pr3ttybbyv

[pr3ttybbyv]

you didn't kiss me goodbye. ( clark kent )

after an arguement with your boyfriend, clark kent does the unthinkable. he doesn't come home, doesn't kiss you goodbye and doesn't return until its midnight and you've fallen asleep on your sofa. good job, clark still has the goodnight kiss to redeem himself.

clark kent x fem! reader

themes: accusation of cheating, lack of trust in this relationship (on both ways- also wrong, reader and clark are just miscommunicating idiots) jealous clark, angst, mainly angst, but fluff ending! (inspired by this request)

masterlist.

it starts with a sandwich- well, two of them.

jimmy had caught you standing in line at the cafe, smiled a sweet tune and before you could stop him, his phone had pinged with that familiar apple pay notification that caused you to awkwardly blush, thank him appropriately and then proceed to run away.

you were just on a quick lunch break, heading out to pick up something for you and clark when your co-worker cornered you. jimmy is nice, he's friendly- a little bit weird sometimes but you've never felt afraid of him- this little crush he has on you just seems very sweet and that's all it is. a little crush.

and all seems well enough when you return back to the daily planet. you find clark still hunched in the same position you left him in, head buried into the glare of the computer screen. and when he feels your fingers run through his hair, tugging at the sensitive spots he loves, he lifts his head upwards and shoots you a look of pure adoration and it melts right through you.

"hey baby," he murmurs fondly, and from where you're perched up on the side of his desk, he drags you straight into his lap. you've never been big on pda but something about clark kent- your 6'4, 200lb hot nerd of a boyfriend has you doing a lot of things you usually wouldn't do. you lean into his embrace for a second before placing your hands on his chest, patting him gently.

"come on, munch time- you need to get something in you or you'll crash out," and you make work of unwrapping his sandwich. and when he sends you that lazy smirk, like he's biting back his laughter at his own joke, your eyes widen and clamp his mouth shut with a hand over it swiftly.

"do not," you whisper, blushing a violent red, "say what i think you're about to say," and he muffles an innuendo against the back of your fingertips before pressing a kiss to the hand smothering him. you let go when it looks like he's going to behave himself and make a move to stand.

"eat," you pat his shoulders gently, "i'll swing by when you're done," and he furrows his brows, gripping your waist and drawing you to him.

"stay," he mumbles into your stomach, hugging you as he's still seated in his chair. you slide your fingers through the soft curls of his hair again and he leans back, sighing in bliss.

your sweet sweet moment is cut in half- literally sliced when the voice of jimmy olsen grates at your ears and you wince as you feel your boyfriend tense below you.

"hey kent! you should join us next time, enjoy the sandwiches- my treat!" he hollers as he strolls past clark's desk, sending you the biggest grin you've ever seen stretched on his small face and you groan. when he disappears from view, you open your eyes at clark, hoping to find a teasing grin but there's nothing there. literally nothing, just a glare of pure steel focused on the mark where jimmy has left, scorching the spot with a burning disdain.

"clark," you start slowly, grabbing his chin to face you upwards again. he looks away begrudgingly and into your nervous eyes. "we've been over this, jimmy is a friend- our friend!" and part of you feels annoyed that this isn't the first time you've had to remind him.

"friend is a stretch, i hate the way he looks at you," he grumbles, swiftly moving the sandwich with his pen- not even his finger as though it would kill him to touch it- and straight into the bin. a startled gasp leaves you as your eyes widen in shock at the outright revenge and you tap his chest lightly.

"clark!"

"what?" he stares at you and you cross your arms in a protective stance.

"jimmy is just a friend- we've been over this!" you whisper exasperated, aware that you're still at work and in public.

"he's a boy," clark rolls his eyes, "and he looks at you like i look at you," he growls with a pointed glare. you scoff, it's just a crush! a silly crush jimmy olsen has that you liken to a puppy love, knowing damn well that no one on planet earth would dare make a move on you with your absolute hulk of a boyfriend by your side.

"i don't get this way about lois and you spend a lot of your time with her," you counteract, you've abandoned that bit of jealousy long ago but in this moment, right here and now it feels only right to throw something back in his face- give you some bit of stance to face clark on with.

"that's different- you love lois!" you do, she's one of your best friends and an incredible journalist.

"and you like jimmy-"

"no i don't- i tolerate him and he's a fucking loser if he thinks he's got a shot with you, so no."

"clark," you moan, this all feels really childish and a waste of your short unpaid lunch break that could spend just eating a sandwich and kissing your boyfriend silly, "are you really jealous right now?"

"no," and he's stubborn with it, "i just think he's disrespectful like i'm right fucking here," he rolls his eyes, and when you take a step back out of his hold, he doesn't exactly reach for you- which hurts even more.

"clark, we've been over this and i'm getting real sick of repeating myself, there's nothing between us," you complain, "do you not trust me?" it's a light-hearted remark, sarcastic as it leaves your lips but you wish you could take it back once you see your boyfriend's reaction- or lack of thereof

he stills, frozen in his seat. it takes him a beat longer to reply but that beat is all you need to scoff, you detach yourself from him completely, mouth gaping open. "you really don't fucking trust me?" and it's a little louder than you'd like as the betrayal drums along your chest, matching the erratic beat on your heat and pounding in your head. there's just too much going on, too much to feel.

you're sure you've caught a few stares because clark is up in a second, gripping your wrist as he leads you to the privacy of the stairwell. you snatch your wrist back when the door slams and face him with a quiet fury, "oh my god, you've got some fucking nerve, huh?" you spit back, the anger at not being trusted pound in your veins.

"what?" he raises his voice back, he's tried to contain himself but it's too late- the stress of this article, the slimy look jimmy olsen sends your way and the betrayed glare you slice him with is overstimulating, he's loosing control.

"you don't trust me, i fucking knew it," you heave a heavy breath to yourself and his nostrils flare out air in annoyance. you've not let him speak this entire time but maybe that's the problem- he's not exactly composed himself to reassure you that this has all just spiralled out of control. but the fire you spit carries a heavier heat and clark detects this immediately.

"that sounds like you've got something to get off your chest, go on," he pushes, "lay it on me huh?" and you scoff at how big of a delusional idiot he's being, careless of your feelings and how he makes you feel so small, like you're the one with the problem. and the thing is, you can meet his fire immediately, if clark kent wants a problem- oh boy, you'll give him a problem.

you take the steps to close the distance, your fury fighting in the air as it wraps around him whole. you don't mean to increase the intensity but you need to make sure that this next sentence hits his ears and his ears alone,

"then why'd you tell lois about superman before me?" and its thundering how his heart roars in a panic.

"what?" he breathes, and you nod in fierce determination.

"you heard me," you return without skipping a beat, "you can accuse me of cosying up to jimmy- a baseless accusation by the way- for a good journalist that you are, you are a fucking idiot," you roll your eyes, "but lets talk about trust huh, why did lois know before me?"

"because she was smart enough to figure it out! we've been over this!" his restrained shout is met with a click of your tongue as you take a step back, sizing him up with a look. its also an echo of your earlier defense- you've been over the jimmy crush saga plenty and clark still worms it back up

"are you saying i'm not smart enough?" you drawl, annoyance bubbling in you and burning you whole. "first i give some loser the time of the day and now i'm too dumb, you're really winning boyfriend of the year, kent," and it should stop him at how you've addressed him by his surname. he's never been kent, he's always been clark- your clark.

but he's stubborn as he is tall and pushes back, cornering you into the wall, "you are twisting my words," he hisses, "and it's not like i wasn't going to tell you eventually."

you place a hand on his chest, not lovingly like you usually do but to stop him. you're not about to be backed up against the wall for a fight you did not start.

"and how was i supposed to know that?" you speak, "am i supposed to just what-" and the glint in your eyes is murderous, "trust you?" you squint and clark knows there's no way out of this for now.

he stands, feet apart holding his head high, and you scoff knowing you're the one who's going to have to break, to level this or you won't come out of this alive.

"look," you breathe but he still hasn't looked at you, "we're going to go back inside, we're going to carry on our day like the professional working colleagues that we are, then we are going to go home and you're going to tell me what the fuck is really going on, because this has spiralled out of control," you wait to hear clark's stoic murmur of approval, like he usually does when you reach the height of an arguement but it doesn't come.

"clark?" you pull him out of his thoughts and force him to look at you. "look honey, i'm sorry, i've said some nasty things in the moment and i know we've been over the lois drama- i shouldn't have brought it up again," and it's true, part of you is over it- you argued over it back months ago where you didn't take clark back after weeks of grovelling. it was petty you know, but you just needed some ammunition with all the jimmy nonsense he was gunning at you.

your phone lights up with an alarm, signalling the end of your lunch break and your stomach cries at the wasted time which you've not even had the chance to eat yet. "listen baby, we'll talk about this at home, yeah?" when you realise he's not going to give you a reply other than a singular nod, you plant a kiss on his cheek, heading back onto the floor and straight to your desk.

you don't miss the small smile lois lane sends your way and you return it back. this isn't her fault in the slightest and she's been nothing but the best of friends to both you and clark. you almost hate yourself the tiniest for dragging her into that ugly arguement in the stairwell, but being accused by your boyfriend after dating him for an entire year for being untruthful wasn't exactly on the board for your tuesday lunch time plans.

the rest of the day ends in a blur, you focus on your article and at how your grumpy lover sits a few desks away, hardly looking in your direction. five o'clock hits and you get ready to pack up all your things in your bag, the still packaged sandwich from earlier sits there like a painful reminder and you stick it in the small fridge under your desk for tomorrow's lunch. in this economy, you're not about to lose your boyfriend and your lunch, god what a wreck.

and when you walk past your boyfriend's desk you're met with pure emptiness. your tote slouches in a growing fatigue on your shoulder, already carrying the weight of tonight and then your eyes settle on a yellow post it, blinding in your vision.

"needed some space. you take the car, drive safe."

and you scoff, crumple it up between your fists and dump it in his bin alongside the pesto and mozzerella sandwich from earlier. the keys are hidden in his top drawer and you snatch them in a wave of annoyance- less anger than before and make your way to the parking lot.

the drive home feels a lot slower without your boyfriend humming along to the songs, interlocking your hands across the control panel and telling you off handed comments about his day. you sit in silence, unbothered to connect your phone to the bluetooth mode and just drive and drive and drive.

you don't go home immediately, choosing to clear your head and his fuel tank before you land at your apartment door.

it's seven pm and the house is untouched, you got off work two hours ago and there's still no sign of clark. as soon as you've set foot through the door you drop your tote to the floor and shrug off your coat, letting it land wherever next to your bag before dragging yourself to the sofa.

there's no messages on your phone, no inkling of where your other half is and it hurts you. this is classic clark behaviour, clark who runs away when things get hard and he doesn't know what to do- the only difference is, and you feel it with every tick of the clock hands that warn your ears, he's never not come home like this.

seven pm turns to eight pm and then to nine, and somewhere along the lines where you try to sit up and wait for him, sleep decides to take you in an easier feat and when you close your eyes, clark is still the one you see and call home.

. . .

you don't hear the turn of locks, or even the soft sound of shoes shuffling at the door. sleep has been kind on you and taken the exhausation out of your system, gently lulling you to a clearer conscious and its only when your airborne you begin to stir.

"clark?" you murmur, the sleep heavy in your voice it kind of comes out as a grunt.

"hi, honey," he whispers, careful not to be too loud. his body is warm against yours, he carries you like a baby, your head is up against his chest as your legs have wrapped around his waist. one of his arms comes across your back and the other just at the back of your thighs. your body could remember every single sensation he's ever sent you by heart, that you relax into his touch, melt into the warmth because in his arms you've never felt safer.

he takes you into your bedroom and lies you on top of the bed, onto your side before he leaves to change and joins you on the other side. the lights are off, and there's something unresolved in the air- clark hoped to apologise tonight for being the biggest idiot on the planet but seeing you asleep on the sofa? waiting for him? god he deserves longer to wallow in his regret and pity.

"clark?" you call out for him in a mumble and he softens, guilt filling his blood in every vessel, pumping like its trying to break free.

"babydoll, i'm sorry," he breathes, the apology lingers in the air before you speak again, slightly more awake but still tired.

"you didn't come home," you whisper, rolling over to face him, "you've never done that before," and the silence that follows is thick. he reaches out to brush a rogue tendril of hair out from your face and behind your ear. your mouth parts open at the touch, a look of sadness wavering over your features and he closes his eyes, wincing.

"i needed some space," he starts and you interrupt him.

"you couldn't have called? or texted? or passed by my desk and just let me know? i'm your girlfriend clark, if you need space you can just trust me to respect it," and its that damn finnicky word all over again. trust. clark does trust you more than anything, than anyone, he was just a gigantic jealous idiot who let his mouth run quicker than his brain could catch up and reprimand him.

" you're right," he speaks low, "you're right. i should've let you known but a large part of me was fucking embarrassed of how i acted. i'm ashamed i even implied the worst of you," he closes his eyes, hiding from his earlier regret, "i do trust you, with my whole life i just- oh god, i'm just a dick and i'm sorry, i'm sorry for even raising my voice at you earlier god, who does that? and the jimmy thing was immature, i know you'd never be dishonest with me i just got wrapped up in it and unfairly took it out on you," somewhere during his spiel, you've lifted a hand to his cheek, cupping it softly.

"thank you for being honest with me now," you mumble and he takes the cue to move closer to you, bodies almost touching.

"and you have every right to still bring up lois- if it bothers you still, we can talk through it again and again if that's what you need then that's something i'll keep being sorry for," his reply is earnest, he mustve practised it on the way home, you think and you nod slowly, sleep creeping in on you.

"clark honey, couples fight-"

"i don't want to," he counteracts immediately and you just start groaning until he gets the hint to stop speaking and let you finish.

"i said couples fight," you repeat yourself firmly, "i said some mean things to, like i didn't mean to call you an idiot but i did, so i'm sorry-"

"i believe you called me a fucking idiot," he teases and you level him with a stony look.

"okay wise guy, you also tried to call me a cheater,"

"which i apologise profusely for, it was incredibly disgusting of me to even insinuate that-"

"and then i forgive you," you lazily return, "we'll talk more on this tomorrow i'm tired, clark."

"okay," he surrenders, he can wait for the morning to come and make it up to you properly, apologise and grovel when you're alert enough to understand the weight he's trying to lift from you. "you know that i do trust you though right? i didn't mean-"

"clark," you whine, throwing your leg over his and borderline climbing on him, using him as your pillow and trying to find a good spot for you to fall back asleep. "i know that and i said we'll talk about this tomorrow, go to sleep," you beg.

he lands a kiss to your temple and murmurs a goodnight and you pause with a frown.

"kiss me goodnight properly," you moan and he does, letting his lips press to yours a moment longer than usual, melting in all the words he doesn't know to formulate but hopes you can feel it burn through him and you hum in approval.

you nestle into his hold, he wraps you up tighter, putting you in your favourite position which is having your ear pressed up against his heartbeat as your body rises and falls with the soft breaths of his chest. he thinks you've finally fallen back asleep again before he lets out a final sigh, but then you're mumbling- to yourself more likely and clark tries to bite back the laugh this time.

"jimmy olsen, you know," and it comes out as a sleep filled, drooling mumbling scoff, "couldn't have at least given me more credit and said bruce wayne." the chuckles escape him and he knows you're not even going to remember that you believe you could've bagged batman tomorrow- but hey, you managed to get superman on his knees so there's real strong potential.

tomorrow comes and clark is going to do everything he can to make it up to you, and that includes secretly killing jimmy olsen before breakfast.

riya saying hi: hii 🥺 my sole purpose in life feels like its to provide clark angst and when its requested- i fear i may have to step up and prove myself LOL anyways, i hope you enjoyed this, it was based off a request i linked at the top if you want a little more context. to op, i hope this is similar to how you expected it- again, i don't really take requests i get nervous and overthink everything and think im a piece of shit, but i did like this idea so didn't mind it. hope you liked & as always please let me know what you think! if you ever wanna say hi, come say hi- my inbox is always open! except to those loser anons who correct my grammar and try and remind me to include "x reader" as a tag; here's your reminder to actually check my tags because i do!!! get off my page!!! ugh sorry for the rant, enjoy the clark! because i dont actually have anything planned for him next so who knows where the wind will take me, love ya!!! xxx

likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated! 💘

[pr3ttybbyv]

simon riley x reader

summary: simon gives you a toy, made just like him before he leaves — and shows you exactly how to use it.

warnings: sexual content, toyplay, soft dom vibes from simon. wc: 895

you were curled in simon’s lap with your cheek on his chest and your arms tucked in tight, practically hidden inside one of his oversized hoodies. it smelled like him. warm and worn and safe.

but tonight, even that wasn’t enough to keep your heart steady.

“you’re leaving tomorrow,” you whispered, your voice small.

he hummed against your temple. “early.”

you didn’t answer right away. his hand moved in slow circles on your thigh, calm, like he wasn’t thinking about the goodbye coming in less than twelve hours.

but you were. you were thinking about the ache you’d carry when his warmth was gone, when the nights got cold and quiet and lonely again.

and simon knew that. which is why, after a long pause, he said:

“got somethin’ for you.”

you looked up, eyes soft. “you already gave me your hoodie… and your cologne… and—”

he smirked faintly. “not that. somethin’ else.”

he leaned to the side, reached under the bed, and pulled out a small black box. sleek. expensive. unmarked.

your brows pinched. “…what’s in there?”

he offered it to you, the weight solid in your hands. “open it, lovie.”

you hesitated. unclicked the clasp.

then froze.

your mouth fell open. cheeks flushed hot.

and with a gasp, you shut the lid so fast it clicked.

“simon.”

he laughed—a deep, rough chuckle from his chest that only came out when he was amused and smug.

“what?” he said, like he didn’t just hand you the most inappropriate gift in existence.

you stayed buried behind your hands, voice barely a squeak.

“you got me… that—”

“that?” he teased, leaning closer. “you can say it.”

you shook your head fast. “no i can’t.”

“you can,” he smirked. “go on, lovie.”

you peeked at him between your fingers. “s’so dirty, simon.”

he smiled — slow, wicked, but soft around the edges.

“only for you.”

he pulled the box open again, lifting the thick, flushed, heavy toy out with one hand — and watched your face go red all over again.

your eyes dropped to the toy. and that’s when it hit you. the shape. the curve. the exact way it flared near the base.

your lips parted again. breath hitching.

“…wait.”

he tilted his head. “notice anything?”

“is that—” you looked from the toy to him and back again, face burning. “that’s not just a… it’s you?”

“mhm.” he rolled it between his fingers. “exact mold. took hours. made sure they got it perfect.”

your whole body shivered. you were trying to hide your face again, and simon leaned in close, whispering like he was telling you a secret:

“so when i’m gone, you won’t even miss me… ‘cause i’ll still be right here.”

you didn’t mean to lay back for him so easily.

but he always made it feel like something soft. something sweet. something right.

he helped you strip out of his hoodie, leaving you in nothing but your pretty skin, already warm with need. his eyes roamed every inch of you like you were art.

“so fuckin’ beautiful,” he muttered, kissing down your chest.

his fingers slid between your thighs, slow and easy, parting you so he could feel the sticky heat there.

“already wet for me, huh?” he smirked against your hip. “you like the thought of it?”

you nodded shyly. “it just… it really looks like you.”

“feels like me too.”

he dragged his fingers through your slick, then wrapped them around the toy. he stroked it up and down slowly, coating it in you, his eyes never leaving yours.

“ready?”

you breathed out, “yes.”

he nudged the thick tip to your entrance and you gasped, hips twitching.

“fuck,” you whined, clinging to the sheets. “it… it feels like you.”

“yeah?” he rasped, easing it deeper. “you remember me that well, bunny?”

you nodded, eyes wet. “feels the same. i swear, it’s just like you.”

he groaned softly, pressing it in until the base nearly kissed your skin. your walls squeezed around it, body clenching as you whimpered under the stretch.

“look at you,” he murmured, brushing your hair back. “takin’ it like a good girl.”

he moved it slow. deep. steady thrusts that had your thighs shaking and your breath hitching in your chest.

“this is how i want you to do it,” he said, voice wrecked. “when you’re alone. just like this.”

he guided your hand to the base. “go on. try it for me.”

your fingers curled around it. shy. unsure. but when you started to move it the way he had, simon lost his mind.

“that’s it, bunny… fuck yourself. pretend it’s me. pretend i’m right here, stretchin’ you out just like this.”

your breaths turned into high, choked whines as your hand moved faster, the toy hitting the perfect spot with each thrust. your back arched. your eyes rolled.

“si— simon— i can’t—”

“you can,” he said firmly. “you will.”

his fingers rubbed tight, desperate circles on your clit as you cried out, the pressure finally snapping.

you came hard around it, sobbing into his shoulder, legs trembling.

and he praised you the entire time.

“that’s it… good fuckin’ girl… so perfect, takin’ all of me like that.”

he held you after. whispered soft things against your forehead. and as he brushed your hair back, he murmured:

“think of me when you use it, yeah?”

[pr3ttybbyv]

NOW PLAYING: TASTE

PAIRING: LIP GALLAGHER x FEM!READER - MOSTLY LIP’S POV | "HE PINS YOU DOWN ON THE CARPET, MAKES PAINTINGS WITH HIS TONGUE..”

SUMMARY: lip gallagher who can’t get the taste of you out of his mouth, no matter who he’s with now. maybe that’s why he drives to your place after a failed encounter.

RATING: 18+, smut / nsfw content ahead !!

CONTENT WARNINGS: afab/fem!reader. exes hookup fic, lip eating another unnamed girl out (briefly mentioned) / him eating reader out, oral (f recieving), unwrapped p in v (wrap it before ya tap it!) all characters are over 18! (also there's a hidden journey lyric hidden in here hehe)

AUTHOR'S NOTES: hi! so technically this was supposed to be the first release in this series but i have really bad time management and finished the rafe one ahead of this one. also, this one is kinda sloppy but i hope its good enough to read! this was also not proofread so if you find any mistakes no you didn't <3 enjoy!!

The fact was, Lip knew getting over you wouldn’t be easy. You'd left an impression with him after all.

You and him had spent, what, six months together? And while you never officially put a label on what you two were exactly, you both knew - you were a couple. Or at least fuck buddies, if you weren’t ready to go to the dating length.

So when he called things off with you, for a reason he still wasn’t able to figure out now, but that he had just chalked up to issues from his childhood?

He figured he could move on. He even tried sleeping with Mandy again just to get rid of it a few weeks ago, but he was reminded of you. Every time he closed his eyes and felt Mandy's lips, it wasn't hers he was reminded of. It was yours.

He then understood it was like cutting off smoking suddenly.

Which he failed at. Evident by the being the cigarette he had between fingertips now as he stood outside some house party he’d been dragged to.

So he tried to move on again.

He tried tonight. Eating out some girl he knew in a bathroom that smelled like cigarettes and cheap perfume, making paintings with his tongue - as he so described it to you.

No use.

It wasn’t like the girl was bad or the experience was. But the taste of you lingered on his tongue after.

He craved you. Like a drug he had just quit suddenly.

Besides, it wasn't like he'd cut you out entirely. Lip knew you and him were still friends - you had been close for years before you even started sleeping together. You agreed to not let that come between you both.

Maybe that was why he got into his beat up car, driving in the direction of your house, the address too familiar to him. Just to talk to his best friend.

Or, perhaps, it was for something else.

——

So, maybe that's how he ended up here. Currently in between your thighs, taking in every whimper you gave as his tongue teased your folds.

Sure - he had sworn to himself he was done with this. Sleeping with you, coming to your place and climbing through your window - since he complained the front door was "too obvious" and would for sure wake your folks up, ending with him getting yelled at - was the old Lip.

Well, old habits are hard to break, he reminded himself as his tongue entered your wet cunt. Soaking up every noise you made, delighting in the way your hands tangled in disheveled curls for something to grasp onto.

One of his hands splayed across your stomach, the other beginning to slowly pump his middle finger in and out of you while he murmured sweet - and frankly dirty - nothings to your cunt.

He knew he was wrong for this. But who could blame him? He wanted to stay here forever. He wanted forever.

You just left an impression. An impression of (enter your height here) to be exact. One that was impossible to scrub clean.

By the time you had reached your climax, whimpering as his fingers arched inside of you to let you ride it out, he was already telling himself he was a goner for you.

Again.

[pr3ttybbyv]

─ ✮⋆˙ 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 way 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!

[pr3ttybbyv]

"louder."

you felt like you were about to combust.

engaging in sexual activities inside the fortress of solitude meant being able to be as loud and messy as you can. so when you pitched the idea to clark, he couldn't see why not.

but, fuck, was he into it.

"c-clark, i- I cant–" and he's sucking onto your clit suddenly, your back arching off the towel that he had placed beneath you to avoid having the ice burning your skin. you grabbed his hair as a weak attempt to press him further into you, but did you really need to? he wanted more, he craved more, and he was going to take more.

this was his domain, his glimpse of peace, so it was only fair for him to indulge in you as much as he could, right?

"louder." he ordered again before one of his digits penetrated you, immediately going for your g-spot, which had you bordeline screaming at the sensation. his free hand that he was using to pin you down snaked it's way up, squeezing your breast and pinching your nipple.

"fuh- fuck, clark! yes- yes, oh, yes!" you didn't even know what you were saying, as everything around you was messing with your brain. the fortress was so quiet that your moans bouncing back at you made your head spin, and your body couldn't handle the duality of the ice's cold and the warmth of his tongue between your legs.

"you're close, sweetie." he knew. he didn't ask, he confirmed. he could hear the muscle starting to clench in order to brace for the impact of your orgasm. your free hand—the one that wasn't gripping his hair—grabbed his wrist and twisted around it, attempting to ground you.

when he scissored you open with two of his digits and let his tongue slither in the middle, licking around your walls while his nose bumped into your clit, you felt like you had no other choice but to cum. and you did.

your thighs clamped around his head and he kept them, swallowing every drop of cum you gifted him. your moans resonated and echoed throughout the entire fortress, "p-please, please! c-clark, yes– clark!", and neither of you knew what you were begging for, but whatever it was, he was going to give it to you.

so he doubled down, going faster, harder. he didn't simply help you ride out your orgasm—he was determined to give you a second one.

"want you t'be louder for that second one, yeah, love?"

