This message was removed because it contained sexually explicit content that violated our Community Guidelines.
Next time, please avoid describing how you'd suck Superman's dick until he busted a nut so hard he’d be totally drained and have to throw himself into the sun just to recharge.
I need yall’s help 😭 I once read a fic where Clark and the reader go stay at the Kent farm for a while but they can’t have sex because his parents wouldn’t approve and they keep trying over and over again but something always goes wrong 😭😭
I've been looking for you for 4 days, 4 days of pure agony and despair, I hope to find you: Clark Kent trying to muffle his groans with the reader's panties but groaning even louder as he tastes them.
Summary: Where you’re a violent dog who bites Clark every now and then.
Warnings: Pure angst, childhood trauma, comparison, feelings of inadequacy. The reader’s mind is genuinely fucked up.
Clark’s kindness toward Krypto, even though he’s not exactly the easiest dog to deal with, made me think about the reader as a violent dog. not because she’s cruel, but because she’s been hurt too many times.
Remembering Clark saying, “Yeah, and he’s not even a very good one. But he’s out there alone… and probably scared.” before going after him? But this time, it’s you: irritable, frequently in a bad mood, pushing him away every now and then the way a wounded dog pulls away from an outstretched hand, never knowing whether what’s waiting is affection or something else. Not because you don’t love him. God, you love him so much it hurts. But Clark was raised differently from you. He was raised with kindness and love by decent people who taught him how to be human, more human than you, who were raised through fire and steel and only realized how different your childhood had been once you grew up and started being around other people. When you started spending time with Clark in particular, you resented and felt ashamed of what you were on the inside whenever you compared yourself to him. You couldn’t understand why someone like him was with you, how he could put up with that ugly, slithering, hissing little creature living inside you that sometimes scratched him with its venomous claws for no reason at all. Sometimes he was so loving and understanding that it frightened you because you didn’t know how to respond to that, or whether you even deserved it, so you hissed and pushed him away, making him deflate like a balloon and somehow, despite being 6’4”, look small. Then you’d panic, terrified that he’d eventually get tired of you, and honestly, he’d have every reason to. He didn’t deserve that. Even if you’d had a difficult past, no one deserved that. You knew it. Least of all Clark. Then you’d spiral, and the moment Clark noticed how uneven your heartbeat had become, he’d rush over to you. He wouldn’t say anything. He’d just rest your head against his broad chest beneath his chin and whisper kind things until you calmed down. Because Clark was better than you. Kinder. More patient. More human. And somehow, for some reason, he saw something good enough in you to stay.
I need yall’s help 😭 I once read a fic where Clark and the reader go stay at the Kent farm for a while but they can’t have sex because his parents wouldn’t approve and they keep trying over and over again but something always goes wrong 😭😭
summary: christmas comes late for you and clark and he is the gift that just keeps on giving and giving and giving.
tags: 18+ , smut, roommate!clark, established friendship, f!reader, clark is older than reader (non-specific,) reader doesn't know clark is superman, fluff, silly dialogue, typical clark corniness, okay smut tags now, cross-dressing, big dick!clark, big boobs!clark, nippleplay (m!receiving,) oral sex (m!receiving,) bottom!clark, sub!clark, top!reader, a lot of come, a lot of spit, and a facial.
a/n: thank you for all the patience on this one... and an even bigger thank you to 👙 anon who gave me this idea.
wc: 8k
my masterlist - my askbox
clark k: Just waiting for my bags and then I’ll be on my way home. See you soon?
You and Clark had both gone home for the holidays, leaving the apartment empty for a whole week. You came back sooner than Clark, not really wanting to spend any more time with extended family than you had to, and also because you could only manage to get one week of time off.
The “I love you” moment was difficult. You woke up the next morning fretting about it (typical) and Clark had to talk you down (also typical.) A lengthy and anxiety ridden conversation ensued, but you figured things out. No this isn’t a relationship, but no the two of you are not seeing other people. Yes you two are very eager for one another, but no there is never an expectation to fulfill the other person's desire. “I love you” is a reminder that each of you cares about one another, the way one loves a teddy or a blanket. It’s serious but also not serious.
But it is serious enough that you miss him.
At the least, it isn’t like he disappeared this time. Clark has his phone with him, and though it is spotty cell service on his parents farm, he makes sure to message you at least once a day. Previous to Clark you thought that “morning” texts were a bit corny, but waking up to them from him was different. He was up everyday at 5:00am, sending you pictures of the cows or the sunrise and wishing you a good day. On Christmas he messaged you a photo of him and his parents all in matching Christmas sweaters and it literally made you sick to your stomach from how cute it was. You love everything about that dork, his dimples, how his glasses raise up his face when his nose scrunches when he smiles, and how his eyes glimmer the way they do at you even through the lens of a camera. It’s nice that “I love you” isn’t such a big deal in your head anymore because you really do love so much of him. Now you can say that you love something about him and not think too hard about it. Like how you love that he’s helping you compartmentalize your anxieties instead of shoving them away until they explode.
Your phone buzzes with another message and you realize you’ve accidentally left him on read, not that he cares for that sort of thing anyway.
you: sorry omg!!! yes yes see you soon
clark k: Just got into the taxi and this guy is driving crazy… If I don’t get home within the hour you know why.
He thinks he’s so funny but the idea of him dying before you get to see him again fills you with dread. Annoyed dread.
you: not funny 👎
clark k: Sorry baby, just joking. Talk soon, love you.
It’s just so easy. The way he says it all the time and the way you always say it before bed or when he leaves the house. Things feel simple again, like how they did that first time you got down on your knees and randomly blew your roommate Clark just to see if you could fit all of that in your mouth. It’s been months now, and though you’re close, it is still a futile challenge. The ache of your jaw in the morning feels a lot better these days though when he can kiss where it hurts. Things have fallen into place. You aren’t getting tired of him and you aren’t thinking about him all the time but you do like knowing that he’s there when you get home in the evening. That’s why you miss him most, not because you need him there all the time but just because it’s what you want. And he wants you too.
At some point you should probably label this because the idea that he could technically go out and kiss another person drives you crazy, but you don’t feel the need to. The insecurities you once had feel minimal now.
Which is why you were brave enough to go out and buy him a gag gift for the holidays.
You were going to get him something anyways, but like a serious thing. A nice pen that he can use for journalist stuff, maybe a new phone charger since his is starting to look like a fire hazard, and you did buy those things! You did. But then you saw something in a store window and felt a smile spread across your face and a devil’s tail curl around your heart. The boxes are all wrapped up neatly for when he gets home but you’re waiting for tomorrow afternoon to exchange gifts. He’s going to be tired and he needs his rest for work. Besides, you aren’t turning down a tired Clark that just wants to pull you into him tenderly while his heavy arms surround you like the best weighted blanket in the world.
He needs to get the fuck home. You feel itchy all over right now which is not something you were feeling the last week without him. The anticipation of knowing that he’s on his way back to you right now is making you crazy. Your phone buzzes again, because Clark just can’t help himself from unintentionally torturing you, and you read the notification with loving despair.
clark k: Can we sleep in your room tonight?
That started happening just before you and Clark parted ways for the holidays. Clark doesn’t even fit on your bed, he has to curl up and it probably isn’t very comfortable, but he really likes it anyways. He likes wherever you are.
you: as long as you aren't too sore
He responds to your message with a thumbs up emoji and you literally have to shut your phone off. You don’t even know if he’s typing or not but you’re way too excited to even look. Before you give in to the urge to do something stupid like request his location so you can watch his little dot creep closer to yours on a digital map you shove your phone into the couch cushion.
You’ll do the dishes instead. Earlier today you cleaned up the rest of the apartment so Clark could rest as soon as he got in the door. His good naturedness won’t let him sleep unless the space around both of you is “set for tomorrow” as he says, so everything had to be tidy if you wanted any chance of him sitting down. The dishes are the last thing to do and they should take exactly as much time as it will for Clark to get home, right? He’s going to come home and you’ll just be putting the last dish in the rack and you’ll have successfully distracted yourself!
Unfortunately, gravely, wrong.
It seems the dishes take many minutes longer on days when your hands aren’t moving as fast as your heart rate. They’re done in about seven minutes, leaving you to pace and pace and pace. The kitchen tiles are cold even through your socks and the world around you feels so big and empty yet suffocating. You just need something to ground you, something big and warm and comforting. Like Clark. Clark, Clark, Clark, Clark. Thinking his name might summon him.
