chthonicfeel

[chthonicfeel]

Sex pollen - Clark Kent x reader

Word count: 3.2k

Description: When Clark gets poisoned with sex pollen, he tries everything in his power to stay away from you. Until he ends up crashing into your living room, and you have a god on his knees, with your name in his mouth and your body at his will.

Tags/warnings: smut, established relationship, clark is sorry, he gets freaky with his powers, consent kink, breaks you and worships you at the same time, begging, praising, hovering (yes hovering👀), so much dirty talk (he’s feral but sweet), overstimulation.

Note: Guess who watched superman today and got a new man to obsess about🙂‍↕️ honestly I don’t even know what took over me when I wrote this but all I can say is go ahead, live your best life and enjoy the sweet filth 🫶🏼

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You wake up with a loud crash coming from your living room. You jolt upright from your bed as you hear glass shatter, sprinting toward the noise. You curse as your body, only covered by Clark’s giant shirt, gets hit with the crisp midnight air as wind gushed through your apartment like a hurricane just passed by.

A figure stood where your glass door used to be, leaning weakly on what was left of the frame. You turned on the lamp next to you, illuminating your boyfriend’s stumbling body.

“Clark!?” you exclaim, confused by his abrupt arrival.

He doesn’t look up, just stands there against the frame, chest heaving, fists clenched. Like he is barely holding himself together.

Worry washes your features, something must be really wrong. You start making way over to him, but as soon as you take a step forward he puts a warning hand in front of him.

“Stop! Don’t move,” his deep voice comes out strangled, like he’s been screaming for hours. “Don’t come closer… please. Just–just stay there.”

He keeps his hand up to stop you, panting heavily as he swallowed to try to soothe his dry throat. He slowly looks up, and groans when he meets your eyes. His pupils are blown wide, dry lips parted, his breath ragged like he’s been flying across the globe. His usually perfect wavy hair is now flat, messy, sticking to his sweaty forehead.

“I didn’t want to come here,” he whines. “I–I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“What happened to you?” You ask from your spot, fighting the urge to run to his aid.

“I’ve been infected,” he chokes out, and your brows furrow more. “Some kind of … alien pollen. It hit me out there. I flew straight into it and fuck ... It’s messing with my head, my body, I…”

He suddenly turns away, pacing in small frantic circles on your balcony like he’s trying to shake something off. His hands tremble as he fights to not make eye contact, like just looking at you hurts.

“What do you need? D-do you have the antidote?” You ask, scared as hell. He never acts like this.

He just shakes his head first with a bitter laugh, only to nod frantically afterwards.

God, if only you knew.

“I tried to wait it out,” he groans, fists now in his hair. “I swear I did, my love, I locked myself away for hours … tried to fly as far as I could but I kept turning back because I could smell you.”

Your breath catches in your throat, somehow understanding what this was about.

“I can smell you, sweetheart. Even from across the city … I can hear you breathing … your heartbeat. I didn’t want to hurt you but right now I have you in front of me and I can see–dammit … I’m sorry–“

He stumbles backward like he’s ashamed of himself, like he can’t even look at you.

“You know can’t turn it off,” he whispers. “I never mean to look, I swear, but I can see you now. Everything.”

Of course you know what he means. You know he can see right past his giant shirt covering your body. And the guilt on his face is gutting. He looks like he’s trying to claw his own powers out of his skin.

“Clark… it’s okay. You don’t have to explain, ”you step forward, slowly, gently. “It’s not like we haven’t–“

“No you don’t get it!” He snaps, his voice booming through your walls so loud you were sure everyone on the block heard him. He instantly feels worse with the way you flinched to his volume. “S-sorry darling … you just don’t get it … you have no idea what it’s like to smell you and know how soft you are, how warm. My instincts are going crazy. I just need to be inside you … I need to touch you, mark you, fill you up until I can’t think straight,” he just rambles, eyes raking through your body.

You take a deep breath, his words making you clench your thighs together and he noticed. Of course you’ve had sex before. You know what he sounds like when he’s needy. But this? This is feral. You’ve never seen him like this.

But you’re willing to do anything to help him. Always.

“Clark… you don’t even have to ask,” you speak softly, your own eyes darkening with desire.

He shakes his head. You don’t even understand the amount of restraint he’s having right now.

“I do … I always do. Especially now. Because I’m not going to touch you like I should. I’m not going to make it about you. I’m going to use you. Because you’re the only one who can fix me … you are the antidote and I hate it. I hate that I can’t even think straight unless I’m inside you … I need you so bad, darling, I’m shaking–“ He cries, an actual tear comes out his desperate eyes.

You’re watching a god fall apart in front of you.

Because of you.

You finally cross the space left, and he doesn’t stop you this time. You grab his face between your hands, and kiss him without hesitation. His arms immediately cling to your frame, cold hands slipping under your shirt to roam every inch of your warm skin.

You moan into his lips, when you taste the salty tears on his face. His hands land on your ass, and he squeezes hard, bruising, making you squeal. He immediately pulls back, apologizing. Like he still can’t let himself go.

“I love you, I’m sorry–” he blurts out immediately, hands soothing the skin he pinched while he fought the urge to do it again, harder. “God I love you … and I would never hurt you. Never. I swore I’d never touch you like this. Unless you asked me to. Unless you wanted me to. So please … tell me you want this too. Say yes, or I’ll leave. I swear I will.”

He nods, frantically, like he’s trying to convince himself more than he’s trying to convince you.

“I’ll leave if you tell me to,” he breathes. “I’ll fly through a mountain. I’ll bury myself in the ocean. Just don’t say yes unless you want this. I’m barely holding on– if you say it, I won’t be able to stop.”

You want him. God you always want him.

The way he keeps asking makes you want him even more. Even if he’s not your Clark now. Even if he won’t take care of you like he always does. Even if you can’t breathe or move after. Because you love him too.

“I want it,” you whisper against his lips, nodding. “I want you. You need me? Use me. Take all you want … I can take it.”

It’s over.

The moment you say yes there’s no going back. He lunges forward, tightening his grip on you as he lifts you off the ground to fly you towards the wall, knocking the lamp when your back hit the wall, leaving you both in complete darkness. Only the moonlight left to shine over his hungry eyes.

