A ৻ꪆ Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)
beyond affectionate, you never ever have to even consider questioning if this boy truly loves you or not, he doesnt even allow the question to manifest; thats how loudly in love he is.
he shows you this by constantly keeping you close, placing slow, tender kisses upon your skin within conversation or simple quiet moments. his arms always loop around you, or fingers gently caressing your skin. always innocent, always affectionate.
his tone is always soft & sweet with you, lacking any usual gruffness he’d have with gibsie or the rest of the lads.
very verbal, too. always checking in, expressing how gorgeous you look, what you do to him, always showcasing via words that youre the centre of his world.
B ৻ꪆ Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)
it was never simply a friendship with johnny, no matter what he told himself, or vice versa.
perhaps hed told himself over & over the pair of you were “just friends”, hed plea the case of being too caught up & busy with rugby, hed simply never have the time for a relationship. but he knew it was an excuse, a poor one at that.
he never saw you as just a friend, the stolen glances were anything but friendly, filled with awe at best, concern & care at worst. you were his from the moment you two laid eyes upon each other, proclaiming you as his y/n, though was easy to shrug it off if the others brought it up.
keyword, shrug it off. never denied it.
because, of course he couldnt even consider denying something that was so painfully true. it was easy to tell within the way he looked at you, the way your presence alone distracted him from practice or rugby games themselves, something he was known for never being distracted within, despite the circumstances.
he’d slip up consistently, always dropping flirty comments, flirty nicknames, accidentally, like they were made to flow from his lips for you.
though again, hed never conceal it, or claim it was an accident of sorts. all youd get was a shy smirk, maybe a glance out the window at the most vague.
C ৻ꪆ Cuddling (how do they like to cuddle?)
your head softly tucked underneath his chin, directly pressed against his chest as his arms wrap around you like a protective vice, safe & out of harms way within his hold.
he’s firm when he holds you, not rough or harmful, but enough to feel his presence, enough for you to consistently have a physical reminder that he was there, and for as long as he was there, you were safe & secure.
D ꪆ Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)
once he’s with you, he’s set on you for life, no take backs.
he’s quite clean, a step behind a neat/clean freak. everything is placed specifically & tidy, any spills or drops of any form of liquid or otherwise is immediately cleaned up the second its dropped.
cooking is. well. a hit & miss. an omlette? scrambled eggs? chicken? boiled vegetables? its all good, anything protein based is hammered down to a tee. perhaps lacking any seasoning or flavour, especially if its cutting season, but its not bad, per say. just… decent.
though on your birthday for example, if he were to attempt to bake you a cake? itd come out lumpy & undercooked no matter how long it was within the oven for.
( the option for E was Ending, that is absolutely not applicable with johnny kavanagh because that boy would never leave you, period! )
F ৻ꪆ Family (do they want one? If they do, when?)
absolutely, no doubt about it. he’s not the pickiest with how many kids he wants, he just knows after being an only child he’d definitely want more than one. though, its really up to you within his eyes, as many as youre willing to have with him.
& when, timing is everything for him. he’d prefer to start a family after his career has taken off, after basking within the fame & craziness for a while, when things feel a lot calmer & he has more of a career to stand on.
G ৻ꪆ Gifts (how do they feel about gift giving? What are their habits when it comes to this?)
when receiving gifts, its almost as if the boy could cry from the thought alone.
no matter how big or small, he adores it entirely. he keeps the item forever, even if its a simple wrapper from a candy, it stays put with him for life.
giving gifts, he’s rather sheepish about it, a stark contrast from the usually all round confident lad. he’s more of a, “saw this and thought youd like it” kind of gift giver, though he often remembers small things mentioned within passing in conversations, those same things appear on the middle of your bed, hanging within your closet, or sneaked into your desk within a soft shrug days later.
H ৻ꪆ Holding Hands (when/how do they like to hold hands?)
always. point, blank, period.
walking the halls of tommen, seated within biddies casually holding hands underneath the table, leading you to god knows where, intertwined hands seated upon his or your lap as he drives.
he always needs your touch. his favourite gentle kinds of movement reign within hand holding,
I ৻ꪆ Injury (how would they act if you got hurt?)
injury or death, johnny couldnt seem to tell the difference.
a nervous wreck, really. no matter if it were a minor cut from carelessly chopping some fruit, or a proper broken arm, he would freak out just the same.
treating you more delicate than prior, if that was somehow possible. constant care, concern, watching, eavesdropping. he’s always there, beside you, behind you, gently cupping onto some form of your skin as if youd shatter & break any given moment.
youre genuinely not allowed to touch or lift a single thing when he’s around, no matter where the injury was located.
something involving your legs or feet? you stay right where you are, he’ll bring the world to you if he has too.
your hands/arms? he’ll open that jar, lift that pen, or move that blanket over you, and dont you dare even consider doing so yourself, an overreaction is probable.
J ৻ꪆ Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)
he doesnt necessarily get jealous, per say. he knows his worth, its never an insecurity based things or anything of the sorts.
though he’s certainly protective, the second he sees a guy lingering around you for too long, saying something that had seemed to make you uncomfortable he’s right by your side, calling them out within no shame when needed. perhaps even when unneeded.
K ৻ꪆ Kisses (how do they like to kiss you?)
slow, deep, smooth & tender.
he definitely has his moments in which he shows you how desperate he is for you, how much he needed your touch. though his normalcy is slow kisses of pure affection & emotion, he loves taking his time with you, kissing you like it was the only thing that mattered.
his hands cup your cheek, on one side, or either, sometimes the back of your head to pull you gently closer, other times his hands tangle upon your waist, hauling you closer himself.
even his small kisses reign slow & lingering, his temple kisses linger for a beat too long, his knuckle kisses the same sense.
L ৻ꪆ ove Confession - How would they confess to their s/o?
its very random, not necessarily planned within the slightest, not creating a set moment in which it was supposed to happen, not formulating a certain verbal letter in which he wanted to confess with.
it just, well, comes out.
i imagine something along the lines of him perhaps driving you home, though youd always found him taking detours to mcdonalds or other places, even if it was simply for a drink. it felt like he was doing it to prolong the time hed spent with you, though it wasnt fully clear.
your simply sitting within the passenger side, taking a sip of the drink youd ordered with your meal, eyes glancing out of the car, watching the rain carelessly flow onto passers by.
his eyes were glued onto you within awe. they always were.
“y’so beautiful, d’ya know that?”
he practically whispers, loud enough for you to catch over the gentle splay of rain.
it was safe to say it caught you out of your daze.
you blink a couple times as you meet his expression, attempting to figure out if youd heard him correctly or were simply imagining such things.
“always thought y’ were unbelievable, ever since i saw ya’, really”
he proceeds, confirming your thoughts without releasing.
then it seems to go on from there, confession after confession falling out of those perfect lips, ending in the inevitable kiss in which left your food long forgotten.
M ৻ꪆ Melt (what do you do that makes them melt?)
soft kisses absolutely wreck the boy. wether theyre on his temple as you toy with his hair, on his lightly bruised knuckles as you sit within biddies, or the plea of popcorn kisses you litter upon his face after a small disagreement, they leave his heart fluttery & mind mush with affection
N ৻ꪆ Nightmare (what is their worst fear?)
losing you, or you getting hurt or injured within any senses. the thought of something happening to you while he isnt around or there to protect you makes him sick to his stomach
O ৻ꪆ n Cloud Nine - What are they like when they are in love? Is it obvious for others? How do they express their feelings?
obvious is an understatement.
the main give aways are far from vague, especially to the people who know him best.
during rugby practice or games, if youre anywhere even remotely near his eyes will constantly drift back to you, sometimes missing key parts of the game because of it.
his concentration isnt as good as it usually is, period. he often drifts off into deep thought about you, eyes all dreamy & concentrated, heavily. even within the most unnecessary times.
his head always twitches towards a conversation the second he hears your name, often immediately involving himself, or standing close enough to hear each & every word.
“my y/n?”
P ৻ꪆ Pet Names (what do they like to call you?)
baby is the main contender, so much so that its almost as if he’d forgotten your name entirely, replacing it with baby instead.
sweet girl is a second one, this ones usually used in times of comfort, maybe when youre not feeling the best within some shape or form.
Q ৻ꪆ Quality Time (how do they like to spend time with you?)
honestly? he’s simply just happy if youre by his side. you could be doing nothing together, or the strangest side-quests and hed be just as happy within either scenario.
R ৻ꪆ Rhythm (what song reminds them of you?)
( not using songs featured in the books !!! )
you and me, lifehouse
and i love her, (the beatles or kurt cobains cover)
i believe in a thing called love, the darkness
S ৻ꪆ Secrets (how open are they with you?)
super open, he tells you everything from the most minor details, (what he ate today, the 40572 different sentences that left gibsies mouth at practice, the way he felt during the last maths test. everything).
though, he’s definitely more prone to keep things to himself if he was worried of concerning you. things like his injuries, things that bella wilkinson or other snakes had said out of pure jealousy. he only keeps such things to himself for three reasons, one being the fact that he hates the idea of worrying you a fraction, even if it’s something thats more than worrying. the second being he doesnt want to concern himself (like the injury, downplaying the severity so he can get on with life how he usually would), or simply because he doesnt want outside drama or opinions to have the option to hurt you, he wants to protect you from such things.
T ৻ꪆ Time (how long did it take you to get together?)
a few months, only due to the inevitable phase of denial in which johnny put himself through. though the second the delusion wore off, he was quick to drop his defences & make you his girl, officially
U ৻ꪆ Upset (how do they act when you’re upset?)
the most caring boy known to man kind. the world immediately stops around you the second he sees your eyes drift off, your lip tremble, those pretty eyes glass over. no matter who hes talking too, what he’s doing, you instantly become his man focus.
again, somehow he manages to grow more gentle than usual. his touches grow cautious, not within a negative sense, though concerned to push you too far, yet needing to show you he was here & comfort you if needed.
a lot of reassurance, cooed words of concern & gentle reminders to breathe, that hes right there, everythings okay, etc.
youd had a seemingly terrible day, one of those obnoxious time frames in which everything seemed to go oppositely wrong within all the worst ways.
to start the day off, the breakfast youd planned the night prior had ran out, then your hair seemingly wasnt cooperating with you even slightly. your socks were mismatched due to the otherone disappearing, and the cherry ontop of the morning was being only a minute late for the bus, watching it drive away without a care in the world.
the actual day at school was worse. much worse. you had homework due that you somehow werent aware of, the work felt much harder than usual; all of your pens had leaked within your pencil case. it was a mess of a day.
now, though, you were at your boyfriend johnnys home, the weight of the day still weighing off of your shoulders, though easing ever so lightly as you lay upon johnnys chest, watching him game within weary, tired eyes.
though within a shaky breath he drops the controller, seemingly pausing the game moments prior, gently manoeuvring the fallen locks out of your face to press a gentle kiss onto your temple, slow & lingering, like he knew you needed it.
“i needa take a quick piss, baby. ill be back before ya’ know it”
he whispers within tha notorious dublin husk, pressing one last kiss onto your skin before darting towards said bathroom, long legs working as fast as they usually would.
and for some reason? the first moment of silence is what seems to break you.
the tears fall quickly, the bottled up emotions of the day outpouring all at once. maybe it was because you felt safe enough to do so, or maybe it was due to this moment being the first one spent alone all day. you couldnt tell, all you knew was each tear fell as fast as the last.
johnny comes back within a record time, almost as if he subconsciously sensed something was wrong.
i mean, he knew his girl like the back of his hand.
his expression drops the second his eyes surrender along your tearstruck expression, eyes immediately wavering within concern.
“fuckin’ knew it”
he mutters underneath his breath, motioning towards you within pure haste, gently kneeling infront of you within a slow caution.
“hey, hey. whats wrong, baby? whats got my girl all teary?”
he gently whispers as one hand finds your knee, large palm gently caressing the skin within slow, tender back & forth circles, all while the other simultaneously cups your jawline, directing your weary gaze into his own.
the sight makes his heart clench almost immediately, the silence following only solidifying.
“oh, baby”
he whispers, sitting himself back onto the couch, pulling you against his broad frame within one swift motion, arms looping around you within a protective vice.
“a bad day, hm? knew somethin’ was off the second y’walked through the door, sweet girl”
he then proceeds to cradle the back of your hair, hands caressing your silky locks as he presses gentle kisses of affection onto each space possible.
V ৻ꪆ alue - How important is the relationship to them? What is it’s worth in comparison to other things in their life?
you are undoubtedly number one in his life.
above rugby, above everything. if it came to the crunch, he’d give up everything in a heartbeat for you. he’d much rather be by your side for life than anything else. if he’s got you, thats all that matters
W ৻ꪆ Warrior (how do they feel about you fighting? Would they fight for you, beside you, etc?)
you fighting? he’d be conflicting. he’d be proud as punch of you for standing up for yourself, all wide grin and proclaiming his proud stance. though, he’d also be the type to worry relentlessly, not wanting you to get hurt, wether thats mentally or physically.
and he would absolutely fight for you. no doubt about it.
johnny is notoriously loyal, and no matter what he’ll stand by your side, defending you until the sun goes down.
he’s never the type to simply “let it go”, no matter how small or minor, youre his girl, and he’s certainly gonna stand up for his girl.
