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Summary: Clark Kent has a girlfriend, but no one at the Daily Planet believes she’s real. Until he finally introduces you.
Word count: 3.4k+
Warnings: flufff
A/N:
Hey guys!!! I’m back with another Clark Kent fic!! The hiatus I took really helped me feel better, and I want to thank you all for your support and kindness. It means the world to me. I wrote something short and sweet to help get the writing flowing. Please tell me what you think! Hope you’ll like it!
English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.
Happy reading xxx
I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.
Clark had never meant for it to turn into this.
In fact, if someone had told him that one small slip of honesty would detonate like a gossip grenade in the middle of the Daily Planet bullpen, he would’ve laughed—gently, politely—and then absolutely done anything else with his mouth.
But it was a Tuesday.
A perfectly normal, quiet Tuesday—the kind where the newsroom was burning like fire with tension and deadlines. The air smelled like burnt office coffee, old printer ink, and the faint stress-sweat of people who hadn’t slept since Sunday. Keyboards clacked. Phones rang. Someone was swearing at the copy machine again.
Clark was packing up for the day, gathering the last of his neatly typed notes and tucking his pen into the pocket of his shirt. He was humming under his breath—a habit he didn’t realize he had when he was thinking about you.
Warm. Content. Happy.
And, unfortunately for him, noticeable.
“You heading out early, Kent?” Lois asked, not even looking up. Her eyes were glued to her laptop, fingers flying like she was trying to out-type the devil.
He should’ve lied.
He absolutely should have lied.
Told her he was going to the dentist. That he was finally replacing the broken lightbulb in his kitchen. That he was volunteering at the community center. That he was doing laundry. That he was doing anything that did not involve another human being who could be grilled for information.
But Clark was honest. Painfully so. Reflexively so.
And the truth slipped out as naturally as a breath.
“I have dinner plans,” he said.
Lois didn’t react at first. She just typed faster.
Then Clark made the worst mistake of the week.
“With my girlfriend.”
Silence.
A sudden, violent, newsroom-wide silence—like someone had pulled the plug on reality.
A ripple ran through the bullpen. Heads turned. Chairs squeaked. Papers rustled.
Lois' head popped up so fast Clark swore he heard her neck crack.
“Girlfriend?” she repeated, eyes narrowing like she had just smelled a scandal. “Since when?”
Before Clark could formulate a sentence, Jimmy—who had been leaning back in his desk chair scrolling through photos—jerked so hard he flailed. His chair wobbled, his elbow slammed into his desk, and his camera flew out of his hands and hit the floor with a very expensive-sounding clack.
“Dude—what?” Jimmy blurted.
And like a bomb had gone off at her desk, Cat swirled around dramatically in her chair from across the room, her blonde hair bouncing with enough force to backhand someone.
“I’m sorry,” she said, voice pitched high with disbelief, “did Farmer Boy just say girlfriend?”
Clark immediately regretted being alive.
He cleared his throat, aware that half the bullpen was now listening.
“Yes,” he said, dragging a hand down his face. “Girlfriend. It’s not… new new, but—”
Lois pointed her pen at him like she was cross-examining a criminal.
“What’s her name?”
Clark blinked. “Lois—”
“Her. Name.”
“I’m not giving you her name.”
Lois smirked in triumph, slamming her laptop shut. “Oh. Ohhh. How convenient.”
“It’s not convenient,” Clark insisted, trying to keep his voice even. “It’s private.”
Cat scoffed. Loudly. “Kent, darling. Sweetheart. Sunshine. You work in a newspaper. Privacy is a myth created to sell home security systems.”
Jimmy crossed his arms. “Look, no offense, man, but I’ve known you for years. Years. And you have never—never—mentioned a girlfriend.”
“I’ve mentioned her!” Clark argued, even though he knew it was futile.
Jimmy raised his eyebrows. “Once. Right now. In this exact conversation.”
Lois stood up, hands on her hips, expression a lethal mix of curiosity and incredulity.
“Okay. Let me make sure I understand.” She took a step closer, circling him like a shark. “You, Clark Kent—whose idea of flirting is apologizing when someone bumps into you—have a girlfriend you have never brought up, never shown us, never introduced us to, never posted about, and yet now suddenly you’re leaving work early for her?”
Clark opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
He closed it.
Opened it again.
Still nothing.
This was becoming an unfortunate trend.
“She just… likes her privacy,” he tried lamely.
“Oh my god,” Lois whispered, horror washing over her face. “She’s Canadian, isn’t she.”
“What? No! She’s not Canadian!”
“Right,” Jimmy said solemnly. “And I totally have a British supermodel waiting for me at home.”
Cat raised her hand like they were in a boardroom. “For the record, I vote imaginary.”
“Seconded,” Lois said immediately.
“Thirded,” Jimmy added, already typing something into his phone, probably starting a betting pool.
Clark stared at them, mouth hanging open, heart pounding—not with fear, but with sheer, bone-deep exasperation.
And from that point on, they decided—collectively, aggressively—that you did not exist.
One week later, Clark was walking home through the early-evening Metropolis glow, the sky soft lavender over the skyline. His tie was loosened, askew from where he’d tugged at it repeatedly during the day. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows. His messenger bag hung off one shoulder, heavy with notes he knew he wouldn’t touch tonight.
He was tired—but in that good way. The way that came from knowing he was heading home to you.
To your voice. Your laugh. Your warmth.
To the way you always kissed him hello like you meant it.
He’d been thinking about you all afternoon—your hands in his hair, your smile when he walked through the door, the way you sometimes wore his shirts around the apartment, the sound you made when he kissed your neck—
He sighed, cheeks pinking even in the cool evening air.
He just wanted to be home.
That was the moment his phone buzzed in his pocket.
Jimmy Olsen.
Clark stared at the screen.
He considered letting it ring—he really, truly did.
But ignoring a friend felt wrong, and Clark Kent was, unfortunately, helplessly decent, even when it was inconvenient.
He answered.
