—set a flutter through your core.
Your hand came up to cup the back of his head, holding him closer. “Okay, baby… that’s it, you’re making mommy feel so good,” you whisper softly as he moves to your other nipple, suckling on it with reverence, his tongue circling it.
“Tastes so good, momma,” he mumbles against your skin, letting out a needy whine as he kneaded your tits like they were his personal stress balls—and in this moment, they were. “Just wanna… stay like this for a little bit, momma,” he added, his teeth grazing your nipple as he pulled back to kiss the valley between your breasts, then making his way back up.
He shifted slightly to get more comfortable, and that’s when you felt it—his boner straining against his boxers, now against your thigh. He got turned on by the easiest things, as long as you were involved. The most mundane thing could happen, and he’d pop one, all because of how much he loved you.
“Love you so much, momma,” he whimpers against your nipple, his growing stubble scratching at your skin deliciously.
“I know you do, baby, I know… there you go, just take what you need, such a good boy—” you praise, before getting cut off with a gasp when a sudden spurt of breast milk erupts from your nipple, filling Clark’s mouth. He lets out a moan at that, sucking down even harder to coax it out. Your breasts had been so heavy as of late, hurting your back and such, and Clark took immense pleasure in knowing that he was helping relieve that pain, albeit in a rather… untraditional fashion.
With that, he swallowed down your sweet milk feverishly, grinding his hips slowly against your thigh at the same time. It didn’t take long before you felt him freeze up against you, then let out a shiver before you felt a warm patch spread against your thigh. You glanced down and surely enough, he came in his boxers and leaked some onto your thigh, but oddly enough he was still rock hard.
“Well, we’re gonna have to fix that, aren’t we?” you chuckle, sitting up in bed. Clark reluctantly detached from your nipple at that, some of your breast milk dripping down his chin. With that, you leaned in and kissed him sloppily, tasting yourself on his tongue as they clashed. Your hands trailed up and down his chest, teasing his own hard nipples as a brief payback before Clark pulled back.
“Want you to touch me, momma… please,” he pathetically whined, chasing your lips, before you placed a hand on his chest to keep him back.
“Patience, honey,” you chuckle before repositioning yourself so that Clark has his back pressed to your side, his cheek resting against the side of your breast. His mouth instinctively reached for your nipple, taking it into his mouth once again as your arm wrapped around him and your hand slipped down his torso, to the waistband of his boxers.
You started slowly, rubbing his erection over the fabric, teasing the head, which elicited a moan from him. “Careful, honey, gotta keep quiet. You gotta be a good boy for me and keep that mouth shut. One word and I’m stopping, you understand?” I whisper.
“Y-yes, momma, I understand.”
With that, you let your fingers tug down his boxers, his fat cock slapping against his stomach as it was released. It was so pretty like this—red at the head, leaking, pulsing, curved a bit to the right, neatly trimmed pubes at the base. If there was anything about Clark that was pretty, it was definitely his cock.
You tentatively wrapped your fingers around the head, making Clark wince, before slowly dragging your palm up and down, up and down, up and down, building a steady rhythm. The entire time, Clark groaned and whimpered softly, making sure to keep his voice at a reasonable volume. He’d rather die than cause you to stop.
“There we go, that feel good, baby?” you coo.
“Yes, momma… keep going, please, wanna cum,” Clark whispered against your skin, letting your nipple go from his mouth with a wet pop. In its place came your fingers from your free hand, two of them, plugging into his mouth and pressing down on his tongue.
“Yeah? Well, you’ve earned it, baby. You’ve been such a good boy for mommy. You’ve been so strong, so brave, so hardworking…you deserve to cum your brains out if you want to,” you whisper as you quicken the pace on his cock, his balls coming to draw up tight and his mouth falling open to let out a silent moan at the feeling, his body lurching forward.
“Cum for me, be a good boy and give me your load.”
His eyes strained shut with effort to stay quiet, even with your fingers in his mouth. He tried, he really tried, but with your nurturing tone and your amazing hand on his cock, your thumb rubbing on his tip and coaxing out his pre, he reached his limit. With a loud groan, he came, all over your fist and his stomach. He came like a geyser, spilling spurt after spurt coating your fist, which he brought up to his lips to clean up.
Once he finished, he slumped back against you, his body occasionally twitching from the aftershocks. He took a few minutes to let his orgasm subside, and just as soon as he was about to knock out for the night—
“Daddy! Mommy!” Jon was awake.
