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yepperoniro · 17 days ago

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PUSHING THE CLUELESS OMNI!MARK AGENDA

he was convinced he understood everything there was to understand about humans. their nervous postures, their insecure overcompensations, their erratic tone shifts and overreliance on emotion. he memorized their social tics with clinical detachment, mimicking them only when protocol demanded he pass for one of them. affection, impulse, romance were categories in a report, occasional side effects of a species conditioned by fragility and hormonal disorder. he’d been told women were soft, nurturing, illogical things who’d want to be near him simply because he was strong, and strong meant good, and good meant desirable. and he didn’t question it because no one around him contradicted that narrative.

mark took to that cold cognitive dissection of everything and everyone, naturally. he watched boys his age trip over themselves trying to flirt with girls at school, slouching, lying, bragging, sweating. it was pitiful. even if his father hadn’t forbidden personal attachments, mark couldn’t imagine ever lowering himself to such a mortifying state of disarray. he was above all that.

you moved in during late summer, on a sweltering saturday morning. your family’s suv was parked crooked in the driveway with the car doors open, stereo playing something half-dance, half-pop. suburban neighbors emerged with polite interest, dogs barked from porches. mark was descending over the backyard, mud still on his boots from handling a sinkhole in south america. his body stalled halfway. for the first time in years, he forgot to land properly and crushed a section of the lawn near the hydrangeas.

he tried to rationalize it. you were just... new. a statistical anomaly. yes, you were exceptionally attractive. he could admit that. the symmetry of your features was objectively pleasing. your voice had an almost melodic cadence. you wore perfume he couldn’t place, something faint and sugary that lingered in the breeze long after you’d walked away. you tilted your head when you listened. you talked to birds, opened your windows too wide, offered him cookies one evening because you “made too many.”

he accepted and stood there dumbly in his front yard holding a paper plate, heat gathering in his ears. you asked him what kind he liked best and he blinked, uncomprehending. cookies? he wasn’t sure he had a favorite. omni-man never brought dessert home. he ended up mumbling “chocolate chip?”

he hadn’t understood you were flirting with him until he found himself late one night scrolling through a medical forum that broke down nonverbal indicators of romantic interest. pupil dilation, open body language, microexpressions and then something clicked in his brain when he read that prolonged eye contact coupled with upward lip tilt and sustained proximity often signaled attraction, because he remembered the way you lingered near his locker after class even when yours was in the opposite direction, and suddenly every soft laugh, every question you asked about his day, every compliment about his shirt or his height or his voice collapsed into a single, undeniable truth he’d been too ignorant or too arrogant to name: you liked him, and he hadn’t even noticed.

um ew? at first, the realization didn’t inspire relief or thrill. it provoked discomfort, defensive scorn. mark responded the way a machine would to the detection of a virus: with diagnostic shutdown. he didn’t speak to you in class after that. when you knocked on his door to return a physics book he’d left in the library, he stared at you through the peephole for several seconds before saying he wasn’t home. you left it on the porch with a sticky note that said “wrong house?”

he was trying to survive the sense of invasion. you had accessed some backchannel of his perception and without even knowing it, made yourself unforgettable. he hated that. your face had been uploaded into some unwelcome quadrant of his brain. he remembered too much of you. what shoes you wore. the sound of your mouth when you chewed gum. the strand of hair you always tucked behind your left ear and not your right. and it kept building, growing teeth and resisting erasure. this happened in spite of his deliberate attempts to isolate himself. mark began eating lunch outside again, asked to change lab partners, ignored your texts. ignored his reaction to ignoring your texts.

until that thursday when he really, truly didn’t mean to fly over your house. it was an instinctual shortcut, low-altitude familiarity. at least that’s what he tells himself when his chest tightens at the sight of your house. shortcuts are natural, instincts are habits, and habits are hard to break. he wasn’t circling your neighborhood like some lunatic dog with its nose in the dirt, desperate to catch the perfume of your existence again. he totally wasn’t tracing the perimeter of your roof just to feel that strange pulse of chemical idiocy behind his ribs. it’s chance, it has to be. but then he sees your window, and chance stops being believable.

he wasn’t expecting to see anything at all, because your curtains were usually drawn by then. but this was... new.

you’re inside, towel on the floor, nothing covering you but blue lace that clings at your hips. it’s sheer enough to give no protection at all. your breasts are damp from the shower, droplets sliding off your skin, the delicate outline of your nipples tightening against the chill. your stomach moves with every breath, smooth and soft in a way that makes his teeth clench. your skin is still damp, hair dripping down your back, fingers skimming the underswell of your breast for no one but yourself. your movements are casual, unhurried, like this is the only way you know how to exist.

your bed is crowded with stuffed animals, and he watches you reach for one suddenly, flipping it around so it doesn’t face you while you stand in front of the mirror. it’s such a small thing, almost silly, but it makes his pulse stutter in his throat.

he didn’t understand what his body did next because he wasn’t inside of it anymore. his brain lit up in violent, premature instinct. his entire torso stung, lungs locked. he hovered, barely processing anything except the fact that he was witnessing something he was not prepared for and could never forget. a small part of him screamed go but it was muted by something even older and hungrier.

he’d seen injuries that exposed bone, skin torn off. muscle separated. never had his stomach folded into itself in fear or reverence or heat. never had his hips twitched forward against gravity. it was unbearable. unspeakable. disgusting. and exhilarating.

his eyes burned from not blinking, fixed on the lazy, unselfconscious way you existed in that space. condensation streaked the glass, catching little flashes of your skin through the blur, but the gaps were enough. too much. he didn’t even realize he’d gotten hard until he felt the painful tension behind his fly, his belt clenching, his legs stiffening involuntarily in midair. he shot upward, eyes wide, mouth shut, barely breathing. after that, nothing was the same.

