flightsoffandom

[flightsoffandom]

“you should be at the club” Brother I should literally be sent to the seaside for my health

[flightsoffandom]

𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧

Clark is so completely oblivious to your flirting that you start to wonder if he even understands what flirting is. (He does, and he can prove it.) fem, 3k

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

“Hey, Kent.”

Clark’s answering smile is enthusiastic, but little else. “Hey. How are you, how’s your morning going?”

“Better now that you’re here.”

He takes this more seriously than you’d expect. Or, exactly as you’d expect apparently, because this is Clark you’re talking to. “No one’s made you a cup of coffee?” 

“Well, Jimmy offered, but, alas. Nobody has hands as skilled as yours.”

He nods like this is a given. “I can make you one. Decaf?” Clark laughs loudly at your crestfallen expression. “I’m kidding. Be right back.” 

With caffeine and Clark Kent, your morning promises to improve. It was destiny, fate, and one kind boss that put you in the desk to the right of Clark’s. He’s made good out of a bum deal sandwiched between his desk and a pillar, having turned the pillar into a home for his corkboard and sticky notes. You study him often, his hair kissing the wall each time he leans back to watch the office television. 

You just need to say the right thing to him. To get him to notice you. If he rejected you, you’d stop, of course you’d stop, but Clark hasn’t so far acknowledged your flirting, and even that would be enough to put you off the whole thing if Jimmy hadn’t fanned your flames a few weeks ago. 

He definitely doesn’t know you’re flirting, Jimmy’d said, mouth half full of popcorn, the other half milk duds, that’s what happens to boys when they come from a home on the range, my friend. No game. 

You’d laughed at his grand bravado and kept that information stored away. Clark does seem a little… inexperienced, when it comes to adult life. He’s perfectly normal as things go, but he’s hopeless when it comes to dating. A few weeks ago, a woman at the bar closest to work had asked him if he’d buy her a drink and Clark, all manner of sympathy in his eyes, had asked if she lost her wallet.

So you assume him unknowing and carry on valiantly. “Kent,” you say now, resting your hand on his shoulder, “can we have lunch together?” 

“When, now?” 

“Whenever’s best for you, babe.”

He quirks a smile. “I’m always hungry.”

“I know. I brought you something.”

“You did?” 

“Mm-hm. Put your monitor on standby and come find me.” 

He doesn’t let you get far, his hand pressing lightly to the small of your back as you break for the office kitchenette. “What sort of something?”

“Sorry?”

“What did you bring me?”

“A special treat for a special boy,” you murmur, mostly joking, ever so slightly salacious, and far too much for the setting. 

“You’re leaving me in anticipation here.”

“Is there any other way to leave you, Clark?”

He gives a well-meaning shrug. “Sure, you usually like to leave me hanging.” 

“Don’t be mean. I’ll keep your treat for myself. You know I will.”

Clark chuckles. The sound never fails to light you up from the inside out, has you rushing to the fridge to get your two Tupperware boxes for sharing. You hand one to Clark, the other housing your boring dinner. He slides his arm under yours before the fridge door can close and effectively boxes you in as he grabs his own lunchbox. Your faces are close enough to kiss. 

You take the proximity gratefully, cataloguing the gentle lines of his face. His eyes are beautiful, and light, a warm blue that refuse to dip down to your lips as yours fall to his. You give them a longing stare. Clark collects his lunch and backs away from you. 

He leads you to a table together while shaking the box you’ve given him. 

“What is it?” he asks. 

“It’s not like it’s see through, or anything.”

He grins, eyes averted. “I’m going to guess what it is by sound.” Clark turns the box on its side. “Too soft a noise for cookies. If it were fairy cakes again, I’d hear the paper. And we’ve sworn off of caramel after you almost lost your incisor.” 

“So?”

He sniffs. “Brownies.”

“Cheater.” 

“I’m not cheating,” 

“You are! You’re smelling them, I know you are, they’re chocolatey enough. Just the way you like them, if you even care.”

“Of course I care,” he says, finally letting himself look down at the Tupperware, eyes lit with joy. “Oh, these look beautiful.”

“Well, I tried my best.”

“You didn’t have to go to all the trouble,” he says, even as he pops off the lid and lets out a pleased, decadent sigh, like a king looking over a vast sea of riches rather than four dark squares of fudgey brownies. 

“I don’t mind, Clark. I like doing things for you.”

He eats his brownies. He eats his lunch. You press your ankle to his under the table and smile when he doesn’t pull away, again when he washes your plastics and returns them to you towel-dried for your bag. He says, “Thank you for my treat,” with a small pat to your shoulder. 

Hours pass slowly, but then it’s your long awaited home time and you’re not interested in being alone just yet. 

“Could I ask you something?” 

Clark eases the loop of your tote bag back onto your shoulder. “Always.”

“Would you walk me home?”

“Today?” He holds your arm. “Everything okay?” 

“Would you believe me if I said I’d just really like your company?” 

He rolls his eyes. “Come on. We can beat the rush on the tramline if we hurry.”

You don’t beat the rush hour traffic on the tramline; the tram stations are all lined with people two-thick, so you take the slightly longer way on foot from the office to the quieter residential area where you live. The sky is moody, though the sun stays eager, following the backs of your necks past Metropark and Mr. Caleb’s corner store. 

“Wanna get shaved ice?” Clark asks. 

It may be warm, but it’s getting dark already and the idea of eating shaved ice in the dark is unpleasant. Still, he’s so charming, you end up shaking your head while you weave your arm through his. “Lucky you’re pretty,” you murmur. 

“We don’t have to. We could get coffee.” 

“You want to?” 

“I want you to be less sad,” he says. 

“I’m not sad.”

“No? You seem… I don’t know. You seem sort of defeated. Did something happen at work today? You aren’t acting like you would.”

“How do I usually act?” you ask curiously. 

He wrinkles his nose at you. It’s a fond gesture. “Like you. You’re so yourself. I don’t like seeing you down.”

“I’m not down, Clark. But I don’t know, maybe I’ll ask you something.” 

“Sure. Anything, I’m an open book.” 

You size him up. 6’ ridiculous (or 6’4 if he’s to be believed) and brazenly kind, even the look of him, a nose that’s pleasing to see, would be better to kiss, the lines in his cheeks from his smiling and his crow’s feet crinkle right at the corners of his eyes. His dark grey suit and the skinny red tie you occasionally tug between two fingers. Clark isn’t an open book. He is notoriously hard to get a read on, and he should know this. He drives you crazy. 