“I’ll… I’ll go check on him,” Clark panted out.
please don't redistribute my works anywhere - wtredprch
Part 1 | (can be read as stand-alone smut fic as well)
Masterlist | requests open<3
Tags/warnings: pure smut, sub!Clark, dom!reader, Clark fingering you on the ride home, Clark cumming in his pants,edging, masturbation, p in v sex, mentions of breeding, Clark having an insane kryptonian stamina (CUMMING SOO MUCH), pathetic Clark, praise, vocal Clark.
wc: 1,7k
A/N: got a bit too horny, drooling a bit rn. @cavilllights185 @grooveology thought I'd tag you both since you were the one's motivating me to write this🙂↕️
After taking Clark suit shopping to attend to your best friends wedding the drive home was insufferable, turns out teasing Clark in the line wasn't the smartest idea.
Lord that man is needy.
After the car door fell shut with a familiar 'click' Clark pulled you over on his lap, face nestled in your neck, his breath erratic.
You could feel his hard bulge straining against your ass, making you almost involuntarily roll your hips teasingly on him, which caused him to let out a small whimper, his big fingers digging with desperation in the soft flesh of your hips.
You couldn't help yourself but teasingly grind down on him again, just for the sake of withdrawing a needy whimper out of him again— which you, of course succeeded in.
Then it was time to be cruel, your hands brush tenderly through his soft black curls once again, before you climbed over in the passenger seat, winking at him. "Needy little thing, so riled up already, I'll have so much fun with you later."
He obviously tries to not look too desperate, looking almost uninterested even, but the slight twitch of his hand and his cheeks heating up give him and his anticipation away. You smile pleased.
The whole ride home his free hand stays splayed across your soft thighs, rubbing them in a soft circular motion which didn't help too much with the heat of desire pooling in your stomach.
But then a filthy thought crosses your mind, he's the one getting teased, the one who wants to please you—your toy.
Just because he hasn't earned the 'jerking privileges' doesn't mean you have to wait as well. So you just mutter softly. "Hey Clarkie, be good for me and make me feel good."
He swallows, glancing nervous over to you, whispering as if he was ashamed to even say that out loud. "You mean... here.. like— right now—in the car— while i—" he swallows again, pushing his glasses further up his nose. "While I drive???"
You squish his cheek in mock affection. "Yes silly, you know how."
He didn't dare to look at you, acting a bit too focused on the road before the hand that was comfortably splayed across your thighs seconds ago hesitantly made it's way past your waistband.
He groans turned on, rubbing teasingly slow over the hem of your already thoroughly drenched panties, rumbling in his velvety low voice. "Golly how are you so wet already."
Your eyes fluttered shut annoyed. "Focus Clarkie, less talking more action."
The good boy he was, he of course immediately obeyed on instinct to your command, his rough hand pushing your panties to the side, skilled fingers rubbing over your drenched folds, applying just the right pressure to make you feel good.
After spreading your slick all over your cunt his thumb went to your clit, rubbing soft circles over it, his breath hitching everytime he applies the pressure that makes you squirm.
After just turning you on even more he finally pushes one finger into your slick cunt, his finger alone so huge you had to adjust for a second, a moan slipping out in pleasure.
He was pumping slow, but relentlessly into you, before adding another finger. He lets out a low grunt as he kept working on your cunt, feeling your tight walls around his fingers, making him imagine what it would be like having his cock stuffed deep inside of you, while you ride your high out on him, using him like a toy, the thought alone making his painfully hard cock throb in his pants.
Anyways, no matter how fucking hard he was he tried to focus back on you, his fingers pumping in a steady yet painfully uneven rythm inside of you, his thumb still toying with your clit, making all your nerve endings feel like they've been set on fire.
You moan, walls tightening around his thick fingers, your climax dangerously close.
When he finally curls his fingers, hitting that dangerously sensitive spot you cry out, coming undone on his fingers.
You shudder, hands digging into his forearm, your high washing over you in waves of pure pleasure, some praise directed towards Clark slipping out of you aswell. Clark lost it completely when your cunt spasmed around his fingers, a raw sound of desperation slipping out of his mouth god knows why.
Oh. That's why.
He felt the familiar warmth of his sperm seeping through his boxers.
Did he seriously just cum pathetically in his pants while getting you off??
