#like... you made that up... in your head........

[lily-bisque]

✦ jock!sukuna fucking the girl that’s scared of him ﾉ eighteen plus, dub-con, dead dove.

On the lengthy list of every single depraved, immoral, and degenerate act that Sukuna had committed, now conjuring them up in his mind, this one took the cake. And salaciously licked the plate clean.

He’s clandestinely fingered a girl during a pep rally, received head from another the week before she was made to be a bride, and he’s even bent one over in the locker room showers after a game.

But this? He’s never been worried about the state of his consciousness until now.

Because he’s got you, caged before him, squirming with saucer wide eyes as he tells you to slip your panties down.

You, who has been actively avoiding Sukuna for months now, cowering whenever he even so much as nears you. Cheeks flushed, stumbling over your each syllable, hiding behind that fucking flimsy camera of yours that you carry around to snap stills of the team.

To put it plainly—you were scared of him. Like a fucking deer in headlights.

Sukuna was an asshole, and he brazenly knew it. Spewing insults about how miserable you looked on the sidelines during the games, adjusting that giant satchel circling your front, rubbing your palms against your thighs when Sukuna made his way towards you.

And give it to Toji to wantonly make a vile comment about you and Sukuna that made him scowl.

You and him? The two of you lived in completely different worlds, entirely different tiers, as arrogant as it sounded.

But the single thought lingered in the back of his mind when his gaze would catch on yours—noticing the way your shivering orbs would catch on his rippling muscles and how you’d worry your lower lip between your teeth once you’d been caught ogling.

Toji had unintentionally planted a seed that was only sprawling into every crevice of his frayed psyche.

He tried to ignore it, really. He’d find another girl to wet his dick, to try and push you out of his mind. But he knew he was tragically doomed when he’d accidentally uttered your name when he was snapping his hips into a classmate he’d never recall the face of.

So, he began to linger around you. Stayed after practice longer to see if he could strike up a conversation with you.

Yet, without fail, you’d scatter like a clodhopping beetle every single time, nearly tripping over yourself while you did so.

Frankly, it was really fucking weird. Sukuna was a certifiable jerk, but scary? Nah, that wasn’t him… right?

Wrong.

He’d finally found a way to corner you—forging a letter that the coach wanted to meet with you in his office where he then ambushed you and curled his fingers around your wrist in a firm grip to slip you into the janitor's closet.

He clicked the door shut behind the two of you, his massive form blocking the door, gaze training on yours.

“Fuck—Are you shaking?”

Yes. Yes you were. Shoulders rising and falling with rapidly rising trepidation, owl-eyed, trembling hands gripping the strap of your bag like it was your one preservation.

You didn’t reply, only backing up slowly until you hit the shelf and nearly toppled a spare paint can over your head to which Sukuna pushed out of the way.

He peered down at you, narrowed carmine eyes fanning the flames of your firing neurons. 

You felt like you were about to pass out any second.

His fingers skimmed over your bicep, your breath swiftly catching in your throat at the contact, eyes shutting as if you were bracing for impact.

He cocked an eyebrow at that, a low chuckle leaving his lips. “Not gonna bite you. Unless you ask nicely,” he gently whispered, leaning over to fan his breath over your ear and press a tender kiss just below the lobe, goosebumps sent in a wave over your skin.

You whimpered, head casting away from him, legs nearly about to buckle beneath the weight of his essence in its entirety. 

Yeah, you thought he was hot. Everyone did, it was a plain fact on campus that Sukuna was one of the most lusted after guys around. But did that mean you had the mind to even tread upon the fact that you’d pursue anything with him?

You, who made it known that you weren’t a talkative person, never hanging around others for long? Who found solace in your solitude and kept security behind your camera lens?

Fine, you’d thought about his hands on you, his plush lips chasing after your own, how he’d sound groaning for you. 

But never could you have imagined him towering over you like he was now, pressing kisses against your jugular and whispering heady breaths of your name.

“Wait…” You sighed out, balling your hands into tight fists by your side, knuckles whitening over with the burdening pressure.

“What?” He flatly responded, pulling away to glare at you.

If it weren’t for how your feet felt as if they were rooted in tar, you would’ve ducked out from under the arm he had planted beside your head and made a run from it.

But your brain blanked under his intimidating stare, mouth parting and lips quivering as words died on your tongue.

His eyes flickered over the minute pout of your lips, the way your eyes glossed over slightly, the huffs that left your mouth as if you just ran a marathon.

And as fucked up as it was, he felt himself growing disgustingly hard at the sight of it.

His lips crashed onto yours, gripping your nape and craning your head upward as he slipped his tongue between your lips, sliding inside the cavern and prodding around with a wanton curiosity.

You whimpered, stilling like a sheet of cardboard, fingers coming up to clutch the fabric of his cotton tee around the abdomen.

Sukuna felt like he was rediscovering lust with the way you had him keening over, swapping drool with you like a fucking mutt.

His hand that wasn’t keeping your head in place, splayed over the flesh of your ass, tugging you flush against him and kneading the fat like a stressball.

A shudder wracked your body, one that Sukuna amplified by nibbling on your lower lip. You winced, the pain making your eyes clasp shut, but you released a deep breath when he cooed and ran his tongue over where he inflicted damage.

His fingers hooked around the waistband of your sweats. “Take these off,” he grunted, kissing your cheek, then your jawline in haste.

You complied, quickly shoving them down, brain slated from any sort of rational thinking.

“Attagirl,” he smirked, leaning up to press a kiss against your forehead.

He nudged the waistband of his own shorts down, the guy somehow going commando all day, and allowed his cock to spring free.

Red, and definitely angry with the way it was twitching, the slit of his violently swollen tip dribbling pearly seed just from making out with you. And the size? Fucking daunting… and your gaze dropped to the granny cotton panties you’d unfortunately opted for. “There’s no way that’s going to fit…” you mousily trailed off, swallowing the thick lump lodged in your throat.

Sukuna flashed a grin. “Who said anything about making it fit?”

His hands gripped your waist, aligning his throbbing shaft with your heat. “Hold your panties down.”

Again, you wordlessly obeyed, holding the fabric down and feeling your head lull with lust.

He pressed his cock straight between your folds, immediately letting out a warbled groan, slamming a hand well above your head to clutch the metal shelf, eyes threatening to roll back into his skull. “You always…fuck, carry this much slick in your panties?”

Unfortunately, you could barely hear a word from his lips, the prominent veins underscoring his length dragging tantalizingly between your sopping folds, catching all of your juices as he rutted in slowly.

Your hands found themselves latching onto his chest as he pressed you against the shelf, desperately searching for some semblance of stability as everything around you seemed to rock and teeter. Sukuna had to push objects away from the edge of the rickety shelf to avoid them from crashing onto you.

“Thattttt’s it,” he groaned, head ducking and salmon tresses sticking to his perspired forehead, picking up a pace as he fucked himself between your treacly folds. He’s never fucked a girl without actually being inside of her, yet he never expected for it to feel downright heavenly. He’s still not certain if you’re a determining variable, something he’ll just have to test for next time.

Your cheek smushed against his hardened chest, thighs trembling as a familiar feeling coiled just beneath your diaphragm, hot and ready to go.

Sukuna felt it too—maw slack as he chased the both of your highs, the flesh of your thighs meeting his bulky ones.

“Mmmf I-,” you whined out, face contorting with pleasure, hiding the expression away as you dug your head into the fabric adorning his chest, cheeks flushed with embarrassment and something akin to shame and horror swirling in your mind.

“Say.. my name,” he grunted out, chest caving as his abs tightened, holding back his impending peak just to hear your pretty voice, palm digging into the metal shelf to distract himself.

You shook your head, lips with a quivering quake, wet lashes dusting the rounds of your cheeks.

His fingers raked through your hair, gently tugging your head back or else he feared he really may scare you away, before his lips found over yours again. Messier this time—gasping and teeth bumping, consuming the warm breath of each other. “Say it.”

You hiccuped, pausing before complying. “‘K-kuna,” you whispered against his lips, voice trembling with the sound.

And that was enough to push the both of you over the precipice you were so desperately teetering on—Sukuna shooting his load across the fabric of your panties, hot and sticky, and you gushing all across his cock with a strangled yip.

“Fuckkkkk,” he groaned through heaved breaths, the crowns of his ears tinging with a hot-red that mirrored the clench of his chest.

He collapsed over you, arms folded on the shelf above your head as you breathed in his scent—heady musk and the lingering scent of smoke. It wasn’t frequent, but you’d catch him inhaling a cigarette when the coach wasn’t looking.

After a few breathy, silent moments, Sukuna pulled away, slowly sliding his cock from your panties with a lewd squelch, peering down at you with narrowed eyes swirling with mirth.

“See, I don’t bite. I’m even leaving you with a little present for next time,” he huffed out, pure amusement washing over his fucked out face as he stuffed his cock back into his trousers and adjusted the shirt he was sporting that clung to his sweaty skin. “See you around, pansy.”

He pushed out of the janitor's closet clearly pleased with himself, leaving you with your sweats bunched around your ankles and his seed thick in your panties, still trembling from both the aftershocks of your orgasm and a somewhat terrifying ordeal.

What the fuck just happened?

[sunni-stuff]

Simon had a civilian wife—and worse, a petty one.

And he? He was pathetic.

There was the silent treatment.

The cold shoulder every time he stepped into the house. And the worst of all punishments: sleeping on the couch. That goddamn couch, stiff and distant, miles away from your warmth.

He didn’t complain. Not when his back screamed in the morning, not when his neck cracked with every shift. Nothing.

Work was a blur. His focus, shot. Every time his phone buzzed, he snatched it up like it might be you.

It never was.

Nope.

Fucking Soap.

> “MY wife lets me sleep in bed with her. :]”

Asshole.

By the end of the week, Simon was in ruins—your absence chewing holes into what little remained of his sanity.

He needed to touch you.

Hold you.

Lay his head on your chest and breathe.

How were you fine with this?

How could you just shut him out?

And why, in God’s name, had he married such a stubborn woman?

…because he liked it.

That night, Simon did everything right.

Boots off at the door.

Duffle stowed neatly in the closet.

Gear stripped down and tossed into the laundry bin.

A real shower, not one of those rushed rinses—he scrubbed until the scent of Oakwood and Pines clung to every inch of scarred skin, drifting from the bathroom and bleeding into the bedroom.

You felt it before you heard him—the familiar pull of his presence mixed with the clean musk that always made your willpower falter.

Your fingers tightened around your book. You didn’t look up. If you looked, you’d fold.

You knew it.

But damn it, he smelled good.

Simon stepped out, towel drying his hair, shirt damp against the curve of his back. His pajama pants hung low on his hips, casual, familiar, like a memory you didn’t want to admit you missed.

You peeked. Just a little.

And he saw.

The flicker of your eyes in his direction set off something in him. Hope lit up his face like a dog hearing the treat bag crinkle.

He pounced.

No warning, just all six-foot-something of him crashing onto you like a damn tree falling.

“Oof—Jesus CHRIST, Si!” you gasped, struggling under the sudden weight. “You’re too big for that!”

“’m not,” he grumbled into your stomach, arms snaking around you, face pressed to your skin like he planned to melt into you. Honestly, if he could crawl inside and live under your ribcage, he would.

You sighed, tossing your book aside, hand finding its way into his damp hair. The tension bled from his body instantly under your touch.

“Big baby…” you muttered.

He tilted his head, just enough to look up at you.

Those brown eyes—eyes that had seen war, death, and worse—were impossibly soft now.

“You done ignoring me?”

His voice was small. Hopeful. Like he’d crumble if you said no.

You stared down at him for a moment, lips pressed tight, trying to hold on to that edge of power you’d clung to all week. You wanted to stay mad—hell, you should stay mad. But Simon curled around you like a man starving, clinging to scraps of affection like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

And maybe, just maybe, it was.

Your fingers slid slowly through his hair again. “I shouldn’t be done.”

His arms only tightened around you, body sinking deeper into your side, like the very idea of you pulling away would kill him dead. “I know.”

“You forgot our anniversary.”

“I know.” He groaned the words into your stomach, shame thick in his throat. “I’m the worst husband alive.”

“You’re up there.”

But your voice was already softer, that edge fading with each breath he took against your skin.

Simon peeked up at you again, brows drawn in that pitiful, wounded-puppy expression that always made your heart twitch no matter how pissed off you were. “I had somethin’ planned. Got pulled for a mission, got back late, then… I didn’t know how to bring it up.”

You gave a small scoff, fingers absentmindedly combing through his undercut now. “So your solution was radio silence and hiding in your own house?”

“...Y’weren’t exactly giving me a warm welcome,” he muttered.

“I wasn’t the one who forgot, Simon.”

He shut his eyes, face buried against your stomach again like he was trying to disappear.

You let the silence stretch for a few seconds, your other hand moving to rest on his back. He was warm—always so damn warm—and solid, like you could press your entire body against him and still not get close enough.

And that’s what made it so hard to stay mad.

“I missed you,” he said quietly.

You closed your eyes.

"Then act like it next time."

He nodded against you, barely more than a brush of movement. “I will. I swear.”

Another silence, but this one wasn’t heavy—it settled between you like a blanket, familiar and worn.

“You’re still not getting laid tonight,” you added.

Simon let out a pained noise, somewhere between a groan and a dying animal. “C’mon, love…”

“Nope.”

“Can I at least stay in bed?”

You looked down at him—his whole body wrapped around you like a lifeline, those big brown eyes begging without a hint of shame.

“…Fine.”

He exhaled like he’d just been released from captivity. “God, I missed this mattress.”

“I missed my space,” you shot back, but there was no bite left in it.

Simon wiggled just enough to fit perfectly against your side, one leg tossed over yours, his head nestled under your chin now. “I’ll sleep on the edge.”

“Damn right you will.”

A pause. Then, muffled into your chest:

“You still mad at me?”

You sighed, long and theatrical. “Ask me in the morning.”

He hummed, content. “I’ll make breakfast.”

“You better.”

[millers-angel]

single dad!joel miller x babysitter!reader

♡ summary: single dad joel hires a babysitter who takes care of sarah a little too good, but she can take care of him too, in a different way. ୨୧ cw: soft joel (with sarah), smut, unprotected sex, size difference, creampie (reader is not on birthcontrol) ୨୧ wc: 7.6k

"you made it on time," he said as he opened the door.

joel looked... tired.

the man standing in front of you was taller, broad shoulders, big arms, big hands too, but his eyes seemed tired, his hair was a little messy, maybe he’d run a hand through it too many times.

you'd seen him before, but just in pictures... seeing him in person was totally different. it felt intimidating even, if it wasn't for how tired he look.

"come on," he said stepping aside so you could step in.

you nodded, a little nervous at first, but tried to hide it with a smile. the house smelled like baby cologne and milk, the first thing you noticed was all the toys scattered in the living room, a folded-up stroller against the wall.

everything was pretty messy, and so was he.

then you spotted her, a baby girl, barely two, sitting on the couch, holding a stuffed bear and something that made you laugh a bit, sarah had joel’s oversized contractor helmet on her head, covering half of her face.

joel followed your gaze and sighed. "oh, darlin’," he mumbled but he couldn't help to smile at the sight. sarah loves his helmets.

he walked to her and lifted her gently to put her against his hip, taking the helmet off her head. sarah squealed and lifted her arms to reach the helmet again.

"daa," she babbled, clearly demanding joel the helmet back.

joel looked around, as if trying to find something and then he spotted it, crouched to pick it up, between the blocks and stuffed animals was her own tiny plastic toy helmet, the one that actually fits her.

"this is the one, baby girl," he said putting the helmet on her head.

sarah squealed again, kicking her little feet while he held her. joel seemed all serious and intimidating, but with sarah... he softened every part of him, you could see it, as tired as he looks, he tries his best with her.

"well, this is sarah," he said adjusting her.

"hey, sarah," you said making a face and waving your hand to her, getting a giggle from her side.

joel smiled too, "first of all, thanks for coming," he started. "i'm joel miller, uh," he rubbed his eyes with his fingers, cleary exhausted. he cleared his throat, "just… lettin’ you know, sometimes my shifts run long. that okay? i’ll always pay extra, but—"

"it's okay with me, mr. miller," you shrugged. "it's my job for now."

he took a deep breath. "thanks, i'd really like this to be a full-time job, if that's okay with you?" you nodded. "and as i said, sometimes i gotta stay longer at work, but of course i pay for your time."

"that’s fine," you said shrugging. "really, don’t worry about it. i need the money anyway."

"i’m sorry if i sound pushy. it’s just—" he exhaled. "you’re the fifth sitter this month. i’ve been havin’ trouble at work ‘cause… i can’t leave sarah alone, and it’s complicated."

your heart sank, cause he do looks exhausted. "you don’t need to explain. i get it... but if you want me to sign a paper letting you know i won't quit, that's okay." you joked a bit, trying to make things lighter.

but joel didn't laugh, he lowkey felt ashamed, maybe he's being too paranoid. "sorry. don’t mean to come off paranoid or annoying."

"no, you’re not," you said gently. "you’re just worried about her. that makes sense."

he took a deep breath again, while sarah just look to the both of you, blinking, trying to understand maybe. "alright," he looked around. "so, there's food in the kitchen, take anything you want," he nodded. "but if you feel like eating something else, i left cash on the counter."

you nodded. "thanks," you looked at her now. "what about sarah? what does she eat?"

joel looked at sarah, smiling this time. "she likes applesauce, nuggets, mashed potatoes, you know? a bit of everything, though she prefers fruit than vegetables," he rolled his eyes to her, playfully. "but she needs to eat vegetables anyway. and before sleeping, she likes warm milk. she's got her special cup for that, is the one with—"

"bunnies!" sarah squealed. of course she probably had no idea what he was talking about, she just picked on the keywords.

it made you smile. "noted, boss."

"she loves bunnies and cats," he said softly. "she’s a calm baby, but she gets... upset if she doensn't sleep."

"sounds like most of us," you agreed.

he laughed, softening his face, and god, you really, really liked this messy look on him, on his smile. he's really dedicated to her, to sarah, he's there for her, he worries about her, he cares about her, as tired as he is, he don't mind as long as sarah is okay.

then, he looked at the watch on his hand and clicked his tongue. "i'm late, gotta go."

you nodded and reached out for sarah from his arms. she surprisingly, came up with you almost immediately. joel went and grabbed a few things he needed, yes, the helmet included.

he walked to you, to sarah, crouching to her level. "i'll be right back, baby girl."

"dada," she said with her tiny hands over his face.

he kissed her cheek. "i love you. be good for me, yeah?"

sarah babbled something in response, then giggled. her little arms wrapping around his neck before he put her back next to you.

then, joel cleared his throat. "anything happens, anything at all, you call me, or text. i'll answer."

"i will," you nodded, adjusting sarah against your hip. "i'll send pictures of her so you'll be aware she's fine."

joel chuckled. "okay, that sounds more than fine."

he gave one last look at the both of you, softer than he probably meant to let show. "thanks. i’ll be back in a couple hours."

and he left. just you and sarah now. she looked at you with those big curious eyes and tucked her face on your shoulder, probably feeling the absence of her daddy. but you won't let her down on this.

joel didn't come back 'in a couple of hours' that day, of course he didn't. but it was okay, you kept sarah busy, playing, watching tv when it was the right time, coloring—or trying to because sarah just made a mess with the already broken crayons. you'd feed her what she liked, even veggies, but in a fun way, so she wouldn't make a fuss. she took her afternoon nap just as joel said she would. and when it was night, you'd given her the warm milk before sleeping, in her sippy cup with the bunnies, her favorite. the baby fell asleep right there nestled on your ribcage. you'd look at her and felt proud, because you did something right.

from that day on, you were there almost every day. sometimes even on weekends. you took sarah to the park, she enjoyed the swings, she also enjoyed playing on the tiny animals—the ones where toddlers can get up, nothing too high or dangerous, not at all. you sent pictures to joel pretty often, of what sarah was doing, just routine, just to show him she was fine and safe. he just answered with 'thank you', or a thumbs-up emoji.

joel even brought home a small inflatable pool for sarah, for those hot days. sarah was happier than ever splashing in the water, squealing and you sent pictures to joel of her enjoying her pool while he was probably breaking his back at work, but it was all worth it, for her.

you never went back on your word, didn’t quit like the others. you had no plans to. sarah was too sweet. of course, she had her moments, tears when she was tired, little tantrums when she didn’t get what she wanted. but you were always patient with her, you knew she was just a little one. if anything, you both learned each other. she was actually excited when she saw you at the door, toddling fast to wrap your legs and demanded to be held.

and she was learning too, sarah was more talkative everyday, picking new words from you.

sarah adored you. and you adored her back.

however, you’ve noticed a few things. sarah’s mom is not in her life at all, it’s just her and joel and of course it makes you wonder what happened. the man doesn’t have pictures of her with anyone but sarah and his brother, you guess it is because of the similarities on their faces. but not a single trace of a woman. it makes you feel bad for him, because he’s all alone, working all the time, barely has time to breathe and yet he manages to be a great father for sarah.

but it’s sad, though.

you wonder if he still sees someone or maybe keeps in contact with sarah’s mom on the days you’re not there.

joel is not a man of much words. he keeps it simple, always respectful, and being honest, he always looks tired. and now, so are you.

sometimes, he finds you sleeping on the couch when it’s too late at night. you’re all curled up, peacefully sleeping near the monitor in case sarah wakes up. he felt awful, knowing you'd taken care of his little girl and the couch wasn't a place to sleep. he crouched to your level before gently calling your name.

you barely moved. "hey," he whispered.

"mhm?" you hummed, still dazed, then you saw him. "oh, jesus," you blinked and rubbed your eyes. "i'm sorry, mr. miller."

"not at all," he said gently. "next time if you're tired, you can go in my bedroom. the bed is big and comfortable."

you shook your head. "no, mr. miller, i’m fine here."

"please," he insisted.

"i’d feel bad, knowing you’re letting me take your bed while you’re at work."