X ৻ꪆ X-Ray (how well are they able to read you?)
he knows you like the back of his hand. all it takes is one small twitch, a second of a change of tone, or maybe you used a different word than what you usually would. all he knows is its different, and he’s far too well versed within you to not understand what was going on, good or bad
Y ৻ꪆ earning - How will they cope when they’re missing their partner?
how will he cope? in simple terms, he doesnt.
he whines. an absolute grump to anyone around him, so much so that the people around him had learnt far too quickly that he was a grump for the simple reason of missing you.
i mean, when youre all he can seem to talk about in such times its hard not to put two & two together.
constantly walking around with a frown, an edge, shoulders slumped like the world was about to end. and to him? god it felt like it truly was.
Z ৻ꪆ Zen (what makes them feel calm?)
there is absolutely nothing in the world this boy adores more than when you thread your hands through his hair. he could be buzzing off of an intense match, but the second your hands meet those dark locks he transforms into a sleepy puppy of sorts, eyes immediately fluttering shut within a shaky sigh, at best a soft groan. he nuzzles into your touch, humming a gentle, murmured “mmm, don’ stop, baby” when he feels your movements grow ever so lightly lazy, wanting to prolong the affection for as long as possible.
Summary: Just headcanons, pretty short, based on this request.
TW: Minor sexual references.
• When he pre-makes his lunches, he’ll make you a portion if he knows that you like the meal (his egg fried rice is banging).
• He will BEG you to go to the gym with him and when you finally agree he’s at your house at 5AM wondering why you aren’t dressed yet.
• He pays for you every time you two go out. Doesn’t matter how much you protest. Sometimes he’ll say that you can pay, only to sneakily pay when he says he’s “going to the toilet.”
• When you’re kissing he’s holding you against him like a man starved: one arm around your waist, holding you closer and the other entangled in your hair, pulling your lips closer to him.
• He gives the best sports massages. Any time you’re the tiniest bit stressed he just tells you to lie down on his bed. It’s genuinely heavenly.
• When you start going out with him he’s hesitant to show you how much he cares about you. Johnny’s always controlled, and never engages in PDA. That is, until after a couple of months, where he doesn’t hesitate to pull you onto his lap, take your hand, and kiss you anywhere.
• Johnny fully uses you as an excuse to not go to parties. He’ll make up some bc explanation, saying that you “didn’t want him there,” or that you “were in a bad mood,” so that he doesn’t have to go, even though you’ve said nothing of the sort. Of course, this breaks Gibsie’s heart.
• Because of this, Gibsie decides to corner you one day, asking you why you’ve taken his wing man away from him. After you explain that Johnny was bullshitting him, he huffed and ignored Johnny for the whole afternoon, until Johnny promised to go to Biddie’s with him.
• He panics when you’re on get your period for the first time at his house. I mean this man practically clears the shops for every type of period products, along with your favourite chocolate, of course. He doesn’t have a sister and has never had a proper girlfriend before you so he ends up accidentally getting you extra-big-super-absorbent-night-pads.
• After this whole ordeal he has a small basket of stuff for you in his ensuite bathroom, including mini deodorants and body sprays, pads/tampons and a toothbrush for when you stay over.
• The first time you meet his parents is a disaster. Johnny ends up inadvertently revealing that he lost his virginity atthirteen. After this Edel pulled you aside and gave you what must have been the longest conversation of your life about “the birds and the bees” and how you should stay away from her “delinquent” son.
• She also asks John to set up security cameras around the house so you can’t sneak in and Johnny can’t sneak out. John laughed and refused.
• He never chooses what film you guys watch when you go to the cinema or have a movie night. When you ask him he’ll guess options he thinks you want to watch and refuses to give any genuine answers. This means that you’ve both watched dirty dancing enough times to recite it line to line. Although he doesn’t like it when you stare a little to long at Patrick Swayze.
• He doesn’t like you spending too much time around Gibsie, claiming that he’s a bad influence on you. This mostly arised from the time you spend half an hour with Gibsie alone and came home with a bagful of condoms and a c.d with dirty songs on it.
• He throws birthday parties for Sookie, and everyone in his friend group is invited. She even has a little party cone hat and loads of doggie treats. He demands that everyone comes brings a present too.
• He LOVES pet names. I mean this man never calls you by your actual name, it’s always baby, sweetheart or the occasional love. He also gets slightly annoyed if you don’t call him baby often enough.
• He knows that when you get stressed you like your hair out of your face so he always has a hair bobble on his person, no matter how much the lads take the piss out of him for it.
Masterlist!
Notes: Thanks so much for this request, I hope anonymous will find it. I have another request in now which I have a few ideas for :)
➜ disclaimer: anal. eating peter’s ass nasty dirty sloppy filthy. milking him dry. reader is less a dom and more a succubus sent to devour peter parker whole. derived from @sweetheartinc and i waking up feeling like hole munching. also dedicated to @saintajax my favorite aquarium fish. fem!reader. not proofread literally at fucking all i just got so horny i felt like i could bend steel and had to eject this from my body as a result.
“ this is obscene. like, a really, really crazy level of pervert that i didn’t even know you could reach — ”
“ will you stay still? m’trying to see you. ”
you huff, palms splayed against your boyfriend’s thick thighs, hard muscle beneath you strained from holding them up. you push his legs up a little, ignoring the uncomfortable noise he lets out in return (really, you think it’s cute how embarrassed he is, but you press more insistently in an effort to get him to stop squirming).
“ and don’t act like you’re not excited that your girlfriend’s such a perv— i’ve seen your search history, you know, i know what you like. ”
“ that’s not even fai — oh my god, wow, that feels weird — ”
you giggle, lips still pressed in the little ‘o’ you’d used to blow cool air on his hole. pretty pink and so tight you don’t know if you’ll ever be able to fit a finger in, much less a strap, it twitches and clenches under the lightest pressure. you have to take a moment to swallow your own insane thoughts, your hands sliding down to keep his ass spread for you. wow.
“ you need to relax, peter. m’not gonna hurt you. ”
“ i don’t think you’re g’na hurt me, baby, i just never really thought we’d be doin’ thi — oh, wow. hi. ”
you slide up from your position on your knees to hover over him on the bed, legs still pressed up and around in what peter thinks is very, very embarrassing (and sexy) vulnerability. you give him a little smile to match the dopey one he always gets when he looks at you, unable to help it. then, you lean down to press one, two quick pecks on his lips. that’s never enough with peter, though, so soon enough you’re bearing your weight down onto him, lips moving together while your tongue licks into his mouth; you think the sound you two make showing each other your love is much more obscene than him splayed out and whining for you.
when you pull away he whines, eliciting another giggle from you, high and mean — peter makes a mental note to put you back in your place and get his revenge for this little power trip later. you shake your head when he chases your kisses, sadistic part of you loving how sweet he looks like this, flushed and reverent. you almost feel bad for pulling away, the sight of your baby already so broken from just a kiss near-heartbreaking. almost!
“you’re doing soooo good, i promise, baby — just stay like this for me, please? it’ll be sooo worth it, i swear!” your words are peppy and sweet in a way that peter finds sinfully inappropriate for the situation; he can’t form the words to say so when you’re kissing down his chest, his abs, his pelvis so softly, gently. he can only take what you think you should give.
lucky for him, you’d give him the greater milky way if you had the chance.
you dive in just about as gently as peter does when he eats you out — that’s to say, with all the restraint you can muster, which is very, very little. his whole body jerks under your touch, every nerve igniting with heightened sensitivity. you keep your tongue flat at first, licking one fat stripe against the pucker; it contracts and then relaxes against the assault, coinciding with when peter’s gasp turns into a filthy moan.
“ you sound like a pornstar. ”
“ why would you say that?” his voice cracks in the middle and the rest kind of blends into a whine; he’s very quickly reduced to just shutting up, unable to do more than squirm and whine at the way you’re working him open with your tongue.
and working him open you are, intent to see on how much you could stretch him with just your tongue (and maybe just in an effort to devour him). even the hypocrite in you would be willing to concede that the sounds you make are downright nasty, and you can’t say you’ve never been in peter’s position: pliant, wet, aching for a mouth against you to grind back on. you can tell he’s trying not to, actually, intentionally holding back. that won’t do.
you change your technique to focus on his rim, sweet little suckles while your tongue laps at it and letting one hand wander to gently take his balls in it — he lets out a choked noise, like all the wind got knocked out of him, and you have to stop a smile. that’s more like it.
your heart bursts into a billion little butterflies when you move your remaining hand and he doesn’t even shift his legs, keeping them up and apart. he could go against you easily with how strong he is, do what he wants instead of letting you defile him like this. but he won’t, ‘cause that’s not what you want. oh, your sweet boy. it’s something like a reward when a perfectly manicured hand wraps around the base of his neglected, throbbing cock and squeezes, before twisting up to gather his pre and use the ample amount as lube to aid in stroking him.
“ o-oh — oh, baby, holy shit, that’s — ” instinctively, peter’s hand shoots out to grip at your arm, not pulling you off, but getting as close to holding your hand as he could. “ — t-that’s amazing, you’re amazing, oh my god — ”
you smile against his asshole and you think maybe you are the most perverted person in the world, but it’s okay, because your boyfriend is equally perverted, even if he doesn’t know it yet.
the hand to your wrist makes you melt a little, and the ‘obsessed with peter parker’ part of your brain seems to be going a bit overdrive; you want him, every part of him, wrapped around your finger forever, and ever, and ever. you want to ruin him for anyone else so he’ll never even think of finding different.
silently, you move your hand from his balls to grip his wrist, gingerly moving it to wrap in your hair. you can tell peter feels bad about potentially hurting you from the noise he lets out, but then you’re wrapping both hands around his cock and pumping him like that; you alternate between tonguing his ass and sucking or licking at his balls and peter thinks he might not survive this, queens will have to get another hero because peter parker died via orgasm. each time you swirl your tongue around his balls or suck them between your lips to do so it makes his cock throb in your grasp, earning another squeeze from you — there’s so much sensation he doesn’t even know what to focus on. he doesn’t know how much longer he can last, but every time he tries to say it, there’s only tears and choked out groans.
you feel a bit dizzy from how horny you are, the urge to simply ravage him making you feel like a goddamn man. you pull back a little, then, eyes half-lidded in ecstasy when you meet his own doe-browns. slowly, you lick from his hole up, up, up to the tip of his cock, where you plant a little kiss, tongue peeking out to swipe over the slit.
“y-you’re — oh my god —“ praise dies on his lips and he’s almost angry that you’ve managed to break him down to his very atoms, unable to tell you how gorgeous you look like this below him. for him. his balls start to tighten and his cock starts throbbing in the way you know means he’s going to cum.
you push away the maniac in you that wants to swallow his cum like a succubus and travel down again, hands resuming their job of milking his cock while you tease along his rim and dip your tongue in, out, in, out.
“baby, baby, m’gonna — oh my god, i love you, i love you, my baby, gonna —” he hardly lasts 30 seconds; it’s embarrassing, because peter parker is no prejac, and his stamina is typically endless, but it feels so good, how was he ever meant to stand a chance? his grip in your hair tightens and he pushes your face closer when he spills, the moan you let out making his over-sensitive hole twitch. you feel his cum spill out and around your hands, but you don’t let up just yet, continuing to lick and suck and stroke with the slickness his cum provides (it’s stickier than normal, you wonder if it’s from his new hormone changes. you make your own mental note to ask him about that later and see how you can exploit it!) until he’s on the edge of overstimulation and he pushes your head back himself.
“t-too — too much, holy fuck, you evil, evil woman. ”
peter’s chest is heaving, trying to take in every breath he couldn’t while you were getting your fill. when his (now trembling) legs come down and he props himself up on his forearms to see you, you look almost comical. you’re kneeling on the ground below him, hair a mess from where he kept his hold, gloss and lipliner smeared across your mouth, lips puffy and red — to top it all off, you’re practically glistening with his cum, your spit, the wetness you two created. it’s all a stark contrast to the big, cheshire grin you sport, like a brat finally satisfied with getting her way.
his dick, spent and still leaking against his stomach, twitches. the look he gives you is somewhere between exasperation and pure wonder.
➜ disclaimer: anal. eating peter’s ass nasty dirty sloppy filthy. milking him dry. reader is less a dom and more a succubus sent to devour peter parker whole. derived from @sweetheartinc and i waking up feeling like hole munching. also dedicated to @saintajax my favorite aquarium fish. fem!reader. not proofread literally at fucking all i just got so horny i felt like i could bend steel and had to eject this from my body as a result.
“ this is obscene. like, a really, really crazy level of pervert that i didn’t even know you could reach — ”
“ will you stay still? m’trying to see you. ”
you huff, palms splayed against your boyfriend’s thick thighs, hard muscle beneath you strained from holding them up. you push his legs up a little, ignoring the uncomfortable noise he lets out in return (really, you think it’s cute how embarrassed he is, but you press more insistently in an effort to get him to stop squirming).
“ and don’t act like you’re not excited that your girlfriend’s such a perv— i’ve seen your search history, you know, i know what you like. ”
“ that’s not even fai — oh my god, wow, that feels weird — ”
you giggle, lips still pressed in the little ‘o’ you’d used to blow cool air on his hole. pretty pink and so tight you don’t know if you’ll ever be able to fit a finger in, much less a strap, it twitches and clenches under the lightest pressure. you have to take a moment to swallow your own insane thoughts, your hands sliding down to keep his ass spread for you. wow.