He let out a long breath he didn't even knew he was holding in, looking away in shame. You didn't even notice at first, coming down from your incredible high while cuddling into Clark's muscular arm, until the silence got suspicious and you finally glance over to him.
You frown, about to ask what's wrong until you noticed it yourself, the wet spot on his pants unmissable.
He still avoids scared eye contact, as if expecting a scolding even, but that was the opposite of what happened. You burst out into laughter, almost choking on your own giggles. "Did you just seriously cum in your pants because of FINGERING me??"
He looked straight on the road, one hand on the steering wheel, avoiding your eyes with all of his strength. "Accident.. didn't even know that was possible."
You kept giggling, but hugged his arm reassuringly. "Golly Clark, no need to get so embarrassed. It's cute."
He immediately looks over to you, puppy eyes glimming hopeful. "Is it?" You give him a soft smile, planting a lazy kiss on his bicep. "Mhm, I feel honored to know I turn you on so bad."
...
Clark feels like he's in heaven, head leaning against the back of the couch, his pretty girl sitting between his legs, your hands wrapped tightly around his still painfully hard cock, giving him a few sloppy strokes before deciding to tease him a bit. "Since you've been so bad and came without permission back in the car I fear you have to relearn to only cum when I give you my permission."
He didn't feel like that was a too big challenge, until he feels you trailing your hand along the one huge prominent vein along his cock, or the way you rub with featherlight touches over his so sensitive pink tip, while your other hand was wrapped around the base of his cock.
It went on like that for a long time, until you finally spit in your hands, lubing him up and finally stroking him in that specific rythm that made him crumble under your touch.
You love how it didn't take long until he was a shivering, sweaty mess, crying out every now and then while trying so hard not to come.
You just continue the teasing, squeezing his throbbing cock before licking the pre-cum of his tip, which makes him cry out in pleasure.
"Hmm, sweetie don't get too close, I'm not nearly done yet. Like I said, don't cum until you get my permission."
He moans, stuttering out how unfair this is and how close he was.
You enjoyed this game too much, getting so wet at just seeing him squirm in your grip, whimpering out whenever you added pressure on his cock but not letting him cum yet.
This went on for a whole while, the on and off of Clark almost cumming felt too cruel at some point and you finally allow him to cum— so — of course he did.
His thighs tremble really bad, his cum shooting out in thick ropes, thanks to his kryptonian stamina your hands were absolutely covered in his deliciously thick white release, which didn't seem to stop spluttering out, until it did.
"Hmm such a good boy, you did so well." You look gently at him, his eyes were still closed, sweaty curls clinging tightly to his forehead, face flushed.
Yet he couldn't help but smile in pride at your praise, before looking flabbergasted down to you when you started lapping off his cum of your hands, then licking of the rest of his release of his cock.
He whimpers, trying to squirm away, too sensitive after his mind-blowing climax, until he realized he had no choice and just let you do so.
But well, kryptonian stamina.
He just ended up rockhard again.
You clench your thighs at the sight of his already hard again- thick cock. "Hmm, since you've been so good for me today you deserve to fuck me, hell you're even allowed to cum inside of me— stuff me full superman."
Hell, you didn't have to tell him twice, he scoops you up in his big arms, carrying you over to the bedroom before quickly ripping your clothes off your body and bending you over.
Like always he had to ease himself slowly into you, but today it wasn't much of a problem since your cunt was literally a dripping waterfall today.
So he began thrusting into you, hands digging in your soft hips, his heavy balls slapping in a steady rhythm against your clit, making you moan in pleasure while his monstrous thick cock was splitting you apart.
He made you finish like three times before asking for permission to cum inside, just to make sure.
Your voice was raspy after moaning your heart out. "Fuck, Clark just fucking fill me up, claim me, you've been so good."
So he did, unloading his thick cum inside you, just to thrust immediately into you again, spreading it literally everywhere.
It was like a switch got turned on, only thing left in his mind was to stuff you more full of himself, make you thoroughly his.
That's how you both spent the night, until at some point you couldn't take it anymore, his cum dripping down your thighs already, while your whole cunt was still stuffed full of his cock and his cum, but he couldn't help himself and came inside you one last time, before pulling out with a low whine, collapsing on top of you, holding you close to his sweaty chest while thanking you for making him feel so good.