“Hey, Jimmy.”
“Clark.” Jimmy’s voice was suspiciously upbeat. Too upbeat. “How’s it going, man?”
Clark narrowed his eyes at no one. “Good. Heading home.”
“Mmmhmm,” Jimmy said in the tone of someone who was absolutely not believing him but pretending to. “Big night with the lady, huh?”
Clark stopped at a crosswalk, pressing the button even though he didn’t need to.
Why did he tell them you existed? Why?
Jimmy continued, “So, how’s your girlfriend doing?”
Clark frowned. “She’s good. We’re cooking tonight.”
“Cooking,” Jimmy repeated slowly. “Right. Got it. Sounds legit.”
“It is legit.” Clark’s voice came out sharper than he intended.
Jimmy burst out laughing—loud, delighted, unhelpful. Clark had to pull the phone away from his ear.
“Dude, I’m messing with you!” Jimmy managed between wheezes. “Relax! I’m just saying—Lois has a bet going.”
Clark froze in the middle of the sidewalk.
“A bet?”
“Oh, yeah,” Jimmy said—and Clark could hear the grin in his voice. “We’ve all got money on the table.”
Clark resumed walking, slower now. “…What do you mean?”
“Well,” Jimmy said proudly, “Cat says your girlfriend is one hundred percent imaginary. Lois says she’s imaginary and you made her up to avoid after-hours staff mixers because you’re a giant nerd. And I said maybe—maybe—you’re seeing someone but she’s, like… a chatbot.”
Clark blinked. “A… a what?”
“You know,” Jimmy said cheerfully, “like those AI girlfriends you can text at 3 a.m. and they send you motivational quotes and call you handsome.”
Clark gripped the phone harder. “Jimmy.”
“I’m just saying!” Jimmy said. “If she’s real, let us meet her.”
“I will,” Clark said automatically, even though his stomach swooped uncomfortably. “I just haven’t—”
“Haven’t made her up yet?” Jimmy supplied helpfully.
Clark shut his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Jimmy. She’s real. We’ve been dating for months.”
“Okaaay,” Jimmy said in a tone that very clearly meant I do not believe you at all, Clark Kent, but I am willing to humor your delusion.
“Then prove it.”
Clark stopped dead.
“Prove it?”
“Yeah!” Jimmy said, as if it were obvious. “Invite us over! Let us meet her! Lois will bring a lie detector. Cat will bring tequila.”
“No,” Clark said automatically. “Absolutely not.”
“Unless, of course,” Jimmy added innocently, “she’s. Not. Real.”
Clark inhaled.
Exhaled.
Counted to five.
Considered super-speeding to the moon.
But then he remembered your voice this morning—soft, teasing, your fingers in his hair as you kissed him goodbye.
Do my kisses feel real to you, honey?
And in that moment, Clark knew you’d just smile at him, kiss his cheek, and say yes.
Clark clenched his jaw.
“Fine.”
“Fine?” Jimmy repeated, shocked.
“Dinner,” Clark said, rubbing his forehead. “My apartment, next Saturday, 6 pm. All of you.”
There was a moment of stunned silence—and then Jimmy whooped so loudly Clark startled.
“YES!! Lois owes me twenty bucks either way!”
Clark sighed. “Goodbye, Jimmy.”
“Bye, man! Tell your imaginary girlfriend I said hi!”
Clark hung up.
Stared at his home screen.
And muttered to himself, “I’m in hell.”
And that was how Clark ended up standing in the hallway of his apartment, staring into the mirror like it was a hostile witness. He pushed his glasses up his nose. Twice. Then he smoothed his hair. Then he fussed with his shirt collar before fussing with it again, as if neatness alone could protect him from Lois Lane’s investigative instincts.
He leaned in closer, whispering to his own reflection like someone practicing for trial.
“They’re going to like her. They’re definitely going to like her. Right? They like… nice people. She's nice. She's nice—”
His voice cracked a little.
“…they have to like her.”
From the kitchen, you stuck your head out, hair pulled back loosely, your sleeves rolled as you stirred whatever delicious thing was simmering on the stove. You watched him with an amused, fond little smile—the one that always made his heart go soft and silly.
“Clark,” you said gently, “sweetheart, you need to relax. It’s just your friends.”
He turned, wide-eyed. “They’re my only friends.”
You gave him a sympathetic look.
“And,” he added, as if this was crucial, “they’re reporters. They treat fact-checking like a competitive sport. Lois once fact-checked a birthday card I sent her.”
You blinked. “…She what?”
Clark nodded solemnly. “She thought the rhyme sounded suspiciously familiar and wanted to make sure I hadn’t plagiarized it.”
You laughed—warm and bright and soft in a way that melted the tension right out of him like sunlight on snow. He loved that sound. He loved you. He didn’t know how to express it without kissing you breathless.
So instead, you walked over and stood in front of him, reaching up to fix his crooked collar. “Let them inspect,” you murmured, smoothing the fabric with your hands. “Let them interrogate. Let them poke and prod. I’m real, aren’t I?”
Clark breathed out slowly, his shoulders loosening. Something in him untangled—something that always did when you were close.
He dipped his head and kissed you. Soft at first, then deeper, long enough that time blurred. Long enough that the simmering anxiety boiling in his chest cooled instantly. Long enough that if you’d asked him his own name in that moment, he might’ve forgotten it.
A sharp knock at the door shattered the moment like whipping a rug out from beneath him.
Clark jerked back, eyes wide. “They’re early.”
You grinned. “Perfect.”
“No,” Clark whispered, “not perfect—”
“Perfect,” you insisted, squeezing his forearm. “Let’s blow their minds.”
He stayed frozen in place, somewhere between dread and awe, as you padded lightly toward the door, your steps quiet on the hardwood floor. He swallowed hard, actually tugging on his shirt as if bracing himself for a hurricane.
You pulled the door open.
Three jaws hit the floor.
The room stilled, like even the air was holding its breath.