What the hell is your deal? It’s been a week, maybe just over a week if you’re counting by the hours, but you’re almost craving him. You squeeze your eyes shut and scrunch your face up as if to secrete this neediness from your being but it does nothing. Urgh.
jinglejingle–click,clickclick
Door. Door. Door. That’s the door. Clark– Clark outside. Go now. Clark. Clark at the door.
“Honey, I’m hooomeUFFH” Clark grunts as you practically throw yourself at him. His bags are behind his feet since he dramatically stepped into the apartment but he’s far too steady to stumble back into them, even with the force of your embrace.
“Jeez, hi! Hi, hi baby,” he laughs as you shove your face into his chest as deep as you can, fingers gripping into the navy hoodie he’s wearing. The fabric is cold but you can still feel the warmth underneath and you. want. in. Clark leans his head down and pushes his nose against the top of your head, pressing a humble amount of kisses there before eventually lifting you up into his arms. His foot kicks his bag through the door before he bumps it closed with his hip.
“Missed you,” you tell him as he carries you toward your bedroom, his unpacked bag ignored. ”Nobody vacuums at 7am like you do.”
Clark snorts as he gently places you down on the edge of the bed before yanking his hoodie up over his head. You let yourself appreciate his soft belly and the slight peek at his pecs before focusing on his face. His eyes are on you, as blue and sparkly as ever as he stares back down at you.
“I’ve been home for two minutes and you’re already perving on me,” he pouts while folding his arms.
You scoff but can’t bring yourself to fully immerse yourself in the role of defensive-yet-guilty-perv since it would include potentially taking your eyes off him and you just… can’t. Your heart rate has finally calmed down after who knows how long and you feel more relaxed the longer you stare at him.
His hair is a little messier than usual, curls flat on one side of his head from when he probably took a nap on his flight, bags under his eyes from how much he probably overworked himself for his parents sake, and his clothes are more rumpled than usual. Clark looks tired, but he looks just as perfect to you as he always does. You want him to rest, he deserves it after the week he’s had.
“... will you still lay down with me even if I am a little bit of a perv?” You ask him, pouting back even harder at him.
His chest puffs with breath and he pulls his gaze away for a moment, as if really contemplating. The line of his jaw sets as if he’s really frustrated at the idea of settling into the bed of his freaky little roommate but you know his mind was made up before he even left his parents house this morning.
—
“It’s actually cruel that they’re sending me to work,” Clark mumbles.
He’s fully in his work uniform, shoes on, pants pressed, briefcase in hand. If you shook him you’d hear the bus change in his pockets jingle.
“You could just call in sick,” you reply, your face once again smushed into his chest. Clark’s arms are wrapped around you like a boa constrictor who’s been starving for weeks. He is not looking to let go anytime soon.
“I’ve never been sick in my life,” he tells you, squeezing you tighter. “They wouldn’t believe that for a second.”
Ugh. Annoying.
“Will we do gifts once you get home?” You ask quietly. Clark nods and presses a kiss to your head.
“And a movie, baby. I promise.”
–
you: you’re LATE !!!!!
clark k: Traffic is nuts right now, sorry. Did you pick a movie?
you: so what’s her name… where’d you meet her?
clark k: Her name is traffic and I’m so deep in her right now.
you: shut up
you: we’re watching whatever garbage pops up in our recommended bar.
–
It’s easiest to exchange gifts back and forth since you each picked three things for one another. Clark opens the phone charger first, which he is exceptionally grateful for, and then you unwrap that new book you’ve been waiting for the library to get back for months. Then Clark opens the fancy new pen and you open up a new trinket dish.
Finally, Clark pushes a bigger looking box toward you. It doesn’t have wrapping paper on it, just a plain box with a lid. Gingerly, you open it and pull away the tissue paper covering the item.
Inside are mittens, knitted with a deep red yarn with a pink felt heart stitched into the palm, but this isn’t just a pair of mittens. Two of the mittens are separated, but the other two are conjoined, as if meant to be worn by a couple who wish to hold hands but not let the wind chill their fingers.
You’re speechless. A couples gift? You look up at him and he’s looking back at you nervously for once.
“Ma made them,” he admits softly. “Knitted them at the start of last year and just forgot to send them over. When Lois and I were still together.”
His Adam's apple bobs as he nervously swallows the saliva in his mouth.
“Ma didn’t think I’d want them anymore but I um… told her I had someone in mind.”
Your heart is doing flips in your chest. He told his mom about you? This gift has so many implications about what Clark has in his head for the two of you.
“Clark…” you say, your heart thumping still. Words feel too hard to form now but Clark seems to get it, knows that the way you express affection isn't always the way he does. His hand reaches out and he grabs yours as it pets over the soft knit stitches repeatedly.
“I didn't mention you directly,” he says. “She probably thinks I gave these to Jimmy and Eve. I'm not trying to make this weird.”
“No, no I'm not… Sorry. Words,” you say. He nods in response.
A few more seconds pass where you just kind of stare at these mittens. Nothing you two have ever done together has been public, save for the time Clark showed up at your work. Even then it was just your manager that saw him. But these mittens come with implications. Walking- in-the-park-together implications, probably with hot cocoa and some other classically romantic activity that Clark will pull you into. It’s just like him to get you something unintentionally anxiety inducing, but he’s never done you wrong before. So instead of starting to hyperventilate, like you want to, you just reach over and give him a hug.
“Thank you,” you mumble into his shoulder. His arms squeeze you for a moment before he pulls away, glasses askew from where your head bumped his frames.
“Of course. I thought of you as soon as Ma showed me.”
… This guy. All heart on his sleeve and feelings-y. Right before you give him your gift that is not nearly as feelings-y.
You gently put the mittens to the side and then lift up the last gift you have for Clark. Good god.
“Oooh,” Clark says as he picks it up. He looks away and to the ceiling as he shakes the box near his ear. “Hmm.. Probably bricks.”
You grin awkwardly. Not bricks, Clark. This whole thing seemed like a good idea when you were at the store. It was like a cutesy perverted moment between you and the store staff that didn’t give you a second look. They didn’t know who the gift was for. The cashier didn’t blink an eye when she wrapped it up in cream tissue paper. This was a joke between you and the flimsy cardboard box you wrapped the item up in at home.
He peels back the paper quickly and slides it off, letting it hit the floor near his socked feet. Your eyes are jittering around as you watch him lift the lid on the box, then as he pulls back the paper too.
His eyebrows go up right away, just a split second before his eyes widen as big as you’ve ever seen them and his ears go red.
“Oh,” he gulps, stammering a little. He picks up the bralette gingerly, the cream coloured mesh material light between his fingers. Clark’s eyes run over the floral pattern of the lace quickly and then he notices what’s underneath it.
“Are these,” he gulps, “for you?”
Is that why he’s blushing? He’s imagining you in this?
“I think they’re your size,” you say, the words barely scraping out of your throat. You’re not sure whether you’re going to laugh out of embarrassment or not and it’s hard to hold back.
He nods stiffly. His fingers drag over the soft mesh of the bra again. It’s an unlined set, totally sheer and made of a cream mesh and lace. The bralette has a triangular shape to the cups and has no underwire since you didn’t want it to press into him oddly. His tits aren’t shaped like yours are, they are pecs after all. You picked something flexible. Clark picks up the panty next. They match the bra perfectly, with a bow in the center of the waistband. It’s not a thong, you didn’t go that far, it’s more of a loose cheeky style.
It was a funny perverted moment in the store, but now that you’re looking at Clark as he looks at this gift he’s taking it oddly seriously. You were nervous he might take this as an insult to his masculinity. Just because he enjoys being penetrated doesn’t make him a woman, after all, but… he looks serious.
“Can I… try them on?” he asks shyly. He looks up at you through his glasses like he’s not asking but begging.
Oh. Oh he likes this.
“Yeah,” you blurt out immediately. This was like a stupid half-joke that’s taken a turn you didn’t really expect.
Clark stands up with both items in his hands and then hesitates. He looks at the undie and then sets it back in the box gently.
“Maybe I’ll just start with the uh… This one,” he lifts up the bra and you nod at it. He disappears into his room very briefly, not even shutting the door but still being out of your sight for the time being. There’s some shuffling of fabric, the sound of him tossing his shirt onto the floor, and then he reappears silently a moment later.
You turn to look at him as he stands in the doorway to his bedroom and wow!! Wow, wow, wow, boobs!!!
“Does it fit? I’ve never uh,” Clark is doing something kind of weird with his hands at his sides, not that you’re paying attention to that at all.
You picked perfectly. The bra fits his chest perfectly, gently cupping his pecs the way you wish you were right now. The lace looks pretty against his skin and the colour of the garment doesn’t wash him out either. It somehow doesn’t even look disproportionate with his more masculine build, or maybe it does and you’re just blind to everything when it comes to Clark because he’s always just so handsome.