Fuck you love his kryptonian stamina, there wasn't anything better in the whole world than being completely stuffed full of Clark's cum, you could spend every night like this, you wouldn't really mind.
Part 1 | (can be read as stand-alone smut fic as well)
Masterlist | requests open<3
Tags/warnings: pure smut, sub!Clark, dom!reader, Clark fingering you on the ride home, Clark cumming in his pants,edging, masturbation, p in v sex, mentions of breeding, Clark having an insane kryptonian stamina (CUMMING SOO MUCH), pathetic Clark, praise, vocal Clark.
wc: 1,7k
A/N: got a bit too horny, drooling a bit rn. @cavilllights185 @grooveology thought I'd tag you both since you were the one's motivating me to write this🙂↕️
After taking Clark suit shopping to attend to your best friends wedding the drive home was insufferable, turns out teasing Clark in the line wasn't the smartest idea.
Lord that man is needy.
After the car door fell shut with a familiar 'click' Clark pulled you over on his lap, face nestled in your neck, his breath erratic.
You could feel his hard bulge straining against your ass, making you almost involuntarily roll your hips teasingly on him, which caused him to let out a small whimper, his big fingers digging with desperation in the soft flesh of your hips.
You couldn't help yourself but teasingly grind down on him again, just for the sake of withdrawing a needy whimper out of him again— which you, of course succeeded in.
Then it was time to be cruel, your hands brush tenderly through his soft black curls once again, before you climbed over in the passenger seat, winking at him. "Needy little thing, so riled up already, I'll have so much fun with you later."
He obviously tries to not look too desperate, looking almost uninterested even, but the slight twitch of his hand and his cheeks heating up give him and his anticipation away. You smile pleased.
The whole ride home his free hand stays splayed across your soft thighs, rubbing them in a soft circular motion which didn't help too much with the heat of desire pooling in your stomach.
But then a filthy thought crosses your mind, he's the one getting teased, the one who wants to please you—your toy.
Just because he hasn't earned the 'jerking privileges' doesn't mean you have to wait as well. So you just mutter softly. "Hey Clarkie, be good for me and make me feel good."
He swallows, glancing nervous over to you, whispering as if he was ashamed to even say that out loud. "You mean... here.. like— right now—in the car— while i—" he swallows again, pushing his glasses further up his nose. "While I drive???"
You squish his cheek in mock affection. "Yes silly, you know how."
He didn't dare to look at you, acting a bit too focused on the road before the hand that was comfortably splayed across your thighs seconds ago hesitantly made it's way past your waistband.
He groans turned on, rubbing teasingly slow over the hem of your already thoroughly drenched panties, rumbling in his velvety low voice. "Golly how are you so wet already."
Your eyes fluttered shut annoyed. "Focus Clarkie, less talking more action."
The good boy he was, he of course immediately obeyed on instinct to your command, his rough hand pushing your panties to the side, skilled fingers rubbing over your drenched folds, applying just the right pressure to make you feel good.
After spreading your slick all over your cunt his thumb went to your clit, rubbing soft circles over it, his breath hitching everytime he applies the pressure that makes you squirm.
After just turning you on even more he finally pushes one finger into your slick cunt, his finger alone so huge you had to adjust for a second, a moan slipping out in pleasure.
He was pumping slow, but relentlessly into you, before adding another finger. He lets out a low grunt as he kept working on your cunt, feeling your tight walls around his fingers, making him imagine what it would be like having his cock stuffed deep inside of you, while you ride your high out on him, using him like a toy, the thought alone making his painfully hard cock throb in his pants.
Anyways, no matter how fucking hard he was he tried to focus back on you, his fingers pumping in a steady yet painfully uneven rythm inside of you, his thumb still toying with your clit, making all your nerve endings feel like they've been set on fire.
You moan, walls tightening around his thick fingers, your climax dangerously close.
When he finally curls his fingers, hitting that dangerously sensitive spot you cry out, coming undone on his fingers.
You shudder, hands digging into his forearm, your high washing over you in waves of pure pleasure, some praise directed towards Clark slipping out of you aswell. Clark lost it completely when your cunt spasmed around his fingers, a raw sound of desperation slipping out of his mouth god knows why.
Oh. That's why.
He felt the familiar warmth of his sperm seeping through his boxers.
Did he seriously just cum pathetically in his pants while getting you off??