[pr3ttybbyv]

PLAYBACK

summary: You’ve been friends with Clark since college, long before you ever started filming yourself for strangers online. He’s one of your closest friends, the one you trust the most, and the only person you’d trust to help behind the camera when you wanted your content to look better.

pairings: cameraman!clark kent x adult content creator!reader

warnings: 12k words. mature themes. unprotected p in v. internal ejaculation. masturbation. sex toys (dildo / vibrator). edging. cum play. clit play. sex work. oral sex (f!receiving). voyeurism / filming. praise kink. read responsibly.

note: hey. another clark fic, but this one’s way longer than the last! <3 i’ve been wanting to write a camgirl reader fic for a while now but couldn’t decide who to pair her with until i realized clark was perfect for it. right? righttt. soft, gentle, the “good guy” who ends up behind the camera and then… well. you’ll see. hope you enjoy, and reblog to support!

Ever since you've known Clark, you've heard people compliment him and say he has a good eye. But personally, you know it’s more than that. He saw things that people ignore, even the simplest things that you should ignore. Because of him? It’s something and he can see them, like light catching on the hair and it shines brighter, how the hand curls around the coffee cup, how shadows land in the skin in an unexpected moment and it hits just right. You and Clark met way back in college. It was before he got his job here in the city, when he was still carrying the camera he saved up money for using his college allowance to buy a second-hand, beat-up Nikon. You can remember when he used to show you the photos he took for the student paper. It’s photos of the protests, sports, or whatever people hired him to do on and off campus that can pay for his food that week.

You know Clark as a soft-spoken person. He’s a sweet guy who is really sweet and you don’t feel it to be forced or performative like what most of the guys do. And he’s not like them because he doesn’t pretend to be nice. With him it just came naturally, it’s like engraved in his personality and as a person. You can prove it by the way he’d offer you before his food when you forgot to eat or when you are short on money. He’s also the kind of guy who will hold your books when you need something to find in your back, and yes, you can attest to that one. It’s never hard to trust Clark. You always did, even though you don’t easily trust men, but he proves he’s worth the trust when he takes your drunk ass home when you blackout drunk, or when he finds you breaking down over a low score in an exam you studied overnight, he stayed by your side until you calmed down.

Some guys will already take advantage of that kind of trust, but he didn’t. Clark never made you uncomfortable by crossing or blurring a line. He never did ever or once. Sure, sometimes you catch him looking when your skirt is too short, but you don’t see him staring longer than you allow. He will just look away fast while his ears are red. That’s what you like about him. He made you feel safe with his presence. You feel like you can tell him anything and he won’t judge. He will probably say it’s the universe’s fault it happened but you are the one in control. You like how he comes up with random motivational and comforting words, but don’t tolerate your ass. Even years later, when life is fucking you both up, trying to figure out how to live, and how to pay bills, it’s still the same. You two still hang out. Sometimes it’s in the small place he rents out for his studio, which is filled with photos he took, and it’s displayed on the wall, or sometimes it’s in your place when you feel lazy to go out for coffee or to go to his studio.

Since you trust him with your whole heart, you told him about the OnlyFans thing one night while you were sitting on his couch, a takeout container balanced on your knees. You didn’t plan to, it just slipped out, but he didn’t flinch or make a face. His eyes just filled with something. You are not sure what it is, but maybe it’s curiosity or something else. But he doesn’t say anything bad, he just nods while chewing slowly before he wipes the sauce from the corner of his mouth. He even asked, “Is it good money?” and that made you genuinely laugh. You tell him the truth that it’s a good side job, it pays the bills, and it’s better than dealing with creepy men at a club, which you also considered working there before.

His eyes are soft, and his lips parting like he wants to say anything, but he just shuts his mouth and leans back. He never acted weird to you after you said it, he never pried or said something that wouldn’t help you, and he never made jokes about it in front of you or behind your back like some of the people you thought you could trust, but they made fun of it when they found out. He just keeps what you said to him a secret and it's not his business to tell others. Clark continues to look at you the same way, as if nothing ever changed, regardless of what you do. And that was enough to keep telling him more. Enough to keep him close, even when you knew you should keep a little distance, because deep down, you were starting to realize that Clark Kent wasn’t just the sweet, quiet friend from college anymore. It wasn’t weird between you after you told him, and that was the best part. Nothing changed. He’s still the same. Same old Clark who will show up with coffee when tour shifts are running late. He will still carry your boxes when you jump from apartment to apartment. What do you always notice? His camera. That damn camera is always with him. It’s slung over his shoulder and hangs beside his hip when he comes by. Lens cap on but easily removable when he wants to capture a moment.

The place was small but enough for you. It’s warm in the sense of how the place gets when you live long enough there. Sometimes it is when he’s checking through photos on his laptop and muttering about the color balance and grain. He even asks for your opinions which are more lively. So you’ll just roll your eyes while you’re editing your content or folding on the laundry before saying he’s the expert. Despite saying that, you will still look at the pictures anyway. You’ll lean over him and can smell the clean soap scent clinging to his body. He never pulled away when you got close. You didn’t bring up the OnlyFans thing again, and he didn’t either. Not until one evening when you were pacing around your living room, hair still damp from a shower, wearing one of those old shirts with the collar stretched wide enough to fall off your shoulder. You don’t even know if you were talking, rambling, or complaining but you are blurting out about your videos. How it looks boring, flat, or how you can’t get the light right no matter how many cheap ring lights you bought online. You even said about how your phone camera blurred and became out of focus when you moved too much. The videos are not ugly, but the quality is not the best. It’s not what you want.

Clark was sitting on the floor, leaning his back against the couch, with his legs crossed like twisters. Laptop resting there. His eyes are watching you behind his glasses and there’s a small crease forming between his brows. You stopped mid-sentence when you realized how you sounded, but he didn’t laugh. “Do you want help?” he asked, voice careful, not pushing. He closed the laptop and tapped his fingers on the edge. You blink at him, clearly caught off guard by what he said. Really trying to figure out if this is some kind of sick joke. “Help? You mean… what, you’re gonna hold my phone while I ride my dildo?” His ears went pink, eyes darting away for a second before finding yours again. “I mean, I could film. If you wanted.” He said it like it was nothing. It’s like he’s just offering you to hold your things or walk you home because it’s already dark. That's enough to make your stomach twist, but not… Not in a bad way.

Words didn’t come out right away. You let the silence stretch out as you touch your hair and fingers playing with the ends. “That’s- Clark, that’s not like, taking photos of a street corner or some old building. It’s…” Your voice trailed, your hand dropping to your hip. His gaze held steady, jaw tightening just a little. “I know.” You crossed the room, toes curling against the floor, arms folding under your chest as you looked down at him. “You’d be okay with that?” He asks you. He swallowed after and his throat bobbed, but his eyes were still locked on you. “If you trust me, yeah.” Your tongue swiped over your bottom lip, considering it. You trust Clark more than you trust most of the people around you, maybe more than you should have.

But this was different. Sure, you told him about the content you do, but you're not even sure he saw it. You feel like he respects you like that, not to check it, so this feels different because you will let someone see you like that. Someone will say it’s no different from watching it from the phone, but he’ll be the cameraman if you agree. You tried to play it off, to keep it from feeling too heavy. “I’d have to pay you, you know. Can’t just have you filming my pussy for free.” His jaw clenched after hearing your words while his eyes flicked down before snapping back up too quickly. There’s a blush creeping in his cheek before he says, “Fine.” His breath is heavy and pushing hard, like he has already made up his mind. “Fine. We’ll figure it out.”

So both of you did and now setting up didn’t feel like a big deal the first time. It’s just Clark after all. He came over with his camera bag and casual clothes. Jeans washed out blue and sleeves rolled to his forearms like it’s too warm. His hair was still a little damp from a shower, and his glasses were sliding down a little bit when he bent over to untie his shoes at your door. You were wearing a hoodie and shorts when you welcomed him in. The fabric is loose and soft. It brushes against your thighs as you step back so he can enter. He stood in your living room for a moment with the camera bag still in his hand and eyes moving around to look at the space you had already cleaned up before you guided him to your room. Your laundry is already folded in piles on the corner, the sound from the air conditioner filling the room while he’s standing in the doorway and shifting from foot to foot. The room wasn’t big but it’s neat and clean. There’s a soft light set up near your desk and the backdrop you always use. It’s hanging neatly against the wall.

Skin is still warm from the shower you took before filming. You just keep the conversation going while he’s helping you put the backdrop nicely behind your bed, which is already half done and hanging when he comes over. You ask for his help so you can smooth the fabric and it won’t wrinkle in the video. “Can you pass me the clips?” you asked, harm already stretched out and hand open without looking at him, and he put them in your open palm, his fingers brushing against yours. You didn’t acknowledge it, just clipped the fabric, stepped back, checked the angles, and asked him to move it a little to the left. He did, careful, silent, eyes on the fabric and not the way your top dipped low when you reached up. “You want water or something before we start?” you asked. Clark shook his head, dropping his bag near the couch inside your room. “I’m okay.” He didn’t look nervous, not exactly. But there was something in the way he checked the camera, fingers tightening on the lens, thumb rubbing over the focus ring while you moved around him, checking your phone.

You didn’t talk about what you were about to do, not really, just moved through the motions of plugging in lights, shifting the small table where you kept your toys and lube, checking angles before nodding at him. “Same framing as before,” you said, adjusting the softbox. “Like the photos you take of me when I’m just sitting around.” He lifted the camera with his heavy breathing and lips twitching a few times. “Are you nervous?” you ask him softly. He freezes before glancing up and his cheeks are burning. “No,” he lied. You smirked, tilting your head. “You’re gonna have to watch me cum, you know.” He didn’t look away but his jaw was locked tight. “I know.” You touched your hair while you turned your back before pulling up your playlist, finding the soft background music you used for your streams. You didn’t rush what you do nor rush him either. Let him settle and let yourself do the same. The room is silent enough except for the quiet breathing you two let out and the sound from the air conditioning. Clark didn’t expect you to strip down instantly, and thankfully, you didn’t. The first session was simple. Nothing too heavy, you said, just letting him get used to it, letting yourself get used to him there.

You pulled on an oversized T-shirt without a bra, panties soft against your cunt, and moved in front of the camera, setting up your pillows on the bed. Clark adjusted the tripod, his breath catching when you lifted the shirt to your waist to sit down, the fabric dropping back over your thighs as you straddled the pillow. When you started, you didn’t look at him. You looked at the camera, talked to your subscribers like you always did, telling them how much you missed them, thanking them for the tips they sent last week. Your hips started to rock, slow at first, the friction catching against your panties as you rubbed yourself on the pillow, grinding down as your breath started to shake. “Oh- fuck, that’s good,” you moaned, soft but clear, letting your hips circle as you pressed down harder. Your voice didn’t hide the pleasure, letting out quiet whines as you told them how needy you felt, how wet you were getting just from the pressure. “Mmm- can you see how wet I am through these? Bet you wish you could taste it.”

Behind the camera, Clark’s knuckles whitened around the handle. He’s trying his best to keep it steady while his eyes flicker between the screen and you, always switching between the two. Cock hard in his jeans and already pressing against the zipper but he doesn’t dare to move and touch himself while he’s filming you. Clark told himself that he was here just to film you, to help your content, to get the lighting right, but help him God, the way you moan when your clit touches the pillow made his jaw tighten. Breath catching in his chest. Face buried in the pillows when you lie on your stomach and continue to grind on the pillow while cumming. It muffles the sounds but not enough to stop the whimpers that let out from you. The loudand uncontrollable moans slip past your lips as your thighs shake. Clark’s camera caught everything you needed. The way your hips become sloppy, the way you tremble. And the wet patch darkening your panties and the cover of the pillow.

After, you pull your shirt down and stand up like nothing ever happened while you stretch. Got a robe while Clark lowered his camera, eyes still looking like he’s going to burn a hole through the pillow you just used. Throat bobbing and swallowing before he clears his throat. “Wanna get dinner?” You ask him with a smile like you just didn’t make yourself shake and cum in front of him. He nodded like he couldn't believe what he just heard. “Yeah. Sure.” You love that he didn’t make it weird so you ordered the favorite takeout you both love and sat on the couch with him while still in your robe and watched some show on your laptop as both of you ate. Legs brushing against each other now and then. Neither of you mentioned the shoot, and that was how you liked it.

The second session didn’t happen right away. It came a week late. What you’re wearing this time is a matching set. It’s a soft pink bra that is placed right on your tits and pushed up to show more of the shape. Paired up with a tiny thong that doesn’t even cover enough for your pussy. He arrived on time, at the time both of you agreed to. Never late as usual. He set up the lights without saying anything, just focusing on the camera. You’re fixing your makeup on the floor with your legs folded under you. “Your hair looks nice like that,” he said quietly while checking the white balance. You glanced over, lipstick halfway applied, smiling a little. “Yeah? Thanks.” When both of you started filming, your eyes didn’t reach him. You touch the straps of your bra and push them down to tease your viewers. Hands palming your tits and rubbing your nipples between your fingers until they were hard. Hips rolling and grinding on your hand, pressing it hard so your palm makes your panties slide against your folds.

“Feels so good,” you whispered to the camera, letting out a breathy “mmm” as you pulled the thong aside, rubbing your clit with your fingers, the wet sounds catching on the mic. “You like watching me touch my cunt, don’t you?” Even though it's addressed to your readers, it made Clark’s cock hard. It presses painfully against the seam of his jeans. His breathing is uneven but he’s trying to control it for the sake of the camera. Chest rising and falling. The camera follows your movements and focuses, adjusting every time you shift. You lean back and your legs fall open wide while the fabric of your thong stretches between your fingers as you continue rubbing your clit. You didn’t make yourself cum this time, just edging yourself until your thighs shake and moan uncontrollably along with the slick sounds echoing in the room.

When you were done, you pulled your thong back into place, tits still heaving, sweat glistening on your chest as you looked into the camera. “See you next time, baby,” you breathed out, blowing a kiss before stopping the recording. Afterward, you grabbed a towel, wiping your hands while sitting. Clark was packing up, hands shaking a little as he wrapped the cables. “You good?” you asked, leaning back on your palms. His jaw flexed, eyes flicking up to yours. “Yeah. I’m good.” He tries his best to answer you. “Cool,” you mutter before you grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator. “You want one?” Hands holding the cold water and eyes on him when you look over your shoulder. “Yeah, thanks.” You tossed it to him, and he caught it, taking a long sip before dropping into the chair, eyes closing for a moment.

When your third session arrives, Clark doesn’t even have the reaction you were expecting when you casually told him that you’d be fingering yourself for this video. It’s like he’s been expecting the worst as time goes by. You wore an oversized sweater, and it’s totally oversized because the fabric falls over your thighs, especially when you sit on the bed. Shorts hugging your curve around your hips. Clark is doing his Clark thing by setting up the camera and lights while you’re scrolling on your phone and humming to a song. “Ready?” he asks you before pointing the camera as he waits for your response. You gave him a nod and pulled your legs up and let the slip in just the right amount to show the top of your thighs. He started rolling and your hand slipped towards the crotch part of your shorts. Fingers pressing into the fabric and breath catching when you start to rub yourself through the fabric.

“Oh, fuck, that feels good,” you moan out with your eyes fluttering shut. Back arching while you push your fingers harder. You can feel the wetness soaking through your panties and hips lifting to grind against your hand. Soft whines and breathy muffling sounds coming out of you as you continue to tease yourself. His breathing is almost suppressed at this moment, the camera barely holding, but it’s steady considering his knuckles were white. The veins in his forearms are popping, and cock is throbbing and helpless in his jeans. The aching feeling is spreading in his system as he watches you pull your shorts down with your panties in swift motion. Your cunt is glistening and soaked and juicy under the light. Fingers sliding between your folds and spreading them for the camera and showing your empty clenching hole before you rub your clit in circular motion and sink two fingers inside your pussy after few minutes later. “Oh- shit- feels so good,” you whimper out and your fingers fucking inside your pussy. The slick sound fills the room while you curl them into the spots you like and moans loudly when your orgasm builds in your stomach.

“Gonna cum- fuck- gonna cum for you, baby-” You came hard, hips jerking, fingers buried inside as your walls clenched, slick dripping down your hand, thighs shaking as you let out “mmm- hah p-please,” breathy moans as you pulled your fingers out, showing the camera how wet they were before sucking them clean. Afterward, you pulled your sweater down, hair sticking to your forehead as you caught your breath. Clark was still there, camera lowered, chest rising fast as he swallowed hard. “Pizza?” you asked, getting up to grab your phone. “Yeah,” he said, voice rough, clearing his throat. “Pizza sounds good.”

The fourth session was different. You picked out a black lace lingerie set, straps hugging your waist, tits pushed up, your cunt barely covered by the thin fabric. Clark’s eyes darkened when you walked out of the bathroom, camera already set up, lights adjusted to catch the shine of the lace. You grabbed your vibrator from the drawer, testing it in your hand before turning to the camera. Clark adjusted the focus, jaw clenched, eyes locked on the screen as you lay back on the bed, legs spreading as you pressed the toy to your clit over the fabric. “Mmm- fuck, that’s good,” you moaned.

Hips rolling, the toy buzzing against your clit as you let out soft, breathy whines, pressing it harder as the vibrations made your legs twitch. You pulled the fabric aside, pressing the toy directly against your bare clit, slick dripping down your folds, your cunt glistening under the light. “Gonna cum- fuck- watch me cum,” you gasped, voice shaking as the orgasm hit. Your hips lifting off the bed, thighs trembling, a choked “mmph a-ah can- c-can’t-” spilling out as you came hard.

You keep the toy pressed and resting against your pulsing clit until you shake and are a whimpering mess. Only pulling it away when your cunt throbbed so hard you can’t take it anymore. Clark bites his cheek behind the camera and it’s almost like he's stopping a loud grunt to let out. So he just lets it sit in his throat as his cock feels so hard against his jeans that probably wetting because of his precum. But he doesn’t move an inch. He doesn’t do anything to touch himself and just stays in the same place with his eyes focused on you while you catch your breath.

The fifth session was the hardest. You were naked this time, a dildo in your hand as you sat on the bed, legs spread, cunt already wet as you looked into the camera, smirking a little. “Missed you, baby,” you purred, running the dildo along your folds, pressing the tip against your slit before pushing it in slowly. Your breath catches as your cunt stretches around it. “Fuck- so full-” You started to fuck yourself, slow at first, then faster, the wet sounds loud as you moaned, head falling back, hips rolling as the dildo sank deep into your cunt. Your tits bounced with each thrust, nipples hard, slick dripping down your thighs as you let out sharp, breathless moans.

The bed creaks under you. “Oh- oh fuck- gonna cum- gonna fucking cum,” you cried out, cunt clenching around the dildo as you fucked it deep, the orgasm crashing over you, your body shaking, moans spilling out in high-pitched “oh god- oh god-” sounds as you came hard, pulling the dildo out to show the camera how wet it was. Clark was breathing hard behind the camera, sweat beading at his hairline, his cock throbbing in his jeans, precum soaking through the fabric. His eyes were dark, lips parted, watching you as you caught your breath, tits rising and falling as you looked into the camera with a soft, satisfied smile. “Thanks for watching, baby,” you whispered, blowing a kiss before stopping the recording.

When it was over, you stood up, wiping yourself down, pulling on an oversized shirt as you walked over to Clark. Eyes meeting yours, and you notice how it looks hungry and dark, but there are no words he’s saying to you. He just packs up his camera and the things he bought over. “Wanna stay for dinner?” you ask sweetly with your head tilted to the side. You can see how his jaw is worked up and him swallowing nothing before he gives you the nod. “Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “Yeah, I’ll stay.” That makes you smile before you walk into the kitchen and pull out the ingredients you need as you act like nothing ever happens. That’s what you do to avoid the awkwardness, you pretend you just didn’t fucked yourself in front of him. He followed, standing close, watching you chop vegetables, the quiet comfortable, the heat still lingering in the air.

You had lost track of how many times he came over as your cameraman for your content after four? Five months? Specific details don’t even matter anymore when he always welcomes you with a camera bag on his shoulder and is always careful with the lens every time he sets it down near your dresser. It almost feels like a routine how you greet him when you open the door for him. Always have that half-genuine, half-tired smile you give him. Sometimes you’re even in your sweatpants, most of the time you're in your robe, but never ever have you opened the door for him naked or indecent. There are times you will see him looking at your naked legs when you turn every time you pretend to check if the doors are locked, pretending not to see when his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. Your bedroom was small but organized, the clean backdrop folding out behind your bed, soft sheets tucked tight so nothing would bunch up on camera.

You liked the bright lights Clark set up, liked how they made your skin glow, how they turned your sweat into something pretty under the heat. It smelled like your lotion and the faint mint of the gum Clark chewed while he checked the angles, chewing slowly, eyes moving from the camera to your bed and back again. “Check sound for me?” he asked, fingers adjusting the mic clipped to the top of the camera. You stood near the edge of the bed, lifting your arms above your head in a stretch, letting your robe slip open just enough to show the lace of your bra before you let out a soft, “Testing, testing. You good?” Clark just gave you a small nod before he shifts in his weight and pulls his bottom lip between his teeth as he looks down at his camera.

Hands were steady, but you could catch the way his knuckles tightened around it when you turned, especially when your robe fell on the floor. You didn’t rush into doing your routine; if anything, you even let him see the lingerie you bought last week for the content you’ll make today. It’s a black lace that hugs the curves in your hips. There’s a red ribbon tied at the sides, and there’s a slit open right down the middle of your panties. It’s cut open to show the soft folds of your pussy, your clit already swollen against the lace from how worked up you felt before he even hit record. The camera light turned red. Your breath caught, not from nerves, but from the way you felt Clark’s eyes on you even when he was looking through the viewfinder. You sat on the bed, legs spreading, letting the lace shift, letting the opening part enough to give him a full view of your cunt, wet already, shining under the lights as you reached for the glass dildo on the side table.

It’s actually one of your favorite toys you have. It’s transparent and clear with a pink swirl down in the middle. It feels heavy in your hand when you lift it towards your lips. You tease your lips with it like it’s some kind of lipstick with the right angle and tilting your head right so you’ll look good when your tongue drags to the length. Spit catching the light as you wrap your lips around the tip and sucking it down with your cheeks hollowing. A soft “mfffh” slipped out, muffled around the glass, eyes fluttering shut as you let yourself enjoy the weight on your tongue, the coolness of it as you sucked it deeper. Your hand moved down, pushing the slit of your panties open wider, middle and ring finger sliding along your slit, feeling the slick already dripping from your cunt, your folds parting as you rubbed slow circles around your clit. You let out a soft whine, eyes half-lidded as you pulled the dildo from your mouth, strings of spit breaking as you lifted it away, letting it drip down onto your pussy as you aimed it, teasing your entrance.

“Fuck-” your voice was breathless, needy, hips lifting to chase the glass as you circled the head around your clit, pressing it against your slit without pushing in yet. Your cunt clenched, pulsing, your wetness coating the toy as you rubbed yourself, teasing, letting your hips rock up while your eyes flickered to the camera. You catch Clark’s reflection in the mirror behind it. The way he stood so still, breathing slow but heavy, his cock hard under his jeans, pressing against the zipper as he tried to keep his focus. Your thighs spread wider, feet pressing into the mattress as you let out a soft, shaky, “Ngh- fuck, baby, you see how wet I am for you?” Your voice was for your viewers, but you looked right at the lens. Eyes glossy, lips parted, and chest rising and falling as you pushed the dildo down. You let the head press into your cunt. The stretch is slow. It drags a gasp from your throat as it slipped past your folds and sinking deeper as your pussy clenched tight around it.

The sound was obscene. Wet and slick. Your hips rolling as you fucked yourself with the toy. Taking your time… Letting it drag against your walls. Letting the camera catch the way your folds spread around the glass and the way your cunt sucked it in every time you pulled it back. Your breath stuttered. A high whimper breaking when the tip pressed against that spot inside you with your hips jerking as you fucked it deeper. You let out a choked, “Oh- oh god, mfffh- feels so fucking good-” Clark’s hands were tight on the camera, his jaw clenched. His locked on the viewfinder but moving to your face every few seconds. He watches your expressions. The way your mouth dropped open. The way your eyes fluttered when you pressed the toy deep. The way your fingers move to your clit. The way you’re rubbing fast with your body arching off the bed.

Your legs shook, your moans turning higher and more desperate, and your cunt squeezing around the glass as you whined, “Fuck- fuck, gonna cum- please, baby, wanna cum for you-” Your voice cracked. Breath breaking into soft, shaky sounds as your fingers rubbing faster. Hips grinding down while the wet sounds growing louder as you fucked yourself harder, and chasing your orgasm with every roll of your hips. Your back arched when it hit and head falling back as you let out a loud broken moan, “Ah- ah- oh fuck-” Your pussy clenched hard that squeeze the toy. Slick dripping down your thighs, and soaking the sheets under you. Body trembling while riding out every wave and your clit pulsing under your fingers before you gasped for breath, letting out soft, “o-oh god- fuck yes,” sounds with every aftershock.

Your thighs finally dropped. Cunt twitching around the glass as you pulled it out, slow and messy. Your folds shining and your breath is heavy, your chest rising and falling as you caught your reflection in the lens. It’s flushed and fucked-out with sweat shining on your skin under the lights. “Thanks for cumming with me, baby,” you say like it’s some kind of closing tagline to a television show with your soft and warm voice. There’s a small smile that pulls out from your lips as you brush the hair out of your face and let out a heavy breath before reaching forward to indicate to him to stop recording. You watch the red dot from the camera blink for the last time before clicking it to shut down.

His face is flushed, and his hair is sticking to his forehead because of the sweat formed there from the tension he felt from watching you. There’s a visible shape of his cock from his jeans and it’s heavy and twitching. He keeps looking away and pretends it’s not there. You’re laid out and sprawled on your bed with thighs slick and shining. The dildo is probably lying somewhere on the sheets, but it’s already forgotten. Your body won’t stop twitching even though you already came hard. Your fingers flex and unflex on the blanket, breaths caught between high little whimpers you try to swallow down, but they keep slipping out, soft breathy sounds that make his eyes close when he thinks you’re not looking.

Your lips part as you try to catch your breath, lashes sticky with tears you didn’t remember crying, heat rolling in your belly, thick and heavy because it’s ovulation week, leaving you aching, pulsing low, your cunt clenching around nothing. “Can you… Pass me the wipes?” You ask him, and your voice sounds so soft like you are singing a lullaby. Clark nods too quickly and reaches fast to the small pack you set up along the essentials for your content and he almost drops it. His hands are bigger than yours, warm when he finally steps closer to the bed, holding the wipes out. But he can’t look at you, can’t look at your cunt, can’t look at the sweat on your chest, and the way your nipples are still hard through the lace that’s half peeled down your shoulders.