Lois blinked. Once. Twice. Her eyes went from you—standing gorgeous and real and impossibly confident—to Clark, who was ten feet behind you, looking like a deer caught in fluorescent headlights.
“Holy—Clark?” Lois said finally, sounding personally betrayed. “Kent. Kent. You?”
Jimmy was slack-jawed, clutching his imaginary pearls like it had betrayed him. “Dude. No way.”
Cat put a manicured hand dramatically to her chest. “Kent. Kent. Explain yourself immediately.”
Clark made a noise reminiscent of a squeak.
You smiled pleasantly, leaning against the doorframe like you were hosting a magazine photoshoot instead of a confrontation between your boyfriend and three deeply suspicious coworkers. You’d thrown on Clark’s soft plaid shirt, the one you stole more than he wore. It hung just right—oversized, sleeves rolled, a few buttons undone so the slightest hint of skin peeked through.
Lois caught that detail. Her eyes widened.
Jimmy swallowed audibly.
Cat muttered something like, “This boy needs to be studied.”
“Hi,” you said warmly. “You must be Clark’s friends. Welcome, come on in.”
Lois walked in first, suspiciously slow, eyes darting back and forth between you and Clark like she was searching for the trapdoor. Like maybe you were a paid actress. Or a hologram. Or a fever dream.
“So,” Lois said carefully, “you’re real.”
You deadpanned, “Last time I checked,” and Lois actually snorted.
Jimmy finally entered, lifting his camera instinctively before catching himself. “I mean—Clark, man, why would you hide her?”
“I wasn’t hiding—!” Clark sputtered, voice squeaking a little.
Cat swept inside like a fashion hurricane, pointing dramatically toward you. “Clark Joseph Kent.” (He winced; she always added the middle name when she wanted to bully him.) “This is not a ‘casual mention’ girlfriend. This is a parade her around, rub it in everyone’s face girlfriend.”
You laughed—bright, musical, genuine.
Clark’s heart squeezed, something tender and helpless blooming under his ribs. God, he loved you.
“Clark didn’t hide me,” you said, stepping closer to him. “We were just… keeping things ours for a little while.”
As you said it, you glanced up at him—the soft, affectionate kind of look that made his breath catch. He stepped forward without thinking, sliding an arm around your waist in a claiming-but-gentle way, his body relaxing the moment you leaned into him. His touch wasn’t possessive. It was relieved. Grounded. Home.
“Exactly,” he murmured, cheeks pink but eyes proud.
Lois narrowed her eyes at him, but a faint grin tugged at her lips. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll allow it. But only because she’s too good for you.”
“Hey,” Clark protested, flustered and red-eared.
You patted his chest, smirking up at him. “She’s kind of right.”
He ducked his head with a shy, crooked smile he only ever gave you.
Soon everyone was crowded into the living room—Lois on the armchair with her legs draped over the side like she owned the place, Jimmy cross‑legged on the floor fiddling with his camera lens even though it definitely didn’t need fixing, and Cat perched elegantly on the edge of the couch like she was preparing to interview royalty.
You’d laid out snacks—actual snacks, not Clark’s version of snacks (meaning: whatever was in the fridge and also possibly oatmeal). The room smelled like warm garlic bread, honey butter, and that candle Clark always said reminded him of you.
The atmosphere turned bright, warm, easy—almost shockingly easy, considering Clark had spent all week imagining worst‑case scenarios. You laughing. Them interrogating. Him fainting.
Lois sipped her drink, then leaned forward, elbows on knees. “So,” she said, “what do you do for a living? And is it something that explains why you haven’t run screaming from Kent’s sweater collection?”
You grinned. “I’m a psychologist.” You told her, while Clark watched the tension drain from Lois' posture. She nodded, impressed despite herself.
“Okay,” Lois said. “So you’re smart. Great. Hate that for me—I really wanted ‘imaginary’ to win the bet.”
Jimmy jumped in, eyes bright. “Do you like movies? Because Clark pretends he’s cultured but he fell asleep during Citizen Kane.”
Clark groaned. “It was one time—”
“You snored,” Jimmy added.
Cat, meanwhile, leaned toward you conspiratorially. “Where’d you get your shirt? It’s adorable.”
Clark choked on his drink.
You patted his knee. “Oh, this?” you said sweetly. “It’s vintage.”
Clark silently thanked every Kryptonian god you didn’t clarify whose closet it was “vintage” from.
But every now and then—when Lois was mid‑rant, when Jimmy was telling a story with his whole body, when Cat was giving you unsolicited fashion advice—Clark found himself glancing at you.
Just a flicker, a check‑in, an instinct.
And every time, without fail, he saw it.
That soft awe in his own eyes reflected back.
That gentle, stunned I can’t believe she’s real. I can’t believe she’s mine.
He had to look away before someone noticed, because the last thing he wanted was for his friends to see him looking like a man who’d stumbled into heaven.
Unfortunately, Lois Lane noticed everything.
She leaned over to him during a lull in the conversation and muttered—loudly enough that everyone probably heard—“Kent… you’re punching so far above your weight I’m getting altitude sickness.”
Clark sighed. “Thank you, Lois.”
“It’s not a compliment, it’s an investigation,” she shot back, but she was smiling—genuine, warm. Not a single hint of skepticism left.
Jimmy raised his glass toward the two of you. “To Clark’s very real, very beautiful, very patient girlfriend.”
You laughed. “Patient is right.”
Clark groaned. “You’re all impossible.”
But when he looked at you again, you were already looking at him—eyes soft, amused, full of something warm that made his pulse skip. And suddenly the teasing, the nerves, the entire week of dread felt stupidly small.
Later, after the door closed behind the last guest and the apartment finally settled into silence, you and Clark practically fell onto the couch.
The shared blanket was crooked from earlier but neither of you bothered fixing it—you just dragged it over yourselves, legs tangling instinctively, like magnets that had spent the whole evening politely staying apart for company.