after that, the world had a before and an after, and he knew exactly where the line had been drawn.

he doesn’t really deal with the situation well, because he doesn’t even have a category for it. it’s the first time his body has ever betrayed him like that, and the shock of it leaves him rattled. he knows the mechanics in the most detached sense from health class, whispered jokes from kids at school, diagrams in textbooks, but those were abstractions, things that never applied to him. he figured himself immune, the way he thought he was above every other messy impulse of human anatomy.

so when he gets home, the ache between his legs still hasn’t gone away. his cock is stiff, swollen, pressing uncomfortably against the inside of his jeans. he doesn’t even know what to do with it, so he paces his room for a while, heart thundering as he replays your body in his head against his will. eventually, instinct wins over his stubbornness. he washes his hands three times, avoids looking at his reflection, avoids thinking about what it means that you were the catalyst. it feels disgusting, exhilarating, terrifying, all at once. he swears to himself he won’t do it again. of course, he will.

three days later, he still hasn’t stopped thinking about it. it makes him restless, short-tempered, sharper with his mom than usual. debbie notices but he keeps himself closed off, stiff the way his father always was. eventually, though, curiosity cuts through his pride.

he finds her in the kitchen, bent over the sink, and stands there too long before saying anything. his voice comes out too flat, too abrupt, as if that will disguise what he’s asking. “how do you… talk to a girl?”

she looks up at him, startled, unsure if he was joking. when she realizes he isn’t, there’s a pause that makes him itch. she softens in the way she always does, ready to explain, but he’s already bristling, defensive, regretting the question. he doesn’t want her sentimentality or her cooing about feelings or being yourself. he wants rules, steps, and procedure.

the way he stares at her reminds her too much of nolan. she swallows, forces a smile, and asks him what kind of girl he’s talking about. he doesn’t answer. he just mutters something about wanting to know the right way, not wanting to… mess it up.

she knows if she says the wrong thing he’ll shut down completely. so she keeps her voice level, gentle but not indulgent, the way she used to talk to him when he was a little boy who wouldn’t admit he was scared.

she tells him that girls don’t need speeches, they don’t need something rehearsed, they just want to feel like you’re actually seeing them. she says don’t treat her like she’s beneath you, don’t act like you already know who she is. ask her questions. listen to what she says. notice the things she does that nobody else does. debbie doesn’t use the word respect because she knows he thinks he already understands that. instead she says, you have to make her feel like she matters, even if you’re nervous or don’t know what you’re doing. that’s the part she’ll remember.

he doesn’t thank her. he only nods, and goes back upstairs. later that night, alone in his room, he repeats her words to himself, testing them against the memory of you.

putting it into effect feels harder than fighting anything in the sky. for weeks he’s kept you at arm’s length, stiff when you were kind, dismissive when you offered help, acting too busy to notice you. now, trying to undo that distance feels almost impossible.

the first time he tries, it’s clumsy. he sees you in the hallway at school, arms full of books, and instead of looking through you the way he has been, he forces himself to stop. his mouth goes dry. debbie’s voice runs in his head, ask her something, anything. so he blurts out, “did you… read all of those already?” it sounds awkward but it’s a start.

you look at him, surprised, maybe even a little annoyed, and for a second he wants to retreat again. but then you answer, and he makes himself actually listen. he keeps them on you, nodding, trying to remember every word.

but then you answer, bright as always, your voice quick and a little too animated, like you’re making up for his flatness. “yeah, i read fast. or, well, i skim. it’s more like controlled panic. my teachers hate it, but i’m still passing, so…” your words tumble out, hands shifting against the stack of books, and he makes himself actually listen. he keeps his eyes on you, nodding, trying to remember every word.

still, you don’t talk the way you used to. there’s a hesitation under your cheer, a self-consciousness he hasn’t seen from you before. you bite your lip between sentences, you look down at your shoes, then back at him.

seeing no point in beating around the bush, “hey, um… can i ask you something?” you shift your books higher against your chest. “why’d you stop being nice to me? did i… do something?”

his stomach drops, sharp and instant. his throat closes up, and for a second, he just stares.

“no. you didn’t do anything.” the words come out too stiff.

you blink, surprised by the bluntness. “okay, but… you kinda act like i did.” your laugh is nervous. “like one day you were cool, and then the next you just — poof, nothing. i thought maybe i annoyed you or something.”

he swallows, “you didn’t. i just—” he stops. it feels impossible to say i couldn’t look at you without wanting things i didn’t understand. instead, he forces out, “i was… busy. distracted.”

you tilt your head, studying him. “with what? you never looked distracted before.”

he shifts his weight, eyes darting away for the first time. “it’s hard to explain.”

you soften then, letting out a little sigh, half exasperated, half fond. “you know you don’t have to give me, like, a whole speech, right? you could’ve just said something. i don’t bite.”

his mouth twitches, almost a smile, but it dies before it can form. “i know.”

you grin a little anyway, testing the ground again. “so… are you being nice again, or was this a one-time experiment?”

he looks at you, really looks, and shakes his head slightly. “i’ll try.”

you laugh, bright again, and nudge one of your books against his arm. “that’s all i’m asking.”

he stands there too long after you walk off, pulse still hammering, thinking that “try” might be the most honest thing he’s ever said.

does this make sense. somebody more skilled than me pls write about this like just think about it ok

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yepperoniro · 18 days ago

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A little bit of yandere Invincible Mark Grayson x gender neutral Reader ramble. Slightly suggestive but no full-on smut, still MDNI!

Also, sorry, I curse like a sailor.

I can't stop thinking about how Viltrumites are basically Kryptonians without the heat vision and breath attack. So, what if Mark ended up dating a Kryptonian Reader?