Your hand reaches up to take the wipes, but your fingers don’t let go of his wrist. Thumb rubs against it in a slow motion and smears the slick from your hand on his wrist. He stays still, and the room's silence feels too loud except for the shaking breaths and small hitch of his throat. His eyes meet yours. Your pupils are blown, lips parted, and there’s a softness in the way you look at him, like you’re not seeing him as just the guy behind the camera, but as Clark. Clark who’s been your friend since college. Clark who held your hair when you threw up at parties. Clark who carries your heavy ring lights. Clark who never judges you. Even right now when his cock is hard and painfully sitting inside his jeans after filming you cum and fuck yourself with that toy.

He hands tugged his wrist to pull him closer until his knees touch and bump into the edge of the mattress you’re lying on. The other hand reaches his shorts and you feel the way his chest rises and falls faster than he normally would have. You lean up and press your lips against his. It’s soft and you are testing the waters. His breath catches before he kisses you back. His mouth is warm and there’s a quiet grunt that joins the kiss before he pulls a little with his eyes wide. “Wait, fuck, we- this isn’t…” His voice breaks, forehead pressing to yours, eyes squeezed shut, jaw tight like he’s trying to hold himself together. No words came from you at first and you just let your thumb work and stroke on the back of his hand. You feel how much he’s shaking.

Lips brushing against him and it’s barely even a kiss, just a peck. Your hips shift, a small roll upward that makes a needy, high whine slip out before you can swallow it down. “Clark,” you whisper, trembling, soft, almost a plea but not quite. His breath shudders, the tip of his nose brushing yours, and for a moment it looks like he might step back, but you pull him down, pulling him until he’s bending over you, hands braced on either side of your head on the mattress. His feet stay on the floor, jeans tight, pressing against the bed as he leans over you, close enough that you can feel the heat rolling off him, the way his cock presses hard against the seam of his jeans. “Please,” you say, voice cracking, eyes clear and steady, looking right at him.

That’s what breaks him. It’s not because of the begging, not the whole of it. Not just because of the way your pussy can’t stop dripping into the sheets. But it’s because of how you say his name and he knows you mean it. He likes how you sound when you look like you know exactly what you are asking for from him. His mouth crashes into your harder this time. A rough groan exists along while the kiss plays out and his hands find your face to hold it like he’s scared that you will leave him. Your gentle fingers wrap around his hair to pull him even closer if that’s even possible, while your legs shift and knee bump and touch against his hips. The wipes are forgotten and have already fallen to the floor while your back is arching up and the lace shifted in your body, and it’s sticky and hot by the way it clings to your skin.

His lips break away, moving down to your neck, sucking softly, a muffled curse falling against your skin as your thighs press together around his waist. “Shit,” he mutters, voice rough, muffled against your neck. “Fuck, you’re-” You cut him off with another kiss, pulling him in, your hips lifting again as you whine into his mouth, that needy, desperate sound you’ve been trying to hold back since the camera turned off. He’s hovering over you while trembling hard and kissing you like he's been wanting to do this for months since he agreed to be your cameraman. The soft sounds from your mouth mix with the profanities he’s been letting out from his lips. The room is warm and smells like your cunt and cum from earlier and sweat. Your room has probably been waiting for this to happen, and you can feel the tension between the two of you.

You slip your hand under his shirt to tug it upwards and take it off over his head. Clark’s skin feels hot and smooth underneath your hands. Your palms are placed on his chest and stomach while you catch the small, uneven breath he lets out as his eyes look at your hands before you latch your lips again to kiss him. His lips are warm and a little salty. It even trembles enough to show you he’s doing his best to hold it all together. Clark kisses you back, and it’s messy and soft at the same time, as he lets out a quiet groan when your hands trail down towards his belt. You fumbled the buckle and the clink from the metal can be heard in the room while you are opening it.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your mouth with a low breathing that can be felt across your cheek as the button pops open and he drags his zipper down. He doesn’t stop you, doesn’t pull away, just watches with dark, wide eyes as you push his pants down with his boxers in one slow drag, revealing the flushed curve of his cock, heavy and leaking, the tip glistening as it twitches against his lower stomach. He steps out of them, bare now, and cock hanging thick between his thighs. The base dark with the soft trail of hair leading up to his stomach, precum dripping slowly down the side, catching the light as it slips down to his thigh. His hands hover like he doesn’t know where to put them, eyes flickering to your face, waiting, so eager and soft it makes something in your chest ache.

Hand pulling him closer, and one of your hand’s fingers drags along the underside of his cock while he crawls into the bed towards you. The bed is dipping with the added weight, especially underneath his knees while he kneels there. His eyes stare down at you with something you've never seen him give you before. You watch the way his chest rises and falls with shaky breath. You see how his muscles flex under his soft skin and big body. You know how tense he is right now but you also know how careful it looks. It's almost like he’s afraid he will break the fuck out of you. Legs spread and fall open wide for him. The black lace is still in your body, and the red ribbons are still existing and tied at the side. There’s still a slit in the panties to show the folds of your pussy. It’s wet and glistening and puffy. Juicy if you will describe it. He can see the slick runs in your inner thighs that the light catches every time you shift your hips around, and he can’t look away. He just can’t. His lips part before he lets out a small choked sound that is almost similar to a groan.

“Clark.” You call him out softly before pulling him in for another kiss. You catch the way he’s trembling as your tongue slips inside and touches his. You feel how he kisses you like you’re some oxygen he can’t live without. His hands are placed on your waist and slide up your sides. Thumbs brushing the underside curve of your tits through the lace fabric and it’s soft like he’s afraid to press too hard. His lips didn’t stay in one place and traveled from your mouth to your jaw. He leaves soft and open-mouthed kisses there before moving down to your neck and just pausing to press soft pecks in your pulse point and taste the salt on your skin. Breathe heavy and hitches after you arch forward to him and your tits pressing into his chest. The lace touches his skin as you rub against him.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful,” He whispers with his voice low like he’s almost shy to say it. His lips brushes on the top of your chest and take a few seconds before he lowers. He let his mouth find your nipple through the lace of your bra and suck against it softly. Tongue flickers against the bud until it makes you whimper with your hips rolling up to meet his lower stomach, just the action enough to spread your slick on his skin. Cock drags against your thigh as he moves, also leaving a wet trail on your skin like what you did to him. It’s hot and twitching every time you move and make another sound for him. His lips move to another nipple and sucking it through the fabric, like what he did to the other one, just to make it harder and letting it pop before he moves his mouth lower. Kissing you down from your tits down to your stomach and the warmth of his breath is making you shiver.

“Clark, please,” you breathe out, hips lifting, the red ribbons digging into your skin as the panties shift, exposing more of your cunt, folds wet and glistening, the slit in the fabric opening wider with every roll of your hips. He slides down his hands to your thighs with his thumb brushing through the lace where it hugs your hips. But he didn’t take it off, he didn't even try to pull it down. He likes how it looks at you from the moment you show him what you’ll wear for this session to this moment where he’s staring at your pussy. So focused on the way your slit shines, the way your clit pulsing like a heartbeat, A low profanity slips out of his lips as he shifts closer.

The lace stays on when he leans down, parting the fabric wider with careful fingers, opening you up more under the panties before lowering his mouth, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to your clit, letting his tongue slide out to taste you, hot and wet through the split fabric. Your hips jerk, a high, breathy “Oh- Clark-” breaking from your throat when his tongue drags over your slit, slow, testing, licking up the mess of your slick as it drips down your folds, the lace framing everything while he eats you out, letting out a quiet groan against your cunt.

The panties stay on, black lace tight against your hips, red ribbons shifting as your thighs shake, Clark’s tongue pushing past the open slit, licking you open, the wet sounds loud in the room when he sucks your clit into his mouth, letting it pop out before he goes back down, flicking his tongue against your hole, tasting you, letting out another small, rough groan when you moan for him. “Swear to god, you taste so good,” he mumbles, his lips brushing your clit, his breath hot against your pussy, making your cunt clench, slick dripping out as your hips roll, chasing his mouth, the panties damp with the mess between your thighs.

His tongue keeps working. Letting you grind down on him. Lettting you fuck yourself on his mouth while the lace scratching softly against your inner thighs as he holds your legs open. His thumbs rubbing circles into your skin, and every soft whine and choked gasp you make pulling another groan from him. The air reeks of sex that mixes with the sound of his mouth that latched onto your pussy. Moans blend just right with the slick and wet sounds while your hips begin to stutter and thighs tremble. Voice breaking into a high and needy whine. “Mhffh- Clark- fuck, I’m gonna-”

Clark doesn’t stop, his tongue continues to move and lick you through it. He sucks your clit while your orgasm hits your system and back arches off your bed. Pussy clenching around nothing as slick gushes out. It drips through the slit in your panties onto his mouth and chin. There’s a soft groan vibrating against your clit as he holds you there and lets you ride it out on his tongue. He stays in the same place and doesn’t move right away. Just hovering over you and letting the warmth of his body press close as your chest rises and falls under him. The air is thick and heavy, still full of the scent of sex, with the room being quiet beside the slick of your cunt that shifts slowly as your hips are rolling and seeking him. His lips brush yours. It’s soft, hesitant, tasting like the salt of your sweat and the slick he’d just licked from you. Lips letting out a quiet groan when your tongue meets his and when you pull him deeper into the kiss.

You open your thighs wider for him with the black lace panties that continue to sit and hug your hips. The pretty red ribbons that were tied at the sides and the slit sitting open in the middle. It captures exactly how messy your folds look. It’s glistening, swollen, and still twitching with the highs of your orgasm. The material rubs against your skin while your hips shift and the open seam keeps your cunt breathing. It lets the cool air kiss the slick folds every time you move. Clark’s hand slides down and fingers wrap around the base of his cock. It’s thick and flushed. You can see how the tip is leaking with precum that drips onto your thigh as he nudges forward. He doesn’t push them aside, doesn’t strip them off, just lets the slit part wider as the fat head of his cock drags along your folds, catching on your clit and pulling a soft, broken “mmf p-please-” from your lips when the pressure makes your cunt throb.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, voice low, cracking as he watches the way your pussy splits around him, the dark lace framing where your slick folds swallow the flushed head, strings of wetness catching on the lace, pulling with every twitch of his cock. Clark pressed slowly and carefully. The stretch feels delicious and burning sweet as the thick head of his cock pops inside with your pussy flutters around him. You try to suck him deeper while your hips grind up to meet each push he does. Jaw clenching and groan rattling in his chest with his hands bracing on your sides to hover properly. He is trying to hold himself steady because he might break anytime with the way your cunt is pulling him inch by inch. It made the lace rub against his skin and parts around the base of his cock. “Clark, please-” you beg and your voice is cracking. Hands gripping his arms and nails digging harshly in his skin when he’s bottoming out. The weight of his cock pressing deep, the soft hair at the base brushing your clit, making your hips jerk, a sharp gasp tearing from your throat.

His eyes flutter shut, his forehead dropping to yours, breath shaking as he tries to breathe through the tight, wet heat around his cock. “Hell, you feel so good,” he whispers, lips brushing yours, the words breaking with a soft groan when your cunt clenches around him, squeezing, milking him with the soft, wet pull that makes his hips twitch. “Look at me,” you whisper, pulling his face up, letting your eyes meet his, letting him see how your lips part, how your brows pull together when you clench around him again, letting him see how badly you need it. He pulls back just enough to watch, the dark lace framing where your folds stretch around the thick length of his cock, where slick drips down to his balls, smearing across your inner thighs as he rocks his hips back, the fat head dragging against your walls before he pushes back in, slow, careful, letting you feel every inch.

“Oh- s-shit- Clark-” voice is not steady and breaking in a high and needy sound when your hips lift to meet him. The soft lace of your panties is rubbing against the base of his cock every time he pushes back in. It’s deeper and he lets the stretch burn into you so that fullness will hit that spot that makes your toes curl. He let out a groan that vibrated in his chest while his muscles in his arms flexed as he tried to steady himself. Eyes remain locked and focus on where he fades out when he thrusts in your pussy. But the soft lace frames the shape and how it looks being swallowed by you with the fabric being dark and soaked slick. His hips pull back, slow, dragging the fat length out until just the tip catches at your entrance, your pussy clenching, dripping, before he pushes back in, harder this time, a wet slap echoing in the room.

Your back arches, a broken “Ngh- fuck-” spilling out as your tits press against his chest, the lace of your panties catching on your clit when he thrusts in again, harder, the steady rhythm building as he finds the angle that makes your moans turn into soft, desperate whines. “Shit, you’re so tight- fuck,” he groans, head falling forward, lips brushing your cheek, the words slipping out rough, needy, as he thrusts into you again, the wet sound of your cunt taking him filling the room, mixing with your soft cries, the squeak of the bed, the slap of skin against skin. Every push sends a jolt through your body, the soft lace catching on your folds, the slit parting around the thick stretch of his cock, letting your clit catch on the base every time his hips meet yours, your cunt squeezing around him, pulling him deeper, wetter, each thrust making you gasp, making your legs shake where they wrap around his waist. “Please, please, don’t stop-” you whisper, your voice breaking, your hands pulling him down.

Lips finding his again, and kissing him through the wet. The heavy rhythm of his cock fucking into your cunt. Letting him taste the soft, desperate moans that fall from your mouth. Letting him feel the way you shake under him. Letting him know how badly you need every inch he gives you. His thrusts start to lose rhythm, getting deeper, and harder. The wet sound of your pussy taking him getting louder as slick drips down to the sheets, as your walls flutter and squeeze. You’re chasing the heat building. The second orgasm coiling in your belly as your clit grinds against the soft lace. Every push hitting that spot that makes your eyes roll back, that makes your voice break into a sharp high cry, “Clark- oh, please-” And he keeps going, letting your cunt take him, letting the soft, wet sounds fill the room, letting the lace frame every thrust as his cock sinks in over and over, deep, thick, right where you need it, right until you break for him. He never thought this would happen, not like this, not with you looking up at him, mouth parted, eyes glassy, the soft lace of your panties framing where his cock sinks into your pussy, the slit pulling open with every slow, careful thrust. It’s different from the times he’s watched you from behind the camera, from the times he’s gone home, hard and aching, trying to jerk off in the shower without thinking of you.

He tried to convince himself it was just work, that he was just helping you out, that filming you like this was nothing personal. Now he knows he was lying to himself. He’s lying because he likes the way your cunt feels around him. He likes how it’s warm and wet. He likes how it squeezes him tightly, which makes his thighs twitch every time he pushes an inch inside. He likes how the way your folds look around him when he stretches them with the thick length of his cock. He likes how slicked and soaked you are so it drips down to his balls. He likes how the lace hugs your hips while the slit is open in the middle, like the lace is just there for aesthetics. He likes how it shows every inch he pushes inside of you. “Fuck, I-” His voice breaks when the word lets out of his throat. Everything he wants to say is just stuck in his throat, especially when you clench around him and when your hips roll up to welcome the thrust he's giving you. He’s going crazy with how the way you feel around him. Clark, he’s not a guy with much experience, but he’s also not a virgin either. He maybe fucked one or two women in the past, but that’s it. And it’s been long since the last so he’s holding and gripping your waist like crazy. It’s tight and his fingers dig into your skin as he tries to keep himself from spilling too fast inside your pussy.

He knows how pretty you are, since college, he can see it. Especially your eyes, it’s one of the things he liked the most about you and now you are looking at him like that… Like you need him. Like the need that goes beyond whatever dynamics you two have. That this is just not for the camera. Or because of the tension you are working on right now. Lips look so pretty when they are parted. Brows work so well when they are pulled together. Soft and messy sounds that he used to hear from your mouth when you play with yourself but he’s the reason right now why you sound like that. It gets triggered every time the base of his cock comes into contact with your clit and the lace brushes against it. “You’re so- so fucking pretty like this,” the praises spill out before he can stop them. His voice is low, and it’s basically a whisper at this point. It’s shaky in a way that feels lost because of the way your cunt grips him and how your tits press against his bare chest and scratch him slightly while you move.

Eyes can’t stop looking down at you. It’s like he needs a reality check that this is happening. Maybe he needs you to slap the fuck out of him. He feels enchanted to make him keep watching how his cock sinks into you and how your pussy parts open for him. He swears the slit in the panties got bigger each thrust he’s giving you and it lets him see everything. Every twitch, drip of your slick, and the wet sound it made that filled the room. Sounds that fill the room, mixing with your soft, broken moans. “Can’t believe- shit- can’t believe I’m inside you,” he shakily mutters while his forehead drops to you for a moment just to breathe you in and feel more of you. It fills every part of him, enjoying the feeling before he pulls back halfway just enough to watch it sink down again. Hips keep rolling but it’s slower and deeper this time. It drags the fat head of his cock against your walls just to pull out until his tip is almost out of your entrance and pushes in one back in to bury himself to the hilt.

Your pussy clamps around him, squeezing so tight that it forces a groan out of him, a rough, needy sound that vibrates in his chest, making his arms tense where they cage you in. Your hands grip his biceps, nails digging in, your head falling back against the pillow as you let out a high, breathy cry. “Ngghh- Clark-” The sound of his name like that makes something snap inside him, makes his hips stutter, makes him curse under his breath. He tries to slow down, to keep it gentle, to keep it sweet like you deserve, but the way your cunt pulls him in, the way your slick coats him, makes it impossible to think. “Feels- fuck, you feel so good- so fucking good,” he groans, his voice rough, raw, his hips pressing in deeper, holding there for a moment so he can feel your walls flutter around him, your slick dripping down his balls, the soft lace rubbing against his skin where the panties frame your cunt.

To pull him closer you wrap your legs around his waist. Cunt squeezing around his cock while you grind up to meet his thrust. Your voice sounds so needy when it breaks softly into whimpers that result in him twitching inside of your cunt. “Need it, need you to fuck me-” you moan out and it comes out between sounds while your hips are rolling. Clit touching and catching the base of his cock as the lace shifts, which makes your folds rub against it every time he thrusts in you. The sloppy and wet sound of skin slapping fills the room, which makes his breath hitch and his eyes close shut for a moment to hold things back. He tries, really tries to keep in control but the way you take him? The way you moan for him? It makes him lose it all.

“Shit, you’re gonna- fuck, you’re gonna make me come so fast,” he breathes out, voice cracking as he buries his face in your neck, kissing your skin, letting his lips drag along your jaw, tasting the salt of your sweat, letting your soft sounds fill his ears. Your cunt clenches around him again, a wet, messy pulse that makes him groan, a deep, rough sound that vibrates against your skin as his hips start to move faster, the pace picking up, the bed creaking under you both, the wet sounds of your pussy taking him growing louder.

“Please, Clark, don’t stop-” you gasp, your voice breaking as your nails drag down his back, as your hips roll up to meet every thrust, as your cunt pulls him in deeper, wetter, tighter. He pulls back just enough to look at you, to see the way your mouth falls open, the way your brows pinch together when he hits that spot inside you, the way your tits bounce lightly with every thrust, the lace of your panties framing where his cock sinks in over and over. “Fuck, you’re- shit, you’re so perfect,” he whispers, letting the words fall out as his hips snap forward, deeper, harder, the angle hitting that sweet spot that makes your eyes roll back, that makes your moans turn into soft, broken cries. Your hands grab at his hair, pulling him down, kissing him, messy and hot.

Tongue slides against him and tastes every needy sound he lets out while he’s fucking the shit out of you and gives you everything he can give. The nasty wet sound from his thrusting echoes inside the room and your pussy continues to milk him for every he’s worth. For him, it’s too overwhelming. It’s the heat, bodies being too close, how your eyes stare up to him, how you moan his name, and how you take his cock like it always knows how to take him and belong to him. It almost feels like this was bound to happen and this is where both of you are meant to be. “Fuck, I- fuck, I don’t wanna stop-” he gasps against your lips, his thrusts getting rougher, the pace messy, desperate, the tight heat of your cunt pulling him closer to the edge.

You’re close too, he can feel it, the way your walls flutter around him, the way your hips roll, chasing every thrust, your moans getting higher, needier, softer, your clit catching on the lace with every push, every drag of his cock. And he can’t stop, won’t stop, letting himself fuck you through it, letting you take him, letting the wet, messy sounds of your cunt and the slap of his hips fill the room until there’s nothing else but you, him, and the soft, desperate heat building between you. It happens before he can stop it, the heat building at the base of his spine, the tight clench in his stomach every time your cunt pulls around him, every time you whimper his name, every time your hips roll up to take him deeper.

He tries to hold it, tries to slow down, tries to bury his face in your neck and breathe, but your pussy is so warm, so wet, so perfect around him that he can’t think. “Shit, fuck, I’m-” His hips keep stuttering while his words break off in a groan. He buries himself more, which makes the thick and fat head of his cock pressing against your cervix with the lace of your panties brushing against the base every twitching and every time the thrust and pull. Fingers digging into your waist with his forehead resting into you with heavy breathing and eyes closed. His chest was rising and falling in desperate gasping.

“Should I- fuck- should I pull out?” He asks with a low and shaking voice. He’s so tense and on the edge of finishing and just trying to hold it in and stopping himself from spilling it inside of you. Cock continues to throb, leak, and twitch so hard that his hips keep jerking and pushing forward. It makes your slick drip down to his balls, and it’s so slippery and sticky. Your hands hold onto his shoulder to cling and make him closer to you. Breath warm on his skin as you are about to say something to him. “I’m on the pill,” you inform him with a voice breaking and soft, breathy moan while your pussy clenches tight around his cock. Your words? That’s all he needs.

His eyes immediately open to meet yours. Pupils are blown out as his lips parted open and a choked sound let out from his throat. Hip slamming forward with messy movements while his cock throbs inside your pussy before spilling hot cum to fill you up. The cum goes and spreads deeper as his hips continue to thrust and press it in as far as he can. “Fuck, fuck, fuck-” The same curse falls over and over from his lips. Sound vibrates against your skin when he comes, and it’s flooding inside of your pussy that is already dripping out, even though he's still inside. Your pussy clenched and kept pulling him like you wanted to milk every drop he had for you.

Arms holding you so tight while his body shudders and muscles twitch. It almost looks like he doesn’t want you to disappear and he’s afraid you’ll be gone. His breathing comes in heavy gasps that mixed with your soft sounds and also with the wet and sticky noise of his cock continuing to thrust in slow and deep movements. Riding out the last wave of his orgasm by pushing more of his cum deeper into your cervix. “Fuck, you’re- shit, you’re so good- so fucking good-” He can’t even say the words properly and it spills out between the gasp. His voice is warm and breathless. His eyes glaze as he looks down to where you’re joined. Watching the way your slick and messy folds eat up his buried cock in your pussy and how it wraps around him. He can see the way your clit pulsing against the lace each time he drags his cock.

Cock still hard and twitching inside of you with the warmth of his cum leaking out and smearing across your pussy. It drips down to the sheet, and he doesn’t care; his hand just moves to push your hair out of your face. His thumb caressing your cheek before you caught his eyes searching something in yours with a mix of softness and something that makes your heart tighten. And then it hits you. The stretch, the heat, the way his cock drags against your walls, thick and warm, the way your clit catches on the lace with every small thrust, the way his cum drips out and makes everything slippery, messy, wet.

Your cunt clenches, pulling at him, the need and heat in your stomach twisting tighter with every slow push of his cock, with every soft, shaky breath he lets out. “Clark, don’t stop-” Your voice is a whimper, your hands grabbing at his back, nails digging in, your hips rolling up to meet him, to chase every slow, deep drag, to take every inch of him. He groans roughly while his hips press deeper. It makes cock grind against that spot inside you that makes you tremble. His thumb finds your clit and brushes against it with careful circles to make your walls flutter and tighten. “Come for me, baby,” he encourages you with his voice low and warm as he continues to press his thumb harder.

His cock is dragging slowly, deeply, the tip catching just right inside you. “Fuck, wanna feel you come on my cock.” Hips jerking and pussy clenches around him. There’s a high and breathy moan snatching out of your throat as your orgasm flushes through you in a sharp and hot motion that makes your body arch off the bed. Pussy squeezing him tightly as if you continued to milk him and pull him more inside of you. Cum gushes out, and it instantly mixes with the cum he plunged inside of you. It starts to drip down to the sheets slowly and soaking the lace when your hips stutter while your moans break into whimpering crying. “hnn- mmh- ah-”

Cunt keeps pulsing and clit twitching under his thumb. The pleasure keeps in your system while you ride out your orgasm to meet every slow thrust and small grind of his cock in you. He kisses you again, but it’s messy, and it’s softer than the last time. It’s still enough to swallow your moan, and he just lets you keep moving and fucking yourself on his cock while you come down. Both breathe mixing in the same room, and his tongue brushes against you with his fingers holding your waist, and it tries to ground him and flutter around him and get the last drop of his cum.

Your breath comes in shaky pants when you finally go still, but your cunt is still clenching around his cock every now and then. He pulls back enough to take a look at you with his warm eyes and you can see how his lips are swollen from the kisses you gave him. “Fuck,” he curses out that hangs in the air like it’s sinking into your skin as your breath tries to even out. His cock is still buried inside, twitching lightly every time your cunt clenches, every time you shift under him, the warmth of him making you hum softly as you blink up at him.

Lips curve to form a smile as your hand reaches up to brush back his damp hair away from his forehead. “So… does that mean you won’t charge me for the shoot anymore?” You asked playfully, which made him laugh low and breathless, with his shoulders shaking a little, when he leaned down to give you a quick and messy kiss. “You’re seriously asking that right now?” His words made you grin, and you kept wrapping your legs around his waist so he could stay close to you. The lace of your panties keeps brushing against his hips. “It’s a valid question.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Clark mutters before he laughs softly and his eyes searching yours with the corners crinkling a little bit. “Mm, you like it,” you tease him before you press your lips to his jaw and start peppering the same place with kisses and nose nudging against his skin. Breathing him in while you let your cunt twitch and pulse around him. The squeeze made him let out a ragged and choked groan. “Fuck,” his forehead drops to yours as he breathes out. Hot breath mixing with yours. “Yeah. I do,” he adds and then the quiet enters. You can feel how warm the room is and smell the scent of sex and sweat inside. The soft sound from the air conditioner and both of your breathing fill the space while he holds you and his cock still inside of you. Bodies pressed to each other and this is exactly where you both want to be.

⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀twenty-twenty-five © addie / musingsofheaven.

⠀⠀⠀

[pr3ttybbyv]

🜼 ⋆ just thinking about clark kent filling you to the brim and making you feel how deep he is.

cw: headlock fucking, tummy bulging + pressing, size kink

he moves like he’s afraid to wake you.

and you’re not asleep—not even close. your whole body is trembling, so full of him you don’t know where you end and he begins. but he’s still moving with that same cautious hush, like every stroke might be too much. like he wants to memorize you, not ruin you.

you’re bent forward on the bed, legs parted just enough to keep your balance. and he’s behind you, body folded over yours like a prayer. one arm looped under your neck in a soft, steady headlock—not choking, not tight, just there. holding. bracing. anchoring you to something bigger than breath.

his chest presses to your spine. his heartbeat is frantic. his hips roll slowly, every push of his cock deep and careful. you can feel how tightly he’s holding back—how even now, even with your body pulsing around him, he’s afraid of losing control.