“ you need to relax, peter. m’not gonna hurt you. ”
“ i don’t think you’re g’na hurt me, baby, i just never really thought we’d be doin’ thi — oh, wow. hi. ”
you slide up from your position on your knees to hover over him on the bed, legs still pressed up and around in what peter thinks is very, very embarrassing (and sexy) vulnerability. you give him a little smile to match the dopey one he always gets when he looks at you, unable to help it. then, you lean down to press one, two quick pecks on his lips. that’s never enough with peter, though, so soon enough you’re bearing your weight down onto him, lips moving together while your tongue licks into his mouth; you think the sound you two make showing each other your love is much more obscene than him splayed out and whining for you.
when you pull away he whines, eliciting another giggle from you, high and mean — peter makes a mental note to put you back in your place and get his revenge for this little power trip later. you shake your head when he chases your kisses, sadistic part of you loving how sweet he looks like this, flushed and reverent. you almost feel bad for pulling away, the sight of your baby already so broken from just a kiss near-heartbreaking. almost!
“you’re doing soooo good, i promise, baby — just stay like this for me, please? it’ll be sooo worth it, i swear!” your words are peppy and sweet in a way that peter finds sinfully inappropriate for the situation; he can’t form the words to say so when you’re kissing down his chest, his abs, his pelvis so softly, gently. he can only take what you think you should give.
lucky for him, you’d give him the greater milky way if you had the chance.
you dive in just about as gently as peter does when he eats you out — that’s to say, with all the restraint you can muster, which is very, very little. his whole body jerks under your touch, every nerve igniting with heightened sensitivity. you keep your tongue flat at first, licking one fat stripe against the pucker; it contracts and then relaxes against the assault, coinciding with when peter’s gasp turns into a filthy moan.
“ you sound like a pornstar. ”
“ why would you say that?” his voice cracks in the middle and the rest kind of blends into a whine; he’s very quickly reduced to just shutting up, unable to do more than squirm and whine at the way you’re working him open with your tongue.
and working him open you are, intent to see on how much you could stretch him with just your tongue (and maybe just in an effort to devour him). even the hypocrite in you would be willing to concede that the sounds you make are downright nasty, and you can’t say you’ve never been in peter’s position: pliant, wet, aching for a mouth against you to grind back on. you can tell he’s trying not to, actually, intentionally holding back. that won’t do.
you change your technique to focus on his rim, sweet little suckles while your tongue laps at it and letting one hand wander to gently take his balls in it — he lets out a choked noise, like all the wind got knocked out of him, and you have to stop a smile. that’s more like it.
your heart bursts into a billion little butterflies when you move your remaining hand and he doesn’t even shift his legs, keeping them up and apart. he could go against you easily with how strong he is, do what he wants instead of letting you defile him like this. but he won’t, ‘cause that’s not what you want. oh, your sweet boy. it’s something like a reward when a perfectly manicured hand wraps around the base of his neglected, throbbing cock and squeezes, before twisting up to gather his pre and use the ample amount as lube to aid in stroking him.
“ o-oh — oh, baby, holy shit, that’s — ” instinctively, peter’s hand shoots out to grip at your arm, not pulling you off, but getting as close to holding your hand as he could. “ — t-that’s amazing, you’re amazing, oh my god — ”
you smile against his asshole and you think maybe you are the most perverted person in the world, but it’s okay, because your boyfriend is equally perverted, even if he doesn’t know it yet.
the hand to your wrist makes you melt a little, and the ‘obsessed with peter parker’ part of your brain seems to be going a bit overdrive; you want him, every part of him, wrapped around your finger forever, and ever, and ever. you want to ruin him for anyone else so he’ll never even think of finding different.
silently, you move your hand from his balls to grip his wrist, gingerly moving it to wrap in your hair. you can tell peter feels bad about potentially hurting you from the noise he lets out, but then you’re wrapping both hands around his cock and pumping him like that; you alternate between tonguing his ass and sucking or licking at his balls and peter thinks he might not survive this, queens will have to get another hero because peter parker died via orgasm. each time you swirl your tongue around his balls or suck them between your lips to do so it makes his cock throb in your grasp, earning another squeeze from you — there’s so much sensation he doesn’t even know what to focus on. he doesn’t know how much longer he can last, but every time he tries to say it, there’s only tears and choked out groans.
you feel a bit dizzy from how horny you are, the urge to simply ravage him making you feel like a goddamn man. you pull back a little, then, eyes half-lidded in ecstasy when you meet his own doe-browns. slowly, you lick from his hole up, up, up to the tip of his cock, where you plant a little kiss, tongue peeking out to swipe over the slit.
“y-you’re — oh my god —“ praise dies on his lips and he’s almost angry that you’ve managed to break him down to his very atoms, unable to tell you how gorgeous you look like this below him. for him. his balls start to tighten and his cock starts throbbing in the way you know means he’s going to cum.
you push away the maniac in you that wants to swallow his cum like a succubus and travel down again, hands resuming their job of milking his cock while you tease along his rim and dip your tongue in, out, in, out.
“baby, baby, m’gonna — oh my god, i love you, i love you, my baby, gonna —” he hardly lasts 30 seconds; it’s embarrassing, because peter parker is no prejac, and his stamina is typically endless, but it feels so good, how was he ever meant to stand a chance? his grip in your hair tightens and he pushes your face closer when he spills, the moan you let out making his over-sensitive hole twitch. you feel his cum spill out and around your hands, but you don’t let up just yet, continuing to lick and suck and stroke with the slickness his cum provides (it’s stickier than normal, you wonder if it’s from his new hormone changes. you make your own mental note to ask him about that later and see how you can exploit it!) until he’s on the edge of overstimulation and he pushes your head back himself.
“t-too — too much, holy fuck, you evil, evil woman. ”
peter’s chest is heaving, trying to take in every breath he couldn’t while you were getting your fill. when his (now trembling) legs come down and he props himself up on his forearms to see you, you look almost comical. you’re kneeling on the ground below him, hair a mess from where he kept his hold, gloss and lipliner smeared across your mouth, lips puffy and red — to top it all off, you’re practically glistening with his cum, your spit, the wetness you two created. it’s all a stark contrast to the big, cheshire grin you sport, like a brat finally satisfied with getting her way.
his dick, spent and still leaking against his stomach, twitches. the look he gives you is somewhere between exasperation and pure wonder.
Definitely not thinking about having him in your mouth, outfit still on. You’re trying to get him off fast and quickly, as he only has a little while backstage. His gloved hand comes up to gently grip your hair as his hips snap back and forth into your mouth, but he’s careful enough to make sure you don’t choke and ruin your makeup cause he’s a gentleman.
You notice him struggling to keep his composure behind his glasses, eyebrows furrowed and bottom lip caught in between his teeth while he tries to control his little muffled moans and whimpers.
You’re no good though, and that just eggs you on as you focus your tongue right against his glans, making his mouth fall open in pleasure ): He’s still holding back his moans, trying even harder hard to keep quiet although a few make their way through. He lets out a long whine, and you hum a ‘hmmm?’ deeply around him, asking if he’s close.
All he does is nod before letting go, a loud groan pushing its way out of him before he finally pushes his cock deep down your throat, spilling into your mouth, his knees buckling and body shaking as he tries to keep himself up.
JEALOUS TYPE — your sensitive boyfriends get overstimulated. it's only fair that you are too (in other ways).
pairing. peter parker x fem reader x clark kent / / tags. 18+ MDNI, f & m receiving oral, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, spit, squirting, fingering, pussy pronouns, backshots / mating press, eater peter & his gf + his gf's 6'4" overgrown kryptonian
you think peter might be trying to talk to "her" again
she's so pretty. inhaling at the junction between thigh and pelvis. she likes it when i do this. rough, pink tongue licking the pad of his thumb. presses the flat callus to your clit. just felt 'er twitch.
you know it's not for you, but for clark, who's painfully hard against your back. there's rhythm to his unsteady breaths, tight chest muscles expanding and contracting in long inhales, short exhales as he wrestles for self-control.
the sunset sprays you in pinks and blues, muddying together to shine off the sweat on your skin. peter glances up between the valley of your breasts, heavy gaze drinking in the tense line of your throat, the heave of your chest.
he begs something that's garbled and messy against your pussy, sclera just a slim ring of white as his pupils bloom beyond iris. fuck, you think, he's hungry for it.
you know this is almost soothing for them. peter is making no effort to spread your legs apart, content to press his face in and keep licking you open in the muffle of your sensitive thighs. clark just nuzzles into your neck, thick arms twisting around your waist, drowning out the scents of the city with the musk of your skin.
it's torture. it's therapy. two and a half orgasms in, and neither of them seem to want to stop.
clark must know that you're teetering close to the edge. he just slides his hand down, nudging peter's nose out of the way—an unpleased grumble vibrates against your pussy, to which you whimper softly—and sinks two fingers from behind into your fluttering heat with little resistance.
"fuck," you gasp. mindless, helpless, you rock into both of them. feeling the insistent press of clark's knuckles against your g-spot, the hot swipe of peter's tongue over your folds and clit. "fuck, i'm—"
you don't even make it past the phrase before you arch, pleasure taking you by surprise. ears ringing, colors blooming behind your eyelids, tears squeezing out at the corners.
you paw at peter's soft, damp curls, his name on your breath like a prayer: "peter, peter, i can't—"
clark sounds so far off when he mumbles, strained, "gosh, i think she just..."
peter makes a sound that's half-groan, half-sob, settling for tiny kitten licks that don't stop you from twitching. "babe, you were gushing."
the sound of their voices is so strange, gnarled with pleasure, hoarse with restraint. so different to the gentle way they usually speak.
clark draws his fingers out, finally lifting his head from your shoulder. he looks at your fucked-out, teary face with a bleary smile and a sharp glimmer in his eyes. brings his hand to his lips, sucks the shine off his skin.
you can't help the pitched moan that escapes you then.
peter's thumbs tack themselves to your outer lips. spreads them in a way that makes you burn. his lips purse, and he's spitting onto your pussy, all messy and dripping. smears it over your folds, presses his thumb against your oversensitive clit again just because he likes the way your hips jump.
"c'mon," clark near grumbles, tugging on a strand of peter's hair. "switch out."
"fine, fine," peter concedes with a pout, that still-boyish side of him peeking through.
they maneuver you around, chest pressing to warm sheets, ass exposed to the air. clark sits on his heels behind you; peter gathers your head to rest against his stomach, cock twitching before your eyes.
you kiss the tip, pretty and flushed to a dusky pink. he's thinner and longer than clark, and a hell of a lot more sensitive, which is why this works.
(clark gets a little line in his forehead whenever peter's in you and cums first. he can't help it, but peter can't help it either. they get a little heated over it sometimes.)
peter shudders, cupping your cheek, trying not to twitch too much as you continue to lavish his cock. you've just begun to make slow, light strokes at his base when clark stretches you raw.
unintentionally, you squeeze peter a little hard, making him hiss.
"shit, that's good," he slurs, brows drawn tight as he gazes down at you with ruddy cheeks. you pant, open-mouthed, as you tap the head against your slightly lolled tongue, getting him all sticky.
from behind, clark's girth keeps a steady rhythm. veins drag, flush to your sensitive, slick walls; balls slap to your clit, making you jolt and your breath hitch around peter's cock.
you don't know how your arms and legs can keep you propped like this, only that you're hanging on by a thread, that you have to keep yourself up only so you can rock back and meet clark's slow movements.
he's so fucking deep. one particularly devastating thrust has you arching deeper, desperate to feel more. feel me in your stomach, he hums, fingers gripping your hips tight.
there's a ridge along the underside of him that he blames on alien biology. whatever it is, it's always dragging you back toward the edge they never let you stray too far from.
your head is too hazy to tell that you're close again, and it's only when you're wracked with shivers and can barely mouth at peter do you realize you've come again.
"she liked that?" clark coos, rhythm gradually becoming sloppy. your whine is garbled, hand moving too fast over the scorching, slick length of peter.
he's whining too, adam's apple bobbing, pitched sounds breaking the unsteady slap of clark's pelvis against your ass. tendon in his thigh draws taut, abdomen flexes. "so good, so good," he chants, then he's twitching, spilling over your fingers, dribbling onto your lips.
you barely have the time to work him through it before clark is pulling out, practically manhandling you onto your back and pushing your knees to your chest.
he thrusts back in so hard that you skid up the mattress, that your eyes roll back and you can feel every inch trying to hold back until he can make you cum again.
"last one, okay?"
(you doubt it.)
—
notes from june: back2back smuts like never put me back in school again im on fire... hope u enjoyed :))
˚˖𓍢ִ໋ watching johnny play in the pouring rain, soaked jersey and all… what happens after the final whistle is between you, him, and the car ⊹ ࣪ ˖
wc: 1773
The rain is coming down hard now, thick sheets of it slicing through the floodlights and turning the pitch into a slick, muddy battlefield. I’m standing on the sidelines with the rest of the crowd, hood up, arms wrapped around myself as water soaks through my jacket. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except the boy wearing number 13 in green and white.