His massive hand cradles the back of your head to protect it from the hit, while the other tears off your shirt like he needs your skin on his or he’ll die. Your panties don’t even last two seconds before they fly away too.

His lips hit yours. Tongue desperate, hands everywhere, so large, so shaky, everywhere at once. He groans into your mouth like a man dying of thirst finally tasting water.

“Thank you,” he gasps between kisses. “Thank you sweetheart … I’m so sorry I can’t help you first … but I need you … I need to feel you inside, please just let me…”

He knows it hurts you when he doesn’t prepare you properly, when he doesn’t make you cum at least twice on his fingers before he fucks you …but he can’t right now. Not when he can smell how soaked you are already, not when he swears it’s dripping on the carpet.

“Do it,” you pant, hungry for him. “Clark just do it … please.”

He doubts only for a second, and then without thinking he rips the suit. Literally tears it at the waist, tugging it to get rid of it completely. He’ll care about that later.

Right now he is just muscle in front of you.

His painful cock springs up, and he presses himself to you with a wet slap, your back hitting the wall again. Your pussy throbs at how impossibly huge he is over your stomach.

You’ve had him before. You’ve barely made it. You still want him to rearrange your guts.

“Feel that?” he groans. “That’s what you do to me, that’s what’s been driving me insane all day, darling.”

He’s not even pretending anymore, his cock is throbbing, massive, already leaking. He aligns himself between your soaked folds, rutting the tip against your pussy a few times like he’s lost control of his body entirely. You moan at the friction. Every nerve ending screaming.

You know he’s gonna wreck you. You weren’t ready. But at the same time you’ve never been more ready.

He grabs your thigh and lifts it against the wall, before whispering against your lips. “I’m sorry…”

He pushes his hips forward, and when he finally slides home with a snap … raw, hard, you let out a strangled scream.

One long, broken sound, high pitched and helpless, because he stretches you brutally, all at once, bottoming out with a growl. An actual growl. Like he finally felt some type of relief since he got hit with the pollen.

You fight back a cry, lunging forward to bite his shoulder. He starts fucking you into the wall as he whispers ‘I love you’ ‘thank you’ ‘sorry’ like some sort of chant. Like it’s the only thing keeping him rooted to the version of him that is still careful with you when you have sex.

Your breath leaves you in a gasp, your bare back against the cold plaster, legs around his waist, and arms clinging to his biceps for dear life. All you can do is moan as you get adjusted to his unfairly thick cock slamming in and out of you.

“Just like that … you’re taking me so well,” he pants. “You can do it, sweetheart … you’re doing so good … fuck, you were made for this … made for me.”

His hands grip your thighs. He fucks you like he’s possessed, no rhythm, no thought into it, just deep, hard thrusts that hit something devastating every time, shaking the wall with every slam of his hips.

And the whole time, he keeps whimpering into your neck.

“I love you … I’m sorry … I love you …I’m gonna ruin you …I need it…”

You think you’re about to white out when the room starts moving, but you quickly realize what’s happening.

He’s lifting your bodies off the ground.

Still fucking you.

Going up as much as your ceiling allowed him too. He pins you high on the wall when his head touches the roof, like gravity doesn’t apply anymore. It never does, not to you, not to him.

So now you’re fucking hovering. Literally. Unable to do anything but take it.

And you feel him like never before. A complete moaning mess. Nails dragging down his back, mouth open in shock as you look down to the floor. Your whole body is a live wire, and he’s fucking you like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

His cock twitches inside you. He’s already close. Has been since he walked through that window. But he’s holding it, fighting it, because he needs to stay inside. Needs to keep taking. You can’t.

“Fuck Clark … I’m gonna–“

“Yes? do it … darling please, you’re doing so well. I’ve got you … cum all over this cock baby I got you.”

Your body breaks before you can breathe. Your first climax of the night hits hard, clenching down on him, while you pant into his chest. Your whole body goes limp and he feels it.

He fucks you through it. Rough thrusts with his hand stroking your back and the other wrapped under your thighs. He keeps thanking you as his cock splits you open over and over.

“I wanna give you everything,” he groans, voice cracking. “Fill you up, stuff you full of me … Can I? Please? Let me finish inside you …. let me have you–“

“Yes, yes, fill me up,” you blurt out, still seeing stars.

He slams in once more and chokes, hips locked, whole body shuddering as he comes with a moan so broken it feels like it came from his soul. He shakes as he fills you, mouth pressed to your neck.

He doesn’t pull out yet. He holds you there, trembling, pressed against the wall like he knows you’ll fall if he loosens his grip.

Even after the first wave passes, after the groans, the shaking, the desperate I love you’s, he holds you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this planet.

“…Are you okay?”

You just nod, breathless, a blissed out smile in your face. He smiles too. And then, slowly, he lowers you back down to the floor.

But he’s not soft for long. He doesn’t even give you a minute to recover. He can’t. The second round starts before the first one even finishes sinking in.

You’re still trembling in his arms, leaking down your thighs, whimpering his name into the crook of his neck. And he’s still inside you. Still painfully hard.

Still needing you.

“One more, please. Just–just one more,” he begs. “Let me have you again. Please, darling I need it.”

“Take it Clark, take all you need,” you nod, absolutely wrecked.

But what’s a few more rounds with your unearthly strong boyfriend?

He melts.

You usually go multiple rounds, but he’s softer, he gives you downtime, even brings you water in between orgasms. But right now he can’t believe the way he fucked you and you still let him have more. But he needs more. The pollen is fogging his brain.

He finally pulls out, just to set you down on the floor. The second your back hits the rug, he’s on top of you again. And god he’s heavy. Solid. He doesn’t even hold his weight like he usually does because all he’s thinking about is fucking you senseless.

He buries himself deep again, groaning, cursing under his breath. You close your eyes, nails digging the carpet, back arching when you feel him deeper from this angle. You pant small whines from the feeling.

“Shhh … don’t–“ he coos, he wants to be slow, but he can’t. His hips snap hard without even thinking. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart … so good for me… just need one more.”

You know it’s not just one more. And he fucking knows that too.

None of you cares.

“You’re so wet … so perfect” he groans, the filthy sound gushing loudly every time he thrusted. “I didn’t even give you time to come down … didn’t even let you breathe and you still take me so well”

He praises. Worships. He looks down to where your bodies meet, and he sees right through your skin. He can see his huge cock filling you with every thrust. He can see your walls clenching around him. And he looses it.