“tell me if it’s too much,” he whispers, lips grazing your ear.

you try to answer, but the fullness makes your voice crack. instead you nod, pushing back slightly, letting him know you want more. need more.

his breath catches. he kisses your shoulder, the corner of your neck. the way he’s holding you makes it feel like there’s no space between you at all. his arm keeps you steady, chest pressing into you with every gentle thrust, and his other hand—oh god, his hand—slides slowly down your stomach.

“i can feel it,” he says, so softly it feels like it’s not meant to be heard. “sweetheart… i can see it.”

you blink, confused, until he takes your hand in his and guides it lower. his palm covers yours, calloused and warm, and he presses down gently right above your navel.

and that’s when you feel it.

feel him inside, hard, deep and so real.

the bulge in your tummy where he’s pressed so deep inside, your body stretched around him completely. it’s not imagination. it’s not abstract. it’s there. and you both freeze.

you can feel him pulse inside you when he notices. his breath stutters. your throat closes.

“that’s me,” he murmurs, not prideful—awed. reverent. “i’m… shit. i’m sorry. i didn’t think i was that deep.”

you shake your head fast, already trembling. “don’t say sorry. please don’t be sorry. i want this, clark. i want you.”

he chokes out your name like a prayer and holds you closer. his arm tightens just enough to pull your back to his chest, his hand never leaving your belly. he keeps your hand there, fingers splayed over the bulge of him inside you like it’s the most intimate thing you’ve ever shared.

“you’re so small,” he whispers. “i should’ve known. but you’re just… you’re holding me so well. i don’t want to hurt you.”

“you won’t,” you whisper back. “you’d never hurt me.”

he exhales like that’s all he needed to hear.

then he moves again—slowly, so slowly, hips rocking into yours with a rhythm that feels less like sex and more like longing. like he’s waited years for this. like he’s still not sure he’s allowed to have it.

every thrust is gentle. drawn out. he never pulls out all the way—just enough to make you feel the slide, the weight of him leaving, then filling you again in a single, careful press. it’s deep, unbearably deep, and so sweet you ache from it.

“you feel like home,” he says suddenly, voice cracking. “god, i sound stupid. i just—i didn’t know it could feel like this.”

you don’t answer. you can’t. your throat is thick and your eyes sting. instead you let your fingers thread through his on your stomach and lean your head back against his shoulder.

“you’re shaking,” he murmurs. “do you want to stop?”

“no. please don’t stop. it’s just… too good.”

he kisses the curve of your jaw. “then i’ll go slow. you deserve slow.”

and he does.

he fucks you like that for what feels like eternity. soft, warm, careful. the sound of skin on skin is barely audible, wet and steady. you’re drenched. your body’s molded around him now, fluttering tight with every pass of his cock across that perfect, aching spot.

and when you finally cum, it sneaks up on you. no shouting. no shaking. just a slow, building rush that takes over everything, a warmth that spills through your chest and leaves you gasping in his arms.

your walls clamp down around him and he moans—quiet, needy, desperate. he doesn’t move. doesn’t thrust again. he just holds you while your body pulses around him, chest to your back, lips to your shoulder, whispering,

“you’re perfect. you’re so perfect. i love you. i love you.”

and then he cums. not with force. not with heat. but like it hurts to hold it in. like he’s emptying out every ache in his chest into you, slow and aching. his cock twitches deep inside, flooding you with warmth, his hand pressing down on your belly to keep you full. his breath catches—his voice almost breaks.

“i’m sorry,” he says again, softly this time. “i didn’t mean to… i didn’t mean to lose control like that.”

you shush him, you turn your head. you kiss his jaw.

“i wanted it,” you whisper. “you’re so gentle. clark… you don’t have to be scared.”

and that’s when he really breaks. not with tears—but with love so quiet it nearly breaks you.

he stays buried inside you for a long time, arms around your chest, breath slowing behind you. and when he finally moves, it’s only to guide you down into the sheets, kissing your shoulder, your cheek, your back. you’re sore. shaky. trembling. and still, he holds you like you’re the only thing that matters.

because to him, you are.

[pr3ttybbyv]

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 🫶🏼

archive / masterlist

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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

[pr3ttybbyv]

touch tank

pairing: clark kent (superman 2025) x journalist!reader summary: he’s soft. earnest. 6’4 of midwestern guilt and golden retriever loyalty. and he looks at you like you invented the sun. you’re fine. everything’s fine. it’s just friends-with-benefits. you're not a thing. but clark? clark has always been there. warm, steady, maddeningly soft. indulging your commitment-phobic nonsense with quiet patience and those unfairly good dimples. until suddenly—he’s not. listen to the playlist here! word count: 11.2k (jesus christ, i am so sorry) content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, piv sex, they freak NASTY in this one, dom/sub undertones, soft dom!clark, sub!reader, brat/brat taming, oral (fem!receiving), marathon sex, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, shower sex, eye contact, mentions of bdsm and handcuffs, light marking kink, nipple play, protected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), then unprotected sex, rough sex, riding, mentions of sex toys, clark picks the reader up, mentions of reader's hair, commitment issues, situationship survivor!clark, ungodly amounts of yearning and denial, angst, happy ending

It doesn’t start with sex.

It starts with Clark.

Which is to say: it starts with Metropolis’s biggest, most overgrown corn-fed boy scout, who gets flustered every time you swear, who says things like “gosh” and “what the hay” without a trace of irony, and who you once watched spend ten full minutes trying to politely decline a street hotdog but the vendor just “looked so hopeful.”

You met him on your third and a half day at the Daily Planet.

He spilled coffee on you. A full cup. Right down the front of your blazer. Frothy iced caramel latte catastrophe. He panicked immediately—rushed through an apology so fast you barely caught the words—then offered, in complete earnestness, to dry-clean your coat. Not send it to the dry cleaner. Do it himself. Like it was the gentlemanly thing to do. You just stared at him, dripping, blinking. “Are you okay?” you asked, because someone had to.

He nodded—too fast—then proceeded to trip over the recycling bin just trying to get you napkins.

You’ve been friends ever since.

It’s not the cleanest origin story.

But over time, somehow, Clark became your person.

Not in the “call-at-3-a.m.-while-sobbing” kind of way (that’s Jimmy), or the “bring-wine-and-insult-your-evil-ex” kind of way (also Jimmy). 

But in a steadier, quieter way. You write your little articles; he helps edit them. You fight with your sources on the sidewalk; he bakes them apology muffins the day after to make sure they don't contact Perry. You cover Metropolis politics like it’s trench warfare, and he smiles across the bullpen at you like you’re doing God’s work even when you're calling the mayor a “power-drunk thumb in a trench coat and a receding hairline you can see from space.”

He’s your constant. Steady and reliable and always five degrees too soft for this world.

Which is exactly why it doesn’t make sense.

Why, one night, it all… shifts.

.

You’re soaked.

Not in the steamy, sexy way. Not even in the Charli-XCX-Spring-Breakers kind of soaked.

Just: wet. Unpleasantly. In that half-drenched, trench-foot, what-is-my-life kind of way.

The weather app lied again (seriously, Metropolis Weather has one job), and your jacket is now suctioned to your body like a bad ex. Your boots have crossed the line from “water-resistant” to a really bad “Swamp Thing cosplay,” and your tote—home to your press pass and a sad little Tupperware of soggy couscous—is dripping like it’s auditioning for a plumbing ad.

So when Clark offers his place—soft-voiced, ever-accommodating, all that big dumb golden retriever energy—you say yes.

Not because you’re weak. Please.

Because he lives closer.

Logistically. Geographically.

(Okay, maybe emotionally, too, but you’ll unpack that when your socks aren’t squelching like a really bad porno.)

So now you’re in his apartment. Standing in the entryway. Leaving a trail of water on his hardwood floors while he gently, gently hands you a towel and fiddles with the thermostat and says things like, “You’re going to catch a cold if you don’t change out of those clothes.”

And you, being the self-possessed adult that you are, snort and say, “Thank you, Mom.”

Clark blushes.

Actually blushes. Like a cartoon character. Like a man who has never, in his life, imagined someone undressing in his home, which is hilarious, given that you’ve seen the size of his arms. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just meant… yeah. You’re soaked.”

His place smells like cinnamon and laundry detergent. There’s a candle burning on the kitchen counter—one of those $9.99 specials from Bath & Body Works. You imagine him in the store, earnestly reading the label on something called "Warm Vanilla Sugar" while the cashier tries to upsell him on a five-for-fifteen deal.

The image makes your lips curl. Your mascara's halfway down your cheekbones, your calves are cramping from the walk, and you should really, really, really just go take a hot shower and crash on his couch.

Instead, you look at him.

And he’s looking back.

Not like most men do—not the bar-stool inventory of what you are and aren’t. Not a scan. Not a question. More like a memory. Like he’s already filed you away in some quietly treasured part of his brain and he’s just taking the time to make sure the details are right. Like you are known.

You don’t think. You don’t make a plan. You just move.

Step forward. Grab the lapels of his flannel like it owes you money. Pull him down. Kiss him.

It’s not graceful. Not choreographed. You catch his chin at a weird angle, and your nose bumps into his, and the kiss lands too sharp, too fast. Like you’re trying to stun him. Like you’re trying to win a fight.

But then, he exhales.

And he melts. Not urgently. Not hungrily. Just… fully.

Like this is the thing he’s been waiting on for months, and now that it’s finally happening, he’s scared to spook it. His hands hover for a beat, like he’s making sure it’s real, and then one comes to rest lightly on your waist—tentative, patient. The other curls around your jaw with all the softness of a man who has no business being this gentle.

You break the kiss first, of course.

Because you always break things first.

When you look at him, he's staring at you like you invented language. Like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so they hover awkwardly at your sides, respectful, warm, and shaking just a little.

Which is when the panic crashes in.

He’s not supposed to look at you like that. Like you hung the stars. Like he knows you. Like he loves you.

Because if he does. If he really, truly does. Then eventually, he’ll stop.

They always stop.

People love you in the beginning. They love your bite, your snark, the way you know which part of a politician's background are most incriminating. They love the thrill of earning your attention. They love that you make them work for it. But eventually, the charm fades. The sharp edges cut a little too deep. 

You forget to text back. You overshare. You undershare. You get tired. You get real.

And they get bored.

You’ve never wanted to risk that with Clark. He’s been yours—just yours, in the safe way—for too long.

You step back like the floor might collapse under you. 

Put space. Just… anything between your body and the soft burn of his flannel. Try not to think about how fucking warm he was. “Shit—uh. You don’t have to say anything,” you blurt, voice too fast, too thin. “We can pretend it didn’t happen. Go back to normal. That’s fine.”

Clark’s brows knit, not in offense, just concern. He doesn’t look hurt. He looks… steady. Like he expected this part. “Are you sure?”

The way he asks it is soft. Unhurried. Like it’s not some ultimatum. Like it’s okay if you're not sure.

You open your mouth. Close it. Swallow.

“I just—” You press your fingers to your temple, like maybe that might just reorganize your entire internal filing system. “You know I don’t do relationships.”

“I know,” he says, without hesitation.

You study him—really study him—like you’re trying to find the catch. Some hint of disappointment or wounded ego. But it isn’t there.

He reaches up slowly and tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear, his touch feather-light. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

You blink. “Even if I’m the one who kissed you?”

Clark smiles, just barely. “Especially then.”

His hand lingers near your cheek, but he doesn’t push. He’s patient in that maddening, disarming way. Waiting, always, for you to meet him halfway.

“Whatever you want,” he says again, quiet. “I’m good with that.”

You stare at him. “You’re really not gonna argue?”

“Nope.”

“Not gonna psychoanalyze me? Tell me I’m avoidant or emotionally stunted or terrified of my own vulnerability?”

He huffs a small laugh. “Already did. Long time ago.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself. “And?”

He shrugs, like it’s the easiest truth in the world. “You’re complicated. But you care. A lot. More than you let people see.”

And damn it, you hate how much that lands. How much he lands. You hate that he’s always been able to see through you, gently, without ever demanding more than you could give. And you hate—more than anything, more than all of that—how badly you want to kiss him again.

So you do.

Maybe to prove a point. Maybe to blow it all up before it can settle. Maybe because you’re already in too deep and part of you is tired of pretending you’re not.

You didn’t plan for it to go further. You didn’t plan anything, really. 

But your hands slide up into the open collar of his flannel, and he stumbles a little as you back him into the bookshelf. His glasses tilt when your fingers brush his temple, and you pull them off carefully, reverently, like they’re the only thing tethering you both to whatever was before.

His eyes are wide. His mouth already parted. And when he looks up at you like this—flushed, breathless, undone—you think, mine.

And it’s terrifying.

Because it means it’s real.

It happened.

God.

It happened.

.

You strip him out of that worn flannel with a kind of sick, obsessive care. Button by button, like you were unwrapping a gift, like you were unearthing something you’d been searching for in every bad date, every failed talking stage, every mediocre bar makeout that had ever left you cold.

His flannel hit the floor. He doesn't say a word.

Not until you settle into his lap, thighs on either side of his. Then—quietly, like he wasn’t sure if it was okay to want anything—he says, “You… you don’t have to be gentle. Just, just in case. So you know.”

But you are. Because he is. 

Because even now, even with your mouth to his, your hands fisted in his curls, his hands stay light on your hips. Like he doesn't want to take more than you’d give. Like he's still giving you the option to leave.

He makes a sound when your hips tilted forward. Not a groan, not exactly. Something deeper. A noise from his chest, halfway between a gasp and a plea. You kiss more of it out of him, mouths clumsy and desperate, fingers scrabbling at the hem of his undershirt, and it feels like breathing.

His breath's caught between his teeth when you rip a condom wrapper in between yours, slotting it onto him with shaking, shaking hands and trying not think about how he's probably the biggest you've ever had.

Lord have mercy.

You ride him like your life depends on it.

You get a thigh cramp halfway through—let out an annoyed groan and tried to keep going—and he, sweet, precious idiot that he is, sits up and says your name like it hurt. Voice quivering like he wants to stop, wants to help, wants to make sure you're okay.

Absolutely no way in hell you wanted that to happen.

“Clark,” you hissed. “Chill. I'm okay, dude. I’m fine.”

“Okay,” he said, dazed, grinning. “Just—didn’t want you to get hurt. I mean. You’re, uh. You were very intense. Just now.”

“Yeah, well, you’re the one with the dick that's slowly rearranging my guts,” you mutter, and he laughs so hard his shoulders shook.

And worse—goddamn it, worse—he looks at you the whole time.

No games. No posing. Just Clark. Holding your hips with those hands—god, those hands, unfairly big and warm and steady—and looking up at you like he meant it.

You’d told him once, over shitty fries past midnight on the curb at McDonald's, that you didn’t trust men who made eye contact during sex. Called it performative. Manipulative. 

“Like they’re trying to Jedi mind-trick you into thinking it’s love,” you’d scoffed, and he'd gone quiet in that way he does, not sulking, just thinking. But that he was filing it away.

So of course—of course—when you're bare above him, hair a mess, mascara still clinging to your cheekbones, all vulnerable and exposed and teetering over the edge because his dick was doing wonderful, amazing things to your insides and making you melt—

He looks up at you with that open, earnest face and asks, softly:

“Do you want me to close my eyes?”

You freeze. Like an absolute idiot. Like prey.

And you say no.

"No."

Never.

He nods. “Okay.”

Then he kissed the inside of your wrist—just because it was there—and you lost ten entire emotional minutes and your grip on reality, grinding down on him like your life depended on it.

You come so hard you forgot your name. 

Forget what you were supposed to be protecting yourself from. Forget every lie you’ve ever told yourself about  the depth of your feelings for him.

It was insane. Deranged.

(Perfect.)

Later, three orgasms later, you collapse over him in a ridiculous heap of limbs and half-dressed post-coital delirium, forehead pressed to his shoulder, chest still heaving.

And he whispered something into your hair—something low and steady and not quite the word love, but so close it that it scraped through your head.

Then he hums.

You don’t recognize it at first—just the vibration under your cheek, the low murmur of a tune, warm and unassuming. You’re half-asleep, boneless, and not fully aware he's still inside of you, pulsing, your fingers curled around his neck.

But you listen.

“You humming Dolly right now?” you murmur, voice hoarse.

Clark hums a little louder. “‘Here You Come Again.’” Then, almost shy, “She’s good. What?”

You groan into his chest. “You absolute dork.”

“I like her,” he says, defensive. “She’s smart. You know she gave away, like, a million books to—wait, are you laughing?”

You are. Full-on giggling into his shoulder now. Giddy and too full and sore in all the best ways.

.

And you really don't mean to keep it going in the morning, let alone  in the shower.

Truly. 

You're just trying to get clean. 

Wash off the evidence of the night before—sweat and come and a whole life’s worth of repressed emotional distress—but then, Clark steps in right behind you, warm and quiet and too gentle. 

And suddenly it was over for you. Just absolutely fucking over.

He offers to join, sheepish and bashful, eyes flicking away like he hadn’t just had his face between your thighs just a few hours ago. “Just to save water,” he says. “'Cause of the environment… and all that.”

And sure, Clark. You absolute liar. The environment.

Except the second he steps in behind you—naked, dripping wet, glasses still off so he looked all boyish and wreckable—your resolve crumples like wet newspaper.

He reaches around you for the body wash and that was your downfall. Arm flexing around your waist, that goddamn baritone rumble in your ear as he asks, “This one okay?”

Like you're supposed to just—what? function when his voice was doing that thing? That was supposed to be okay?

But then his hands are on your hips—steady, reverent, huge—and you tilt your head back just enough to graze his jaw. He flinches. Or maybe you do. And before either of you could process it, your palm's flat against the tile and Clark was slowly pressing himself against your back.

“Okay?” he asks, voice a little too hoarse, a little too human.

You nod. “Yeah. Just—don’t be sweet about it.”

“But I'm always sweet about it,” he mumbles, and then he was, dragging a hand up your stomach, brushing your wet hair off your neck, mouthing at the base of your spine like he was making a wish.

He moves inside you slow. 

Like he means it. Like he thinks he’d scare you off if he went too fast. And it was disgusting, really, how good it felt. How intimate all of this was.

Your knees nearly buckle. You have to brace yourself with both palms on the glass, forehead pressed against fogged-up safety plastic, biting down on your own goddamn fist to keep from crying out his name like something from a romance novel.

(You still did, eventually. He made sure of that when he pressed one large hand up against your stomach so you can feel him, really feel him, and another down your front, rubbing at your clit like it was a lifeline until you saw stars.)

"Clark. Clar—fuck, baby, I'm almost—Jesus Christ—oH!"

When it was over—when your legs were jelly and your throat was raw and your spine was doing that post-orgasm melt thing—you turn to rinse the shampoo out of your hair, and he just… helped. Without you even having to say anything.

He lathers it for you, gentle and thorough, massaging your scalp. His cheeks are pink. His mouth is pink. You think about biting him. Maybe.

But instead, you let yourself lean into his chest while the water poured down over both of you, and you didn’t speak, because if you spoke, it would become too real.

So, you just let him wash your back.

He didn’t ask you to stay.

You didn’t ask if he wanted you to.

But when you wander out of the bedroom ten minutes later—half-wet, flushed, wearing his old Central Kansas A&M hoodie like it hadn’t just been folded neatly in a drawer—you find him in the kitchen, humming again. 

Making pancakes.

“You want blueberries in yours?” he asks, like he didn’t have his dick in you in the shower ten minutes ago.

And you—traumatized, horny, emotionally compromised—you say, “Sure."

Then, because your brain has finally rebooted just enough to return to its default defense mechanism:

“Also, we need to talk.”

Clark pauses mid-pour, then turns around, spatula still in hand. “Okay,” he says, unbothered. His voice is calm, casual. Like you didn’t almost combust from having maybe, four—no, five or six orgasms in his arms over the past twelve hours.

You cross your arms over your chest, over his sweatshirt. “Last night—and this morning was great. I mean, objectively. A solid eight out of ten. No complaints.”

He looks amused. “Only eight?”

“I’m leaving room for improvement,” you say, defensive. “But I just want to be clear again that this isn’t… this isn’t a thing.”

Clark nods slowly. “Okay.”

You squint at him. “You’re not going to ask what I mean by that?”

“Well,” he says, lips twitching, “I—uh, I figured I’d let you finish your prepared statement first.”

You gape at him. “I knew I was giving Perry's press conference energy.”

“You’re even holding your coffee like a mic.”

You glance down. You are. Damn it.

He walks over, sets your pancake on the table next to you, and then settles into the armchair across from the couch. His legs are way too long. He has to fold them a little awkwardly, which should be goofy, but somehow only makes him look more like someone who could carry you up a mountain and apologize for the inconvenience while doing it.

You sip your coffee. Clear your throat. “So. Ground rules.”

He raises his brows. “Rules?”

“Yes. Rules. Guidelines. Frameworks for how this… goes.”

Clark tilts his head. “You mean for… us?”

“No, for NATO,” you deadpan. “Yes, us.”

He tries to cover a laugh with a sip of his own mug, but you see the dimple twitch. Smug bastard.

You forge ahead. “Okay. Rule one: this is casual. Very casual. Like… like ‘you can sleep with other people’ casual.”

Clark nods, slow. Thoughtful. “Do you want to sleep with other people?”

“No,” you admit. Then scowl. “But I want to have the option.”

“Right,” he says, nodding. “The illusion of freedom.”

“Exactly. Wait—"

He’s smiling at you now. Soft and fond and dangerously amused.

You plow on. “Whatever. Rule two: no romantic stuff. No dates. No—like—Valentine’s Day cards or surprise cupcakes or, God forbid, foot rubs.”

“You’re really against foot rubs?”

“I just think they set a tone.”

Clark looks at his plate. “What if I just make you pancakes sometimes?”

You narrow your eyes. “Pancakes are a gray area. I'm only allowing it this time."

“Noted.”

You tuck your feet under you. “Rule three: no falling in love.”

He looks up.

There’s a pause. A beat of silence so thick it fills the whole room.

You add, quickly, “I know that sounds dramatic, but I’ve seen what love does to people, and it’s terrifying. They lose brain cells. They post Instagram captions like ‘my forever’ with sparkly emojis. They start making weird couple TikToks where they throw cheese slices at each other’s heads. I can’t be part of that kind of ecosystem. I'm lactose intolerant."

Clark’s smiling again. Not in the ha ha you’re sooooo funny way. In the I think you’re the best thing to ever happen to me way, which is very much against the rules.

“Are you even taking this seriously?” you demand.

“I am,” he says, clearly lying. “You’re very intimidating.”

You roll your eyes and gesture wildly. “I’m just saying! I don’t want this to become something that implodes because I—God, because I can’t remember your favorite pizza topping one day and suddenly we’re—we're not friends anymore and splitting custody of houseplants and  fucking Cat is stuck writing a gossip column about it.”

Clark chuckles. A pause. “well, for the record? My favorite pizza topping is mushrooms.”

You wrinkle your nose. “That’s a red flag.”

“You’re the one writing up a treaty before brunch.”

“Exactly,” you say, triumphant. “See? We’re incompatible.”

Clark leans forward slightly. 

The sunlight from the window cuts across his glasses, but you can still see his eyes, warm and impossibly blue, locked on yours like you’re the only person in Metropolis who matters. “I think you’re scared,” he says gently. “Which is okay. I just want you to know… I’m not going anywhere. Rules or not.”

And that—

God. That should not make your eyes burn the way it does.

You shake your head, fast. “Don’t say stuff like that. It’s dangerous. You’ll trick me into liking you more.”

“I’m just being honest.”

“Well, stop.”

He raises a brow. “What do I do if I want to kiss you?”

You freeze.

Your heart does a complicated backflip-kick into your ribs.

“...well, that's allowed,” you mutter.

He smiles again, dimple sinking deep.

And then, because he’s a menace with zero self-preservation, he leans in.

You meet him halfway.

And it’s soft this time. Sweeter. Slower. No rain, no adrenaline, just his hand cradling your jaw and your fingers twisted in the hem of his t-shirt like you’re trying to anchor yourself to something real.

.

It's been months now of your little arrangement. And you're already destroyed by the time he even speaks.

Not because he’s touched you yet. Not really. He’s just there, mouth warm against the inside of your thigh, hands stroking the back of your knees like you’re something delicate. Something precious.

Which is so fucked. You are not precious.

You told him that that, breathless and still shirtless and sitting on his kitchen counter at midnight while he gently fed you the leftover peach cobbler Martha left for the two of you straight from the fridge.

He just nodded. Wiped away the crumb left on the edge of your lip. Said, “Okay.”

And then he kissed the inside of your wrist again and said, “You’re still allowed to want things, you know.”

Which is—god, so not fair. 

Now he’s between your legs, kissing a line up your thigh like he’s praying. He’s been taking his time. Like the goal isn’t to get you off, but to study you. Like he’s memorizing the exact way your breath catches and the little twitch of your fingers every time he licks just close enough to your center, but not quite.

You’re panting. Whimpering. Biting your lip so hard you’re pretty sure you taste blood.

And he’s grinning. Not cocky—just happy. Which is so much, so much worse.

“You’re staring at me again,” you breathe.

Clark hums, kissing just below your hip. “I just like looking at you.”

“That’s crazy,” you whisper. “You’re crazy.”

“Probably.” He kisses your navel. “Do you want me to stop?”

You whine. You actually whine. You feel like you've just set feminism back by centuries. “No.”

“Didn’t think so,” he murmurs, nuzzling into your skin. And then, because he’s the devil in a button-up: “You know, the way you objectify me is honestly very inappropriate. I’m not just a—just a piece of meat, you know.”

You bark out a laugh, head tipping back against the pillow. “So bad news, you're actually a mountain of meat, man.”

“See? Objectified.” He presses a kiss just below your ribs. “Reduced to my—”kiss“—ridiculous shoulders—”kiss“—and tragic dimples—”kiss“—and stupidly proportionate thighs—”

“I didn’t say anything about your thighs—”

“Oh, but I think you were thinking it.”

You giggle, delirious. Drunk on this man. “God, shut up and fuck me.”

Clark goes still.

Not awkwardly—this isn’t early-days Clark, the one who used to stammer when you wore red lipstick when you came over and knocked over his own coffee trying to offer you a napkin. 