"and i'd feel bad knowing you're sleeping on this couch when my bedroom is empty upstairs," that made you both chuckle. "please, do it. i mean it."

from that day on, if you got too sleepy, you’d go into joel’s room. at first, it felt awkward, cause as nice as he is, he is still your boss. but you did it anyways. the first time in his room, it was... something. it was all messy, the unmade bed, clothes scattered all over the place, his boots from work, helmets, tools, but also framed pictures of sarah, alongside half-empty water bottles and a small bottle of anxiety medication. you felt bad for him.

there wasn’t a trace of sarah’s mother anywhere.

but you started making his bed, cleaning his place, keeping it nice for him. you knew it wasn't part of your job, but honestly, you didn't mind at all. he pays you well, he doesn't give you a hard time, and of course, if you can help him, you will. cause you know he works hard for his girl, and now you know he deals with more things. the man needs to breathe.

and you're giving him that. he's not blind, he's noticed everything you've done for him, for the house. and despite his words that you really don't need to be doing this, you didn't stop. now, joel has more time to separate his work from his personal life. now he's got more time to sleep.

one night even, joel when joel came home from work, he got a surprise in his room. not only you, but you and sarah, both girls sleeping comfortably on his bed. the little one was tucked on your ribcage, holding to your shirt, and you had her wrapped on your arms, and on his night table, sarah's sippy cup. that put a smile on his face.

you were so patient with her, so gentle. he’d lost count of how many times sarah lit up just hearing your voice.

he didn’t want to wake either of you. he wouldn't and he never does even when it's just you. so he just made his way to the couch.

it wasn’t the only time he found you there.

the night he stepped in his room just to find you lying there, your skirt had ridden up enough. enough to let him see what you had underneath. your panties. soft pink lace panties. he wasn’t a pervert, and god, he respected you. but he was still a man. and right now, all he could see was your butt, your panties, your thighs, he could see you all.

joel wasn't blind. he's aware of what he has in front of him lying on his bed. a beautiful, young girl which butt is perfectly made for his hands to squeeze. he shook his head at the thought. you're just so good with sarah, so good with him, so kind and sweet, always wearing those shorts, these skirts, of course you're unaware of the effect you had on people.

and being honest, joel has had no time for women. always filled up with work, with sarah, until you came. of course this is a job, but still, you're more good than just being sarah's sitter. you're good with him too. and that's why this hits him harder. cause you're too good, in every sense of the word. and now, seeing the soft piece of fabric covering your tiny slit, that made him grow hard inside his pants.

he almost groaned, cause he knows this ain't right. seeing you with these eyes, thinking of you in that way. but he couldn't help to stare and feel himself grow harder to the view.

he didn't do anything about it. he just let you sleep like he always does.

but he wasn't the only one. it happened the other way around too. one night, you'd woken up on his bed, but heard the sound of the tv, it was very low, but you knew he was home then.

still sleepy, you made your way downstairs and the view made your jaw drop a little. joel just came out from the shower, his hair was damp, and so was his body, god, he just had the damn towel around his hips, and without even wanting to, you could... you could see the shape of his dick because of how tight the towel was.

you trailed him all, his broad shoulders, his chest, how hairy he was, had salt and pepper all over his stomach, and even on that trail that leaded to the part that left nothing to the imagination.

you swallowed, getting all flushed at your own thoughts. but god, you needed him, you needed to see him. you know it’s not ethical maybe, cause at the end of the day, he’s still your boss but… you’re too weak when it comes to him.

he could see how nervous you were and it was really sweet. "i’m sorry, didn’t want to wake you up."

you shook your head. "i’m okay," you said forcing yourself to meet his gaze. "i—i, sarah is sleeping, she um—today she ate those bunny-shaped cookies she likes."

joel chuckled. "i think she’s running out of those," he clicked his tongue. "gotta go for more."

you then, spotted bruises, scratches, some worse than others, but pretty much bad anyways. the scratch on the side of his belly was almost bleeding again, so you asked him, "what happened?"

he looked down to it. "work stuff," he sighed. "gotta check that later."

"mr. miller, that seems pretty bad, it can get infected. i think you have something in your room, i saw it."

he nodded. "better do something about it, huh?"

"i can help you with it, if you want." it was genuine, because honestly, it looked pretty bad and as sure as you are this isn't the first time, you want to do it, because you know it must hurt doing it all by himself.

"i don't want to keep you longer than necessary."

"you're not."

he adjusted the towel around his hip. "alright."

then, he guided you back to his room, closing the door. "just lay down," you said softly.

and he did. you went to the dresser, pulling open the top drawer and finding a small kit inside.

he chuckled behind you.

"sorry if that’s intrusive," you said quickly, glancing over your shoulder. "i just… remember to have put it in that drawer the other day."

"you’re really kind, but you don’t have to do that," he replied.

"i don’t mind," you said simply, pulling out the ointment and a roll of gauze. when you turned to face him again, he was watching you, almost eager for you to bent down and heal him.

he seemed so vulnerable there, lying, all injured, bruised and that cut almost bleeding. you swallowed once your eyes found the prominent bulge now the towel is completely settled over him. you had to look somewhere else almost immediately.

you knelt beside the bed, uncapping the ointment and gently applying it over the cut. joel flinched just a little.

"sorry," you murmured, glancing up at him quickly.

"is there anything you can’t do? you seem to do just about everything."

you chuckled softly. "if you want, or if you’re hungry, i could make you dinner."

"no," he said shaking his head, "and i’m serious when i tell you, you don’t have to clean my room, that's not your job."

you shrugged. "i don't mind," you looked up at him. "if i don't do it no one will."

"i’ll get to it when i have time."

you gave him a look. "when you have time, you sleep."

you made him chuckle out loud.

"you’re a good boss," you said with a smile. "i’ve got no complaints, you pay me well, and it’s the least i can do."

"boss, huh? makes me feel older than i am."

you shrugged. "that’s not a bad thing,” you said, and it came out with a different tone that you intended, and after that, either of you said a word.

you kept going, though. until he was patched, until you were sure his cut wasn't going to keep bleeding, and joel followed the movements of your soft hands in every second.

"thanks," he said.

you gave a small smile. "does it hurt a lot still?"

before he could answer, your fingers drifted over his belly, tracing around the part you just healed. maybe it was too low, or maybe was your touch, but you made him hiss, you were too soft, your hands, your touch.

"sorry," you said quickly. "i didn't know it hurt that much."

joel’s mouth curved, and shook his head. "it's fine."

he shifted, sitting up on the edge of the bed, and it was for the worst—for his mind. you were sitting on your knees, looking up to him, and he could only see those pleading eyes. it made him weak. his mind was playing him dirty, thinking about you in this exact same position but doing something else. maybe having something his in that pretty mouth of yours.

but of course, nothing happened.

it was a saturday, but you got ready for work, thinking that joel was supposed to go on the afternoon, so you made your way to his house, knocking on the door once you got there.

he opened the door, but didn't see like he was going to work, he was all messy. "hey… what are you doin’ here?"

you tilted your head. "uh… i thought i was working today?"

before he could answer, you heard someone squealing and running to your way. sarah. she wrapped her little arms around your legs, already handing you her dolls.

joel stepped closer. "today’s my day off. i texted you this morning."

you frowned. "i didn’t get any message."

he frowned too, but before either of you could say something, sarah made a grumble, pulling on your hand, demanding your attention.

"baby," joel crouched down beside her, "she gotta rest today." he tried to pull her gently away, but sarah didn't let go off you, her eyes filling with tears.

you laughed softly, smoothing a hand over her hair. "it’s okay, i’m here."

joel exhaled, clearly defeated, and you heard sarah try to form the word 'play,' her voice breaking while tears ran down her cheeks. your heart melted.

"alright," you said gently, "let’s play a little."

you stepped inside, and joel followed, still trying to explain to his daughter that today she was supposed to be with him only. but sarah’s cries just made it worse hearing that, so you followed, "really, it’s fine."

he rubbed the back of his neck. "you got somethin’ to do today?"

you shook your head.

"then why don’t we go out and get somethin’ to eat?"

you started to protest. "you don’t have to—"

"i mean it," he said quickly. "not for you to watch her. just… take you both out for a bit."

you couldn’t help smiling. and then looked at the little one's teary face, you couldn't say no to this. "alright."

joel packed a small bag for sarah, extra clothes, wipes, her sippy cup, snacks, and the moment she saw him zipping it up, she squealed, knowing he does that cause she's going out. after packing her things, joel sat on the couch with her on his lap to do her hair into two pigtails. you just watched the wholesome scene, his big calloused hands working gentle on his daughter's hair.

"you ready?" he asked.

you nodded, and he guided you outside, holding the door open and walking you to his truck. he opened the door of his truck for you, like gentleman, and then moved to the back door to put sarah on her seat, double-checking the straps.

you waited while he get inside, glancing around, small toys scattered in the back, and a few work tools resting on the floor. it felt… very much like him.

it ended up being a really good afternoon. sarah was all giggles, sitting in her booster seat between the two of you, swinging her little feet under the table. she ate everything on her plate, even the vegetables he put from his plate to hers.

when the waiter came back to clear the plates, he smiled and asked, "anything for dessert?"

sarah’s picked on the keyword as always and said, "ice cweam."

joel chuckled. "one strawberry ice cream for her," he said, knowing it was her favorite.

the waiter nodded, then looked at you. "and for your other daughter?"

you froze, feeling your cheeks burn instantly, but joel just laughed out loud.

"go on," he said between laughs. "get somethin’."

you tried to hide your smile, looking down. "uh… cheesecake, please."

the waiter left but joel was still chuckling. you peeked at him from the corner of your eye, still embarrassed.

for joel, though, the waiter’s comment stayed on his mind. it felt strange. he’d seen you with different eyes before, more than once, and knowing other people might see you as more like his daughter than anything else made him feel... weird. it wasn’t bad exactly, but it left him a little self-conscious. of how old he is, of how young you are, of maybe being a creep for thinking about you in that way.

you broke his thoughts, nudging your plate toward him. "want a bite?"

he chuckled, shaking his head. "nah, i’m good."

"come on," you insisted, sliding the spoon toward him.

"i said i’m—" he started, but you were already scooping up a bite.

"just try it," you said, looking at him with those pleady eyes he can't resist.

he huffed and leaned forward, taking the bite from the spoon. "alright," he said and smiled after, "not bad."

after dessert, you took sarah to the kids’ area, pushing her gently on the swing and helping her to climb the slide. she giggled, asking for 'more'. and joel found himself watching from a distance, not only watching his daughter, but also watching you.

his phone rang then, from work. he answered and after a couple minutes, he walked to you.

"got called in," he said.

"do you have to go right now?" you asked.

"it'll be quick," he nodded. "but i can get you to your house first."

you shifted sarah onto your hip. "no, i can watch her," you offered.

joel shook his head. "nah, i can’t—"

but sarah gripped you even harder, hiding her face in your neck with a tiny whine.

"it’s fine," you said softly, rubbing her back. "she’s okay with me."

he glanced between you both, then sighed. "alright… we’ll all go."

you nodded, but he took sarah to all the way to the truck. she stayed tucked against you the whole way, following the same routine as before.

he got to the site and you all came out, but he was the one holding sarah, who only got more excited seeing all the stuff, and the same helmets joel wears all the time, pointing at them with both hands.

"dada!" she said and joel just smiled, holding her even prouder.

the man who’d called him waved from a distance, and joel headed over, still holding sarah on his hip while they talked. you stayed back, looking around, hearing all the noise, all the big machines, the men sweating, working. it looked hard and now you could see now why joel always looked tired, why his hands were calloused and he's always with bruises.

you caught the sound of sarah’s little laugh, and glanced to them. joel was proudly showing her to his coworkers.

that’s when one of the workers came to you. "first time in a place like this?" he asked, nodding toward the construction.

"yeah," you said softly.

he grinned, and you kept talking, he made you laugh by making jokes about the site. but before the conversation could go deeper, joel looked at the both of you, how you were laughing, but even more, how the man was looking at you, and not only him, a couple more men. of course they'd look to you, wearing the dress, how it lifted just enough with the wind. he knew the men he worked with.

joel walked over, frowning, shifting sarah slightly in his arm. "break’s over," he told the man flatly. "get back to it."

the worker nodded quickly and left, and sarah immediately reached for you.

"sweetheart, stay with me," joel said, but she stretched her little arms toward you anyway, her eyes big and pleading.

you laughed, giving in and lifting her from his arms. "i’ve got her."

joel shook his head but didn’t stop you, just told you to stay close to him. while you played with sarah a few steps away, pointing out things she could see from a safe distance, joel joined a small group of his crew.

they started talking, but it didn’t take long before one of them nodded toward you. "so, uh… who’s that?"

"the babysitter," joel said simply.

another man added, "she's hot."

"you sleepin’ with the babysitter, miller?" a third one joined, making everyone laugh. "i mean, i would do too." he shrugged. "look at her, bet she's all sweet down there too."

"bet she sucks dick really good," everyone except joel laughed. "come on, look at her lips, they must be soft."

joel stiffened. "knock it off. show some respect." his tone left no room for argument, and the men exchanged glances before shifting the conversation back to work.

but joel’s found you again, holding his daughter, feeling even worse knowing he'd thought almost the same. not in that vulgar way, but he knows you more, he... he knows how sweet you are, he'd seen you almost bare, he knows what kind of panties you wear, he knows how soft your lips and hands are.

after a while, joel came back for good now, and sarah reached for him. he took her in his arms immediately, walking toward the truck, but as they passed by one of the machines, it made a loud sound.

sarah got scared, and dug her face on joel's neck, crying.

"hey, hey, it’s okay," joel murmured, walking faster. his hand rubbed slow circles over her back. "it’s just a machine, baby girl. nothin’ to be scared of."

she still cried, hard and joel felt guilty for even bringing her here in the first place.

"you’re alright," he said softly, pressing a kiss to her hair. "you’re my brave girl. i got you." he didn’t let go until they were out of the site, almost near the truck.

once at home, sarah seemed calmer but still a little sensitive. joel had told about taking you home, but after a glance to sarah, seeing her all scared, you decided to stick with them a little more, until sarah was okay.

you played with her, as much as she wanted, until she started rubbing her eyes. then, you settled on the couch with her over your lap, joel bringing the bunny sippy cup with warm milk. sarah drank slowly, her eyes closing but still drinking just like when she was a baby, you rocked her, hummed lullabies to her until she was completely asleep.

joel was there, watching the scene with a soft gaze, he loves seeing how soft you are with his girl. "i’ll take her in her room," he said softly, lifting her from your arms.

when he came back, he sat down on the edge of the couch, looking at you. "thank you. i mean it when i say i don’t know what i’d do without you."

you chuckled. "you’re welcome."

"you have to head out now?" he asked after a moment.

“why?”

he cleared his throat. "wonderin’ if you wanted a glass of wine."

your cheeks warmed, but you nodded. "sure."

he gave a small nod and went to the kitchen, returning a minute later with two glasses and the bottle of wine. he sat beside you, handing you one.

"thank you for today," you said, "for lunch and all."

"nah," he shook his head, "thank you. you helped me out more than you know."

"it’s nothing," you smiled. "i really like sarah. i like taking care of her."

"she likes you too," joel said, "more than me, probably."

you laughed. "no, sarah loves her daddy."

he chuckled at that, shaking his head.

"you’re patient with her," you added. "you’re a good dad."

he sighed as if you just told him something it hurt. "i try my best."

you smiled at him over your glass.

after that, the conversation kept going to different things, not only about sarah, or work, just random things. music, places you’d been, joel was telling you stories from when he was young, making you laugh. maybe it was the wine, maybe it was just being comfortable, but you both started loosening up.

before taking another sip, joel glanced at you. "this job doesn’t get in the way of time with your boyfriend, does it?"

you laughed hard, "well, if i had one, sure."

"what? you’re young, real pretty, sweet… i can’t believe you don’t have someone."

you shook your head, smiling into your glass. "nope. nothing like that."

he chuckled, taking a drink of his own. "why?"

"well, i've come to understand that guys are... stupid."

"yeah, guys your age are stupid," he said drinking, you chuckled when he clarified guys your age.

you tilted your head. "what about you? do you only have time for sarah and work, or do you get home late ‘cause you’re seeing some woman?"

he laughed at that, leaning back. "i wish. after sarah, it’s just been her and work for me."

"you should go out more, then," you said with a little shrug.

"yeah?" he asked.

"i’m serious," you nodded. "i can watch sarah if you need me to. you deserve time for yourself, too."

he shook his head with a small laugh. you paused for a second, then made the big quiestion, "is that because of sarah’s mom?"

he didn’t answer right away, just stared to the glass in his hands. "sorry," you said quickly, "that’s probably too personal."

"it’s fine," he said, sighing hard. "she’s out of the picture. decided to move on with her life."

your heart sank, not only because the woman left, but because of how he said it. "i’m sorry," you murmured. "more for her, though… she’s missing out on an incredible little girl and—" you cleared your throat, "—and a man just as good."

joel chuckled at your words, shaking his head slightly. "you think i’m a good man?"

you nodded. "i do. you’re hardworking, you provide for sarah, you’re present, you love her."

he smiled, looking down. "well, that’s just bein’ a dad."

you laughed softly. "and you’re also very handsome. and respectful."

that pulled his gaze back to you, eyebrows raising. "handsome?" you nodded. "well… i’m honored a girl like you would think i’m handsome."

"you are," you said as if it wasn't a big deal. "and even though i don’t know you as a man, outside of being a dad, i’m sure you’re good in that way, too."

"that could be arranged," he said without thinking.

you froze for a second, your cheeks burning red. "sorry, i didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable."

you shook your head. "no… not at all. maybe you’re just drunk."

joel’s gaze softened. "no, darlin’, i’m not."

"then you're lying to me!" you said gasping, as if you just caught him on something.

"what?" he said just as confused.

"because you said you texted me this morning telling me you weren't gonna work today, but i ain't got no message, that means you were texting someone else," you shrugged.

his brows knitted together and pulled out his phone, scrolling through the messages, he chuckled once he saw who he sent the message to.

"tommy, he's my brother," he shook his head. "shit, i was supposed to get some things for next week's dinner," he said, talking to himself. "but yeah, i sent it to him." you rolled your eyes, laughing. "made you came for nothing."

"for nothing?" you raised a brow. "you took me out to eat, you showed me your workplace, and now we're drinking wine. i don't think that's nothing."

"guess i’ll just have to pay you for your time now."

"oh, stop," you laughed.

he was already reaching for his wallet when you reached across to grab his hand. "joel, no—if you pay me, i’m gonna feel awful. you already took me out to eat, you’re being this kind, i won't take it."

he shifted in his seat at the same time you leaned forward, the two of you ending up closer than you’d meant to. his eyes trailed your face, eyes landing on your lips, and then he looked away, to the ceiling, rubbing his own eyes.

"and on top of all that," he muttered, "the waiter thought you were my daughter."

he sounds ashamed, dissapointed and you knew it, you knew that comment would stay on his head.

you shook your head, chuckling and cupped his face. "if i was your daughter i couldn't do this," and as soon as the words left your mouth, you leaned to press your lips on his.

how sweet they were! god, and it lasted less than five seconds, but it was enough to make him lose his mind.

his hands found your hips and shifted you totally over his lap, easily, you gaped and he was already trying to meet your lips again. but you were the one who gave in, leaning, kissing him, deeper this time, holding his face, brushing your fingers over his stubble.

"wait," you said mid-kiss. "this isn't—good," you said in a soft voice once his hands slipped to your butt.

"you really wanna stop?" he asked in a deep voice. "you feel uncomfortable?"

you shook your head. "but you're my boss."

he chuckled almost painfully. "don't care," he said digging his head in your neck.

it had been time since joel wasn't like this with someone. there was something beautiful about the way a woman can make him weak, just feeling your scent, kissing your neck, feeling how soft you get in his arms, feeling how you tug at his hair.

but after a moment, you shifted your hands to his, moving them from your hips, to inside your dress, he was impressed that you were the one who did that for him, but he touched you anyways. he brushed his hands over your thighs, on your sides, and most of all, on your ass, almost bare, he could feel the triangle piece of fabric barely covering your butt.

god, you got him hard, aching, and he hadn't even seen you yet, he's just feeling you. in the meantime, you undid the buttons of his flannel, one by one, enjoying how the hairs of his chest peek out, he was eager to get back to your lips, but you placed your palms on his chest.

"wait," you said softly, eyes on his stomach, taking off his shirt, entirely.

you licked your lips and leaned in, looking up to him before pressing your lips on his bare chest. it was just as hard as you imagined, and main of the reasons why joel didn’t want you to take the lead. he’s too weak right now. specially beneath your touch, feeling how your lips swipe all over his chest, followed by your tongue. he couldn’t help but moan once he felt your teeth digging on his skin, sucking just a bit over his neck, enough to maybe leave a hickey.

“jesus,” he said in a gasp.

“in case you’re lying to me, mr. miller,” you said softly, looking right to his eyes. “that woman will know you fucked the babysitter.”

he hissed. pushing your hips down to his trying for you to feel his prominent bulge. and god, you did, you bit your lip and bucked your hips by pure instinct.

“it ain’t no damn woman,” he said almost groaning, digging his face back in your neck.

this time joel wasn’t that soft anymore. he pulled down your dress enough to leave you in bra, finally meeting those pretty tits he’s only imagined and now, he’s gonna mark them.

but first he went for your neck, doing the same you just did to him. sucking your skin but at the same time, he squeezed one of your breasts, making your whimper, not out of pain, but because of how good it felt. the man didn’t get enough of you.

“that it,” he said against the slope of your breast. “might as well take you to my work again,” he said heavily breathing. “so no one has a doubt who’s made you these.”

“that so?” you almost chuckled because you remembered what happened earlier.

“you’re clueless, aren’t you?” he rasped, heavily breathing. “being all sweet, wearing this dress.”

“guess it worked, then.”

“i think you’d look better without it.”

you hummed, and he got rid of your dress slowly, enjoying seeing your bare hips, your thighs, your stomach, the hickeys he just did on your breasts, on your chest and neck. you look even better with these.

but what really got him are those tiny panties you’re wearing. lacy, soft pink panties. “damn, sweetheart,” he groaned, toying the waistband. “you’re all sweet wearing damn thongs.”

you chuckled until his hands unclasped your bra, letting it fall to the floor. you gasped and your first instinct was to cover yourself.