“Ugh,” you mumble, rubbing the space between your eyebrows. 

“It’s okay, honey.”

You narrow your eyes at him around your hand. “Clark, are you hard of hearing?”

“What?” 

“I’m genuinely asking. I know it’s a very rude thing to presume about someone out of the blue, or, to ask about, but I figured maybe you have an audio processing issue or something?” 

He doesn’t recoil as some might, or get offended at the question, as personal as it was. “I’m not hard of hearing. Why are you asking me that? Do I miss it, when you’re talking to me?”

“It’s like you aren’t hearing me, yeah.”

“I always hear you.”

“But… I say so many things, and your answers are so– neutral?” You frown at the deep confusion etched between his brows and catch a different thread. “When I said I wanted your company, earlier, you rolled your eyes. Why?” 

“You were joking.”

“Was I?” You untangle your arm from his to get a better view of his expression. “Why would I joke about that? Why else would I want you to come with me?”

“I don’t– I don’t know, you joke so often.”

“When?”

“Like, in the mornings. I ask how you are and you always say you’re better now you saw me.”

“That is quite genuinely true, Clark.”

“But it’s, like. You’re kidding. It’s like play-fighting, only…”

You wish you and Clark could’ve had this conversation sitting down. It would’ve been nicer somewhere quieter, but there’s comfort to be found in the quiet hustle and bustle of the tramlines whirring in the backgrounds, the single train track further from the main city, even the bump and beeping of Metropolis traffic. And there are people everywhere, chatting, walking, occasional laughter filtering through bursts of sound. You smile at Clark as someone out of sight lets out a roaring burst of giggles, enamoured with his own twitching smile, like even the hint of someone else’s joy is enough to bring colour to his day. 

“I could never put my hands on you, handsome. You’re too precious,” you say, almost shy. “Not play-fighting, by the way. I’m flirting with you, Kent. I have been.” 

He raises a hand to his neck, scratches. Lets it flop back down, his lips parting in surprise. “You are?” 

You hold your hands behind your back. “It’s not a joke, Clark. Honey. I’m sorry if I never made that clear for you. I definitely wasn't trying to make a joke out of things. Don’t get me wrong, I love teasing you, and sometimes I’m being hyperbolic, but I mean everything I’ve said. I hope you… hope you don’t mind.” 

You watch in real time as Clark goes a rosy shade of pink. Spreading across his nose, glancing up his cheekbones, a heated stain to evidence his embarrassment even as his lips stretch into a smile that’s unfailingly, untouchably pleased. His eyes go soft, his fingers tickling the back of your hand as he finds it, turns it, and grabs your fingers. Too impatient to thread them together. 

“Oh,” he says, giving your joined hands a sway. You watch him mouth it again. Oh.  

“Clark?”

“When we went to dinner, after Perry’s party, I should’ve paid,” he says. 

“What?”

“And– and there are so many doors I could’ve held for you.” 

“I don’t think that’s true.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he says, sounding, for a second, genuinely agitated. It’s a stark contrast to the way he treasures your hand in his, rolling your fingers nicely. 

“Clark, I’ve been trying. For weeks. If anyone’s going to be annoyed right now, it’s me.”

He glares at you. That glare quickly softens, turning to more of a stickied, almost playful smile you fail to place on him. 

“What?” you ask. 

He takes a step into your space. “What?” he asks back. 

“I asked you first.”

Clark takes you in as you shift your weight from one foot to the other,  an uncomfortable warmth spreading over the back of your neck.  

“What?” you whisper. 

“Just looking at you.” 

You flare with embarrassment. “Do not,” you warn. The bite you’d tried for is more of a whine. 

“Don’t what? Look at you? How could I not?” 

“Clark, you can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m dead serious.” 

“Dead ridiculous,” you murmur, tail end of your words a breathy, harsh exhale as Clark leans into your space and presses his lips to your skin. 

Anticipation tightens every joint. Your brain catches up slowly, finds his mouth on your cheek, your cheekbone, and the corner of your eye, three soft kisses that threaten to bowl you over in the middle of the sidewalk, despite his hand clasped over yours and the other guiding your face toward his kissing. He presses a final kiss to your temple, takes a breath of you, and lets you fall away. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t notice, before,” he says, rubbing the back of your hand sympathetically, “but I know now.” 

You do your best not to stutter. “Sure. It’s okay.” 

“Yeah, it will be. Where do you want to go for dinner?” 

—

Clark has to confess to bone deep elation. Bordering childish, wildly grown up, he cannot contain or restrain the force of his affection. 

In less pretentious terms, Clark Kent is falling in love. You might’ve had the head start when it came to the whole courting side of things, but Clark would argue he’s pined harder, and for far longer, to the point of delusion: every flirtation was thought to be a joke. Some days he’d believe you, and others he’d go home thinking about a flirty, lovely girl who just likes to make her coworker smile. 

He can’t say he’d believe this, now. Picture you here, sure, achy mornings scrolling his phone in frustration, before tossing it aside to clutch a pillow to his chest, his nose in the case, trying to find your smell. What is it you always smell like? Your perfume. He’s awful at this stuff, knows so many smells but can’t make it out. 

Clark —lucky Clark, in there and now, elated— slips his arm over your chest and pulls you easily into his front. You’re practically weightless to him. 

“Mm…” you mumble. 

He shushes you mindlessly. 

Unfortunately, the sound only serves to wake you more. You doze weakly in his arms, a touch unsettled, all his fault for being selfish, so Clark rubs your back delicately and tries to repent. Wordlessly, he adjusts his arm under yours to hold your stomach in his palm, inching you backward, waiting for a sign. 

You let out a long, low sigh and fall mostly asleep again. 

Clark rests his nose in your hair. This is hard-worked but perhaps unearned, considering all your heavy lifting, but Clark will be damned if he hasn’t tried to make things up to you. The best, worst thing about you is that you find it all endlessly funny; Clark brings you flowers and you tickle him under the chin with their petals; he takes you out for dinner and you sneak off (unsuccessfully) to pay the bill during dessert; he tries to flirt, voice low and warm and pleading, and you ask him if he’d like to play fight. It’s your favourite joke. That’s if you aren’t blatantly pretending that Clark isn’t flirting. 

And you’re here now because… well. You haven’t fucked. Clark has —offered you things. Never wanting to take too soon, but needing you to have. And you’ve let him spin you around some, but tonight was because you just didn’t want to leave. Who was Clark to let you? You should have everything you want, including him, and including this. He’ll lay here stretching an ache out of your back all day if it’s your wish.