Reader would initially be from the DC universe. They wouldn't be fully Kryptonian since they would have been created at the same time as Kon-El was. Both of you are clones of Superman, and both of you have the same powers. Which means on top of having all the standard Superman stuff, you also have a force field (I didn't know Kon had that till I read his wiki).

You and Conner basically see each other as twins. Like, both of you have coordinating costumes, have matching punk aesthetics, and you usually fight together. You might have even joined Young Justice with him, but we're not here to talk about Conner! Overall, you have a very positive relationship with the Superfam, with Kara being your cool aunt, Clark being your worried Dad, Jon being your adorable little brother, and Lois being the best mom ever.

Anyways, to the meat of this, you somehow get blasted into the Invincible universe. This would happen not long after the Guardians of the Globe died in season 1. So Cecil sees this spike of energy on a map, and a migraine starts forming because he doesn't have the energy for another problem right now!

Teen Team is sent to investigate with the help of Invincible, since no one has any idea what just crash landed in the middle of nowhere, Wisconsin. They pull up to find a giant crater with a person in a partly torn-up costume passed the fuck out. Most of the team is trying to figure out if you're a threat, but not Mark. No, bro took one look at you and his soul left his body. He is down bad immediately.

Then, you get up, and my man was a mess! Since Clark and Conner are usually pretty tall, you're in the same boat. So, you're like a head taller than this man. He has craned his neck back to look you in the face. But why look up when he got your chest right at eye level? The restraint this man showed by not just grabbing the things is remarkable. Also, you're a superhero, so muscles. The tears in your costume show off some of your skin, too, and his man is dying. He can't breathe. You're too hot.

You go with Teen Team to meet Cecil and give them the lowdown on how you come from another universe and end up here. Meanwhile, Mark doesn't know what to focus on cause he is looking respectfully and disrespectfully, but also you're personality is making him go into cuteness aggression.

Just like their father, Clark, you are a bimbo / himbo / thembo (what is the gender neutral of himbo?). You're kind, with you recreating that one scene from the 2025 Superman movie where you're saving everyone from a giant monster, yes, even the squirrel. You're beefy, whether that's muscle hidden behind fat, or just being sculpted like a Greek statue, you're strong as shit. And you're stupid, gosh, are you stupid. Head empty, the only thought is helping people.

Then, he sees you use your powers and is ready to propose right there and then. I think Mark has a thing for powerful characters, especially ones that will stand up for him, as evidenced by his interest in Amber after she stood up for him. Siri, start playing "Fight for Me" from Heathers the musical. He sees you punch a bad guy through a building and says, "Well, whoa, you can punch real good." Or during the fight with Battle Beast in Machine Head's office, he feels bad about getting his friend dragged into this fight, and you come flying in to help, and in his head is just, "Can you be seen with me and still act proud?" He really is over here like, "I would fight for you if you would fight for me."

But, of course, this man doesn't know how to talk to you. So since it's still the first season, he turns to Nolan. Since kryptonite doesn't exist in his world and there is not a red sun close by, you're really fucking strong. So, Nolan is absolutely going to be like, "Mark, go for it. You want this person on your side." However, this is still Nolan, so his thinking is messed up. He's telling Mark not to let anyone else get to them because Viltrumites get what they want. He's also using this to kind of separate Mark from humanity a little bit by trying to convince him that the world is going to try and take you away, or someone is going to figure out how to send you home.

Mark also talks to Debbie about it, and she is 100% on board. She doesn't know much about you, but you make Mark happy, so she's happy. He's also really bad at hiding his crush, so Eve and Black Samson are trying to give him advice, Rex and Monster Girl are bullying him about it, and Shrinking Rae is just watching this mess.

You definitely got pulled into being part of the new Guardians of the Globe, which causes Mark to stop by a lot. Also, giving everyone else front seats to this shit show. Mark is trying so hard to drop hints, and you're missing them all. A part of him is worried that you just don't like him, but no, you couldn't. For the sake of his and everyone else's health, he doesn't believe. But you're just dense, so it takes him fully asking you out for it to click. Thank goodness you said yes, or else who knows what hell would've followed.

The date happens, and everything is going great! He even got to hold your hand, and omg, it's rough and calloused, and he desperately wanted to feel them all over his body. But peace didn't last as Cecil called up about a crime. You, being the do-gooder you are, rush to help, while Mark is ready to break down Cecil's door and rip out his tongue so he can't talk again cause he ruined the date! But, Mark did get to see you punch some people, which is always 10/10, no notes.

When he has to leave for that trip to Mars, he's not happy and is thinking about you the whole ride there and back. Then, he comes back and is finally able to relax some and show you to his friends. Will and Amber meet you in your punk rock casual outfit with all your piercing in, standing next to this dork of a man. Both are like, "how'd you bag a baddie?" Then they find out about both of yours hero identities and they're still a little confused but supportive.

Also, anytime you guys are in a fight together, he purposefully gets himself into more danger so you can save him. One time, his costume got all torn up, and you put your jacket on his shoulder, and he was ready to steal it. Bonus points if the back of your costume is open, so Mark gets to see your glorious bare back.

OOooo, and the angst during the Nolan vs Mark fight. Instead of flying around with Eve, he would be with you. Then Nolan shows up, and you get dragged away by Cecil. One moment, you're outside, the next, a giant screen is in front of you showing your boyfriend getting his ass beat.

Also, what if that was your first time meeting Debbie? Both of you get to meet when you're at an emotional low. You comfort her as Nolan calls her a pet, and she calms you down when Cecil keeps stopping you from helping. He keeps saying that, "if Mark goes down, then you gotta take out Nolan," and how "they can't risk both of you dying." But, you're full on snot running down your face, sobbing, watching so many people get hurt when you could have done something.

Then he goes into his depression ark as he tries to figure out wtf his life is. Bro is watching from the sidelines of your fights, wondering who he is as a hero and who he is in general. But also, bro is rocking a boner because damn, you look while beating villains into the ground. He can't look at you while the two of you are in a fight together cause he CAN'T focus on the fight.