“come on, baby,” he said cupping your hands over your breasts. “don’t be shy with me.”

you chuckled, biting your lip, but letting go from your breasts. he stiffened at the sight of your bare nipples, how sweet and swollen they were.

he took your hand and guided it to his crotch. “you see what you do to me?” he said as soon as you grabbed his dick over his clothes.

you quickly tried to unbuckle his belt, to take off his jeans. he helped you with it, dragging even his boxers off. your jaw dropped a little. you’ve seen it before, yes, but not like this, not whole, not this raw.

it’s not gonna fit.

you flushed hard and brushed the very tip of your finger over the very tip of his dick, your finger getting sticky with precum, making him flinch. he lifted you a little to take off your panties.

“joel—“ you said in a gasp. “i-i don’t think it fits.”

he chuckled in pain. “we’re gonna make it fit,” he rasped. “do you want this?”

you nodded. “do you?”

“more than you can imagine.”

and the next thing you felt, was his tip rubbing your slit, mixing your juices with his. letting them be the lube you need. he didn’t rush anything, he knew you were way smaller than him, that it could hurt if he was too rough. but he was gentle with you—at first.

you felt the tip at your entrance and you slowly seated on him. he let you set a pace, even if you were killing him. you were too tight he was worried this was your first time.

he groaned, “you done this before, angel?”

you nodded. “i told you guys sucks.” he chuckled. “but you’re a man through and through.”

he just thrusted, a little hard but not enough to hurt you. just to give you pleasure. you could feel every inch of his dick stretching you out, he whimpered, cause in fact you’re torturing him, specially with those sweet moans in his ear.

you bucked your hips, as if trying to ride him, but he was trying to do the same. it was complicated at first, until both of you understood each other and got a matching pace.

the couch was squeaking, the living room filled with whimpering, and you both were filled with pleasure. joel loved seeing you bouncing over him, seeing your breasts raising and falling, seeing how sweaty you get, feeling your nails dragging all over his back.

“damn, this what you do to your sitters?” you said between breathy moans.

joel hasn’t touched a woman in so long but that doesn’t mean he didn’t remember how to do it. he enjoys making a woman have an orgasm, he enjoys knowing he’s capable of doing it, that his dick provides that much pleasure. and by any means he wanted to finish inside, he couldn’t risk getting you pregnant, specially not now, not like this.

“you’re so tight for me,” he growled.

but he lost it once you started to kiss him as you swayed your hips back and forth. you know what you’re doing, you know damn well because you can feel him throbbing inside, you can feel him twitching, getting more stiffen beneath you. but the thing is, he wasn’t he only one, you were throbbing just as much, your walls choking him.

and he didn’t stop you. if anything, he just held your hips and followed your pace, leaning to gently shift positions just a bit, to kiss you, while he thrusted, hard, and you knew he was about to come, you could feel it. but you were already in a bliss to stop him from finishing inside.

so just as predicted, you felt him loading you cum. a lot. “joel,” you said in a tiny moan. “fuck.”

you whined, but didn’t move for a couple of seconds, and he didn’t pull out either, god, how good it feels filling a girl with his come, it feels even better knowing how risky it is.

he kissed you one last time before brushing his forehead with yours.

you’re heavily breathing just as him. sweating and your body shaking. he slowly pulled out, making you whine a bit, but god… the view.

your tiny slit was all flushed, swollen, glazing with your juices but also, dripping his cum. he felt proud of it.

but he parted your legs instead, rubbing his thumb over your clit, you winced, but then he slid his fingers to your hole where you leaked his cum.

“clench,” he said softly.

it almost made him hard again, seeing how more cum came out of your hole. he got as much as he could with his fingers, trying to clean you. it wasn’t embarrassing at all. if anything, it felt vulnerable but comforting at the same time. you like the way he touched you.

you licked your lips, and once he finished for good, you put your underwear back on, but he didn’t let you put on your dress, since he pulled you back with him to the couch.

you chuckled and snuggled on his chest, still feeling his cum bubbling inside you.

he was rubbing the pad of his thumb on your back. but then you became a bit self conscious, like, will things get uncomfortable from now on? will this change anything between you? you weren’t dumb, you knew what you just did wasn’t the best since he’s still the man you work for.

but he interrupted your thoughts. “hey,” he said gently, you looked up to him.

“mhm?”

“i’m glad i sent the text to my brother and not you.”

you chuckled, “yeah, honestly, me too.”

he leaned a bit, to meet your lips, and you followed, it was all soft, and that’s the part you enjoyed most.

“my brother and i are goin’ on a little trip next weekend,” he said lowly.

“sounds great,” you nodded. “it’ll be good for you.”

he cleared his throat. “do you think—uh, can you come with us? it’s to the mountains, but i’m sure you’d like it, really comfy cabins, with a fireplace and everything.”

you chuckled. “i mean, if you need me to,” you shrugged and he grinned. “i’m sarah’s sitter after all,” you stared at his smile, his lips once they curved after you said that. "and if you need to, i can take care of you too."

✿₊˚⊹🐇𐙚₊˚⊹♡

[maisoll]

ur bf has a size kink <𝟑 .ᐟ

he would never admit it, but you know your boyfriend has a size kink.

he knew that you were way smaller than he was, but he didn't think too much about the topic before, until he started to notice some small things. the way you had to look up to him during conversations, or when you needed help reaching something that he could easily get. when he would come over to help you, his broad chest presses against your small frame, and his shoulders shadow yours as he towers behind you.

he liked the size difference; it made him feel good that he could easily protect you if needed. but there was one thing in specific he liked more—the contrast between you two during sex. he'd have you underneath him with one of your legs thrown over his shoulder as he brutally pounds into you. there's a visible bulge in your stomach every time he thrusts inside, splitting your poor, tight pussy open.

you're squirming and whining, telling him that it's too much and that he's too big, but he doesn't stop, he never does. his frame completely covers yours, caging you underneath him as you cry out, "it's—tttoo mmmuch! uuhhg...y're too big..."

you're being so whiny, but your boyfriend thinks you look so pretty like this, so stretched and dumb for him. you fisted the sheets as your legs quivered beside his head—they were aching to close, but unable to due to his grip on them. "you can do it," he grunts, fingernails digging into your plushy thighs with little restraint. "shit, you're taking me so well, angel."

he watched raptly as your body struggled to take all of him; the sight of his veiny cock pistoning your tight, puffy cunt made him crazy. he slid his hand from your thigh to your stomach, pressing down against the visible bulge due to his stupidly huge dick. "can feel me in your tummy, huh, baby?" he smirked, taking in how cock-drunk you looked, with tears running down your cheeks and drool dribbling down your chin.

it brought something primal out in him, the way your juices leaked around his girth and how his hands easily wrapped around your small frame made him want to dump load after load into you till all you can think about is him. "mmm, pretty little pussy's jus' so greedy for it." he mumbles as you keep clamping down on him.

nothing got him off more than seeing your small and fragile body stuffed full of him, your pussy dripping and stretched by his big dick, and your body quivering so much as you screamed for more, even when you swore you couldn't take it. and that just had him obsessed.

size kink? maybe you were right.

© maisoll | don't copy, steal, or translate any of my work.

divider cc: @uzmacchiato

[rawme-price]

Thoughts on a dragon!price in a world where dragons on scarce, never seeing dragons except for his own family, and then dragon!reader joins the team?

He doesnt realize what you are at first, and you would like to keep it that way. Most dragons have large wings, curling horns, sharp teeth and claws that could kill. Each one so distinct it would be impossible to be mistaken for a human.

So of course he doesnt suspect you to be a dragon. You make sure there's nothing to give you away. Wings that a far smaller than they should be at your age are folded and bound tight to your spine, claws filed down and the stumps hidden behind gloves. Your short tail can be tucked into pants easily enough. Oddly, you never have to struggle with horns, because yours never grow. The stumps are hidden behind your hair, and you wear a face mask for the teeth.

You act like a human, for the most part. But youve never been around another dragon before, and what you had thought were normal behaviors are getting you odd looks. Like whenever price tries to put a hand on your shoulder or nape, and you flinch away.

Or at breakfast, when you get your own food. Everyone else waits for price to serve them, and he makes a huff of smoke when he sees you already have a plate. Kyle has to pull you aside one day and explain "dude, youve got to stop brushing prices instincts off. Its fine if you don't want to be a part of his hoard but at least let him coddle you a bit."

....so all of those things price did that made your instincts buzz was him trying to treat you like hoard. Hm. Tentatively, you allow it to happen and push down any instincts it causes for you. You dont purr when a wind wraps around you, and you dont puff a thanks when he gets you food. You are so good at being human.

Until you aren't.

Until you and price get ambushed on an op. Weapons are taken and hands bound. They put a muzzle over prices face to stop him from breathing fire. They didnt give one to you.

Two gaurds are in front of you, one is behind price with a gun to his temple. You inhale deeply, let it roll around in your lungs. The sound is so subtle the humans miss it, but you know price doesnt when his step falters for half a second.

With a great exhale, you engulf the first gaurd in flames. Compared to other dragons, the flames are laughable, but its still strong as a flame thrower and more than effective. The second you do, price jerks and knocks the gaurd behind him out with his horns. The second you two are secure and the soldiers are dead, price is turning to you with a furious look.

"What the bloody hell was that?" He voice was low, dangerous as he back you against a tree "because to me, it looked like you just breathed fire. But youre not a dragon, aye? Unless youve been lying, so what was that?"

For the first time, you feel a bit scared of price.

You push further into the tree, had your wings been unbound they would have tucked close to your back. "...I am one. A dragon, that is."

Price curses, slams a fist into the tree close to your head then backs away to pace. His tail lashes back and forth over dead leaves in agitation. "You dont have horns. Or wings. Hell, I would have noticed if you had claws or a tail too."

Hes talking to himself, but you still respond. There's no need to lie when its so obvious now. "I do, captain. My wings are uh- bound currently. Horns never grew in."

Prices head whips around to stare at you, and when he exhales its with a cloud of black smoke. Oh god hes pissed. Price grabs his com, doesnt stop staring at you. "Watcher-1 this is Bravo six requesting immediate exfil. Its an emergency."

He leaves it at that, waits for laswell to reply before grabbing you by the forearm and dragging you through the trees. You stumble along, mind lagging at the sudden urgency in prices movements. "Exfil? Captain- what? Why-?"

The next puff of smoke has you shutting up. "You're horns havent grown in. Your wings are bound. That pathetic spark you threw earlier. Youre fuckin' deathly sick, kid. We're getting you to medical to find out what the hell you fucked up."

[Pt 2 if u care]

[d1stalker]

Lessons in Chemistry [Clark Kent]

SUMMARY: Desperate for your attention, Clark does the unthinkable—he turns to the ultimate girl magnet, Jimmy Olsen, for help.

WARNINGS: fem!reader, POV of clark being astronomically down bad, questionable advice, possible second-hand embarrassment WC: 5k - MASTERLIST

Clark has no idea what he’s doing.

Well—that’s a lie. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He just can’t believe he’s actually going through with it.

Because this? This is rock bottom.

He’s Superman, for crying out loud! He’s flown through electrical storms, wrestled alien warlords into the dirt, and stood eye-to-eye with beings who’ve reduced cities to rubble. But now? Now he’s navigating the bullpen of the Daily Planet like it’s mined territory. His shoulders drawn tight, head ducked low, and hands shoved too deep in the pockets of a button-down that suddenly feels too tight across the chest. This is not something he’s even remotely proud of, but desperation has a way of scraping the dignity clean off a man.

And so that’s how he ends up standing at the edge of Jimmy’s cluttered desk, where his friend is hunched over his phone, mid-scroll, and chewing on the end of a pencil. “Hey,” he hisses, barely above a whisper.

The redhead doesn’t look up. “Yo. What’s up?”

A glance over one shoulder. Then the other. His voice drops even lower. “Come here a second.”

That earns a look. “Did you break another stapler? I’m not covering for you again, man.”

The taller man exhales through his nose and scrubs a hand through his hair before jerking his chin toward the far end of the room. “I need your help.”

Jimmy follows his gaze, then grins immediately. 

There you are. Leaning against someone’s desk, your laughter rises above the general buzz of newsroom chatter. Steve from Sports is gesturing animatedly about something, probably about the most recent trade, but it’s the shape of your smile that stands out. You’ve been here five months. That’s long enough to memorize everyone’s coffee orders, to have nicknames for the janitors, to be included in that horrendous Daily Planet group chat that really only consists of memes or roasts. Everyone likes you.

Everyone talks to you.

Everyone except him.

Because for five months, every time you walk into a room, he forgets how to be casual. He fumbles his greetings, he adjusts his glasses three times too many, he says things like 'yep' instead of 'yes' and then overthinks it for days afterward.

“She’s cool,” comes the easy, admiring reply beside him from the photojournalist, paired with a small nod. “Smart. Funny. A good taste in music and an even better sense of style. I like her.”

“Yeah.” The word leaves his mouth too fast, too high-pitched. “Same.”

There’s a beat of silence. And then Jimmy turns to him suspiciously. “Do you have a thing for her?”

Clark winces, and one hand lifts automatically to the back of his neck, rubbing at the skin. He realizes that this might not have been the smartest choice. “Maybe.”

The gasp that follows is dramatic enough to turn heads. He scrambles to shush the smaller guy immediately, but it’s too late; the gleam in those blue eyes is unmistakable. Gleeful. Deeply annoying.

“Oh my God,” the younger man breathes, drawing out every syllable. “It all makes sense now.”

“Please don’t—”

“No, no—shut up. I’m connecting dots. This is important.”

One finger goes up. “The time you dropped your phone down the elevator shaft. That was her, wasn’t it? When she was entering as we were heading out?”

The lack of a response is damning.

A second finger joins the count. “The coffee incident. The one where you somehow spilled a full latte onto your shoes. I remember she laughed at a joke you made.”

Clark is done for, he realizes, as he covers his face with one hand. This was a definitely a mistake.

“And that day,” Jimmy continues, holding up three fingers and visibly thrilled now, “when she wore the Star Wars shirt? You walked into a door. A door.”

“I thought we promised to never bring that up again.”

His laughter, loud and unrestrained, echoes off the vending machines. “You’ve been in shambles, man. You’re in love, and it’s wrecked your whole nervous system. How did I not pick up on this?”

"Jimmy—"

“Now that I think about it, you stare at her like she hung the moon. It’s actually kind of sweet. Like a Victorian gentleman who’s never seen a bare ankle.”

“I’m going to walk into traffic.”

A firm thump lands against his shoulder. “No, you’re not. You’re gonna walk over there, talk to her like a normal person, and ask her out.”

 “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Oh, buddy.” Jimmy claps his hands together. “Lucky for, I do.”

—

Jimmy advice #1: “Just be confident, bro. Show her who’s boss.”

Holy, Clark’s hands are sweating. Like absolutely dripping wet. 

He wipes them down the sides of his pants as discreetly as possible while loitering by the elevators, pretending to read the framed fire safety poster for the third time. The newsroom is pretty empty now—most people have already left, and the cleaning crew is shuffling in. 

Then he hears you.

Or, more specifically, hears the clang of your locker swinging open just down the hall, followed by the low shuffle of bags being rearranged and the muffled click of a zipper. You're humming under your breath. He straightens his collar and takes in a deep breath while trying to ignore the way his palms have already started sweating again. Just walk up to her. Lean in. Be cool.

As he rounds the corner, he spots you. You’re bent over your open locker, bag slung over one shoulder, brows furrowed in concentration as you try to fit a thermos into a space that clearly does not want to accommodate it.

And before he can think twice—before reason or logic or shame can stop him—he approaches and slaps a hand against the metal just beside your head, pinning you there underneath him. You yelp and jump about a foot in the air, whipping around so fast you nearly knock the thermos straight out of your own bag, totally startled, eyes humongous. 

When you look up, you see him, standing inches from you, arm braced against the locker door, posture rigid in an attempt to look casual. And well, it's… not really working. Clark swallows once, then does his best approximation of a charming smile.

“Hey,” he tries, nonchalantly.

You blink. Then: “Oh! Uh—hey, Clark!”

A pause. Your eyes slowly travel to the side, glancing at his hand that is still planted beside your head, before looking back at his face, eyebrows slightly raised. Immediately, Clark moves his hand, hoping you did not hear the little squeak that came with the movement or see the wet handprint left behind on the metal. 

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to, uh—scare you.”

“It’s okay,” you say quickly, giving him a friendly shrug and zipping your bag the rest of the way. “I thought you were someone else for a second.”

“Oh.” He clears his throat. “Nope. Just me.”

Another silence creeps in.

“How—how are you?” he asks, a beat too late.

“I’m good, I’m good,” you repeat, nodding a little, like you’re reassuring yourself now. “End of the day, you know?”

He tries to laugh, but it comes out a little strangled, more comparable to a gurgle.

You're still smiling politely, but now you shift slightly, cautiously, and begin to slide sideways out from where he’s standing. Not too fast, but enough that your shoulder brushes the locker door as you edge around him, and enough for him to get the hint. He steps back to give you space, his arms suddenly feeling too long on his body. He wants to put his hands back in his pockets, but they’re too damp, so one of them curls and uncurls uselessly by his side.

“You, uh,” you start, adjusting your bag strap, “need something? Or were you just…?”

The sentence trails off. He opens his mouth, but no words arrive. Your gaze flits toward the exit, then back at him, clearly waiting for something that isn’t coming.

“Well, I gotta go,” you chirp, taking another small step back. “But, I’ll see you tomorrow!”

Then you're off—practically jogging down the hallway with a little wave thrown over your shoulder. The thermos bounces awkwardly in your bag as he watches the door swing shut behind you in despair, before letting out a deep exhale and resting his forehead on the locker. 

—

Jimmy advice #2: “You gotta smell good. Like a forbidden memory or something.”

After some quick, heavy-eyed Google searches at 3:32 a.m.—best men’s cologne 2025, top fragrances women love, what scent makes a woman fall in love instantly—Clark lands on Dior Sauvage. The name alone sounds promising, he thinks to himself.

And if the internet is to be trusted (which, in this moment of absolute despair, it is), this stuff is apparently irresistible. Confidence in a bottle. The olfactory equivalent of a smouldering glance and rolled-up shirt sleeves showcasing immaculate arm veins. So obviously, he doesn’t hesitate to go to the drug store as soon as he wakes up.

And when he returns home, in the soft, blue-tinged light of his apartment bathroom, he begins what he imagines will be the subtle, sophisticated application of a new signature scent. He sprays once on his chest, then once on his neck. Then again—just to be thorough. One for each wrist, and another spritz across his collarbone, for good luck, of course. A final, sweeping spritz over his entire torso. His eyes sting a little, but that’s normal, right? That just means it’s working. The more the better, after all.

Catching his reflection in the mirror, Clark gives himself a nod alongside a few finger guns, before getting ready and heading to work. 

-

On the subway, a toddler two seats down starts crying.

He doesn’t notice.

He’s standing there in the packed car, swaying slightly with the motion, briefcase in one hand, daydreaming a quiet little reel of possibility: you, stopping by his desk. Laughing at something he says, getting a whiff of his scent and asking if he wants to grab coffee later. 

Someone coughs nearby. It’s a wet, choked sound.

He doesn’t hear it.

An older woman sitting directly across from him pulls a scarf over her nose and gives him a look, a man on the other side discreetly scoots two inches closer to the door, holding his phone in front of his face, and somewhere behind him, someone mutters Jesus Christ under their breath.

He’s floating.

He can’t wait to see you.

Jimmy said girls love confidence. Jimmy said girls love cologne. And today, he’s got both in spades.

-

The elevator is quiet—thankfully. He’s alone, which gives him a minute to exhale and enjoy the lingering aura of his new and improved smell. Chrome walls reflect a slightly flushed version of his face, he runs his fingers through his hair a few times and adjusts his tie as the elevator slows, reaching one of the lower editorial floors. With a cheery ding, the doors slide open.

The man waiting takes a step forward in to the car, but then abruptly stops mid-step. It almost looks like he’s about to gag, but instead, he swallows, then without a word, he steps backward and just… lets the door close again. Confused, Clark watches as the doors shut and the floor counter ticks upward. Weird. He must’ve been intimidated.

By the time he arrives on his floor, he’s feeling good, excited for the possible newfound attention he could receive. Yet, he barely makes it three steps into the office before Perry intercepts him, clipboard in one hand, and a stack of papers in the other. “These are for you,” he states, holding out the documents. 

“Thanks,” Clark says, reaching for the paper.

Perry sniffs, recoiling just half a step. “Whew. Bit heavy on the cologne, are we?”

“Yeah, uh—wanted to try something new.”

The editor eyes him down, hard, with a look of obvious suspicion. “Okay. Whatever you say, Kent.”

At his desk, Clark is in the process of setting everything up when he hears a loud cackle behind him. “My god, it smells like the first time I had car sex. Bad times,” Lois’ voice exhoes in his ears. 

In response is a light chuckle. Well, a better description would be a devious cackle from Cat. “Right? I’m pretty sure the first time I gave head, the guy had sprayed his dick with it. I can still taste it.” The two women burst into fresh laughter, the kind that comes from shared trauma. Still, he frowns faintly. Someone must be stinky. 

-

It’s a little later when you stop by. He spots you approaching from the corner of his eye, and subconsciously, he sits straighter. His hands fly to the keyboard, typing nonsense to make it look like he’s hard at work when you come into full view with a soft smile, your Planet mug in one hand and your lanyard looped through the crook of your elbow, swaying gently. “Hey, Clark,” you say as you reach his desk. “How’s it going?”

“Hey.” He smiles back. “It’s good. You?”

“Same for m—oh my god.” A short, choked cough cuts you off. Your nose scrunches, your hand instinctively raising to hover in front of your face, fingers pressing lightly beneath your nose. “Do you smell that?”

Does he smell the insanely manly scent wafting off of him? Does he smell like a man you want to kiss? Does he—

“What do you mean?”