This Clark—the one under you now, hands broad and firm against your thighs, spine pressed into the worn couch like it’s the only thing keeping him from rising into the sky—this Clark is different.  

He’s grown into himself. Into this. Into you.

Not cocky, not exactly. But assured in a way that makes your stomach clench and your mouth go dry. You’ve seen it happen slowly. Like the sunrise—you didn’t notice until the whole room was full of it.

This Clark doesn't flinch when you flirt, doesn’t panic when your mouth goes sharp or your eyes go guarded. He just… waits. He sees it all. Lets you burn yourself out. And then lays a hand on your cheek like you’re made of something precious.

Still, he doesn’t move.

And that’s what sets you off.

You squirm, shifting your weight in his lap, irritated now. “What?”

He looks up at you, his jaw tight, hands still splayed over your thighs like he doesn’t know whether to hold on or let go. There’s something in his eyes, sharp, patient, impossibly tender, and it makes your chest ache in a way you refuse to name.

“You really want that?” he asks, voice low.

You roll your eyes. “You think I climbed onto your face to do taxes?”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Your stomach flips. You hate when he does this. Gets all serious and calm and measured while you’re flailing, clearly two seconds away from combusting. You cross your arms over your chest—petulant, defensive. “Clark.”

“You say stuff like that,” he murmurs, one hand slowly dragging up the back of your thigh, “but then you pull back like I’ve asked for your soul.”

You glare at him. “I’m not pulling back.”

He lifts a brow. “You haven’t even kissed me yet.”

You scowl. “I was about to, but you’re being annoying.”

His smile is crooked, lazy, maddening. “Yeah? Gonna punish me for it?”

Your heart skips. You hate that you love it when he talks like that. You hate that he’s right—that you’re the one drawing lines in the sand and then pretending you don’t care when he steps over them.

You lean down, hover over his mouth. “I swear to god, if you don’t do something soon, I’m walking out that door.”

He catches your jaw in one hand, gentle but firm. “You won’t.”

“Watch me.”

His thumb drags over your bottom lip. Lets it pop out just a bit, so you can feel the way the wetness drips over your chin. “You always say that. You never do.”

Your breath stutters. Your spine goes stiff. You hate how much he knows you. You hate that he’s always so calm about it, so damn tender, even when he’s calling you out.

“I’m not just a warm body, you know,” he says after a beat, the faintest furrow between his brows. “If that’s what you wanted, you should’ve picked someone who doesn’t look at you like I do.”

You blink. “And how is that?”

Clark tilts his head, eyes never leaving yours. “Like I actually see you.”

You hate him for that. A little.

But you kiss him anyway.

Hard. Sharp. Like a warning.

And then he flips you—effortless, smooth, like it doesn’t take more than a breath. One of his hands pins your wrists above your head. The other trails slow up the curve of your thigh. His mouth finds your neck, and you gasp—not in surprise, but because it’s too much. He’s too much.

“You keep asking me to take you apart,” he murmurs against your skin, “but you never let me show you what it actually means.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, shivering under him. “You are so fucking—”

“What?” he interrupts, dragging his mouth back up to yours. “Soft? Serious? A buzzkill?”

You don’t respond. You’re too busy squirming, too busy arching into him, because he’s right. Again.

“Too bad,” he murmurs, smiling like a secret. “You don’t get to run the show tonight.”

And you're already clawing at his back by the time he finally pushes in. And god, fuck, it’s—

He’s so much. Too much. Even now, even after months of attempting to get used to him, after a minimum of one hour of foreplay every time, hours spent fingering you open and devouring you whole and it still makes your spine tingle in the best way possible. The push and pull of it every time, the struggle, the way he looks at you so, so proudly when he's bottomed out and your smiling from under him like you've just won the lottery.

You make a sound—something small, strangled, "Clark."—and he doesn’t shush you this time.

He smiles.

“There it is,” he murmurs. “Now we’re being honest.”

.

Then one day, Clark cancels a lunch.

That’s it. That’s all. Not the end of the world.

He texts you a sweet apology. Too many words, as always, classic Clark, something about a lead on some money laundering story and “I’ll bring dinner to make up for it, promise, anything you want, even that overpriced pasta from the place with the weird chairs.” He adds three emojis. Two are completely nonsensical (a chicken and a rain cloud?). One is a little heart. You stare at it longer than you should.

You text back something breezy. Casual. “You’re the one missing out on my lunchtime TedTalk about corrupt city councilmen and their tragic toupees.”

He doesn’t respond until hours later. Just a thumbs-up emoji.

You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself you don’t care.

.

Then it happens again.

This time, you're already standing outside the Planet, coffee lukewarm, watching a construction crew down the block try to maneuver scaffolding around a new billboard. It’s another Superman PSA—third this month. Something about disaster preparedness and blood drives. His cape’s caught mid-whip, expression noble and inhumanly calm. You roll your eyes, but your stomach tugs a little. Something about the stillness in his posture—it looks almost familiar.

Your phone rings.

Clark.

You answer with a smirk, trying to make it light. “Should I be worried you’ve joined a pyramid scheme? Please tell me you’re not selling supplements.”

There’s a pause, then his voice, warm but ragged around the edges: “I’m so sorry. Something came up. Can I explain later?”

You make some offhand joke about mafia debt collectors and say, “No worries,” even as your stomach twists.

He sounds tired. Tired in a way Clark never really gets. You’re the one who burns out, who rants and paces and flirts with deadline-induced breakdowns. He’s the one who shows up with coffee and an extra pen. Always.

But now his voice has this roughness to it. Frayed edges. Like he’s trying not to breathe too hard into the receiver. Like he just ran here. Or ran away from somewhere.

“Are you okay?” you ask, before you can stop yourself.

Another pause. “Yeah,” he says, and he softens, like he always does when he hears your voice. “I will be.”

.

By week three, he’s dodging plans like it’s his new hobby. You’re not hurt, obviously. You’re busy too. You have other friends. You go to bars. You flirt with bartenders you’ll never text back. You have a whole life outside of this whole thing with Clark.

It’s not a relationship. It’s just a thing. A nice, dependable, sometimes pantsless thing.

That’s all.

But still, there’s this night.

You’re at your apartment. There’s an old movie playing, something black and white and miserable, and Clark was supposed to be here an hour ago.

You’d ordered his favorite takeout. You’d even found that dumb craft soda he likes, the one that tastes vaguely like melted gummy worms. You told yourself you just wanted someone to share the noodles with.

He doesn’t show.

No call. No text.

You sit through the entire movie. Alone.

And when your phone finally buzzes—close to midnight, just his name and a short, “I’m so sorry. Can we talk soon?”— you stare at it for a long moment.

Then you flip your phone over, face-down.

And in the dark, you think, Shit. This is how it starts. The distance. The shift. The slow pulling away.

You’ve done it to people before.

You just never thought you’d be on the receiving end.

Not from him.

Not from Clark.

.

Around 11:30, you open Twitter out of boredom. You don’t cry. That would imply something was wrong. That you were hurt. You’re not. Obviously.

You’re just a little annoyed.

And maybe, just mayb, you’re thinking about how Clark used to be your safest person. Your sure thing. Your just-text-me, just-call-me, just-walk-right-in-without-knocking guy.

And now he’s something else. Something slippery. Something you have to squint at sideways to understand.

Your thumb scrolls through the usual mess. Politicians being embarrassing, memes you’re already tired of, some half-hearted discourse about whether the Metropolis skyline is over-designed or “delightfully optimistic.”

Then: a video clip.

No sound. Just shaky phone footage.

A blur of red and blue moving fast—streaking through the air over Hobbs Bay, pulling someone from a collapsed scaffolding, leaving behind a wake of stunned bystanders and bent steel.

You pause. Watch it again. Retweets piling up.

BREAKING: Superman saves construction worker after scaffolding collapse.

You stare at it for a second longer than you mean to, then snort under your breath.

Must be nice, you think. Some people get rescued. Some other unlucky fuckers just get ghosted.

.

The message comes on a Thursday. One of those weirdly warm spring evenings when Metropolis smells like asphalt and deli grease and the last ten years of your bad decisions.

Hey. You free tonight?

You stare at it for a moment too long. Thumb hovering.

Then:

yeah. yours?

A pause.

If you want.

God, he’s infuriating. Polite even now. Careful with you, like you’re made of something breakable. Like you haven’t already cracked half a dozen times this month alone.

Still, you go.

.

It’s not tense at first. It’s easy. Familiar.

Clark opens the door wearing one of those threadbare t-shirts that should be illegal, sleeves barely containing his biceps, neckline just a little too stretched from use. His hair’s damp. There’s flour on his cheek.

“You baked?” you ask, stepping past him before he can do that thing where he tries to gauge your mood like a barometer.

He shrugs. “Felt like it.”

There’s banana bread cooling on the counter. Two plates. One knife. He’s already sliced yours and left the end piece—your favorite—on the left, like always.

You want to be mad. Or suspicious. Or anything that would make this easier to navigate. But it’s hard to keep your footing when he’s being like this. Soft. Normal. Like he didn’t flake three times last month. Like you hadn’t spent the last few nights half-dressed and overthinking on your bathroom floor

But them again, you could never really resist him for that long.

So maybe it’s no surprise that your dress ends up pooled around your ankles. The lamp’s still on. Your mouths are moving like they’ve done this a hundred times—because you have, but it's not enough, will never be enough—and you’re both pretending it’s still casual. Still nothing.

Except it doesn’t feel like nothing.

And then Clark pulls back.

Not sharply. Not like he’s been burned. More like he just remembered something, which, again, not unusual. You’ve seen that look before. That oh shit look.

But tonight, he doesn’t immediately jump up. 

He doesn’t mutter something about needing to check in with Perry or help Lois edit her headline.

He just… stares at you.

And not in the usual way, not with those soft, soft eyes like you’re something he stumbled across in a field and decided to treasure. He looks—serious. Scared, even. His hand is still on your hip, but his other is twitching slightly at his side like it doesn’t know what to do with itself.

“We need to talk,” he says.

You still have one shoe on. You don’t even remember kicking the other off.

You blink at him. “I—what?”

He licks his lips. His glasses are smudged. He doesn’t take them off.

“Something’s been—there’s something that I need to tell you,” he says, slower now, like he’s rehearsing this in real time and trying not to panic.

And that—that is when your stomach drops.

Because you know this script. You’ve seen this scene. The music swells, the camera pans in, the guy who smells like safety and Sunday mornings says he “needs to talk,” and then boom. Heartbreak, cut to black, roll credits.

You hold up a hand before he can say anything else. “Wait. Just… don’t. Yet.”

Clark pauses. He blinks at you.

“Look,” you say, backing up a step, scanning the room like you’re looking for your dignity. “If this is about how I’ve been kind of, I don’t know, evasive or inconsistent or, like, deeply emotionally unavailable, I just want to say — I know. Okay? You don’t have to do this so gently.”

His face twists. “What?”

“You’re trying to break things off,” you continue, steamrolling him, your voice way too steady for the freefall happening inside your chest. “And I get it. I do. You’ve been pulling away for weeks, you disappear all the time, you don’t sleep anymore, you look like you’ve been hit by a truck most days, which I assumed was just bad reporting hours, but who knows, maybe it’s metaphorical.”

Clark tries again. “I’m not—”

“It’s fine,” you say, voice louder now. “It’s fine if you met someone. You don’t have to pretend it’s not happening.”

“I didn’t—”

“You’re allowed to outgrow this. Me. Whatever this is.”

Your dress is still on the floor, and you suddenly want it back on like it’s armor. You crouch to grab it, clumsy with urgency, your hands all wrong.

“I should’ve seen it coming. You were too good to last. Guys like you don’t stick around for girls like me.”

“Hey,” he says sharply, stepping forward, but you back away before he can reach you.

“Don’t,” you say, holding your dress to your chest like a shield. “Don’t be nice to me about it.”

Clark runs both hands through his hair. He looks like he’s short-circuiting. “You’re not even letting me—I’m not trying to end this with you.”

You stare at him, lips parted.

He’s breathing hard now. His glasses are askew. His shirt’s wrinkled, and his jaw is clenched like he’s holding something back with both hands.

“I was going to tell you something,” he says, voice raw. “Something real. Something I’ve never told anyone who didn’t already know.”

You freeze.

Because that doesn’t sound like cheating.

That sounds like confession.

“What,” you whisper, suddenly breathless. “Like a dark secret? You have a kid? You’re actually married? Are you part of a mafia? Are you—Oh my God. Are you a stripper?”

“What?” he blurts, completely thrown.

“I don’t know, Clark!” your voice spikes, hands flying up. “What the hell could you possibly say right now that starts with ‘we need to talk’ and isn’t a relationship guillotine?”

His eyes flick to the window. Just for a second. A glance, like instinct. And then right back to you.

And for the first time, you see it.

The quiet panic. The way his entire body is buzzing like a live wire under skin.

Like he’s not scared of you.  He’s scared for you.

But it’s too late. You’ve already built the wall and bricked yourself in.

You grab your dress, yanking it on with the dignity of a raccoon being evicted from a trash can. Somewhere behind you, Clark says your name again, gentle, like a bruise he’s afraid to touch. You ignore it.

Instead, you just start collecting your things like a squirrel in crisis.

Because—and this is humiliating—you’ve essentially moved into his place over the last year in the slowest, most passive-aggressive way possible. Not officially. Not “hey, should we get you some keys?” But enough that the signs are there. 

Enough that you now have to do this, which is to say the break-up equivalent of packing a go-bag in the middle of a fire drill.

You grab the mug with the faded “Central City Gazette Student Press 2013” logo you refuse to drink out of at home because it’s chipped, but which you do drink out of here, because Clark always makes tea the right way — hot, strong, too much honey. You grab the copy of Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow you stole from his shelf three months ago and meant to pretend was yours all along. The sweatshirt he “forgot” you left here, that you “forgot” he noticed you wore to bed six times in a row.

You jam it all into your work tote like it’s a goddamn body bag.

Then there are the smaller things. The stupid things.

The half-used notepad from a city council meeting where someone tried to blame vigilante-induced infrastructure damage on solar panels. The disposable camera from that one weekend in Smallville — the one you never developed because the idea of seeing his parents smile at you felt too dangerous, too much like you might belong there.

And then you eye the drawer next to his bed. Your drawer, to get that clear, which was never explicitly claimed but which somehow holds one (1) pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs, two (2) half-empty bottles of lube, and three (3) protein bars, one of which is probably from last fiscal year. You shove it all into your bag, zipper groaning like a sad, sad accordion.

Clark’s still standing near the window, looking bewildered. Like he walked into the scene five minutes late and can’t tell who started the fire.

“Wait—are you leaving? You don’t have to—just—can we talk? Please?”

You don’t look at him.

Instead, you gesture vaguely at your bag. “This is just me doing a quick inventory of my terrible judgment. Don’t mind me.”

“Can you stop for two seconds and just let me—”

“Clark,” you say, and your voice comes out quieter than you meant it to. “It’s okay.”

It isn’t. But you’re trying to win the emotional Olympics in the “cool and detached” category, and you’re not about to blow it with something as devastating as eye contact.

You sling the bag over your shoulder and pause by the door. 

You consider saying something devastating and poetic. Something from Hamlet, maybe. You’ve always liked the line about cutting love out with a knife and it still bleeding. But instead, you give him a big, fake smile and an inexplicable hand up, like a contestant leaving Rupaul's Drag Race in disgrace.

“No harm, no foul,” you say. “Tell whoever you're seeing that I say hi.”

And then you leave.

.

You are, in every measurable way, unwell.

You don’t call it a breakup.

That would imply there was something official to break. That you were ever really together. That there was something solid under your feet to begin with, instead of months of teasing the edge, hovering over the line like two people too chicken to admit they’d already crossed it.

So, no. Not a breakup.

Just—a recalibration. A pause. A hot minute.

You say this to Jimmy, who narrows his eyes and says, “You’re holding a spoon like a murder weapon right now, so I’m gonna circle back on the ‘hot’ part of that minute.”

You even say it to the woman at the corner bodega—the one who always gave Clark an extra packet of honey for his tea and once slipped you a protein bar when you looked particularly anemic on a deadline.

She glances up from restocking the gum and says, “He’s okay? The tall guy? With the glasses and the very... polite shoulders?”

You blink. “Sorry, what?”

“He always said thank you. For the bag. Like, sincerely.” She squints at you. “You were good together.”

You make a sound of vague agreement and exit before she asks if you want your usual. (You do. But the idea of holding a wrap in your hands right now makes your stomach lurch.)

You take your PTO. Two weeks. You don’t tell anyone where you’re going, mostly because you’re not going anywhere. You lie in bed. You eat cereal out of a mug. You watch a three-hour documentary about the collapse of a bridge in Gotham and cry when a random city engineer says, “We tried our best, but it wasn’t enough.”

You don't let yourself think about that… that stupid drawer by Clark’s bed.

Or the banana bread.

Because there is banana bread.

It shows up on your doorstep the morning of Day Three, wrapped in wax paper and still warm. No note. Just a faint imprint where a palm must’ve rested on the foil, like he wasn’t sure if he should knock. You don’t bring it inside right away.

You stare at it. Then the door. Then back at the bread like it might explode.

Eventually, you take it in. Set it on the counter. Eat half of it standing over the sink with your fingers, because you don’t trust yourself to not drop it.

He texts you the next day. Just your name. Then a minute later: Just wanted to check in. Hope you’re doing okay.

You stare at the dots blinking at the bottom of the screen until they disappear.

You don’t answer.

He calls a few times, a few days later. Your phone lights up with his name, and you let it ring out. Not because you’re angry—okay, maybe you are, a little—but because you know the sound of his voice will wreck you. Because if he says your name in that soft, patient, Clark way, you’ll crack like a fucking fault line.

He doesn't leave a voicemai any of the times l. Just hangs up.

(You spend the rest of the night clutching a throw pillow to your stomach like it’s a life raft.)

You tell yourself this is temporary. You’ll get it together tomorrow.

And then tomorrow happens.

And then the next day.

And then—on the seventh day, like Jesus, you rise.

Kind of.

You pull on the ugliest hoodie you own, some too-large sweatpants with a questionable stain, and a pair of knockoff Crocs. Your hair is doing something that technically defies gravity, and you haven’t worn deodorant since Tuesday. Your soul is gone. Your standards are lower. All that remains is one singular thought:

Hotdog.

.

Which is how you find yourself under the flickering fluorescent lights of a 7/11 at 1:42 a.m., perched on the curb out front like a feral raccoon, holding a lukewarm hotdog in one hand and a Red Bull in the other, actively disassociating while Whitney Houston’s I Will Always Love You plays through a tinny outdoor speaker with all the emotional resonance of a dying Roomba.

You stare off into the distance.

Which is, of course, exactly when Clark walks up.

You see him in your periphery first. Hear the crunch of gravel, the telltale weight of his sneakers.

“No,” you say, out loud. “No. No. Absolutely not.”

Clark stops short. “Hi,” he says, voice soft. A little nervous.

You hold up the hotdog like a loaded gun. “Turn around.”

“I—”

“I swear to god, Clark.” You don’t even look at him. “I am mentally and spiritually clinging to life by the barest thread, and if you say something kind to me right now, I will vomit on the pavement.”

He nods. Raises both hands. “Okay. Not saying anything.”

You stare at him. His flannel is wrinkled. His hair’s sticking up at the back. There’s a scuff on his glasses like he’s been rubbing at them all day.

Goddammit. He looks like home.

You turn your burning eyes back to the pavement and try to focus on your dinner. Try to remember how this whole dignity thing works.

“Why are you here,” you say finally, flat.

He swallows. “Because I needed to see you. Because I’ve been calling, and—”

“Right,” you cut in. “The calls. That I didn’t answer. On purpose.”

“I know.”

“And you took that as a challenge?”

Clark exhales slowly. He takes a tentative step closer.

“I’ve tried everything else,” he says.

You roll your eyes. “Maybe that’s because you’re not supposed to fix this. Maybe this is just what it is now.”

“That’s not what I want.”

You shrug. “And? Sometimes we don’t get what we want. That’s life. Welcome.”

He’s quiet. Long enough that you glance sideways and catch him staring at you with a look you can’t name. Doesn’t defend himself. Just stands there, quiet, while a beat-up minivan idles past the edge of the lot and the Whitney Houston outro fades into static. And you’re just about to tell him to cut it out—whatever this whole tortured-eyes, kicked-puppy thing is—when he steps forward.

One arm wraps around your waist.

And then—

You are no longer on the ground.

You shriek like a B-movie scream queen, clutching your 7/11 hotdog in its sad foil wrapper like it might save your life. “WHAT THE FUCK,” you yell. “WHAT—ARE YOU KIDDING ME—WHAT IS HAPPENING.”

“I’m sorry!” Clark yells over the wind.

“ARE YOU—IS THIS YOU?! ARE YOU—”

“Yeah!” he shouts. “Hi! Surprise!”

“SUPERMAN?!”

“…Yes!” he calls back, cringing midair.

“YOU’RE SUPERMAN?!”

Clark doesn’t answer that. Just… grimaces. Flying sideways. His arm tightening around your waist like he’s half-expecting you to elbow him in the ribs and wriggle free.

You might, honestly. As soon as your brain catches up. You’re only just vaguely aware of your Croc flying off somewhere over a used car dealership.

“My toothbrush is still at your apartment!” you shriek.

“I know!”

“I HAVE A TOOTHBRUSH AT SUPERMAN’S APARTMENT!”

“I know! That’s why I—listen, I panicked! You weren’t picking up! You blocked me on like, four platforms—”

“I BLOCKED YOU BECAUSE I THOUGHT YOU WERE GHOSTING ME FOR ANOTHER GIRL, NOT MOONLIGHTING AS A NATIONAL TREASURE.”

The wind roars past your ears. Your teeth are chattering. You’re barely holding onto the last few shreds of coherence. And Clark—no, Superman, apparently—he’s not even breaking a sweat.

“You couldn’t have called?” you snap.

“I did!”

“WITH WHAT, MORSE CODE?”

“I showed up at your apartment!”

“With a cape, Kent?!”

“No! No, the cape’s new—look, I didn’t know what else to do. You wouldn’t talk to me. Jimmy said you took PTO and haven’t left your apartment in four days and I just—I needed you to see me. To listen.”

You make an inhuman noise, somewhere between a wail and a curse. “So your solution was to airlift me like a stolen asset out of a CIA bunker?!”

“I checked to make sure no one was looking!”

“YOU TOOK ME HOSTAGE.”

“I swept the parking lot, I swear! The cameras at 7/11 are fake, and there was one guy but he was busy dropping a Big Gulp.”

You blink at him. Wind in your eyes. A foot still bare. There’s an onion from your hotdog stuck to your shirt. Your heart does a slow, brutal somersault.

“…Okay,” you breathe. “Okay, so this is real.”

“It’s real,” he says.

“Like, capital-R Real.”

“Yeah.”

You shake your head once, sharp. “Jesus Christ.”

And then something in you quiets. Something that’s been vibrating with panic for days—for weeks—sputters out like the end of a bad engine. You’re too tired to scream again. You’re too wrung-out to cry.

So you just say, quietly: “I'm sorry. For not listening. Or giving you the time to explain. But, what the fuck, dude.”

Clark swallows. His eyes flick to your mouth, then away. He nods—once.

“I didn’t want to lie to you,” he says again, quieter now. “I hated it. Every second of it.”

His breath fogs slightly in the night air. He still won’t quite meet your eyes.

“I thought I could keep it separate. You and… that part of me. I thought if I just kept my head down and made you pancakes and let you call me out when I forgot to text back, it’d be enough.”

He runs a hand through his hair, still wind-tossed from flight. “But then it wasn’t. Because I started… I don’t know, noticing stuff. Like the way you always get a little mean when you’re scared. Or how you never remember to lock your front door but you’ll glare at me for refusing to jaywalk. And every time I had to run off and I saw the look on your face—I wanted to tell you. I almost told you, like, like, forty darn times.”

His voice cracks a little. He’s still not looking at you.

“I kept thinking, if I say it out loud, you’ll leave. Or worse—you’ll stay, but only because you think you owe me something. Because I have the suit. Because I can lift a building. But I don’t want you to be impressed by me. I just want you to look at me the way you used to. Like I’m just… Clark.”

He laughs, sudden and shaky. “God, I sound insane.”

You say nothing. You’re not breathing very well.

And then, softly, finally, like he’s pushing it out before he loses the nerve: “I love you. Not in a heroic, save-the-day kind of way. Just—I love you. I think I’ve been in love with you since you made me help you tail that councilman with the suspicious hair plugs. And you made fun of me the whole time, but you still brought snacks.”

He swallows. “I don’t need anything from you. I just wanted you to know.”

The wind whips gently around you both now, slower, softer. Like the world has dialed down to listen in. 

Clark hovers easily in place, arms strong around you, careful and warm, like he’s afraid you’ll wriggle free again and drop straight through the clouds.

He’s flushed. Nervous. He looks like he’s trying to prepare for every possible version of the moment after this. Every soft or horrible thing you might say. Every joke you might make to dodge the weight of it. Every silence.

You lean back a little to look at him.

And then, honestly, you just kiss him.

Because it’s easier than saying the whole thing. Easier than listing every moment that’s led to this, every reason you tried not to fall for him and did anyway. 

The time he walked (not flew) across the city in the rain because you forgot your keys. 

The fact that he never interrupts when you’re spiraling, just waits it out, steady and warm and right there. 

The way he let you drag him into that adult store and joked around and made him blush with the pink handcuffs, and then he bought them for you anyway.

 The banana bread. 

“I love you too, you idiot.”

His whole face crumples. And then he laughs, messy and relieved and a little helpless, like he wasn’t expecting you to say it back. Like he wasn’t hoping.

“You do?”

You nod, eyes stinging. “Yeah. In every kind of way.”

And Clark—not Superman, Clark Kent, the world’s most ridiculous man, the guy you’ve known and kissed and run from and found again—leans in and kisses you silly again.

.

You’re still smiling when he stumbles through your front door with you in his arms.

Not gracefully. Not like some poised, soap-opera seduction —more like the two of you crash through the threshold like a couple of drunk fucking idiots who forgot how to use their limbs. You reach back and slap the door shut, barely catching the knob, breathless from altitude and adrenaline and everything that’s been boiling under your skin for months.

Clark kicks over your shoe rack by accident. It topples over with a loud bang and suddenly, all your shoes are on the floor.

“Sorry,” he says, half-choking on a grin, already pressing you to the wall. “I’ll—clean that up—later—”

You cut him off with your mouth. Sloppy, desperate. Fingers tangling in his curls, tugging just to feel him gasp against you. You can feel the way he hardens close to you, and you're really, really liking where this is going.