“Yeah,” you breathe out heavily. “It’s not pinching anywhere, right?”
Clark shakes his head and then lifts his arms up to show that it isn’t pinching around the sides. His biceps flex in the process and press against the sides of his head.
“No,” he says, looking down at the bra. “No pinching. What about the back?” He asks before turning so you can see how it fits there. Nothing looks like it’s riding up or squeezing oddly but again you’re not really looking at the garment and more looking at how ripped his back is.
“Yep,” you affirm. “All good.”
What the fuck were you thinking giving him this? What did you think was going to happen? That you’d just giggle and move on? It’s already been well proven that Clark is willing to do anything you want, so of course when you give him a bra he’ll put it on. You could probably ask him to twirl in it and he would. Now, thanks to your clown-y foolishness, you’re both discovering things about yourselves.
Clark touches his chest, running his hands over the delicate fabric almost curiously as he looks down at his tits. “I like it a lot. Thank you,” he tells you bashfully. He sets his gaze on you just so you can see how genuine he is and god, god, thank god you don’t have a penis, thank god you can’t pop a boner. Thank god you only have to deal with the near unsettling stickiness in your underwear right now.
“Of course,” you reply easily, even though the words feel stickier than honey in your throat. “You look really good in it.”
The air is quiet, but not awkward. There’s a heavy new-ness to the air. This is obviously different, but it’s clearly welcome. Clark’s reaction kind of tells you that he may have even thought of this before, even just in passing curiosity, and it makes you feel less bad about the silliness of the gift.
“I think I’ll take it off and then we can watch our movie?” He asks, already reaching to pull the bra off like he would any old t-shirt.
Your arms are sticking out and you’re rushing toward him before he can yank the lace off his body.
“Wait, gentle!” You laugh, stopping his hands. “Come here. I don’t want you to poke a hole through the material,” you say as you guide him back into his room. Clark is a pretty strong guy and you know from experience how easily a fingernail can pierce into the delicate fabric of a bra.
He patiently follows you over to his bed and stifles a laugh as you step up onto his bed so you can help him pull the bra over his head.
“Sorry I’m taking it off already,” he says. “I’m kind of tired tonight. Had a weird day.”
It was a weird day, even for Metropolis. From what you saw online there was another massive weird creature somewhere in the city. Anytime this happens Clark usually comes back pretty tired since y’know, he’s known as the Superman journalist. Anything about that hero Clark is on scene and interviewing him. You never really talk much to him about his job though, but maybe you should? You do tell this guy you love him after all.
“Yeah I saw all that stuff on the news,” you mention as you pull the bra over his head with careful hands. Clark’s hands smack up onto his face and he holds his glasses in position. “Some big like… kaiju or something again. Did you catch Superman for another interview?”
You may as well have shot him.
“What?” Clark sputters. “Uh, yeah! Yeah no, of course I did. I mean that’s my thing.” His hand pushes his curls up and out of his face before he turns around. There’s a little frown tugging at his face and his eyebrows are slightly tensed.
“Sorry um. I just don’t really talk about work stuff, especially not about him. It’s kinda confidential. Journalist ethics and stuff.”
He won’t look at you. Weird. Maybe he’s just sensitive about his work.
“Oh,” you say a little flatly. You were just trying to get to know him better but maybe this is off limits. “That’s fine, I get it. He’s a pretty famous guy.”
Clark nods and then looks up at you more guiltily.
“Sorry,” he mumbles before leaning in and pressing a kiss to your arm. You’re still standing on his bed so you’re much taller than him for once. He kisses your arm again, right on the meat of your forearm. “Sorry baby. Let’s go watch our movie now, okay?”
He clearly feels bad and this night has been weird enough. You toss the bra into the hamper at the far side of his room and jump off his bed.
“Movie,” you agree solemnly before taking his hand and guiding him back out of his room, making sure he walks right past that shirt he took off earlier.
—
That night, as you lay in bed beside Clark, you feel like waking him up.
Somehow, despite how open he is about his feelings for you, it always feels like he’s hiding something. At first you worried that he still harbored feelings for Lois, but now you know that isn’t it. It doesn’t make sense to you. How can you feel like you know so much of Clark, his mannerisms, his likes and dislikes, and his heart, but still seem to be missing such a huge piece? And what is the piece?
Your hands scrub over your face. You know deep down he’s right, it’s unethical for him to talk about his work, especially when it comes to Superman. Clark is the only journalist in the history of Superman’s existence that’s actually been able to interview him. Surely they have some sort of secretive contract or… something. He just seemed so guilty for some reason when he was telling you why he couldn’t talk about it.
The ceiling is painted in soft blue light from the light pollution outside as you stare up at it. Clark is breathing heavy beside you, his hand resting on your abdomen as he sleeps. Are you ungrateful for wanting more? Is this not enough? What the both of you have is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced, this comfortable and intimately freaky friendship that feels untouchable. He’s so good to you, and always has been, but that just makes the secretiveness worse.
Briefly you think about when he disappeared and left nothing but a note. The image of his glasses left abandoned on the counter floats into your mind and it makes your stomach flip. He needs his glasses, he’s nearly blind without them. You’ve seen him from the side and those lenses are as thick as a pencil. Genuinely you can’t think about this too long because there’s too much weight in that small mistake.
You should really sleep, you have work tomorrow.
Your hand moves to rest on top of his, feeling the soft top of his hand with your palm as if just knowing he’s there will be enough right now. It won’t be, of course it won’t, so you feed yourself some convoluted story just so that maybe you won’t be a total zombie at work the next day.
Clark was probably with Superman and that’s why he didn’t wear his glasses. When he has to go see him he doesn’t bring his glasses because maybe Superman doesn’t want to be recognized as being around with a reporter… or something. Yeah. Yeah that’s it.
There’s still rocks stacked from your stomach to your throat as you close your eyes, but you just have to live with that tightness for now. Clark would never hide anything awful from you, right?
—
You wake up late the next morning, somehow having snoozed all five alarms that you set for yourself last night. When you leave your room in a rush you're still tugging your work shirt over your head, arms stuck in the holes while your head pushes against the neckline. Clark mumbles a sleepy good morning to you from where he's curled over the coffee machine. His favorite cinnamon roll flavored coffee creamer is to his right on the counter, which you bought earlier this week before you got home. You're sure he'll thank you later in one of his many ways…
That's to think about later at work though, when it's slow. Right now you need to dig through your laundry, which is sitting folded up in a basket on the living room floor, and find some matching socks.
“Sorry, I didn't know what time you worked,” Clark calls apologetically. You shake your head and make a grunt that's supposed to reassure him while you pluck two socks that might be a pair from the basket. After successfully pulling them onto your feet you head to the door. The coffee machine makes a clunking noise and you sigh.
“Clark,” you groan, coming toward him. He's so smart in so many ways but his lovely God given largeness is such an issue sometimes. The buttons on the coffee machine always give him trouble.
Just as you step beside him though, you notice something. Usually when he's bent over the coffee machine you can faintly make out the outline of the tank tops he wears beneath his white dress shirts, but today the strap seems thinner. Your lips pull into a slight frown as you step behind him to look at his back and Clark goes deathly still. The straps are thinner, pressing against his shirt in a way that they don't usually. You follow the outline of one while the new angle allows the sun to shine onto his broad back just right, enough to expose the imprint of the silver buckle that's pressing against his shirt. There's no way, right?
Your eyes frantically trace the outline lower, discovering how his flesh is pillowing around the bust. It draws your eyes to the center of his back and fuck, fuck, he's wearing it. You can see the clasps of the bra connected at the center of his back.
“Are you wearing the bra?” You ask. The tips of his ears are turning red when you look up at the back of his head like it'll give you an answer. He's still completely still.
“I just wanted to try it,” he admits. “I liked it yesterday.”
He sounds so embarrassed but that is definitely not the way he should be feeling right now. Not when you just felt your pulse behind your ears kick up to a level of anxiety that certainly wasn't induced by being late for work. With a careful hand you brush your thumb over the right strap, over his shirt. You really like this too. You liked it yesterday for sure, but that was in the safety of his room. This is different, this is Clark at work wearing the lingerie your perverted ass bought him. He's probably going to feel that fabric on his tits all day, his nipples pressing into that sheer fabric while he tries to keep his focus.
“Is that weird?” He asks when you don’t say anything. You flub out a response to reassure him and he just kind of nods.
Clark turns to face you and you focus on his chest right away. The bra isn’t totally visible through his shirt, just a faint outline that will likely be covered by his blazer and tie once he pulls them on.