“It smells like…” Your face twists, searching for the right word. “Like… the boys’ locker room in high school—” you pause, squinting at the ceiling as if the scent will name itself. “—but worse? Like Axe Body Spray’s evil twin.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again.

“Oh,” you perk, recognition dawning. “Dior Sauvage. That’s what it is.”

His expression lights up. “Oh! Yeah! I heard it was good, so I bought some.”

Your lips part open, squinting your eyes as they visibly start to water. “Ah. Well. That explains it.”

You try for a smile, but it comes out pained. Nonetheless, Clark thinks you’re gorgeous.

“Wow. This is bringing up some repressed memories,” you jokingly laugh.

… What did you just say? A slow, creeping horror descends upon him. Jimmy’s voice slithers up from the depths of his psyche like a poltergeist. “You gotta smell good, bro. Like a forbidden memory or something.”

Forbidden memory.

But you just said—

His jaw slackens, his stomach drops and he suddenly feels very hot and very cold at the same time. It’s like his nostrils have only now opened and the surge of the pungent stench fills his nose. Has he really been smelling like that all day? “Oh gosh,” he whispers, barely audible.

“What?” you ask, brows knitting in confusion. “Are you okay?”

Out of nowhere, the Kryptonian shoots up out of his seat so fast it makes you stagger back a few steps in shock. “I–uh–I… I gotta go… uh, to the washroom.”

“You sure you’re good?” 

“Yep. Totally. Fine.” He just wants to get out of here. Throw his clothes into the laundry. Scrub everything off him in the shower. “I just… nature calls.”

Faster than you can respond, Clark makes a run for it. Not to the washroom, but down the emergency stairs and right out of the building. 

—

Jimmy advice #3: “Neg her a bit, show her who’s boss.”

Fricking finally. It’s the end of the week, and that only means one thing: drinks with the Daily Planet crew. Every Friday, without fail, the team migrates to their usual spot—an old, slightly grimy bar with good fries and terrible lighting. Clark usually loves it, but tonight, all he can think about is you, how horrible his week has been, and how this is finally going to be the moment where he asks you out and you say yes. 

He’s spent the last hour trying to find a moment alone with you, but you’ve been moving in and out of conversations, laughing with Lois, or getting pulled away every time he so much as drifts in your direction. However, now, you’re standing at the bar alone, fidgeting with your straw, the light above catching in your hair. You look tired but happy, he thinks, and now might be his only chance.

He takes a breath and walks up beside you. “Hey,” he begins, grabbing your attention as he leans lightly against the counter.

You turn toward him, a smile blooming across your face. “Hey, Clark.”

“Didn’t think I’d get a word in with you tonight,” 

“Sorry.” Your eyes roll in fake exasperation, gesturing around you. “It’s like whack-a-mole in here. Every time I stop moving, someone shows up to tell me how I can get even more clicks on the online articles.”

“Have you tried writing about alien dating habits?”

A laugh escapes you as you choke on your drink. “God, I wish. I’d kill for a little interstellar romance. You know how many articles I’ve written about city council zoning laws?”

The Kryptonian laughs. “I’m sure you can find a way to combine the two.”

You make a show of nodding seriously. “Maybe next time I’ll be able to add in a forbidden love subplot between a bureaucrat and a tentacled rebel who just wants to build affordable housing.”

“I’d read it.”

“I bet it’d get me a Pulitzer.”

Clark laughs again—too hard, honestly, and it draws a look from someone down the bar. He clears his throat, feeling flushed, but still smiling nonetheless. Your head tilts slightly as you watch him and he might pass out just from the prolonged eye contact alone. In an attempt to steer the attention from himself, he finds his mouth moving: “I was actually gonna congratulate you on getting the front cover yesterday.”

“You earned it,” he adds, and for a second, the compliment lands. Your mouth quirks into a soft, almost-surprised grin as you stir the ice in your drink again. But then— “I mean,” he goes on, oblivious to the fact that he is beginning to dig his own grave. “I got my first front page after, what, two months? But hey, five isn’t bad.”

You go still. There’s a full second of silence. Then two.

The grin on your face freezes and slowly morphs into a tight line. 

“Ah,” you say, and take a long sip from your drink. “So I was slow. Got it.”

Uh oh. Alarm bells ring inside of Clark’s head. Isn’t this what Jimmy told him to do?! “No—no, that’s not what I—” He’s flailing internally. “I was just joking. Well, uh, sort of. But didn’t mean it like that.”

“No, it’s okay. I guess I still have a lot of catching up to do.”

This is bad. This is really, really bad. He feels like the wind has been knocked out of him. “That’s not— You don’t.”

“Mm.” The look you give him makes his heart drop. Then, you glance back toward the table where Lois and a few others are still seated, waving their drinks around mid-story. “Think it’s time for a refill or something.”

“Wait—”

But you don’t. You’ve already turned around, heading back to your friends.

-

“Jimmy what the f–hey man!” Clark swings the bathroom door open so fast it slams against the wall, the sudden echo bouncing off the tiles.

The redhead currently occupying a urinal jumps. “Dude! I’m literally peeing.”

“I’ve been trying to follow your advice all week,” the taller man hisses, ignoring the fact that they are, in fact, very much in a public men’s room, “and it seems like everything I do has made it worse!”

Jimmy zips up, spins, and holds up his hands in surrender as if the reporter has a gun instead of just—well, bad energy. “Whoa, okay, what happened?”

“You told me to neg her,” All Clark can do is stab an accusing finger through the air. “Neg her! I told her five months wasn’t bad for a front page story—do you realize how that sounded?!” His voice cracks at the end, and he presses both palms into his eyes. “In the News world, I called her illiterate.”

“Okay, it’s not that bad. She probably just thinks you’re cocky.”

“I’m not cocky!” Clark snaps. Then, quieter, “I’m…I’m the opposite of cocky. I’m anti-cocky. I'm practically allergic to confidence.”

“You say that,” his friend points out, “and yet here you are, screaming in a public bathroom, because you sounded cocky.”

“Agh,” he groans, spinning in a tight, anxious circle. “What do I do? I bet she hates me now.”

A shrug. “Just ask her out, man.”

“What.”

“Ask her out,” he repeats like it’s obvious. “Coffee. This weekend. Boom. Done.”

What follows is a brief moment of nothingness as the brunette blinks slowly, trying to compute that suggestion through a haze of spiralling horror. “You have to be joking. She’s not gonna say yes to me after what I just pulled. I don’t think we’re even there yet.”

“You literally can’t get more ‘there’ than cornering her at a bar and insulting her journalism career.”

The Kryptonian flinches. “Dude. Fresh wound.”

“Look, you don’t have to make it weird. Just tell her you were gonna hang out with some friends this weekend, but they bailed.” 

Clark rubs his temples. “So… lie to her?”

“It’s not a lie. It’s more like narrative reshaping.” Not true, but it doesn’t seem like he has a choice. 

“I feel pathetic.”

“You got this,” Jimmy claps him on the back before turning to the exit. “All you gotta do is not what you did before.”

“You mean what you told me to do,” he mutters. 

“Stay strong, brotha!” 

Now alone, he groans in defeat, looking at himself in the washroom mirror. His hair is tousled, his face is beet red, and there may or may not be a few beads of sweat rolling down his back. As someone wise once sang, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. He needs to do this. 

-

It’s almost as if he has tunnel vision in the way his gaze is focused solely on you. He’s a man on a mission, but when he finds you, of course, you’re with a giant group of people. He hovers a moment, fingers twitching at his sides, until finally you turn just enough for his window to open.

He cuts through the crowd, stepping beside you before he can talk himself out of it. “Hey,” he breathes out. 

Your face contorts into a mix between confusion and shock. “Can we—” he pauses, peering at the others around you, who are now definitely listening. “—can we talk?” he finishes, gently placing a hand against your arm. He notices your eyes flicker briefly toward the contact. 

“Uh, sure?”

Shifting awkwardly, he gestures vaguely toward the door. “Outside?”

You nod, passing your drink off to someone nearby and follow him out of the bar. The doors swing shut behind you both with a muffled thud, and suddenly it’s too quiet. You hug your arms lightly for warmth, though the night is mild. “I—” he begins, then rubs the back of his neck, struggling for words. “I wanted to say sorry for earlier. I didn’t mean to sound rude or dismissive or… I don’t know. It came out all wrong.”

“What did you mean, then?” You squint.

“I was just—nervous,” he hates how raw the admission sounds coming from his lips. “You got the front page, and I wanted to say something smart and funny, and it ended up just sounding—well. You heard it.”

You huff a small laugh. “Yeah. It wasn’t your best.”

“Ugh, I know.” He groans, dragging a hand over his face. “But I swear I wasn’t trying to be a jerk. I was trying to be... charming.”

“Negging is your version of charming?” It isn’t judgmental in the way you say it, more amused if anything. 

“Apparently,” he mutters. “Look, I’ve been trying to—gah, this is going to sound dumb—but I was wondering if maybe you’d want to grab coffee with me tomorrow?”

Your expression softens. 

“I mean, I was planning to go with some friends,” he adds quickly, taking the literal one second of silence as rejection, “but everyone else bailed, so I figured, hey, maybe you’d be up for it—”

Immediately, the excitement in your eyes fizzles out. “I was your last choice, then.”

“What? No—no! That’s not what I meant.” He steps closer, alarmed. Jesus, he can’t manage to get a single thing right around you, can he? “You weren’t—God, you were the first person I thought of. I just didn’t think you’d say yes if I asked you directly, and then I messed up earlier, and then Jimmy—” He stops, breathing hard. “I’ve been following Jimmy’s advice.”

It takes a minute, but when you register his words, your mouth falls open. “Oh my God.”

“Yeah.”

You stare at him, incredulous. “But why—”

“Why Jimmy’s advice?” he interrupts gently.

“I—well—yeah. He’s not the most… uh, charismatic. Certainly wouldn’t be my first choice.”

The taller man exhales, tucking his hands deep into the pockets of his pants. His gaze flickers to the ground, then back up to meet yours. “Because I’ve liked you since pretty much your first day.”

“I remember you dropped your ID badge three times between the elevator and your desk,” he says, a little smile playing at his lips. “You had coffee but no actual mug, just one of those little espresso cups someone gave you at the front. And then Perry introduced you, and you shook hands with the wrong person.”

A choked laugh. “You remember that? I was a disaster.”

“No,” he cuts in quickly. “You were—you are perfect.”

Your eyes dart away shyly, but he keeps going. It’s like the floodgates have opened and nothing can stop him, not even the immense beating of his heart. 

“I didn’t know how to talk to you. I figured if I played it cool, or at least like I was cool, I’d… get your attention.” His brows draw. “But then I panicked and asked Jimmy for help, which, in retrospect, was my first mistake. My second, was actually listening to him.”

“So… The random anime locker slam?

He shudders. “Yup.”

“The Dior Sauvage?”

He closes his eyes, clearly in pain. “Yeah. That too.”

You burst out laughing, head tilted back, the sound bright and unfiltered in the quiet outside the bar. He watches you helplessly, in awe. Your shoulders shake with it as you step in a little closer, your hands sliding up to rest gently on his forearms.

His brain short-circuits.

“Clark.”

“Yeah?” And of course, his voice cracks. Great timing.

Your thumbs graze softly along his sleeves. “I’ve been thinking about you, too.”

That sends a jolt straight through him—his posture tightens, eyes wide, lips parting like he wants to say something and physically can’t.

“I didn’t think you liked me,” you admit. “You were being so… weird this week.”

“I was being weird.” He nods eagerly, finding his voice. “I was—I am—nervous. You’re very…” He looks down to where you’re still touching him. “Distracting.”

“It’s stupid now—”

“Nothing you say is stupid—” You lift a finger and smush it against his lips. 

“Ah ah ah, I wasn’t done.” At first, he’s startled, but then he obediently goes quiet, though it is obvious he’s dying to respond. And he can’t miss the sight of you trying not to smile at the way his mouth puckers beneath the gentle pressure.

“I thought maybe you knew I liked you,” you whisper. “And you didn’t want to hurt my feelings, so you were trying to scare me off instead. You know. So you wouldn’t have to reject me.”

His eyes go even wider, and he makes a noise behind your finger—something indignant and confused and a little horrified.

You lower your hand.

“Are you kidding?” The words tumble out of him. “I would never do that. Never. I—I’ve been trying so hard to do this right.” He takes another step toward you, and without breaking eye contact, your hands rise, sliding up to press against his chest. 

“I would never want to scare you away,” he reiterates, “not in a million years.”

You’re close enough now that he can feel your breath brushing against his cheek. He wants so badly to wrap his arms around you, but still, he’s hesitant. He doesn’t want to move unless you do first. 

“Well,” you murmur, “good.”

Then you tip your chin up and kiss him. 

It’s gentle at first—so soft it almost doesn’t feel real. Finally, he finds the courage to grip your waist, and he draws you in, close enough that your chest presses against his. He doesn’t realize how badly he’s wanted this, but now that he has it, he knows he won’t be able let go. You curl into him, your fingers clasping the fabric of his shirt as your nose nudges his, and his own rubbing the slightest circle on your skin. 

Clark thinks his brain has shut down and rebooted in the span of thirty seconds.

You pull back just enough to breathe, your lips parting in the ghost of a smile, and before the space between you can settle, he leans in again, chasing your mouth like it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth. You giggle against his lips, warm and breathy, and your hands slide up from his shoulders to cradle his jaw, thumb brushing the high curve of his cheekbones, giving him a gentle push.

He has a dazed sort of smile, eyes half-lidded and gooey with affection. 

“Maybe… we should give Jimmy some credit.”

“Absolutely not.”  And he can’t help it—he dips down to kiss you again.

---

A/N: the dior sauvage anecdotes are, in fact, based on a true story 😭 i had so much fun writing this though!

[xiaprint]

heaven on earth

caleb x femreader | minor intoxication, size kink, caleb and his stupidly fat cock, pain mention, unprotected sex | minors dni

caleb liked to think that he had a good head on his shoulders.

he graduated top of his class, gave the valedictorian speech in both high school and the flight academy. liked by his peers, active in clubs and athletics— no one ever had a bad thing to say about him. there was a natural charisma to him that plenty were drawn to, ladies attracted like moths to a flame. good grades, built body, handsome smile. the entire package.

even if he did have everything, he never went out of his way to boast. he preferred to be humble and gracious, never one to take anything for granted. his job, his colleagues, his finances were all thanks to hard work and sacrifice.

this general label of golden boy fit him well. he couldn’t deny that he was, all things considered, a pretty decent guy. respectful and earnest, his drive was all for you. you’ve had a keen eye, could sniff out the bad in everyone. you’d be the first to get in his ear when he’d bring a new friend around, warning him that the people he surrounded himself with were bad news. a lot of his good decisions were influenced by you.

everyone had their faults. caleb, as perfect as he may seem on the surface, had a pretty sick obsession with watching your tight pussy struggle to swallow up a big cock.

tonight was one of those nights where you stumbled into the shared place, house keys slammed clumsily into the small glass bowl right inside of the front door. caleb could hear your grumbles from his bedroom, door cracked slightly to welcome you in. another voice was heard, likely one of your friends that brought you home, before the front door clicked shut. he was sure you’d be crawling your way into his bed in a minute’s time, always did when you had too much to drink at work dinner parties.

soft giggles could be heard as you abandoned your heels in front of the entryway, caleb’s observant ears perking up at the clatter. you always made him pick up after you, an old habit that truly never seemed to die.

you popped your head in through the door, just like he knew you would. giving him the sweetest smile, hiccuping over the small greeting you cooed his way. caleb always felt such an intensified need to hold you and coddle you when you were like this, the same guy who stuck to you like glue during your first legal birthday. he had you on his arm that entire night, refused to let you do so much as use the bathroom on your own.

he’s the first thing you seek when you’re inebriated like this, fuzzy and disoriented, desperate for a warm body to cling to. his scent sticks out like a sore thumb, enough to find him in a crowd full of people. it’s crisp and clean yet holds the type of musk and spice that makes you wanna stuff your face right into his collar.

“there’s my girl,” he hums, knowing smirk settled on his lips as he sits up with his head against the wooden headboard. a laugh dies in his throat with the way you trudge over, feet dragging against his floorboards just to reach his side a few moments later. a strong arm catches your waist, tugging you swiftly to sit pretty in his lap. “oh, you smell potent.”

“sounds like a bad thing,” you mumble and he can practically hear the pout in your tone, chuckling to himself when he realizes that he offended you. his cheek presses into your hair as you settle down, feet wrapped up under his ankles, back reclined fully against his chest for support.

big hands run up and down your thighs lovingly, a gentle touch that isn’t meant to lead further. it’s more of an effort to ground you, one shifting up to catch your head as it flops to the side.

“yeah, that’s not what i meant,” a dry snort leaves caleb’s lips, gentle in the way he leads your face to rest against his own. cheek to cheek, nuzzling into his warmth like you were freezing cold. the domesticity of it all melts him from the inside out, still finding it hard to believe that the two of you are finally rooming together once more after reuniting.

it’s been an adjustment, learning how to live with one another all over again. you had forgotten how much he nags in the mornings and he had forgotten how disorganized you can be, experiencing lovers quarrels at least once a day. moments like these make it more than worth it, being able to hold you when you’re most vulnerable.

a soft hiccup leaves your lips, dragging him from his reminiscing.

“how was the company dinner?” he hums in that quiet voice of his, considerate of the late hour and how your mind is likely taking several extra seconds to process a simple question.

you think long and hard, something that pulls another huff of amusement from his lips. it’s a struggle to focus when his hands fiddle with the lace of your skirt, when they smooth over the fat of your thighs. all of the absent touches were part of caleb’s personality, a handsy guy through and through. he never realizes what he’s doing until he’s taken it far beyond repair, just like now.

he catches the way you stare at his fingers, experimental with how he squeezes the flesh of your thigh. your lashes flutter at the sight, gaze trailing slowly over the curve of his knuckles. his thumb caresses the skin, purple eyes shining with mischief when you pick your attention up just to catch him staring right back at you.

“well?”

“it was good,” you mumble, slurring over the fast and forced response. there wasn’t much to note, just having indulged in one too many fancy mixed drinks that were all on the association’s tab. they worked you to the bone so abusing the credit limit only felt right. it was merely compensation for your unmedicated stress and constant achy shoulders.

“well, i’m glad you had a good time.” caleb leans to whisper against the shell of your ear, touch drifting north to creep under the hem of your fluffy skirt. his fingers knead, play with your skin like dough, pulling and jiggling.

he knew the second you left that it would end like this, really. it was almost routine to welcome you back from a night out with some kisses and some love, to ease your hazy mind with pleasure. you were dressed to kill and he was your usual victim, unable to help himself from staring down into the dip of your low cut top.

“let’s get you out of this,” he murmurs in suggestion with a sweet kiss to your earlobe, patting your hip in favor of guiding you to lift. you do, albeit sluggish and half-assed, caleb only able to shake his head and assist you. luckily, he was strong enough to make up for your lack of compliance, thumbs dipping into the waistband and dragging your skirt and panties down your legs in one fell swoop.

everything blurs the minute he turns your head with a big hand, placing a firm kiss on your glossed lips. the substance is tacky and sticky and he wouldn’t have it any other way, smearing the makeup with long pecks. your jaw slackens and welcomes his insistent tongue, tasting you from teeth to cheek to tongue.

oh, how caleb loves to kiss.

it’s one of the loudest forms of intimacy, a special way of many to indulge in his heaven on earth. you always moan so pretty when he kisses you, this time no different. properly sat with your ass on top of his bulge, he has the leeway to touch. one hand groping your breast through the thin top, the other guiding his cock out of his loose sweats. this is how he liked you best.

your pussy was drooling for attention, slinky strings of your arousal sticking to his tip everytime he slapped it against your clit. each hit had you jolting, whines spilling from your lips into his own. it was filthy, the way you could feel your swollen bud pulse with need that caleb was keeping just barely out of reach. bucking your hips only helped so much, whines following when he failed to give you what you wanted most.

“sit still so i can fill you, baby,” caleb whispers against your heated skin, smiling to himself at the way you nod your head in lazy acceptance. a hiss leaves him as soon as the tip disappears between your folds, breaking that resistance with a lewd pop. you gush around him, the cum oozing out of the head smearing along your walls when he slowly pushes it in.

you choke on your heavy breaths, his cue to take things slower. soft kisses find their way down the length of your neck, careful to rub a soothing hand along your thigh, the first to jump at comforting you. getting you used to his size was a learning process but the patience has paid off, your pussy all the more accepting each time he dives into you.

“look at that,” he whispers, winded as he tilts your face down to peer at where you’re connected. it’s a sloppy mess between your thighs, poor lips puffed and battered. they hug his fat shaft, sheening him in a clear layer of gloss. “remember when you couldn’t fit all of me? felt like a monster when i made you cry and push me away.”

the reminder coaxes you to shiver, thighs shaking as you struggle to keep position, the balls of your feet planted on the duvet below you. “now look at you. slides right in, doesn’t it? you worked so hard for it so now you can take it.”

take it, you do. he helps you with two strong hands steady on the curve of your waist, fucking you on his dick with greed. the pace quickly escalates from careful to selfish, sweat gathering at caleb’s brow. the force of his hips clapping up into your ass has tears gathering in your eyes, gasping for air as he bullies his length into your sore cunt.

strings of your slick stick to his dick, snapping everytime you stray too far. they painted your thighs and his alike, a gooey mess that only worsened the more your hips smacked down against his.

“shit. i think she loves me,” a breathless laugh rings in your ears, almost mockingly. your eyebrows bow and furrow, little toes curling up. “does she? you think she likes bein’ all full and plugged like that?”

you muster a broken whimper in reply, back arching off of his chest when two digits slide against your neglected clit in sensual circles.

the sheer strength of the rhythm has your tits spilling out of your top, falling from your lowcut collar, the fabric slipping. there’s no chance that you’d be moving so consistently if it weren’t for his help, caleb doing all of the heavy lifting and hard work with his mean thrusts and his harsh tugs.

even with the cruel way he’s digging himself up into you, he’s so very sweet. attentive eyes all on your face, lips smearing each open area of skin with kisses and bites. his grunts fill your ears like honey, leaky pussy making a mess that streams all down his balls.