It’s not like you didn’t know he was strong. 

You’ve seen his biceps. You’ve felt the hand at your back steady you when a cab came too close. You’ve watched him shoulder his way through panicked crowds, through chaos, through life, always quietly making space for you.

But this is different.

This is him holding your entire body like you weigh nothing. Like physics doesn't apply to you anymore. Like his hands were made to carry you and his mouth was made to ruin you.

“Clark,” you gasp, because you don’t know what else to say. Your hoodie’s already halfway up your torso. His hands are under it, up your ribs, one squeezing your thigh like he’s staking a claim and the other splayed wide across your spine. “You’re—fuck—”

“I know,” he pants, nosing down your throat, licking into the hollow like he’s starving for it. “I know, baby. You’re—God, you’re actually killing me.”

He lifts you—actually lifts you—like you’re nothing, just sweeps you up with one arm under your ass and carries you toward the bedroom, leaving a trail of your jacket, your hotdog wrapper, and one of your slippers behind. 

You claw at his shirt, frantic, trying to get it off. Buttons ping off somewhere near the kitchen island and you both flinch, then laugh again, dizzy with it.

He drops you on the bed and follows fast, crawling over you, shedding the remains of his flannel and undershirt like he’s being hunted for it. 

"Fuck, fuck—take this off," and yank off your hoodie and he groans at the sight, like the skin of your chest is some sort of a revelation, like he hasn’t had it memorized since the first time he saw you in a tank top at work and forgot what day it was.

His mouth is everywhere. On your collarbone, your shoulder, between your breasts. 

Hot and open and eager, tongue twisting ruthlessly around your nipples. He’s making sounds now, those broken, happy little gasps like he’s surprised every time you let him touch you again.

You’re squirming under him, soaked and breathless, tugging at the waistband of his pants like it might save your life.

“I am gonna ruin you,” you manage to say. "Baby, let me fucking ruin you."

Clark laughs again, the kind of laugh that goes straight to your core, deep and bright and boyish, and then he flips you effortlessly onto your stomach, pushing your thighs apart with his knee, dragging his mouth down your spine like he’s tracing poetry there.

“Oh yeah?” he murmurs, low and smug and reverent. “Get in line, pretty girl.”

He pushes into you with one smooth, slow thrust, so much of him, too much, your jaw goes slack, and he just stays there for a moment, his hand curled over yours, forehead pressed to the back of your shoulder.

“I love you.”

Your breath stutters.

He doesn’t give you time to recover, emotionally or physically. Doesn’t let you laugh it off or throw up your usual wall of flippant sarcasm. He kisses your shoulder again, hips moving deeper, slower.

You twist beneath him, trying to turn over because as much as you love doggy, you can't bear to not look at him right now. 

But his hand presses gently between your shoulder blades, grounding you. “Wait,” he murmurs, and you freeze. You’re still so full of him you can barely think. “Just let me—can I just—”

He grinds forward, pushing all eight inches of him inside, and you choke on a moan. You’ve never heard him like this. Not just desperate, not just lost in it — but open.

“I love you when you’re mean,” he pants, voice fraying around the edges. “I love you when you roll your eyes at me in meetings and mutter under your breath during interviews. I love you, God, you're so tight," another thrust. "—when you wear those socks with the tiny dogs on them and try to pretend you’re not soft.”

You turn your head, mouth parted, eyes wide. “Clark—”

He leans down, kisses your cheek, your temple, the place behind your ear that makes your thighs shake.

“I love you when you’re being impossible. When you steal my flannels. When you pretend you don’t care. When you kissed me for the first time and then gave me a whole spiel about it.”

“Stop—”

“I love you,” he says again, brokenly this time, like it’s being torn out of him. “I love you even when I’m scared you’ll leave. Even if this is all I get.”

You turn fully this time, eyes glassy, fingers curling around the back of his neck to drag him in.

And you kiss him.

Hard.

Hungry.

Grateful.

“I love you,” you whisper against his mouth. “I love you, you wonderful, wonderful man.”

Clark lets out a sound that’s not quite a laugh and not quite a sob.

Then he flips you under him and fucks you like it’s a promise.

You say it again when you come the second time, breathless, high-pitched, hands clutching at his shoulders, and again when he follows with a low, shuddering groan, spilling into you like he’s got nowhere else he’d rather be.

.

The car smells like spearmint gum and way, way too much coffee. Clark’s got one hand on the wheel and the other laced through yours like it’s always been there. Which, lately, it has.

You’re about halfway to Smallville.

“So,” you say, tapping his knuckles with your thumb. “How many embarrassing baby photos am I being subjected to this time? Just give me a ballpark.”

Clark chuckles. His dimples show. “Oh, uh… probably all of them. Again."

You groan. “Even the corn maze one?”

“There are multiple corn maze ones,” he corrects gently. “There’s one where I’m dressed as a scarecrow.”

You stare at him.

He nods solemnly. “With face paint.”

“Oh my God,” you wheeze, turning toward the window. “I don’t know if I’m emotionally prepared for that.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, squeezing your hand. “Ma loves you. You could commit tax fraud in front of her and she’d ask if you wanted seconds.”

You snort. “That’s very comforting.”

He shrugs, smiling again. “It’s true. She already set up the guest room.”

You blink at him.

“…The guest room?”

A pause. Clark glances over. “Well, I didn’t want to assume we’d—uh—share a bed. With my parents in the house.”

You raise a brow. “Clark. We had sex in a supply closet at the Planet.”

“That was—okay, yes—but that was under different circumstances.”

“We are dating.”

“I know.”

You lean your head back against the seat, grinning. “You’re so weird.”

“You love it,” he mutters, cheeks pink.

You do.

God, you do. You love him.

It still sneaks up on you sometimes. The clarity of it. The quiet, persistent fact of Clark Kent: the man who once made you blueberry pancakes the morning after you nearly ran out on him, who kissed your wrist like it meant something, who never—not once—looked away. Who told you he was Superman in the middle of a 7/11 parking lot, like some fucking lunatic.

And now here you are. In his car. On the way to meet his parents.

Officially.

Not just as the girl who sleeps over sometimes. Not as the coworker who won’t stop pretending she doesn’t care. Not as the idiot who thought she could get away with loving him and not doing anything about it.

No. Now, you’re his girlfriend.

Which means this is real. Which means you’re going to their farmhouse in Smallville. And Martha is probably going to offer you pie. And Jonathan is probably going to show you Clark’s fifth grade spelling bee trophy like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

Which should terrify you.

(And maybe it does, a little.)

But mostly—mostly it feels like the best thing you’ve ever said yes to.

Clark clears his throat. “Hey.”

You turn.

He’s watching you with that expression again. That soft, unguarded, ruined look like he still can’t believe you’re real. It’s so sincere it nearly undoes you.

“I’m really glad you’re coming,” he says. Quietly.

You look at him. You squeeze his hand back.

“Me too, Michigan.”

His ears go a little red. “Don’t call me that.”

“Oh? I thought you liked when I objectify you by state.”

“I like it slightly less when it happens in front of a rest stop attendant while you’re holding beef jerky and winking at me. And when it's the wrong state."

You smirk. “Not my fault you were born with that jawline and a humiliation kink.”

Clark coughs through a laugh. “God help me.”

He reaches across the console, dragging his thumb lightly over the inside of your wrist. The same spot he kissed that night. The one you think might still hum a little under your skin.

You let your head fall against his shoulder, smile tucked into your cheek.

“Wake me when we’re ten minutes out?”

“You sure?” he murmurs, already lowering the volume on the radio.

“Mhm.” You close your eyes. “I gotta mentally prepare myself for the scarecrow photos.”

You feel the press of his lips against your knuckles. Gentle. Familiar.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he says. “They love you, you know that. I do too."

You smile.

Because yeah. You do know.

[pr3ttybbyv]

૮ clark kent headcanons ა

from this req

ᰈ clark likes to keep the claw clips and scrunchies you leave around. you can place them in a row in front of him, leading to a trap, and he’d fall for it, picking them up one by one. he likes opening and closing the clips, the mechanic fascinating to him. fidget toy? nah. your claw clips. he’ll absentmindedly slip your scrunchie on his wrist and toy with it when he’s focused. you’ve noticed the sudden disappearance of your hair accessories, shrugging it off as just misplacing them, so you keep buying more. and clark keeps finding them. and taking them. they’re his now.

ᰈ he keeps his hair messy on purpose. you mentioned once when he didn’t have time to really style it that you liked the messy look. you ran your fingers through his curls and the man could’ve stared drooling. he’s never touched a comb or hair product since. he’ll fluff it here and there, and of course, style it as superman. but as clark? he leaves it messy. you told him once it looks like bed head, so when it got long enough that he wanted a cut, he told his barber to give him ‘bed head.’ luckily, the barber knew what clark was referring to and gave him a cut identical to how he’s been keeping his hair.

ᰈ he doesn’t really have time for movies. what with being a superhero and all. but he wants to understand the references you make. every time you make one, clark asks where it’s from, and makes a mental note to add it to his journal. inside, he has pages filled just for you. and one page is titled movies she likes. and when he has the time, he watches them. memorizes the characters. listens out for the exact reference you told him (he smiles every time he hears them, and repeats them in his head in your voice.) the next time he sees you, he quotes a line from the movie, pleased at your surprised face. it’s worth it every time. then he scrawls a check mark next to the movie in his journal and watches the next on his list.

ᰈ he finds a way to bring you up everyday in the office. always referring to you as his girlfriend. no matter how he can bring you up. the printer ran out of paper? my girlfriend just ran out of her favorite food. i’m picking it up on the way back. jimmy telling clark about the night he had? my girlfriend is a real indoor person. just like me. i’nt that great?

ᰈ he secretly loves your size difference. loves to see his bigger jacket hung next to your smaller one. loves having to look down at you when you speak. loves being your personal shelf reacher. loves how he engulfs you whenever you cuddle. it’s like you disappear into his arms. clark would love if you could do that. keep you to himself. he never asks for his clothes back when you wear them. you try to push his shirt into his arms as he repeats no, it’s okay. i’ll buy another one. i don’t need that many shirts, really. sometimes he doesn’t like to see you in your own clothes. why not wear his? he won’t admit that he’s started to leave his clothes around with the hopes that you’ll wear them just because. but when you return them to him, telling him he must’ve misplaced it, he sighs inwardly, reluctantly taking the clothes.

[pr3ttybbyv]

Ი clark overhearing you don’t like glasses 𐑼

was he eavesdropping? yes. he’s ashamed to admit it, but he doesn’t regret it. not if it helped him hear you explain what you don’t like in a guy. glasses. his ears had perked up and he reached up hesitantly to touch his own pair. i. . i wear glasses. . he thought to himself.

it was a conversation you were having with another coworker and when you stood up to go back to your desk, clark dropped his head to avoid you seeing him. stupid glasses. .

he mulled it over in his head if he has any contacts left at home. well, he stopped using them after realizing they irritated his eyes. is a near pharmacy open? could he quickly grab some?

reeling in a breath, clark nodded affirmatively to himself. you don’t like it? it’s gone.

everyone was so used to seeing him with the spectacles. so gosh, it was unsettling to see him without them. the stares, the whispers, the worried looks. “clark. . everything okay buddy? did you lose them again?” was what he was bombarded with the next morning in the office.

he shook his head, keeping his eyes on his two feet. don’t trip, don’t trip. . “no, just. . trying something new,” he would respond. he bumped into a lady, mumbling a sorry, tried to step back, then bumped into someone else. “s. . sorry. i’m sorry.” he quickened his stride to get away from people so he doesn’t accidentally hurt someone.

would you like the way he looks without them? how else could clark make himself more attractive to you? he wouldn’t toot his own horn, but he finds himself a good looking guy. but whatever you want him to change, he’s already changed it yesterday.

he sat at his desk, trying not to look at anyone. why are they still looking? it doesn’t matter. this change wasn’t for them. it’s for you. and how awkward would it be if you weren’t even in today.

jimmy snickered behind him, “nice look, kent. did a little special lady suggest it?”

clark startled, turning in his chair. he eyed the man. did he know? was he caught? clark stammered, shaking his head. “ah. . no, no lady. just. . why? why do you ask?”

jimmy, unaware of why clark was panicking all of a sudden, rose a brow. “just teasing? now i’m thinking there actually is a lady. you little dog. .” jimmy smirked, leaning in like he was expecting clark to spill all of the details about a nonexistent hookup clark had the night before.

then you walked up. clark’s rushing blood flow drowned surrounding noise in his ears from jimmy’s question, making him not hear your heel clicks approaching. like he usually did.

clark quickly ducked his head once you were beside him, raising a hand to cover his uncovered eyes. he didn’t wear the glasses for you and now he’s too scared to show you? geez, get a grip, he told himself. lowering his hand, he protruded his chest a little, trying to make himself look confident.

and you noticed it. you let out the tinniest gasp, then pretended you didn’t see anything. you didn’t want to put attention on him if he didn’t want it. but you noticed.

you turned to jimmy, “um, jimmy, i was just going to ask you if you could read over this piece i just wrote?”

clark frowned to himself. he did it. he did the thing you like. why aren’t you talking to him? why aren’t you asking him to proofread? did he do it wrong? clark was going over how he could’ve not worn glasses correctly when the coworker you were talking to yesterday came to stand beside you.

“okay, i totally understand what you were talking about. metal is so much better, i’m not worried about it shattering like a glass water bottle,” the coworker told you.

you nodded excitedly at her, “i told you, i just don’t like glasses. too much anxiety, i love metal water bottles so much. speaking of, i should go fill mine up. what brand did you get?” you asked the coworker as you two walked away, chatting about water bottles. water bottles.

clark sighed, dropping his head in despair. you weren’t talking about reading glasses. and clark left his at home. now he has to go the day, not able to see much. is this what he gets for eavesdropping? well, he’s sorry. .

but then you were quickly scuttling back, causing clark to raise his head. he’s just happy he can make out your face with his vision. then you said the words that made all of this worth it, “i do like your glasses, though.” and with a lingering smile, you walked back off.

clark was frozen, staring at the space you once occupied. he tapped his fingers on his desk, an excited jitter. he nodded at the empty space like you were still there, turning back to his computer. you like them. thank, gosh. .

[pr3ttybbyv]

You Deserve It

Pairing: Clark Kent x Reader

Summary:

Your landlord starts to turn away, then pauses, glancing over his shoulder with a look somewhere between amusement and exasperation. “Oh, and one more thing,” he says, pointing a finger half-heartedly between the two of you. “Try to keep the noise down. Every time you two go at it, it’s like the whole building shakes.” Clark makes a strangled noise that might’ve been a cough. His face turns crimson. You blink, mouth falling open for a second before your brain catches up. Your landlord shrugs. “Just saying. I’ve had complaints from apartment 4D and 5B. They thought there was an earthquake.” Or Clark has a tough day so you decide to make him feel better. You both just hope your neighbours don't kill you with how loud the two of you tend to get.

Tags/Warnings: 18+ Explicit Content, oral sex (male receiving), p in v sex, cuddlefuck, creampie, established relationship, Clark being cute and bringing you pie

WC: 4.5k

A/N: When I tell you I dove at my laptop as soon as I got home from the cinema to start writing about him. Hope you enjoy!

***

Clark was exhausted. He's finally on his way to your place after a busy day. He had saved a derailed train, stopped a bus from plunging off a bridge, and spent half his afternoon fighting a mechanical octopus that some genius decided to let loose in downtown Metropolis. All his deadlines for Perry were miraculously met. He needed to relax. And as always, his favourite pick-me-up was you, and your beautiful smile.

Even though he was tired, he'd gone out of his way, stopping by that little bakery in France you said you liked, just to bring back a pie for the two of you to share. It was only a quick flight, after all. And you? You were more than worth it.

Climbing the stairs to your apartment, box in hand, he was just about to knock when he felt eyes on him. 

He turns and finds a man standing on the landing nearby, arms crossed, expression unreadable. His gaze sweeps up and down Clark like he’s scanning for faults.

“Can I help you, sir?” Clark asks. 

“So this is the Clark, huh?”

Clark blinked. “You… know me?”

The man smirked. “You’re famous around here.”

The thought that you might’ve gushed about him, even just a little, made his stomach flip with happiness. 

“She’s talked about me?” he asked cautiously.

The man let out a sharp laugh. “If you call her screaming your name for five hours last Tuesday talking about you, then yeah. She talked plenty.”

Clark has faced alien warlords, collapsing buildings, and a multitude of near-death scenarios. But he had never turned such a vivid shade of red in his life.

He cleared his throat, awkwardly adjusting the bakery box in his hands, trying desperately not to combust on the spot.

“…Good to know,” he muttered.

Hearing voices outside, you furrow your brow and make your way to the door. You open it slowly, only to find your landlord standing there… and Clark, awkwardly frozen beside him, holding a very fancy pie box and looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.

“I was just coming to let you know there’s going to be some work done,” your landlord says. “The electricity guys are coming tomorrow around noon. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours.”

You nod politely, though there’s… something in the air. A weird tension you can’t quite place. Your landlord starts to turn away, then pauses, glancing over his shoulder with a look somewhere between amusement and exasperation.

“Oh, and one more thing,” he says, pointing a finger half-heartedly between the two of you. “Try to keep the noise down. Every time you two go at it, it’s like the whole building shakes.”

Clark makes a strangled noise that might’ve been a cough. His face turns crimson. You blink, mouth falling open for a second before your brain catches up.

Your landlord shrugs. “Just saying. I’ve had complaints from apartment 4D and 5B. They thought there was an earthquake.”

He walks off whistling, and you just want to hide in a hole. Maybe that’s why your neighbours were giving you the evil eye. 

Clark clears his throat, eyes fixed firmly on the pie box in his hands. “I, uh… I brought pie.”

You stare at him, then burst out laughing. “You better come in, Earthquake.”

Clark steps inside, cheeks still flushed, pulling off his shoes and setting them neatly by the door. He watches your back as you walk into the kitchen, the soft hem of the oversized shirt brushing your thighs.

“Is that my shirt?” he asks with a lopsided smile, eyes narrowing playfully. It looks familiar, something he must’ve left behind weeks ago after a late-night visit, and clearly, you’d commandeered it.

“You don’t mind, do you?” you ask over your shoulder, pretending not to notice the way his gaze lingers.

That’s the last thing he minds. It’s simple, it’s soft, and yet somehow it’s the sexiest thing he’s ever seen. You, in his shirt, in his space, like you belonged there all along.

“You look…” he trails off, stepping closer, his voice rough from everything he’s held back today. “...like something I want to come home to every night.”

You blink, caught off guard by the honesty in his tone. Your smirk falters into something softer. “Well,” you say, turning to face him, “I guess you’ll just have to keep leaving shirts here then.”

He closes the distance between you in two strides, one hand settling gently on your hip, fingertips brushing the hem of the shirt. “I’ll leave a drawer if it means I get to see this again.”

You giggle before your eyes land on the dessert box, the familiar design making you gasp.  "Did you get that from France?" you ask, your eyes widening. 

“Having Superman as a boyfriend has some perks.”

Your fingers trace the edge of the pastry box, still in awe. “You crossed an ocean for a pie.”

“I’d cross a galaxy if it meant seeing that look on your face,” he says, almost shyly.

Your heart clenches because you know he’s serious, you can tell.

“You didn't have to fly all the way out there for me. Thank you, Clark.”

You wrap your arms around him, warm and unhurried, and pull him in for a kiss. It’s sweet, just like the man in front of you. His free arm, the one not cradling the bakery box, slides instinctively around your waist, pulling you closer with a low, contented sigh.

For a guy who can lift entire buildings, he’s impossibly gentle with you. The kiss deepens just slightly before he murmurs against your lips, “Next time I’m taking the fire escape. Fewer witnesses.”

You laugh, and he grins, finally starting to relax.

But still feeling a little tension in his shoulders, you say, “Long day?”

“You can tell.”

“Always,” you smile back. 

Clark always carried himself with the calm confidence of someone who could hold the world together and often did, even when everything around him was chaos. But you could tell he’d been through the ringer today, and you had an idea of how you could cheer him up. 

“Come here,” you murmur, pulling him in by the tie, your eyes locked on his with a teasing smile.

“Is that an order?” he asks, already following as you step backwards down the hallway toward the bedroom.

“More like a light suggestion.”

The truth was, you could order him around all you wanted. Superman or not, when it came to you, Clark was more than happy to obey.

You both get to the bedroom, and it doesn’t even take a second before your lips are connected. It’s like you’d both been waiting all day for this moment. The tie slips from your hand, forgotten, as your arms wrap around his neck.

He lifts you with effortless strength, lips never leaving yours, and you gasp softly against his mouth as your back hits the mattress in a rush of motion. Clark follows you down, bracing his weight so carefully.

He shifts, smooth and sure, flipping your positions so you’re straddling him now, hands resting on his chest. You had to admit, you loved the view.

Those pretty lips, slightly parted from the kiss… his dark hair tousled just enough to be unfair, with that one perfect curl resting stubbornly on his forehead. You could stare at him for hours and never get bored.

You reach for his glasses, sliding them off playfully before slipping them onto your own face. You strike a mock-serious pose.

“How do I look?”

Clark’s breath catches in his throat, eyes softening as he takes you in. 

You, in his glasses. He’s never seen anything so perfect. 

“…Cute,” he says in complete awe, like you’d just stolen the air from the room.

“I’ll keep them for now, then.”

And Clark didn’t fight to get them back one bit. 

His hands slide up to rest on your thighs, warm and steady, fingers pressing gently into your skin like he’s grounding himself, like you’re the only thing anchoring him right now.

And you, with a grin tugging at your lips, lean down to kiss him. It’s slow at first, before deepening and becoming more intense, feeling the way his breath hitches as your fingers expertly begin to unbutton his shirt.

“Your landlord—” he murmurs against your mouth, voice already fraying at the edges.

“We can be quiet,” you whisper, brushing your lips along his jaw.

“And your neighbours—” he tries again, even as his hands tighten on your hips.

“It’s okay, I swear,” you mumble, moving to kiss his neck, and take off all your clothes. With each touch and kiss, more articles of clothing are tossed aside until you’re both in just your underwear.  

You start kissing your way down his body, taking your time, savouring the warmth of his skin, the way every inch of him is sculpted like he was carved out of something divine. He’s all strength and softness, breath shallow as he watches you through heavy-lidded eyes.

“You don’t have to…” he says quietly, a flicker of hesitation in his voice.

Clark was big. 

Like really big.

Like make your jaw click big. 

He never wanted to inconvenience you or hurt you, so for the most part, he shied away from blowjobs. But you loved it; struggling for air as you try to take as much of it down, tears welling in your eyes when it hits the back of your throat, hearing him moan your name as he fucks your mouth desperately. 

But most of all, you wanted him to feel as good as he could make you feel. Wanted him to know just how much you appreciate him stretching you out with his cock and fucking you into next week. 

You pause, looking up at him, your fingers toying gently with the fabric of his boxers.

“I want to, okay?” you whisper. “I want to take care of you. Will you let me?”

His eyes search yours for a second, then he nods, just once.

“I will,” Clark relents. He knew you just wanted to make him feel good, and who was he to deny you of that? 

You pull down his boxers and pull out his hard cock, licking a few stripes from the base to the head. He gasps out your name, and it’s like music to your ears. 

You loved the way his brow would furrow, that little crease between his eyebrows he got when you teased him just enough to toe the line. It was equal parts adorable and dangerously hot. His jaw would tense, his eyes would darken, and then he’d say your name in that low, warning tone that made your stomach flip.

“I’ll be good, Clark, don’t worry,” you’d say sweetly.

If you were in a more wicked mood, you might tease him a little more, but your main goal was to help him relax; you had to remember that.

You lick his tip a few more times before taking as much of him into your mouth as you can. Saying it’s a tight fit would be a gross understatement, but still, you venture on. Moving up and down his cock with hollowed cheeks, and jerking whatever you couldn’t manage. 

His girth feels heavy on your tongue, stretching your lips as far as they can go, but it’s all worth it to see him like that. He’s fisting the sheets, his head thrown back against the pillow, trying his best not to moan too loud. 

But you want him to, you want to hear him say it, to feel his voice raw with need. So you start moaning softly, the vibrations travelling up his length, making him tremble and let out a low, guttural sound. There’s no way he could keep quiet now.

“Oh please… just like that,” he groans, his hands lifting from the sheets to find their place tangled in your hair. He’s hungry for you, just like you like him. 

Hearing that you take his cock even deeper in your mouth. You look up from where you are, and what you see is beautiful. Clark is usually calm, all discipline and controlled strength. Seeing him like this, glistening blue eyes and desperate like he’s about to cry, vulnerable, his body softening as he pulls you close, needing you like he needs nothing else but you, was perfection.

It was a side of him that few got to see. You adjust as he rocks hips up into your mouth, but can’t stop yourself from gagging when his cock hits the back of your throat.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly, pausing for a moment, his hands moving gently from your shoulders to cup your face.

You look up at him, still wearing his glasses with wide, doe-like eyes and a small hum of reassurance, your mouth still occupied. Without breaking the connection, you take his hand and guide it back to your head, inviting him closer, letting him know that you’re more than okay.

All polite-like, he holds you by the hair gently, not pulling, but cradling the strands as he respectfully fucks your face.

“So good, too—too good,” he gasps. 

Wanting to push him all the way to the edge, you deepthroat his cock. Taking him as deep as you can go, fighting off your gag reflex.

“Good…golly…” he groans, voice rough and breathless.

Your eyes flutter open, burning with tears from the searing intensity, the lack of air, but beneath it all, exhilarating.

The sloppy sounds fill the room as you suck him off with a kind of dedication that should be rewarded. His fingers curling in your hair, muscles trembling with the building tension. The sounds of ragged breathing, and your name echo in your head, which sounds especially good coming from him.

You’re flooded with sensation, swallowing hard as quickly as you can, your eyes rolling back, caught in the overwhelming rush.

He helps pull you up gently, both of you gasping for air, still wrapped in that beautiful haze that lingers long after.

“Are you alright?” he asks softly, concern threading his voice as his fingers brush a stray lock of hair from your damp forehead.

You nod slowly, a shaky smile tugging at your lips. 

“Perfect,” you whisper, and you mean it. You could do that all day.

Clark doesn’t miss a beat. 

He takes his glasses off your face and pulls you in to kiss you senseless. It’s a slow and deep kiss, your tongues teasing and tangling with one another, tasting him on your lips like something you’ve been craving for days. His hands cup your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks as he pulls you impossibly closer, smiling into the kiss like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. 