The coffee table was a disaster zone: empty glasses, snack bowls, napkins Lois kept forgetting she dropped mid‑rant, and Cat’s lip gloss, which she’d left beside a half‑finished glass of wine like she meant to claim your vanity next.
Clark let out a soft, disbelieving laugh against your shoulder—warm breath fanning your skin, his whole body relaxing like someone had unplugged a month’s worth of tension.
You gently threaded your fingers through his hair, slow and soothing. “What?” you asked, amused already because he was clearly trying not to fully laugh.
“They really didn’t believe you existed,” he murmured, voice muffled, half‑laughing, half‑mortified. “Jimmy kept staring at you like you were CGI.”
You gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to your chest. “Until I opened the door and blinded them with my beauty?”
Clark snorted—actually snorted—before quickly burying his face in your neck like he could hide the sound. “I mean…” He peeked up at you, cheeks rosy, glasses askew. “That did happen.”
You smirked, tapping his nose lightly. “You know, you could’ve just shown my picture or something.”
Clark froze at that—not offended, not flustered, but something warm and intense blooming behind his eyes. He lifted his head fully, looking at you like you were the one who invented starlight.
His hands slid up to your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks with the kind of tenderness that made your pulse flutter.
“I know, but I think I just wasn't ready to share you with anyone,” he said softly, firmly—like it was a vow he’d been waiting to make out loud. “ This is the first time where I feel at ease in a relationship, you’re… where I belong.”
The words melted right into the center of you—sunlight, warmth, something steady and grounding. You felt it in your ribs. Felt it in your heartbeat.
Your voice was gentler when you spoke. “Come here.”
You cupped his cheeks, mirroring the way he held you—soft palms, soft eyes—and pulled him in. “And you’re where I belong,” you whispered. “Always.”
Clark kissed you then—slow, deep, reverent—as if the whole week of stress had been building to this moment. As if every joke, every doubt, every “imaginary girlfriend” comment finally dissolved under the reality of you in his arms.
You could feel him smiling into the kiss, could feel the relief radiating off him like warmth. Could feel the way he melted when you threaded your fingers into his hair and pulled just a little.
Clark tugged the blanket higher over both of you and pulled you into his chest, the weight of him warm and grounding and entirely yours.
“Thank you,” he murmured into your hair.
“For what?” you asked.
“For being real,” he said with a soft laugh. “And for proving it so dramatically.”
You laughed too, snuggling into him. “Anytime, sweetheart.”
He tightened his arm around your waist, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.
Not imaginary.
Not unbelievable.
Not a joke or a rumor or a bet.
cw: MDNI!! dubcon (bc there's an aphrodisiac involved), oral (f!receiving), fingering, lots of dirty talk, unprotected p in v, mating press, creampie, multiple orgasms, friends to lovers!!, HUNGRY peter
masterlist, taglist, and kinktober 2025 masterlist!
you weren't sure when it became a habit to sneak into the chemistry building after hours with peter to help him work on his web fluid; all you knew was it was your turn to pay for the pizza.
it was nearing midnight as your full belly laughs echoed through the empty lab, crusts long forgotten on the table behind you, as you lost yourself in a story. peter's smile was visible through prickling tears.
he knew it was a bad idea to invite you from the start — there was no shot in hell he'd get any work done as long as you were around him. peter had figured that out by the senior year of high school: he just couldn't seem to focus on anything other than you. he began to lie and say he was finished with his homework whenever you would hang out, covering his lack of progress in your presence.
peter had been distracted by you for the last few years, yet he could never seem to resist your company anyway. he beamed as you laughed at your own joke, relishing in the alone time he got to spend with the one person who made him feel like himself.
you let out a snort, and peter was done for, tears in his own eyes as he joined you in hearty laughter. he reached down and grabbed a vial through blurry vision, adding the final touch to his web fluid 3.0.
except that, instead of a sticky web-like substance, peter was met with a bright flash of hot pink from the liquid in the beaker before a cloud of magenta powder exploded from the glass, dusting the room, and in turn, you and peter.
he was on you instantly, shielding you from the flying shards of glass before the beaker even burst, though the aerosol impact was inevitable. the reaction was quick to hit your lungs, dragging out hoarse coughs, rough and heavy in your chest as you fought to regain a sense of your surroundings.
the headache was almost immediate as peter leaned down to say something, and you winced as you looked up at him.
"what?"
"are you okay? did you get cut at all?" peter frantically examined for any tears in your sweatshirt, checking your hands for any possible nicks.
"i'm okay, rea—woah," peter placed a hand on your jaw to inspect your face, and the touch activated something deep inside of you.
suddenly, you felt the hottest you'd ever been, and the headrush made you weak in the knees. your vision began to cloud, senses on overdrive as you felt an aching pain rising in your chest. meeting peter's gaze with panicked eyes, you began to really take in the state of the situation.
"peter, what did you just mix?"
"i-i don't know, i must've grabbed the wrong thing..." he trailed off as he turned to search through the drawers, but the movement stopped him dead in his tracks.
peter was instantly met with a rush of vertigo, the room spinning violently around him as he braced himself on the countertop. he felt like he did when he was first bitten: hypersensitive and overwhelmed. fuck, what did he mix?
amidst the rest of the world in his ears, peter picked up on the sound of your heartbeat and immediately knew something was wrong. really wrong. he took a moment to analyze you, everything moving in slow motion as he fought to figure out what the hell he mixed together, and where these symptoms were headed.
your current state didn't give him much comfort; peter quickly noticed how you were starting to sweat, your chest heaving as you struggled to catch your breath, despite not having left your chair. your full-body flush made him wonder if he looked just as disheveled.
"are you feeling okay?" peter asked, heavy with concern and guilt.
you shook your head at him, words fighting to escape your trembling lips. "i-i don't know. i feel... warm. i don't know."
and then peter felt it. his cock twitched, and he realized for the first time how painfully hard he was. he looked down in horror, hoping you hadn't yet noticed in your own haze. peter quickly sat down again to cover the evidence, praying to any god who was listening that this wasn't happening.
while successful in his concealment, the slight friction in the movement of his pants was enough to elicit a groan from his throat; he hoped you didn't hear.
but you did. because each little noise he made, conscious or not, egged on every dirty fucking thought you were having right now. and about peter. in front of peter.