He let out a long breath he didn't even knew he was holding in, looking away in shame. You didn't even notice at first, coming down from your incredible high while cuddling into Clark's muscular arm, until the silence got suspicious and you finally glance over to him.
You frown, about to ask what's wrong until you noticed it yourself, the wet spot on his pants unmissable.
He still avoids scared eye contact, as if expecting a scolding even, but that was the opposite of what happened. You burst out into laughter, almost choking on your own giggles. "Did you just seriously cum in your pants because of FINGERING me??"
He looked straight on the road, one hand on the steering wheel, avoiding your eyes with all of his strength. "Accident.. didn't even know that was possible."
You kept giggling, but hugged his arm reassuringly. "Golly Clark, no need to get so embarrassed. It's cute."
He immediately looks over to you, puppy eyes glimming hopeful. "Is it?" You give him a soft smile, planting a lazy kiss on his bicep. "Mhm, I feel honored to know I turn you on so bad."
...
Clark feels like he's in heaven, head leaning against the back of the couch, his pretty girl sitting between his legs, your hands wrapped tightly around his still painfully hard cock, giving him a few sloppy strokes before deciding to tease him a bit. "Since you've been so bad and came without permission back in the car I fear you have to relearn to only cum when I give you my permission."
He didn't feel like that was a too big challenge, until he feels you trailing your hand along the one huge prominent vein along his cock, or the way you rub with featherlight touches over his so sensitive pink tip, while your other hand was wrapped around the base of his cock.
It went on like that for a long time, until you finally spit in your hands, lubing him up and finally stroking him in that specific rythm that made him crumble under your touch.
You love how it didn't take long until he was a shivering, sweaty mess, crying out every now and then while trying so hard not to come.
You just continue the teasing, squeezing his throbbing cock before licking the pre-cum of his tip, which makes him cry out in pleasure.
"Hmm, sweetie don't get too close, I'm not nearly done yet. Like I said, don't cum until you get my permission."
He moans, stuttering out how unfair this is and how close he was.
You enjoyed this game too much, getting so wet at just seeing him squirm in your grip, whimpering out whenever you added pressure on his cock but not letting him cum yet.
This went on for a whole while, the on and off of Clark almost cumming felt too cruel at some point and you finally allow him to cum— so — of course he did.
His thighs tremble really bad, his cum shooting out in thick ropes, thanks to his kryptonian stamina your hands were absolutely covered in his deliciously thick white release, which didn't seem to stop spluttering out, until it did.
"Hmm such a good boy, you did so well." You look gently at him, his eyes were still closed, sweaty curls clinging tightly to his forehead, face flushed.
Yet he couldn't help but smile in pride at your praise, before looking flabbergasted down to you when you started lapping off his cum of your hands, then licking of the rest of his release of his cock.
He whimpers, trying to squirm away, too sensitive after his mind-blowing climax, until he realized he had no choice and just let you do so.
But well, kryptonian stamina.
He just ended up rockhard again.
You clench your thighs at the sight of his already hard again- thick cock. "Hmm, since you've been so good for me today you deserve to fuck me, hell you're even allowed to cum inside of me— stuff me full superman."
Hell, you didn't have to tell him twice, he scoops you up in his big arms, carrying you over to the bedroom before quickly ripping your clothes off your body and bending you over.
Like always he had to ease himself slowly into you, but today it wasn't much of a problem since your cunt was literally a dripping waterfall today.
So he began thrusting into you, hands digging in your soft hips, his heavy balls slapping in a steady rhythm against your clit, making you moan in pleasure while his monstrous thick cock was splitting you apart.
He made you finish like three times before asking for permission to cum inside, just to make sure.
Your voice was raspy after moaning your heart out. "Fuck, Clark just fucking fill me up, claim me, you've been so good."
So he did, unloading his thick cum inside you, just to thrust immediately into you again, spreading it literally everywhere.
It was like a switch got turned on, only thing left in his mind was to stuff you more full of himself, make you thoroughly his.
That's how you both spent the night, until at some point you couldn't take it anymore, his cum dripping down your thighs already, while your whole cunt was still stuffed full of his cock and his cum, but he couldn't help himself and came inside you one last time, before pulling out with a low whine, collapsing on top of you, holding you close to his sweaty chest while thanking you for making him feel so good.
Fuck you love his kryptonian stamina, there wasn't anything better in the whole world than being completely stuffed full of Clark's cum, you could spend every night like this, you wouldn't really mind.