“can’t get enough,” he pants, damp forehead pressed into your shoulder blade, hyper-focused on fucking up into you. his cock has a delicious curve that molds inside of you, hitting depths that nobody else could dream of. it almost aches, your squeaks and squeals bouncing off of his bedroom walls. “i’m all yours. i’ve always been all yours. say it. this cock is all yours, yeah?”

“mhm!” you sputter back, barely there, brain muddled with sex and sensation that drowns you.

“mhmmm,” he groans back in reply like a reflex, one of his palms smacking the side of your ass with a gentle slap. “all you. got the prettiest girl in the world bouncin’ on me, fuck.”

his words are strained with the effort to prolong his orgasm, eager to indulge in the first time you managed to take his cock without a break. you were finally filled to the brim, could take him without needing to tap out or cry in a way that wounded him. your walls are too greedy for him, caleb far too weak to the way your pussy begs for a fill.

he doesn’t get the chance to warn you, thick arms wrapping around you as cum pumps up into your cunt. hot and thick, unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. you feel him twitch, the sensation alone aiding you in your own release. sweat and sex fills the hot air, the last braincell caleb has left yelling at him to pull out and give your poor pussy a rest.

“doesn’t hurt, right?” worry fills his quiet tone, soft pants leaving his lips. he angles his head forward, peeking over your shoulder to get a good look at your face, pleased to find pure bliss instead of a grimace this time around.

[fiendsgf]

On the edge . ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁˖ .

synopsis: edging them bc i want to see them beg thank you !

content: SMUT (mdni)

zayne . ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁˖ .

He got home late again.

You heard the door open and close quietly, the telltale sound of Zayne’s boots being eased off by the front door. It was past midnight — his shift had clearly run long. You weren’t angry. Not really. But you'd spent the evening alone, wearing the silk set he liked, and now your need sat just beneath your skin like heat rising from a banked fire.

You stayed curled up on the couch, legs tucked under you, feigning disinterest when he stepped into the room. His coat was slung over one arm, his shirt sleeves pushed up, forearms bare and dusted with flour from some emergency nutrition break at the hospital. His hair was a little messy — damp at the temples, like he'd run water through it in frustration.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth like velvet pulled taut. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

You didn’t respond. Just looked up at him slowly, and tilted your head.

He blinked. “...Are you okay?”

You stood without a word and walked over. He smelled like antiseptic and his cologne, sharp and warm. You slid your hands up beneath his shirt, fingers brushing the taut lines of his stomach. He stilled.

“Missed you,” you said simply.

His brow knit. “I know. I’m sorry. Things ran longer than expected—”

You cut him off with a kiss. Not a sweet one. A slow, intentional press of mouth to mouth, your hands slipping down to his waistband. He groaned quietly against your lips, but when you started sinking to your knees, he caught your arm.

“Wait—what are you…?”

“Shhh,” you whispered, and smiled up at him. “Let me.”

He hesitated. You rarely did this, not like this, not without him orchestrating every move. He always took care of you first — insistent, focused — to the point where he’d deflect the moment your hands even flirted with his belt. But tonight, something in your gaze must’ve made him yield. His hand dropped away.

“All right,” he said quietly. “But only because you look like you're about to combust.”

You laughed softly and undid his fly.

He hissed in a breath when you freed him, already half-hard from your kiss alone. You curled your fingers around him, slow and warm, and gave the first teasing stroke. He braced one hand against the wall behind him, chest rising subtly beneath his shirt.

“Darling…” he murmured, breath catching.

You took your time, drawing pleasure from his every reaction. He didn’t moan — not Zayne. But he made these low, delicious sounds in his throat, and occasionally muttered soft curses under his breath. You watched him carefully, timing each stroke to build him up slowly, too slowly, backing off every time he started to roll his hips or tip his head back.

His eyes opened, sharp and narrowed.

“…You’re teasing me,” he said flatly.

You smiled innocently, thumb dragging over the leaking tip. “Maybe.”

He exhaled through his nose. “You’ve never done this before.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” he said, without hesitation. “I Just… didn’t expect to be punished right after my shift.”

“I missed you.” You pressed a kiss just above his hip. “This is what you get for being gone so long.”

His knuckles flexed against the wall. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

You kept going. Slower this time, gentler, even more patient — your mouth brushing the head of his cock, but not taking him in, not yet. He hissed through his teeth, shoulders tense, control starting to fray around the edges.

“Darling,” he rasped. “You don’t have to—fuck—”

“Say it,” you teased. “Say you missed me.”

“I did.” His voice cracked with a note of real heat. “I missed you every minute. I’ll prove it—after.”

“Promise?”

He nodded, eyes blown wide, chest heaving. “I’ll return the favor. Thoroughly.”

You finally took him into your mouth.

The curse he let out was nearly a growl — deep and wrecked — his fingers tightening at his sides. You kept the same rhythm with your hand while your mouth worked the rest of him, letting him fall apart slowly, savoring every twitch and shudder. He didn’t beg, didn’t whimper. But he shook slightly by the end, jaw clenched, voice frayed.

He came with a low, wrecked sound, spilling over your hand and your lips, breath stuttering like he hadn’t meant to lose it that hard.

You looked up through your lashes, licking your thumb clean.

Zayne looked down at you with something like reverence and hunger all wrapped into one.

“…Get on the couch,” he said calmly, even as his voice shook. “I’m not letting you sleep until you forget your own name.”

xavier. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁˖ .

You don’t even know why it bothered you.

It wasn’t him.

Xavier was polite. Distant. Soft-spoken. He barely even looked at her.

But the girl wouldn’t stop touching his sleeve, leaning into his space, laughing like she’d earned something. And he — sweet, oblivious Xavier — just nodded along, clearly not catching a thing.

So now, here you are.

Straddling him. Riding him. Slow.

Xavier is spread out beneath you, flushed pink all the way down his chest, arms tense where he’s gripping the sheets instead of you, because you told him not to touch. Not yet.

He’d let you do anything, and it shows — the way his hips jerk every time you roll down just enough to tighten around him. His breath stutters. His lips part, eyes fluttering half-shut, then snapping open to find yours again.

“Starlight,” he pants, “you’re going slow on purpose.”

You tilt your head. “Is that a problem?”

His throat bobs. “No,” he whispers. “Just… didn’t know I did something wrong.”

You lean in, mouth brushing against the shell of his ear. “You didn’t.”

“Then—?”

“You let her touch you,” you say, soft. Controlled. “She thought she had a chance.”

There’s a flicker of realization in his face. Then regret. Then—

“Oh.” His voice is barely there. “I didn’t notice. I swear, I didn’t—”

“I know,” you murmur, kissing the corner of his mouth. “You never do.”

He exhales like he’s relieved — only to inhale sharp when you grind down again, slow and deep, his cock twitching inside you. His whole body tenses.

“Fuck—”

His hands are trembling again. He wants to hold you. Needs to. But he doesn’t. He’s being so good. Letting you use him. Letting you have him.

You rock your hips again, same pace, same angle. Deliberate. Controlled.

“I’m not mad,” you whisper, voice like honey. “Just making sure you remember who you belong to.”

“I do,” he says quickly, breathless. “I do. I never forgot—my star, please, let me—”

You clench around him. His whole body shudders.

“Not yet.”

His eyes squeeze shut. A whimper leaves him — high and desperate, muffled by the back of his hand where he’s biting down to keep quiet. His thighs are shaking.

“I—” He gasps, blinking up at you again. “I love you. You know that, right? I don’t look at anyone else. I only want you. I only ever—”

You kiss him — slow, deep, possessive — and when you pull away, your hand wraps around the back of his neck, holding him there.

“Show me.”

And finally, you give him what he wants.

You move faster. He moans loud, needy, broken — his hands fly to your hips and you let him grab you now, let him hold you as he cums hard, trembling under you, eyes glassy with it.

When it’s over, he pulls you into his chest without hesitation, still panting.

“I really didn’t notice her,” he whispers.

You laugh softly into his throat. “I know.”

sylus. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁˖ .

He hesitates. Still.

Even with his shirt undone, skin flushed beneath your mouth, even with your hands at his belt, undoing the buckle slowly — he hesitates.

“Sweetie,” he murmurs, voice low, deep, almost chiding. “You don’t need to do that.”

Your lips brush his stomach, just above the waistband of his pants. He shudders.

“I want to,” you whisper, tugging his pants lower. “You always take care of me. Let me return the favor.”

He swallows hard, like he’s chewing down whatever protest is still trying to rise in him. You watch the muscles in his abdomen twitch as you drag your fingers along the edge of his waistband, teasing. Slow. Like he does to you.

His cock is already hard — has been since you first straddled his lap and whispered what you wanted between lazy kisses and lingering touches. The tip is flushed, leaking already. He’s beautiful like this. Open.

You look up at him. “Let me, Sylus. Please,”

And finally — finally — he nods. Voice hoarse.

“…Okay. You can have me.”

You ease him onto the bed, nudging his thighs apart as you kneel between them. You kiss the inside of his knee, then his thigh. You take your time. He smells like heat and something you could get drunk on.

“Don’t tease, kitten,” he says with a faint smile, though his voice is already shaking. “I might start thinking you’re trying to turn the tables.”

You grin against his skin. “Who, me?”

When your tongue finally traces along the underside of his cock, he gasps. Sharp. Real. His hips jump. One hand fists in the sheets.

You don’t take him into your mouth yet. Not fully.

You kiss him there. Lick. Trace.

And when you look up, his head is tipped back, one hand hovering near your hair, the other clenched in the blanket like he’s already close.

You start sucking him slowly, lips stretched around him, hands gripping his hips to hold him still. He moans — a quiet, choked-off sound like he’s trying not to scare you.

“Oh, kitten,” he groans. “Fuck—your mouth…”

You work him deeper. Just a little. Let him feel the heat, the wet, the rhythm. Then you pull back. Lick the tip. Blow a breath across the head.

His hips jerk.

“Sweetie.” It’s a warning. Or maybe a plea.

“You okay?” you ask sweetly, resting your cheek against his thigh.

He huffs a breathless laugh. “What are you doing to me?”

“Taking my time.” You wrap your hand around him, start stroking again, your lips brushing just the head with every pass. “You’ve made me beg so many times, Sylus. Let’s see how pretty you sound.”

His head lifts. His eyes find yours. They’re burning now — heat and challenge and the faintest shimmer of want.

“Oh?” he breathes. “That’s what this is?”

You give him one long, slow lick up the underside. He twitches. His breath catches. You take him into your mouth again, just to the halfway point, and swirl your tongue around the tip before pulling off again.

His thighs flex. He groans through gritted teeth.

“You little tease,” he pants. “I thought you wanted to make me feel good.”

“I do,” you murmur, kissing his stomach. “I want to ruin you for anyone else.”

That gets him.

He moans again — head falling back against the pillows, arm flung over his face, breath wrecked. His hips are twitching now, trying not to buck, and he’s begging without realizing it.

“Please,” he whispers, voice cracking. “Please, kitten—just a little more, I’m so close, please—”

You stroke him faster now, mouth working the head again, eyes locked on his face as it breaks. He’s panting, trembling, his muscles twitching under your hands.

“I can’t—” he gasps. “I’m gonna—fuck, I can’t hold it—”

You pull off. Again. Just before he tips.

He cries out, a sound so raw and desperate it punches through your chest.

“Sylus,” you whisper, climbing up his body to kiss the edge of his jaw. “You gonna cum for me?”

His voice is shattered. “Yes. Please. Let me—please, sweetie, let me—”

You stroke him fast now, hand slick from your mouth, and it doesn’t take long — maybe five seconds — before his whole body snaps, hips arching up as he cums in thick, hot pulses across his own stomach, a moan ripping from his throat like you tore it from his soul.

You watch every second of it. Watch his face, the way it twists in pleasure, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open like he’s afraid to breathe.

And when it’s done — when he’s twitching, panting, flushed and trembling — you lean down and lick it off him.

Slowly. Lazily.

“Fuck,” he groans, still dazed. “You’re going to kill me.”

You rest your cheek on his chest, sighing. “Mmm...not yet,”

caleb. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁˖ .

You had found the med reports by accident.

Tucked beneath calibration files on his tablet — meant to be hidden, meant to be forgotten — evidence of just how close he’d come to losing a lung, of how many bones had splintered clean through muscle. He hadn’t told you. Hadn’t said anything when he came back, bruises half-faded, smile intact, voice soft like nothing had happened.

So you decided not to say anything either.

You wait until the lights are low and the quiet of your shared bedroom is safe and soft, your body folded over his in bed — kissing him slow, letting your weight sink onto his lap while your fingers dip beneath the hem of his sweats. Caleb, already pliant from your attention, sighs into your mouth when you wrap your hand around him.

“Pips,” he murmurs, voice hazy, already thick with want. “Missed you. You—mmn—been thinkin’ about you all day.”

Your lips brush the shell of his ear. “All day, huh?”

“‘Course,” he breathes. “You're all I think about.”

But you don’t stroke him, not yet. You just hold him there — hard, heavy in your grip — and let the moment stretch. His hips shift subtly under you, seeking friction.

“Somethin’ wrong?” he asks, brows drawing together. “Did I…?”

You tighten your hand slightly, just enough to feel him twitch. “You gonna tell me about the four broken ribs, Caleb?”

His breath catches.

“I saw your file,” you say, quieter this time. “Saw what you didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t want to worry you,” he says quickly, guilt flooding his voice. “Pips, I—I swear I’m okay. I just thought—if I made it back to you, that’s all that mattered.”

You finally stroke him, once — a slow, upward drag of your palm — and he lets out a helpless noise.

“That why you kept it from me?” you ask, voice saccharine. “Thought I’d be too fragile to handle it?”

“No, baby, no—never. I just… it was stupid, I know it was stupid, I just didn’t want you scared.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“I know, I know—shit—” His hands clench at the sheets. “You’re right. I fucked up. I should’ve told you.”

You start moving your hand then — long, languid strokes, alternating with tighter squeezes that make him groan under his breath. His hips jerk up, but you lift slightly, denying him any real friction. He looks up at you with that frayed, remorseful gaze that makes your chest ache.

“You’re punishing me,” he says, almost like he likes it. “I deserve it. Keep going. Do whatever you want to me.”

“Oh, I intend to.”

You kiss along his throat, down to his collarbone, while your hand works him slowly, relentlessly. Every time he gets close, you stop. You tease the head of him with your thumb. You let him whine.

“Please,” he whispers. “Please, pips, I’m sorry. I’ll tell you everything next time, anything you wanna know. Just—baby, please, let me cum—”

You hush him gently, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You’re not even close yet. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

He lets out a broken breath, biting his lip. His abs tighten when you give him a firmer stroke, and he chokes on a moan.

“You like this, don’t you?” you murmur, lips brushing his cheek. “Being made to wait. Having to beg.”

“I—” He swallows hard. “I like when you touch me. I’ll take it however you want. Just wanna be good for you. Let me be good, pips. Please.”

“Then be still.”

He shudders, his knuckles white where they grip the bedsheets, trying not to buck. You tease him again, just the tip now, swirling your thumb in slow circles as his eyes flutter shut.

“Say it again,” you whisper, lips at his ear.

“That I’ll be good?” he breathes.

“Yes.”

“I’ll be good for you, baby. I swear it. I’ll make it up to you. Anything. Just… please—don’t stop.”

You smile softly against his jaw. “You’ll get what you want. Eventually.”

And you keep going. Keep him pinned and wrecked and whispering your name like a prayer, until his voice is raw and his body trembling, aching for release — and even then, you make him ask for it one more time.

rafayel. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁˖ .

It was supposed to be a date.

Or at least, that’s how he framed it when he invited you over: “Come by the studio, cutie. I’ll clear my schedule. Just you, me, wine, maybe a little jazz in the background… I'll even cook.”

You’d said yes, excited. You’d dressed nice. You’d brought his favorite dessert. You even refrained from teasing him when you noticed the paint under his nails that he definitely said he’d washed off earlier.

But five hours later, he still hadn’t left the canvas.

He tried. Really. He kissed you hello with paint still wet on his fingers, poured you a glass of wine with that crooked grin, and gestured dramatically at the little charcuterie spread he’d made. “Feast, beloved. Nourish thyself while I immortalize the human form,” he’d said, gesturing vaguely toward a canvas already full of half-finished strokes.

You humored him.

For a while.

You sipped your wine and curled up on the couch. You watched the brush in his hand move with graceful certainty. You even complimented the piece — some half-formed tempest of shadow and skin that probably meant something very deep, knowing him.

But the minutes turned to hours, and the affection he’d promised turned into distracted hums and muttered curses and words like “just a little longer” and “hold that thought, cutie” and “fuck, where did I put the viridian—”

So you got up. Slowly. Deliberately. You stood behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist, resting your cheek between his shoulder blades.

“Rafayel.”

A distracted, “Mm?”

“You promised.”

He paused. Just briefly. You could feel the tension in his body, the way he wanted to give in. But then he sighed — a little too apologetic, a little too sincere — and said, “I know, cutie. I just… I’m right there. Give me ten more minutes?”

You didn’t answer.

You just smiled against his back — a smile he couldn’t see — and then let your hands drift lower, toying with the hem of his shirt.

Ten minutes later, he was flat on his back.

His head tips back against the pillows, dusky hair fanned out like a spilled halo, cheeks flushed a soft crimson. The curve of his mouth is caught somewhere between a smirk and a whimper — the look of a man trying very hard not to completely lose his mind.

You're straddling him, bare, slow, and in control. He’s deep inside, twitching against the vice of your heat, and you're not moving. Not really. Just enough to make him feel everything. Just enough to keep him desperate.

“Cutie…” he groans, voice strained and silky. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

You hum, dragging your nails down his chest. “Obviously.”

“Sadistic,” he pants. “Criminal. I should paint you like this, riding me with that look on your face—God, I think I’d go blind from the brilliance.”

You roll your hips once, slow and shallow. His breath catches. He bucks—instinctively, helplessly—but you press your hands to his chest and push him down.

“Don’t you dare.”

He shudders. “Okay. Okay, okay—fuck—just—cutie, you can’t just leave me like this. My body is going to catch fire. I’m Lemurian, you know what that means, my internal temperature—”

You cut him off with another slow grind. He gasps — broken, needy, sharp. His hands clutch at the sheets beside him because you haven’t let him touch you. Not once.

“Please.” The word slips out before he can stop it.

You look down at him — flushed, panting, wet lashes fluttering against sweat-slick skin. Every muscle under you is tight. Straining. The prideful, witty painter is gone — reduced to a trembling wreck.

“Please, what?” you murmur, leaning forward until your mouth brushes the shell of his ear. “Say it. Nicely.”

He lets out a shaky, desperate laugh — but it breaks in the middle. “Please let me cum, please, cutie, I’ll be good, I promise. Just—just let me—” He grits his teeth, his hips jerk again, and you don’t let up this time.

You ride him slow. Torturously slow. Watching him unravel.

“You want to finish?” you whisper, breath warm against his throat.

He nods wildly. “Yes—yes, please—”

“Then wait.”

The sound he makes isn’t human. His head drops back, throat exposed, lips parted around a moan that turns to something like a sob. You can feel how close he is — every muscle in his abdomen twitching, his cock straining inside you, hips trembling under your hands.

“Please,” he tries again, “I’ll paint you a thousand times, I’ll give you all my attention from now on, just—”

You finally slam your hips down. Hard. And again.

His cry is filthy. Unhinged. His back arches off the bed and he’s losing it, mouth moving around broken pleas, until—

“Now,” you say. “Cum for me.”

And he does — with a moan so loud it echoes, hands scrambling to hold you as he finally, finally falls apart. His whole body shakes beneath you, long after the climax hits, as if every nerve in him is still catching up.

When he opens his eyes again, dazed and glowing with sweat, he just looks at you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered.

“…I think I saw God,” he whispers hoarsely. “She looks a lot like you.”

a/n: i have writers block and im ovulating. i can't come up with a plot so its horny hours on this blog for now. enjoy <3

[pinksplace]

Immovable Object, Unstoppable Force

alternatively: Clark Kent and the Art of the orgasm

18+ MDNI

what’s this? Oh it’s Clark Kent’s poorly disguised overstimulation kink

word count: another drabble, probably 1-1.5k

warnings: overstimulation, some overstimulation, maybe a hint of overstimulation, some overstimulation if you squint, oh god I almost forgot overstimulation

fem!reader, no use of Y/N

You felt like you were missing something.

Your girlfriends would talk about it, giggle about how their boyfriends had managed to get them off, sometimes even twice. You’d smile and nod, pretend to be happy for them. Sometimes you’d fib, tell a salacious story of your own, never admitting that none of boyfriends had ever actually gotten you there.

As time went on, you began to just assume your friends were lying, or worse maybe, there was just something wrong with you.

Then you met Clark.

You’d told him before you slept together that you’d never actually orgasmed before. The words tumbling off your tongue in a moment of insecurity and nervousness. Years of lame, lazy lovers tricking you into thinking it just wasn’t possible. You thought he deserved to know. You assured him you would still enjoy it, still wanted to feel that closeness with him, just that he shouldn’t be offended when it doesn’t happen.

Clark just kissed you, and said “I’ll take care of it.”

He made you cum three times that night before he even got inside you.

He became obsessed with it after that.

Clark Kent, your sweet boyfriend, the mild mannered momma’s boy, the clumsy reporter in his too-big suits, is absolutely insatiable. He lays you out, expertly kisses you until your lips are numb and presses you until the mattress until you have no choice but to melt.

He crawls down your body, joking that he’s visiting his second home. Then he eats you out until his glasses fog up, when most men might take that as a sign to stop, Clark just takes them off, places them carefully on the nightstand, and keeps going.

He ignores your whines, the way you tug his hair, the way your legs clamp around his head. If anything, it all spurs him on, making him even more enthusiastic. He uses every part of his face to make it happen, his tongue dexterous and fast, never tiring. His nose finding a way to nudge your clit just right.