"maybe we should get some... some fresh air, or something," peter says weakly.
as you nodded in response and moved to get up, it became horribly apparent to peter that he had to stand up with you, and not only would you also know just how hard he was, but the friction alone might be enough to kill him.
and then he had a thought:
are you feeling this way too?
no, don't think like that. that's your best friend, and whatever's happening, clearly neither of you was in your right mind.
but peter had always felt this way about you. this time, it was just so physically painful for some reason. what the fuck was in that beaker?
he didn't have any more time for his mind to race, as you stood from your stool and he watched your knees buckle underneath you. peter rushed to stabilize you, grabbing your shoulders and keeping you steady. it was pointless, though. somehow, the feeling of peter's hand against you knocked your breath out, far worse than falling ever would've.
you had no idea what was going on, but it was getting harder and harder to think about anything other than peter (as if that wasn't the norm anyway, bffr). but this was heightened. this was all of your wildest desires pulled to the forefront of your mind in the middle of your ochem 403 lab at 11pm on a tuesday night.
what the fuck was going on with you?
you tried to shake off the way peter's touch relieved some of the haze clouding your brain, and tried to shake off the feeling that maybe he was also feeling this way. your thighs clenched at the thought — that peter was also thinking of every possible way to take you on this counter right now.
but this was your best friend, and you needed to get your shit together long enough to handle whatever this feeling was on your own.
"woah, are y'okay?" peter slurred, your body heat under his palms radiating down to the rest of his body and nearly sending him down as well.
"i... i don't know, i think..." you stuttered out, not trusting anything coming from your mouth right now. "i-i think i have to go, i'm, i'm not feeling well."
you turned to make a run for it, hoping to get out of peter's sight before you either passed out or pounced on him. he stopped you, though, grabbing your hand with a pleading "wait!" falling from his lips.
before you could stop it, a whimper escaped from your lips at his touch, and you went bright red in seconds, hand flying up to cover the unexpected noise.
peter didn't help as he stared at you with his mouth agape, pupils blown to shit. he looked fucked out beyond belief and you'd barely even touched.
you cleared your throat, hoping to get out as coherent and PG a sentence as you could. "peter i-i feel really weird. a-and, i think i'm freaking the fuck out."
knowing you were hurting as much as he was broke his heart, and peter struggled to put all his energy into focusing on you. "i know, it's okay, bug. just take some deep breaths, a-and let's try to make it outside, yeah?"
he tried to pull you, but your legs forgot how to work, and you were frozen where you were, breath quick as everything grew downright painful.
peter's breathing picked up as he heard you hyperventilating, panicking himself as he watched you crumble in front of you. he needed to find out what was in that vile, and fast.
but all he could fucking think about was being on his knees in between your thighs.
fuck.
"p-peter, please. please, i-i, i need your help. you have to make this stop."
"fuck— it'll be okay, i promise. i'll do whatever i need to get you better. i-i just..." he clamped his eyes shut, desperately trying to come up with a way to make an antidote of some kind without dying or ruining your friendship along the way.
"peter... i—"
"what?" he cut you off, concern heavy in his tone.
despite his ever-growing problem, peter reached out to cup your cheek, and though not an unnatural thing to do, it was one definitely influenced by a gravity drawing him towards the feeling of your skin on his.
you stared at his lust-blown eyes, wondering if yours looked the same. wondering if he felt the same.
peter spoke your name softly, his thumb grazing your cheek softly and lingering far too closely to your lips to not mean anything.
fuck it.
you grabbed his shirt and pulled him forward, nearly headbutting him in the process as you locked onto his lips, surprised when you felt him immediately reciprocate and tangle his hands in your hair. everything about the kiss was desperate, and the feeling of peter all over you was fucking radiant.
peter was nothing but a moaning mess against you, sloppy and wet against your lips as he pleaded your name as though each time he said it, it took away the pain in his chest. truthfully, it did.
peter pulled away to take a breath, and the lack of contact brought the sharp pain immediately back, earning a whine to fall from his lips. he shook it off, grabbing the sides of your face and doing his best to refocus.
"f-fuck, should we talk about this?" peter asked relectantly.
"i-i don't know. i don't know what's happening right now, pete. all i know is that i need you to touch me. anything, please. i'm sorry. just, please make it go away."
yeah, you could talk about it later.
"nonono, hey. im so sorry, baby, this is all my fault. i'll do whatever you need, i mean it. i'll make it better, i promise."
peter pulled you back into a hungry kiss, rough hands roaming your body in a way he'd never touched you before. the feeling of your curves under his palms was only something he'd dreamed of, and peter was insufferably hard as he pulled you into him further.
there was a nag in the back of his mind, something telling him to stop before you did something you'd regret. because there was no possible way he had you, his best friend, tangled in his arms and lips heavy on his own. and yeah, peter had been smitten with you since the day you met, but he was never going to do anything about it. you didn't feel that way about him, of course. right?
cause right now, you kinda did.
no! fuck! just the chemicals! this was a one-time thing, friends helping friends.
yeah, friends helping friends.
but the pretty little moans that came out of your mouth as peter trailed his way down your neck? those sounded awfully more than just friendly. and the way you whined as he moved his hands up your waist, palming your tits through your shirt as he growled for permission in your ear? peter was never going to be able to look you in the eyes after tonight.
but right now, he was entranced as you bunched his shirt fabric in your hands and begged for it off, pulling the material over his head and immediately attacking his firm chest with a series of hickeys. you shifted your hands down towards his waistband, tugging him by his belt loops as you left a wet, hot trail of kisses down his abs. peter couldn't help but cant his hips forward into you, absolutely fucking losing his mind.
his own hands made their way around your frame, trailing down to your ass and grabbing hard. you gasped at the feeling, then lost your breath fully as peter nipped at your ear and told you to jump. he caught your thighs, shifting to set you on the lab counter and wedging his body between your legs.
everything was hot and heavy, and the effects were evolving and worsening. it was growing stronger with each touch, and though feeling each other was helping ease the pain, the need for more was growing too strong to ignore.
you pulled away from him, tears threatening to spill from your doe eyes as you stared up at peter, who didn't look much better.