But it's not all being gloomy and aroused because he started college! Yeah!!! You didn't start college with him cause you're doing the hero thing full-time, but you do fly by a lot. It would have been a good system if Mark hadn't had to leave at the start of the semester to deal with his Dad's shit. At least you were there when Mark left, so you knew where he was when he went missing for two months.

Mark was so mad when he arrived on the other planet only to be met with his Dad. Like dude, you couldn't have been on a planet closer to Earth? He's missing his partner. Then, he feels bad for thinking that cause he finds out he has a brother. When he's flying back home, you're at the front of his mind. Bro misses you! Especially since I love the idea that you guys are SO close to getting it on before he had to leave, and fuck he needs to pick up where you left off.

And when bro gets back, he's having a whirlwind of feelings, cause he gets to see you again! Always a win. And seeing you help with Oliver stirs something in him he didn't know existed. He wanted to get your ass pregnant. Or does he want you to get him pregnant? Either way, you're so good with his little brother, he desperately wanted to see you care for his kid like that. Your gender isn't important; if there is a will, there is a way.

However, he comes back to see that you've grown really close with the other heroes and his friends. He was chilling with you and Amber, then suddenly the two of you were talking about a party that she brought you to. Internally, bro is getting pissed. It doesn't matter that drugs can't really affect you or that you could take out everyone in that room without blinking. It's not safe! Or Will mention how you and him went shopping together to get you some more casual clothes. Like, that sounds like something HE should have done with you and not Will. And no, Will being in a relationship with Rick doesn't change how mad Mark is. It should have been him! He's your boyfriend!

The hero side of this is somehow worse. With you now being close with basically all the Guardians, Mark is trying his hardest to not drag you away from work. Because when you're not with him, you're back with the Guardians, and Rex might be his friend, but he's also a player. It also doesn't matter, and Kate and The Immortal are dating. He doesn't want either one of them around you, cause look at you! Who won't want that? He even feels weird about you being around Cecil. And this only gets worse during season 3.

He's just so worried about losing one of the only stable things in his life. Can you really blame him when he only wanted your attention on him? He's a little guy, he's just a little guy, and it's his birthday, he's the little birthday boy.

Also, this is 100% for me because I hate her, but I need when Anissa comes down, the two of you manage to kick her ass. None of the Viltrumites know about you and your powers, so they really thought you were just another person. BUT BOY WERE THEY WRONG! She's got her hand around your throat, only for you to grab her hand with all your might as you stare her down. Just amazing. You know, Anissa came crawling back to the others and was like, "Did humans get stronger without any of us knowing???"

Imagine, when Mark is getting thrown from universe to universe, instead of running to Batman, he runs into Superman and Kon. Clark and Conner are going around Metropolis. They have just saved a cat, and suddenly, a portal appears. Out pops Mark, confused and pissed as hell, only to see two people who have the same symbol on their chest as you. He uses that one brain cell he has to ask if either one of them knows you, then he gets pulled back through the portal again. While they're just flying there like, come back! This is the most they've heard about you in years. Please, they just want to know that you're okay.

Then the variants, Oh the variants.

You never exist in another universe, so they're all looking over Angstrom's shoulder at his wall of screen asking, "who the hell is that?" Angstrom is like, "Oh yeah, that's his alien partner," and he briefly explains your powers so they aren't blindsided when they show up and get their asses handed to them.

But does that stop any of them from hunting you down the first chance they get: NO! All of them have slightly different takes on you, but they all boil down to the same key thing - why does he get one and they don't?

I can't figure out specifics for all of them, but in general. Sinister, Bald, and... maybe Prisoner are WAY too into fighting you, they're hard and make no effort to hide it, like this is 'flirting' to them. Are they trying to kill you or do they want to be inside you? The answer is both. Mohawk, Goggleless, and Shiesty are also into the fighting in a sexual way. Still, they're making harassing comments the whole time about how they want you to sit on their face. They're saying shit like, "I have a throne, but I could be your throne." Omni Mark and the Marks from Viltrum are way less visually into the fight, cause they respect strength, so they'll gawk at you inside their head. And it doesn't matter what your gender is, you're strong as fuck, and they want your kids cause imagine how strong those children would be. Yes, kids, they want more than one - no, you don't have a choice in this.

The invincible war starts, and you're helping Mark take out some of these guys. Then, two or three of them corner you, and you hurt them, but you take way more damage. Before this point, yeah, you've gotten hurt in fights, but nothing that couldn't be quickly healed by just standing in the sun. But this time, you got the Eve treatment. You're fully passed out, and Mark has to quickly drag you away while the others are recovering.

He goes to find Cecil while ugly sobbing, begging him to help. But they got their own problem, so no time to make a machine to help you heal faster, and they can't leave you to bake in the sun cause the other Marks are still breaking shit, so you're rotting in a hospital bed as he stays by your side. No, he can't leave. What if one of the other hims shows up to take you with them to whatever world they're from? The world can burn, but if someone messes with his other half, they're not gonna live.

The whole "I should start killing people" conversation turns into a full monologue while you're still passed out. Before Oliver shows up to the Angstrom fight, Mark has snapped his neck. The moment Mark could kill this man, he did.

Then, you're actually able to heal up under the sun, and baby boy is over the moon. Only to have the joy completely stripped away by Conquest. And since you're still recovering from the previous fight, both of you get pretty fucked up. The visual of Conquest doing the heart thing to you, only for Mark to start losing his shit. He starts head slamming that man way earlier in that fight.

Also, Mark is a horrible stalker. Once all the season 3 threats are gone, Mark is always flying near you, keeping an eye on you. However, you know he's there, no matter how hard he tries to hide. You have an enhanced sense, so you can hear him fly a mile away from you. You try to bring up the issue with him, but somehow the argument gets pushed back over to you. It ends with him putting a tracker on your phone so he knows where you are at all times.