Johnny.
He’s everywhere at once. Tall, broad, powerful strides eating up the ground even as the rain tries to slow him down. His jersey is plastered to his back, dark with water and mud, clinging to every line of muscle across his shoulders and down his arms. The wet fabric makes the movement of his body impossible to ignore — the flex of his biceps when he catches the ball, the shift of his back when he drives forward, the way his thighs power through the tackle that just sent an opponent sliding across the grass.
He shakes the rain from his hair like a dog, brunette strands sticking to his forehead, and I catch the flash of his grin even from here. That Kavanagh grin. Cocky. Focused. Alive.
The referee blows the whistle again. Two minutes left on the clock. Tommen is up by four but the other team is pushing hard, desperate. Johnny claps his hands once, sharp and loud, calling out instructions to his teammates over the roar of the rain and the crowd. His voice is hoarse, raw from shouting all match, that Irish lilt cutting through the storm like it belongs there.
He lines up for the scrum, shoulders squared, legs planted wide in the mud. The muscles in his neck strain as he waits. When the ball comes back out, he’s already moving — explosive, fast, dodging one tackle and driving straight through another. Someone tries to take him down but he stays on his feet, boots digging into the slippery grass, rain streaming down his face. He offloads the ball at the last second and keeps running, supporting the play like he always does.
My heart is hammering in time with the crowd’s roar. Water drips from my lashes but I don’t blink. I can’t. Not when he looks like this — soaked, dirty, unstoppable. The rain keeps pouring, turning the floodlights into hazy halos around his frame every time he sprints past. His chest is heaving when he slows for a moment, hands on his hips, scanning the field. Even from this distance I can see the rise and fall of his ribs under that drenched jersey.
He glances toward the sideline, scanning faces until his eyes find mine. For half a second his expression softens, just barely, and he mouths something I can’t hear over the rain and the noise.
Then he’s back in it, charging forward again as the final plays unfold.
The final whistle blows sharp and loud, cutting through the storm. The crowd erupts. Tommen wins. The boys are shouting, slapping each other on the back, jumping in the mud like kids even as the rain keeps hammering down. Johnny is right in the middle of it, that big grin breaking across his face as he gets pulled into a group hug, his soaked jersey riding up when he lifts his arms.
I stay put on the sideline, watching them celebrate for a few minutes before the team starts heading off the pitch toward the changing rooms. The floodlights make everything look hazy and golden through the rain. I pull my hood tighter and start walking toward the car park, boots splashing in puddles.
It feels like forever before the lads start trickling out. Some are still buzzing, hair wet, bags slung over their shoulders. Then I spot him.
Johnny comes out in a fresh black hoodie and grey joggers, his kit bag hanging off one shoulder. His hair is damp and messy, a few strands sticking to his forehead even after the shower. His cheeks are still flushed from the match, and there’s a small cut on his lip that wasn’t there before. He looks ridiculously good — tired, happy, and completely unbothered by the rain that’s still falling.
His eyes find me immediately. That soft little smile appears again as he walks straight over, long legs eating up the distance.
“There’s my angel,” he says, voice rough and low from shouting all game. He drops his bag at his feet and pulls me into a quick hug, one big arm wrapping around my shoulders. He smells like fresh shower gel and rain. “You stayed the whole time even in this pissin’ weather?”
He pulls back just enough to look down at me, thumb brushing a raindrop off my cheek. His hand is warm.
“C’mon, baby. Let’s get you out of the rain.” He nods toward his car a few spaces away, already reaching for his keys. “I’m parked right over there.”
Johnny pops the boot and tosses his kit bag in before opening the passenger door for me. The rain is still coming down hard, drumming loudly on the roof of the car as I slide into the seat. He jogs around to the driver’s side and drops in with a heavy sigh, shaking rain from his hair like he did on the pitch.
The second the doors are shut, the noise of the storm dulls a little. It’s just us, the wet windows fogging up already, and the smell of rain and his fresh shower gel filling the small space.
I don’t even give him a chance to start the engine.
I lean over the centre console, one hand sliding up his thigh as I press my lips to the side of his neck. His skin is still warm from the shower.
“I’m so proud of you,” I whisper against his throat, voice low and breathy. My mouth trails up to that spot just under his ear. “You were so fucking hot out there, baby… running through all those tackles like nothing could stop you.”
Johnny lets out a surprised little laugh that turns into a quiet groan when I suck gently on his neck. His hand comes up to the back of my head, fingers threading through my damp hair.
“Angel…” he murmurs, voice already rougher.
I keep going, kissing and nipping at his neck while my other hand tugs at the waistband of his grey joggers, pulling them down just enough to slip my fingers underneath. His abs tense under my touch.
I feel him twitch under my fingers as I stroke him slowly through his boxers. The rain keeps pounding on the car roof, louder now, like it’s trying to drown out the sound of his breathing getting heavier.
Johnny’s head tips back against the seat, one hand gripping the steering wheel tight.
“Fuck,” he rasps, that accent thicker than usual. “You’re gonna kill me.”
I don’t hesitate. I tug his joggers and boxers down just enough to free him, wrapping my fingers around his thick cock. He’s already half-hard from my teasing and grows fully hard in my hand within seconds, hot and heavy.
Johnny’s eyes widen, glancing out the foggy windows.
“Shit, baby— there’s still people around,” he mutters, voice strained as he looks toward the car park where a few lads and families are still walking to their cars through the rain. “Someone could walk right past—”
“So?” I whisper, leaning down further, lips brushing the head of his cock. “Let them.”
I take him into my mouth without another warning, sinking down as far as I can in the tight space. Johnny’s hips jerk up instantly, a low, broken groan ripping from his throat.
“Fuck— angel,” he hisses, one hand flying to the back of my head, not pushing but gripping my hair like he needs something to hold onto. “You’re so fucking bad…”
The rain is hammering harder on the roof now, almost loud enough to cover the wet sounds of my mouth working him. I bob my head slowly at first, swirling my tongue around the tip every time I pull up, tasting the clean skin mixed with the faint salt of him. Then I take him deeper, relaxing my throat, letting the tip brush the back of it.
Johnny curses under his breath, thighs tensing under me. His free hand grips the edge of the seat so hard his knuckles turn white.
“Baby… Jesus Christ,” he groans, voice all rough and wrecked. “You’re actually gonna do this right here?”
I hum around him in response, the vibration making his cock twitch against my tongue. Outside, I can vaguely hear voices and car doors, but it only makes me suck him harder, faster, one hand stroking what my mouth can’t reach.
I don’t stop. I keep sucking him deeper, faster, my hand twisting around the base while my tongue works the underside of his cock. The car feels smaller, hotter, the windows completely fogged up now from our breathing and the rain still pounding outside.
Johnny’s head is thrown back against the seat, mouth open, chest rising and falling fast. His fingers tighten in my hair, not controlling me, just holding on.
“Fuck— baby, I’m— nghhh,” he whimpers, the sound so pretty and desperate it makes me moan around him.
I take him all the way down again, throat tightening, and that’s what breaks him.
His hips stutter, thighs shaking, and then he’s spilling down my throat with a broken whimper that sounds like a sob. “Oh my fuck.” His whole body jerks with every pulse, low, helpless little sounds falling from his lips as I keep sucking him through it, swallowing everything he gives me.
He’s panting hard when it finally slows, chest heaving, fingers trembling in my hair. A soft, wrecked little whine leaves him when I gently lick him clean, his cock twitching at the oversensitivity.
“Jesus fucking Christ…” he breathes out, voice hoarse and shaky. His hand slides down to cup my jaw, thumb brushing my swollen lips as I sit up. His eyes are glassy, cheeks flushed dark.
lHe ets out a breathless laugh, still dazed, and leans over to kiss my forehead. “I need to get you home before you put me in even more trouble, angel,” he murmurs, voice rough and fond as he starts the car.
Summary - You and Clark Kent are just roommates. The shared dinners, movie nights, lingering glances, and sharing his bed every night don't mean anything at all!
Warnings - Slow burn, smut (m!masturbation, sexual tension?, whimpering, hand job), roommates, fluff, fem!reader | WC: 9.3K :)
A/N - Sorry this took SO long, but I've been very busy! I hope this is good... I'm not so confident about it! Also, I have a req, so it'll be out by tmr I hope <3 enjoy
݁ .‧₊⋆.٠༺✶༻٠.⋆₊‧. ݁
Tonight you walk into the apartment, the warm smell of rich pasta sauce simmering on the stove, chicken sizzling in a pan. This has been the arrangement for a few months now. When Clark Kent signed a lease on your little apartment on the 10th floor of Main Street. He had been looking for a place close to work, somewhere near all the action, making it easy to slip out the door and perform his Superman duties without any question.
It also helped that you had warm eyes and an inviting smile—your whole aura drew him to you, like you would be a good friend to him. Despite his reserved nature, he warmed up to you quickly. Before moving in with you, Friday nights were spent tucked away in his bed, nose deep in a book as he tried to ignore the chaos that rang in his ears outside. Now? You would slowly creak the door open, popping your head in and giving him a small grin if he was awake. “Clark?” He looked up from his book, glasses sliding down his nose. “Yeah?” You opened the door fully, bowl of popcorn in hand. “I’m watching a very good movie, wanna come?” And he couldn’t help but say yes, hopping out of bed.
You toed off your shoes at the little welcome mat, setting them in a neat row next to Clark’s shiny dress shoes. Everything had become two, and that thought warmed you. Two pairs of dress shoes, two toothbrushes, two coats on the rack. Having a roommate made everything better, you thought. You stepped deeper into the flat, your tights making you slide across the wooden floor. Around the corner was Clark, tower slung over his shoulder, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, glasses foggy. “Hi!” You exclaim, sitting down at the island counter. Two plates were already lined up there, two mismatched cups side by side. He gave you a dimpled smile, one he kept hidden from the world and reserved for only 3 things: his parents, you, and his weird, weird dog, Krypto, that kept leaving and reappearing. You stopped questioning it.
“How was work?” He asked, stirring the pasta before attending to his chicken; it was starting to burn at the edges. You shrugged; it hadn’t been bad or good, just long and boring. You were an editor at the Daily Planet. You two hadn’t ever crossed paths before, working on completely different floors. Sure, he’d seen you in the break room, but even then, he didn’t really see you. “Editing papers is so boring sometimes. Your work is so alive, and some people on your floor struggle with that,” you comment. Clark nods at the compliment, putting the chicken on the cutting board. “Struggle with making it alive?” Clark always asked questions; he liked to hear you talk and watch your hands move as you explained something.
“Like, had some interesting words, make you visualize the story instead of just explaining it. When you're writing for the paper, you can’t be boring and irrelevant. You have to be bold, creative!” You explained, pulling the hair tie from your ponytail, your hair cascading down your shoulders. He watched, paying attention more to your hair than what he was cutting. Luckily, you weren’t paying attention as the knife met his finger in a swift slice, leaving no damage behind.
He hadn’t mentioned the whole Superman thing yet, not that he didn’t trust you. Clark just needed to make sure he could really trust you.
Clark wasn’t in love with you, but you caught his breath sometimes; he saw the sparkle in your eye, and he couldn’t help but relish the fact that sometimes that look was directed towards him. It was incredible. “Yeah, I get it. We have a lot of people that haven’t found their voices yet; it’ll come. Perry doesn’t hire just anybody,” Clark explains. He always found the good in people and advocated for them like they were his to protect. You just shook your head, a smile spreading across your lips.
“You have too much hope for this world.” The taunt made him laugh and shrug his shoulders. He scooped pasta onto your plate. Your favorite noodle shape covered in a thick, creamy sauce. Clark could do it all. “Do not…” He grumbled under his breath, dishing his own plate. He clicked the stove off before moving to sit at the island beside you. Dinner was light on conversation, too busy eating what Clark made—all of it melted in your mouth, and you knew it was Ma Kent’s recipe.
You hadn’t been to Smallville, but in the 5 months that Clark had moved in, you’d grown accustomed to them and Martha’s home cooking that was nearly to die for. She sent him with a little box of her recipes, and you were so grateful because you’d never tasted anything better.
Five months ago, dinners had been almost silent. Clark would quietly eat whatever either of you cooked, thank you for the meal or for sitting with him, then disappear into his room, a novel tucked under his arm or a work project on his laptop. Mornings weren’t much different. Instead of knocking on the bathroom door or calling you from your room, he’d leave pastries beside little handwritten notes, the scrawl uniquely his own.
So you invited him to movie nights on the couch, board games, and eventually he warmed up. His humor was dry but charming—how didn’t he have a girlfriend? You knew about him and Lois Lane, a thing of the past, but he didn’t talk about girls much at all.
“This is really good, Clark…” you mumbled, cutting up the chicken. He looked over at you and gave a thankful smile, wiping his hand on the napkin in his lap, always so proper. “After dinner… Were still on to play a game?” Clark asked, eyes hopeful.
It was Thursday, your established game night. After dinner and the kitchen was clean, you’d play board games until all of the city's lights were out, your bottle of wine was getting low, and your body grew sleepy.
You nod quickly, always excited. Growing up, you played games every night at dinner; all of your past roommates had been subject to a game night many times. “Yeah, what game tonight?” He pretends to think for a minute, knowing he had been waiting for this since last Thursday. “A few options: Battleship, Monopoly, or Risk.” He used his hands for the ideas, keeping tally with his fingers on the games he listed. Monopoly was the obvious choice, considering it was one of your favorites and got you both the most fired up.