Part 1 | (can be read as stand-alone smut fic as well)
Masterlist | requests open<3
Tags/warnings: pure smut, sub!Clark, dom!reader, Clark fingering you on the ride home, Clark cumming in his pants,edging, masturbation, p in v sex, mentions of breeding, Clark having an insane kryptonian stamina (CUMMING SOO MUCH), pathetic Clark, praise, vocal Clark.
wc: 1,7k
A/N: got a bit too horny, drooling a bit rn. @cavilllights185 @grooveology thought I'd tag you both since you were the one's motivating me to write this🙂↕️
After taking Clark suit shopping to attend to your best friends wedding the drive home was insufferable, turns out teasing Clark in the line wasn't the smartest idea.
Lord that man is needy.
After the car door fell shut with a familiar 'click' Clark pulled you over on his lap, face nestled in your neck, his breath erratic.
You could feel his hard bulge straining against your ass, making you almost involuntarily roll your hips teasingly on him, which caused him to let out a small whimper, his big fingers digging with desperation in the soft flesh of your hips.
You couldn't help yourself but teasingly grind down on him again, just for the sake of withdrawing a needy whimper out of him again— which you, of course succeeded in.
Then it was time to be cruel, your hands brush tenderly through his soft black curls once again, before you climbed over in the passenger seat, winking at him. "Needy little thing, so riled up already, I'll have so much fun with you later."
He obviously tries to not look too desperate, looking almost uninterested even, but the slight twitch of his hand and his cheeks heating up give him and his anticipation away. You smile pleased.
The whole ride home his free hand stays splayed across your soft thighs, rubbing them in a soft circular motion which didn't help too much with the heat of desire pooling in your stomach.
But then a filthy thought crosses your mind, he's the one getting teased, the one who wants to please you—your toy.
Just because he hasn't earned the 'jerking privileges' doesn't mean you have to wait as well. So you just mutter softly. "Hey Clarkie, be good for me and make me feel good."
He swallows, glancing nervous over to you, whispering as if he was ashamed to even say that out loud. "You mean... here.. like— right now—in the car— while i—" he swallows again, pushing his glasses further up his nose. "While I drive???"
You squish his cheek in mock affection. "Yes silly, you know how."
He didn't dare to look at you, acting a bit too focused on the road before the hand that was comfortably splayed across your thighs seconds ago hesitantly made it's way past your waistband.
He groans turned on, rubbing teasingly slow over the hem of your already thoroughly drenched panties, rumbling in his velvety low voice. "Golly how are you so wet already."
Your eyes fluttered shut annoyed. "Focus Clarkie, less talking more action."
The good boy he was, he of course immediately obeyed on instinct to your command, his rough hand pushing your panties to the side, skilled fingers rubbing over your drenched folds, applying just the right pressure to make you feel good.
After spreading your slick all over your cunt his thumb went to your clit, rubbing soft circles over it, his breath hitching everytime he applies the pressure that makes you squirm.
After just turning you on even more he finally pushes one finger into your slick cunt, his finger alone so huge you had to adjust for a second, a moan slipping out in pleasure.
He was pumping slow, but relentlessly into you, before adding another finger. He lets out a low grunt as he kept working on your cunt, feeling your tight walls around his fingers, making him imagine what it would be like having his cock stuffed deep inside of you, while you ride your high out on him, using him like a toy, the thought alone making his painfully hard cock throb in his pants.
Anyways, no matter how fucking hard he was he tried to focus back on you, his fingers pumping in a steady yet painfully uneven rythm inside of you, his thumb still toying with your clit, making all your nerve endings feel like they've been set on fire.
You moan, walls tightening around his thick fingers, your climax dangerously close.
When he finally curls his fingers, hitting that dangerously sensitive spot you cry out, coming undone on his fingers.
You shudder, hands digging into his forearm, your high washing over you in waves of pure pleasure, some praise directed towards Clark slipping out of you aswell. Clark lost it completely when your cunt spasmed around his fingers, a raw sound of desperation slipping out of his mouth god knows why.
Oh. That's why.
He felt the familiar warmth of his sperm seeping through his boxers.
Did he seriously just cum pathetically in his pants while getting you off??
He let out a long breath he didn't even knew he was holding in, looking away in shame. You didn't even notice at first, coming down from your incredible high while cuddling into Clark's muscular arm, until the silence got suspicious and you finally glance over to him.
