18+ riding your nerdy bf till his glasses fall off ˚₊·͟͟͞͞♡
There’s something incredibly hot about riding your nerdy boyfriend until his glasses slide down his nose. He’s usually so composed, always in button-ups, always with those cute wire-rimmed glasses perched on his face, always muttering about formulas or code or whatever he’s nerding out about that day. But right now? He’s a complete mess.
You’re straddling his hips, knees planted firmly on the mattress, riding him to the hilt. Every roll of your hips makes his thick length slide perfectly inside you, hitting that spot that makes you moan softly. His hands are gripping your thighs, fingers digging in like he needs something to hold onto.
“Baby—” he stammers, voice cracking. His glasses are already slipping, sliding down the bridge of his nose as his head tips back against the pillow. His cheeks are flushed, hair messy, lips parted as he tries (and fails) to keep his breathing steady. You smile down at him, grinding your hips in a slow circle, watching the way his eyes flutter behind the fogging lenses.
“You look so cute like this,” you murmur, leaning down to kiss him. His glasses bump against your nose, but you don’t care. You just keep riding him, faster now, taking him deeper. He moans into your mouth, hips jerking up to meet yours. One of his hands slides up your back, the other stays on your hip, guiding you as you bounce up and down on him.
“God, you feel so good,” he breathes, voice shaky. “I can’t- I’m gonna—” His glasses finally slip off completely, landing somewhere on the pillow beside his head. His eyes, those pretty, unfocused eyes, lock onto yours, wide and desperate.
You ride him harder, chasing your own pleasure while watching him fall apart underneath you. When you come, clenching tight around him, he follows right after with a broken groan, hips stuttering as he spills deep inside you.
Afterward, he lies there panting, glasses askew on the pillow, looking completely wrecked and blissed out. You lean down and kiss him softly, brushing his messy hair back from his forehead. He laughs breathlessly, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you down to his chest.
he apologizes profusely because he knows he’s big.
he knows he has to gradually work you up but when he’s fucking you, it never truly prepares you for his size. even after the nth time, the stretch never seizes to amaze you.
his heavy hips unable to mask the weight behind them everytime he thrusts, watching your beautiful, precious face contort in pleasure. the groans that escape him let you know that he’s falling apart. it’s music to your ears while the sound of skin on skin and sticky wet slick is music to his. his warm calloused palm kneading your breasts before moving to your hips, right as he works himself in deeper.
tip kissing your cervix tastefully slow and deep til you felt him in your throat. he’s girthy and incredibly soft spoken, the killer combination that would make you let him do anything he wanted. he’s thanking you for letting him have you like this. panting in true effort while he murmurs profanities about how tight you feel.
the peak hits just as hard, crashing over both of you til you’re clamping down on him. enough for him to sputter in contentment and lose all semblance of himself.
punctuating his grinds with whimpers of your name while he paints you deep and white like it’s your wedding. so much that it leaks around him. his eyes wet with need and desire as he desperately pants, lifting his head to stare at where you connected, watching it gush down your thighs. you think he’s done, you’re bloated with him now but he’s still pulsing, veins throbbing as they continue to rub against your walls.
finally he stills, dropping his head in the crook of your neck, whispering thank you while he sniffles.
was he crying?
you don’t get to rationalize it because he’s apologizing all over again when he resumes rolling his hips into yours, swallowing your cries of overstimulation. pushing down on your lower stomach while he sticks his tongue down your throat and sloppily laps at your lips, leaving your skin wet. his fingers growing more confident by pulling you back into him while he works you. pulling out just to gather everything leaking and rut back into you again.
“gotta keep you full, hah, please? swear it’s the last one.”
Aside from someone swiping your parking spot in the morning, something much more peculiar was afoot. And it involved one, six-foot-something somebody, boring holes into your back like he might actually beam lasers into you.
Which, in this particular case, was possible. Not that you knew.
Clark couldn't help himself, really. But this was the only natural response. He'd been hovering around you, wary and unsure when he could strike up a conversation. It wasn't that he was a hindrance for you, per se — his proximity helped, mostly in the getting people out of your personal space aspect when you'd gotten on the elevator to get coffee, with him following you like a shadow and effectively blocking everyone else.
Even that hadn't crossed the odd territory. Because you'd always gotten coffee with Clark Kent.
Except this time, he was friendlier-than-necessary.