“Duh, Monopoly,” you replied, getting up to start cleaning the kitchen. Clark was a clean cooker; the counters were wiped down, all dishes were in the sink, soaking and ready to be washed. All you had to do was put the leftovers in a container and wash the dishes, and you weren’t complaining. He laughed, shaking his head. “I should’ve guessed my other options didn’t stand a chance. I’ll take out the trash,” he offered, taking the last few bites of his plate while watching you scoop the leftovers into the little tupperware with a pink lid. “You sure? I can do it perfectly fine.” Clark just nodded, getting up swiftly, pulling the trash from under the sink and tying the bag. He swung it over his shoulder and walked out, whistling lightly to himself.
The night was then spent head to head; you sat across the coffee table from each other as Monopoly went on. The carpet was soft beneath your bodies, and the sound of laughter bubbled from the apartment until nearly 11. Once you triumphed in a second game of Monopoly, you jumped across at him, teasingly trying to poke at his sides for fun. He started to laugh, “Shouldn’t I be doing this? I’m the loser and seek my revenge!” Clark swiftly tugged you closer, tickling you, your head thrown back in laughter. You smelt like your perfume with a tint of some kind of earth abundance; when his hands stopped tickling you just sat against his chest, looking each other in the eye. This was normal for you. To Clark? It was different; he didn’t think he could ever get used to it.
Your cheeks relaxed as you came down from your laughter, getting up and starting to clean up the game. “Thank you for a very well-played game, sir,” you tease, holding out a hand. Clark took it and shook firmly. “I will remember this for next time. I’ll pick a game I’m actually good at.” Clark usually lost, but he always beat you in Chess and, surprisingly, the board game Life.
The next day at work, he sat in his office chair, his keyboard clicking away rapidly as he wrote an article. Lois and Jimmy were huddled over Jimmy’s pictures. A notification from Clark’s phone, he looked down, noticing your name light up across the screen. “We have to try this, Clark!” it read. He clicked on the video attached—a dessert recipe of a treat he hadn’t had in years. The smile on his face never faded, and Clark quickly typed back, “Scrolling at work? What would your supervisor have to say about this?” before hearting the video. When he looked up, Lois and Jimmy were staring at him.
“What?” He asked.
“Who were you just texting?” Lois asked first, walking over and attempting to get a glance at his phone. Clark hit it from her, swiveling in his chair. “Why do you ask?” Clark’s tone was suspicious as Jimmy wheeled over, eyebrow raised. “Do you have a secret girlfriend, dude? Why were you smiling at your phone like that?” Lois nodded along with Jimmy, arms crossed as she leaned on Clark’s cubicle. “No… It was just my roommate. She wanted to try to make this dessert and—” Jimmy cut you off. “Just your roommate? Are you sleeping with her?” He asked. Clark furrowed his brow and shook his head. “You like her?” Lois added, eyebrow cocked.
His phone lit up again, your name next to the little kissy face cat emoji, and his cheeks warmed. “No, she’s just my friend. It’s like she’s my best friend,” both of them frowned. “She isn’t replacing you guys! She just matters to me as much as you guys do, nothing more,” Clark defended, knowing that his bright red ears weren’t helping.
He didn’t like you like that… He didn’t think.
“It’s okay to like someone, Clark. You deserve to be happy,” Lois said first, before returning to her desk. When she left, Jimmy lowered his voice. “It’s okay; she’s gone! You can tell me if you're banging her now.” Clark shook his head. “Banging? Are you 16? And you know I don’t do that stuff…” Jimmy gave a disappointed huff.
“Lois is right, you know?” Jimmy then rolled back to his desk, typing out an email.
Clark shook his head to himself; his friends got crazy ideas sometimes. He looked down at his phone to see you sent an emoji in reply. So he just tucked his phone away and went back to working, the conversation at the forefront of his mind now.
You deserve to be happy.
Not with something so valuable, gambling away your friendship just for a silly crush. After lunch break, he pushed it away and worked effortlessly.
Friday nights were free rein; you usually watched a TV show or a movie while snacking. Sometimes he joined you, sometimes he sat on the porch and read instead. He texted you saying he’d be out with friends; in reality, he was out on patrol. Lex Luthor had more scandals; bigger anomalies and monsters were being released into the city, but to distract him from what?
The elevator dinged open to your floor; his hair was messed up, it was late, and his work suit was ruffled. He looked like he had been out with someone more than a friend, and that bothered him. He didn’t want you to think that he was sleeping with someone. Clark didn’t know why, but he just didn’t.
He turned his key in the lock and slipped inside. Your movie was playing, and he expected you to peek your head up and say hi as you always did. When it was silent, he slipped his shoes off, set down his bag, and walked to the couch.
You were fast asleep, your soft breathing coming through your lips that were slightly parted. Your hair was messy; you had kicked the blanket off half of your body. Clark couldn’t help but smile to himself, his hand going down to touch a strand of your hair. It just felt right, nice and soft in his fingers.
Carefully, he picked you up, holding you like a baby. The blanket dragged with him as your grip on it refused to let up. A small groan of complaint as you nuzzled deeper into his chest. Clark nearly bumped into the wall, too distracted by watching you.
He had watched Lois too, the way she breathed at night, her small twitches—you were so human it was hard for him to look away.
Clark pulled back the covers and set you in bed, tugging them up to your chin. “Clark?” you croaked out, turning onto your side. “Yeah?” his voice was deep, trying to be quiet and gentle. His heartbeat in his ears, piqued with curiosity. “Goodnight,” you mumbled, and his heart slowed. “Goodnight, honey.” He stepped out of the room carefully, spending the next few hours staring at the ceiling, turmoil in his head.
Work wasn’t there—nothing that Lex Luthor had done, but what Jimmy and Lois had said. Were you just a roommate, or was his doting devotion to you something more than friendship?
Time passed quickly with your busy schedules; you had editing and friends, he had Superman and articles. Outside of that, you two were inseparable. You always asked for advice, and Clark always gave it happily.
“Clark?” You asked, swinging the door to his room open unannounced, making him jump. He had only been reading, but it still scared him. “Sorry. What should I wear?” Clark took you in, leaning in his doorway, wearing his shirt that he’d been looking for for a month now and underwear. He wasn’t filthy; he could handle it just fine, just something that had been hard to get used to. The first time you did it, after he had been living with you for 3 months, he hadn’t been able to look you in the eye.
“Hey! I’ve been looking for that!” Clark complains, sitting up in his bed. You roll your eyes. “Tough luck, Clark. It strains against your muscles anyway; give it a break. Now what should I wear for my date?” You started holding up different dresses and then a more casual jeans option with a million shirts he thought were all very pretty. You noticed his muscles in his shirt?
“Date?” he asked, catching the clothes that you were tossing at him. The word ‘date’ hung between you both; he swallowed his strange disappointment and helped you anyway. You nodded like it was obvious. You talked about getting a boyfriend a lot, saying it would be nice. He noticed that you had dating apps downloaded, and he pitied that idea. Clark wanted you to get asked out extravagantly; you deserved something romantic. “Yeah, a guy on this dating app. He’s an accountant and likes to run with his dog.” Clark’s brows furrowed. “You don’t like to run, and you don’t like dogs,” he reminded you. You just shrugged. He helped you pick the outfit regardless, something slightly nice since it was a dinner date. You pulled the jeans on right in front of him, his eyes watching helplessly.
He needed this to stop; he couldn’t hold back his reactions anymore. Clark shifted uncomfortably as the lump in his pants started to increase, his thick comforter luckily covering it. You walked out to change into a nice sweater and heels next. You looked incredible; your hair was perfect, and your lips were so sweet.
Gosh, he could treat you better than any of those other losers. “Golly, you look great,” Clark commented with a small smile. You gave him a grin, and he melted into his bed. When the front door finally clicked shut behind you, he let out a pent-up groan. How could you not know what you do to him? The fancy red underwear you wore flashed in his mind, wondering how many other guys that same pair had worked on.
Shamefully, Clark was reaching into his pants, nursing his thick cock that dripped with pre-cum. Soon he was thrusting into his fist, biting his lip to hold back the needy whines that kept dying in his throat. It didn’t take him long to finish, right there in his pants, but he was embarrassed afterwards. Some pervert he was, jerking off to his roommate…
That was the first time he noticed his undeniable attraction to you, when the means of friendship started to bend as he contemplated what you really meant to him, if you were just pretty or something much more than he’d want to admit.
He was in bed, his laptop playing an old movie because he didn’t want to sit on the couch; it felt too far, and maybe just maybe… he didn’t want to run into you tonight and hear about that date. Not just yet; his heart couldn’t take it.
The door clicked open, and he perked up. Clark called your name, pausing the movie to get up and greet you. He heard a sniffle, and his door creaked open. In your hand were your heels, dropping them on his floor. Then he saw your face, the mascara staining your cheeks, fat tears rolling down your face; your sleeve was damp from wiping your face.
“Sweetheart, what happened?” he asked, concern flooding his tone. You’d never come home this distraught before, nothing that ice cream couldn’t fix—but tonight, your silence was loud as you climbed onto his bed, into his lap, and wrapped your arms around his middle. You pressed into his chest; you’d never done this before.
He assumed you didn’t quite trust him, but now he felt the quiet trust. Clark figured his secretiveness drove a wedge between whatever relationship was blooming now.
Yet, you squeezed him as your body wracked with tears.
Clark tried to sit up, but you mumbled, “Please stay with me, Clark.” The plea in your voice made him tug the covers over you and hold you closer in his big arms. “Okay,” he whispered into your hair. It wasn’t long before you’d fallen asleep, still in your jeans and sweater, make-up rubbing off on his shirt. Not that he minded, his head clouded with ideas of what that guy could have possibly said to you. After fading in and out of sleep all night, getting strong whiffs of your natural scent, the sun finally peeked through the curtains, not fazing you even a little bit. He knew that you could sleep through anything, and for a long time.
When you finally woke on his chest, the sun stripping you of peace and the dark. You took a deep inhale, the smell of leftover cologne, ink, and a unique musk; the warm body under you caught you off guard. “Morning…” Clark rasped under you, his eyes on your face already. Then it all came flooding back. The date, drinking too much, and eventually crashing on Clark’s chest in a moment of desperation and loneliness. You liked Clark more than you wanted to admit, more than friendly. He was always there for you, and he held onto secrets well. You knew you could always trust him, that he’d never judge you, despite seeing the grimace he swallows every time you say the word ‘date’ around him (He wasn’t as good at hiding it as he thought).
Your head ached. “So bright.” Your nose nuzzled into his armpit, shielding yourself from the sun. He shifted to get up, and the small sound of complaint made him freeze before he continued. The curtains swept shut, the sun being shut out, and he shuffled to the kitchen. The coffee grinder started up, pans and bowls clinking as he worked.
You sank into his bed, bigger than yours and smelt like him. His comforter was heavy, and the ache in your head wouldn’t settle. Clark came in with a plate of pancakes, coffee beside it with the perfect amount of cream. “Hangover cure, I think.” Clark hadn’t been drunk before (he literally couldn’t, but he wouldn’t get into that), so he just copied what he'd seen in college. “You think?” you asked, sitting up with a raised eyebrow.
You had never been more grateful for Clark until now, the syrupy pancakes in front of you sponging up the stuff in your system and giving you a small boost. “I’ve never been drunk. Are you going to tell me what happened last night?” he asked, curious, a sad furrow in his brow.
The sadness wasn’t fake. He was upset that someone had done this, and suddenly he found himself thinking again about how he could do much better than the average man. Clark was doting, had a big heart, and cared about you more than anyone in Metropolis. To see your spirit crushed like this was devastating.
“It was all messy, Clark. I was too tipsy, and he was too. He wanted to go back to his place, and then this girl showed up… and it turned out that was his girlfriend, and that I was just gonna be a side thing!” you complained, shovelling another bite in your mouth. He sat on the edge of the bed, listening. His eyes went to the pancake on your fork and you. You offered him a bite, which he took gratefully, climbing into bed beside you to put an arm around you.
He hesitated, his tongue wetting his lips before speaking. “Sorry. Men are terrible. Maybe you should delete the dating apps; there are plenty of fish out there.” You shrug, melting into his side. “You're a man,” you state. He shrugs and looks into your eyes with the sweet sparkle it always had. “I don’t claim to be even half decent.” You scoff, “You're crazy. You're miles past decent.”
His eyes lit up with something unfamiliar, the compliment sinking into his skin—like he’d been waiting to hear it. Clark took in the way the dark room cloaked your face, how you chewed slowly and packed it away in your cheeks, making him smile. The smile made your heart flutter, and he heard it.
Weeks passed, and you found yourself missing the warmth of his arms, where you could pretend for a moment that he was more than a friend.
Clark missed it too, the soft noises of sleep you made that made him tense beneath you. This is when he realized his love for you ran deeper than he thought. Every waking moment, you plagued his mind when he saw a pretty bouquet or an idea online.
Of course, he kept it under wraps, not wanting to scare you away. You seemed to bounce back quickly from the whole incident; the next day you were back to joking like it was nothing. All the turmoil halted to a stop. Almost.