All fights between the two of you end with him gaslighting you, and he's not doing it on purpose (at least not that much). He just looks at you with those puppy dog eyes and you fold. He's able to get away with cranking up the crazy, cause he keeps guilt-tripping you over everything he's been through.

Flashing back to earlier in this ramble, when I was talking about Mark leaving to help the bug people, how close you were to sleeping together before it got ruined. Like, every time the two of you try to get it on, something cock blocks him. My guy is going feral cause if ONE more person interrupts his private time with you, he's flying to the moon to fuck there. So, the first time you're actually able to get it on is the end of season 3.

Mark is fine being either on top or bottom, but for the first time, he would needs to be on top. He would need to feel your shack underneath him from his touch. He needs to see your face when he pleases you. He needs to know that he makes you as good as you make him feel. After that, he's willing to try whatever. He's a big fan of any position where he can see your face and grab your chest (he makes the honk honk sound when he grabs them).

And you know that after you sleep together, he's gonna somehow get more clingy. My man is practically glued to your side, and he needs all of your attention on him or else he will freak out.

So, he's not going to be able to handle going back to your home universe with you. He's going to hate your family, and to be fair, they're going to hate him, too.

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yepperoniro · 18 days ago

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Work-Life Balance 🖥️

toxic!homelander x reader

[what happens when homelander develops a crush on his personal assistant only to find out that his feelings aren’t reciprocated?]

word count: 5k

cw: slight yandere, toxic behaviour, inappropriate work relationship, s*xual harassment, workplace harassment, homophobia, lesbophobia, threats of violence, implied violence, reader is fem, might be typos/grammar mistakes (hasn’t been proofread)

i just realised i’ve hit 562 followers which is so crazy to me! i haven’t celebrated any follower milestones on here but i really want to give back to everyone that’s supported me so give me ideas of what we can do to celebrate!! <3 ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

“All-American Superheroes, born and bred in the land of the free and working to protect the interests of god fearing patriots like you across the country!”

Yeah right.

You internally roll your eyes as you look away from the giant screen in the foyer that blasted this propaganda day and night, scanning your access badge and going up the elevator with your tray of coffees.

Working at Vought quickly shattered any illusions you had about supes in record time; just like any other person, you had grown up hearing about how brave and kind these heroes were to protect us regular folk.

Supes, despite everything you thought you knew from childhood, aren’t good people - who could’ve guessed that unchecked powers would turn people into entitled monsters?

It’s bad enough when your higher ups expect you to cater to their every whim without so much as a please or thank you, it’s even worse when said higher up has the power to squash you like a bug as easily as breathing - and they don’t mind getting their shoes dirty.

You check your watch and find yourself worrying your lip between your teeth. Can’t be too late or you won’t hear the end of it. Thankfully even though Ashley is an annoyance she can’t just kill you and make it seem like nothing ever happened.

God, it’s not even normal to be thinking like this. Maybe quitting wouldn’t be the worst idea, huh?

Ding!

The doors open and you bolt out as quickly as you can, not wanting to face Ashley’s wrath or risk her breaking down about her hair loss again, it’s not even 8am yet an-

You collide with what feels like a brick wall. It might as well be with the way you stop dead in your tracks from the sheer force and the recoil causes the hot coffee to spill all over your surroundings.

You look up to see what the obstacle was, probably an intern gawking at some random supe in the hallway.

It’s The Homelander. Tall and statuesque, just his mere presence demands respect and you’ve covered him in hot coffee.

Oh god, please let this be some horrible nightmare you’ll wake up from any minute now.

“You sure know how to make an entrance! Maybe try not to ruin the suit next time though, yeah?” His blue eyes twitch and you can see his sharp canines make an entrance in his plastic smile.

Your mouth gapes open like a fish and despite all the thoughts racing through your head, no words make it out of your mouth. Get it together! Still, your knees threaten to buckle from panic as you decide the correct course of action that won’t get you maimed or worse.

“Are you listening to me, uh, Y/N?” He squints at your name badge before saying your name with a slight edge, all for show of course considering his eyesight must be, well, superhuman.

This has its intended affect as it jolts you back to the present. “Oh my god, Homelander! I am so sorry about this - I wasn’t paying attention and it’s all my fault,” You place the tray to the floor and immediately begin working on dabbing up the coffee stains that ruined his suit with spare napkins, “I’ll even pay for the damage, they could just take it out my pay check?”

“The suit costs more than you make in a year.” The blood drains from your face and your hands falter in their movements before he flashes a grin, “I’m joking! Smart girl like you knows what a joke is surely.”

You let out a weak laugh.

——————————————————————————

Ever since you bumped into him it feels like no matter where you go, Homelander is always there. His gaze conveniently catches yours as you greet colleagues, his eyes soon turning sharp as he barks orders to whoever you were talking to. Sometimes they even get transferred to other departments and even if it seems far fetched a part of you wonders if it’s his doing.

Every assignment you’re put on seems to involve him in some capacity and it would be ok if he wasn’t trying to talk to you constantly. It got to the point that even other people noticed and started to distance themselves from you, not that it seemed to bother Homelander.

Once again you find yourself stood in front of Ashley’s desk, placing down her lunch order and handing over the meeting briefings she asked for yesterday.

“Ok, well if that’s everything I’ll be off!”

God, you hate working corporate. Having to smile so wide it hurts your cheeks when all you want to do is just sit down for once.

You turn on your heels but stop right before the door as you hear Ashley cough. Subtle.

Shoulders deflating, you prepare yourself mentally and turn back around with another diabetes-inducing smile to find the red-head clasping and unclasping her hands before taking a rushed sip of her coffee.