You’re suddenly running out of air when he presses his chest to yours, pining you tighter to the floor with his body as he pushes harder. And you feel all of him. The broadness of his chest against your ribs. The strain of his thighs bracketing yours. His cock still buried deep, rock hard.

You hit his bicep with your hand first, but he’s not paying attention, he’s too caught up on the way your pussy takes him to notice.

It’s not smooth. Not rhythmic. Just sharp, ragged thrusts that hit you so hard your body jerks on impact, tits bouncing, nails clawing at his back as he crushes you into the floor with every rut of his hips.

Your head starts spinning.

“Clark,” you choke out, hitting his bicep again. “I can’t–can’t breathe…”

His head finally snaps at you, eyes going wide. He lifts up a bit, but he doesn’t pull out, he just … can’t.

You finally gasp for air as he shushes you softly, tucking away the hair sticking to your sweaty forehead.

“I’m sorry … I can’t … can’t stop. I tried, I swear I tried,” his forehead presses to yours, without crushing you alive this time.

His hips don’t stop moving. You pant between moans. You’re close again, you can feel it.

“It’s okay, you’re just … you’re so big …so heavy.”

“I’m sorry,” he breathes. “I’m sorry, I know. I just … I don’t want to let you go–”

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t let me go.”

His expression breaks. Because he knows. And you know. He’s not really letting you go. Not all the way. He’s still pressing his weight into you, even as he tries not to. Because he needs to. Because letting go means losing you, even just for a second.

He doesn’t know what takes over him, he grabs your hands and pins them above your head. Watching you sob, moan, eyes rolling back, skin already bruising in multiple places by his grip. He’s not like this. He should be apologizing. Begging. But you just feel so damn good.

And you like it, god you love it.

“I–I love it when you fuck me like this,” you confess, voice barely above a whisper, dumb smile on your face as he hits that spot repeatedly. “I just- I can’t…”

“I know darling, I know … just a little more,” he groans. “One more please. You can take it …you’re doing so good.” He soothes, but he can’t slow down, not when you’re clenching him like that.

He picks up the pace.

“C-Clark … please, I’m gonna-“

“I’ve got you, darling …I’ve got you, let yourself go for me.”

You see white this time. You’re not even moaning anymore. Just gasping. Twitching. Letting him take what he needs because you want to. Because this is Clark, your Clark, and you’d give him your whole body a thousand times if he needed it.

And he does.

He fucks you like you’re his last breath.

Even after you’re wrecked, limp, twitching … he keeps going.

You don’t even remember the next time he finishes. Or the time after that. Or where it happened. Your body is a mess, trembling and raw and wet and full. Marked. Praised.

All while he keeps saying, “Just one more … just let me stay inside you a little longer… please sweetheart, I’m still hard I know you can take it … this is the last time I promise…”

Again and again. You’ve never heard him lie so much before.

Yet still, with your hair splayed, legs shaking, literal tears leaking from the corners of your eyes from the pleasure, the pain, the strain, the goddamn pollen he pumps into your body every time he comes…

You are having the time of your life being drunk on his cock.

“Fuck me harder.”

You beg, even when you can’t feel it anymore. Maybe that’s why you need it harder … deeper.

And because you knew that once he came back to normal he wouldn’t fuck you like this again. And he makes sure to let you know.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry I’m hurting you. I just need you so fucking much … I love you I love you I love you—”

You just nod, because it hurts embarrassingly good.

You lose count of how many times he comes in total. How many times you come. You only know time’s passed when the sky starts to lighten outside your broken window, and Clark is rocking into you so slowly it’s more like he’s just holding you in place, his mouth pressed to your shoulder, whispering thank you with every lazy thrust.

By the time he finally slows down, finally wears the substance out of his body after dumping it all inside you … you can’t move. You’re limp in his arms, boneless and dripping and his.

Your bed feels incredibly soft in contrast to all the spots he fucked you on last night.

You’re draped across his chest, tracing the muscles under his bare skin. His fingers are in your hair. Barely moving, just tracing small patterns. Soothing you like he didn’t cause all the pain in your body.

You’re still trembling a little. Just from… after. Your body’s still echoing with everything he gave you. Everything he took.

Worth it.

Clark kisses your temple. He hasn’t stopped kissing you every few minutes. It’s like he’s trying to apologize without saying it. Like he’s trying to prove that he’s still the man you love, the man who flinches when he bumps your head by accident, who picks you flowers and gets flustered when you kiss him in public. The one who always put you first in bed.

Not the one who just broke the sound barrier flying to your apartment because his cock told him to.

“…I broke your window,” he finally breaks the silence, a chuckle makes his chest vibrate against your ear.

“Clark … you broke a lot more than my window.”

You both start giggling … glowing. Your throat hurts, you’re sore, probably can’t even walk today or the whole week, and somehow, it feels like the safest place on Earth.

“I love you,” he whispers. “So much.”

“I know,” you whisper back. “You said it like 87 times while destroying me.”

⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆

I created a blog dedicated to Superman, where I’ll be posting my writing for him from now on 🫶🏼 so if you wanna check it out, go to -> @404superman

Feedback and sharing is always appreciated, thank you so much for reading <3

[chthonicfeel]

CONTAINS : established relationship﹒oral (f!receiving)﹒size difference﹒headcanons | 18+

clark, who blushes the colour of ripe cherries when you talk dirty to him. tell him exactly what you want, with the kind of salacious detail that leaves no room for ambiguity. he groans, trying not to let all the blood rushing south compromise whatever fragile restraint he’s clinging to.

clark, who turns meek the moment you undress him—shyness blooming across his skin like a heatstroke. for all that strength and muscle mass, he is a man of steel, yet it takes no more than your fingers ghosting over the buttons of his shirt. he sways slightly under the attention, when your fingertips traces the dark line of hair beneath his navel.

clark, who moans loud when you tug his hair.

clark, who warned you sheepishly—“i’m stronger than i look.” as if that wasn’t already obvious. still, even with the disclaimer, he had the decency to look completely mortified when the headboard cracked clean in half beneath his grip. “i’ll fix it,” he mumbled, cheeks burning.