You'd noticed it first when you walked into the building.
He was already there, all leaned up next to the receptionist counter, chirping happily with Jenn. When he sees you, he greets you with the same, dorky sweet smile felt far too bright for the current hangover you were dealing with.
"How are you so…bright at 8 am?"
Clark looks over to you, a confused look taking over his expression. "Bright?"
You stare at him deadpan, wincing at the metaphorical rays growing even more blinding at the taut smile that curls at the corner of his lips, two deep indents furthering your point.
"… Never mind."
The folders that were stacked in your arm were quickly lifted off you, purse coming off next. You blink and watch the taller man beside you awkwardly shuffle the straps of his messenger bag to make space for the feminine intruder.
"Don't worry about it." He assures, pressing the lift door open for you.
Huh. It felt weird not carrying anything.
His odd behaviours hadn't stopped there.
Clark was always nice to you, but this felt much. Territorial even. Sure, you appreciated him offering to help edit your copy.
But…
"Kent. Quit following me."
He jerks upright behind you — sounds of paper crumple in his fists.
"I-I'm not!" He protests, looking at the papers he just so happened to be carrying, lifting them like a trophy, far too excitedly. "I'm just…we're headed the same way. So."
You frown as you look ahead to the door marked for the Copy Room, and a far too smug Clark who saunters in ahead of you, keeping the door open for you with the heel of his shoe.
"Right. Sorry." You mumbled, awkwardly shuffling past him. He shuts his eyes, and you don't notice how he'd taken a quiet inhale of your fluttering scent.
Maybe you were imagining things.
[2:20PM]
Clark Kent: I bought you the pastries you liked. Come to the pantry!
[2:25PM]
Clark Kent: Did you take them?
[2:30PM]
You: No.
You: I think Olsen is eating them.
"Gosh-darnit. Olsen!"
You snort at the voice that rings in the bullpen as you grab your usual gear after setting your phone to airplane mode — recorder, notes and a phoney smile in preparation for your 3 pm interview.
[3:10PM]
Clark Kent: Bought them again…Andie told me you were at a meeting.
Clark Kent: Left them on your desk. 😬
[3:30PM]
Clark Kent: Covered the box it in the blue post-its so no one steals them.
[4:10PM]
Clark Kent: Are you free after work?
Clark Kent: I know somewhere quiet we can grab a bite.
Clark Kent: Saved the owners before.
Clark Kent: I mean. I know them. From somewhere.
[4:30PM]
Clark Kent: Anyways, let me know. 🤯
[4:40PM]
Clark Kent: Scratch that. I'm sure you're tired.
Clark Kent: I'll walk you home instead.
[5:02PM]
Clark Kent: <2 Missed Calls>
…Maybe not.
The second you'd turned your phone back on, it damn near buzzes out of your hands. What must've been ten text messages in barely an hour — and a now flashing contact image of Clark dressed as Big Bird for the Halloween Party lights up. You click on the green button.
"Hello?…"
"Hi! Gosh. Hi, sorry. You weren't answering, so I thought I'd.."
"I just wrapped up. De-brief took long. Did you need something?"
"No…—…yes. Have you…um, seen the messages I sent you?"
Your gaze darts to your desk, squinting at an ominously blue Post-it-covered box. Slowly, you peel it off the plastic to reveal pastries neatly tucked in it.
"…How could I not? They were covering my lock screen entirely."
He snorts out a rather unglamorous laughter, and then it dies down abruptly, "sorry…I don't like texting. I wanted to walk you home."
"….Why?"
"I think…it's what boyfriends do, right? I haven't done this in a while."
You pause, pulling the phone away from your face. Staring at it blankly.
"Be down in ten."
Boyfriend?
Slowly, you back into your desk, slumping into your chair with a dazed look. Crap. It was about yesterday, wasn't it?
"L-Look, I need to be clear before I — mmph, do this!"
Think. Think harder.
Shaw's. Lots of tequila. Bathroom.
"Get. Em. Off." You'd rustled the larger man against the sink, yanking his belt off with such force that he jerks forward.
Between the heavy panting into each other's lips and the dire need you had for his pants to be on the ground, you were pretty sure you just agreed to whatever he was saying at that point. But what exactly was it?
You rub your forehead in concentration.
"P-Please. Wait. I want to do this properly. T-The orders — haaahh…a little…messed up."
Nope. Not that. Fast-forward.