He tries to dial back the philosophical. Presses his nose further into your head and closes his eyes again. He’s tireder than usual, but that could be down to the late nights with you. He likes calling you, knowing you’ll answer. He likes listening to you talk, and he loves the casual flirtation you throw at him. Better now, because you know your crush is reciprocated. 

You smell incredible. Clark could fall to pieces about it. 

You wake up, then, Clark’s not sure why, holding his arm off of you to spin beneath it to face him, before forcing yourself under the curve of his chin to hold him. 

Clark doesn’t say anything in case you’re trying to get back to sleep again. He just waits, letting his fingers tumble the length of your back as it rises and falls. 

You don’t fall asleep again. 

“Hey,” you murmur. 

“Hi.”

“Good morning.”

“Better,” Clark says, tipping your head back by the nape of you, something right about it as you follow his hand back to show him your sleep-rumpled face, “now that you’re here.”

You turn your face into his arm. Clark can feel the heat of your skin, and thanks whoever there is to thank for the way that shyness and heat go hand in hand. You’re warm as a hearth against his skin, like a stripe of sun laid down and resting. 

“Steal all my best ones,” you mumble. 

“Best what?” 

“My pick-up lines.”

“Honey, I’m not flirting with you. Is that what you thought?”

He says it in a mumble. Presses it right into your mouth. 

Your first kiss had been somewhat of an oddity. No flirting before or afterwards, no pretenses, only a kiss. You’d been shy the day after your impromptu dinner and Clark hadn’t loved it. ‘Cos you’re adorable, but it had bordered too harshly on unsurety. Like you were waiting for Clark to take things back. 

His hands under your face to hold you. A wading of a kiss turned biting turned pleading, two shades of desperate and third pathetic. Clark had put everything he could into it. Translated months of longing, and the permanent ache that had come with your teasing.

This kiss is nothing like that. It’s melding your mouth against his with ease, meeting you halfway there as his hand carries you inward. Chest to chest, your little smile a lance against his own. 

“M’not flirting,” he murmurs. 

“Why not?”

“‘Cos you have me, baby.” 

You grumble weakly against his lips and take another kiss. “I like the flirting,” you say. 

“That’s too bad, huh?” He presses your shoulder to the bed, watches your eyes widen and then fall shut. “Maybe I can be persuaded.” 

“Flirt with me.”

“Nicer.” 

Your attempt to hide a triumphant smile fails. Clark doesn’t mind. 

“Please?” you murmur. 

He mouthed beautiful into the side of your neck. There’ll be time for the rest. Not that you’ll enjoy waiting —and not that he’ll mind giving in. 

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

Thank you bec for proof reading!!!!♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️

[flightsoffandom]

One of the great triumphs of David Coronswet’s Clark is that Superman looks strong and wise and compassionate and friendly but also put-together and competent, meanwhile his Clark Kent looks like someone who would staple his tie to the desk but you’re not sure whether he did it by accident or intentionally to make you laugh

[flightsoffandom]

needy, aren't we?

(sfw)

needy clark who invades your personal space at every waking moment, constantly longing for a touch – even if its a simple brush against his hand. 

needy clark who hugs you from behind while you’re in the kitchen prepping veggies for dinner, resting his chin atop of your head and drinks in the scent of your conditioner. 

needy clark who begs you for ‘five more minutes’ in bed when your alarm goes off, wrapping his herculean arms around your torso and holding you in place. 

needy clark who tails behind you like a lost puppy while you’re shopping for clothes or groceries, ‘accidentally’ bumping into you once you stop pushing the cart. 

needy clark who always facetimes whenever he offers to run an errand for you while you relax at home, narrating his every move as you listen from the speaker making yourself busy with chores.

needy clark who drives with one hand on the wheel because he insists on intertwining his other with your fingers, giving it gentle squeezes throughout the trip. 

needy clark who originally swore that he wasn’t a good texter, but now he sends you little updates about his day; even when you aren’t always available to react to each one, his messages continue to flood your notifications.

(nsfw)

needy clark who prolongs his time when fucking you, because he wants to feel your walls around him and memorize each sound you let out to mentally store it for personal usage later. 

needy clark who lets out whimpers and pleads for you to stay put when you’re riding his cock, grabbing your hips and guiding you in circles to watch your tits move around.

needy clark who buries his face in the crook of your neck while in missionary, inhaling your fragrance that you put on just because you know it drives him mad. 

needy clark who always kisses you fervently after eating you out because he wants you to taste the essence that he would drown himself in if it were possible.

needy clark who tells you to leave on his shirt that nearly swallows you whole during sex because it makes his heart nearly burst from his chest, no matter how many times he’s seen you that way.

needy clark who asks if you can cockwarm him – well after he already came inside and you were both spent. 

needy clark who reveals to you during pillow talk that he cums hardest whenever he’s with you, and nothing he does on his own will ever compare again.

a/n: can you guys tell that i'm hyperfixated on this man

[flightsoffandom]

Wanna a good girl who does bad things

Clark Kent x Fem!Reader

(Synopsis) Where you guys are just a freaks in bed.

(yes. Smut. First time) Masterlist. OPEN REQUESTS

"Come on, baby— I know you can take it." Clark reaches for your hand between the sheets as you let out a moan at how big he is. It had to be physically impossible. "I'm made for you baby— you can take it"

It's not like you're a virgin, or that it was much less your first time under Superman's huge body, no— it's just that he's always, always so big that your body can't get used to him.

"Like that, just like that," he lets out a low growl as he feels your walls wrap around him. Clark reaches for one of your breasts with his free hand, massaging it. He kisses your entire spine, your neck, that weak spot of yours that he knows will make you squirm.

"You're so good at this," he begins to move slowly while his voice is a whisper. You close your eyes and let out another moan that's like music to Clark. "You're quite a tease, you know that? Looking so pretty all day, it makes me want to—" Clark starts picking up the pace and you have to hold on to the sheet.

Clark Kent doesn't have sex with you—Clark Kent makes love to you. He puts your legs on his shoulders while telling you how beautiful you look. He lets you sit on his face because you really don't weigh anything to him. Oh, and seeing you on your knees?

"You like it like this?" You have his cock in your hands and from one second to the next you put it between your tits to rub it. He likes it every way you do it, the way he has his hand tangled in your hair and directs your head to go deeper into your throat tells you so.