clark, who has no real grasp of how devastatingly hot he looks when he begs—broad shoulders hunched, towering frame folded over yours. “please,” he breathes, “need you—need to be inside, baby. can’t take it, c’mon please let me—”

clark, who can basically live between your thighs. who mouths at your pussy nice n’ slow, groaning when you start to squirm—more consumed by your pleasure than his own. he gets so lost in it. in fact, he’d go hours if you let him, just to feel you come undone on his tongue again and again. lips slick and eyes glassy, he’s blissed-out from nothing but the taste of you.

clark, who murmurs, “is this okay?” even as his hips sink between your legs, cock poised at your entrance. because he’s so strong, he could wreck you. and the part of him, the one that wants to—wants to fuck you into the mattress—needs to be gentled first by your yes.

clark, who cups your belly with one hand when he’s buried deep, thumb tracing a featherlight circle just above your pubic bone. “right there?” he murmurs, and when you whimper out an answer, he steals a ragged kiss, then grinds his pelvis in slow strokes, patient as he rides out the tremors until your voice fractures and breaks.

clark, who once came in his pants from nothing more than the way you kissed him: messy, with tongue, both hands fisted in his shirt. you didn’t even realise, until he pulled back abruptly, a dull red flush creeping all the way to his hairline. and when your eyes dropped—there it was. the small, dark patch blooming across the front of his slacks. zipper strained. mortified, he tried to cover it with a hand and apologised profusely. you kissed him again. and again. until he stopped apologising for it.

clark, who is so clingy after sex. arms encircling your waist, he rests his chin on your sternum, lips brushing his featherlight, languid kisses along the swell of your breast.

clark, who looks absolutely beautiful in the post-coital glow. you’ve seen clark at his most indomitable: airborne, a streak of red and blue tearing across the clouds. but now he lies earthbound beside you. utterly still, there’s a softness to him; stunned affection written across cherubic features too lovely for this century. kiss-bitten lips slightly parted in awe, cheeks still tinged a rosy pink. clark stares at you through lashes half-lowered, eyes as blue as sunlit glacial water. his hair’s a tousled halo, dark curls disheveled from your touch, falling haphazard across his brow. and when you smile—he smiles back; like it’s the first sunrise he’s ever seen.

[chthonicfeel]

─ ✮⋆˙ 𝑯𝑰𝑻 𝑴𝑬 𝑯𝑨𝑹𝑫 𝑨𝑵𝑫 𝑺𝑶𝑭𝑻 || 𝑪𝑳𝑨𝑹𝑲 𝑲𝑬𝑵𝑻

MINI NAT’S NOTE: i haven’t stopping thinking about this loser kansas failure man since friday. i literally got out of bed to write this because i can’t sleep. hope y’all love it, mwah!

CW: 18+ SMUT MDNI, fem!reader, rough sex, service top clark, he whimpers cause i said so, sexy uses of x-ray vision, clark kent can FUCK, super stamina yes god, hyperspermia, superman’s super huge dick, belly bulging, porn w.o plot, no use of y/n.

"Clark, please—"

Your voice breaks on his name, swallowed by the sound of the headboard slamming into the wall again and again and again.

Your thighs are shaking, pinned wide open by Clark’s hands, his grip near desperate as he ruts into you with a punishing force. It’s not as hard as he could go, you know that he must be biting through his lip trying to control himself. You wish he could go harder, that he could really give it to you. 

He deserves it. He works so hard, he deserves a nice warm hole to pound into after saving the world for the hundredth time—or after turning in another perfect front page piece to Perry.

You’ve brought it up a few times, when Clark was too drunk off the feeling of your lips against his own and the taste of your tongue on his to shy away from the conversation.

You could take it, you’d take anything he gives you with open arms and spread legs and a smile on your face.

Clark’s far too sweet to ever pin you down and just take. He’s a gentleman through and through, he was taught to treat ladies with respect. Superman isn’t an exception to those good farm boy manners of course, no matter how many times you’ve daydreamed about him flying through your window and tossing you on the mattress and using you.

God, you really do love him like this though.

“Sorry,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours, dark curls mussed. “I’m sorry, I can’t—I can’t stop. You feel too good, baby, you’re so good.”

Clark’s voice breaks on the last word like he’s begging you to understand, but the thrust of his hips says otherwise. There's nothing apologetic about the way he’s fucking you—like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Like his survival depends on it. The bed’s screaming under the weight of his body, your body, his strength.

Your spine arches off the bed as his hips slap against yours hard enough to sting, wet and relentless. “Clark,” you gasp, nails raking down his back uselessly. “Don’t stop. Please—don’t stop.”

His cock splits you open again and again, thick and flushed and incessant, pistoning deep and hard and needy. It’s too much. It always is. Too thick, too long, the fat head of him kissing up against something so deep inside you it shouldn’t be physically possible.

The room smells like sex. Sweat and musk and Clark—rain, ozone, sunlight. The sound of your bodies coming together bounces off the walls, the wet slap of skin on skin. The filthy, slick noises of your pussy sucking his cock deeper makes your ears burn.

You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve come. Clark hasn’t. Of course he hasn’t.

“Five,” he groans, burying his face in the sweaty expanse of your neck. “You’re so sensitive now, baby, I know—I can hear it, your heartbeat skips every time I do this—” he pulls out, just halfway, then slams forward and stays there, his cock so deep your stomach distends a little. “Gosh, look at that.”

You’re soaked, ruined, you know it. You’ve been trembling under him for five rounds, but you love it. Every ragged thrust, every strangled apology he can’t stop moaning, every load he pumps into you like his body has to. You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, drag him even deeper, and Clark whines.

“I’m—fuck—I’m gonna come again—please, baby, let me—please—”

He’s come three times already. You can feel the wet, hot mess he’s made of you, dripping down your thighs, soaking the sheets. You’re already so full. You feel full.

The last time he came inside you he barely gave you a minute before he was hard again, aching and apologizing even as he buried himself back in your cunt. His come is still dripping out of you in thick, creamy ropes, and he still hasn’t stopped chasing it. He can’t.

"Yes." Your legs wrap tighter around his waist. You want it. You need it. “Give it to me, Clark.”

That's all it takes for him to lose it again.

His body locks up—hips jerking, mouth falling open with a loud, broken moan.