Clark only uses his hands when he wants to tell you something, using his fingers to get you stretch you, his thumb circling your clit. He’s never not working you over.

“Sweetheart, I missed you so much.” He says, voice dripping with affection, as if you’ve ever spent longer than two days apart.

“Honey you taste so good, please can you give me one more?” Please, as if it’s really a question, you know better and it’s never just one more.

When you’re shaking with overstimulation, thighs clenched around his head, “Baby, stop. I’m doing something important.” He never gives you a chance to comply, instead taking your thighs in his hands and pressing them into the mattress, spreading you open for him.

When he fucks you, it’s all-consuming.

He thrusts deep, each stroke is well aimed, perfectly timed, and leaves you agonizingly full. Clark found that soft spot inside you (the one that makes your vision white out), that first night too. He makes sure to hit every-time now.

By this point, you’re jello, or at least close to it. Half the words out of your mouth make no sense, just babbles of his name and half-slurred ‘I love you’s.

Your hands scratch down his back, never making purchase, never breaking the skin despite your attempts (and much to Clark’s dismay, he loves being marked by you, reminders that he’s yours just as much as you’re his).

Clark has surpassed every man you’ve ever been with, in skill, size and stamina. You thought it would be over after he came, thought it was just average human male biology.

Once again, Clark proves himself to be above and beyond average.

He can go for three, some nights even four rounds. Half the time he doesn’t even break a sweat, he fucks like he’s superhuman. He fucks like it’s what he was made for, specifically like he was made for you.

He tells you as much. His words saccharine and sinful.

“This is everything, you’re everything.” He murmurs against your neck, grinding deeper than you thought possible.

“Never wanna leave you, gonna stay right here, forever.” You believe him. You honestly believe he would spend the rest of his life inside you, you would let him.

“They didn’t deserve you, didn’t know how to touch you. Properly.” He laments, as if you even still think about them, as if you could remember their names when he’s this deep.

“Always gonna make you feel good, always gonna put you first.” He promises, and despite your better judgement, you believe him when he says that too.

You tighten around him, again, and again and again. You moan his name until you’re blue in the face. Wrap your legs around his waist and even though every part of your body feels like it’s on fire, you pull him closer. You kiss him hard, and tell him to cum deep.

Clark has ruined you, if he ever ended things you’d be forced to join a nunnery or risk spending the rest of your life comparing everyone else to him. Then you look in his eyes, and see the future you’re still too scared to talk about out loud, and think that you have nothing to worry about.

He pushes you over the edge again. Apologizing for it.

“I’m sorry Honey, I’m so sorry, I know it’s a lot.” Clark’s like a man possessed. Your cunt is so wet and sticky he almost slides out every time he draws back. He wipes the tears from your cheeks, and presses the softest kiss to your lips.

“Just one more, c’mon baby, one more.” You give it to him. body tensing at his command, you don’t even try to fight it this time, you know it’s no use. Clark the immovable object, your orgasm the unstoppable force.

You asked him why one night, after he had cleaned you up and rolled you into his arms.

“I’m making up for lost time.” He said, kissing the top of your head. It’s almost a gentleman’s answer, but you know better. You know the real answer, he says it everytime, right before he falls over that last edge. When he’s too lost in pleasure to pretend like he’s doing this just for your benefit.

“I love that I’m the only one who can make you feel like this.”

It’s usually what sends you over the edge, for the real last time.

You love it too.

The chronicles of Clark Kent and MY poorly hidden overstimulation kink <3

Thank you for reading my friends!!!

Masterlist

[malfoys-demigod]

Big Eyes, Little Lies

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★ JOHNNY STORM X READER

summary: Johnny picks up his nephew Franklin from school just once. That’s all it takes. Now he’s suddenly volunteering to pick him up every day. Sue knows something’s up — but Johnny’s not talking. Not until he's got a plan. Warnings: None, just sweet chaos and mutual pining.

a/n: requested by @totaldystopiannerd !! thank you for your request!

this is the prequel to Big Eyes, Little Rings

It started with one favor.

Sue had a meeting downtown. Reed was in his lab, locked in some dimensional whatever. Ben was on asteroid duty. That left Johnny.

“Pick up Franklin at 3. Don’t be late.”“Yeah, yeah, sis, I got it.”

He hadn’t expected anything life-changing. He parked the car (slightly crooked), adjusted his sunglasses, and strode across the parking lot like someone being filmed in slow motion — until he tripped on a sprinkler head.

Kids were spilling out of the classroom, tiny backpacks bouncing, and that’s when he saw her.

You.

Standing by the door in a sunflower-yellow cardigan, kneeling to tie some little girl’s shoe, speaking softly. There was something familiar about the softness of you — like the end of summer, or the first hot cocoa of the year.

Your eyes — God, your eyes — went wide and warm when you looked up and said, “You must be Franklin’s uncle.”

Johnny blinked. Twice. Maybe three times.

“I — Yeah. Yep. That’s me. Flame... Johnny. Just Johnny. I’m Johnny.”

Smooth.

You giggled. Actually giggled. Like a Disney character or someone who made their own granola.

Franklin ran into his legs, breaking the moment. “Uncle Johnny! Can we get donuts?”

“Kid, you can have whatever you want.”

You smiled and handed Johnny a paper folder. “He’s been very curious this week — lots of questions about space. I think someone’s been bragging about his uncle.”

Johnny glanced at you, then the folder, then back at you.

You had those ridiculous, round eyes and this calm, sparkly way of speaking. Like nothing bad ever happened in your world. He didn’t even try to be charming. He just stared at you like a man who had seen the sun for the first time.

When Sue called him that night, she sounded suspicious.

“You picked him up today?”“Sure did.”“...You offered to do it again tomorrow?”“I’m a giver, Sue. A saint.”

By the third pickup, you were expecting him. You greeted Franklin first, always, with the kind of gentle authority that made Johnny consider asking you to organize his schedule.

Then you looked at him, smiled like he was already part of your day, and said something like, “Hi, Johnny,” like it meant something.

Which was insane. Because you didn’t even know him.

Except… maybe you did. You didn’t fawn over him like fans did. You weren’t impressed by his hero status. You just talked to him. About Franklin. About your class. One time you said he had “mischief in his smile,” and he barely survived the moment.

Johnny Storm — chaos incarnate — was melting over a kindergarten teacher.

By week two, he started dressing nicer.

By week three, he learned what time the class went to recess, just so he could “accidentally” show up early.

He brought snacks.

He helped stack tiny chairs.

He took a “volunteer” flyer from the bulletin board and asked you how many hours counted as “a few.”

He told Sue nothing. She was watching him like a hawk.

It wasn’t just the big, soft eyes. (Though God, those eyes…) It was the way you leaned in when kids whispered, like their thoughts were treasures. It was how you made every day sound magical. Like watching the world through glitter and hope.

It made Johnny — a man who flew into battle and called it Tuesday — want to slow down.

Want to stay.

One Thursday, Franklin forgot his lunch, and Johnny offered to drop it off.

“Class is in story time,” you whispered, when you met him outside the door.

Inside, a sea of little heads sat crisscross on the rug while you held an open book.

“Would you like to read the next page?” you asked, voice mischievous.

Johnny froze. “Me? Oh — uh. I don’t really—”

But then you smiled and held out the book. The kids squealed. One asked if Johnny could make fire from his hands.

He read the page. You sat beside him, calm and radiant, like this was exactly what should happen. He smelled your vanilla perfume and forgot the plot halfway through.

After, as you walked him to the door, you said softly, “You’re good with them.”

Johnny snorted. “I barely survived that page.”

You shrugged. “Still. You’re gentler than you let on.”

He stared at you again, all stupid, until a kid asked if he was your boyfriend. Johnny nearly combusted.

You just smiled. “Not yet.”

That night, Sue cornered him. “You’re in love with her.” “I am not.” “You picked up Franklin in a collared shirt, Johnny.” “I can wear collars!” “You ironed it.” “I did not— okay, I might have steamed it—” “You brought cupcakes to the staff lounge!” “Okay, now you’re just making things up.” “Franklin said she has ‘princess eyes.’” Johnny blinked. “That’s… actually very accurate.”

Sue smirked. “Ask her out.”

Johnny hesitated. “What if she says no?” “Then she’s got terrible taste and you move on. But… I don’t think she will.”

He showed up on Friday with a coffee just the way you liked it (you once mentioned it, in passing — he remembered).

You took it with a surprised smile, eyes going even wider than usual. “This is… exactly right.”

“Yeah, I pay attention.”

You looked up at him, gentle and glowing. “I know you do.”

That did it.

“I was wondering,” he began, tugging at the hem of his jacket, “if maybe, sometime when you’re not, you know, herding thirty tiny humans, you might want to… get dinner?”

You tilted your head. “Like a date?”

“Yeah. A real one. No crayons involved.”

Your smile lit up your whole face. “I’d love to.”

Later that night, Franklin announced to the room:

“Uncle Johnny kissed Miss Y/N’s hand and then walked into the door.”

Sue just laughed and shook her head. “I told you,” she muttered. “Big eyes. Big trouble.”

[reignpage]

If you were a new girl in Satoru’s school, he’d be the type to…

Eye you from head to toe the moment you stepped into class. There was suspicion laced in his cold gaze, always doubtful, always cautious. When exactly he let his guard down, it’s hard to tell – it could have been when your eyes met his and he saw nervousness, an overwhelming awareness of every movement you were making, and a desire to not make any waves. Alternatively, it could have been when he heard your voice call out your own name as part of that awkward introduction everyone has to do and heard nothing but a friend he had yet to make. 

Remember your name. It shocked you the first time you heard it roll off his tongue like it had belonged there all along, he could tell. You blinked, cartoon-like, for a couple seconds before you stuttered a response. Maybe you weren’t expecting him to approach you, maybe you weren’t expecting him to say it with so much warmth, and maybe, just maybe, you wanted to hear it again. 

Poke you during classes. At first, the poking began out of curiosity; you were always so rigid, so tense, he wondered if you were actually a statue. Soon, it evolved into a game, kinda like the one he played with Suguru, where you have to stab sticks into a box and get as many in without bursting the balloon concealed inside. On a normal day, he could get up to six pokes with the eraser side of his pencil. When you got fed up, you’d cut him a glare, which darkens when he only grinned in victory. Sometimes, you didn’t look at him at all. Those days sucked. 

Steal the attention from you if you get into trouble. Though generally studious – if all those times you rejected his offer to have lunch together in lieu of reading up on textbooks were anything to go by – you did, occasionally, show up to class unprepared or late. If for any reason, you became the target of the teacher’s wrath, Satoru would watch you shuffle and fidget, clearly embarrassed, in front of the whole class. He’d tilt his head and think, wow, he’d hate to be you right now. Which, of course, never explained why he’d yawn loudly and pick a fight with the teacher. “Why are you balding?” He’d asked. “You need to cut back on the beer, sir…respectfully.” Distracted, your wrongdoings would be forgotten and the attention shifted away from you. He never looked your way when you tried to thank him. 

Drop snacks and drinks on your desk, claiming it was on a buy one get one free discount. Or, ignore Suguru so he could partner up with you instead, knowing that his charming friend had his pick of the litter and you would rather opt to sit, alone, in the corner. And definitely the type to jog backwards away from the group of boys in P.E so he can make fun of your uncoordinated limbs. 

Interrupt whoever’s talking to him to run over to you the moment you enter his peripheral; he’d gotten his fair share of bumps and bruises from doing it one too many times to his best friends. 

Share his bento with you. Well, it’s less sharing and more dumping the things he didn’t like over to your lunch box. Might even steal an octopus-shaped sausage, or two, from you. And he’d never admit it, but he often purposefully forgot his water bottle at home just so he could drink from yours. It wasn’t anything creepy, at least he didn’t think so. He just liked confirming that you two had gotten close enough to share bottles.

Join you in punishments. You’d talk in class, pass notes, and skip so, naturally, you faced disciplinary action quite often. However, they were rarely ever your fault. Not really, anyway. It was Satoru who pestered you with hushed jokes until you hissed at him to shut up. It was the white-haired boy who passed you folded pieces of papers with little doodles that you’d try to return, only to be blamed for it. And it was always, always Satoru who made you forgo the classes, what with his promises of something cooler and better, whether it was a bird’s nest or a rainbow or a spot perfect for people watching. Deservedly, you’d be sent out into the hallway and forced to stand in silence, which never lasted for very long because mere seconds after you, someone else came to join.

Whistling, he'd stand beside you, a little too close. Minutes would go by where neither of you spoke. Sometimes no one did. And most times, it was he who'd break first. Rocking on his feet, he’d nudge you and say something stupid like, “You really need to stop following me; it’s getting creepy.”

He’d say it too at the altar, eyes twinkling and grin painful. 

Right before you kiss him, at the moment where your lips skim against each other, and the whole world awaits your joining, he’d whisper, “Followed me all the way here too? Damn, Mrs. Gojo, you're obsessed.”

[serikai]

buying satoru a xs condom and he is genuinely offended¹⁸

you tossed the box of extra small condoms onto the bed, right where satoru was sprawled, scrolling on his phone, his eyes flicked up, catching the label XS and his smirk froze, replaced by a look of pure, offended disbelief.

“the fuck is this?” he said, holding the box like it was a personal insult, you bit your lip, stifling a laugh, leaning against the bedroom doorframe.

“thought i’d get you something... fitting.” you teased, your voice all innocence, but your eyes sparkled with mischief, satoru’s jaw twitched, his long fingers crushing the box slightly.

“fitting? fitting?”

the crushed box dangled from his fingers before he tossed it aside, the cardboard hitting the floor with a soft thud, his smirk returned, but it wasn’t playful anymore. "funny baby?" he asked and you kept silent.

“funny?” he repeated, as he closed the distance between you in a few strides. “you really think my dick is small? ” you tilted your chin up, meeting his gaze with a defiant grin, though your heart was pounding.

“just thought i’d give you a reality check.” you said, voice dripping with mock sweetness. “you knooow, keep that ego of yours in line.” satoru’s laugh stiffened “oh, baby.” he murmured, one hand slamming against the doorframe beside your head, caging you in.

his other hand grazed your hip, fingers digging in just enough to make you gasp. “you’re gonna regret that.” before you could fire back, his lips crashed into yours, kiss messy, desperate, tongue sweeping into your mouth as he pressed himself closer.

you grabbed at his shirt, tugging at the fabric, half wanting to pull him closer, half wanting to push him away just to see how far you could test him.

he broke the kiss, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered. “you’re gonna learn real quick what fits and what doesn’t.”

you barely had time to react before he was lifting you, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you to the bed, dropping you onto the mattress with a bounce.

he then stripped off his shirt, revealing the sculpted planes of his chest and abs, every line of him radiating power. “still think i'm working with extra small?” he asked, voice laced with mockery as he undid his belt with a tug, the sound of leather sliding through fabric making your heart jump.

you propped yourself up on your elbows, smirking despite the heat pooling low in your belly. “prove me wrong, then.” you challenged then his eyes flashed, and in an instant, he was on you, hands gripping your thighs as he spread them apart.

“oh, i will.” he tugged your shorts and underwear down in one swift motion, leaving you bare beneath him, his fingers traced up your inner thigh, until they found your core, already slick.

you whimpered, and he chuckled, low and filthy, as he shoved his pants down, freeing himself, your eyes widened at the sight of him — he is so fucking hard — and definitely not fitting the label you’d teased him with.

he caught your stare, and his smirk grew downright wicked. “still think it’s small?” he asked, gripping himself as he positioned himself between your thighs, the tip brushing against you.

you opened your mouth to retort, but the words died in your throat as he pushed into you in one smooth thrust, filling you so completely it knocked the air from your lungs.

you cried out, fingers digging into his shoulders as he set a brutal pace, hitting every spot inside you that made you see stars. “you think my dick is small?” he growled, as he leaned down, his lips brushing your ear. “yet it’s hitting every fucking inch of you, isn’t it?” his hips snapped forward, harder and deeper, and your desperate moans are enough as a answer.

[holeforzenin]

— ACCIDENTS HAPPEN P2

cw - Mistaken identity, unintentional noncon, reader thinks Megumi is Toji, toji x reader in the end. Toji is ANGRY. Everyone is 18+, Not proofread :3

You’re still warm and drowsy from your nap, your brain barely awake and running on autopilot. The whole apartment smells like Toji—like sweat, cologne, and something masculine that sticks to your skin. One of his old t-shirts hangs off the sides of your shoulders, drowning your frame, it’s soft and stretched from being worn too many times. Your panties are clinging between your thighs, thin cotton soaked from sleep and heat and dreams you can’t fully remember.

The floor’s cold beneath your feet and gives you goosebumps as you slowly pad toward the living room, your body drawn to the sight of a familiar figure on the couch.

He’s laid out just like always—shirtless and relaxed with one arm behind his head, mouth slightly parted with his eyes closed. You don’t stop to think. You never do. You let out a cute huff as you straddle his face like it’s second nature, knees sinking into the soft couch cushion while your hand drifts back, lazily tugging your damp panties to the side and exposing your sensitive heat.

You spread yourself open, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass as your cunt twitches from the sudden chill in the room, already glossy and decorated with the arousal slipping out of your little hole.

Your hips sink down slowly, closing in on his face until your horny pussy settles warm and dripping against his lips. A soft sigh of content slips from your parted lips as you feel him. His mouth is warm. His breath catches slightly and you smile sleepily, your hazy mind not noticing how stiff his whole body goes beneath you.

Megumi knows it’s you. There’s no one else it could be—no one else with a pussy lives here. The second you step into the room, the second he catches a glimpse of the soft curve of your thighs, the way your voice hums so softly through the quiet as you make your way to the couch—he knows. And he should’ve said something. Should’ve stopped you.

But what he didn’t expect was for you to casually tug your panties to the side and settle yourself right on his face without saying a single thing.

But he can’t. His mouth is already full of the intoxicating scent of your sweet pussy, the press of your swollen folds slicked up against his lips.

Your asshole flutters right in front of his nose as you shift forward, your hips beginning to glide over his mouth in slow, stuttering motions—like you’re already impatient he hasn’t started anything yet. Like you’re used to being worshipped in this way without having to ask. And maybe you were—Megumi wouldn’t question it. His dad always made sure you were a happy and content girl, after all.

His hands clench into fists at his sides. He tries not to move. He tries to hold his breath. But then he hears your whining little plea, “C’mon baby… lick me already, please…”

It’s instinct. Need. Hunger. He doesn’t mean to do it—his tongue just pushes out, tentative at first, barely flicking over your slit. You immediately moan and your head tilts back. High and soft and needy, so sweet he aches from it. Your hips rock forward, rubbing your clit over his mouth and that’s all it takes to egg him on. He licks you again. Longer this time. He presses the flat of his tongue right against your folds and drags it slowly upwards until your plushy thighs tense around his head.

His cock throbs beneath his sweats, hard and aching, and shame claws at the edge of his mind but it doesn’t matter. Not when you grind down again, sighing like you always do, chasing more of what you think is his father’s tongue.

You start to move more deliberately. Slow little humps against his mouth, back-and-forth glides of your cunt that smear slick across his lips and nose. Your panties are still tugged to the side, your skin warm and flushed, the curve of your ass so full and soft in his hands that he doesn’t even realize he’s gripping you.

Your fingers tangle in the couch cushions as your moans grow breathier and needier, your hips rolling with that sleepy rhythm you get when you’re right on the edge. “There you goooo,” you whispered with a hum, voice soft and dazed. “Just like that, daddy…” Megumi flinches at the name, the sound of it dragging him straight back to those sleepless nights—nights spent staring at the ceiling while your moans bled through the thin walls, breathy and sweet as you cried out that name to his father. His eyes squeeze shut, jaw tight, trying to shake the memory and focus on his very first pussy.

He wants to disappear. He wants to die. But he also wants to keep licking you until you cum on his tongue.

He eats you like he’s been waiting his whole life for it. His tongue dips into your leaking entrance, then back up to flick your clit. His mouth is open, wet, messy, and greedy, sucking softly at the parts of you that pulse and twitch the most. You don’t even know what you’re grinding on anymore—you’re too far gone, too needy, too clouded to care. His jaw aches. His face is soaked. His cock is straining so hard it’s painful. And when your thighs start to tremble, when your breath starts to hitch, when you whimper a soft, “I’m gonna cum!”—he forgets everything.

That’s when the door opens.

A shadow falls across the room. Megumi’s eyes go wide and his heart skips a beat.

You don’t even turn your head.

“…The fuck is going on in here?”

Toji’s voice is rough and dangerous. The tone makes it clear that he wasn’t in a good mood to begin with.

Your hips freeze then your whole body stiffens. And slowly—so slowly—you look down to see a pair of glassy purple eyes staring right back at you. Megumi’s mouth is still in your pussy. Still wet and frozen.

Your face drains of color.

You scramble back, panties snapping into place, eyes full of horror as the realization hits you like a truck.

“…You’re not Toji”.

Megumi doesn’t move during the confrontation. He can’t. He still tastes you on his tongue.

His entire body is locked, his face still sticky with your arousal, and his lips are parted like he might say something—anything but nothing comes out. Just shallow, panicked breaths as his throat bobs, frozen beneath the weight of what he’s done.

You’re curled in on yourself now, shaking on your feet. You look so small and terrified. Your hand clutches the hem of Toji’s shirt like it’s armor, like it could possibly hide what just happened, but your thighs are still glistening, twitching slightly from overstimulation. And Toji hasn’t taken a step. He just stands there in the doorway, keys still in his hand, jaw clenched so tightly it ticks.

The silence lasts a beat too long.

And then—

“Out,” Toji mutters—quietly and flat, no room for argument. It’s not a suggestion. It’s aimed straight at his son.

Megumi’s mouth opens, but no sound comes. He’s still breathless, still hard, still—

“I said get the fuck out”.

That time it’s louder, sharper and Final. Megumi finally scrambles off the couch, his head bowing down in embarrassment, avoiding both of your eyes. The second he stands, his sweats do nothing to hide how hard he is, and you flinch when you see the huge tent, one hand flying up to cover your mouth like it’ll undo the last ten minutes.