“Clark—” He cuts you off with another kiss, deeper this time, sucking on your tongue and dragging a moan from your throat as your brain turns into absolute mush. His teeth graze your bottom lip before he bites down gently, just enough to make you gasp.

In your time together, you’ve come to realise something very important: Clark Kent is much freakier than he looks.

He finally pulls away, lips swollen and breath shallow, one hand steadying your dazed, breathless self as he grins. “Sorry,” he murmurs, not sounding sorry at all. “You were saying?”

“I don’t remember,” you reply with a goofy smile, and you aren’t lying. Maybe that’s another superpower he has, kissing you so hard it gives you amnesia. 

“Lie down,” he orders. It’s gentle, but with that unmistakable edge of command that makes your heart flutter.

You roll onto your side, and he follows, settling in behind you before wrapping his arms around your waist. His bare skin presses against yours, like a living shield around you. You melt into his embrace, feeling his breath against the back of your neck as he snuggles closer, one leg slipping between yours.

It’s been less than a minute since he came, and you feel his hard cock, pressing against your entrance.

“Can I?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you murmur, bracing yourself. Even after all this time you’ve been together, it’s still a sensation that takes your breath away, adjusting to his size, to the way he fills you completely.

Finally, he pushes inside of you, your walls stretching to accommodate him, sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body. Your arms reach back instinctively, your nails digging into his bicep.

“Clawing at me now?” he chuckles.

“You can take it, Superman.”

He pulls you closer by the waist, matching his thrusts to yours with a slow, steady rhythm that sends shivers down your spine.

“I sure can,” he murmurs, nuzzling against your neck. He guides your hips up and down, matching it to his own movements, moving you like you weighed nothing. 

“Clark…” you whimper, voice trembling with need and affection.

Slow, deep thrusts follow, each one hitting you right where you’re weakest, unravelling you bit by bit. Your pussy flutters around him like it’s trying to suck him in, and Clark would love nothing more than to sink into you and never come out. 

“I love you so much,” he mumbles into your ear, his voice thick with emotion.

“I love you too.”

Your breath hitches as Clark presses his hand gently against your stomach, feeling the steady rhythm of his moving in and out of you.

“K-keep doing that,” you whisper, voice trembling with need.

The little gasps and moans you let out spur him on. Nothing else feels so right, so electric, as being this deep inside you, your walls pulsing around him like they were made for each other.

“Just a little more…” you plead, voice breathless.

“I got you,” he promises, tightening his grip, holding you steady.

You feel so at home in his arms. You swear his arms were made for cuddling and fucking as well as lifting derailed trains and whatnot. 

And then, finally, you finish, knocking all the air out of you, every shudder and sigh a perfect, messy symphony of release.

His release comes soon after, but he doesn’t stop. Just keeps fucking you through your orgasm, the copious amount of cum he pumped inside of you, spilling out onto the sheets with each thrust.

“Love it when you cum inside,” you whisper breathlessly, your voice thick with desire.

He presses a soft kiss to the back of your neck, his lips warm and reassuring against your skin.

“I know,”

He slows to a stop, giving you a moment to blink repeatedly as you come back to yourself. Your heart’s still racing, limbs deliciously heavy, pussy pumped full but still wanting more. 

You knew this wasn’t the end of the night. Not even close.

Without pulling out of you, he gently positions you on your back, strong hands guiding you with a tenderness that makes your heart stutter.

“I want to see you,” he murmurs, voice low and reverent as he settles between your thighs, arms braced on either side of you, caging you in.

He starts kissing you everywhere he can reach. Your cheeks, your neck, the curve of your collarbone. Each touch of his lips is a promise.

“You’re…” he whispers against your skin, planting a kiss just below your ear.

“So…” another kiss, this time over your racing heartbeat, his voice growing huskier as his body moves with yours.

“Beautiful…” he breathes, looking into your eyes as he presses deeper.

His pace quickens as he moves against you, the tension building with every breath. It’s hard to hold back with you, but even now, even with the fire in his veins, the last thing he’d ever want to do is hurt you. His strength is immense, but his control? Unwavering.

His hand slides up to cradle your face, eyes locking with yours, vulnerable in a way only you ever get to see.

“What did I do to deserve you?” he whispers, voice thick with emotion.

He could stay like this forever. Filling you up, again and again and again. Watching you whimper your way through another orgasm. It was overwhelming in the best way. He was overtaken by you, by your body, by the way you moved with him like you were made just to fit together. He could hear your heartbeat fluctuate with every kiss, every shift, every whispered moan, and he caught it all.

Nothing hit him harder than the sound of you like this: breathless, aching, saying his name like a prayer.

He knew your body so well, all its secrets, all its tells. The way your breath hitched when his fingers grazed that one spot on your hip. The tremble in your voice when he took his time. The way your nails dug into his back when you were close.

When he shifts, angling his hips just right, a sharp cry escapes your lips before you can stop it, his name, raw and desperate, tearing from your throat as your fingers clutch the sheets beneath you.

“Clark… Clark… Clark!”

It’s the only word you can remember, the only one that matters, echoing between you like a mantra.

No wonder your neighbours were pissed. 

And the way he looks at you, utterly undone, you know he feels the same. 

“Don’t stop—please, I can’t—” you beg. He’s fucking you so good, you don’t know which way is up. The sound of your bed’s headboard hitting the wall repeatedly echoed through the room, a steady, rhythmic thud, and you bet there’s another dent forming. Which is a shame since Clark took the time to fix it the first time you both put a hole in the wall.

“That’s it, Clark…” you breathe out, voice trembling, your fingers digging into his shoulders as your body arches into his.

“Wanna be so full…,” you whine, need thick in your voice, every inch of you aching for him, for more, for all of him. If you were being honest, you wanted his cum spilling out of you for weeks.

He groans at your words, the sound deep and rough in his throat, control hanging by a thread. “You will be,” he promises. As if to accentuate your promise, you feel his large hand press gently down on your stomach, like he needs to feel how deeply he’s a part of you. And it’s deep. 

“Just for you, Clark… just for you,” you gasp, your voice barely more than a breath as your toes curl and your body tightens around him, every nerve lit up and alive.

You’re so close, your body trembling, every breath coming in shallow gasps as the pressure builds, sharp and sweet.

“Clark…” you whimper, voice high and wrecked, so needy, so soft, so pathetic on your tongue, but it only makes his hold on you tighten.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against your skin, “Let go for me.”

That’s all it takes for you to give in.  Your legs tremble as your climax washes over you in fierce waves, every nerve ignited and alive.

Feeling you tighten around him, he buries himself deep inside again, filling you up completely.

But again, this wasn’t the end of the night. You keep fucking into the early hours of the morning because Clark’s stamina is godly. 

But you had accomplished your mission. Gone were any thoughts of the day before. All the stress, the exhaustion. All that mattered now was this. You and he, melting into one another with ease, with familiarity, with a kind of quiet devotion that needed no words.

After each orgasm, Clark kissed your skin with a reverence that made your breath catch, like every inch of you deserved worship, like he was reminding himself you were real, here, his.

***

After the dust settles, you and Clark lie together, coming down from your highs. Clark ought to have tough days more often if it meant having sex like that.

“I don’t think we stayed all that quiet,” Clark murmurs, brushing his fingers through his tousled hair, the faintest blush still lingering on his cheeks.

You groan, flopping back onto the bed. “Yeah, my neighbours are going to kill me.”

“There must be an alternative,” he says thoughtfully. “My place?”

You glance over at him, raising an eyebrow. “And have your neighbours mad at you? No thanks. Let’s keep one of our reputations intact.”

You pause mid-stretch, then slowly sit up, pressing a finger to your chin as if putting on an imaginary thinking cap. A mischievous smile begins to tug at the corners of your lips, the kind that always made Clark just a little nervous.

“I know that look.”

“We could always…,” you say, wiggling your eyebrows suggestively. You both knew exactly where that sentence was going. 

Clark lifts a brow. “We can’t have sex in the sky all the time.”

You smirk. “Some of the time.”

 “Okay… some of the time,” he agrees. 

You lay back down and rest your chin on his chest, fingers idly tracing patterns on his bare chest. “What about your ice castle?”

“The Fortress?” he chuckles. “The flight there might be a little tough on you unless you want to land with frostbite.” He pauses, thinking. “Maybe we should look for somewhere with thicker walls, you know… together.”

You blink slowly, thinking, ‘Is this really happening?’

“Clark Kent,” you say slowly, voice full of suspicion and amusement, “is this your way of asking me to move in with you?”

“It is,” he answers resolutely. He’s only the slightest bit worried you were about to tell him to kick rocks, only slightly, totally not nervous at all. 

The thought of having a place that felt as much yours as it was his. Shared routines, quiet mornings, and loud nights made something warm bloom in your chest. An assortment of both your books scattered across the coffee table, indulging his love of breakfast for dinner when you cook together, waking up tangled beside one another, no longer needing to say goodbye.

You shuffle your way around, draping yourself lazily across his body, your chin resting on his chest. “I’d love to move in with you.”

Clark’s eyes soften instantly. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” you say, grinning. “And I think that calls for a celebration.”

You slide back on top of him, straddling his waist again with a wicked smile.

He laughs, breathless. “You’re insatiable,” he says, right before pulling you back in for another kiss, arms wrapping securely around your waist.

“Wait, what about the pie? We could celebrate with that,” Clark says innocently.

“The pie? In bed?” you smirk, tilting your head. “What exactly are you planning to do to me, Clark?”

His eyes widen a little. “You know that’s not what I meant… I actually don’t even know what you’re insinuating—”

You shut him up with a kiss, slow and hot, fingers sliding into his hair. “We’ll eat it after,” you whisper against his lips.

“Dessert before dessert. Got it.”

Main Masterlist

[pr3ttybbyv]

𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐊𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐤𝐢𝐫𝐭

You like to rush things. Clark takes things slow until he can’t anymore. (Or, you attempt to seduce your coworker in a series of little skirts, and while Clark falls in love with all of you, the skirts don’t hurt.) 4k words, fem.

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

It’s mildly manipulative, what you’re doing to him. Subtle seductions stretched far and wide between weeks of work, your eyes alighting a moment too long on his lips and his neck and his arms. 

You don’t flirt. That’s important. You don’t tell him how handsome he looks when the cold has rosed his cheeks. Won’t mention the poor fit of his gray suit, how it’d look far better on a bedroom floor, or draped across a bathroom stall. Nothing severe. You’re… teasing him. 

For no reason, really. It might be frustration, but wow, wouldn’t that be introspective? You know you could never land a guy like Clark, so you pretend. Blah blah blah, it’s all very boring and your skirt is very short. 

Alright, it’s not that short. It’s the illusion of the thing. The idea that he could get a glance at something, even though the skirt has an inner lining. 

You’re not, you know, obvious about it. Clark might not be looking. But you place your hand on the counter as you reach up with the other for a mug, and you know there’s a stretch of thigh on show if nothing else, heat of a real or imaginary eye on the backs of them as you sigh softly. You genuinely can’t reach. 

You settle back on your heels and turn to find Clark not too far away. “Hey, would you help, please? If you can reach it.” 

You can’t glean any overt interest from his expression, but he says, “Sure,” with warmth on his lips, like he’d gone to say something else and let it fizzle out. 

Clark opens the cabinet door wider and reaches in for a pink mug. It has ‘sweetheart’ written on the side in white, textured font, though the script is elegant. 

“Here, sweetheart,” he says. 

You laugh, mostly to see his satisfied smile. “Thank you.” 

“Can I make it for you?” he asks. 

Clark could hang you upside down and shake you for spare change if he wanted. “You know how I like it.” 

Teasing aside, you spend the afternoon sipping at your coffee with Clark a desk away, Lois adjacent, listening to the click of tens of keyboards and the scritch of shuffled paper on the edges of desks. You work on your small cooking column in relative silence. Three recipes a week, minimum. If you do especially well, Perry lets you slide a conversational piece across his desk for reviewing. You’ve had a couple on the third page. Clark has taken the front page again this week —an exclusive interview with Superman about the Jelly-Mecha that attempted to swallow the WGBS building. 

You’re leaning back with a leg over your knee, your eyes dedicated to the little clock in the corner of your monitor, when somebody hooks the empty chair in the desk beside yours and wheels it over. Clark is sitting next to you before you can protest, a dark-sugared donut in his hands. 

“Okay?” he asks. 

“Are you sharing?”  

“Obviously.” He grins, pulling the donut in his hands apart. Sugar crumbles down into his lap, and the smell of it erupts between you. Apple-cinnamon, miraculously warm when he presses it to your fingers. 

“Thank you.”

Your quiet doesn’t perturb him. He matches your tone, “Yeah, don’t mention it.” 

“Where’s this from?” you ask, taking your first bite.

He takes his own, covering his mouth with his hand as he answers. “Beanies.” 

“That explains why it’s still warm.” 

He shrugs. You don’t get what it means but you don’t care to argue, savouring each mouthful of dough and sugar. You lick the crumbs from your fingers and the corners of your mouth. Clark ate his own half fast, ‘cos he’s a giant with an appetite you envy and revile; in your most humble opinion, it is both impressive and audacious to watch Clark house a BLT in half a minute. 

“Was that good?” he asks quietly, his eyes on your shining fingertips. 

You wipe them on the edge of his napkin. An achy heat eats at your stomach. “You’re spoiling my appetite.”

“Do you have big dinner plans?” 

“Huge! I’m testing something new tonight. Snow mountain garlic and pea risotto, for health week. It’s not particularly healthy,” you confess. “But snow mountain garlic has all these supposed special properties. Doesn’t matter if it’s true, though.” 

“Why not?” 

You like his tone. “It has more allicin. That’s what makes it taste good.” 

“Allicin is antibacterial,” he says. 

“Brilliant. Antibacterial risotto.” 

He holds your eyes for a moment, his own big and especially blue behind his straight frames. “I hope it goes well,” he says. 

It’s a measured sentence, like he’s crafted each word carefully as he said it. 

“I’ll bring you some if it does.” 

“I’d like that.” 

You hide how warming it is to be spoken to like that, carrying the feeling home with you to unravel against the stovetop. If you try harder than usual to make a good meal, it is nobody’s business but your own, and Clark’s, who sits waiting and ready at his desk the following morning. 

“Clark Kent on time?” you tease, letting the handles of your handbag fall into your elbow. “Who would’a thought we’d ever see the day?” 

“I can be punctual,” he promises. 

“Can you? Aren’t you on probation?”

“That wasn’t for tardiness, it was for sick days, and no. I’m no longer on probation.” He smiles with white, shy teeth, a peek of them from between his lips. “I’m on the straight and narrow.”

You imagine the hardness of them against your own lips as you lean in for a kiss, for a split second. The clack you’d inevitably make as your teeth knocked into his, as you hooked your arm behind his neck and dragged him down to you for some light force. 

“‘Cos you’re a good boy,” you murmur, mumble, more to yourself than him (though he is definitely meant to hear you). 

Clark’s face is still. His hands less so, a fist curling against his thigh. His smile is remarkably genuine. “Coffee?” 

Calling Clark a good boy might be flirting. Or not! What’s important is the way it softens him for the working day. How quietly awed he sounds as you unveil a Tupperware container full of risotto for him. He tells you it’s good between big bites. You want to nibble on him, taken by the curve of his bicep each time he brings up his fork, and the tip of his tongue darting out to catch a grain of rice. He’s killing you. You’re dying at the Daily Planet. 

Dramatics aside, he compliments your risotto egregiously, returning the Tupperware with a pristine shine. You don’t play short-skirt with him for days. 

When you do, the skirt is a delicate thing that isn’t as short as you’d expect considering the name of the game, but it’s nearly sheer. Standing in the right light, your hip smushed to the pillarway near his desk while Jimmy tells you about a new kind of giant slug they found living in West Africa, you assume you’re displaying what you’d seen in the mirror that morning. Given enough sunlight, the lavender fabric of your skirt goes translucent. Anyone in looking distance can make out the barest hint of your legs, their shape, a shadow of your thighs and the neat little underwear you have on beneath. You aren’t trying to harass him, but, this is Metropolis. It’s not the most conservative place when it comes to fashion. It isn’t much different to wearing a pair of daisy dukes. 

They’re cuter than denim shorts, though. Velveteen paisley overlaying plain panties. 

It’s not entirely a sex thing. It’s to feel sexy, sure, as an arm to feeling beautiful, desired. You want to know that Clark (handsome, kind, beautiful Clark) sees it, that he wants it, even if it’s a fleeting flash of lust and nothing else. 

And Clark —he doesn’t notice. Doesn’t say a word about it, doesn’t clench his fist or take in a sharp breath. 

You decide you like that just as much and return to your desk, happily ashamed. 

—

The pasta you made yesterday is far better today. The mushroom sauce has soaked into the fusilli. With a scratching of fresh cheese, you lay it over a fresh bowl of rocket and watercress, coat the entire thing in lemon juice, balsamic vinegar, olive oil, and flaky salt, and eat it enthusiastically behind your computer. 

“That smells amazing.” 

You lighten at his dulcet tone. “It’s pretty good. D’you want some?” 

“I’m trying to keep you fed, sweetheart,” Clark says, placing down your ‘sweetheart’ mug and a small plate, “not the other way around. Thank you.” 

His thank you is diligently gentle. He must work at it, to sound so docile. It has to be practised. 

The small plate homes two cupcakes. One has golden cake with a great dollop of fresh cream and cut raspberries atop it, and the other looks like a darker flavour. Ginger? The buttercream is thick and caramelised, with cookie crumbs between its peaks. 

“What have I done to deserve all this?” you ask. 

“You don’t have to do anything at all. It’s your afters. Your dessert.” 

“I haven’t done anything?” you ask. 

He shakes his head kindly. “It’s inherently deserved.” 

If he’s charming or teasing, you can’t tell. 

His eyes fall from your face. You get distracted by his details, the clean hills of his cheeks, his dark brows, sweet mouth and a sweeter nose broad enough to take a kiss or two, and you almost miss the stroke of his gaze lingering on your collar. His fingers twitch. “Can I?” he asks. 

You follow his finger. One of your straps has fallen down, leaving the simple pale elastic of your bra alone. You couldn’t have faked it better. “Sure,” you say under your breath. 

Clark hears it regardless, slipping a fingertip up your arm, a backwards tumble that threatens to send tattle-tale goosebumps over your skin. He hooks the strap under his fingers and brings it over your shoulder, pulling at it enough to make your eyes widen. Then his touch is gone, leaving a strange sensation in its place. 

“You’re dressed really pretty, today,” he says. 

You smile at the joke before you’ve said it. “As opposed to every other day,” you say. 

“This is beautiful. You look beautiful.” 

You duck your head. Sincerity in the face of your sarcasm inspires an amazingly dizzy feeling in the stem of your neck. You have to force back a smile. 

“Thank you, Clark. I’m… glad you think so,” you say eventually. There’s emphasis there for him to take or leave. 

You can see his hesitation, then, a palpable pause while he makes a decision. 

“It’s a nice skirt,” he says quietly. 

There’s nothing imposing in his tone, but there doesn’t need to be. He isn’t tall, dark, and handsome, he’s incredibly, scarily brilliant. He’s smiling at you like you’ve given him a compliment. 

“It’s a little brave,” you say. 

“Bravery suits you. Anyways,” —he touches your arm briefly— “don’t let me keep you. Eat your lunch. Hopefully your coffee won’t be too cold to enjoy when you’re finished.” 

You wish he’d press you up against a wall. He did notice the skirt. He has the self control to leave it alone, or at least to wait for you to bring it. And… yeah, that’s working for you, actually. Really working. You stood in the sunshine to give him an explicit view of your legs and he brought you cupcakes to say thank you. 

—

Apparently, there are limits to Clark Kent’s self control. 

You’re lavishing in Centennial Park under a gorgeous sun. It’s barely seventy two degrees, a tame heat for July in Metropolis, and yet the sun is hitting you just right, kissing at your skin, leaving you sated and heavy under its weight. Clark has rolled up his sleeves (a contributing factor, perhaps, to the contentness you’re carrying) and loosened his tie, sitting where you’re laying down, a sweet hand held to your knee. Today’s skirt is a bias-cut midi dress made of a dark sage green. There are bell-sleeves like petals and a neckline you aren’t worried about, not when he’s guarding you like this. You shift on your back to better feel the sun on your face, and he pulls the skirt along the inside of your thigh. Keeping it in place to protect your modesty, setting every nerve-ending you have aflame with pleasure. 

“Tell me if you feel too warm,” he says. 

“I’m not worried about the sun.” 

“What are you worried about?” 

“Oh, the usual. That some weird space creature is gonna break the atmosphere and kill us,” you croon. 

He delights in your tone, his thumb sweeping a line into your leg. “I won’t let anything kill you.” 

You’d kissed his cheek in the elevator because the line of his nose had looked rather unkissed, and his cheek had been the politer option. You hadn’t expected the quick turn of his head, or the complete lack of nonchalance about him as he’d smiled and laughed and pressed that same cheek to your temple as he’d hugged you with one arm. 

So now you’re here in the park because you hadn’t wanted him to stop touching you. The summer dress wasn’t part of your seductions but it seems to be working all the same. You’re hoping you’ll get a kiss of your own to settle the score before the sun goes down. With where his hands are resting, you aren’t sure where you want one most. One hand on your thigh, one on your knee, his body turned to you like it’s the natural thing to do. He could be generous and give you a kiss beneath both palms. You think you’d quite like that. 

“Do you worry about that a lot?” 

“Hm?” 

“The aliens… The space creatures, do you worry you’ll get hurt?” 

“Not really. We have a great protection detail, don’t we?” you ask. 

He’s quiet for a bit. “What do you think about him?”

You don’t ask, Superman? Of course he’s talking about him. “He’s extremely handsome.”

Clark laughs boisterously and shakes you by the leg. “Alright. Knock it off.” 

“Or what?” 

“Or nothing. Just knock it off.” 

He makes everything sound so satiny. 

“I wouldn’t let anything happen to you,” he adds. 

“Promise?” 

Half a joke. Clark pushes his glasses up onto his nose and finally leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your elbow where your arms are crossed over your chest. “Yeah. I promise.” 

You let him walk you home. That night, one of the star-shaped superaliens appears in the air near your apartment and then there’s a breathless Clark on the line asking if you need some company. You tell him no, ask if you can see him tomorrow when the dust settles, and he promises you that his Saturday was all yours. He actually says it, says, “I think you could ask me for anything after today and I’d try to do it for you.” He’s laughing to diffuse the weight of it, but you take it to heart. 

A Saturday turns to Sunday. A week turns to two. You and Clark trade careful kisses anywhere but the mouth and he doesn’t mention your little skirts. You keep wearing them, especially the velveteen lavender one too sheer for summer, layered over a short silk underskirt to protect your own wits. You’ve seduced him (have you?) but now you’d really like to keep him. 

It’s a Tuesday morning with little to give. The air is already warm, the tram platforms are full. You commute to the Daily Planet for another day of dedicated journalism. 

Jimmy begins the morning with praise. “I made your honeycomb macarons. I actually made them.” 

“And?” 

“And? They were amazing! You’re such a goddamn genius,” he says. 

He gives you a macaron from a tin shaped like Yoda. The cookie is sweet with that perfect, delicate crunch, and the honeycomb ganache is better than your own. You take another one from his tin, giving him a congratulatory pat on the elbow. “They’re amazing!” you say, shells and honeycomb pieces thick in your mouth. 

“What’s amazing?” 

You remember where you are urgently. 

“I made macarons,” Jimmy says. 

Clark doesn’t make fun of his pride. “Really? That’s awesome, man. Can I try one?” 

You swallow the lump in your mouth, washing it down with a quick swig of coffee. 

“Morning,” Clark says. 

“Hi. Good morning.” 

“Hi,” he says, fond. “How has your day been so far?” 

You lick your lips without thinking, sweetness lingering in the stick of your lipgloss. “It was good, yeah. The tram was hot.” 

“You look good.” 

Jimmy wrinkles his nose. “Guys, we talked about this.” 

“‘Bout what?” Clark asks, finishing his macaron in one bite. 

Jimmy is kind enough to roll his eyes and leave it alone, wandering off with his tin clutched to his chest. Clark rolls his eyes too, a secret gesture that has you laughing through your nose. 

“You do look good,” he says again. 

You look down in mild bewilderment. “It’s laundry day.” 

You’re in a pair of black slacks that threaten to slip off your hips at any moment and a button up that should be tight to the waist but unfortunately isn’t. You’d saved the outfit with a necklace and a handful of jewelled rings, but it’s nothing like the stuff you’ve been wearing as of late. Of course he’d notice. 

“This…” He raises a hand to your hip but doesn’t touch.

“What?” 

His thumb presses to a slip of skin so small you hadn’t noticed it was visible. His brow creases like he’s been burned, yet his hand remains where it is. After a heavy second, he squeezes, and he says something too quiet to hear to himself. 

“Clark?” you ask tentatively. “You okay?”

“You have no clue… no clue what you do to me.” 

His eyes are all on you. Deep, indigo-blue. 

Heat leeches up your neck. Your heart capers suddenly. “What do I do to you?” you ask, your tentativeness turned to silk.  

“Don’t.” 

“What do I do, honey?” you ask, nearly whispering now. “I don’t have a clue, right? So tell me, then, what I do to you?”

“What am I supposed to do?” His fingers adjust against your hip. “Why would you do this here?” Clark’s voice breaks with a put-upon heartache. He’s still smiling. “What am I supposed to do, here?” 

“Take me somewhere else.” 

His hand falls away from your hip. You can feel where his fingers had shaped your skin for minutes afterward, following him with a poorly faked casualness to the elevator. 

He hits the button for the basement as you step in. 

“I think they’re still printing,” you say. The mock-up copies get made in the basement, and it’s an all day affair. “It’ll be as busy there as it is–”

No sooner has the elevator started moving than Clark is hitting the emergency stop. 

“Clark!” you say. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

He doesn’t laugh. You lean away from him to take in his long body, his grey suit and red tie and the wetted run of his bottom lip. He has honeycomb in the very corner of his mouth. 

You raise your hand to wipe it away. 

“Yeah, okay,” you say, tilting your chin up slowly. 

Clark grabs two great, heaping, greedy handfuls of your back, long fingers spread out and guiding you in for a kiss you aren’t expecting. There’s genuine hunger there, your teeth clicking as you’d always imagined, a voracious sort of meeting that quickly gentles. He lets out a sigh against your lips and melts against you like a stick of butter over a flame, lax, a hand traversing upward and over and– and his mouth, his kisses are these open, warm mouthings you meet with a stammering heart. This isn’t the slip of control you’d imagined it to be. 