This man is loud. Like, really loud. No matter how hard he tried to put my hand over his mouth, he always ended up moaning, grunting. "Don't do that please, don't— don't do that to me." It's almost a plea, eyes yearning as you're just rubbing his crotch against your ass.

And just as he's loud, he's also a mad hungry man when it comes to eating you out. He licks your entrance, his tongue penetrates you, and his hair between your legs brushing against your lower abdomen—it's all a mix of the perfect orgasm. A perfect orgasm that comes when he sucks your clitoris, and by suck I mean really suck.

Fantasies? Well, maybe he wouldn't call it a fantasy, but he really enjoyed this time you did it at his parents' house. In that tiny single bed, the whole room filled with your moans while his parents had gone out to do heaven-knows-what. And well, they didn't just do it in his room that time. Let's just say the floor of a barn full of hay left side effects on your skin.

Lingerie? Maybe—but if you want something that works right away, there's a female Superman jumpsuit that's especially short and sexy for the occasion. You know, you can be Superman and he can be a such a bad guy.

I don't think you'd rule out public spaces. You know, the office bathroom, anyone could see his shoes and heels from below. The office elevator—yes please! In a pool, underwater, where it's just you and him

Clark also likes it when you tell him he's doing it. he's practically an attention whore who swells with pride when you gasp and say "Yeah, Clark. Just— Clark!." or you say you are sheaped for him.

But the best part is when you both reach orgasm. You're a mess, your spine arches, and your heart rate goes into overdrive. Clark needs to let out an "gonna— gonna cum, baby" which is a way of asking your permission to do it inside, outside, on your stomach, on your back, butt—wherever you ask him! But personally: your stomach is his favorite. Because afterward, he can clean you up himself while giving you kisses in your abdomen and telling you how much he loves you.

Aftercare is a whole other deal. Because he's the kind of man who keeps saying "Thank you" after he comes.

Tried something new! Hope u like it. It would be lovely if you left some angst request guys, I want to try more new things

Taglist: @starincarnated @angelicp0etry @yeonalie @lator-gators @starssfall @moomumu @chamorunsmiles @urlittleangelbaby @americanboz0 @mysticdinosaurpirate @spiidergwenn @sugarbutterbailey @pestoluvr8 @ilovemangoes444 @kaiparkerwife @qardasngan @animegamerfox @helloimamistake @rinapomu @chaoticroaddreamerpasta @ryomku @dreamlesssleepsaga @yzuposts @mickey-mouse-crackhouse1902 @j07lvrg @khxna @1wannab3inaband @wintersoldierenthusiastt @yyiikes @rosie-hao @psiiconic @httpstoyosi @lettucel0ver @scorpio-echo @iveofficiallylostmymarbles @aratakiittooo @angelicprincess12 @pinkluv29

@shine101 @karimestarksworld @lortheswiftie @bangtanevermore @njdluvr @justamina-blog @avroravia @m3lod7 @just-pure-trash @pprettyvisitorr @againanothersideblog @differentcandycreation @hagarsays

[flightsoffandom]

a tiktok trend...?

“oh, sweetheart, i don’t know…”

“clark, baby, c’mon! it'll be fun. and i’ll be fine, i promise,” you retorted for what felt like the umpteenth time.

“i know, honey, but what if i hurt you? like, what if i squish you too tight and make you bruise?” your sweet clark, always the worrywart in the relationship.

you playfully roll your eyes, and crawl over to his lap, your thighs barely caged one of his. “baby, you won’t hurt me, okay? i know you won’t. you never have, and you never will. i just wanna show off my big, strong boyfriend. is that a crime?”

clark opened his mouth to argue, but when you looked down at him with those pleading eyes, and hands roaming all over his chest? he was a goner. if there was one thing that you learned quickly about clark kent, it was that he had two weaknesses: krypotonite, and you, his beautiful girlfriend.

he sighed dejectedly, dropping his head. “alright, sweetheart. but you'll tell me if i squeeze too hard, right?”

you nod almost immediately. “i promise, baby. you're the best.” you lean forward and press a kiss on his cheek, making him blush. leaning across the couch you grab your phone, already having the tiktok sound pulled up. you shift around to have your back pressed against his chest, so only the bottom half of his face is shown.

“i’ll give you the signal on when to go, okay?” you said, looking over to him. clark nodded, watching you begin to lipsync.

the sound of breaking dishes by rihanna fills your shared living room and you tap clark on his thigh, signalling him to lift his arm. he does it perfectly, wrapping his arm around your face and squeezing it with his bicep.

you can’t help but smile up at him, only to see him already smiling down at you. the video then ends, as you practically fly up to meet him in a kiss.

“i love you so much, honey, you know that?” he whispered against your lips.

you giggle. “i know you do. i love you too.”

“i didn't squeeze too hard, did i?” he questioned.

“no, baby. you were perfect.”

the comments:

“dude the way you can see him already smiling at her”

“this is so cute… ᵃⁿⁿᵃᵇᵉˡˡᵉ ᵍᵉᵗ ᵗʰᵉᵐ”

“girl. i need to know the exact words you prayed RIGHT NOW”

[flightsoffandom]

how it feels to post cringe fandom stuff on the cringe fandom website

[flightsoffandom]

18+

clark kent has a perfect nose.

so perfect, in fact, that you’d be a liar if you said you didn’t think about it every time you sat on his face. prominent and broad, sculpted as if some divine artisan had intended it specifically for your clit while his mouth devotes itself to everything else.

you’ve never confessed it outright, but you’re pretty certain he knows. the little glint in those soft blue eyes is proof enough, rare as it is for clark to let himself wear anything resembling smugness. and then there’s the moan that escapes you when the bridge of his nose hits just right, an irrefutable admission. he rewards it with a decadent hum, vibrating straight through you, and then doubles down: large hands clamp around your thighs, anchoring you firmly against his face.

your fingers reach for the headboard, but before you can close your grip, his hand shoots up, seizing your wrist mid-air. pink-cheeked and lips swollen from devouring pussy, he looks like a man grievously wronged.

“nuh uh, don’t you dare,”

“huh?” you blink down at him, confused.

“don’t you dare hold onto that when you should be holding onto me. or—” his tongue flicks meanly at your clit, “at least admiring the nose you’re so obsessed with.”

you can’t help but chuckle. truce comes easy: your fingers thread with his, and the reward is instant. a groan that thrums through cartilage and bone until your whole body feels like it’s strung along his face. the mess he’s making of his mouth doesn’t matter; nothing does, ‘cept the fact that he’s far too committed to proving (for what must be the hundredth time) that you’ll always, always be weak for it.