“Shit, that’s hot.” She mumbles under her breath, hand covering her mouth before she clears her throat again and sits up straighter. Sure, she can have her moments but it’s times like these when you realise that maybe she’s just like you: tired, overworked, run ragged - if the bald spot and deep eye bags are anything to go off.

Ashley steadies her breath and her eyes dart all over the room and you can’t help but think that even this is over the top for her, “You’re going to be over the moon when I tell you that the Homelander wants you as his new personal assistant! Of course, you will still technically be under me.”

You jump in surprise when you hear his name mentioned and try to argue against it, that you only want to work for Ashley but she wasn’t hearing any of it.

“But why?! There’s a ton more knowledgeable employees out there that would be better suited for him!” You throw your hands up in exasperation as Ashley pauses, suddenly unable to look you in the eyes.

“Y/N do you like having a job or what?! Now I’ve sent some documents to your email; print them out and give them to him.”

You feel lightheaded as the elevator travels higher up than you’ve ever been before, all the way to Homelander’s penthouse.

A part of you wondered why you couldn’t just hand them to him The Seven’s meeting room but you quickly dismiss the thought. You aren’t getting paid enough to question your bosses frankly inconvenient choices constantly.

Thinking you know better than these supes was a quick way to end up in an “unfortunate workplace accident”. You shivered to think of all the poor souls that didn’t know their place.

The elevator stops and you know that any second now you’ll be entering uncharted territory. You heard about his notorious attitude, worse than some of the supes you’ve encountered so far and they’ve been bad. You just hope you make it out alive and he decides he no longer wants anything to do with you.

Calm down, all you have to do is smile, hand him the documents and then you can be on your way, easy.

The doors open and you’re surprised when you see that the Homelander is stood right by the entrance, hands clasped in front of him with a fake smile you could spot from a mile away.

“Oh! H-homelander! I wasn’t expecting you to be so…close?” You grimace but quickly smooth over your expression, shuffling around his body and walking over to the coffee table.

You can’t help but gawk at the impressive room in front of you. You knew they would be spoiling the guy but damn, this is next level.

You can hear his heavy steps trailing behind you, feel his overwhelming presence invade your space before his voice booms throughout the room.

“Thought I’d give my favourite PA a warm welcome!” He brings his arms out to his sides, smile somehow managing to become wider than it was before.

You nod in agreement, not wanting to get on his bad side so quickly into the new job. “Uh, yeah, thank you. These are the papers Ashley said you needed so. If that’s all I’ll be going.”

His smile drops ever so slightly and if you too weren’t so used to putting up facades you wouldn’t have even caught it. He nods and waves his hand to excuse you and you walk as quickly as you can to your escape without seeming scared.

You enter the elevator, eyes glued to the floor, as Homelander calls out to you without warning, “By the way, your ass looks great in those pencil skirts - keep up the great work.”

Your eyes snap up to the mirror in the elevator just in time to lock eyes with his blue ones, a wolffish grin on his face right before the doors shut behind you.

You stand stock-still, staring at your own horrified reflection until you got off at your floor.

——————————————————————————

It could’ve been worse, you tell yourself, he could’ve actually hurt you. But he didn’t, not really.

It’s been months since that incident and you still haven’t found the courage to wear a skirt since. You could tell it made him unhappy and the first day you showed up to work in trousers he had the gall to tsk in your face but at least he didn’t say anything.

However, you did notice that now his eyes strayed down to your lower body more often, lingering there for longer than usual. His eyes both seemingly laser focused and unfocused at the same time, bottom lip caught between his teeth.

You didn’t know exactly why but it made you feel like crawling out of your own skin and hiding far, far away from Vought headquarters.

Working under Homelander was difficult to say the least and not because of the horror stories you’d heard whispered in toilet cubicles or written on soon discarded notes in the staff room. He wasn’t violent with you and he rarely shouted, but he was demanding of your time, more than a boss should be at least.

It felt like anytime you spoke to a colleague, especially a man, there he was to reprimand the two of you on the virtues of “doing your jobs and not wasting valuable company time.”

Whenever he did so, his face was contorted in anger and those colleagues always got transferred to different departments, or worse - got into “workplace accidents.”

Then, he started to expect you to spend your lunch breaks with him, then your days off and before you knew it, he was calling you at 1am to “swing by the penthouse” and help him go over his lines or some other bullshit.

Of course, you responded to every beck and call like the good employee you are.

You felt like you were going crazy, like your life suddenly stopped belonging to you and became the property of someone else. Someone who could ruin your life faster and much easier than you could breathe.

And it wasn’t only affecting your work life, but your personal life - your romantic life.

Living with your girlfriend, Mia, was supposed to be the dream arrangement; you both saved on rent while getting to be together more often. What more could you ask for? And it was for a time, truly it was.

But this new role working for Homelander took precedence over everything else that was once so important to you. You cancelled dates, you skipped movie nights, you weren’t home early enough to say “good night” and “I love you” anymore.

The guilt tore you up inside; after all, Mia moved to your city because she knew how important your job was to you and what do you go and do? Neglect her like her sacrifice meant nothing.

She deserves better than someone who comes home late every night and is gone before the sun has even risen just to be a slave to their work.

Today’s your rare day off and still you can’t enjoy it in fear that Homelander will call you and get you to do some stupid task an intern could do.

You can already hear his high and mighty voice ringing in your head, “Go to this cafe and get this annoyingly specific drink, Y/N.”

Or, “Y/N, I pay for you to give me precise details and this isn’t good enough, go print these out again.”

He’s not even the one that pays you!

You shake your head as if to tamp down your irritation and instead reach over the bed to caress the smooth contours of your lover’s face, taking in each blemish, the fluttering of her lashes, the way she murmurs softly as if even in her sleep all she wants to do is be close to you.