"what? what is it, what do you need, baby?"
"i-i... i need you to touch me, pete."
peter went pale at your confession. it was asked so quietly, but it held so much weight. weight he'd think about after he got to find out what you tasted like.
with a deep rumble in his chest and another sloppy kiss to your neck, peter began to fumble his way around your waistband, asking you a thousand extra times if this was okay.
yeah, i fucking think so.
peter's index fingers hooked the hips of your pants; feeling his hands on your bare skin for the first time covered you in goosebumps. it was numbing the pain in your chest and igniting something in it all the same. you were so caught up in the moment, gobsmacked over peter parker, your best friend of six years, tugging your pants down, that you almost didn't notice that he'd pulled them back up.
your cheeks instantly bloomed in mortification. "fuck, i-im sorry, i-i don't know what's come over me—"
"no! stop apologizing, please. i just..." peter took a dramatic pause, and the only thing that could be heard was the two of you heavily panting, taking in the scene unfolding before you as the pain hammered in each of your chests.
"i need to tell you something before anything else happens."
you gave him a worried look, and peter returned it with a heavy sigh.
"i don't know what the fuck is happening right now, and why i feel like im fucking going to die if you don't touch me right now, and this is all my fault and i'm so fucking sorry—"
"peter. what's wrong?"
well, we're already in this deep.
"i don't know what fuck-ass aphrodiasic i just created, but i need you to know that the real me means this too. i can't let anything happen without you knowing that i love you, and this still means something to me. even if i'm not myself right now. a-and i'll do whatever you need me to do, and we can never talk about this again, but you don't deserve me keeping that from you."
you sat on the counter, stunned, as peter anxiously bit his lip, worried he'd just fucked up one of the best relationships that had ever happened to him. and he was still so fucking hard.
the only response you gave him was hopping off the counter and taking your bottoms off for him.
and peter was immediately on you again.
he had a hand rough in your hair as he kissed you, his other firm on your bare ass as he kneaded the soft flesh with a hunger. through his moans and downright whines, he almost missed it:
"i love you too, peter. so fucking much."
something inside of him snapped, and this time he didn't even ask you to jump, wrapping his hands around your waist and lifting you to the counter like you weighed nothing. you wrapped your legs around his hips and pulled him close, the make-out nothing short of a frenzy.
the entire time, peter was in your ear, moaning things into your mouth you only ever dreamed you'd hear:
"this. this isn't how this was supposed to happen."
"you deserve better than this, fuck. deserve better than an empty fucking chem lab, christ's sake."
he was quick to get his hands back on you, traces of mischief left behind as he massaged your thighs and stared at your lace thong with a look you'd never seen from him before. peter had been so caught up in it all, he'd almost forgotten the effects of the reaction. his actions were genuine and intentional. but as he pulled back to get a proper look at you, the pain in his chest settled back in, and his senses reheightened to a million
"fuck, i need to touch you. please, can i touch you?" peter whined.
you were breathless in response, "please peter, do whatever the fuck you want to me. just please, do something. anything."
he groaned and ran his hands up your thighs till he reached the delicate lace, teasingly tracing the hemline. "don't fucking say that. i-i don't think i can control myself right now."
"pete, i don't want you to control yourself," a shudder ran down his spine.
"please. fuck me."
peter didn't have the energy left in him to delay this any longer.
he ripped the underwear clean from your body, pulling you to the edge of the counter and dropping to his knees in front of you. he wasted no time running his tongue through your glossy folds, latching his lips over your clit.
peter was so hungry, and the mixture of the fading pain in your chest and the pleasure blooming inside of you was an insane feeling. he added a finger? oh my god. you were fucking incoherent. he added another? you were pretty sure this rivaled the time you tried molly.
you pulled at his hair, begging him (to stop or to go harder, you didn't know). it was all so overwhelming, and every time you looked down to see the source of your pleasure and remembered it was your peter parker? you were close to the edge the quickest you'd ever been.
"pete, i-i..."
"what is it, baby?" he breathed, quickly returning to your dripping cunt.
baby. jesus fucking christ. that almost did you in right then and there.
"i wanna touch you too."
peter groaned deep inside you in response, and the vibration was enough to send you over the edge. you felt your body fly over the moon as you came, peter not letting down for a second as he fucked you with his tongue so you could ride out the high, lapping up every drop you gave him.
he stood up, breathless, glistening, and a little cocky if you knew peter the way you thought you did. "how are you feeling? did that help, d-does it still hurt?"
you were panting as you came down from your high, taking a second to be aware of your body and headspace again. you couldn't help but feel emotional as you noticed the effects starting to creep back in. you shed a tear and nodded as you felt the headache thundering in the distance.
peter pulled you into a hug, and it was almost enough to sober you up again, because something about this one felt different. more weighted.
"im sorry, baby, fuck. i-i'm sorry, what can i do? how can i help?" fuck, this was all his fault.
you sniffled in his ear, but the movement of your hips against his contradicted your melancholy demeanor. "it's better when you're touching me. please, just don't stop."
between your words and you snaking your hand down to palm him softly, peter parker was a wreck, and wrapped around your finger.
he was quick to envelop you in a kiss and drink you in, and you moved to claw his shirt off of him. you pulled back to look at him, and it wasn't like you hadn't seen peter shirtless over the years, but you'd never seen him this close, in this context. it made your chest hurt in a different way.