[flightsoffandom]

Drunk reader being clingy and needy and cute with clark .maybe make it smut if u r comfortable? Its completely finr if u r not

needy | CK x fem!reader

summary: you need clark a little extra when you’ve had a night out

CW: MDNI, 18+, explicit content, drinking, drunk!reader, sexual acts while intoxicated (all f!receiving), no use of y/n, softdom!clark

-

a whine sounds from your throat as your boyfriend tucks you into a cab, sliding in beside you and getting his strong arm around you to hold you firmly in place. clark tells the driver your address as you wave at your friends who are also being led away from the club by their partners or designated drivers.

“byyeee!!!!” you call, wiggling away from clark to put your face out the open window.

clark tugs you back into his broad side, “settle down,” he chuckles, pressing a kiss to your hair.

your hand is then on his jaw, firmly moving his face down so you can meet him with a slick kiss. he lets out a sound of surprise then kisses back. you slide your tongue along his bottom lip and trail your hand down from jaw to chest to his pants button. your drunk fingers try to work it open, unable to.

clark’s fingers gently circle your wrist, holding it away from what has become a bulge. he breaks away from your kiss, “be good,” he murmurs. you pout and cross your arms. clark just tugs you closer.

-

the cab pulls up in front of your apartment with minimal fuss and thankfully, no nausea. clark is oddly still in moving cars. you’ve asked him before if that’s part of his alienness, he shrugged and said “dunno”. if you could meet any other kryptonian you would have a book of questions for them.

normally, keys are not this difficult but you end up dropping them twice, giggling both times before clark takes them and unlocks the door. hand on the small of your back, he leads you inside.

as soon as the door clicks shut, you’re on him again - kissing his lips and trying to get a hand down his pants.

“baby, baby,” clark stops you, turning so your back is against the door, both wrists pinned above your head. heat pools when you notice he has both of your wrists in one of his big hands.

clark almost never uses force like this on you - no, he’s always soft almost to his detriment. he’s one to beg to have another taste of you, but never do anything you haven’t explicitly and verbally said yes to. even what you want him to just take what he wants - use your body for his own benefit.

the straw of your water bottle gets nudged up against your lips. you make eye contact with clark as you wrap your lips around it and suck. you take three big swallows before pulling back.

“promise you’re gonna feel better in the morning if you drink that whole thing. filled it before we left,” clark sets it back down on your kitchen counter. you’re still pinned by your wrists - probably for your own good - and the bulge in clark’s jeans has gotten bigger. your eyes flick down to before you’re making eye contact with him and biting your lip.

“what if i promised you i’m sobering up and i need your big cock in me?” you let the words leave your mouth without running them through your brain first which makes clark stare at you wide-eyed when they reach his ears.

“for heaven’s sake, baby girl. you can’t say stuff like that when i can’t do anything about it,” clark responds.

a pout falls on your mouth along with a little whine of “whhyy?”

“because if you’re willing to pout and whine at me you’re not sober enough for me to make love to you,” clark finally drops your wrists. he picks up your water bottle again and presses it into your hands, “drink s’more. i added those electrolytes you like. the bomb pop flavored one.”

you roll your eyes at him then take another sip - you know he’s right. you’ll feel much better if you rehydrate.

you’re on his heels as clark makes his way to your bedroom. he’s placed advil alongside a blue gatorade on your nightstand and your bathroom trashcan - with a fresh liner in it - on the floor beside the bed.

“there are protein bars and crackers in your drawer for tomorrow morning,” clark pulls out your nightstand drawer to show you. you mostly ignore him even though his unprompted constant kindness and care makes your head spin.

“don’t want you to make love to me. i want to get fucked,” you’re trying to make him mad now. you know he hates when you say what the two of you do in bed is “fuck”.

“want your cock down my throat then in my pussy, clarkie,” you blink innocently at him when he turns to scowl at you.

“baby, you know i hate that.”

“how much?”

“a lot.”

“enough to punish me?”

clark’s jaw sets at those words and his scowl gets sharper. you’re biting back a smirk, “c’mon, superman, just for once lose control.”

you kick off your heels and stalk over to him, unzipping your dress along the way. the dress pools at your feet as you stand in front of your big strong self-controlled man. the look in his eyes says a little more skin could make him lose his resolve entirely. your bra meets the dress at your feet.

clark melts, taking your waist in his expansive palms. he digs his fingertips into your back just enough to leave faint little bruises. he’s always been amazed by how much bigger he is than you - never used it to his advantage until this moment.

clark walks your nearly naked form back a few steps until your back meets the wall beside your closet. your breath catches in your throat and you feel more sober than you have all night. clark leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips, his hands still pressing into soft skin.

“you want me to take what i want,” clark’s lips are on your neck now, “what i want is you wrapped around me, learning how in control i can be.”

a shiver runs up your spine, leaving goosebumps on your arms and hardening your nipples.

“you’re wet already. can’t believe it took just a little drink and a little kiss to get you to ruin your pretty pink panties. you know they’re my favorite,” clark’s hand comes up from your waist to brush a thumb over your nipple - you let out a pleased sigh. you’re acutely aware that clark is still fully clothed. his button down matches his eyes. your boyfriend in this shirt is more intoxicating than anything you drank a few hours ago.

caged in my clark’s body, you bring your hands up to unbutton the top four buttons of his shirt. dark, soft hair is smattered across his chest in a way that makes your tummy flutter.

maybe it’s the alcohol still present in your system or maybe it’s just clarkclarkclark flooding your senses but you swear you’ve never been so turned on in your life. every little touch, everything about the way clark looks, every brush of his lips against your skin is making you soak your panties even more.

“d’you still wanna suck me off?” clark asks, his fingers still attentive to your chest, lips still making you fall apart under their wet assault on your neck and shoulder. “mm.. yeah,” you hum in response.

“you’re gonna come once then you can get on your knees,” clark’s voice is strangely assertive - it makes your legs weak.

you’re shaking your head before you have the good sober sense to stop yourself, “wanna come with your cock in my throat. get the vibrator,” it comes out whiny, needy.