You cry out as you feel him twitch deep inside you, and then it happens again—hot, endless, thick spurts of come painting your insides, filling you up so full it hurts. Clark’s gasping, his mouth falling open against your shoulder, his whole body trembling. 

His cock doesn’t go soft, it never does. Not when he’s buried in you like this. Not when you keep fluttering around him, squeezing down like you want to milk every last drop from his body.

“Shit, I didn’t mean—‘m sorry—I keep—” His hips stutter and then roll again, like he’s addicted to how you feel around him, like stopping would kill him. “It’s too much—I know, baby—I just—you make me so messy—”

There’s even more come leaking down your thighs in thin streams of white, soaking the sheets, slicking his cock every time he pulls out just to slam back in. You can feel how slippery everything is now, how swollen you are, how stretched. And still—he doesn’t stop.

“You—shit, you take it so good,” he moans. “My good girl—my pretty girl—look at you, look at how much I gave you.”

Clark looks down, a soft groan rips out from somewhere deep in his chest at the sight of his cock punching up inside of you. His eyes go, glassy and unfocused for a moment. That’s the only warning you get before he tilts his hips ever so slightly, and you’re crying out when he hits that spot up inside you perfectly on the next thrust.

That’s a definite perk of dating a metahuman, x-ray vision. You know that even without any special powers he could take you apart until you were a crying, shaking mess. That being said, the MRI eyes help.

Clark has spent hours learning each and every part of your body, inside and out. He’s made a home between your legs and watched your nervous system light up more times than you can count. 

He’s watched the way your dopamine levels spike when he mouths at your clit just right, the way your pulse lights up when his fingers slide deep and curl at just the right angle. He’s studied you like scripture, like a blueprint.

You cry out, screwing your eyes shut as your hands slide down his back. You revel in the feel of him on top of you, the muscles of his back rolling and working under your greedy touch. You’re going to come again, you know you are. The spring inside of you starts coiling tighter and tighter with each thrust.

“Please,” Clark gasps, nearly sobbing it. “Let me—one more time, I promise—please—I know you’re full, baby, I know—just one more.”

“You’re gonna break the bed again,” you gasp, too dumb and lost for words to say anything else.

Clark doesn’t respond—maybe he can’t. Maybe he’s already too far gone to hear anything but the desperate squelch of his own come leaking out of your ruined pussy and down the hard length of his cock.

“I love you—I love you so much," he mutters incoherently, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles over the meat of your hips as his cock carves a place for itself inside you. "You feel too good—god, you were made for me.”

The mattress jerks violently beneath you with every thrust—you can feel the wood frame groaning, splintering. Not the first time. Probably won’t be the last.

It’ll be worth it.

MINI NAT'S NOTE: anyway this movie changed my life. i started rewatching 70s superman the second i got home. james gunn thank you for making superhero movies with love and whimsy again.

thank you so much for reading, love you!

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Part 2 of 2

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OWN MY MIND. GOJO / M!READER

summary. nah, satoru wins.

wc. 4k

tags. smut | sub bottom gojo, top reader, husbands gojo/reader, slight blood and gore, needy gojo (he a little feral) (he's also whipped as hell), riding + teaching a pillow princess how to ride <3, spit as lube, untouched orgasms, multiple orgasms, rough sex, breeding kink, brief feminisation

notes. i'll learn to write less, i said. not every smut fic needs nine thousand words, i said. i reduce the intro to 600 words and this is still way bigger than i intended :))) skull emoji.

Ryomen Sukuna is dead, and Satoru's white hair is red with blood. For a split second, his chest was cleaved open clean in two, and he could feel the air rushing into the cavity of his chest. His exposed heart, red and slick, shuddered with the crackle of cursed energy forcing its way through every cell.

He thought that was his end. Surely it was. The monstrous, wicked grin on Sukuna's face certainly hadn't helped.

My husband.

As if in slow motion – everything feels so slow after moving at light speed, at thousandths of a second – he turns, pulse thundering against the walls of his skull. Red, red. So much of it.

My husband. My husband.

Satoru's unblinking blue eyes scour the silent battlefield for the distinct presence of your cursed energy. He hones in like a nuke on the smoky trail wisping in the air, as potent and attention-stealing as the stench of cigarette smoke at a road crossing. He takes a step, the ground unsteady and his horizons tipping, and licking his dry lips blooms the heavy iron of blood on his tongue.

I need my husband.

He follows the trail his Six Eyes shows him. He shoves past the sorcerers clamouring for his attention – his open wounds and vacant eyes don't inspire a lot of confidence – but he pushes past them, gaze trained on the wispy breadcrumb trail so teasingly left behind.

He puts one foot in front of the other. Then again. And again, again, again, until he's blitzing through rubble and ruined streets, his heart slamming into his broken ribs. His feet pound the ground as if he's trying to move the earth itself. A solid ball of heat and pressure has filled his core, curling and roiling and throbbing, pushing him to move, to find you – to fuck you.

My husband.

There you are, cradling your students and healing the worst of their injuries with frantic, grateful whispers of their names. Shoko's nearby, fluttering from patient to patient like a small bird – but your students, his students, flock to you and your steadiness, like wreck survivors to a sturdy rock at sea.

It wasn't only him learning new tricks, then – you certainly couldn't heal others before all of this.

He wants your hands on him. In him. For him. He skids to a stop just as you finish squeezing Nobara half to death in relief, and you quickly stand as his presence looms behind you. His clothes are shredded, barely hanging on.

"Satoru?" you call softly, voice husky with exhaustion, and there are new cuts and bruises littering your skin. Always so selfless, tending to others even when you've got three broken ribs and less than ten fingers.

Satoru seizes your wrist, the blood boiling in his veins at the sight of your injuries. Anger ripples hot under his skin. "Heal yourself," he demands, chest heaving.

You blink, glancing down at the hand in his tight grip. Cursed energy floods the space where your fingers would be. Satoru watches reverentially as the cuts seal over and the bruises fade.

His pale skin shines, sweat gathering wherever his blood isn't. Did he run all the way across the city to get to you?

"Satoru, the others need to speak with you," you try, but you can't help the sneaking suspicion that he's not all... there. His cerulean eyes are wide, tracking you like a predator in wait. You don't think he's blinked once. "I'll take you to Ijichi."