“Clark? Wanna go on a run with me?” you asked, already dressed in your shorts and t-shirt. Your headphones were around your neck, and he could hear the music blasting from them. “A run? Since when do you run?” he asked. He got up from bed, grabbing his shorts from his closet. “Since today! And I know that somehow you are freakishly strong, even though I’ve never seen you pick up a weight before, so you promise not to outrun me and make me look weak?” A laugh rumbled from deep in his chest as he shook his head. “I promise,” he reassured, waiting for you to leave so he could change. “Sorry, forgot you’re all closed off and private,” you said, leaving the room while humming off-key. He emerged from his room, glasses down, perched on his nose, wired earbuds hanging from his shorts pocket, and a t-shirt. One with some pop band that you had thrifted for him.
‘You need more casual shirts to wear, Clark!’ you had insisted, before coming home with 3 bags full of shirts for him to pick from. You donated back the ones he hated.
“You're gonna run with your glasses?” you asked, stepping forward to grab them from his face. Clark jumped, quickly guiding your hand away. “Yes, I don’t have contacts, remember?” he gave a guilty smile, making you suspicious, but you shrugged and went for the door.
His pace was steady, his Kryptonian genes keeping his breath even, making him look unaffected. You, however, were not the same. Your breathing was heavy, your heartbeat pumping through your chest, and your pace staggered after the first half a mile. He kept up with you perfectly, and you tried to ignore how easy he made it look. The streets were busy for a run; you occasionally had to yell an apology as you kept trotting on. Once a mile from home, you stopped to catch your breath. He gave you a big grin, showing no signs of fatigue. “How the hell are you not winded?”
“I ran in high school. Guess I never lost it,” Clark lied, hoping it went over your head and it was never to be brought up again. He didn’t talk about his high school experience much; he had been too busy trying to control the lasers burning the back of his eyes to want to talk about it. “You’re terrible…” You groaned, picking back up into a run towards home again. He chased after you. You called behind you, “First one home gets to shower first and doesn’t have to make dinner!” Clark watched as you collided into another person, losing your balance.
Clark chuckled, watching you scurry up and start to run again. “Hope you have a good recipe in mind,” he teased. Ultimately, he let you win. It was only fair, considering he had superhuman strength. So you triumphed and went inside victorious, making sure to rub it in. “You were sooo sure, weren’t you, Clark?” you teased, a proud grin on your face. He just shook his head, happy that you were happy. “You're not a very humble winner; go take a shower!” Clark needed to think of dinner ideas anyway.
You did, the music from your speaker flowing out. It was a random spouting of songs, but ones he ultimately enjoyed, considering you had reshaped his music taste since he’d moved in. He hummed along to the ones he knew, and noted the ones he didn’t to ask you about later.
Pasta bubbled in the pot as he stirred up a sauce, loud noises filling up the kitchen and masking the sound of the bathroom. When he swore he heard you leave, he padded off to the bathroom. The negatives of having a roommate who doesn’t know your Superman is that he has to wear his glasses 24/7. And it’s really annoying when they fog up, or his telescopic vision picks up on the little fingerprint smudges, ultimately distracting him.
Clark swung the door open, grabbing his small cloth from the top drawer. “Clark?” He heard your voice. “Is that you?” His eyes darted over to the steaming shower, your outline through the shower curtain making his blood run cold. “Oh my… golly! I thought you were out; I really needed to clean my glasses—sorry!”
You mentioned him not needing to worry about it, but still, he shut the door quickly behind him, grimacing as he hustled back to the kitchen. You’d think he would have noticed the sound of the shower, but his brain was caught up in the moment. Now dinner would be awkward—God, had he ruined everything?
Panicked hadn’t settled over you, because you left the door cracked on purpose. How much could your sweet roommate take? Did it take open doors to bring on something more than friends, because walking around in your underwear hadn’t worked.
You strolled out in sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt—also his—your hair taken care of and dripping down your back. Both of you picked not to mention this mishap, as it meant little to you, and far too much to poor Clark.
“Mind stirring the sauce while I take my shower?” he asked, eyes on the sauce and looking for an excuse not to meet yours. “All you have to do is stir and then in five minutes at the oregano, salt—” you give him a small grin. “Pepper, chilli pepper flakes, sugar. I know, Clark,” you finished for him. Shooing him aside and stirring the tomato sauce around in the pan as he hustled off to the shower.
He showered much quicker than you, scrubbing his back nicely and making sure his curls weren’t matted. You had spent an hour helping him detangle his curls, and scolded him about it ever since. You helped him pick out products on his phone, cuddling up to his side as you explained them, before helping him scrunch them in.
Clark came out in similar attire, gray sweatpants and an old t-shirt from college that squeezed his biceps mercilessly. What he didn’t know was that you loved those sweatpants more than a friend or roommate ever should. That they made his big thighs look tastier, and the fabric wasn’t shy on showing off his muscles—or his very cute butt.
“Welcome back, my arms are tired of stirring,” you say, passing him the wooden spatula. “You know you don’t have to stir the whole time, right?” He asked, eyebrow raised as he took over. His tongue darted out to taste the sauce on the spatula, its flavour evolving so far.
You admired his glasses low on his nose, a little crooked even, the sweatpants lower on his hips and that easy grin on his face that showed his approval. “I told you I knew what I was doing,” you prided, plopping onto the couch.
“How many more runs do you plan to drag me on?” he asked curiously as you flipped through channels.
You thought for a moment before sighing. “Another one right now sounds like hell, so maybe you’ll get lucky, Smallville.” Clark just shrugged; it wasn’t any challenge to him. Though he realized now he should’ve pretended to be more winded.
His secret was starting to slip as he felt his attraction growing, as he felt the bond shifting.
“It’s okay, I like growing roots into the floor like a potato anyways,” he teased, a laugh slipping from his lips. The sweet sound was nearly ecstasy to your heart. You didn’t know what was happening, but sometimes you couldn’t resist gushing over him.
People at work had started to notice too. While waiting for copies to print, you found yourself smiling as you texted Clark. “Who’s the guy or gal?” your work friend asked, wiggling his eyebrows in jest. “He is just my roommate, nothing more or less.” Your tongue was sharp the first time it came up, like you were trying to deny feelings that you were hiding from even yourself. “Sure, girl. Sure.”
You flicked to the news channel, weather reports, threats of snow in Metropolis. Yeah, right. “Very funny, Clark,” you tease, grinning as you stand up again to watch over his shoulder. You started to talk over the news, your arm occasionally brushing his as he stirred in the cheese.
“I don’t think this is a two-person job, honey,” he admits, eyes going down to yours for the first time since his accident. You looked up at him with those begging eyes, except tonight they weren’t begging. Full of an emotion he couldn’t place. Your hand was on his arm, making the hairs on the back of his neck nearly stand up straight.
He swallowed hard, his eyes moving back to the sauce. “Soon, do you wanna watch this movie with me?” you ask, stepping back as he suggested. Your legs were sore anyway, and sinking into the couch sounded better than being alone in your bed.
Being alone meant more time to contemplate these weird feelings. Why did your stomach drop when Clark Kent entered a room? Or when he flashed you a dimpled smile?
“Sure, after dinner. What movie?” Clark pushed his glasses up his nose, listening to you settle onto the couch again and channel surf. You gave an intelligible grunt, one that led him nowhere, so he shrugged.
Dinner was served and over before he knew it.
How he got here, he was unsure.
You had helped clean the dishes while he took care of some last-minute article stuff, then he sat on the couch waiting for you. Tugging the blanket off the back of the couch, pulling it over himself. Clark wasn’t cold, but it was a trick he picked up from his parents on looking more ‘human’. Or at least that’s what he told himself.
Sometimes he was hoping to feel more human than he was.
You slid in a DVD… Was it Star Wars? He couldn’t even remember; he was so in tune to how you slid under the blanket with him casually. How your heart wasn’t beating out of his chest while his was.
“Clark?” you asked, looking back at him. Clark was smooshed into the corner of the L-shaped couch, you close by, half your body resting on the cushion, your back to him. “Yeah?” He perked up, ready to accommodate anything you needed.
“Can you rub my back?” you asked, eyes full of pleading. “Or scratch it? I’ll do your back!” It was something you found comfort in since you were young. Clark hesitates before nodding, unsure how to initiate this. He’d never scratched anybody’s back, let alone a girl he liked.
It wasn’t long before he was lying on his back, you sprawled on his chest like that terrible date night. The pads of his fingers ran up and down your back under the fabric of your shirt. The Star Wars movie continued to roll on. Your breathing was light, and the small stutters of your breath as he carefully set a rhythm.
Suddenly, it wasn’t about awkward, steamy shower encounters; it was about the softness of your skin and the light thump of your heart.
When the credits started to roll, Clark didn’t move a muscle. Instead, he closed his eyes, drifting off with you on his chest.
Ultimately, the beginning of your friends-with-almost-benefits relationship began. When your bed was cold, or a nightmare was plaguing you repeatedly, you found yourself climbing into Clark’s bed. He took you under his arm like it was nothing, like this was normal.
Sometimes you cried about the dreams, and he’d coaxed the tears away, holding you until you fell asleep. The next morning, he’d be out of bed already like nothing happened, breakfast pastry on the table and him already long gone for work.
He tried to think of it as normal, for his own sanity—but Jimmy Olsen was never any help.
“She sleeps in your bed?” he asked, setting his coffee down and leaning forward in his office chair. “Well, only when she’s had a bad nightmare… or just feels lonely, I don’t mind.” Jimmy looks at Clark like he’s insane. “Oh yeah? And do you kiss her when she says, ‘Oh, Clark! I just need you sooo bad!’ or what?” Jimmy’s mockery made Clark’s brows furrow.
Lois came in, setting a paper on Clark’s desk, cocking an eyebrow. “Jimmy isn’t very quiet, unfortunately. You know, most people don’t sleep in the same bed as their roommates. Especially when they have a room of their own,” she said, pouring sugar into her coffee at the coffee station.
“You guys are both blowing this out of proportion!” Clark exclaimed, throwing his hands up, then down into his lap again. “She just needs someone… a friend! That’s okay!” Jimmy laughed, shaking his head. “Just admit you love her, you fool! Who knows the relationship stuff you could be missing out on right now because you’re being too friendly. Imagine all the dates and sex you could be having.”
Clark shakes his head, tossing a pad of sticky notes at Jimmy. “It’s not all about sex, Jim. Plus, if I admit… that I love her, then I can’t let her sleep in my bed. It’d be too much. I can be a friend for as long as I need to be!”
As the words left his mouth, he knew he was making a mistake. Clark knew you wanted something more in someone, and that he’d be perfect for that role.
He understood you better than anyone; he knew how you liked your pancakes, and that laundry day was on Wednesdays, like a midweek refresh was what you needed. Clark knew that you preferred juices over Soda, and that you liked hot baths over showers. He knew you best by now.
So he kept letting you sneak into his bed, and it went from a once a week thing to every other night, and he loved it.
You enjoyed it too, the way he held you to his chest was comforting, like you were his whole world in that moment. And you were.
The feelings between you both lingered. There was always push, pull. You’d mention a cute guy, and Clark would lose hope. He would mention Lois Lane and suddenly you felt silly.
All of it was swept under the rug.
Clark came home ridiculously late, hair messy, glasses crooked and you immediately knew something had happened. He had been saving Metropolis—of course, you didn’t know that though.
Instead you just made him some boxed mac and cheese, vegetables on the side and rubbed his shoulders without any questions. That’s what Clark appreciated. You trusted him, you didn’t feel the need to pry. All it was, was “Busy day?” He had smiled, shrugging. “Something like that.”
“Your shoulders are so tense from all the slouching you do…” you grumbled, trying to dig your thumbs intot he meat of his shoulders. It was a difficult task, considering he was a man of steel. But he appreciated the effort. “Can’t scare people off with my height now, can I?” he quipped quickly, the paper open as he crunched on a carrot.
You shrugged, giving up and polling down at the chair right next to him. His curl was on his forehead, the rest of his hair smoothed back compared to this morning. You had stopped questioning it, considering he usually came home like that. “You aren’t abnormally tall, I don’t know why you act like you are. Wouldn’t kill you to walk with your shoulders high, once in a while. You know, girls like confidence!” You advised.
Clark laughed. “Do they? Because you keep going out with some not-so-confident dudes and end up picking up the pieces…” He leaned back in his chair, a carrot stick in his hand, his eyes watching over yours. “First of all, rude. Second, that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate confident guys.”
You gave him a grin, reaching out to fix his curl. Clark let it happen, his cheeks flushing. “Sorry, just saying.” He stood up, bringing his plate to the sink. The cuffs of the wrists on his work shirt were damp as he started to wash the dish. His shoulders rolled back and neck a little straighter.
Confidence.
You noticed his straighter posture and smiled to yourself watching him pad off to his room to change. And you definitely made sure to admire his butt in those work pants on the way. He was so cute, and he hid it all under those baggy clothes. Poor thing.
This love for him was starting to bubble up in your gut. Especially, when people kept pointing it out.
The other day you had come home from work, groceries in hand and the old woman across the hall came out. “Excuse me, dear… Is your boyfriend home? I need his help switching out my fire alarm batteries. It won’t stop beeping!” her voice was weathered with age and her skin was wrinkled.