This isn’t really how you anticipated him to use the gift. You thought it’d be a bedroom exclusive item, tucked away with his various toys and… other amenities. But no, instead he’s right there, wearing his bra under his work uniform.
“... I couldn’t wear the uh, bottoms,” he says, looking down at you with an almost apologetic expression.
Yeah no shit he couldn’t wear those under his normal clothes. It’d be the fire alarm inspection incident all over again. Everything would be out.
“That’s… that’s fine. Later did you want to try?” You ask, mouth still kind of dry out of your shock.
“Yeah,” he nods. “You’re off at six, right?”
—
Six doesn’t come fast enough for you.
Your bus actually gets stuck in traffic on the way home and instead of just waiting to get off on the same block as your building you get off a few stops back and literally book it home. The pavement skids under your steps as you barrel toward your building at full speed, knowing exactly what’s waiting for you.
Clark, probably showered, probably waiting right there on the couch for you in his little set that clearly makes him feel some kind of way.
The elevator takes too long. Finding your keys takes too long. Opening the door takes too long.
And then the door is open and you’re kicking your shoes off, dumping your bag on the floor and ignoring the thunk your water bottle makes as it hits the ground. You round the corner quickly and see him, there, perfect.
You were right, he did shower. Clark’s skin looks almost porcelain as he lays there in the glow of the lamp beside the couch. The bathroom door has been left ajar and you can smell his soap from where you stand, staring like an animal ready to tear into his flesh (you are.) He’s a little slumped, relaxed but eager in the way his eyes trace your face as you trace his body down, down, down.
He’s wearing the panties. It’s not an unusual sight the way you maybe feared it would be, but you definitely made the right choice when you picked ones without elastic around the leg. It would have contained him too much. This way, with the fluttering mesh, his cock lays against his leg, sticking out the side impatiently as if to tease you. The head looks just slightly wet, like maybe he had been leaking but shyly wiped it away. Somehow you manage to drag your eyes back up to his. His adams apple bobs as he swallows.
“Hi,” he offers nervously.
Words are pretty worthless. You can’t describe what you want to do to him and with the way he’s laid out he clearly wants it. You’ll skip the pleasantries.
Your feet stride across the apartment, into the living room, with hungry ease. It’s a familiar position, here between his knees, but you aren’t sitting back on your heels right now. Instead you keep yourself up, high enough to push him so he hits the backrest after he attempts to sit up.
“Oh,” he says as your hands drag down and cup his tits, squeezing them through the lace he’s wearing. And then he says it again as you lean to the right and lap at his nipple through the fabric. It’s “oh, oh, oh,” again and again as you massage his chest with your hands and mouth, licking at his sensitive nipples through the fabric. He’s poking through the fabric fiercely now, enough that you can graze his nips with your teeth as you tease them. When you look up at him you see his face all pinched up the way you like it, trying to stifle his noises because he just can’t help but make them. You pull everything out of him, he gives you whatever you want.
“Good boy,” you practically moan into his chest, your tongue sloppily lapping across his left tit now. The fabric is soaked to his chest and mostly see through now. Your praise yanks a whine out of his chest, sudden and short with surprise, and you feel him buck his hips up.
You do want to suck his dick, but you’re still not really finished with his tits. The stimulation is clearly doing something to him if you’re going off the way his dick has grown to be more against his leg than in the panties. Hastily, you reach down and squeeze the base of him through the fabric.
“Golly,” his voice cracks and you smile. You start to place kisses down his chest and across his belly, the muscle firm but still cushy the way you like. With your hands you guide his up to his chest, making him cup his own tits.
“Touch them,” you urge, pressing your lips across his hipbones. He nods a little shakily, listening without any protest as he begins to pinch at his own nipples through the bra. It’s a little surprising that he hasn’t asked to at least touch under, but he does seem fairly submissive tonight.
Now that he’s occupying his chest, god forbid it’s forgotten, you can focus on the main event.
Your hand grasps at Clark’s dick right at the base, where the fabric of the panties still covers it, jerking the material gently over the skin there. You don’t want to irritate him at all, but you want him to know what he’s wearing, even when his eyes are closed and his head is leaned all the way back. After repeating this motion a few times, you lean down to where the head of his cock is and pick it up between your lips, swirling your tongue over the tip before taking it into your mouth gently. Your eyes slide shut and you start to focus on working him in your mouth, thinking about how hot your mouth needs to be, how wet it needs to be so it slides against him easily. Tonight isn’t about getting him all the way down your throat, not like all the times before. Tonight you want to crack him open and make sure he knows that he’s yours to have, every fucking bit.
“Baby,” Clark chokes out, his fingers plucking at his nipples through the fabric. Your mouth is heavenly on him, your tongue swathing over his tip again and again while your hand works over the fabric of the panty. He feels pathetic, splayed out in the living room in lingerie as you worship his cock. Every sensation is rolling through him like a wave of static, numbing his brain and his tongue until he can’t do anything but touch himself and feel you on him. His brain isn’t together enough to keep from making noises as you suck down more of him, your lips meeting the hem of his panty. Clark gasps your name and his fingers twitch against his tits, aching for the familiar feeling of your head under his palm, but he resists.
“I want,” he starts and then loses his thought as you start to push your nose beneath the fabric. This is about as far as you’re going tonight, not wanting your throat and jaw to ache tomorrow morning, but it’s really all you need. Your fist keeps working him as drool slips out the corners of your mouth, slicking the hair at his inner thighs and shining the skin. You look up at him through glossy eyes but you can’t see his face. All you get is the sight of him desperately rubbing at his tits, almost like he wants the bra off but isn’t willing to just reach under. His chest is heaving, a light sweat glistening on his skin.
Again, you steel yourself and focus harder. This doesn’t need to be a drawn out event, not this time. Now that you know he likes this you’re going to be buying plenty of lingerie for him, whatever he wants. Cute sets, sexy sets, who fucking cares. You want to see him all whiny and pathetic under you as you fuck him, pinching and rolling his nipples like he is right now. He always acts like such a good person, he’s always doing everything for everyone else and that’s why it feels good when he begs you for more, for bigger, for harder.
You double your efforts, focusing on creating a suction within your mouth so that your throat tightens around what it’s managing to hold. Clark lets out a girlish moan and his thighs start to tremble, pressing closer around you. He’s getting close now and you know it. His toes curl into the carpet beside you slightly and his breathing almost sounds close to hyperventilating, though you know it isn’t. He’s always expressive, but tonight it seems like so much more. You keep up your rhythm but open your eyes a little more, only to catch him looking down at you. He has his nipples pressed between his forefingers and thumbs much tighter than you expected and you can see how fucked out he looks. His eyes are barely focused on you as he watches you try your best to milk his cock into your mouth, lips dry from how much he’s been breathing and babbling.
A noise, maybe a word or a plea, attempts to escape his lips and it makes you feel evil. He might have his secret, sure, but only you can make him fall apart like this. Only you have this sort of power over him.
So, just as you see his eyes cross and lose total focus, just as his chest hitches, you drop him out of your mouth. The expected result happens for just a moment, your hand gripped firmly around his base and squeezing as he looks at you with betrayal in his eyes. Then his brows pinch and he almost looks confused as he starts to come.
Clark always comes a lot, no matter what, but your attempt at ruining his orgasm only made it more intense. His cock is spilling everywhere, shooting across the bridge of your nose, onto the apples of your cheeks and on your chin, but also spilling down the length of itself, dripping onto the delicate fabric that was supposed to cover him.
“Oh my gosh,” he pants, hips bucking into your fist weakly as his chest shudders with breath. “Baby, baby– mh– sorry, sorry.”
‘There’s nothing to be sorry for,’ is what you should say, but instead you’re squinting one eye shut so you don’t get come directly in your eye. In your half-vision of him you can tell that this is a full body experience for him, his legs lifting his body fully off the couch for a second before dropping down as a second wave hits, this time weaker. You loosen your grip as his cock throbs against your palm, but don’t let go yet. He pulses out a little more release, maybe three more weak drips, and then finally, it’s over.
You haven’t said anything this whole time and Clark has been the only one speaking, but now it’s time to switch. Without a word you’re wiping off your hand on a towel that was very conveniently placed on the couch beside Clark, probably done by him before you got home, and then climbing onto the couch beside him. You’ll clean him up in a second, but this is the most intense orgasm you’ve ever seen him have and he probably needs a minute.
“Hey,” you coo, pulling his head against your chest. His curls are soft against your chin as you rest your head on his. You rub your thumb over his cheek while he catches his breath, his whole body still shaking.