"No," he downright growls. Without another word, he drags you close, shoving his nose in the crook of your neck, and the whole world uproots, tipping and whirling in a nauseating swirl of colour and wind.

You nearly retch when your surroundings still, your head spinning. You stumble away, fumbling with the shoji doors in front of you and throwing them open.

Clean air. Neat greenery, a wall of trees, garden paths.

"Is this," you swallow, your stomach settling, "the Gojo estate?"

His skin burns as he wraps his arms around you and buries his face between your shoulder blades, his sweat-damp hair tickling your neck. Something hot and stiff ruts into the back of your thigh and he takes a deep, shuddering breath, a gasped moan leaving his lips.

You smell like blood, sweat, and a sweet warmth like the sun. He pants, each lungful filling him with your dizzying smell, strong and masculine. He gropes at the front of your trousers, shaking hands scrabbling at the zipper as if it's the first time he's touched such a thing.

"Satoru," you grunt, grabbing his wrists and turning around, "what are you doing? Why are you still bleeding?"

"Do it for me," he breathes shakily, widening his legs slightly to rub against you harder. "Please."

Your throat bobs and he follows the motion hungrily with his eyes. You lift your hands unsteadily and hover them over his shoulders, unsure of where to touch because it doesn't seem like there's an inch of him gone unwounded.

He decides for you, grasping your wrists and pushing his face into your palms. His thick white lashes flutter as your technique washes over his body, pulsing warm and pleasantly tingly from deep within his core. It's the same kind of flooding heat when you come in him, just everywhere this time – every limb, every finger, all the way from the soles of his feet to the top of his head. With legs like jelly, he moans quietly, his parted lips turning to the side and licking your thumb into his mouth. He suckles on it with eager, needy whines, lashes fluttering as he stares up at you with pupils blown wide, turning the sky blue of his eyes as dark as a deep ocean.

"Satoru," you whisper, entranced, pushing your thumb deeper into his mouth. You watch him moan, his body both taut and pliant under your touch, and his tongue laves against his own blood coating your skin. Criss-crossing his skin are a thousand scars you doubt any technique could completely reverse.

His head spins with the taste of your skin – warm, slightly salty, alive. Alive because of him – because he protected you like a good husband.

That's what he is, isn't he? Your perfect husband, the strongest of them all? He leans into your hand, short breaths puffing hotly against your palm, as he stares up at you, big damp eyes debauched and brimming with mania. He pushes his throbbing sex against your thigh with a whimper too sweet to ignore. You draw your thumb out of his mouth to grip his hips and pull him into you, letting him hump your thigh like a bitch in heat.

"I wanna," Satoru gasps hotly, arms thrown around your shoulders, "needa fuck you, baby, please – I-I'm—"

High on adrenaline, you surmise as he yanks you to the bed, shoving you down and clambering on top of you with less grace than usual. His breaths grow uneven and slightly whiny as he struggles with your many layers – undershirt and shirt and jacket, underwear and pants and zipper and belt – and he lets out a frustrated snarl.

He slashes an arm across your body. A crackling blade of pure cursed energy arcs through the air, slicing clean through the threads of your clothes. It bites a few millimetres into your skin, making you hiss as ruby beads pearl along the cuts. "Shit."

Satoru moans at the sight, tearing the remains of your shirt from your arms. Leaning down, he laps at the wounds, dragging his hot tongue over the dips and curves of your muscles. It scratches a primal itch in the back of Satoru's head, cooing happily knowing he would be well taken care of in your company. Your stomach heaves with effort – the tangy taste of your sweat and blood and the sound of your groans are enough to make his tip leak and bubble, soaking the front of his pants with just a few drags of his hips against air.

You manage to undo your trousers enough for Satoru to pounce. He closes his lips around the straining bulge in your briefs and sucks hard, his saliva saturating the cloth. He grinds into the mattress, nails digging into your tense thighs as he slobbers all over your clothed cock, a fucked-out expression gracing his reddened face.

"So biiig," he whines, though the drunken smile he wears tells you he likes it more than he should. He massages you with his fingers, tracing the outline of your shaft down your leg with a dreamy grin, dripping with lust and honey.

You grunt, combing your fingers through Satoru's snowy locks. The tips are dyed red, as if he's gone goth, and you shift your legs to push him off. He resists. "Baby, wait. We're both covered in blood."

"Don't you dare tell me to wait," he growls – pleads. His nails dig into your thighs. He pushes his mouth against your clothed cock, his hot breaths sending spiked shivers up your spine.

When you say nothing, acquiescing silently, Satoru lowers his gaze and fishes out your cock – he does it without his usual shy sweetheart eagerness, instead spitting on it as he pumps it, his other hand yanking at his torn pants. His pretty, dusky cock leaks and bumps his stomach. He kicks his pants off his ankles and hovers over your lap, thighs tensing as your thick tip presses against his hole.

You grab his hips, fighting against his own strength. His sharp gaze snaps up to you, blue-black with lust. His lips curl with impatience.

"Satoru," you choke out as he squeezes your shaft punishingly. "Honey, lube's in the closet drawer. Don't—"

He stares you down with a crippling intensity that makes your heart drop into your stomach. Your pulse races and your mouth goes dry as you stare back, withering slowly with every moment. He exhales softly as he smears your leaking precome down your shaft, slicking it up.

You swallow, head slowly tipping back to rest against the pillows. You keep your eyes on him all the while, hands loosening on his muscular thighs. Your fingers leave red marks on his alabaster skin.

He drops his hips. In one smooth motion, his greedy hole swallows your cock in its entirety – his ass smacks against your thighs and he lets out a loud, relieved groan, leaning forward and placing his hands on your chest. The lights flicker with a pulse of uncontrolled cursed energy.

Your heart beats beneath the cage of your ribs. He presses his palms harder against the sticky heat of your skin, committing the pattern of your heartbeat to memory.

He did that. He kept you alive.

Satoru lifts and lowers his hips, using the bounce of the mattress to help him ride you. His ass smacks roughly against your thighs, meeting halfway when the mattress pushes you up into him. He pants, breaths gasped and uneven, as his red, throbbing cock slaps his stomach, leaving a shining wet patch just above his belly button. His eyes roll back and his silky walls throb and squeeze, milking your cock as if he can't get enough, even when your balls press flush against his ass.