Clark’s kissing you without an ending in mind. You can feel it in the tenderness of his open palm, seemingly laid to sleep at the small of your back. 

“How long does that work?” you ask in a murmur, your lips happily stung. 

“I don’t know. I’ve never done that before.” 

“Really?” 

“When would I have had reason to try?” Clark asks, cupping your cheek in his hand. “You’re so pretty.” He steals another quick kiss. “Do you know that?” 

“I can’t believe this is what got you to crack,” you laugh. 

His eyebrows pinch. “What?” 

“This,” you gesture to your clothes. “Of all the things I’ve worn.” 

“I don’t understand.” Though it’s dawning on his face quickly. “Oh. You– The… Oh.” 

His neck goes all shades of rose. 

“Sorry,” you whisper. 

He tips your head back nicely. “For what? I would’ve cracked anyway. You could’ve worn anything, but… The little purple skirt, that was for me?” 

You press your flushed face to his chest, arms crossing lazily behind a strong neck. “Clark…” you mumble. 

He digs his face into your neck to kiss the softness beneath your ear. You’re surprised he doesn’t whine your name back to you, what with the mood he’s in, but Clark’s got a propensity for sweetness that won’t quit. 

“On purpose,” he whispers, vindicated. “I knew it.” 

The elevator chugs back to life. 

—

You are delightfully, blissfully human. There comes a time when you need saving, and it just so happens that Metropolis brags its very own (and very only) Krypton superbeing. One minute you’re being squeezed in the fist of a raspberry-furred mega fox thing, and the next you’ve been freed and grabbed and propelled through the air in arms that feel oddly familiar. 

“Miss, are you okay? Miss? Miss, are you alright?” 

You look down at the ants of your city and nearly puke up your dinner. “Oh my fuck,” you squeeze out. 

“I’m sorry! I’m taking you back down. There’s a girl, breathe in for me. Deep breaths.” 

You can hardly breathe at all, but your shallow breaths earn you a thank you and a proud pat on the back. Your legs are shaking so hard at touchdown that Superman has to physically arrange them beneath you, his arm glued to the small of your back when you list unsteadily. 

“You’re okay,” Superman assures you. 

His little curl is ever so darling. “Like Clark’s,” you say unthinkingly, wrapping the short strands of hair around your finger. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, generously ignoring your moment of delusion. 

“I thought I was gonna die.” You blanche, glancing back over your shoulder for signs of the megafox. “Fuck.” 

“Everything’s fine, now. I promise you.” 

You take a deep breath. Superman holds you by both shoulders, forcing you to copy a second, deeper breath, then a third. 

“Good girl,” he murmurs. 

Too much like Clark. “My boyfriend, he was–”

“Everyone’s safe.” 

You let out a shaky breath. The last of your panic ebbs from your shoulders. “Okay.” 

“Okay?” 

“Yeah, thank you. For saving me. Thank you so much.” 

“You don’t have to thank me for anything,” he says. His voice goes bendy and weak. 

“I really do. If I died in this skirt, my boyfriend would never forgive me.” 

Superman gives you an appraisal, up and down. Heat flares in your stomach and refuses to cool as he smiles. “Wouldn’t wanna ruin a skirt like that,” he says knowingly. 

You shake your head, not without fondness.

All boys are the same. 

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed <3 and thank you Bec for reading it twice at different times

[pr3ttybbyv]

good taste , clark kent

note, okay, guys wow you really enjoyed the last little thing i wrote. i love you all, thank you so much!! i've now seen the movie, so expect more stuff!! pair, clark kent / superman (2025) x reader summary, clark can't get drunk, so whenever you go out with friends, he's always there to make sure you're okay. warnings, drinking, alcohol, getting drunk word count, 1024 words (sorry it’s shorter)

(gif not mine)

The cup in his hand was beginning to get slippery as the ice melted. He set it down, wiping his hand on the napkin before his eyes went back to the dance floor.

This was not how Clark imagined his Friday would go. He wanted to get home, put his feet up, throw a pizza in the oven, or order if you were feeling fancy, watch movies still you fell asleep, and that would be his night.

Instead, he found himself sitting in the back of some bar, drinking a lukewarm cup of whatever, watching you to make sure no one got too close to you or your friends.

He didn't have to come; in fact, he invited himself.

When you walked through the door with Clark trailing behind, your friends moaned and groaned because it was supposed to be a girls' night. But, Clark managed to convince them to let him stay with the promise of driving everyone home. And how could they say no to a Clark Kent smile?

So, he sat in the back of the bar, sipping a lukewarm drink, eating some stale chips, and watching you. He couldn't help the smile that was growing as he watched you dance freely with your friends.

He straightened up in his seat as you headed over to the bar. You greeted the bartender with a polite smile, ordering your drink, then going back to your friends.

He deflated when you got back safely, going back to his stale chips. With all his attention on you, he totally missed the girl walking over to his table until she put her hand on his shoulder.

He flinched, almost jumping out of his seat as he whipped around to her. He stared at her with wide eyes, "Hiya, hotstuff." Clark winced at her bad pickup line, trying to push her hands off of him.

"Ma'am." He nodded, trying to find you in the crowd. He cursed to himself when he couldn't find you.

"Who're you looking for?" The girl pushed her hands onto his shoulders, messing around with his shirt.

Clark ignored her, pushing her hands off and standing to his full height. He fixed his glasses and straightened out his shirt before walking away from the table he had been sitting at and leaving the girl behind.

"What the hell?" The girl outraged, running back to her friends. He could hear her complaining about what a douchebag he was, but he didn't care about any of it.

His eyes moved around the bar, trying to find you. He was losing hope, and honestly, he was beginning to panic. He looked away for maybe 5 seconds, and he managed to lose you.

"Clark?" He heard a familiar voice, and suddenly, calm washed over him, and everything returned to normal.

When he turned around to your confused and worried face, he let out a relieved noise and wrapped his arms around you. You let out a noise in surprise when he picked you up and lifted you off the ground.

"Oh!" You wrapped your arms around his neck, clinging to him, "Are you okay? You looked kinda worried." You pulled away and looked into his eyes.

"'S nothing." He shook his head, "Just happy you're here." He hummed happily.

"All right," You were still confused, "I got you a shot, though. I was trying to find you, but you weren't at the table."

"Yeah..." He scratched the back of his neck, pulling away from the hug and setting you back down on the ground. "Just needed to stretch my legs." He didn't want to bring up the girl because while he might have been nice about it, you wouldn't be if you had found out.

"Huh." You nodded, raising a brow and studying him, but letting it go, "Here you go." You handed him the shot.

He shot it back, putting on a show of wincing before looking back to you, "So, do you girls think you'll be done anytime soon?"

"Why? Don't tell me you're getting tired on me, Clark." You joked, crossing your arms with a teasing smile.

"No, ma'am." He shook his head with an equally teasing smile, "Just wondering when I'm gonna have the become the chauffeur." He joked.

"Soon, probably." You reassured, glancing back at your friends who barely even noticed you were gone, "They're all sort of far gone." You could feel a buzz in your head, but you weren't fully drunk yet.

"All right, I'll wait over at that table." He pointed to a different table in the opposite corner.

"Did something happen at the other table that I should know about, Clark?" You raised a curious brow.

"No," He shook his head, "Go have fun." He kissed your head, sending you on your way back to your friends.

He took a seat on the empty stool that would give him the best view of you. People probably thought he was a creep, just sitting there and watching you, but he didn't mind.

His smile brightened when you made your way over and plopped yourself onto a stool right next to him. "Tired of dancing?" He asked.

"My feet hurt." You moaned in pain, lifting your foot up and taking off your shoes. He reached down wordlessly, lifting one of your feet into his lap and helping you take your shoe off.

"So, what happened at the other table?" You leaned your head into the palm of your hand and looked at him.

"Nothing." He shook his head.

"Clark, I know you." You tilted your head to the side, "What happened?"

He took a breath, beginning to rub your foot that was in his lap, "There was a girl." You nodded. "I ignored her, and that's why I moved tables." He shrugged.

"Okay," You nodded.

"Okay?" He looked surprised. "That's all you have to say?"

"Clark, you sat here all night watching me and my friends, and now you're rubbing my feet. I think we're pretty stuck together." You joked, leaning forward and cupping his chin, "But, I have to admit, she has good taste." He rolled his eyes.

-

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(if you filled out my last taglist... i'm sorry you have to fill it out again because i forgot to add the spot for usernames 😭)

[pr3ttybbyv]

who's calling my phone? ˏˋ°•*⁀➷✆

Clark Kent x receptionist!Reader (gn!!!)

summary: clark has a crush on the daily planet's receptionist.

note: i realized halfway through the daily planet probably does not have several floors but ohhh well.

The shrill ring of the Daily Planet's front desk phone was beginning to irritate Clark's eardrums. His right hand rose to pinch his nose bridge as his other slightly crinkled the papers he was holding. Sure, he could just stop listening so intently - the sound was coming all the way from the first floor, after all - but he didn't want to miss anything. To him, the front desk was the hub of the Daily Planet; of course, most of the action was on the upper floors, where the staff resided. But all of the important things existed at the ground level. It was where information came in, where the latest news went out, and - most important to Clark - where you stayed.

While Clark's eyes had been glued to his computer screen for far longer than could be healthy, his ears had been trained on you. He could stand the piercing peal of the phone because every call meant another chance to listen to your melodic voice answering it. His fingers twitched over his keyboard as the 67th Hello, you've reached the Daily Planet. How can we inform you? of the day reached his ears.

It wasn't the most practical thing, but Clark's activity at work had largely been dictated by you. When he would finally make progress with his tardiness, he'd come a bit late on purpose just so you could greet him instead of the security guard. If he was stuck on the prose of an article, he'd imagine you reading it out to him. It always sounded better that way. The most egregious of them all was when he'd occasionally force his floor's printer to jam. It gave him an excuse to come down - still, strangely, passing other levels on the way - and talk to you while using yours. At first, it was met with confusion; the Daily Planet was almost exclusively digital at this point. But eventually, everyone moved on. Clark was always strange and insisting on a paper format was the least of his quirks.

Today though, Clark couldn't really afford to pull any tricks to get to see you. He needed to figure out this article or the only face he'd see was Perry's stern scowl. Clark sighed and collapsed backwards into his desk chair, dispelling the hunch he'd been sporting for what felt like hours. As he raised his arms above his head to extend his spine, he let out a dramatic groan. Jimmy took the sound as his cue to spin around in his own chair to face Clark.

"Need a break, buddy?" Jimmy nudged, slightly condescending, but still friendly. Instead of speaking - that would drown out the call you were having about sending a reporter out to some community event - Clark simply groaned again.

"You two can go grab me some coffee if you need enrichment time," Lois hadn't even lifted her head from the copy she was skimming, but the men weren't surprised she was listening. Lois was always listening. Jimmy scrunched up his face at the prospect of being sent on an errand.

"Why would we leave when there's a coffee maker," Jimmy squinted one eye as he gauged the distance, "ten feet away?" Lois sighed and turned in her chair with a look that implied Jimmy was stupid for asking. Clark was largely checked out of the conversation, still too consumed in eavesdropping on yours to care about where Lois' coffee came from.

"Because Perry is being a cheapskate this month and won't buy the kind I like." Lois clicked her pen as though it punctuated her statement. "And you guys love me."

"Is that love reciprocated?" At Lois' playful nod, Jimmy exhaled theatrically. "Okay. Fine. A large from Mocha Mill?"

Before Jimmy even finished or Lois could respond, it was like Clark had returned from the dead. His eyes shot up from burning a hole into the floor to staring Lois down intensely.

"We're going to Mocha Mill?" Jimmy would have laughed at Clark's fervor if it didn't unnerve him.

"Well, you were so out of it I thought it was gonna end up being just me. But, sure, we're going to Mocha Mill."

"It's my favorite coffee spot," Lois raised an eyebrow.

Clark shot up, their words hardly registering in his mind. Forget Lois, it was your favorite coffee spot. Or so you’d told your friend on the phone during a break last week. He adjusted his glasses, primed his curl, and marched towards the elevator, leaving behind a messy desk and an addled Jimmy to scramble after him.

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|၊၊||၊|။||။‌‌‌‌‌|၊။‌• 3:42 minutes later

You love your job. A lot of people think you're just here because you couldn't make it as a journalist or anything else. But, really, you love it. You love watching the world go by through the ginormous front windows. You love being able to sit back and relax on slow days. You love talking to new people everyday and solving their problems. Your favorite person to solve problems for is that Clark Kent. He's a sweetheart. Even on days when he's running late and surely not having the best time, he makes sure to greet you. It feels like he really means it when he asks how you are, too.

You're not ashamed to admit you have a little crush on him. Your search history would do it for you anyway. Combing through the entire Daily Planet website to find a name to match the face, then clicking on any article with his name on it. You definitely know more about Superman than the average person; he seems to be Clark's favorite subject. Clark writes about the hero with such reverence, it makes you wish he'd write - and think - about you in that way, too.

The sound of shoes squeaking draws your attention, but it's normal for the office, so you opt to ignore it in favor of fantasizing about Clark. You usually don't let yourself fall into these sorts of thoughts, out of respect for him, but today you can't seem to help it. Just look at the man (you do, a lot). His physique is so large - his hands, his muscles - but his heart and mind equally so. He makes it so hard to stay professional when all you really want to do is jump across your desk and take him.

As the squeaking grows faster and closer, you begin to think your imagination is more potent than you thought. The sound of shoes against floor halts as the gorgeous man in front of you comes to a stop. Your mouth hangs open slightly as you zero in on his doing the same, although with more intent.

"We're going to get coffee," Clark states bluntly, with a smile around the words. You compose yourself and dim your computer screen in embarrassment. You still have one of his articles up - something about climate change? - and it's far too old for you to be reading with no reason. Your eyes dart between Clark and Jimmy, who has just appeared, looking disheveled.

"Okay, no worries. You guys have your badges right?" You're prepared to let them back in if they don't, which is probably why Clark decided to let you know. You tense slightly when his brows furrow at you. He goes to speak but is cut off by Jimmy.

"Yup, we'll be back," Jimmy says casually as he slips his badge out of his pocket for proof. He begins walking towards the door, not realizing Clark is still rooted at his spot in front of you.

"Would you like something?" is such a simple courtesy but when Clark says it, you want to melt. He takes your silence as hesitance and tacks on, "We're going to the Mocha Mill." And that's all it takes. He says it with such intention it feels like he looked into your soul and found the way to get there.

"Oh my goodness, yes, please! That's my favorite coffee shop," You worry he thinks you're more excited about the coffee than just talking to him. He doesn't seem to mind, though. His beautiful lips quirk into a smile and all you want to do is kiss it bigger. You glance behind him briefly to see a frustrated Jimmy waving wildly through the windows. He rolls his eyes and stomps off out of view, presumably towards the coffee shop. You focus your attention back on Clark who is beaming down on you.

"I know." You're not sure how he does, and Clark is quick to catch himself. "I'm pretty sure you told me once. I came down here when the printer was, a-uh...broken." He tries to keep his tone nonchalant as to not to spook you, but rethinks it immediately. He wants you to know he cares. Just maybe not so intensely.

"Oh, probably," you say, thinking nothing of it. You like your conversations with Clark; he disarms you. You tell him so. "I really like talking to you. You make it so easy, that's probably why I spill my guts." A coffee shop preference is hardly "your guts," but everything feels bigger with Clark.

"Hey," Clark begins, hesitant. He's stupid for saying that, he thinks, you two were already talking. There's no need to start over. The regret fades immediately when he sees how you perk up at the single word. He continues, "I know you're on the clock, really we both are, but maybe some other time we could grab coffee? Together, I mean." He stumbles through the request. It's endearing

"Ahh, I don't know," you tease, sure you've got him now. You feel a bit bad at the way he deflates and amend your words. "Maybe lunch instead? I'm kind of tired of our talks being so brief. Y'know?" It takes a second for Clark to realize you do want to go out with him, but when he does his grin is dazzling.

"Oh. Yeah. Okay." He doesn't know what to do with himself and, frankly, neither do you. You're trying to find a comfortable way to rest your arms and ultimately settle on splaying them across your keyboard. It's awkward and not at all ideal. Luckily, you don't have to hold it for long. Clark, having long forgotten Lois' coffee, takes it upon himself to circle around to stand behind your desk.

You realize, in this moment, he's never been so close in your space before. Information is relayed and supplies are passed over your desk. You think you would be more nervous if Clark wasn't so...him. His presence is so naturally comforting, it feels like he belongs in your space. You like the feeling.

He leans himself against the desk right next to your computer. You're grateful you darkened the screen when you had. Clark's placement means you have to crane your neck to look at him from your seated position. Your eye line lands right at his sturdy arm that props him up against the table's surface. You want it. You want him. Jeez, you think, take him out to dinner first. Or lunch. Which is what you're doing. With him. On a date. On a date? Are you going on a date with Clark Kent? He said okay. What does okay even mean? Fuck.

Apparently, you voiced your line of thought, or at least part of it. Clark releases a rumbling laugh at whatever you had said, crossing his arms as he does. The act only puts more emphasis on his already bulging biceps. You think you could die right here. You wouldn't mind this being your last sight, Clark smiling and flexing and just being beautiful.

He was talking again. You tried to listen this time. You're successful. You listen so well you don't realize how time is passing. Neither does Clark. Before either of you know it, Jimmy comes back with four coffees - he took the courtesy of grabbing you one - and drags Clark away from you and back to his work.

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|၊၊||၊|။||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|၊၊||၊|။||။‌‌‌‌‌|၊။‌• 8:39:25 hours later

You let out a gentle sigh as you set the phone handset back onto its base. The clock on its display reads 8:56. You don't have to be here much longer. You're not really sure when you have to be here; you start at 7 AM, but the end time is always a little fuzzy. On days you have nothing better to do, you wait for Clark. You've never left together, but you at least see him when he does. This is one of those days.

Just as you settle into your chair again, the phone blares at you. You huff. Yes, it's your job, but nobody needs to be calling this late. You brace yourself to use your customer service voice before lifting the handset.

"Good evening-" emphasis on the evening, "you've reached the Daily Planet. How can we inform you?" If they need information, you think bitterly, they should just try Google. As soon as you hear the voice on the other end, though, you know you'll tell him anything he wants to know.

"Yes, hello. This is Clark Kent," he declares, feigning professionalism. "Journalist, reporter, champion, hero to the people-" You stop him there with a snort.

"Yea, right. And who have you saved?" He doesn't say anything for a moment, but you can faintly hear him snickering into the phone. After a few seconds, he clears his throat.

"Well, not a who, but I have saved our evening." Clark sounds more nervous now. You think it over and assume he means saving the two of you from boredom by heading home. You're not surprised he knows that you await his departure most evenings.

"Oh, finally," you play up the drama. "My hero has arrived. I'll start packing up." You're ready to hang up the phone when you catch Clark's voice again.

"Okay, perfect. Would you rather have Italian or Chinese?" Huh? You'd said that out loud, you realize, and it sounded very bewildered. You can almost hear the confidence seeping out of Clark's voice. "Well, I just- I thought, since we're both still here, we could move up our lunch date. To tonight. Sorry, I thought we were on the same page there." You immediately feel bad. But also amazing. He wants to go on a date with you, right now. You try to redeem yourself.

"Uhh, surprise me," you can't keep the giddiness out of your voice. Clark lets himself chuckle again at that. To make sure he knows you want to as much as he does, you tell him, "I can't wait."

"You don't have to," is his immediate reply. "I'll be down in a minute. Not even. Bye."

"Bye," you say, and neither of you hang up. You bite the inside of your cheek at how cute it is. Then you realize he's probably on his cell phone and just forgot to end the call. Not that gently, you replace the handset on the base and flutter around your workspace to collect your stuff.

Of course, Clark meant it when he said he'd be down soon and makes it to you before you're ready. Always the gentleman, he helps you finish cleaning and swings your bag over his right shoulder next to his own. He reaches his left hand out to you and beams when you take it. You love his smile. He likes making you smile.

Clark leads you through the glass double doors, using his right hand to hold one open for you. He waves good night to the security guard using his left hand, meaning your right hand comes with. The wave turns into more of a Look at us! and both of you preen at the thought.

You have each other's phone numbers by the end of the night. You tell Clark to promise not to call your cellphone during work hours. He agrees, but the number of calls the Daily Planet gets from a certain wireless number skyrockets.

[pr3ttybbyv]

frat!rafe x goldengirl!reader

Dress Code

It started with a dress code violation—at least, that’s what he called it.

“Skirt’s a little short, don’t you think?” Rafe muttered as she breezed past the poolside cabana, hair glossy and sunglasses oversized, lips shiny and pink like she was selling something. She didn’t even slow down.

“And your mouth’s still a little too open, don’t you think?”

Topper wheezed. Kelce muttered, “Oh my god,” like he’d been through this before. Because he had. Every time she showed up at the club. Every time Rafe was already there. They clashed like it was sport, both too rich and too pretty to be ignored.

She dropped her purse on the lounge chair beside her brother and slid her sunglasses up onto her head, giving Rafe a once-over like he was a wine she’d never order.

“You’re still wearing those stupid boat shoes?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.

“They’re classic.”

“They’re tired.”

“You’re annoying.”

“You’re obsessed.”

Topper looked between them, sipping his beer. “This is, like, a mating ritual, right?”

Kelce groaned. “Shut up.”

She grabbed a lemon water from the cooler like she hadn’t just set the whole patio on fire. Rafe leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, jaw clenched. She always did this—walked in like a hurricane wrapped in white linen and lip gloss, flipping his world inside out without even meaning to. Or maybe she did. Maybe that was the worst part. She liked getting under his skin.

“You’re not even a member,” he called after her. “You just leech off your brother’s name.”

She didn’t turn around. “Still more useful than leeching off your dad’s last brain cell.”

That one stung. Not that he’d let it show.

It was always like this. Snapping, clawing, pretending not to notice how close they got when they argued. She hated his smirk, his voice, his existence. He hated the way her perfume lingered after she left, how every guy in the room looked at her like she was the only thing worth staring at.

Later, after the sun had dropped low and most of the club crowd had cleared out, Rafe found her by the tennis courts. Alone. Her heels were off, hair a little messier, gloss faded. She didn’t see him at first.

“You stalking me now?” she asked when she finally did, not moving from the bench.

“Just making sure you didn’t trip over your ego and crack your head open.”

“Aw. You care.”

He laughed—dry and humorless. “No. I just don’t want Kelce blaming me if you bleed on the clay.”

She looked at him then, really looked. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway, skin sun-kissed, that same stupid gold chain catching the court lights. He was hot. That was the problem. He was hot and arrogant and loud and wrong for her in every way.

“You know,” she said slowly, “if you hate me so much, you sure do spend a lot of time hovering.”

He stepped closer. Not touching. Just there.

“And if you hate me,” he said, voice lower now, “why’d you come sit where I could find you?”

She didn’t have a good answer.

Neither of them moved.

The silence stretched, hot and heavy.

He looked down at her legs, bare and crossed at the ankle. Her skirt was still short. His mouth twitched.

“You should go,” he said finally, throat tight.

“You first.”

He didn’t. She didn’t.

And when Kelce came looking twenty minutes later, neither of them had moved an inch—but the air between them was different. Charged. Dangerous.

They still hated each other.

They just weren’t sure what kind of hate it was anymore.

tags: @amelialovesrafe @alyisdead @illumoria @blissfulbutterfliess @sydneysslove @sc04 @matthewswifeyy @meetmeintheemeraldpool @lcversvoid @honeyinthesummer @dolli333 @lolabunnyworldss @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @rafessbaby @rafesbabygirlx @cokewithcameron @drewrry @harubunnyyy @ellayahhs @lifeonawhim @usseraloo

[pr3ttybbyv]

cw. porn with no plot.

yes, the idea of reader getting used as a fleshlight is fantastic, but what about reader using him as a dildo? not worried about his pleasure. you're only fucking him because he's a loser with a huge cock.

you're stuffing your panties (lacy, soaked through, reeking of your perfect pussy) into his face in a failed attempt to stifle his loud, unabashed moans. he definitely hasn't been fucked before, if so, not like this. due to his inexperience, he's probably came way too many times already inside you, and so you're bouncing on his fat, slimy cock with cum sloshing inside you and leaking with every bounce onto his pelvis.

"oh fuck- shut up, will you? i'm t-trying... mmnh... to focus," you manage out. trying to sound stern is basically an impossibility when you've got his cock smushed inside you to the hilt.

his hands are fisted in the sheets, knuckles white, thighs trembling beneath you as you sink down on him and then rock your hips back and forth while completely stuffed. this method doesn't give him as much pleasure as it does for you, but you don't care. this isn't for his pleasure, or your connection. all you care about is how deep he hits when you sink all the way, how your cunt's clenching so tight he can't stop shaking.

"f-fuck-!" he whines again pathetically through the lace in his mouth, drool soaking the crotch of your panties where they're pressed over his mouth and nose. his eyes are wide, glassy, fixed on the place where you meet him. it's humiliating how desperate he looks.

"you like getting used, huh?" you pant, beginning to bounce again so the overstimulation hits once more. you let his big, drooling cock drag and catch with each rough bounce. it makes that slick, wet sound every time you move.

"ah- ye-yeah, like it soooo much," he moans so loud it vibrates through your soaked panties, tries to say something, but you shove your panties harder into his face so you don't hear what shit he has to say. his cock pulses again and you can feel more warmth spill out of you, overflowing from the tip, dripping down to his balls in glooping heaps. "such a -shit- big fucking cock wasted on a nobody like ngh! you. y-you don't deserve it."

your voice cracks halfway through but you don't stop or pretend this is anything but using him like he's just a toy that happens to twitch and moan and cum without your permission. your hands are braced on his chest for balance, his skin hot and slick under your palms from how hard he's sweating, poor thing.

you push the underwear just enough to see his eyes, which are teary and rolled back. his eyes clamp shut when you drop down especially hard, and his whole body jerks like he's seizing. his stomach tightens under your hands but the second you grind down again deep, slow and mean, he lets out a strangled sob into your panties, soaked through with spit and the sharp scent of your cunt.

"mmnh, fuck, look at you," you breathe out, "you're crying, sweetheart. is it too much?" you coo mockingly, dragging your hips up until just his swollen tip is nestled at the edge of your cunt, nearly pulling out. the area where his cockhead enters you is smeared in cum and slick. he scrabbles at your arms, needing to be back inside you. then, without warning, you slam back down, clamping hard on him.

he screams behind the fabric. legs kicking. you begin grinding down hard as punishment until you feel another twitch inside you, his cock thickening, spurting another weak, creamy load. his fifth? sixth? doesn't matter.