“Did so good,” you promise him quietly, “so messy. And you look so cute, huh? You like wearing this?”
Clark blubbers a response but can’t find words still, his tongue tied in pleasure. The jerky nod of his head speaks for him well enough.
“Love you,” he manages after a series of shaky breaths. And you say it right back.
—
Three days later and you’re both still recovering from that night.
Clark hasn’t really been able to go again since, either too sensitive or too busy. Some story he just picked up about LuthorCorp’s upcoming plans for Metropolis, so he’s been out and about.
You’re still recovering because you can’t stop thinking about it, not that that’s unusual, for you to be thinking of him so much. The image of him helplessly coming all over himself and you is just too much to really digest. It might take you a month.
But that doesn’t mean you aren’t willing to plan for when that time comes.
Currently, you’re being a snoop. Clark is someone who’s very picky about chores and who does what. For the most part he does everything he can, but what he is absolutely immovable on is who does his laundry. You don’t really know why, maybe he’s scared that his laundry is gross or something, but you’re being super-duper bad right now. You’re digging through his laundry bin.
Back in your own bedroom sits your laptop, open to some luxurious lingerie site. You found a set that you think might fit his proportions, made of material with more give and no tricky loops or clips that might snap when you tug them over his broadness. However, you can’t remember what size the last set you got him was, hence you are here breaking Clark’s number one rule.
You roll your eyes as you dump the bin out on the floor finally, not willing to sacrifice your back just to find some flimsy little bralette. The fabric falls out in one big lump, like a sandcastle made of cotton undershirts and grey dress pants. You roll your eyes when you crack into the laundry-castle and the first thing you find is a t-shirt from his college days. He wears it to sleep sometimes and it shows in all the holes and frayed edges on it. With a swish you flick it up onto his bed. He’ll probably want it later when he comes home anyways.
Finally you see the cream coloured strap sticking out from between some material and you pull at it. You’re not in a total rush, but Clark is going to be home at some point and you don’t really want to upset him by doing this. So maybe you tug a little rougher than you should.
A puff of clothes explodes on the floor in an array of colours, making you laugh huffily. It’s more of a mess than you wanted now, but the bra is yours to inspect. The tag is still attached to the back of it, the size printed in black on the pink silk tag, proudly displaying an “xl” in pretty cursive letters. Triumphantly, you grab the laundry bin and start shoving his clothes back into it. The bra goes first, then you grab fistfuls of t-shirts and boxer briefs.
Or you think you do.
As you grab your second handful of clothes your fingers meet a material you aren’t familiar with. It’s tucked between some shirts and so you shake the material free.
Instantly you have questions.
Why the hell does Clark own bright red underwear? Like holiday ornament red. You hold them up, grinning like an idiot as you think of all the ways you can tease him about this. How had you never seen this pair? You take Clark’s pants off more than often enough to have seen his whole underwear drawer, haven’t you?
You tilt your head and then shift your body. Surely these are ones you’ve seen. The light hits them differently now you squint like you’re trying to match someone's face to a name in your head. Nope, nothing. You un-squint your eyes and shake the pair of underwear a little, forcing the light to catch… belt loops.
This is fucking crazy. Did he buy these thinking they were something similar to what you got him? And then get home and realize that the firetruck-red’s weren’t really the same vibe as before? He’s such a dork sometimes, seriously. The only person you’ve ever seen wear red briefs is Superman. Unless Clark is fucking Superman then this is possibly the stupidest thing he owns.
You smile to yourself. Hah. Clark is fucking Superman. Imagine that; two huge, gorgeous, brunettes with pretty blue eyes and big arms and kind hearts just.. going… at it..?
A fold forms between your brows and your dopey teasing smile fades into a frown of realization. Things start clicking into place before you want them to. Clark’s protectiveness over his work with Superman, his panic when you mentioned him, that time he disappeared for days without his glasses and without any contact… Clark isn’t fucking Superman. Clark is Superman.
Breath fills your chest in an uncomfortable inhale. You aren’t supposed to be in his laundry, you aren’t supposed to know this. You were likely never supposed to figure this out, but now you have and it suddenly feels like you’re in a lot of trouble. The briefs fall from your hands and you stare at the wall, frozen in realization.
You’re fucking Superman. And as if the world isn’t cruel enough, you hear the apartment door swing open and the jingle of Clark’s keys.
“Baby? You home?” he calls.
-<3-
thank you for reading ! please leave your thoughts in the replies or tags of your reblog, or leave them anonymously in my askbox !! want notifs? follow @coquettepascal-updates with notifs on so you know when i post fics!
I was at the beach when I saw that my favorite fanfic had been updated, so there I was, under the last rays of sunlight, with the ocean breeze and the sand between my feet, reading about Clark wearing sheer lingerie for the first time. I just wanted to say that it was genuinely one of the most beautiful moments of my life.
Summary: Clark Kent is late for a date once again because he's saving the world, and you end up getting hurt while waiting for him.
Warnings: Reader is seriously injured, reader has dark thoughts, blood, anguish, English is not my first language, Clark is not a bad boyfriend, just a little absent.
Okay, now imagine you have a date with Clark Kent. The plan was for him to pick you up so you could go to the movies together, but something came up and you both decided he’d just meet you there. It’s no surprise that Clark is, once again, late. You hug yourself tightly to shield from a sudden cold breeze and check your phone for the fifth time to see if he’s read your messages.
Part of you is frustrated and upset about him leaving you waiting, but that part is immediately drowned out by another that whispers he’s probably saving someone’s life, or thousands of lives, at this very moment. It was common to feel a certain guilt for wishing your boyfriend was with you instead of saving the world. You used to bury that rotten, jealous side of yourself so deep inside your own mind that sometimes even you couldn’t reach it, because there was a cold, paralyzing fear that your boyfriend might somehow know about that dark part of you and realize how selfish you truly were.
So you took a deep breath, like all the other times, and held on to the image of how he would smile shyly and cover you with kisses to apologize for being late, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose in a silly way. With your eyes closed, indulging in the memory of your boyfriend inside your head, you didn’t notice the man who appeared in the shadowy alley nearby. You also didn’t notice the insane, fixated look in his eyes as he approached, or the malicious smile when he realized you were practically alone on that almost deserted street.
Later, you would realize it would have been better to cancel the date and stay home, or simply wait inside the building. But there, lying on the ground with a pool of warm blood spreading around you while a theater employee called for emergency services, you wondered if you’d ever again see your boyfriend’s beautiful smile or get the chance to fix those weird glasses that were always slipping down his nose. Maybe he would arrive in time to save you, the same way he saved so many others. Maybe then he’d spend more time with you, maybe then he’d feel guilty for not being there—that little shadowy part of you thought.
You felt the ghost of a smile forming, but the laugh was cut short by a gurgling cough of your own blood. It was funny that not even for a moment did you wonder why that man had stabbed you; you were just a pathetic, miserable little thing wondering if your boyfriend might finally have more time for you now.
When the blood loss was too much, you felt yourself slipping into unconsciousness. In your dreams, you were watching that damned movie with your perfectly ordinary boyfriend, your head resting on his strong shoulder. In your dreams, your boyfriend didn’t have to choose between you and the world. In that moment, you allowed yourself to be selfish and imagine what it would be like if Clark Kent belonged only to you.
A few minutes later, Clark Kent was running down that same street, his glasses sliding down his nose and his clothes disheveled. He didn’t notice the small, nervous crowd gathered in front of the theater, talking frantically. He looked once more at his phone, at the message that read “I’m waiting for you, love.” That’s why he didn’t see the pool of blood until he got close enough to smell the iron.
With his heart pounding, he looked around, searching for you. He even ran inside the building to see if you were there. The blood in his veins rushed so fast he could barely hear the voices around him. He had to focus and take a few deep breaths before he could finally make them out. Then he heard something that made his whole body freeze and his stomach twist: “Poor thing… she was waiting for her boyfriend who was late. It’s such a tragedy, something like this happening to someone so young…”
Sorry for disappearing after that. I was kinda wandering through the valley of the shadow of death, stuck between a today that wouldn’t end and a tomorrow that refused to arrive, while the devil himself was chasing me around butt naked. But things are better now, and I’m trying to write a continuation for this.
Summary: Clark Kent is late for a date once again because he's saving the world, and you end up getting hurt while waiting for him.
Warnings: Reader is seriously injured, reader has dark thoughts, blood, anguish, English is not my first language, Clark is not a bad boyfriend, just a little absent.