“Oh… he’s not my boyfriend! He mentioned being able to hear it, though.” You pause, setting your groceries down right outside the apartment door. Clark had been hearing it for 2 days now, the high screech really bugging his super hearing, and you hadn’t heard it even once. “Let me help, do you have a step ladder?” you asked.
So there you were, the apartment door open as you balanced on an old chair from the 1960’s, easily. It creaked under you as you stretched your arms up and started to unscrew the beeping fire alarm. It was loud and shrill, and you could see how annoying it could be.
As you switched the batteries you lost footing on the old stool, and somehow, Clark happened to be coming home, running to catch you just in time. He held you to his chest, almost like Superman or something. “Oh there your boyfriend is! Glad you’re okay, dear.” Both of you froze as he put you down. “Not her boyfriend, ma’am,” he told her again, switching it himself, considering he was 6’4”. The woman sent him home with many cookies, and too much lemonade in your stomachs.
She was a nice woman, but she liked to talk. “Gosh, I always leave her house weighing 10 more pounds than I came in as,” you mumbled, packing the groceries away. A small laugh escaped Clark as he shook his head. “She’s just lonely, needs somebody to feed.”
“Well, if you enjoy being this full then you can have some of my treats next time were there.” Clark shrugs. The perks of being Kryptonian is that he ate for the taste, all of the food burned off within minutes due to the sun’s energy.
“You know, it’s funny she called me your boyfriend,” Clark comments, his eyes searching yours for a hint of liking to that idea. He heard your heart rate flutter, then watched you shrug. “I already told her we weren’t dating, she’s just forgetful.” He didn’t let his smirk fade, despite being disappointed by that answers. Though he didn’t know what he had expected, it wasn’t like you were going to confess your love outwardly.
Clark nods. “I guess that’s true.”
Though he felt the hot feeling pang in his stomach at the idea of being your boyfriend… of you showing him off and kissing him in front of people. An dream so much closer than he thinks, but it felt so far away.
You watched his smile falter and felt your gut wrench. He was so off and on, too shy to tell you what he was thinking in that pretty head of his. What was behind those glasses? And why wouldn’t he just admit it?
Maybe because you hadn’t either.
Clark hadn’t realized just how much he missed having you in his bed until you went out of town for the weekend, a ‘girls trip with so much drinking, and lounging by the pool’ as you had said. He stayed up late working, and the covers beside him were empty. There was no sign of that familiar lump, where your face was buried into his favorite pillow, hair sticking out at many angles.
Now it was empty, and he was able to use his favorite pillow for himself. Except, it didn’t feel like his pillow anymore. It used to smell like curl cream and now it smelt like your fancy shampoo that he wasn’t allowed to touch, that he definitely still used anyways. The 2-in-1 man’s shampoo and conditioner combo he had brought from single living wasn’t satisfying, it didn’t make his hair nice.
And in the bathroom, when he was brushing his teeth, the buzz of his toothbrush filled the room. But you weren’t beside him, yours buzzing loudly as you scrubbed your gums and lectured him on flossing.
“You have to, Clark! It’s like… not putting syrup on your pancakes!” you’d insisted, then both of you flossed together in the big mirror.
You were the major influence of his life. All his habits had been slowly changed to yours, and yours had adapted to his. You both read the paper, drank coffee, and ate the same pastries in his bed nearly every morning, unless one of you needed to be in the office early for some reason.
That was the longest weekend of his life. Not having you around might as well have been torture. How could he do these routines without you? He only knew how to do them with you now. Clark’s heart ached to have more of you—to be more than your roommate, more than your best friend.
He wanted to be the cute roommate he oversaw your friends texting him about. The one that was over bearing and so sweet that you ‘have to snatch him up before someone else does’. He had definitely tried to push the texts about his butt out of his mind.
“I’m homeee!” you announce excitedly, putting your backpack on the floor as you slid your shoes off, looking around for Clark. He was waiting for you on the couch. He set his coffee down, his paper, but not fast enough.
You threw yourself over the back of the couch and landed flat on his chest, wrapping him in a bear hug. He quickly recovered from being winded, giving you a tight squeeze. “How was it? You do look tanner…” he commented, knowing that girls liked it when guys noticed things about them. At least that’s what Ma had taught him.
“Thank you for noticing, it was so good. I still have a headache but me and my friends got to catch up so much, and having no work was like… the best thing ever!” you explained excitedly, sitting up, your legs on either side of his legs. Your hands moved as you talked about the things you saw and the nice rental house you had already showed him ten times. “Though I will say, my bed being empty was a change,” you giggled, standing up to stretch your legs. You opened the porch doors, filled with energy.
He sat up, following behind you as you started to unpack. “I’m glad you noticed too, I was feeling lonely in my bed too,” Clark practically squeaks, his ears flushing red as he admitted it. “My friends teased me the whole time.” Clark almost asked but you made sure to explain.
“What, you can’t sleep without a big puppy dog in your bed?” your friend teased, after asking about the sleeping arrangements. You rolled your eyes. “You guys are just jealous that I have a very handsome roommate cuddling me at night, and you don’t.” Another friend chimed in, a grin spreading across her face. “He cuddles? I thought it was just a same bed thing.” You gave a nod, suddenly feeling prideful to share this. Almost like he was your boyfriend, even though he really wasn’t.
Clark pouts. “I’m not a puppy dog… and I’m not big per se…” he defends, sitting on your bed as you tossed stuff into the now over-flowing hamper in the corner of your room. “You are big, Clark. You’re ripped and cast a shadow over people. And you cuddle like a puppy… all nuzzled up into me like you're protecting me.” You watched his cheeks heat and get up to leave from embarrassment. “Stop! It’s cute! Just sit down.” He sat back down quickly—like any doting puppy dog would do.
When night rolled around again, he poked his head into the bathroom, your mouth foaming with toothpaste and your hair pulled back, lotion spread into your skin making it shiny. “Goodnight…” he said, giving a soft smile. You spit into the sink. “Where do you think your going? It’s Monday night!”
Monday’s were for movies, just to get the lazy lull of that day to roll off your shoulders. “Isn’t it late for a movie, it’s ten.” He cocked an eyebrow, coming back into the doorframe, crossing his arms and leaning on it. Clark was just wearing a white t-shirt and sweatpants, nothing irregular, but right now he was the apple of your eye. So perfect… so Clark right now. The little guilty grin on his face that you could just smooch off his face.
You quickly shook that thought from your head, just shrugging. “I guess your right, I can’t party forever. You didn’t get used to an empty bed right?” the tease made him grin, his face melting into pure happiness. And you couldn’t believe those dimples were reserved for you. “How could I?” he asked. He watched you half-heartedly put away your headband, rinsing your mouth under the faucet quickly.
Then you were jumping into his arms, him carrying you like a princess. You deserved to be treated like a princess in his eyes.
It wasn’t long before you were pressed into his side, talking nonsense as you used his bicep for a pillow. Clark listened to your voice get slower and your words start to scatter, until you were sleeping.
Lois’s words played again: You deserve to be happy.
And so he allowed it, he allowed himself to melt into you. Hug you like he meant it, discard his glasses and press his nose to your cheek. Sleeping in minutes.
This is where he was supposed to be—holding his roommate/best friend crush to him close and allow it to be something more, if it was what she wanted.
And you wanted it.
The next day, Clark dragged his feet when he came home. He wasnt lively, he just smiled and nodded at your stories. You thought maybe he was mad at you, or the cuddling had been too much.
Clark couldn’t reveal that he was drained from work and being Superman, that Lex luthor had sent out the Hammer of Boravia to nearly kill him in front of half of Metropolis. It certainly was a hit to the ego, and to let it roll of his shoulders was difficult.
After dinner he took a hot shower, buried himself under his covers and stared at the ceiling. When sleep wouldn’t come—well… He found himself with his hands stroking his cock, slow strokes that made him spring into action.
Clark hated resorting to this but sometimes it was just what he needed. And it never took long.
You were walking by his room, thinking about coming in to ask his what’s wrong. The door was shut—unusual for Clark—so you reached out to knock. Before you could knock you heard a small groan tear from his lips. His breathing heavy on the other side.
Slowly you opened the door. You shouldn’t be in here, not while he was pleasuring himself, but you were still turning the door handle and stepping inside. You watched him jump, his eyes going big and his heart nearly jumping out of his chest. “Oh my god! I am so sorry, I should’ve locked the door. I can move out like—” he panicked, pulling his hand from his pants and sitting up.
“Clark… calm down,” you cut him off, stopping his worry train before it could start. You watched him settle, eyes full of curiosity as you kept coming closer. His breathing was still heavy, a lump in his sweatpants now. You crawled up next to him on his bed. You pressed your forehead to his, your heart beat in your ears. “Let me help you relax?” you asked.
Clark’s heart nearly exploded, were you offering to help him? He didn’t think he could take it, he literally hasn’t felt a woman’s touch in over a year, he’d be a mess under your hands. “O… Okay,” he whispers, watching you gently tug his sweatpants down.
“Lift your hips for me, sweetheart?” your voice was quiet, soft like the moment. He lifted his hips, his underwear coming down with. His meaty thighs were in front of you, spread just enough. His cock was hard between you both, flopping on his stomach and leaking at the head with precum. “You don’t have to do this…” His voice was flooded with plea, and you shushed him.
You wanted to do this. He had spent many nights taking care of you drunk, making you dinner, entertaining you silly movies without so much of a grunt. You wanted to help him relax, feel seen and loved. Because you did love him, a lot.
You stroked up and down his shaft, your other hand up his shirt and running down his muscles. Your steady rhythm stopped to tug off his shirt, followed by the unbuttoning of the flannel clad on your body. He bucked up into your hand with a whine at the sigh, his hand going out to run the pads of his fingers down the soft skin of your shoulder and collarbones.
“That’s it, Clark. Tell me how you like it,” you cooed. Nuzzled into his side, jerking him off. The smell of your perfume and the feeling of your hand blinding all of his senses. “Just like that… Please, don’t stop…” he begged, another whimper falling from his lips.
The sounds were so perfect, something you’d never heard before. Clark wasn’t scared to be vulnerable with you, and that made you adore him more. He looked up at your face, feeling your hand. His lips found your neck, collarbone, where ever he could reach from this angle.
He needed to show how much he appreciated this, how real this was for him. That all his feelings were out there now. “Thank you… Just a little faster, honey,” he pleaded, burying his face into you as you sped up. Pre-cum was leaking from the tip, rubbing on your hand.
The sight of him, happy trail leading to his pretty cock, throbbing as he trusted into your hand helplessly. His abs were starting to gleam with sweat, and he squirmed under you. He threw his head back as you squeezed his cock, giving him pressure to buck into helplessly. “Cum for me?” you asked.
And your wish was his command, he was a mess under you. His load shooting and draining his balls. The sticky globs landing on his abs, running down your fingers, and getting stuck to his hairy trail. “That’s it… Oh, you’re such a good boy,” you reassure, his panting heavy.
“Thank you…” he repeats like a vice, kissing your shoulder and sitting up slowly. Pressing a kiss to your lips. Not too long or too deep, just right.
You helped clean him up, making small jokes, ones that caused sleepy laughs and tired grins. “I like you, Clark. A little more than a roommate…” you admit, his face nuzzling back into the soft, pillowly heaven into between the valley of your breasts.
“Me too…” his words are muffled by your chest, your hands stroking and tugging gently at his matted curls. A little neglected after a long days work. You had a feeling more nights were to come being spent like this.
But tonight would be spent like you guys were almost something, a quiet burden being lifted off both your shoulders.
thinking about calling clark kent big boy during sex, but in a slightly condescending way.
you're riding him into the mattress, teasing him relentlessly by slowing down every time he gets too close, pinching his nipples when he squeezes his eyes shut, grinning when he inevitably lets out a whimpering 'golly'—because that's about the worst he'll say. and clark doesn't even complain, only sits there and faces your sweet torture with a small frown. he's being so good, so pliant, letting you use him exactly how you want, so you take pity. "d'you wanna come, big boy?" you coo, petting his hair. he only whines, bucking his hips in sync with the rolling of your hips. he knows better than to try and break your rhythm, so he holds back. "huh? is it too much for you?" it's sickly sweet, the way you say it, and he knows you don't really care wether it's too much for him or not, but his mind is hazy and all he can bring himself to do is cry out a pathethic, "yes!"
"look at you," you sneer, making his dick throb inside of you. "superman can't even handle a good fuck." it makes him tear up, even, and he sobs out, "i can! i can take it," but you're not convinced. you grind down om him harder. faster. meaner. testing his words. and when clark throws his head back with a loud, unrestrained moan, your smirk widens.
"i'm not sure you can, clarky," you pout at him. "you're already falling apart and we've barely even begun."
he whimpers, shaking his head frantically. he wants to be good for you, wants to hold back, but his heart is bursting at the seams. and so is his release. his fingers twist in the sheets, trying to ground himself and keep him sane, but it doesn't work very well because with a loud tearing sound, your bedsheets get ripped apart.