"fuck, you're so hot," you groaned, almost as though an inside thought had slipped out.
he snickered. "me? are you kidding me right now?"
peter roughly kissed you before tugging your shirt off, absolutely elated at the discovery you'd forgone a bra under your crewneck. he stared at you like a deer in headlights, starstruck as he saw you for the first time.
"jesus christ, you're a fucking dream."
his hands were on your tits before you could even register it, but the feeling only made you crave him more. you messed with his pants, and he took over amidst your frustration. boxers and all, he sprang free in front of you, and Holy Shit Peter Parker. that's fucking obscene.
"this is your last chance to change your mind. because once i start, i dont think i'll be able to stop," he warned.
"please fuck me, peter."
he attacked your chest with his lips, hands firm on your hips as he shifted you again to the edge of the counter. you wrapped your soft fingers around his leaking cock, and he was almost done for before you'd even started.
peter moaned loudly and moved to put his large hand over yours to line himself up. you were still soaked from peter's previous meal, making it easy for him to slide his head through your slit. you were a begging mess in his ear, nails scraping down his back in anticipation.
peter nudged your entrance and pushed in easily (whether from the pollen or his ample prep, no one knows). the two of you moaned in filthy harmony, the feeling a definition beyond indescribable.
his legs were shaking immediately, and despite his inhuman strength, it became apparent that he couldn't do this standing for much longer if you felt this good.
"fuck, sweetheart," peter grabbed you roughly and pulled you towards him, pushing to the hilt and pressing hip to hip with you. he picked you up, spun you around, and laid you on the cool tile
"this isn't what you deserve, fucking you on the ground like this. fuck, baby."
and then peter was relentless.
he pounded into you with such a force, his mouth still focused on your tits and how they bounced for him. both of you could breathe again, the pain lifting and now replaced with a newly discovered pleasure that made you emotional again. you looked completely fucked out, tears streaming down your cheeks as peter lifted your thighs higher to get as deep in you as possible.
"fuck, please don't cry," he begged, though he kept drilling into you, knees now meeting your own chest. "i'm sorry, i'm so sorry."
you pulled him down, his chest pressing against the back of your thighs, and your foreheads connected as you breathed him in, exhaling a rough "i love you so much, peter".
he stuttered for a moment, eyes as wide as they were the first time he heard you say it. not for long, though, as he stayed pressed against you and picked up the pace like never before.
"oh my god, i fucking love you."
peter had you seeing stars, and you didn't know how long you'd even been in the lab. five minutes could have passed, maybe three hours. all you knew was that you didn't care, and you were close. peter knew it too.
"babe-baby, you're close. i-i can feel it, you're so fucking tight around my cock." you couldn't help but clench him in response.
"fuck, yeah-y-yes. god, squeezing me so good. god, i knew you were made for me."
it was the sentimentality of everything that sent you over this time. hearing the way he talked about you, you came around his cock, and it felt so fucking magical. but peter didn't slow down, determined to ride out your orgasm. he was quickly losing his composure, though, at the feeling of you fluttering around his cock.
"sweetheart, w-where—"
"inside, please."
peter didn't even have time to question the outcomes to his actions because the second he heard you, his best fucking friend, moaning for him to cum inside of her? oh fucking hell.
he let out such a guttural moan as he came, hot and thick, deep inside of you. you felt so warm and full, so much so that it triggered a third orgasm, sobbing peter's name as he just kept going. mixed arousal spilled down your thighs as he continued to fuck you, and through your fucked out haze, you could feel his cum drip down and pool around your ass.
you were barely conscious at this point, but peter kept going as he muttered "i'm sorry" over and over again.
luckily, he'd released the goddamn mating press and released your legs, allowing you to stretch out. peter was able to cover more of your body with his, lying chest to chest with you as his hips rutted into yours. the new position was so much more intimate as he leaned in to capture your lips in a kiss again.
"please. please, just one more. one more and i'll stop."
peter said that three more times that evening before he was done, and he felt like himself again.
he looked down at you in awe, though concern slipped through his fucked out eyes. "you okay, bug?"
"i can't believe you really just gassed us with an aphrodisiac."
peter laughed, a blush creeping on his cheeks at the memory of his fatal mistake. "yeah, that was, uh... that was my bad."
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Me watching people try and say "Well no one else but trinity wanted Bryce" the casa girls did. Sydney outright stated she would've pursued Bryce if she was brought back. Even Alannah apparently was someone he'd been exploring with until they didn't connect on a base friend level and he really latched onto how much he missed Trinity and valued her existence in his life.
Jen and Bryce were coworkers with enough history to have no interest in each other. Kayda was the only other girl Bryce seemed to pull for chats and she was instantly locked on Zach. Melanie only ever wanted Sincere truly, though she did explore Corbin when she was forced out of her couple. Aniya was all in on KC from the jump until Casa shook her up.
A lot of people don't find Bryce attractive because he's not big and buff like the other guys of the show and I wish they'd admit that rather than painting this picture that he's undesirable when looking at his history on the internet you can see that very much isn't the case. Heck Kenzie initially was into Bryce before they kissed and even then she still was thinking of pulling him for chats in episode 3, which Trinity lowkey redirected by encouraging her to explore further with Sean and Gabe when Kenzie was asking for advice. Kenzie outright listed Bryce as an option and Trinity avoided mentioning his name when encouraging Kenzie's explorations.
And let's not forget that Bryce became the standard in the Villa for the girls with Melanie asking Sincere why he couldn't be more like Bryce. Bryce asking trinity to explicitly be his girlfriend, yearning in casa, never once speaking ill of her, always being up front and honest, changed the game in that place.
People are out here downplaying Bryce, pretending he's barely worth anything, treating him like a second option. He was Trinity's first option, her only real option. She told Bea this pretty early on.
And I'm only saying this because I still see people stating it when trying to downplay how Iconic trinity's run of the show was. "she never exploded over a man" "a man no one wanted" girls did want Bryce. But Bryce wanted Trinity.
How long are we going to stay silent about the fact that 90% of Severus Snape × reader fanfics are blatant pedophilia?