"'Toru," you hiss, staring up at his blissful expression. Your dick throbs at the sight and he whimpers, grinding down harshly before returning to his quick, rough pace. "Satoru! Fuck – slow down!"

"I can feel you," he whines instead of listening to you. He places a hand on his stomach, chest heaving as a wobbly smile spreads across his flushed face. "I-I can feel – here – f-feel the vein—"

He cries out as he manages to find his prostate despite the hot fog possessing his mind. His dick dribbles down the shaft but he doesn't touch it, too absorbed in the deep fullness your cock affords him.

Satoru's never been one to take control in the bedroom. He loves being pampered, being your pretty prince, and it's clear he doesn't know how to ride you. He slams his hips down, desperately trying to find that sweet spot inside him again, and if he keeps going like this, you're going to need a cast for your hips.

He makes a sound like a gurgle, arms trembling as he arches his spine. His cock drags against your stomach, pinched between your bodies.

"Baby. Baby, Satoru – let me help," you grunt, his warm insides slick with your pre. He spreads his ass, swallowing you deeper, and you struggle to sit up, his constant bouncing rough and harsh and animal.

"No," he hiccups, and when you glance up, there are tears glimmering along his lash line. "Needa fuck you. Gotta get your cum in me, okay, ruin this big fat cock with my hole – you're never gonna leave me. Never gonna wanna leave me. I'm the only fuckin' one who can make you feel like this, got it?"

Your eyes are wide as you stare up at him, unused to his sharp words, and his heart flutters as arousal curls thick and heavy in his lower belly. He can feel you there, splitting him in half with your meaty cock.

God, you're so perfect – he's so fucking glad that your clan didn't make things difficult when he marched in there and demanded your hand in marriage. Who cares if you're both men? He's pretty enough to be your wife and powerful enough to bring your enemies to their knees. You wouldn't have to do anything except fuck him brainless, cooing in your gorgeous sultry voice about how good he is for you.

His hips quicken, his moans bouncing around the room, almost drowning out the wet clap of skin on skin. You grip his little waist, pale criss-crossing scars smooth and feathered under your touch. He preens, lean muscles flexing under your attention. You press your thumb against one beneath his pert pink nipple, dangerously close.

Satoru's hips jerk and his eyes glaze over. He comes with a ruined mewl of your name, gasped and open-mouthed as he shoves his chest into your touch, his hands scratching stinging lines down your shoulders. The lights flicker again, this time dark for longer, and the burst of coursed energy he releases is hot and wanting, seeking you out. You shudder.

You moan at the pain of his nails digging into your back. Satoru humps his spurting cock against your stomach – pearly rivers trail down the planes of your stomach, and his eyes flutter with a final spurt that splatters your chest. He heaves like he's dying, clutching you and ramming your cock into him even when his high peters off.

It's barely a breath before he's kissing you, lips hot and pillowy and slick. Fuck, he's goddamn drooling, licking into your mouth with a hand on your nape to make sure you don't pull away. He moans into your mouth, swallowing your groan of his name with a greedy, whorish whine. A string of saliva joins your lips and he pushes his mouth against yours again, sharing moans and hot panting breaths.

"Come," he whimpers, accentuating it with a grind of his hips that has your cock twitching and his walls pulsing. "Inside. Please. Please, please, 'm so empty – wan' you t'come in me, let everyone know this cock's all mine! Want it all, wanna be marked up 'n' smell like you...!"

"Filthy," you grunt, slapping his ass and basking in his mewl of pleasure. You do it again to make his arms weak and hear him sob. "Is that right, 'Toru? You wanna get knocked up, wanna be my dirty little bitch?"

Babies?

Satoru's head spins just thinking about it. Wouldn't you be a great father? You do so well with Megumi and Tsumiki already – and sometimes, when it's quiet, Satoru does mourn the fact that he never had a sweet, fat little baby to hold and play dress-up with. If he had a baby, he'd want them to look like you.

He can't think straight. Adrenaline numbs his thoughts. Your cock buries itself deep in his guts, the thick head prodding his stomach, and your shaft rubs harshly against his swollen prostate with every rise and fall of his hips. The pleasure licks in his lower stomach, and every time your cock kisses his prostate his balls tighten and throb.

You slap his ass again, jerking him out of his drunken daze – he mewls, his reddened skin hot and tender. "Don't get quiet now, pretty. You dragged me away from people who need me. Least you can do is answer my fucking question."

"Mmh—!" Satoru's hole clamps around you, wet with spit and pre as he bounces, and he moans hungrily against your neck as your balls smack against his ass. Each slam of his hips on yours is almost painful. "Yes! Yes, yesyesyes, baby, 'wanna be your pretty slut 'n' get knocked up by this fat cock! Fill me – ah – u-up, fuck me up, feels so fuckin' good, wanna taste it—!"

"Yeah, baby, don't worry. I'll give it all to you," you mutter, and arousal coils tight in his belly at the sound of your groans, right in his ear. "Such a good boy, did so well today – you deserve it all, don't you? Deserve to finally sit back and enjoy your picket-fence life, hm?"

"With you," he whimpers, voice wrecked. His taut little hole, dark and swollen, glides along your shaft, his gummy insides sticky and warm and oh-so sensitive. His thighs tremble. "Only if it's with you."

You stroke his sides, which tense under your warm fingertips. "I'm yours, 'Toru. All yours. This cock is yours, too," you murmur, a slight lilt of amusement touching your words. "I'll fill you up every day until you take, if that's what you want. Anything for my husband, yeah?"

His eyes flicker and roll and he wails, broken little cries heaving from deep within his chest. His pearly release splatters your stomach and his heavy shaft arches towards his belly, red and swollen with desire. Staccato uh-uh-uh's leave his throat as he bounces, grinding his hips dangerously into yours.

"Satoru," you groan, half-chastising, and he whines at the sound of his name from your lips. ""Stop – stop fuckin' slamming down like that. Ovals, baby, c'mon. Back and forth – you'll put me in a damn cast if you keep going like this."

He nods desperately with a whimper, expression ruined, blue eyes hazy and teary. He tries to listen, tries to relax, but your cock is so big and it's not his fault that you take up all his thoughts! If anything, it's your fault, looking at him with those hypnotic eyes and saying his name with a voice like a siren – even the pain you cause him makes him dizzy with pleasure.