Okay, now imagine you have a date with Clark Kent. The plan was for him to pick you up so you could go to the movies together, but something came up and you both decided he’d just meet you there. It’s no surprise that Clark is, once again, late. You hug yourself tightly to shield from a sudden cold breeze and check your phone for the fifth time to see if he’s read your messages.
Part of you is frustrated and upset about him leaving you waiting, but that part is immediately drowned out by another that whispers he’s probably saving someone’s life, or thousands of lives, at this very moment. It was common to feel a certain guilt for wishing your boyfriend was with you instead of saving the world. You used to bury that rotten, jealous side of yourself so deep inside your own mind that sometimes even you couldn’t reach it, because there was a cold, paralyzing fear that your boyfriend might somehow know about that dark part of you and realize how selfish you truly were.
So you took a deep breath, like all the other times, and held on to the image of how he would smile shyly and cover you with kisses to apologize for being late, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose in a silly way. With your eyes closed, indulging in the memory of your boyfriend inside your head, you didn’t notice the man who appeared in the shadowy alley nearby. You also didn’t notice the insane, fixated look in his eyes as he approached, or the malicious smile when he realized you were practically alone on that almost deserted street.
Later, you would realize it would have been better to cancel the date and stay home, or simply wait inside the building. But there, lying on the ground with a pool of warm blood spreading around you while a theater employee called for emergency services, you wondered if you’d ever again see your boyfriend’s beautiful smile or get the chance to fix those weird glasses that were always slipping down his nose. Maybe he would arrive in time to save you, the same way he saved so many others. Maybe then he’d spend more time with you, maybe then he’d feel guilty for not being there—that little shadowy part of you thought.
You felt the ghost of a smile forming, but the laugh was cut short by a gurgling cough of your own blood. It was funny that not even for a moment did you wonder why that man had stabbed you; you were just a pathetic, miserable little thing wondering if your boyfriend might finally have more time for you now.
When the blood loss was too much, you felt yourself slipping into unconsciousness. In your dreams, you were watching that damned movie with your perfectly ordinary boyfriend, your head resting on his strong shoulder. In your dreams, your boyfriend didn’t have to choose between you and the world. In that moment, you allowed yourself to be selfish and imagine what it would be like if Clark Kent belonged only to you.
A few minutes later, Clark Kent was running down that same street, his glasses sliding down his nose and his clothes disheveled. He didn’t notice the small, nervous crowd gathered in front of the theater, talking frantically. He looked once more at his phone, at the message that read “I’m waiting for you, love.” That’s why he didn’t see the pool of blood until he got close enough to smell the iron.
With his heart pounding, he looked around, searching for you. He even ran inside the building to see if you were there. The blood in his veins rushed so fast he could barely hear the voices around him. He had to focus and take a few deep breaths before he could finally make them out. Then he heard something that made his whole body freeze and his stomach twist: “Poor thing… she was waiting for her boyfriend who was late. It’s such a tragedy, something like this happening to someone so young…”
i really had no idea that "im waiting for you" would get this big. I didn't even plan on a part two, but you guys loved it so much and are even asking for more ❤️ Im so incredibly grateful for all the support. Unfortunately, Im studying for my college exams this week and cant really be active here for more than five minutes without a new task popping up and stopping me from giving you the proper attention to write or interact. But I promise that as soon as Im not drowning in all my obligations, I'll write a part two. Love you guys ❤️
Summary: Clark Kent is late for a date once again because he's saving the world, and you end up getting hurt while waiting for him.
Warnings: Reader is seriously injured, reader has dark thoughts, blood, anguish, English is not my first language, Clark is not a bad boyfriend, just a little absent.
Okay, now imagine you have a date with Clark Kent. The plan was for him to pick you up so you could go to the movies together, but something came up and you both decided he’d just meet you there. It’s no surprise that Clark is, once again, late. You hug yourself tightly to shield from a sudden cold breeze and check your phone for the fifth time to see if he’s read your messages.
Part of you is frustrated and upset about him leaving you waiting, but that part is immediately drowned out by another that whispers he’s probably saving someone’s life, or thousands of lives, at this very moment. It was common to feel a certain guilt for wishing your boyfriend was with you instead of saving the world. You used to bury that rotten, jealous side of yourself so deep inside your own mind that sometimes even you couldn’t reach it, because there was a cold, paralyzing fear that your boyfriend might somehow know about that dark part of you and realize how selfish you truly were.
So you took a deep breath, like all the other times, and held on to the image of how he would smile shyly and cover you with kisses to apologize for being late, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose in a silly way. With your eyes closed, indulging in the memory of your boyfriend inside your head, you didn’t notice the man who appeared in the shadowy alley nearby. You also didn’t notice the insane, fixated look in his eyes as he approached, or the malicious smile when he realized you were practically alone on that almost deserted street.
Later, you would realize it would have been better to cancel the date and stay home, or simply wait inside the building. But there, lying on the ground with a pool of warm blood spreading around you while a theater employee called for emergency services, you wondered if you’d ever again see your boyfriend’s beautiful smile or get the chance to fix those weird glasses that were always slipping down his nose. Maybe he would arrive in time to save you, the same way he saved so many others. Maybe then he’d spend more time with you, maybe then he’d feel guilty for not being there—that little shadowy part of you thought.
You felt the ghost of a smile forming, but the laugh was cut short by a gurgling cough of your own blood. It was funny that not even for a moment did you wonder why that man had stabbed you; you were just a pathetic, miserable little thing wondering if your boyfriend might finally have more time for you now.
When the blood loss was too much, you felt yourself slipping into unconsciousness. In your dreams, you were watching that damned movie with your perfectly ordinary boyfriend, your head resting on his strong shoulder. In your dreams, your boyfriend didn’t have to choose between you and the world. In that moment, you allowed yourself to be selfish and imagine what it would be like if Clark Kent belonged only to you.
A few minutes later, Clark Kent was running down that same street, his glasses sliding down his nose and his clothes disheveled. He didn’t notice the small, nervous crowd gathered in front of the theater, talking frantically. He looked once more at his phone, at the message that read “I’m waiting for you, love.” That’s why he didn’t see the pool of blood until he got close enough to smell the iron.
With his heart pounding, he looked around, searching for you. He even ran inside the building to see if you were there. The blood in his veins rushed so fast he could barely hear the voices around him. He had to focus and take a few deep breaths before he could finally make them out. Then he heard something that made his whole body freeze and his stomach twist: “Poor thing… she was waiting for her boyfriend who was late. It’s such a tragedy, something like this happening to someone so young…”
I can’t stand people sexualizing Clark Kent anymore, he’s so sweet and gentle and they only know how to sexualize him like that’s the only thing that exists about him 🥺 I want to hide his dick and tits in my mouth so no one talks about them anymore 🥺
I desperately need help from the Clark Kent/David Corenswet girls. A few weeks ago I read a fanfic where the reader has Superman’s baby, and ever since the birth they can’t have sex because every time the reader’s heart speeds up, the baby gets upset and starts crying. I just can’t remember the name of this fic 😭 does anyone know it?
In Brazil, during Carnival, there’s a pretty good chance that if you lock eyes with someone, they’ll try to kiss you. Sometimes, if there’s chemistry, people end up “dating” for the whole week—going to street parties together, spending every day side by side, just enjoying it all to the fullest. It’s what people here call a “Carnival romance.” Then, when the party ends, it’s over, and everyone goes back to their own lives and cities.
Honestly, it feels like the kind of place where Soap would be in his natural element. Imagine him running into you on the street and it just happens—the two of you diving into the wildness of Carnival, partying and hooking up like there’s no tomorrow. Until his break ends and he has to go back to the Task Force… but he just can’t shake those days with you, running free through the streets.
Okay, I need all the Price girls to back me up on this one. I read a fic once where the reader and Price are on a mission and have to pretend they’re hooking up because the building is getting raided—PLEASE I NEED THIS TO BREATHE AGAIN.
A continuation to 🎁 Day 1 – All I want for Christmas (is you), which means it’s set in the same universe!
Synopsis: Happily married for several months now, you and John spend your first Christmas as newlyweds in Glasgow with his family.
Pairing: John Soap MacTavish x fem!Reader
Warnings/Info: NSFW, 18+ | military!Reader; domesticity; married life/established relationship; humour; fluff; cussing; male masturbation; oral sex; hurt/comfort; angst with a happy ending (Yay!)
Word count: 3.6k
↳ back to 🎅🏼 Masterlist ☃️
You shiver despite your warm layers of clothing and stifle another yawn as you wait for the front door to the MacTavish's home to open. The large house is adorned with bright lights and decorations, even in the front yard, and a traditional Christmas wreath has been hung up at the old, heavy door.