“oh you’re so cute for thinking you’re calling the shots tonight,” his tone is teasing but his hand is also in your panties, middle finger pressing on your clit.

you gasp and almost fall forward at the feeling. clark’s holding you to the wall with just one hand, bracketing your body with his. his mouth is on yours, tongue slipping past your lips when you gasp. your fingers tangle into the curls at the back of his head.

clark’s fingers work over your clit - circling, swiping, rubbing. he pushes you over the edge with a hand around your throat, whispering, “come on, my good girl, come for me. wanna see you get undone.”

body slumped against him, you try to catch your breath. when you do you look up at him, “clark i- i don’t wanna do anything else. i’m tired,” you’re nervous for a just a moment before clark is utterly clark. he scoops you up, lays you out on your bed, and presses a kiss to your forehead, “thought that might get you sleepy.” he’s smirking. that bastard. making promises about his dick he never intended to keep.

you can’t help the pout on your lip as he gets you out of your underwear and into a tshirt and a pair of his boxers, “clark, you were never gonna let me have any cock were you?” you’re whining again.

“no, pretty girl, i’m sorry. you were pretty keyed up like you usually are when you have rum so i thought i would give you a little something instead of fighting you to sleep like i usually do,” clark admits as he’s changing clothes.

he always sleeps without a shirt, the furnace he is. your pussy gives a half-hearted throb when he crawls into bed in just some shorts and pulls you into his bare chest. you settle against him and only feel the room spin for a moment or two before you’re asleep.

-

A/N: hope this was cute enough!! send me more asks!

[flightsoffandom]

needy!clark kent who...

needy!clark kent who calls himself a good boy during sex. he'd be smashing into you, jackhammering his thick cock and battering your insides while his chest is pressed up against his back, his skin sticking to yours and he whimpers in your ear, "I– I'm a good boy, r-right? yeah? a good, good boy for— hmm, yeah, jus' f'you... all f'youu..." before nibbling on your earlobe when you cry out the slurred praises her lives for.

needy!clark who wants to be good for you, he truly does, but he just can't hold back the thick load of cum that is simply aching to fill you up. and he knows you told him to hold it, to wait and be patient and good, but when he sees those tits of your bouncing in sync with the rhythm at which you're jumping on his sensitive cock, how is he supposed to hold back?

needy!clark who shoots out load after load, his balls tightening with every clench of your sticky walls. the image of your womb getting filled to the brim with his seed is too much for him to handle, and simply thinking of the fact you're full of him has him cumming and cumming and cumming in the matter of minutes, the bulge on your lower stomach twitching with every rope of cum that jumps out to paint your walls.

needy!clark who pretends he's still in kryptonian heat for way longer than he actually is, because all he wants is an excuse to fuck, and fuck, and fuck all day without feeling bad about it. "p-please, baby, need it," he'd beg, deliberately radiating extra heat to pretend he was still in his rut, when he simply was just unreasonably horny.

you eventually caught on, and he knows that you did, but neither of you say anything because the sex is just too good.

needy!clark who fingers you while using his x-ray vision and jerks off to the image of your tight cunt clamping down on his digits. "I see it... oh, gosh, baby, I see it allll..." he mindlessly rambles while his eyes stay dead focused on your pelvis, the sight of your pussy hugging his fingers to much for his lust-clouded mind.

he cums when you get especially tight after bumped into your sweetest spot, his back arching when yours do as he cries out, "p-please, I need to fuh- hmm.. need you.."

needy!clark who came home mid-mission to taste you, his instincts beating his duty. he claims he was having withdrawal, that he felt like he couldn't breath (even though he's literally the man of steel) without the taste of your arousal on his tongue.

so you allow him, ignoring bruce's many phone calls as his tongue lapped you up and his lips sucked on your clit. he eventually ended up blocking bruce's number right after making you squirt on his now filthy tongue.

needy!clark who wants you everyday, all day.

[flightsoffandom]

thinking about clark using his xray vision while he fucks you

he has you folded into the meanest, nastiest mating press, his cock bullying it’s way inside of you.

one hand is covering your mouth as he sweetly urges you to be quiet, the other one is pressing down on your tummy so you can feel how big he is

it’s unintentional at first—he slips in the moment. but then he sees the way you stretch to accommodate him, the way his cock is much too big for your pussy, and he’s so gone

he stares unabashedly after that. eyes glued to your pelvic bone, watching himself fuck you with wide eyes

he forces himself to keep his eyes open when he finishes—entirely focused on the way his cum paints your walls white.

it floods your pussy, gushing out of the gap between your walls and his cock, filling you up until it reaches your cervix

he can’t help but keep moving after that, mesmerized by the way it sloshes inside of you with every thrust.

he keeps going until there are tears in your eyes, until you’re so full it almost hurts.

he smiles at you sheepishly, kissing your cheek. “sorry, baby.”

idk why but ive been really into irresponsible use of superpowers lately so enjoy my 10pm brainrot <3

[flightsoffandom]

🜼 ⋆ inexperienced!clark watching you ride his abs all mesmerized and pupils blown away.

you’re not sure which of you looks more undone—your thighs twitching from the strain, or clark, flat on his back with that dazed, hungry look in his eyes like he’s been dropped into some kind of fever dream he doesn’t want to wake up from.

“you’re… you’re really doing that,” he says, voice wrecked.

you grin—lazy, breathless—rolling your hips again so your folds glide over the rigid muscle of his abs, spreading slick in your wake. it’s obscene, how wet you are. you can hear it. feel it catch on the grooves of his stomach, every ridged line dragging against your clit like it was made for this. like he was made for you.

“mhmm,” you hum, dragging your cunt back again and shivering when it catches at the crease under his ribs. “told you i wanted to ride your abs, didn’t i?”

he nods, eyes wide, cheeks flushed deep red.

“i just didn’t think—” he swallows, staring at the glossy trail you’re leaving on his stomach like it’s some kind of miracle. “i didn’t know it would look like that. you’re…” he exhales hard. “you’re really wet.”

you bite your lip and rock forward, grinding your nub on the top of his sternum.

“that a problem?”

“no!” he says immediately. voice a little too loud. “no, god, no—i just—jesus.”

he watches you like you’re holy. like you’re teaching him something no one else ever dared show him. his hands twitch at your sides like he wants to help, but doesn’t want to mess it up—doesn’t want to interrupt whatever this is. you lean down, palms flat on his chest, the movement sliding you forward again—fuck, that drag—and you swear his eyes roll back for a second when your slick spreads higher, threatening the center of his chest.

“clark,” you whisper, breath ghosting over his throat. “you’re flexing.”

he blinks up at you—innocent, wide-eyed—and then gives you a soft smile, the barest edge of it.