"clark!" you scold, but you don't stop. god, you don't stop and now clark only has two loose pieces of fabric to hold onto. so he forgoes them in favor of you, bracing his arms fully around your frame and burying his head in your chest with a sob. and you can't help but coo at him, threading your fingers through his dark curls as you bring him closer and closer to the edge. his cock twitches when you pull, and you know he's almost there. "c'mon, big boy," you moan, "let go f'me." and he does, he does. clark is crying against your chest, calling himself, "your big boy, 'm, 'm yours, yours," spilling his warm cum inside of you. and you're talking him all the way through, moaning his name as your own orgasm washes over you. "good boy, clark, my big boy, feels s' good."
so yeah, clark has developed some kind of pavlovian response to the words out of your mouth. he can't hear you say the word "big," definitely not combined with the word "boy" right behind it, without his cock twitching to life and an embarassing amount of precum staining his pants. but that's not your problem, is it?
but it's not his fault, okay? eating your pussy just shuts his brain off. like his whole fucking body just relax. it's the only time he's not thinking about shit. just warmth and wet and you.
and he's down there for hours so yeah he gets sleepy. your thighs are so soft around his head he can't hear anything outside them. just the wet little sounds and your breathing. your smell is all over his face and he loves it. loves sucking your clit slow and lazy, tongue flat and heavy. groaning into you just to feel you shake.
he already made you cum twice. he's on his knees on the floor, face pressed into you so deep his nose is smushed against your pubic bone, drool and your slick all down his chin. you're gripping his hair tight, grinding down on his mouth.
fuck you're so close.
right there right there right there—
his tongue slows.
his jaw goes slack.
huh?
he fell asleep already.
mouth still open. lips still wrapped around your clit, sucking weakly. letting out soft little snores.
it's okay. you already got permission. he said you can use his face to get off if he ever fall asleep.
so just grab his hair and ride his face until you cum. use his nose, his tongue, whatever. he's out cold. won't wake up until you're shaking.
Clark Kent secretly loves when you stay up late for him, even when he (gently) tells you not to.
It’s always “Oh baby, I just really missed you, and it’s a Friday night, so it doesn’t really matter—.”
Or “Well, I just wanted to see you, and I really like this book—.”
Or something else along those lines. And even though you’re already up, he’ll always chastise you. “Cmon now baby, you need your eight hours. We’ve talked about this.”
Naturally, it never deters you.
To Clark’s credit, there’s something about seeing your sweet little self up at that hour, the little bags under your eyes; your soft, noodle-like arms trying to wave at him; and god, that little slur in your voice, where you almost sound drunk, but it’s something more sugary sweet, meek, innocent and gentle, and he loves it. He wishes he could just bottle up the sound.
He’ll go shower, clean himself up. Sometimes he takes his time with it, because a long day doesn’t always just take a minute to fade away. But he’ll always end up right next to you, under those lush covers, holding you so close to his chest. You always wait for him, so patient, snuggling into him.
The best nights, though, are the ones where you can’t seem to just turn your brain off and fall asleep. When you just need a little coaxing, and a little loving on.
You tend to get really aroused at night, some nights more than others. Sometimes he can smell it on you, because it’s so potent. He loves that smell. It’s like rain over jasmine. Maybe it’s out of routine, because you’ve come to expect him to come home late and give you some sugar, and he’s inadvertently got you trained like a little love bunny.
“Clark?” you’ll say meekly, your voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t fall asleep, Clark.”
He’ll smirk into your back, knowing that was coming. “Oh yeah, sleepy girl? Why don’t you just try?”
“Oh, but Clark…” you’ll pout, shifting to face him. “I really can’t sleep.”
“Oh, honey,” he’ll tut, giving you a baby-blue eyed look drenched in mock-pity. “Do you need me to get you down?”
You’ll bite your lip, and that’s enough confirmation for him.
Soon enough he’ll be stretching you out on his fingers, cooing about what a sweet girl you are until your body succumbs to the stimulating sensation. It never takes much—usually your imagination’s gotten you to the precipice, and he merely has to take you over the edge.
He likes to tease you then. “That was a big one, huh. Maybe it’s time for bed..?”
“Nooo,” you’ll pout, and then register his stupid smirk. “Why are you so mean to me?”
“I know, I know. I’m so mean, sweetness. Just terrible, huh,” he’ll play along, lining up with your wet, welcoming entrance.
“Yeah—yeahhhhhhhh,” your protest’ll fade into a delicious moan, one he swallows with his lips because fuck. You’re just too cute.
“You like that, honey? Being so full of me? Bet you’re not even thinking straight, huh, sleepy girl. Just taking whatever I have to give. Good girl,” he’ll say, spurring you on, making you feel just so damn good—
Needless to say, the second orgasm usually gets you down, syrupy and dopey with a lovestruck “I love you Clark” as you drift off to the comfort of him cleaning you up and tucking in, whispering back “I love you.”
a/n: just started smallville… yk, the tom welling… let’s just say i started out picturing david when i was writing this… and times are changing… anyways, comments and shares mean the world!!
Clark can literally never pull out for the life of him. He used to be better. When you guys first started dating, he always made sure to keep condoms in the nightstand, just in case. Then after a while, it turned into marathon sessions where you burned through three to four condoms in a night. Inevitably, when the box ran empty, and neither of you wanted to stop for ten minutes to go grab more. Clark promised he would pull out. And to his credit he did. Barely. The feeling of sinking into you, completely raw. Feeling every muscle twitch, subtle clench, wetness oozing out around him, almost got him. You almost regretted telling him to pull out, getting to feel the true heat and heft of him, along with his tip sliding in and you, made you reconsider how awful pregnancy would be. You both kept saying how you needed new condoms, and Clark was always saying how he would definitely go out after work to pick up another box.
But somehow, every night, when Clark is settled between your thighs, desperately rutting into you, his hands gripping your hips, the box never showed up. Your legs would lock in around his strong hips, digging your heels into the dimples on his lower back, your hands gripping anywhere they could find purchase on. You really are scared of getting knocked up. Even though you really don’t take any precautions. You honestly are. It’s just…watching Clark grip his dick, pulling the skin back and rubbing his leaky tip up and down your folds…you can’t exactly stop him. His eyes half closed and locked onto where your hips meet when he fully bottoms out, seeing your body clench and pulse around him with his xray vision. Just seeing your internal muscles grip him makes him want to blow his load. You guys should really get condoms soon.
One night. It was just going to be one night. But that’s also what you guys said about going raw. It was Clark’s birthday, what else were you supposed to do. A day off from work, museum visits, nice dinner, cute blue lingerie. Letting him cum inside you was just the cherry on top. You almost came from how needy he already was. Holding your legs over his shoulders while he feverishly ate you out. His hands held onto your hips, pulling you impossibly closer to his face. Surprisingly, he put you in a collapsed doggystyle for tonight, his hands never getting enough of your ass and hips. He rambled into your spine as he bottomed out, licking and kissing your heated flesh. His pace almost knocks the wind out of you. His arms wrap around your waist, while he whines and pants against your neck. Even on his birthday, Clark would never be selfish. He makes sure you come around his cock, out of wanting to please you, but also because the feeling is otherworldly. After you come, catching your breath, you reach around and grip his ass, “don’t pull out” you mumble, your cheek pressed against the pillow. He makes you say it over and over, whimpering louder as he holds onto your thighs and ruts into you for his own pleasure,
“Oh gosh honey…oh honey, p-please say it again?”
“D-don’t pull out, baby,”
Whine, “oh you really mean it…? Oh gosh, you’re sure?”
“I’m serious, Clark. Don’t you dare pull out…wanna feel it all,”
He kisses and buries his face into your shoulder, letting out a string of noises most men his size would be embarrassed to make. His cock twitches incessantly, balls drawing up tight. He thrusts slowly, feeling himself slowly empty into your accepting cunt. You groan into the pillow at how hot it feels. It was already a surprise the first time Clark came on you, how warm it was compared to your already hot skin. He holds you tight, keeping you still as he bottoms out, catching his breath and making sure every last bit goes in. You guys really need to start buying condoms.
Obviously, after getting a taste for it, neither of you can resist. Somehow, Clark can go to the store to pick up Plan B, but never come back with a box of condoms. Not that either of you notice. You’re too busy with your ankles on his shoulder while you hold onto his waist. He buries his face into your collarbone, occasionally dropping his head to suck on your breasts. Watching himself fill you up is a borderline fetish for him. Whenever he cums, he’ll tilt his head down and just watch how your bodies react to each other. You pulsate and occasionally clench around him, keeping him nice and warm. His cock twitches, needing to be as deep as possible whenever his load starts to shoot. Watching your gummy walls happily absorb all his load, only a few drops ever leaking out. You try to be responsible, not having sex every night, but it’s growing increasingly difficult with Clark always rolling over in bed, kissing your neck and rubbing your sides. How could you deny such a needy face. Even during foreplay, Clark used to cum from handjobs or dry humping, knowing he’d just fill up a condom or cum all over your tummy. But now, it’s like he’s saving it all up for when he’s buried inside you. Neither of you should’ve been surprised when the test was positive. Apparently, you both missed the part on the box that said it won’t work if you’re ovulating. You both should be worried, stressing about finances, but instead, you both find yourself in the same place that landed you here. On the bed, ass up, gripping the sheets while Clark kissed down your back. Guess there’s really no need for condoms anymore.
౨ৎ 𝐇𝐈𝐌𝐁𝐎!𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐑 who is so, so vanilla he has no idea that missionary isn't the only position you can fuck a woman in—and you can throw out the dirty and degenerate kinks; he hasn't even heard of them. that is, until you, of course.
౨ৎ 𝐇𝐈𝐌𝐁𝐎!𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐑 who suffers the most embarrassing episode of premature ejaculation while fucking you in doggy. as inexperienced as he is, he isn't some three-pump chump—no, seriously, he isn't; he actually considers himself above average in that regard.
that's why it was so mortifying for him when he barely got three strokes in before he felt it. sharp, fast, nearly dizzying—and worst of all: completely uncontrollable.
your pussy walls just felt so good in the position, unbelievably tight and wet and warm. the swell of your hips molded perfectly inside his large palms, your ass flushed and soft when it met his pelvis—and when peter bottomed out inside you the final time, you made the most delicious, pornagraphic mewl of his name, as if he'd just hit a really sensitive spot inside you.
his throat felt so tight that he couldn't even warn you—the only tell for you was that his fingers suddenly tightened around your hips and his whole body jerked, before he pulled out only to slam himself back in with a string of garbled, shocked moans.
cum spurted from his tip so violently that he could feel it, and in his startlement peter couldn't even pull out like his brain screamed at him to do; and maybe he was a little selfish in the way he kept himself stuffed inside your warm, slick cunt, eyes rolling back each time your gummy walls fluttered in response to the twitches of his cock. it just felt so fucking good that he couldn't help it.
though he did apologize profusely after in his rather sobering post-nut clarity. you didn't mind, it was pretty hot anyway.
౨ৎ 𝐇𝐈𝐌𝐁𝐎!𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐑 who eats with lots of enthusiasm, but little technique; his tongue is thick and hot, but he tends to put it in the wrong places... namely, he's more concentrated on sliding it through your folds rather than focusing it on your clit.
you aren't too shy to guide him, though.
"mmm, pete, a little higher—ah! oh, fuck, that's it, right there. mhmm, keep going, swirl your tongue a little—that's so good."
smart, attentive boy he is, it doesn't take peter long to catch on. he's quick to find the right pressure and pace that makes your toes curl, keeping his tongue firm on your clit like you'd instructed. and gods, does he start to eat so fucking good.
so good that your hips start to move subconsciously, slopping up his lips and chin with the slick he's lapping out of you. you feel more than hear the moans he's producing, a testament of just how much it turns him on to taste you and please you, and the way he starts to rut desperately into your mattress doesn't go unnoticed either.
it pushes you to the edge much faster than you ever expected.
"oh, shit—hah, peeeete, keep going, 'm s'close!" you mewl, fingers threading through his sweat-dampened hair, holding him in place and drawing something akin to a whine from his throat. his eyes flutter closed and he refocuses his efforts, swiping at your clit until your hands fist and you spasm, hips twitching in time with the pulsing of your throbbing clit.
even though his jaw aches from making you cum, he begs to eat you out again and again and again.
a/n: chat do we wanna see more himbo!peter?... i wanna see more himbo!peter...
18+, MDNI!!! we all know peter parker is an awkward sweetheart but i definitely think he loves to top during sex. he loves taking care of his girlfriend, both from the threats of the world and in bed.
peter ate your pussy like it was the only thing he knew how to do. he holds you down with his strong hands, making you cum on his tongue over and over again until you were shaking and unable to speak.
whenever you got too fussy, reaching for his hair to pull him away, he restrains your wrists to the bed frames using his webs, only undoing them when you were completely fucked out.
you tried to top him whenever he was tired or injured in any way, but it always somehow ended with peter servicing you. you’d be on his lap, rolling your hips on his cock until he takes over, guiding you himself.
not only does he service you completely while you have sex, he spends even longer during aftercare. he ran you a bath when you were too exhausted to shower, getting in with you and washing you and your hair even while you fight sleep.
peter holds you close and kisses your forehead in bed, never letting you any more than an arms reach away. he clings to you like a puppy, looking at you with his wide brown eyes while asking if he did okay.
masterlist | peter masterlist
a/n: just a little thought i had while rewatching no way home! not proofread at all :p love u all