You worry that soon your girlfriend will come to the same conclusion you have, if she hasn’t already, and leave you for a woman who is better than you in every way.

You wouldn’t blame her; she’s gorgeous, smart, headstrong and so incredibly kind it makes your heart hurt.

Well, at the very least you can show your appreciation for her by making her breakfast in bed. You get ready for the morning in the bathroom before shuffling over to your small kitchen, searching the fridge for ingredients you know aren’t there.

You peek your head around the bedroom door to find your girlfriend still snoring. She won’t wake up for another hour or so which gives you perfect time to get supplies.

——————————————————————————

Perhaps running errands wasn’t how you wanted to start your off-day but you’ve had enough of being jaded. You get to spend the day with your girl and show her how much you love her!

You make your way to the new organic store your friends told you about, determined to make a tasty and healthy meal - Mia’s favourite. You peruse the aisles and make quick work of getting what you need, ticking off your internal checklist as you go.

You pay (and grimace at the amount of money you know is going to hurt coming out of your account) and start making your way home. The sun is shining, birds are singing and you are in an unusually good mood. You even start to hum to yourself until you catch sight of your worst fear.

Who else is it but Homelander.

You watch as he flies through the neighbourhood and lands right next to you - of course donning a smile too wide for this time of morning to be natural.

“What are the odds I bump into my favourite personal assistant! You sure look…cosy.” He eyes your less than professional attire, a worn hoodie and sweats that have definitely seen better days.

You’re too fed up to even feel embarrassed and the judgemental edge to his voice serves to annoy you further so you correct him, “Your only personal assistant.”

He deflects your words with ease, maybe his brain is like his skin and he’s just too dense to pick up on your exasperation at his arrival.

It could just be your imagination but it feels like everything around you has suddenly become dull the moment he appeared. You watch as he opens his mouth, no doubt to ask you to do some mind numbingly boring job that a grown man should be capable of, but cut him off. It’s your day off and you refuse to spend it working for him.

“I’m sorry but I’ve got a super busy day. I’ll check in tomorrow.” You’re aware of how sour your tone comes across but why should you bother trying to spare his feelings when you’re not even getting paid for it?

You wave and rush back home before he could try and guilt trip you into staying. Once you find yourself back in the kitchen, you’re surprised at the fact that he just let you go so easily. Better not to think too much on it.

Breakfast is finished and plated on a tray as you walk to the bedroom to find your girlfriend already awake and scrolling through her email.

“Babe, you’re back! I was wondering where you went.” Her voice is rough with sleep and you can’t help the butterflies that bloom in your stomach.

You place the tray of french toast, fruit and water on her lap and kiss her cheek delicately.

“Well,” you start, “Just thought I should apologise for being absent so much recently.”

Her eyes soften as she hugs you tightly and all you want is for this moment to last forever. She digs in her food and you both make idle chit-chat, luxuriating in your joint happiness and peace. That is until you bring up your earlier encounter.

It’s not like you meant to bring work back into the fold but a part of your brain itches at Homelander’s odd appearance and before you know it, it turns into a full blown rant.

Mia rolls her eyes before shoving away the tray of half finished food. Uh oh. She folds her arms over her chest as her eyes well up with unshed tears and it’s clear that you’ve ruined what was meant to be a romantic day.

“God, Y/N! It seems like all you care about nowadays is your job and Homelander. Don’t you think that’s unhealthy? Don’t you care about me anymore?”

So many thoughts and unsaid emotions rush through your mind but before you can begin to apologise and explain the insane stress you’ve been under, you get a notification on your phone.

Homelander: There’s a very important meeting tonight in my penthouse with some of the board. Wear a nice dress.

You want to ignore the message and focus on your girlfriend but you can’t. The struggle must be evident in your eyes because she scoffs and gets up from the bed, meal all but forgotten.

“Forget it, I’m gonna stay at a friend’s place tonight.” You don’t think you’ve ever seen her look so defeated before and knowing that you caused it makes you feel nauseous.

You try your best to bargain with Mia but she’s gone and left you to pick up the pieces. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Either way, you have no time to be sad - you have a meeting to prepare for.

——————————————————————————

You smooth over the invisible wrinkles in your satin skirt. After all, you brushed off Homelander and you don’t need anymore strikes against yourself.

The doors open to a familiar sight, except this time instead of the harsh lighting you’re accustomed to. It’s softer, more delicate. If you didn’t know any better you might even say romantic.

Somebody dimmed the overhead lights and stuck candles all over the place, there were even rose petals strewn across the floor that led to the dining table.

Weird, but maybe he has a date immediately after this and won’t have enough time to prepare once the meeting lets out.

Your heels echo on the marble floor as you make your way to the kitchen to find The Homelander, still in his signature suit, waiting at the head of the table. He seems nervous in his own strange way and you have to knock on a nearby pillar to get his attention.

“Hey, Homelander.” You say unsure of yourself as your head swivels around only to find the place devoid of any other employees who should’ve been present.

“Am I early to the meeting or…?”

“Meeting?” He seems to re-enter reality with that one word, “Ah, that little old thing. Don’t worry about it just yet.”

He manages to hone in on your hesitance with hawk-like precision and gestures to the bottle of wine on the countertop near you, “Go on, pour yourself a glass of wine.”

You do as he says, thankful for the opportunity to turn away from his penetrating stare whilst still aware that what he said wasn’t a suggestion but an order, and pour out a small serving.

“A little bit more won’t hurt ya!” You bristle where you stand - can he see through you? Despite not wanting anymore you pick up the bottle and continue pouring until he says “perfect”.

Slowly turning around, you walk to the table and sit down across from him. You don’t know whether to face him head on or dart your eyes everywhere but his face. You choose to drink your wine instead and peek up at him over the rim of the glass - an option sat comfortably in the middle that helps calm your nerves.