“am i?”

his abs clench under you and you jerk, hips stuttering forward. the ridges of his stomach tighten into even sharper angles and suddenly it’s all pressure, all friction, your pussy pressed hard against the rough definition of him.

“fuck,” you whimper. “do that again.”

he does. immediately, obedient. eager. hungry.

you gasp louder this time, your thighs starting to tremble, your whole body tensing with each subtle rock of your hips. you can’t even move the way you were before because he’s flexing too hard now, like his body’s become a wall beneath you, made to be rubbed against. his hands slide up your waist, soft and reverent, like he’s trying to memorize what you feel like mid-stutter.

“you’re twitching,” he says quietly, awed. “is that from me?”

“it’s from this,” you gasp, fingers digging into his chest. “your body—your fucking abs—i can’t—baby—”

he breathes out a quiet, helpless laugh, a little shaky. like he can’t believe he’s the one making you sound like that.

“you feel good?” he asks, gentle and open, like he’s really asking. not cocky. not teasing. just hopeful.

“yes,” you breathe. “clark, yes, i’m gonna—fuck, i’m gonna come on your abs, you need to keep flexing, don’t stop—don’t stop—”

and he doesn’t, instead clark kent flexes harder, holds still for you, lets you rut against him like it’s the only thing that matters in the world. he watches your face twist, your body clench, watches your slick smear and shine and drip across his stomach like proof that he’s worth it.

and when you finally come—high and hot and shaking all over, crying out his name with your mouth open and your thighs trembling around his hips.

he says, softly, reverently: “you’re beautiful.”

like it’s the only thing he’s ever been sure of.

[flightsoffandom]

apologies..

loser! pornstar clark x fem reader

18+ MDNI; oral (m. receiving), fingering, unprotected p in v, reverse cowgirl, mean dom! clark

SYPNOSIS: you’re jealous after clark makes a video with another woman so you go over to his place to make him apologise.

a/n: i love not being able to sleep it’s such a motivator. was procrastinating on this until then. hope you enjoy <3

LINKS:

part 1, part 2, based on (1, 2) ,p!link

You stormed into Clark’s apartment, heels clicking like little warnings. The video was still burning in your mind: him on his knees, hands fidgeting, eager-to-please smirk plastered on his face while the other woman took full control. He looked pathetic. Helpless. And now? You were going to fix that. Or at least, that was the excuse you told yourself.

When he opened the door, off-camera Clark was nervous, hands twitching slightly, gaze darting—but there was also something…hungry in the way he looked at you.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice soft, almost pleading. “I uh…know I messed up. I… want to make it up to you.”

You smirked, arms crossed, and he froze, like a good boy caught red-handed. That little quiver in his lips, the way his hands flexed as he tried to figure out what to do? It left you captivated for a split second.

“Make it up to me, huh?” you said, voice low. “Then start apologising properly.”

Clark didn’t argue. He sank to his knees in front of you, eyes wide, hands shaky on your thighs. “I…please, I just…want to fix this,” he murmured. And then he leaned forward, lips brushing your inner thighs, soft, teasing, desperate. You gasped, tugging lightly at his hair, letting him show his devotion, let him earn you.

His tongue flicked over you, slow, careful, making you shiver. He whimpered quietly, soft gasps, almost like he was trying too hard to please. You guided him, teasing, tugging at him, whispering instructions, and he obeyed every one, completely surrendered.

When he began to fingers you, it’s careful, reverent and gentle. Every movement is Clark offering himself to you, letting you take control. He moans softly when you grip his hair, when you push him closer, when you press down on him, and it’s perfectly humiliating in all the right ways.

You keep him like that for a while, letting him focus entirely on your pleasure, teaching him how to worship you properly. His every whimper, his desperate attempts to make you moan louder, his submission? it’s intoxicating.

You’d just been riding the high of his submission. Every whimper, every desperate attempt to please, every flick of his tongue, every careful finger curl—it had been all about you. Clark had been nothing but obedient, worshipful, utterly yours.

Until he pulled away momentarily

.One second, his lips were pressed to your juicy cunt, hot, worshipful, soft. And the next, his hands gripped your hips like he was claiming you, and with a strength you hadn’t expected, he shifted you over the couch. No pause, no warning. You barely had time to gasp before he was behind you, pressing into you with the force of all that muscle.

The split-second switch made your knees wobble. His hands braced along your sides, sliding up your spine, gripping your shoulders and hips like anchors. You felt the difference instantly. This wasn’t camera Clark. He had no hesitation, no “please,” no soft whimpers—just raw, controlling power.

His fingers slipped between your folds, pressing, teasing, curling with precision, while his cock pressed hard against you from behind. The suddenness, the sheer intensity of the switch, made your breath catch and your moans stutter.

He didn’t speak— he didn’t need to. Every thrust, every press of his body, every tug of your hips against him communicated everything. His fingers moved mercilessly, his arms braced along your sides, muscles flexing with every motion. You were helpless, trembling, and utterly consumed by him.

The pace escalated quickly. One hand pressed into your hip, the other traced up your back, dragging nails lightly over your skin, marking territory as his fingers fucked you from behind. Every thrust was deliberate, long, precise, claiming, punishing in the best way, and your gasps, moans, and cries filled the room like a symphony of submission. Your vision blanks out at a particularly deep thrust of his finger, one that brushed right against the spongy spot in your gummy walls. Your essence drenches his fingers.

You were still trembling, legs slick and shivering, as Clark’s fingers pulled free. The warmth, the stretch, the way your body had clung to him—it left you gasping, needy, barely holding yourself together. You thought maybe it was over…until he grinned, that slow, cocky smirk, and shifted you over him.

You’re not done yet,” he murmured, hands bracing your hips as he guided you to straddle him, from the same position. Your knees on either side of him, chest pressed forward, hands gripping the couch, and instantly you could feel every inch of him pressing up, teasing, heavy and hot.

His fingers pressed into your hips, flexing his grip, holding you in place. “God, you’re such a mess already, and I’ve barely started.”

You groaned, rolling your hips down, pressing yourself over him, trying to grind harder, and he chuckled, shifting just slightly so the tip of his cock nudged you in exactly the right spot. Every little movement made you shiver and gasp, little whines slipping out of you before you could stop them.

it was almost cruel— every whine, every gasp, every sloppy moan earned a flick of his fingers across your sides, a tug on your hips, a subtle shift that made you arch, cry out, completely undone.