You frown, about to ask what's wrong until you noticed it yourself, the wet spot on his pants unmissable.
He still avoids scared eye contact, as if expecting a scolding even, but that was the opposite of what happened. You burst out into laughter, almost choking on your own giggles. "Did you just seriously cum in your pants because of FINGERING me??"
He looked straight on the road, one hand on the steering wheel, avoiding your eyes with all of his strength. "Accident.. didn't even know that was possible."
You kept giggling, but hugged his arm reassuringly. "Golly Clark, no need to get so embarrassed. It's cute."
He immediately looks over to you, puppy eyes glimming hopeful. "Is it?" You give him a soft smile, planting a lazy kiss on his bicep. "Mhm, I feel honored to know I turn you on so bad."
...
Clark feels like he's in heaven, head leaning against the back of the couch, his pretty girl sitting between his legs, your hands wrapped tightly around his still painfully hard cock, giving him a few sloppy strokes before deciding to tease him a bit. "Since you've been so bad and came without permission back in the car I fear you have to relearn to only cum when I give you my permission."
He didn't feel like that was a too big challenge, until he feels you trailing your hand along the one huge prominent vein along his cock, or the way you rub with featherlight touches over his so sensitive pink tip, while your other hand was wrapped around the base of his cock.
It went on like that for a long time, until you finally spit in your hands, lubing him up and finally stroking him in that specific rythm that made him crumble under your touch.
You love how it didn't take long until he was a shivering, sweaty mess, crying out every now and then while trying so hard not to come.
You just continue the teasing, squeezing his throbbing cock before licking the pre-cum of his tip, which makes him cry out in pleasure.
"Hmm, sweetie don't get too close, I'm not nearly done yet. Like I said, don't cum until you get my permission."
He moans, stuttering out how unfair this is and how close he was.
You enjoyed this game too much, getting so wet at just seeing him squirm in your grip, whimpering out whenever you added pressure on his cock but not letting him cum yet.
This went on for a whole while, the on and off of Clark almost cumming felt too cruel at some point and you finally allow him to cum— so — of course he did.
His thighs tremble really bad, his cum shooting out in thick ropes, thanks to his kryptonian stamina your hands were absolutely covered in his deliciously thick white release, which didn't seem to stop spluttering out, until it did.
"Hmm such a good boy, you did so well." You look gently at him, his eyes were still closed, sweaty curls clinging tightly to his forehead, face flushed.
Yet he couldn't help but smile in pride at your praise, before looking flabbergasted down to you when you started lapping off his cum of your hands, then licking of the rest of his release of his cock.
He whimpers, trying to squirm away, too sensitive after his mind-blowing climax, until he realized he had no choice and just let you do so.
But well, kryptonian stamina.
He just ended up rockhard again.
You clench your thighs at the sight of his already hard again- thick cock. "Hmm, since you've been so good for me today you deserve to fuck me, hell you're even allowed to cum inside of me— stuff me full superman."
Hell, you didn't have to tell him twice, he scoops you up in his big arms, carrying you over to the bedroom before quickly ripping your clothes off your body and bending you over.
Like always he had to ease himself slowly into you, but today it wasn't much of a problem since your cunt was literally a dripping waterfall today.
So he began thrusting into you, hands digging in your soft hips, his heavy balls slapping in a steady rhythm against your clit, making you moan in pleasure while his monstrous thick cock was splitting you apart.
He made you finish like three times before asking for permission to cum inside, just to make sure.
Your voice was raspy after moaning your heart out. "Fuck, Clark just fucking fill me up, claim me, you've been so good."
So he did, unloading his thick cum inside you, just to thrust immediately into you again, spreading it literally everywhere.
It was like a switch got turned on, only thing left in his mind was to stuff you more full of himself, make you thoroughly his.
That's how you both spent the night, until at some point you couldn't take it anymore, his cum dripping down your thighs already, while your whole cunt was still stuffed full of his cock and his cum, but he couldn't help himself and came inside you one last time, before pulling out with a low whine, collapsing on top of you, holding you close to his sweaty chest while thanking you for making him feel so good.
Fuck you love his kryptonian stamina, there wasn't anything better in the whole world than being completely stuffed full of Clark's cum, you could spend every night like this, you wouldn't really mind.