"'M sorry," he babbles, forehead and chest dipped against your sternum because his body's too heavy to hold up, "f—ah—feels too gooood, 'm s-sorry..." With your help, your heavy tip strokes his prostate with every drop of his hips, the ridges of your head catching on his hot, rippling walls. He was never very good at riding, but the perfect size and shape of your cock makes even his unsteady, inexperienced technique feel like heaven.

He's obsessed with you. You really were made for him.

"Much better," you hum, your hands on his waist to guide his movements. His hips stutter violently at the praise and you grope his ass as his thighs clamp tight around you. For his efforts, you reward him with a sharp spank, squeezing the tender meat of his twitching thigh where the print of your hand reddens his skin.

Satoru presses his mouth against yours, hot and messy – teeth clicking, tongues rolling – and the pain of his nails clawing at your shoulders sends you over the edge. Satoru gasps and cries out, his voice cracking as his eyes roll to the back of his skull. He follows you immediately over the precipice – so quick he almost beats you to it – and you love the way he falls apart in your arms, trembling and jolting and coming so hard it splatters your chest.

He hiccups out a sob, gawping, toes curling as his mind goes blank once more. Your come slicks him up nicely, eases the burn, and the warmth of it soothes his throbbing walls. It leaks down your shaft, creating a white ring around your base that froths and smears his skin with sticky strings.

The lightbulbs shatter entirely.

His orgasm lasts a while, spurts of thick come painting your stomach and chest. He sinks his teeth deep into his lower lip until he can taste iron. You hold him through it, and he presses himself further into your embrace as if he can get closer than having you inside him. His expression is dazed and blissfully fucked-out, the new scars adorning his skin like draped jewels.

He'll hold this over you, you know it. Every argument will be promptly shut down with, Remember that time where I fought Sukuna and won just for you? You can't say you're not grateful or won't be eternally in his debt for saving, quite possibly, the entire country, but you also can't say you'll be pleased when you ask him to complete his mission reports and he pulls that out of the bag.

At last, Satoru slumps against you. He's a moaning mess, his quivering hole still sucking in your cock whorishly. You're both covered in sweat, come, and a not-insignificant amount of blood; judging by the pain splitting your back, not all of it was from earlier. Cursed energy surges through your body, and the long bloody rakes down your back seal over.

"Fuck," you whisper, your voice wrecked as you sink into the bed. Your eyes flutter shut. "Ow..."

There's blood under Satoru's nails, and some sick part of him enjoys it specifically because it's yours. He doesn't have to say anything for you to kiss him and heal the cut in his lip, warm and tingly cursed energy flooding his senses and making him shudder with a valiant twitch of his spent cock.

He mewls when you pull out of him despite your gentleness, and you don't think it's the pain that he's unhappy about. His gaping hole leaks come, a thick milky glob of it rolling down his shaky thigh when he clenches around nothing. He reaches down and pushes it back into himself with two fingers, trying his best to scoop it all up.

Satoru only stops when you steal his attention, kissing the scars over his forehead and cheeks. You can tell he's still not quite himself, as he stays rooted in place over your lap with his gaze trained on you even as you try to coax him to lie down beside you. Eventually, as if coming to understand that it's over, he allows it, tucking himself against your side and entwining your legs together possessively. He rumbles out a soft purr against your chest, an arm over your waist, and he stares up at the bulb of your throat and the soft underside of your chin.

You still don't think he's blinked while looking at you.

He nuzzles into his favourite place below your chin, warm and content. His skin buzzes pleasantly with the remnants of your reversed cursed technique, still zipping along his nerves and over his synapses. He curls his legs tighter around yours.

Then, his little voice pipes up, dazed and faraway, barely a whisper: "I love you."

You brush his bangs back and kiss his forehead. He smiles, plump and flushed and pleased. "I love you, too, Satoru. Always."

He seems satisfied with your response, finally closing his eyes. You hold him tighter, and it's only a few seconds before he's lax and breathing deep and even.

The two of you are too tangled up to even attempt aftercare, as he's draped over you. You're not sure what he'd do if he woke up and found the bed empty, even if you're just in the bathroom, so your eyes slide shut and you cradle your dear little husband in your arms, protecting him from what you can.

You still haven't spoken to the other sorcerers. Satoru's going to have a big day tomorrow...

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YOURE ALWAYS POSTING ABT FRATBOY SUKUNA BUT WHAT ABOUT FRATBOY SATOSUGU?!?

i know i have but ur right sukuna has been taking up my thoughts...lets discuss

i really really love the idea of fratboy satosugu being best friends with a guy who is just a himbo.

but im talking randomly super smart in something insane like astronomy and astrobiology but doesn't know basic shit that crab apples aren't apples shaped like crabs or that santa and the easter bunny isn't real, and no im not projecting

but the three of you are soooo close, have an apartment together with 3 separate bedrooms but for some reason satoru has a king size bed that conveniently fits all three of you on at the same time

oh and they'll never embarrass you by telling you how you sometimes cuddle them in your sleep, or that you sometimes sleep talk, or the one time you were fisting suguru's shirt as you huffed and whined as your hips ground into suguru's while your ass rubbed against satoru's front and they both nearly came in their boxers because of it

BUT ALSO THEY KNOWWW you attract girls and guys of all kinds because, well, you are a sweetheart and you're so cute. how could they not want a piece of you?

so anytime someone comes up trying to flirt with you, satoru is instantly on your arm, whining about not giving him attention and suguru just starts feeling you up, asking if you've been working out more and that your arms are looking really good

AND THE FRAT PARTIES??? THEY LOVE BRINGING YOU BECAUSE YOU FOLLOW THEM AROUND LIKE A LITTLE LOST PUPPY !!!

theyre always making sure your cup is full, practically acting like ur body guards, one of their arms slung over your shoulder. but their favorite part is when you finally start to open up and socialize with their other fratbros without them. yeah, how they look at you from across the room with hearts in their eyes??? the WHOLE campus knows they're wrapped around your finger

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#me

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Matching your freak is beautiful and all but what you really need is a boy who's infatuated with your freak. Down bad for your freak. Deeply intrigued by your freak. Eager to see more of your freak. Supportive of your freak. Gets bricked up witnessing your freak, even.

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