"D-Does this mean…we're together? Mm?"
"Yes, god," you moan brokenly, drooling over the fingers he had stuffed in your mouth, fucking you hard into the sink from the back. "— ngh, Clark, yes, yes, yes!"
…In your defence, who asks someone something like that in that sort of situation?
Clark's face lights right up when he spots you leaving the building. Crossing over to you in a few long strides. He's quick to take your purse off you, and you feel a twinge in your chest.
There was no letting him down easy. It was a bandage-ripping-off sort of situation at this rate. Because this? This was like looking at a child right in the face and telling them that Santa doesn't exist or that Christmas hype was merely a scheme created by greedy men profiting off the holiday industrial complex.
You hadn't even realised you both had walked all the way up to your front door when he finally stops, bouncing at the balls of his feet.
Eager to be let in.
Oh fuck it.
"Look…Clark, I —"
"I-I know you think I can't keep up," he interrupts. Taking a step forward with a white knuckled grip around the straps of your purse. "That…I could be too soft. But…I want to learn you. What you like, i-if you'd let me."
You quirk a brow.
"…Clark…I don't exactly think we're on the same pace."
"Why…not?"
Damn him and his dejected puppy dog look.
"I'm more of a fuck on the first date sort of girl." You admit. He visibly stiffens at your words, moving like a doll to make way for you as you open your door.
"And you're sweet. I'd hate to lose you as a friend."
When you don't hear a peep from him, you'd safely assume he somehow understood.
"So…"
What you don't expect is how quickly he has arm snaked around your waist before you can even register it. Lifting you up and crossing the thresholds of your apartment.
The lock clicks shut, the purse thudding to the ground when all semblance of his politeness snaps away. You'd instinctively gripped around his shoulders in surprise. Blinking.
Clark leans in, slow enough to give you time to say no. But you lean forward instead, giving him the answer he so desperately needed.
He grunts into your lips with a familiarity — the sounds rumbling into your throat at the prolonged hum of content.
Then, he pulls back breathlessly, looking at you.
"I can keep up." He promises, placing a peck and another.
His glasses gently bumping into your nose every single time he tilts his head to get a deeper kiss. It felt far too good, and far too natural for your body to reject the notion, so you melt into him completely, curling your arms around his broad back.
it’s not even hard—he’s not even hard—and the damn thing is already blushing at the tip, thick with blood and heavy enough to rest against the dense curve of his thigh.
clark’s got those lazy, dusky veins wrapping around the shaft like vines, one in particular that runs along the underside in a thick, stubborn line that catches the light when he moves. it pulses sometimes, like it’s annoyed. like it knows he’s trying to tame it into latex and propriety.
and the condoms? the xxl ones? they look like balloon animals stretched halfway up, stuck at the swell where he starts to really thicken out. can’t even roll past the middle.
they pinch and they fucking hurt like hell.
he thought it was a brand issue at first, bought three different boxes. tried different positions in the mirror: bent forward, standing up, leg on the toilet like some godforsaken centaur and every time, it’s the same problem.
“built wrong,” he mumbles, cheeks pink, breath fogging the mirror. he won’t meet his own eyes.
but the truth is, he’s not built wrong. he’s built like clark. heavyset and freckled, like every inch of him has been kissed by the sun and decided to keep the evidence. even there, right at the base, he’s got those faint little reddish freckles dusting the skin. it’s the same shade as the soft trail of dark hair leading down from his navel, and the darker patch at the root—almost black, thick and coarse, barely trimmed because he’s too embarrassed to do anything else to it.
he doesn’t know what to do with himself. he can bench-press a tractor but can’t figure out how to be small enough to fit.
he keeps the box in the drawer like it’s a shameful secret. unopened now, just there like it’s mocking him into a reminder of how big he is.
he’s not sure if he’s supposed to apologize for it or warn someone or just… hide.
but maybe one day—maybe—someone will kiss that apologetic look right off his mouth and tell him he’s not too anything. he’s just clark. and he fits them just fine.
“hah… baby, wait a minute now-“ he whines as your hand brushes against his throbbing cock in his boxers. his hand grips the sheets tight, knuckles turning white.
“clark, you gotta relax.” you murmur, your other hand cupping his cheek while you look into his eyes. his eyes are softer than usual and definitely full of hesitation.
“i don’t wanna hurt you.” his deep voice is just barely above a whisper. heat floods between your legs.