No, I do not want to read about how Snape, aged 36–40, fucks a girl who has barely turned 18 in every possible position. No, I do not want to see Snape struggling with himself with all his might, fully aware that it is not normal to have feelings for a student, let alone a child. And then, as if nothing happened, he still goes ahead and acts on it, laying his disgusting hands on an innocent girl.No, I do not want to see how an obviously stupid and naive heroine tries to prove that she is already an adult, that she is already capable of making decisions.I do not want to see how the other ADULT characters turn a blind eye to it, pretending that this is normal. And not only that—they even encourage this "love."
I feel sick just from the realization that such garbage is apparently written by grown adults. What's more, these stories get the most likes and views. PEOPLE LIKE IT. They enjoy watching a girl's future being destroyed by disgusting adult men who couldn't find themselves a proper woman their own age.
Just because the heroine is 18 does not mean she suddenly stops being a child and becomes an adult and independent at the snap of a finger. Yes, now she officially takes responsibility if she commits a criminal offense, and she can freely live on her own. But despite that, she is still a child whose mind can easily be warped, who can be convinced that this kind of "love" is normal.
And this does not apply only to this fandom and ship.
Authors, how long will you keep being afraid of a self-sufficient, adult woman who actually knows what she wants? Who does not depend on a man and does not cling to him like a monkey?
happy for the core 4 but two of satans sons made it by proxy … had it been bisexual island mel and kayda could’ve couple up and we could’ve sent sinister and zachary on wooden boats back with spoons as paddles
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CHEAT ON YOUR NIGGA TODAY! IF YOU DONT DO IT TODAY DO IT TOMORROW! IF YOU DONT DO IT TOMORROW DO IT THE DAY AFTER! IF YOU DONT DO IT THE DAY AFTER DO IT THE NEXT DAY!!!
that was genuinely scary and hard to watch oh my god those poor girls got dressed up just to see their men get twerked and kissed on omgggg id throw up everywhere
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another love island usa cast member (a casa girl) being called out for being racist. i knew this was coming after she wouldn’t touch any of the black men on the show tonight and was super weird with them. love island usa producers need to do better background checks.
wait what about using art as a rebound from ur ex (maybe patrick maybe not) and he’s had a crush on u for ages since u guys have been friends, and he’s so in love he’ll do anything and he’s just happy to be near you in any way.
idk i just think most art pieces now are pretty much the same but i love your take on him as a puppy almost
pairing: bsf! art donaldson x bsf!fem! reader
cw: lowk toxic reader, whipped art, smut but not explicit, highkey angsty sorry
a/n: i’m so sorry i took this long to respond. i have been in such a writing slump and ironically the only thing to give me motivation to write is the lack of art donaldson fics rn. also i’m sorry idk if you wanted this to be more fluffy or smutty but i unintentionally made it really sad lol.
art knew your go-to movie theater snacks. he knew your your favorite top. he knew your favorite comfort meal. he knew your favorite authors and bands. he knew when you needed a laugh, or a cry, or a hug. he also knew that no man would ever be good enough for you, maybe even himself included.
your ex, however, knew little to none of that. why is exactly why is cannot understand how someone as amazing as you could ever shed tears over someone like him.
it took less than 10 minutes for art to knock on your door after you called him crying post-break up. he heart sunk at ever sniffle and sob and he spent the night watching movies with you, holding you, and ordering your favorite food. maybe it was selfish, but he allowed himself to savor the feeling of you in his arms, to cherish every crumble of affection you had so graciously given him.
sure, you guys had cuddled before. but now at least there was no irrelevant boyfriend in your ear telling you to drop art.
the following week after the break up, art was more dependable than ever. he cleaned your room for you. he took notes for you in the classes you skipped. he brought you meals. he even did your laundry once.
art’s kindness was never lost on you. in fact, you often wondered why he was single. art was a unicorn compared to the dating sea of men. with a heart and a face like his, you would think he would be someone’s boyfriend.
after 2 weeks of feeling sorry for yourself you finally decided to end the pity party and go out. art was more than thrilled to be the person to take you to a weekend party at some random fraternity. it helped that you looked absolutely gorgeous.
he promised you before-hand that he wouldn’t let you drink alone and that you could find an uber home. he only began to realize his mistake after the alcohol made his brain fuzzy enough to think about kissing you as he watched you dance in the musky living room.
maybe it was the lights reflecting off your hair. maybe it was the genuine smile that graced your lips that he had missed seeing in so long. maybe it was the way you looked at him like there was nobody else in the room.
it didn’t matter who or what was to blame though as he couldn’t help his feet from walking to you and putting his hands on your hips. it was as if you had hypnotized him in a way that left no room for consideration. it didn’t matter that you were fresh out of a relationship. or that you were just friends. it didn’t matter that you were in a less than romantic setting or that he could smell the alcohol out of everyone’s breath around him. all that mattered to him was that you were in his arms and your eyes were on his lips.
truly, nothing could stopped him from connecting his mouth with yours, just like nothing would’ve stopped you from letting him.
that night you took art to your dorm and let him hold you like you were his. he devoured you like he had been waiting his whole life too (he had). you rocked back and forth on him like it was what your bodies were made to do. and you kissed eachother like it would never be enough.
you kissed his forehead afterward as he wrapped around you like this was completely normal.
it wasn’t until the next day when you went to class and continued talking to him like nothing happened that he thought he made a mistake.
but like clockwork you would come to his dorm or he would come to yours. you would intertwine your bodies in the sheets and moan eachothers name. he briefly wondered if you ever thought about your ex during it. be wondered if you had to hold yourself back from saying his name instead of arts just like art has to hold himself back from saying ‘I love you’ every time he watches you come.
sometimes he cries when you finally fall asleep. maybe because you might still love your ex. maybe because you might never love him. maybe because this is the closest he may ever be to you and yet he feels so far away.
art knows that it doesn’t matter anyway, because he would do it all again if it means being with you.
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