You were riding him hard, lost in sensation, slick and trembling, and he leaned forward, lips brushing your ear. “Who’s the pathetic loser now, hm? I’m going to make you feel it, mess you up so good you won’t forget it.”

And he did. Hands controlling your hips, fingers tracing along your waist, cock pressing up, rocking in sync with your frantic grind, keeping you just on the edge, pushing you past it again and again. The apartment filled with your gasps, whines, and moans—Clark’s smirk growing with every ragged cry, enjoying every second of your messy, loud, needy body.

divider by @strangergraphics & @cursed-carmine

TAGLIST

@bowxs, @castielsonlyangel, @kentblvd

[flightsoffandom]

more on loser!pornstar clark..

18+ MDNI; hand jobs, oral (m. receiving), needy!clark, vouyerism (??).

a/n: y’all seemed to like the first part a lot (which is GREAT, because I was testing the waters with that one), so here’s part 2 :3

part 3

The studio lights are harsh and glaring, and Clark can feel them drilling into his skin, but he’s barely registering anything besides the heat rolling through his chest. His glasses are crooked, tie loose, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal a little vein along his forearm that’s twitching with need. The camera crews are buzzing around, but he doesn’t care— because you’re kneeling right in front of him, smirk teasing and dangerous, and he’s trembling like a rookie caught in the spotlight.

“P-please…” His voice cracks, soft and needy, almost pitiful. “I… I… I don’t—”

You don’t give him a chance to think. Your hand wraps around him slowly, deliberately, and the lens follows every twitch, every shiver, every tiny gasp. Clark’s knees wobble. he’s clutching at your shoulders, trying to ground himself, and the camera pans up to his face—glasses slipping, lips parting, eyes wide and helpless.

The camera focuses on his chest next, rising and falling too fast, muscles trembling, a faint sheen of sweat making his skin shine under the lights. His hips jerk involuntarily, little cries escaping him, and the lens captures each whimper, every desperate hitch of his breath.

“God… oh gods…” Clark moans, voice breaking. He’s pathetic in the best possible way, whining like he’s not sure he can handle you—and secretly thrilled that you’re the one in control. You lean in, brushing your nose along his jaw, whispering just loud enough for him to hear, “Relax… just let me take care of you, baby.”

The camera cuts in close on your hand, slow and teasing, wrapping around him fully now. Clark’s moans grow louder, fingers clutching at your wrists like he’s trying to anchor himself, and the lens catches every tremble of his hips, every involuntary twitch.

His glasses slip completely off, forehead damp with sweat, cheeks flaming bright red.He comes so fast it almost knocks him off balance. His body shudders, knees wobbling, lips parted in a soft, helpless gasp. The camera captures the golden-boy exterior crumbling into a flushed, needy, embarrassed mess, every little whimper and stuttered word framed perfectly.

He’s trembling, hips twitching, and the camera—of course—is right there, catching every pathetic little gasp. You grin down at him, leaning closer, your fingers brushing his hair back before letting your mouth hover near him.

You tease him, slow at first, lips barely grazing, just enough to make his head tilt back, eyes fluttering shut, glasses sliding further down. The camera pans in, close on his flushed face, his jaw slack, chest heaving. Every little sound he makes—a whimper, a gasp, a soft, broken moan—is amplified in the recording, and Clark is beyond mortified.

Your hands move in tandem, one wrapped around him, the other steadying his hips as you start, slow and deliberate, watching his reaction. He’s shaking, whining, arching into you like he’s desperate to be undone, and the overstimulation hits fast.

The camera focuses on his hips, the twitching of his thighs, the tiny shivers running through his torso, and then snaps back to his face: glasses askew, cheeks flaming, lips parted, eyes wide and helpless.

Every little flick of your tongue, every teasing pause sends him over the edge of control. He’s gasping, whining, absolutely undone, unable to last, and the camera catches every second of it—the golden-boy exterior shattered, leaving only the needy, overstimulated humk of a man who can’t help but beg for more.

divider by @strangergraphics & @cursed-carmine

TAGLIST

@bowxs, @kentblvd, @castielsonlyangel

[flightsoffandom]

thinking abt loser!pornstar!clark..

18+ MDNI; “just the tip”, needy!clark, noisy!clark.

part 2

Clark Kent is the kind of performer nobody bets on. Nerdy glasses, shy smile, fumbling posture — he looks more like a cameraman than the guy anyone’s here to watch.

Which is exactly why you love ruining him on film. The director calls action, and Clark’s already hard before you’ve even touched him. He tries to cover it with his hand, stammering, “S-sorry, I just—y-you look—” and the cameraman zooms in on his red face.

The audience will eat it up. You shove him gently back onto the bed, straddle him, and make a show of grinding over the bulge in his briefs. His breath stutters, glasses crooked, a raw moan ripping out before you’ve even pulled his cock free.

“Pathetic,” you murmur for the mic, wrapping your hand around him. The viewers at home can see every twitch, every bead of precome. “This is your job, Clark. And you’re falling apart already?”

He babbles something incoherent, cut off with a gasp when you guide him against your entrance. You only sink down on the tip, stretching slowly over the head.That’s when he breaks. The camera catches his mouth falling open, his eyes rolling back.

A shout tears out of his throat, wild and unfiltered. He slaps a hand over his mouth like he’s embarrassed, but it doesn’t help — the noises just keep coming, loud and ruined. You tease him with a smirk in your face.

“What’s that? That’s just the tip. You even earned the rest yet.”

Clark’s entire body bucks beneath you, glasses sliding off his face as he moans again — louder, filthier, his voice cracking like he’s begging for mercy.

“P-please,” he gasps, nails digging into the sheets. “Need more, I c-can’t— don’t tease me, I’ll—”

You slam the rest of the way down, and the room fills with the kind of noise that makes post-production editors debate whether to mute or amplify it.

Clark’s scream is half pleasure, half agony, his cock twitching violently inside you. He’s already coming — ropes spilling hot, his chest heaving, sweat glistening under studio lights — and you ride it out mercilessly.

Clark is wrecked beneath you, twitching, babbling apologies, still hard inside you despite the orgasm he couldn’t hold back. And you lean forward, pushing his glasses back onto his nose. “Don’t worry, baby. We’re not cutting. They’re gonna watch me break you again. And again.”

divider by @strangergraphics & @cursed-carmine

TAGLIST

@bowxs, @castielsonlyangel, @kentblvd

[flightsoffandom]

BRO THIS IS SO ME ALWAYS??? Anyone else????

Found on a post by @fic-dumpster