Toji watches it all with a look that doesn’t waver. Doesn’t blink. Just tracks Megumi’s every move as he silently walks past him like a ghost. Like a criminal. His footsteps vanish down the hall, and then his bedroom door shuts.

You don’t know what to say. Your lips tremble but your voice won’t work. Your heart is hammering. You can still feel Megumi’s mouth on you. You still taste sleep in the back of your throat, and you still don’t fully understand what you’ve done.

Toji stalks towards you like a predator slowly closing in on its prey. The weight of his heavy boots echoes across the floor. Your eyes dart up to him, swimming with fear—maybe even shame but he doesn’t stop.

He pauses right in front of you. His massive towering frame casts a shadow as he stares down. You look wrecked—hair tousled, cheeks flushed, lips damp. There’s a glint of your arousal still glistening at the edge of your thigh and his eyes catch on it, lingering.

“That…” he grits out, voice rough like gravel. “That’s what you look like when you think it’s me?”

His gaze doesn’t waver, it’s locked on your ruined expression like he’s daring you to answer.

You nod—numb, frightened, and barely breathing. But you can’t lie. Not to him. Not when the truth is still slick between your thighs.

He laughs. Just once with absolutely no humor in it.

“I leave for an hour… and you plant your soaked little pussy all over my kid’s mouth like it’s a goddamn habit?” he mutters, more to himself than to you. Then he slowly leans down to your height like an animal stalking prey and his fingers curl around your jaw. Not gentle, but not cruel either. Just firm enough that you can’t look away.

“Tell me the truth, baby,” he muttered terrifyingly calm. “You knew it wasn’t me the second he didn’t touch you back, didn’t you?”. His grip tightens just a little, coaxing the confession from your trembling lips.

You shake your head weakly and desperately—but his grip tightens enough to still you, thumb pressing against your cheek and he squishes it harder so your lips slightly pucker.

“You knew,” he repeats like he’s already decided. “You just didn’t wanna stop. Not with how sweet his mouth was. Right?”

Your breath hitches.

“You gonna cum for anyone who lets you sit on their face now? Or just anyone with my last name?”

Your face crumples like you might cry but you don’t. You just stare at him like you’ve finally woken up from whatever haze had you crawling onto the wrong face.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“No baby. You did—you just didn’t care”.

And when he finally lets go of your jaw, you sag in place like all the heat has been drained from your bones but he’s not done.

He kneels in front of you.

His eyes stay locked on yours as his hand moves between your thighs, fingers dragging your panties to the side—again. You gasp, instinctively trying to close your legs, but he stops you with a harsh look.

“Toji—”

“Don’t,” he snaps harshly. “You didn’t want him to stop. You’re not stopping me either”.

Two fingers slide through the slick that Megumi’s tongue left behind. He hums, almost thoughtfully. “Still soaked,” he murmurs. “Cunt’s still throbbing. You’re so fucking messy it’s like you’re begging me to clean up after him”.

His thumb presses right against your clit and you jerk, your breath catching into a sob.

“You better pray I don’t make you finish right here,” he mutters, voice low and threatening but laced with certainty, like that’s exactly what he intends. “Loudly too. Let him hear what it sounds like when the real man does it properly”.

And you don’t know what’s worse: the guilt churning in your stomach…

…or the shameful heat that pulses between your thighs while imagining what’s going to happen.

[setulose]

draag dashboard simulator

🌾 wheatharvester71

who up toiling in they fields #myfields

🔁 👩‍🌾 reappraylove Follow

man get the fuck off draagblr and help us fill our harvest quota i wanna be back in the barracks for quizzo

🔁 🌾 wheatharvester71

??? girl what are YOU doing in the devils sacrament

22 notes

🎤 mostexaltedvocalist

I'm probably nonbinary but I have to sing in the Draag national band so idrc about that rn

19,738 notes

🍪 moat-mealraisin Follow

does anyone else think the reconditioning technician uniforms are kinda...

🔁 🔩 ironworkmakesthedreamwork

amateur shit start jerking off to the MOAT gate filigree like the rest of us

298 notes

🎙️ maudlinmarianne

i'm the only bitch serving cunt here 😭😭😭 omg 😭 i'm soooo embarrassed 😭😭

4588 notes

🔥 guyonfire

FUCK FUCK FUCK YEOWCH OWWWW FUCK AHHHHHHH OWWW HELP

3 notes

👠 rupaulsfrackingpermit Follow

Ok so I misread draag as drag and now I have a mutual from that weird regime in the blighted lands I guess

🔁 👠rupaulsfrackingpermit Follow

Hi Iron

🔁 🔩 ironworkmakesthedreamwork

hey girl!!!

17 notes

👨‍✈️ grandimmortaldictator

One cannot deny that The Black Parade's Most Exalted Vocalist is a tribute to our nation's greatness. Long Live Draag.

11,738 notes

👨‍✈️ grandimmortaldictator

One cannot deny that The Black Parade's Most Exalted Vocalist is a baddie.

🔁 📋 draagclerkofficial Follow

Sir

🔁 👁️ ministrycompreconditioning

YOU'VE SEEN NOTHING

93,670 notes

🥫 haterofsoup

you bitches cannot actually be thirsting after the grand immortal dictator just because he's 6'5"... i hate fagoshkas

🔁 🍪 moat-mealraisin Follow

do you have a state-sanctioned same-sex attraction acknowledgement certificate? i didnt see one in your pinned :/ you rlly shouldn't be reclaiming that word if not

🔁 🥫 haterofsoup

i'm not reclaiming it i'm using it as a slur

6,328 notes

👔 debonair-draagoshka

hey girl... just saw 4 executees get shot in the head at the black parade show and it made me think of how i failed to execute my shot with you even though you gave great head... i miss you... call me

🔁 👁️ ministrycompreconditioning

The individual who made this post has been identified and detained for immediate reconditioning. Long Live Draag.

12,492 notes

🔩 ironworkmakesthedreamwork

i will NOT let you all cancel the most exalted vocalist i'm drawing my line in the sand here

🔁 🏢 conkcreatage

...they kill like four people every week

🔁 🔩 ironworkmakesthedreamwork

and?? god forbid women do anything

48 notes

👤 menialtaskforce Follow

ughhhhhh i'm so sick of everyone i work with i wish this whole stupid stadium would just blow up

🔁 🌾 wheatharvester71

hey OP any updates?

🔁 🌾wheatharvester71

Hey OP?

765 notes

[rawme-price]

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE I need more secret dragon reader PLEASE

Pt 2 to dragon reader :] (cw for sh discussion)

The heli ride back to base is tense and anxiety inducing. Price keeps a hand on you at all times, as if scared youll pass out the moment he lets you go. You feel fine.

Price tells you medics will be waiting the second you land. Some doctor is over comms with price, giving him instructions as your captain asks you questions. if you feel dizzy or lethargic, if you have any pains or aches. You tell them none more than the usualy soldier does.

Price tries to brush your hair aside to check for horn stumps, but you bat him away. Its bad enough having an unfamiliar dragon grabbing at you, you dont want him to touch you any more than necessary. Price narrows his eyes, debates forcing you to do it, but ultimately backs down.

Instead, he moves on to even more questions from the doctor. "How often and how much do you usually eat, soldier?"

"Only time I eat is during meals, captain, when you get everyone food."

Price swears under his breath, thunks his head on the wall behind him and runs a hand over his face. "Fuck, okay-" he speaks into the com, to the doctors "two to three meals a day, all human proportions...yeah uh-huh....yeah I made sure of that."

Price is silent after that, looking up at the ceiling. Small curls of smoke drift up whenever he exhales. You dont think he realizes hes doing it.

When the heli lands, youre shocked to see a literal team of medics waiting for you. Its feels...overdramatic. "captain," you whisper when a fucking stretcher rolls up "this isnt necessary! I can walk fine on my own."

Price flares his wings a bit, and bodily hauls you onto the stretcher when you try to walk past it. "you aren't going anywhere until youre cleared medically, understood?"

Medics and nurses rush around you, taking vitals and sharing glances. Its fucking humiliating. Being wheeled through halls filled with peers, while a group of medical professionals swarm you like youre some sick cancerous child.

When they get you to a private room, a doctor comes in and asks you a bunch of questions. More about eating habits, then sleep, then self-image. He asks if youve ever considered hurting yourself.

"Wait-" you pause him, holding up the arm without an IV. "Im not fucking, depressed or whatever, okay? Whatever problem you think is there mentally, its not."

The doctor frowns at you. Pity. Still, he nods and puts his clipboard away after writing a few lines. "Okay. Im going to examine you first, then well decide where to go from there. As your captain, price will be notified of only the most important injuries or complications, but given your...state, that may be quite alot."

You sigh, mentally exhausted and wanting to just curl up in bed. Its bad enough price knows your a dragon. Now its guaranteed the whole base will know of your escort to medbay by tonight. Wonderful.

Outside, in the waiting room, price paces and paces. Tight anxious circles as his horde is hopefully being saved by the doctors.

[goldenbrowns]

ABYSS KISS ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪࣪|| clark kent x fem!reader || oneshot

other pairings: inexperienced!reader x clark kent

summary: You and Clark Kent had always shared something unspoken — a quiet safety. Long before your relationship, he was the one who listened to your rants about failed dates and your fears around intimacy. You’d told him everything: how romance never quite fit, how sex had become a distant memory. But Clark saw you. He always had. Now, after months of slow, growing affection, you’re finally together — though physical closeness still feels unfamiliar. He knows that. So one quiet night, with trust hanging in the air as you cuddled under a blanket watching a movie, you get a little squirmy from the close contact, and he noticed, offering to help.

word count: 7.6k

warnings: service!top clark, inexperienced!reader, dirty talking, fingering, oral fem!receiving, spit as lube, pussy pronouns, mild language, praise kink, dacryphilia, clark is a bit condescending, size kink, didn't notice I made the reader kinda nonverbal sometimes...,

There was always something about Clark Kent that felt different. Not in the obvious way — not the glasses or the quiet charm, not even the way he seemed to fill up a room without meaning to. It was in the stillness. The way he listened without trying to fix, the way he gave space without making you feel abandoned. Being around him felt like standing in sunlight: gentle, quiet warmth that you didn’t realize you needed until it settled on your skin.

And over time, you found yourself leaning into that warmth. Little by little, you let him see parts of you that had long been tucked away — not because he asked, but because with him, the silence didn’t feel heavy. You told him things. Things you didn’t usually admit out loud. About how love had always felt more complicated than comforting. How dating, for you, was less about connection and more about surviving mismatched expectations.

One night, when you were still just friends and sitting side by side on his couch with takeout boxes between you, you’d launched into one of your trademark rants — the kind where frustration blended with disbelief.

“He actually got mad,” you’d said, gesturing wildly with a half-eaten spring roll. “Like actually mad. Because he paid for dinner and brought me stupid gas station flowers, and thought that meant I owed him something.”

Clark had looked up from his food then, eyebrows lifting. “Wait, first date?”

“First date,” you said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “As in, ‘Hi, nice to meet you, here's a meal and a bouquet, now let’s pretend we’re in a poorly written porno.’”

He had laughed, but it wasn’t mocking. It was low and disbelieving — incredulous on your behalf.

“I just— I don’t get it,” you continued. “Like, why do some men think basic decency is currency for sex? I was polite. I said thank you. I smiled. That doesn’t mean I was ready to jump into bed with him, and somehow I was the bad guy?”

Clark shook his head, frowning now. “You’re not the bad guy for having boundaries. That’s... basic human respect.”

You’d blinked at him, something soft unraveling in your chest. “Yeah. Try explaining that to someone who thinks dinner is a contract.”

There was a pause then. One of those Clark pauses, thoughtful and charged with something unspoken. When he finally spoke, it was quieter.

“If anyone makes you feel like you owe them your body for kindness, they don’t deserve any part of you. Not your time. Not your laughter. Not even your irritation.”

You remember that moment clearly — not just because of the words, but because of how he looked at you when he said them. Like your worth was a given. Like your no would always be enough.

It stayed with you. The way he didn’t flinch at your anger. The way he didn’t make it about him. Just listened, nodded, understood. That conversation, like so many others, built the invisible thread that tugged at you each time you looked at him. Until one day, it wasn’t just a thread — it was a lifeline.

You didn’t fall in love with Clark all at once. It wasn’t a cinematic moment or a lightning strike. It was a slow, steady accumulation. His laugh in the morning. The way he always remembered how you took your coffee. The way he looked at you when you were talking — like nothing else mattered. You started to feel it like warmth in your chest, like gravity pulling you closer to something safe.

And when you finally did get together, it wasn’t sudden. It didn’t need to be. You already knew each other in ways that mattered more than the official labels.

Still, even with all that love, there were parts of you that felt unsure. Not because of him, but because of everything that came before. Intimacy — real intimacy — had become a kind of foreign language you used to speak fluently but had forgotten. It had been years since you’d let someone close, really close. And though you weren’t a stranger to sex, it had been long enough, and fumbled enough, that the idea of rediscovering it felt tangled with nerves and doubt. You’ve had one boyfriend before, but after that, your experience had stayed very limited.

But Clark never rushed you. Never assumed. He kissed you like you were something precious, like he had all the time in the world — and maybe he did. With him, you never felt like you were running out of time. You just felt held.

He never asked when. Never implied if not now, then when. He just was — beside you, consistent and patient. The kind of man who didn’t tally favors or gifts or kind gestures. The kind who simply loved you, and let that be enough.

Still… you thought about it.

You tried not to — not in a desperate, spiraling way — but your mind would drift. To the shape of his hands, the low timbre of his voice when he whispered things only meant for you. To the way he smelled, like warmth and safety and something slightly earthy, like rain on pavement. You’d wanted him, as badly as you hoped he wanted you. Probably just as much.

You tried not to dwell on it, tried not to let your imagination carry you too far, but the past few weeks had made it harder. Your thoughts got tangled in moments that felt almost like permission: the brush of his lips against your throat when he hugged you from behind, the way his hand lingered at your waist just a second too long, the sound he made when you kissed him like you meant it. All of it built up — slow, steady pressure under your skin that made you restless and squirmy and so unbelievably pent-up.

So today, when you and Clark were curled up on the couch watching one of his nerdy sci-fi movies — something about time loops and space-time paradoxes you barely followed — you weren’t feeling your best. Or maybe that wasn’t the right word. You were warm, content, half-focused… and aching in a quiet, constant kind of way that made it hard to sit still. Harder still to pretend it wasn’t happening.

You’d ended up in your usual spot: half under the throw blanket, your head resting against his shoulder, his arm slung around you lazily. The bottom half of both your bodies were hidden beneath the soft fabric, though of course not all of it — Clark’s feet, long and bare, stuck out at the edge of the L-shaped couch. Over 6’5” of muscle and kindness. There wasn’t a blanket in the world long enough for him.

But now, you were suddenly aware of everything.

The way his fingers were idly tracing soft, feather-light circles on your shoulder — so gentle you might have missed it if you weren’t completely tuned into every square inch of your skin. How his other hand, the one that had been resting on his own leg when the movie started, had migrated beneath the blanket… and was now settled on your thigh. Higher than usual. Not improper, not demanding — just there, and warmer than it should’ve been, radiating through the fabric of your sweatpants and directly into your bloodstream.

Your breathing had shifted before you realized it. Slower, deeper. Each inhale filled with the scent of him — something clean and earthy, like cedar and soap, and something else, something him.

You could feel the lines of his torso beneath his shirt, solid and defined. Every breath he took made the muscle beneath you shift — the quiet rise and fall of his chest just under your cheek. And every time he chuckled at some ridiculous sci-fi paradox or whispered a nerdy fun fact into the space between you, you felt it vibrate through his chest and into your bones. It was grounding. It was too much.

And then… there was that.

Your leg, draped so innocently over his lap — a position you’d taken a hundred times without thinking — was suddenly very much something. Because now, you could feel it. The shape of him beneath the blanket, beneath the thin fabric of his sweatpants. Not exaggerated. Not something he was pushing or calling attention to. Just present. Solid. Real.

Your thigh had unknowingly settled over the curve of his cock, and now you couldn't un-feel it. The contact wasn’t overt — there was space between you still, air and fabric and hesitation — but your skin was screaming anyway.

He was huge. You weren’t just imagining it. Even through the thin fabric of his sweats and the shared heat between your bodies, the shape of him was unmistakable. Heavy. Firm. Bigger than what you’d expected — not that you hadn’t thought about it before. Of course you had. But knowing and feeling were entirely different things. One was curiosity. The other was a full-body crisis.

You shifted — subtly, guiltily — like maybe adjusting would help you think straight, but it only made it worse. The soft drag of your thigh over him shifted the position of his cock in his sweatpants. Was he wearing no underwear? Your skin prickled, flushed and alive, every inch of you screaming for more friction, more pressure, more.

You tried to focus on the movie. Tried to listen to Clark’s heartbeat under your cheek instead of the storm building low in your belly.

But all you could think about was how hot he felt. How there he was. How easily you could shift again — just a little — and slide your leg closer, press down on it, maybe even roll your hips pretending it was accidental.

Just as your thoughts started to spiral — body taut, blood buzzing, desire thick and almost dizzying — Clark cut through the tension with a low, casual murmur.

“You know,” he said, voice warm with that familiar nerdy amusement, “if this movie followed the actual laws of time dilation, that character would’ve aged about fifty years by now.”

You blinked.

It took a full second to process the words. Your brain, still tangled in heat and friction and the maddening outline of him beneath your leg, scrambled to catch up. The sudden whiplash of him being so Clark in this moment — dorky and oblivious or maybe too unaware — made you let out a laugh. Or something that was supposed to be a laugh.

But it came out too fast. Too high. Too tight.

Clark’s hand stopped its lazy circles on your shoulder. His body stilled, just slightly, like he was tuning in. You didn’t even have time to hide the way your breath caught before he gently turned his head down toward you, his brows knitting in that soft, concerned way he always wore when he sensed something just beneath the surface.

“Hey,” he said, barely above a whisper.

His hand moved — slow and careful — under your chin, coaxing your gaze upward. His fingers were warm and steady as they tipped your face to meet his. And when your eyes finally found his, wide and glassy, you knew he saw everything.

You tried to speak — to joke, to dismiss, to breathe — but the words stuck. Your cheeks burned. Your lips trembled. And it wasn’t from embarrassment. It was too much. You were too full of him — of want, of fear, of need. It sat in your throat like a secret you couldn’t keep anymore.

“Are you okay?” he asked, voice soft but sure, genuinely concerned.

You swallowed, but it didn’t help. His eyes searched yours, and something in you cracked under the pressure — not in a painful way, but in that raw, terrifyingly beautiful way vulnerability always finds its edge.

You tried to laugh it off, forcing a joke as a shield. “I’m fine,” you said quickly, voice a little too high, trying to brush away the tension that suddenly thickened the air between you. “Really, it’s nothing. Just… you know, too much sci-fi for one night.” You smiled, hoping it sounded casual, maybe even funny.

But Clark wasn’t buying it. His eyes held yours, steady and searching, and there was no flicker of doubt in his expression—only care. “Uh uh, there's something wrong I can tell,” he pressed softly, his voice gentle but insistent, as if he could see past your words to the fluttering nerves you were trying so hard to hide.

Embarrassment flushed through you like a wave. You palmed your face, cheeks burning hot against your fingertips. “God, this is so stupid,” you muttered, the words tumbling out in a rush. “For the love of all things, please just let’s keep watching the movie.” You hoped to shut down the conversation, to bury the fluttering ache and the heat pooling low in your belly under the easy distraction of the flickering screen.

But Clark wasn’t letting go. Not tonight.

His hand, the one resting on your thigh, tightened just a fraction—not enough to hurt, but enough to anchor you back into the moment. You blinked up at him, caught between wanting to run and wanting to melt into the warmth that radiated from his body so close to yours.

“I mean,” you stammered, cheeks still burning, “you’re just… so close. And so warm. And your hand there,” you glanced down at where his fingers lay lightly on your thigh, “it’s… dangerous.”

You swallowed hard, heart pounding in your ears. Then, unable to stop yourself, your eyes flicked down further, toward the unmistakable curve beneath the blanket, not even hard, just resting there. “And then there’s that,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, pointing subtly to where he was pressed beneath your leg.

Clark looked down, blinking innocently as if he hadn’t a clue what you meant — but the flush creeping up his neck when he finally looked down said otherwise. He caught on, of course, he did. And the way his brows furrowed, a little guilty, a little sheepish, made your heart twist.

His hand left your thigh for a moment, as if almost apologizing for the weight it had. His voice dropped to a tender murmur. “I’m so sorry,” he said, sincerity threading through every word. “I didn’t mean to— I never wanted to make you feel uncomfortable. I was clueless, honestly. I didn’t realize… I never wanted to rile you up like this.”

He sounded so genuine, so careful, like he was cradling something fragile and precious—you—in his hands. His thumb brushed gently over your knuckles as if soothing a child, and you felt yourself melt a little under the weight of his concern.

You took a deep breath and shook your head, trying to pull back some of the heat rising in your cheeks. “The problem’s me,” you said, voice a little breathless but steady. “I’ve just been getting way too in my head lately. Like, really pent up.” You gave a small, almost sheepish laugh. “Honestly, it’s ridiculous. I feel… needy. Not in some dramatic, emotional way — just… like I haven’t had a moment to myself that’s not thinking about wanting something I don’t know how to ask for.”

You shrugged, trying to make light of it but the honesty was there. “I catch myself daydreaming about just… being close to you, how you'd feel, fuck— how warm you are. And then I panic because I’m so out of practice I don’t even know where to start. So yeah, I’ve been a little wound up. And it’s been making me feel all kinds of weird.”

Clark’s expression softened instantly, his eyes filling with a kind of heartbreak that made your chest ache. His voice was low, full of regret and tenderness. “My poor baby,” he murmured, brushing his thumb lightly over your knuckles again. “I’m so sorry for making you feel like this. I wasn’t aware — I swear, I didn’t realize how much you were holding in.”