“you’re not gonna hurt me.”
you chuckle at his nervousness before moving to straddle his hips, hands running through his hair. his eyes soften as you press kisses along his jaw, trailing down to his neck. you smile as he sighs, hands trailing up to rest on your ass.
anddd that’s how you ended up getting fucked into the bed. tears streaming down your face, smearing the perfect mascara you had on a few hours before he came over. his cock was slamming into you, hands gripping your hips as his head rests against yours.
“ah! you’re so big! cant take it, fuck clarkkk.” you babble. you you could feel him in your stomach. he was knocking all the air from yours lungs. he was that deep.
“ah, i’m so sorry.” he hisses as he kisses your lips. he pull away, his eyes trailing to your dripping hole swallowing him. he slowly pulls his cock all the way out, only to slam it back in your wetness. you choke on a moan, hand flying to grip his shoulders. “oh jeez. you feel so good.” he groans as he pushes his hand down on you lower stomach, amplifying the pleasure coursing through your body.
he looks back up at you with a smile. his eyes scan over your flushed, puffy face as you sob his name.
“see? you’re taking me so well. i cant be that big.”
you groan in frustration at his words. clark can be so silly sometimes.
your hand slams on the desk beneath you—so loud, yet it’s hardly louder than the man between your thighs.
clark’s tongue drags from your hole to your clit, licking up your juices before sucking on the aching pearl. he looks so pussydrunk, blue eyes fluttering closed with a desperate expression twisting his pretty face.
it makes you moan—which in turn makes him moan—as your hand grips clark’s hair, tugging his back down to your cunt.
he slurps up any of your juices that you give him, delightfully tonguing your hole with no abandon.
“gosh, honey—“ his hands grip tighter on the fat of your thighs, tugging you closer to his face. “you taste so good,” he moans between your thighs, one large hand palming at your breast.
at first hesitancy sat throughout your bones—what began as a simple make out with some egregious groping and fondling made clark drop to his knees within 4 minutes after a light bulb went off in his head; your skirt was easy to flip up.
your protests died silently after he lifted you on a random desk, hands greedily moving to pull your panties off and (put them in his pocket) away from your wet cunt.
call him a perv, sure, but he simply cannot see it that way when your back arches so prettily, thighs spreading wider for him. his hands move back to your legs, seating them over his shoulders. two thick fingers push into your fluttering pussy, groaning when he feels you clench around them.
18+ men who cry when they eat you out!! - tw dacryphilia
He’s on his knees between your thighs, shoulders trembling before his mouth even touches you. The first long, slow lick makes his breath hitch—sharp, almost pained, and when he presses his tongue flat against your clit, a low, broken sound escapes him. Not a moan. A sob. Muffled against your wet heat, shoulders shaking harder as he laps at you like a man starved and grieving at the same time.
Tears slip down his cheeks, warm and silent, mixing with your slick on his jaw. He doesn’t stop. Can’t stop. His hands clutch your hips like they’re the only thing keeping him grounded while he cries into your pussy; soft, ragged whimpers vibrating through your core every time he sucks your clit between his lips.
You thread your fingers through his hair, gentle, and he shudders harder, another quiet sob muffled right against your entrance as his tongue pushes inside. He’s messy, desperate, cheeks streaked and shining, eyes squeezed shut like the taste of you is too much and not enough all at once. “Fuck,” he chokes out against you, voice wrecked and wet, “you taste so good—please—please don’t stop me—”
He’s crying openly now, tears dripping onto your thighs as he buries his face deeper, tongue working frantically, nose pressed to your clit. Every sob makes his whole body jerk, but he never pulls away. If anything, he presses closer, like he’s trying to crawl inside you, like the only place he belongs is here, drowning in you. When you come, hard, thighs clamping around his ears, he breaks. A full, helpless sob tears out of him as he licks you through it, drinking every pulse, every gush, crying harder with gratitude or overwhelm or both.
His face is a mess, red-rimmed eyes, tear tracks, your slick smeared across his lips and chin, but he looks up at you like you’ve just given him salvation. He doesn’t speak right away. Just rests his wet cheek on your inner thigh, breathing shakily, still sniffling while his hands stroke your sides in slow, reverent circles. Eventually, he whispers, hoarse and thick, “Thank you,” against your skin, like you’ve done something holy by letting him fall apart on his knees for you.