The noise inside is muffled, but you can already hear the music, chatter and overall chaos.
Next to you, your husband glances over, a crease of concern between his dark brows as soon as he notices the dark circles under your eyes and the way your shoulders slouch with fatigue.
"Ye alright, luv? Ye're no’ gettin' sick on me, eh?" He reaches over to rub your back over your thick winter coat, trying to shield you from the freezing gusts of snow-speckled wind.
"Nah, 'm fine," you reply, yawning this time and smacking your lips before smiling over at him, "Just tired again."
John nods, curling his muscular arm around your waist to pull you closer into his side, leaning in to kiss your temple – and discreetly check if you might have a fever as his lips linger.
"Aye, hen, t’was a long drive here." He remarks, muttering against your skin before pulling back with an exasperated sigh as he lifts his fist to knock once more.
It’s your first Christmas as a married couple and while the both of you intitially wanted to spend it alone together, his family kept nagging and begging him to come back to Glasgow to celebrate the holidays properly with the whole MacTavish clan, like in the old days. Cue your own family giving you hell for choosing your husband’s side of the family over them.
Needless to say, the past couple of weeks have been rather stressful, with your responsibilities serving in the military and being part of the 141 breathing down your neck, too, along with John’s own reintroduction into his military service, which caused you two to have less time for each other than you both expected.
“I’ll give ye a massage later,” John says, his voice dropping to a promising murmur, “How does that sound?” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, making you huff a laugh as you lean in to hug him back and rest your cheek against his chest, limbs feeling heavy already.
“Doesn’t sound too bad.” You glance up at him, admiring his handsome face with a soft smile, and your heart gives a sudden flutter like it did when you first started fooling around in secret, back when you first joined the task force after him.
The door cracks open eventually, and a wave of warmth embraces you immediately, making you shudder as you cling to John. His mother pokes her head out and her bright blue eyes immediately light up.
“Well, if it isn’t my handsome son and his bonnie bride.” She smiles warmly, eyes crinkling in the corners as she pulls her only son into a hug, “We’ve been wonderin’ where ye are!”
“Hello, ma.” John mutters while his mother, always the overly affectionate one, cuddles him tightly and ruffles his short dark hair; the hair he’s been growing out and grooming differently since getting rid of his Mohawk and trying to hide the gnarly scar on the side of his head.
Then, you’re attacked next, but as you go in to reciprocate her welcoming hug, she keeps you at arm's length instead, her hands planted on your shoulders as she looks at you, eyes narrowing slightly.
Meanwhile, your gaze flickers in confusion between John’s and hers while she keeps scrutinizing you, grasping your chin and tilting your face as she hums to herself.
“Uhm, Rosemary... Good–Good to see you again,” you try tentatively, offering an awkward smile as your arms drop and hang loosely at your sides.
John takes your hand, chuckling nervously, “Ma, dinnae be weird now.”
“Och, dinnae be silly, John! Let yer mum check on her bonnie daughter-in-law.” Rosemary pulls back, her blue eyes sparkling strangely as she flashes a beaming smile before waving her son off dismissively and stepping to the side to usher you both inside.
When John picks up your luggage again, he doesn’t let go of your hand.
The atmosphere inside the big, old house is welcoming and warm, loud and chaotic, as usual. All of John’s four sisters are present with their partners and children, and even some uncles and aunts have been invited with their spouses.
At some point after the sumptuous dinner, when wine, scotch and eggnog flow steadily, and the language barrier between you and your in-law family becomes more apparent again once they all keep slipping into Gaelic, you swiftly find a corner in the living room where you’re able to take a much-needed breather while John is busy entertaining his young nieces and nephews.
Taking a few slow and deep breaths, you try to get rid of the queasy feeling in your stomach that caught you off guard since sitting down at the long dinner table earlier.
Perhaps you are overworked and definitely overwhelmed, unable to relax and unwind after the past couple of months of round-the-clock action; whether it was helping John with his ongoing rehabilitation, the wedding, the following honeymoon, or the countless deployments and field trainings, all while trying to adjust to married life.
You’re happier than you’ve ever been in your life, there is no doubt about that, but it’s been... tough. Even you must admit that to yourself; you’re exhausted.
As you glance down into your half-empty wine glass, you swivel the ruby liquid inside a bit while you feel your mouth suddenly fill with saliva at the lingering sour taste on your tongue. It’s an odd reaction and you swallow thickly, wrinkling your nose before setting the glass on the small side table next to the armchair you’re lounging in.
Suddenly, John appears from the crowd, crouching down in front of the armchair. His stubbly cheeks flushed a pinkish hue from the alcohol, his cerulean eyes gleaming with love as he gazes up at you like a devoted puppy yearning for some praise, “Everythin’ alright, my love?”
You cup his jaw and caress your thumb over the apple of his cheek, giving a curt nod, a small smile playing on your lips as you meet his gaze with half-lidded eyes.
“Just tired, baby.” You repeat the words for the umpteenth time in the past few days it feels.
“Mhm,” John rests his cheek on your knee as you rake your manicured fingers through his short hair and his eyelids flutter briefly as he sighs deeply, “Aye, could take a nap, too.”
John leads you to one of the guest bedrooms upstairs where he’d previously carried the luggage. However, as he switches the light on, you’re met with a peculiar sight.
“Seriously?” You snort, peeking up at John with a raised eyebrow while he rubs the back of his neck, smirking sheepishly and giving a shrug.
“First come, first serve, I guess,” he chuckles, “At least we don’t gotta share our bathroom with anyone.”
You hum, pursing your lips as you nod, “Don’t have to share a bed, either.” You quip, making a vague gesture at the two single beds with Christmas themed bed sheets, separated by a wide bedside table.
“Och, we’ll make do,” John snickers, pulling you into his side and grabbing a handful of your left ass cheek over the wool dress you’re wearing before leaning down to bury his nose in your neck, “Jus’ like the good ol’ days back at the barracks, baby.”
He nips at your neck, making you giggle as you tilt your head and lift your shoulder, trying to shield yourself from his playful ministrations.
“You mean the days when you’d begged me to let you into my bed?”
John lets out a mock scoff, straightening up and rolling his broad shoulders after letting go of your ass cheek with one last squeeze, “I never had to beg ye.”
The both of you know that it's a blatant lie.
He clears his throat, “Wanna bet it’s gonna be ye who asks ta move the beds together? Whining for cuddles an’ kisses from yer man like a wee lassie?”
You pout at him, brows setting in a feigned frown as you sidestep him with your arms crossed over your chest petulantly, “You’re on, MacTavish,” you huff, “–and you’re so gonna lose this bet.”
“Winner gets a nice treat, aye?” He suggests with a boyish grin, following you into the bedroom.
After unpacking together and settling in, John leaves you to have one more drink with his father downstairs while the rest of his family is either leaving and bidding their goodbyes or retreating to the other guest bedrooms.
And while you can barely keep your eyes open as you change into your pyjamas, brush your teeth and go through your nightly routine in the adjacent bathroom, you feel simultaneously too exhausted and unable to find sleep as you finally lay in your assigned single bed.
This restlessness feels strange, and you must actively keep yourself from tossing and turning on the mattress as you lay in the darkness alone. You even go through the various sleeping techniques which you’ve learned on duty, the ones that have helped you catch some shuteye on missions in the past, though to no avail.
Your eyes are burning behind your eyelids whenever you shut them, and your mind can’t seem to quiet. You’re terribly aware of your heartbeat, the soreness of your limbs and the queasiness in your gut, and in this moment, you can’t help but yearn for your husband’s presence; for him to slip under the covers behind you and his large, strong hands to roam and touch your body in a way that distracts you from this discomfort you find yourself in.
Time passes, and while you’re still unable to fall asleep, you’ve manage to turn your mind off by focusing on the various sounds in the house; deep voices engaged in conversation downstairs, the flushing of toilets, the dull footsteps of someone walking up or down the stairs–
You’re lying on your side, facing the wall, the pillow hugged to your chest with your head flat on the mattress, and your eyes shut as you’re simply dozing, when the door to the bedroom creaks open and John staggers inside clumsily.
There’s a pause before the door clicks and locks again, and you know he’s checking if you’re asleep, so you play along and stay still. You expect him to fold, to come crawling into your bed and lose the bet, and the thought of him desperately pawing at your flimsy pyjamas to get to your goodies, makes your lower tummy flutter with excitement and anticipation.
So, you listen as he disappears into the bathroom, how the toilet flushes after he takes a comically long piss, the running of the faucet when he washes his hands and brushes his teeth, all while your heart keeps thudding against your ribcage while you suppress a wicked grin.