He leaned in a little, careful not to crowd you, but wanting you to know how deeply he cared. “You don’t have to pretend with me,” he said quietly. “I want to understand. And I want to help, in any way you’ll let me.”

You nodded slowly, still taken aback by the tenderness in his words. Your eyes were glassy, brows furrowed as if trying to process the weight of everything he was offering. “Okay,” you whispered, voice barely audible. “Yeah… I think I want that."

Clark’s gaze softened even more, his thumb brushing lightly over your cheek as if to soothe the hesitation lingering there. “Yeah, you sure?” he asked gently, his voice low and steady. “I don’t want to rush you. This is just as important to me as it is to you. I want us to move at your pace, not mine. I never want to do anything that makes you feel uncomfortable or unprepared.”

You blinked up at him, a shy smile tugging at your lips as you whispered, “Pretty please?”

The softness of the words — simple, honest, and a little bit playful — seemed to melt something inside him. His eyes brightened, warm and tender, and he smiled like a puppy who’d just been given a treat he didn’t expect.

Without another word, he leaned in slowly, his hand still cradling your cheek, and pressed his lips gently to yours. The kiss was soft, careful, full of promise — the kind that said, I’m here. We’ll go as far as you want. It was everything and nothing all at once, a beginning that needed no grand announcement.

When he finally pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his grin was shy and wide. “Your wish is my command,” he whispered, the playful glint still shining bright.

You weren’t sure who moved first after that kiss — maybe it was him, maybe it was you — but suddenly his hand was sliding down, slow and deliberate, until it found your thigh again. This time, he didn’t stop. His palm moved over your skin like it had a destination, like it already knew the map. It moved down your shorts and settled on the edge of your panties. He hesitated just long enough for you to breathe out a quiet, "Yes."

His touch shifted then — not quite dropping his hand inside, not yet, but there, right over your cunt. The heat of his hand through the fabric was maddening, careful but firm, his fingers moving in a way that made your legs tense and your breath catch. You bit your lip hard, trying not to make a sound, but it didn’t help. You were already sopping wet, enough to feel embarrassed about it or how much you wanted this. Your hips reacted on their own, a soft, needy roll up into his touch like your body had been waiting for this longer than your mind could admit.

He hummed, low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your lips as he kissed you again, deeper this time. His hand drew feather-light circles on the sopping fabric right above your clit. And not in a rushed, frantic way. He wanted you like someone starved who knew exactly how to savor.

“You’ve been holding this in, and Ive been such a jerk teasing you like this...” he murmured against your jaw, his fingers still working slow, steady circles over your cunt, making the fabric even damper with want. “All this time... my poor baby.”

You could barely breathe. Everything in you felt tight, electric, so pent-up you didn’t know whether to cry or beg or both. All you could do was nod, grabbing onto his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

“Let me take care of it,” he whispered, kissing just beneath your ear. “Let me take care of you.”

His fingers lingered a moment longer, tracing slow, teasing circles over your cunt through the fabric. The touch was deliberate, hungry but controlled—like he was memorizing every curve, every soft inch beneath his palm. You could feel the heat pooling deeper, the dampness growing with every subtle press and glide.

He pulled back just enough to let his lips brush against your jaw again, low and rough this time. His voice was a husky whisper, both sweet and edged with something darker. “Can I take these off, honey? Would you like that? Wanna touch you—Gosh, you´re soaked pretty girl...” he asked, eyes locked on yours, serious but charged with that raw need you hadn’t heard from him before.

He barely gave you time to nod before his fingers curled beneath the waistband of your panties and shorts, tugging slowly and deliberately. The fabric slipped down inch by inch, the movement unhurried as if he was savoring the anticipation rather than rushing toward the reveal. Even before you were half naked, his hand’s motion was both tender and claiming.

His eyes, half-lit by the soft glow of the room and locked onto yours, held something raw — a blend of hunger tempered by care. There was a teasing glint there, a spark that said he knew exactly the effect he had on you and was savoring every second of it. His gaze flicked down briefly towards your cunt. He had meant it to be discreet, but because you were side by side, nestled against him, his view was limited — a teasing mercy that only made your awareness of being exposed all the sharper.

You swallowed hard, suddenly acutely conscious of the cold air against the wetness of your cunt and the way his chest seemed hotter now. So much so that part of your defenses were down. Heat flushed your cheeks and neck as the weight of vulnerability settled in. You shifted instinctively, grabbing the bottom of your shirt and pulling it down to cover yourself, the fabric a small shield between you and his gaze.

He caught the movement and chuckled softly, a low, teasing sound that vibrated through the space between you. He began pressing soft pecks against your neck as he softly caressed your mid-thigh. “Covering up already?” he murmured, voice thick with both amusement and something deeper, more intimate. “That's cute, baby.”

You gave a shaky laugh, eyes darting away for a moment, but he gently lifted your chin with a finger, coaxing you back to meet his gaze.

“Hey,” he said, voice soft but sure. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. I’m just lookin', you look so pretty. We can stop whenever you want, baby."

His thumb brushed tenderly over your cheek, lingering as if searching for permission without pressure. Then, voice dropping to a low murmur, he asked, “Can I touch you? Really touch you?” His eyes darkened with need and care, waiting for your answer — patient, undemanding.

You thought, heart pounding, breath catching in your throat, caught between the desperate want curling inside you and the fragile nerves fluttering beneath the surface. But when you whispered out a shaky "ýes", he smiled — slow, sweet, and promising.

The hand that had been gently cradling your cheek drifted downward with a quiet confidence, fingers brushing over your collarbone, then gliding down the front of your shirt. When it reached the spot where your own hand still clutched the fabric, he paused. His fingers curled gently around your wrist, giving it a soft squeeze — not demanding, just asking.

“Let me,” he murmured, his voice low, coaxing.

You hesitated for a breath, then released your grip. He lifted the hem of your shirt just enough to reveal the soft curve of your stomach and left it there — not pulling it higher. His hand traced along your skin, slow and reverent, before settling lower, cupping your dripping cunt.

A low sound left him — somewhere between a breathless laugh and a groan — as he glanced up at you with a smirk. "You're soaked, sweetie..."

His fingers spread your folds, and with the middle one, he began to tease at your slit, ever so gently, still a goddamn gentleman. Your eyes screwed shut as soon as he touched you; your senses felt heightened. It had been so long, and you never remembered it feeling so overpowering.

His eyes stayed fixed on your face, and not just for one reason. Part of him was carefully scanning for any flicker of hesitation — ready to stop the second he sensed discomfort. But the other part, the more selfish one, was completely enamoured by the pretty little faces he was pulling from you. He wanted to memorize every little reaction, every twitch of your lips, every flutter of your lashes.

You, on the other hand, couldn’t meet his gaze. Your face had twisted into something almost unreadable — a blend of too much sensation and too little control — your eyes shut tight, as if blocking out the weight of his stare might somehow ground you. Your hand clung to the fabric of his shirt like it was the only steady thing left.

His voice dipped lower, rough around the edges as his fingers continued their slow, unrelenting rhythm over your clit, sometimes stopping himself to guide a teasing finger along your slit coaxing, testing. The pad of his finger brushed just a little firmer over that sensitive spot, watching the way your body reacted — the stuttered breath, the soft twitch of your hips.

“You think you can take a finger, hm?” he murmured, tilting his head so his lips brushed the shell of your ear, voice thick with heat and something almost reverent. “You wanna try it out?”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, one brow raised, his eyes flicking between your flushed face and your parted lips. His hand never left you, still teasing slow circles, coaxing you toward a yes without saying it. His other hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. “I wanna hear you say it. You wanna feel me?”

You hesitated, breath catching, heart pounding loud enough to drown out everything else. But then, with a shaky breath and a nervous smile, you nodded. “Yeah… I want to. I think I can.”

The thing is, you can take a finger, that had never been a problem before. But Clark was huge all over, and his hands and fingers were no exception. So you had every right to doubt your abilities right now. And now that your arm had unknowingly begun to press against the very unmistakable bulge in his sweatpants, the sheer size of his cock had made itself very clear to you. So now you didn’t know what to pray for, if for you, or for your cervix after tonight.

That smile of his — soft, crooked, a little too pleased — stretched across his lips, and he leaned in to kiss your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. “Good girl,” he rasped, like the words tasted good coming out.

Then his fingers dipped lower, dragging slow, lazy circles on your hole, clearly teasing you, taking his time. “Gonna be real gentle,” he muttered against your skin, “but you gotta relax for me, yeah? Let me in, gotta relax for me.”

And just as your hips rolled into his hand in response, desperate and involuntary, you heard him chuckle softly. His middle finger slowly pushed inside your cunt, making you hiss. His finger was so deliciously thick, you still werent sure how you'd take a second one.

“You’re already so worked up, pretty thing. You’ve been wanting this all night, haven’t you?”

Clark’s gaze lingered on your face, heavy with warmth and something deeper — a kind of reverence. His finger slowly worked itself in and out of your cunt, drawing wet and sloppy noises from between your legs. You almost sighed in embarrassment, but his eyes locked on the way his finger drove itself inside of you said something else entirely. Then, the way he looked at you made it hard to breathe, like he was seeing something rare, something he wasn’t quite sure he deserved.

“Look at you,” he murmured into your ear, voice husky with awe. “You’re driving me insane.”

His finger moved with slow, deliberate care, making a beckoning motion inside of you that made your breath catch and your body respond without hesitation. The warmth of his touch and how deep his finger was pounding inside you sent shivers through you, teasing and coaxing every nerve awake.

His fingers paused for a moment, resting gently inside you, slick with your own want, as he looked down at you with a slow, knowing smile. His eyes held a mix of mischief and tenderness as he asked, voice low and teasing, “You want me to try another, baby? See if you can take it?”

The quiet tension between you made every nerve alive, every small sound in the room amplified in your ears. You hesitated for a moment, then nodded slightly, the smallest flicker of courage sparking inside you.

His fingers lingered just for a moment before he gave a slow, approving smile that softened into something warm and encouraging. “That’s my girl,” he murmured, voice low and pleased. “You’re doing so damn good.” He pulled his finger out of your hole with a wet squelch and brought his whole hand to this face, licking both the finger that was just inside you and his ring finger, putting them both in his mouth and licking them clean.

He brought his hand down once again to your cunt and played with your folds as he began to speak, both of his fingers gently parting you open. He brushed his thumb gently over your clit, eyes searching yours with quiet pride. “Can you see that? How well you’re doing? Because I do —" Before he finished the sentence, you felt his fingers sliding inside you. Jesus Christ, were they thick. "You're taking my fingers so well... So proud of you, sweetie."

His fingers moved gently, steadily working themselves in and out, each stroke measured and patient, as if memorizing every inch of you. The careful rhythm was both soothing and disgustingly filthy, and you found yourself leaning into the feeling, trusting him completely. You started to realize that Clark had picked up on how your cunt was making those wet, needy sounds whenever his fingers brushed your G-spot — and the bastard had clearly begun doing it on purpose. The grin on his face every time he did so, completely betrayed him.

You felt yourself growing squirmier, his movements growing quicker, pulling you closer to him as the heat between you intensified. Your breaths came faster, shallow and uneven, and you found yourself shifting against his hand almost without thinking — a mix of desperation and need that made your body ache to close the distance. The pressure of his finger practically drilling against your cervix, the slick warmth beneath his touch, was driving you wild, and you couldn’t hide how much you wanted more.

Clark caught every sign — the way your hips pressed forward, the small gasps that escaped your lips, the trembling of your thighs. His eyes darkened with raw desire, flickering with a hunger that made his usual calm seem to crack at the edges.

“Please,” he murmured, voice thick and almost desperate. “Let me taste you. I want to be right there with you.”

You swallowed hard, your cheeks flushing deeper as the raw need in his eyes pulled at something inside you. Your breath hitched, nerves fluttering between hesitation and craving. Finally, with a shaky but determined voice, you whispered, “Yes… please, Clark. I need you.”

He moved down slowly from beside you, eyes never leaving yours — not in hesitation, but in reverence. He gently took his fingers away from your cunt. His knee hit the floor at the foot of the couch with a gentle thud, one hand steadying himself on your leg, the other smoothing over your hip like he was committing every inch of you to memory.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, not teasing this time, just quietly observant.

You nodded, unable to speak, breath caught somewhere between anticipation and disbelief. The way he was looking at you — like you were something sacred and starved for at the same time — made your stomach twist and flutter.

Clark leaned forward, placing a kiss just above your knee. Then another, higher this time. His fingers slid along the back of your thigh, coaxing you gently apart. His eyes stared right back into yours, and even with the unmistakable tension behind them, they felt warm. His blue eyes dilated and were glassy, just as desperate as you were. His eyes then, for the first time, tore themselves away from your face and landed at your sopping cunt, probably soaking the damn couch. He grabbed your hips with both his hands and scooted you over to the edge of the couch, dangerously close to his face. You were sure you almost felt the cool breeze of his breath on you.

"She's so pretty, baby. I could stare at her all night. Y'think she'd let me?"

His voice was a mix of awe and hunger, low and reverent like he was speaking about something sacred. Before you could answer, his hands were already guiding your hips, drawing you toward the edge of the couch where he now knelt, completely devoted. He went silent for just a second, and you noticed the motions of his tounge under his cheeks, gathering up spit. And just when you had straightened up, you saw him softly spitting on top of your slit, letting it drizzle down. His breath ghosted over your skin, warm and teasing, and then — a kiss to your clit. His tounge poking out for just the sweetest second. He looked like he was making out with it. Slow and deep, full of want. Not rushed, not frantic, but purposeful.

You gasped, your hand instinctively flying to his shoulder, gripping the fabric of his shirt like it was the only thing grounding you. His hands never stopped moving, one firm on your hip, anchoring you, the other gentle and coaxing on your hole, insistent on the come-hither motion inside you. The pressure of his touch, the warmth of his mouth — it all blended into something that made your breath stutter and your knees unsteady.

Clark pulled back just enough to glance up at you, his eyes dark and shining. “She likes that, huh?” he murmured, breathless. “She’s being real sweet to me.”

You nodded, barely able to form words, chest rising and falling with shaky rhythm.

“Good,” he said, kissing your thigh, his voice thick with need and adoration. “I’ll be real sweet to her, too. M'gonna kiss her real nice.” His tongue dips down once again, this time faster, flicking with speed over your folds. He swipes his tounge up and down your slit, latching on to your clit with intent. He gently sucks it into his mouth as his eyes flick over to you. His eyes were teary and glassy, his brows were furrowed, and his cheeks flushed a deep pink. On the other hand, his fingers kept working themselves in and out of you at incredible speeds, pulling out slick and wet nosies from your hole.

You moaned and whimpered as you held onto his curls. You could see the way his nose was nestled right above your mound as he lapped against you. There were moments when he closed his eyes and let his tongue move in slow, deliberate strokes—savoring you like something sacred. And then there were the moments he kept them wide open, gaze locked onto yours with a quiet intensity, just so you’d see exactly what you were doing to him. With his tongue laid flat against your clit, he began to shake his head slowly from side to side, coaxing out new, breathy little sounds from you with every deliberate motion. And he did exactly that, that fucker...

Your expression twisted into something unrecognizable — brows drawn tight, lips parted and trembling, flushed cheeks burning with heat. The sounds slipping from you were raw, utterly human. Your chest rose in short, frantic bursts, heart pounding so violently it felt like it might break free. You were so close now.

“Look at that... that pretty face doesn’t even know what to do with itself,” he jokes.

You huffed, half-laugh, half-whimper. He had to make everything into a joke—even now. That stupid little grin on his stupidly gorgeous face.

But before you could say anything back, another soft cry slipped from your mouth, your fingers tightening in his hair as the waves kept building. His nose was still nestled against you, warm breath ghosting over your sensitive skin, tongue working in slow, relentless circles. When you dared to look down, you found him already staring up—eyes wide open, clear and locked on yours. Not blinking. Not distracted. Just watching you fall apart.

It was all too much.

Somewhere between the pressure, the intimacy, and the fact that this man was on his knees for you like he lived there, the tears came. Quietly at first. One blink, then another. Warm trails down your cheeks that you barely noticed—until he did.

His tongue paused. “Hey—hey,” he said softly, voice suddenly gentle. “Is everything okay?”

You nodded quickly, voice catching as you said, “Yeah, yeah, it’s—God—it’s just so good.”

Clark let out a breath of relief, then that smile came back—just a little crooked this time, playful but still sweet. “Damn. Had me worried for a sec. Thought I broke you.”

You gave a weak laugh, still breathless. “You kinda did.”

He chuckled, pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh. “Guess I’ll take that as a compliment.”

And just like that, his teasing edge returned, his confidence slipping back into place. “Y’cryin’ and shaking and still askin’ for more… You sure you can handle it, sweetheart?”

You shot him a look, smug despite the tears. “I think I deserve more.”

Clark grinned like you just challenged him to a game he knew he’d win. “That’s what I like to hear.”

As soon as he said that, your head shot back to look at him as he dived down once again, eyes flicking over his sweet face. His nose was nudged against your lips, almost looking like he was making out with your cunt. He didn't blink once as he gazed up at you, his head moving from side to side to help himself, the sound of his tounge flicking against your heat, his ragged breath against you every time you moaned or whimpered... He was enjoying this just as much as you were.

Apparently, seeing him so vulnerable—so willing to give you exactly what you needed, so desperate for your release—was all it took. Your hand clenched tightly at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, pressing him deep against your cunt. The moment you did, a guttural, primal groan escaped him—raw and almost like a soft whimper. You guided his head with steady hands, making sure he knew exactly what you wanted. Through it all, he never once broke eye contact, completely focused on you, completely yours.

"Clarkie... I'm so, soo— Jus' keep going"

Clark smirked, his voice low and amused, replacing his tongue with his voice to speak, his pace still electrifying. “Clarkie knows exactly how ‘so’ you are, baby. Let me give it to you hun, relax." Right after you whispered those words, something inside him shifted — a surge of need that drove him deeper, harder than before. Both of his hands grabbed your knees, pulling them up closer to your shoulders, giving him full, unguarded access. Your fingers clenched tighter into his hair as he shook his head gently from side to side, his tongue tracing feverish, demanding patterns over your clit, like a man who hadn’t tasted anything in days.

His index and middle fingers pressed inside you, moving with a relentless rhythm that made your breath catch. You could feel the pressure building in your lower belly, amplified by his other hand resting firm against your stomach, pressing just enough to send every sensation spiraling higher. He was utterly in control — completely on top of everything.

Clark held your hips steady, steadying you as you rode out the wave. His lips brushed softly against your folds, a quiet, approving “Mhmm?” escaping him, keeping pace with the rhythm of your release, grounding you in that moment of shared intensity. The wave ran through every fiber of your being as you tried to stabilize yourself against anything you could get your hands on. Your ragged breaths began slowing down, and so did Clark's movements.

Clark’s hands never wavered as he slowly lifted his head, eyes dark and shining with something fierce yet tender. “See? Told you there’s nothing to be scared of with me,” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. “You did so damn good, baby. So perfect.”

You let out a shaky breath, cheeks still flushed, heart pounding wildly. “I want more,” you whispered, voice trembling between need and disbelief. “I want you… all of you.”

A slow, amused smile spread across Clark’s face, one brow arching as he shifted his weight. “Easy there, tiger” he said, standing up from the floor, adjusting his pants low around his waist and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His gaze flicked to you, playful but filled with raw hunger. “You almost had trouble with my fingers — how do you expect to take anything else?”

Your eyes involuntarily drifted down to the unmistakable bulge pressing against the fabric of his pants. Jesus Christ. Maybe he was right. How exactly were you supposed to take that? The thought sent a thrill of both fear and excitement spiraling through you.

Clark caught your glance and let out a low, wicked chuckle. “Don’t worry, baby. Clarkie’s got plenty of time to get you ready. He’s gonna make sure you’re so good and soaked, you’ll be begging for every inch.”

His hand slid to your waist, fingers tracing lazy, possessive circles over your skin. “I’m gonna take my time with you — make you mine. Every inch, every sigh, every sweet little sound.”

You shivered, the mix of his confidence and the raw want in his voice washing over you, making you ache for what was to come. The room seemed to shrink around you, the air thick with tension and promise — and in that moment, you knew you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

He took your hand with a gentle yet possessive grip, guiding it deliberately toward the unmistakable bulge straining against the fabric of his pants. His eyes locked onto yours, dark and smoldering with that intoxicating mix of tenderness and raw hunger, making your breath catch before your fingers even brushed his skin.

“Feel that, baby?” he murmured, voice low and teasing, a slow smile curling at the edges of his lips. “That’s all yours to get used to. Every inch.”

His breath hitched as your fingers tentatively traced the outline of his cock beneath the fabric, the heat radiating from him sending a delicious shiver coursing through your body. The hardness was undeniable — full and firm — and you could almost feel the power wrapped up in that tight, confident length.

He held your hand firmly, sliding it up and down, letting you feel the heat and hardness pressing insistently beneath the fabric. His eyes never left yours, searching, challenging — but with a softness that made your heart flutter.

“Now, be honest with me, baby,” he said, voice low and steady, with a teasing edge. “You think you can take that, huh?”

You hesitated, cheeks flushing deeper as you swallowed hard. Your voice was barely a whisper when you finally admitted, “No... I don’t think I can.”

A slow, knowing smile curved Clark’s lips. “That’s what I thought,” he said, his tone gentle but firm. “You don’t have to rush. Nothing worth having ever comes without time.”

He leaned closer, his breath warm against your temple. “Everything has its time, baby. There’s a moment for everything — for learning, for trusting, for letting go. And me? I'm not going anywhere. I’m here to make sure you’re ready, every step of the way.”

His fingers brushed lightly over your skin, soothing and steadying, grounding you in the safety of his presence. “You don’t have to be perfect, and you don’t have to be ready all at once. We’ll take it slow — slow enough for you to feel everything, to want everything.”

His eyes locked with yours, the weight of his words settling between you, wrapping you in a quiet promise. “When the time comes, baby, you’ll know. And I’ll be right here to give it to ya'.”