When John emerges from the bathroom, he smacks his hand against the light switch, unnecessarily forceful like he always does, and–
Your eyes blink open, eyebrows furrowing, when he walks past your bed to slip into his with a low grunt. The single mattress creaks under his weight, the covers rustle as gets comfortable, sniffling and smacking his lips like a dog getting ready for the best sleep in his life.
And just when you want to turn around to make your wakefulness known, your breath stutters in your chest as you hear him spitting – presumably into his palm.
You don’t know how long you’ve been holding your breath for, frozen in place as you listen to the slick sound of his hand stroking his cock, but it’s been long enough to have your own body react to it as your thighs squeeze together discreetly, wetness spreading between your folds as you try to get friction on your pulsating clit while your heart feels heavy in your chest.
Suddenly, you’re going through a myriad of emotions and it’s something you haven’t experienced before. You feel aroused, excited, betrayed, sad, angry, frustrated, disappointed – and it’s all too much when the sound of John’s husky groan and shallow breaths reach your ears.
“You’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me – John.” You mutter, saying his name louder as you perk up in your bed, glancing over your shoulder at him in the darkness and barely able to make out his silhouette.
“Are you seriously jerking off right now?”
John sputters, his movements stilling before he has the audacity to bark out a laugh, “Ah, I didnae ken ye’re awake.” His Scottish brogue is more apparent now, his deep voice a little breathless.
“Yeah, well... I am!” You hiss, sitting up fully and leaning against the headboard of your bed, blood boiling and heating up your cheeks with agitation and before you know it, your eyes start stinging and welling up with fat tears while your bottom lip wobbles.
“Woah, wait–” He chuckles, though more in confusing than disbelief as he tries to interpret your reaction, “Are ye... mad at me for havin’ a lil’ wank?” His thick brows draw together as he listens intently, his cock still throbbing in his fist.
You sniffle, shoulders trembling with restraint as you wipe furiously at your eyes and cheeks, though the first tears have already slipped and stained your sleepshirt. It’s so out of character for you. Normally, you would simply tease him for this. Hell, you have a great sex life together; have rubbed one out next to him just to rile him up in the past. This should be nothing to you, but for no other apparent reason than a matter of principle, it is, and you can’t stop your mouth from blurting out more words.
“Y’know, it’s just funny to me that–that you actually seem to be enjoying this bet and ugh separation between–between us,” you babble, ignoring logic in favour of the cocktail of raging emotions wreaking havoc inside you.
“What? No! Baby, please, I–” John stammers, becoming more confused and overwhelmed with each hiccup and sob coming from your bed from the other side of the room, “Ye’re the love of my life, please–” He tucks his still semi-hard cock back into his boxer briefs before scrambling on his mattress to turn on the lamp on the bedside table.
When the bedroom is illuminated by the lamp’s warm light, John immediately sobers up as he assesses the strange situation, and his stomach drops as he spots you curled up on the single bed, hugging your knees and muffling your sobs. He can’t count on one hand the times he’s seen you cry, so this is more than alerting.
“Ach, fuck this bloody bet.” John huffs and in an instant, he’s up on his feet and nearly flinging himself onto your bed; strong arms cooping you up in an embrace as he shifts you around until he’s sitting with his back against the headboard, cradling your shivering form against his chest.
“Steamin’ Jesus, ye’re really scarin’ me right now,” he mutters against the crown of your head, nuzzling your hair as he rocks you gently, “Can ye tell me what’s goin’ on, hm? Please?”
“Fuck, I–I don’t know,” you wail and whine into his bare chest, coarse dark hair scratching against your face as you try to burrow deeper into his embrace, all while his bulky arms tighten around you like steel rods, “I just... I need you.”
And then, when you shift and climb into his lap to hump and grind your clothed pussy against his upper thigh, John gets really confused.
He blinks dumbly, “So... ye’re not mad at me? Ye’re jus’... horny?” His cock twitches in his briefs when you bite your puffy bottom lip and choke back a keening moan.
“Shut up,” you whinge, hands finding purchase on his broad shoulders as he surveys your odd behavior with a mixture of amusement and concern, once he’s sure you’re not sick or hurt.
John chuckles huskily, his hands trailing down to grasp your hips, “Should’a said some, hen.” He purrs as he tugs on the hem of your sleepshirt teasingly before pulling it up over your head when you lift your arms up obediently.
His pupils dilate as soon as his eyes drink in the sight of your pretty tits. When his hands trace up your stomach, he can feel your skin pebble with goosebumps, and when his thumbs trace the underside of your naked breasts, he notices your slight wince while your cute nipples stiffen instantly, making his mouth water at the sight like Pavlov’s trained mutt.
“Sensitive tonight, are we?”
You swat at his biceps meekly, letting out the most pathetic little whine that has John’s heart thudding and his cock chuff to full mast. This is so unlike you, and it makes him reel internally.
“Fuckin’ hell, ye’re killin’ me here. I need a taste of ye, love.” He mutters under his breath and leans in to kiss you deeply, all teeth and tongue, before he picks you up and manhandles you like some ragdoll until you’re lying on your back underneath him, gazing up with a desperate, pleading look in your glossy, bright doe-eyes.
You help him take off your pyjama pants next, movements sluggish as you burn up with desire and need while John nudges your legs apart before settling between your thighs, getting in position like a sniper on a mission.
John holds your upper thighs in a firm grip, keeping them spread for him as he drags his nose from your crack up your wet slit, parting your folds and inhaling the familiar scent of your arousal deeply as he goes, though it somehow seems more intoxicating as ever. And the first taste of your cunt has his mind go berserk, synapsis firing in the most primal part in his brain as he swallows hard and growls against your folds.
You clasp a hand over your mouth, muffling your whimpers, “Oh...god... Johnny.”
You taste absolutely divine and you’re practically gushing from your little hole like never before as John drapes your legs over his shoulders, spreads your velvety folds with his fingers and starts licking and suckling on your clit like a madman; completely and utterly possessed by you as he slurps and laps up your slick arousal, making sure not a drop goes to waste.
The first orgasm hits you hard and leaves your pussy convulsing almost painfully as white-hot pleasure wrecks through your flushed body; making your toes curl and your back arch off the mattress while those dull throbs of pleasure-pain have you begging for Johnny’s thick fingers to fill you up. And he eagerly complies by plunging both middle and ring finger into your dripping cunt while the feeling of his thick, golden wedding band stimulating your entrance has your eyes roll back into your skull.
Your doting husband eats you out for what feels like hours, way past the soreness of his own jaw, until you’re nothing but a limp, twitching mess on the narrow mattress, and even then, he doesn’t let up.
“Can’t stop, baby,” he grunts against your swollen clit, his voice muffled by your slick flesh as he pumps and curls his fingers inside your fluttering channel, “Ye taste too fuckin’ good.”
Clutching the steaming mug of freshly brewed coffee between your palms, you stifle another yawn as you sit at the kitchen table before you catch the significant glance John shoots in your direction, a prideful smirk tugging at his lips and his chest puffed out even more than usual as he converses with one of his brothers-in-law.
Yes, you’re tired, but at least you know why today. Smiling to yourself, you hide it by taking a sip of your coffee.
“Havin’ a good mornin’, Mrs. MacTavish?”
Your eyes flicker up when John’s mother sets a full plate of breakfast in front of you. An array of bacon and eggs, sausage, baked beans, toast and fried mushrooms – a sight that had your mouth water in the past but your nose wrinkle in the present.
“Cannae stand the smell, eh?” The older woman chuckles, patting your back affectionately, “Jus’ wait fer the morning sickness, lass.”
As you gaze up at her in confusion, you catch that same strange and gleeful twinkle from yesterday in her eyes. Your eyes narrow slightly, “I’m sorry, Rosemary, but what are you talking about? You’ve been dropping hints like that since last night.”
Rosemary clicks her tongue and raises a dark eyebrow as if surprised you haven’t caught on yet before she reaches into the pocket of her apron and then takes one of your wrists to shove something that feels like a pencil into your palm.
“I kept them around when my daughters got married,” she explains softly, though it confuses you even more until you look down at the object in your palm, “I ken this would be the biggest Christmas present for Johnny... and for all of us, too.”
Your stomach drops and your eyes widen as you stare at the pregnancy test.
im way too hyper-focused on the details to fully enjoy a monster romance. Last week, I read one that was beautifully written, with one of the 141 being a merman he was seriously sexy and hot, but while they were hooking up, I couldn’t stop wondering if he smelled like the ocean breeze and saltwater, or if he smelled more like my house when I buy fresh fish from the market.