“Don’t get too ahead of yourself there, missy.” He winks boyishly as he says this, as if you two are friends having casual banter and that’s enough to make you pause mid-sip and place your glass down on the dining table.

The elevator dings and you look to it in relief; finally, the others are here to save you from this god-awful situation.

So, imagine your surprise when it turns out to be Ashley juggling bags of takeout from a restaurant way outside of your price budget.

You want to question why she’s alone, why she’s dropping off food instead of joining the meeting, why she looks downright scared as she watches the two of you.

You turn to Homelander with furrowed brows but he simply ignores you and instructs Ashley to plate the food for the two of you.

“I guess it’s just us three ready for the meeting, huh?” You laugh under your breath but quickly stop as you catch the confused look on Ashley’s face, though it quickly disappears when Homelander gives her a harsh glare.

“Oooh, about that it got um, cancelled?” She sounds like she knows even less than you do despite being the CEO and that makes the pit in your stomach grow larger by the second.

She finishes plating the food and hurries away leaving just you and Homelander at opposite ends to eat your meals quietly.

He’s eager to break silence and asks about your family, where they live, childhood pets and other similar banal questions that it reminds you of when you were younger and the conversation you had during your many unsuccessful first dates with boys in your class. Still, it’s almost endearing how hooked he seems to be to your answers, laughing at even the most basic family game night stories.

It goes by like this for a while before he sets his knife and fork down and links his hands together.

“Well Y/N, I bet you’re wondering exactly what you’re doing here. It’s not easy for me to say but…I lied about the meeting. I have feelings for you and I wanted to ask if you would be interested in a relationship. With me.”

You immediately choke on your bite of food, reaching for the glass of wine and taking a healthy swig to stop choking.

This seems to please Homelander and he laughs, more real than you’ve ever heard before as he steamrolls right past the interruption.

“Hah, well that’s one way to get my focus.”

You stare at him in disbelief at what’s happening; you don’t want him to continue to misread your signals. You let in a shaky breath as you prepare to let down your boss who is also the most powerful supe in the world. You can’t exactly lie, can you?

“Um, that’s not exactly it,” you pause to carefully choose your words as you take in the slight changes in his facial expressions, the way the bridge of his nose seems to tense and his smile dulls despite not moving an inch, “It’s just that I have a girlfriend. I’m, y’know, a lesbian.”

It’s as if someone has removed all the oxygen from the room, or maybe you just stopped breathing, as you unwittingly enter a staring contest with Homelander. Is he going to fire you? Or worse, kill you?

But then he laughs.

It’s a loud guffaw that reaches every corner of his opulent penthouse, he even goes as far as to tilt his head back and laugh some more like he doesn’t have enough room to let out all of his laughter.

You start to giggle along too, some of your anxiety flittering away as your hands mess around with the cutlery, unsure of what exactly comes next.

“I’m surprised you never realised, my purse has a carabiner on it and everything.”

You don’t know why you said that, but a part of you just wanted to ease the remaining tension until it’s like it was never there in the first place.

It’s all just one big misunderstanding and we’ll laugh about it in the future, right?

The laughter begins to taper off and he once again locks eyes with you, the wooden smile on his face still stretching at the skin of his cheeks uncomfortably.

It’s downright uncanny to watch.

He raises his eyebrows as he mouths out a wow and downs the rest of his glass and you do the same, mirroring his nonchalant manner the best you can.

“You know what’s funny to me?” He begins in a lazy drawl and you shake your head in response, resting your chin in the palm of your hand as you let a small smile break the surface. Maybe the wine really is getting to you.

“It’s that you’re not one of those hot little college girls anymore, you’re a grown woman for christ sake. You can stop with the experimenting. Don’t you think it’s time you settled down and found a real man?” He says it in such a deadpan tone it takes your mind a second to register what exactly he said.

Time pauses for just a second, allowing you an eternity to study the cruel glimmer in his eye before the erratic beating that swelled in your chest explodes and brings you back to the present.

You blink once. Then twice.

“E-excuse me?” Your voice cracks despite how hard you try to sound brave and self-assured. You can already feel your cheeks growing hot and the pressure behind your eyes begin to build.

He raises both hands in mock defense and watches you with his beady eyes, “Don’t get me wrong, I’m the biggest ally around but trust me, you’re confused. Why else would you wear those slutty skirts to work if you’re not trying to attract men? I know how women work.” He chuckles through a clenched jaw and a flash of white-hot rage runs through your body and wracks your very core.

You place your hands under the table so he can’t see how hard you’re shaking. Or maybe he can - who knows the extent of his powers.

“I’m sorry but I’m not attracted to men, I have a girlfriend and I thought the carabiner on my ba-” You begin rattling off all kinds of nonsensical reasons just as his right hand balls into a fist and slams into the dining table so harshly it fucking splinters.

You take that as a sign to shut up now.

His left hand drags down his face as he groans, “Stop with the fucking carabiner! Why would I know anything about that lesbian shit?!” His words are dripping in condescension and disdain.

“No, no,” he wags a gloved finger in front of you, gleaming white teeth bared like a predator waiting to strike, “You. Are. Confused. I’ve dated one of those before and you are not it.”

Tears are openly streaming down your face yet you don’t even have the guts to wipe them away considering how viciously the tremors travel across your body and he laughs at your terror.

“Remind me, where did you say your parents live? And oh yeah, your friends?” You both know that he isn’t just listing off these facts for fun, he’s threatening you and you hate how much it’s working.

He didn’t even have to go to the crime department and force them to dig up info on you, you’ve already given it to him willingly like the idiot you are.

“I can kill everyone you love in a blink of an eye, Y/N. Don’t test me. I will make them suffer and you will watch.”

You gasp and a shaky hand clasps over your mouth, trying and failing to muffle the sounds of your hysterical wails.

“What do you think happened to those friends of yours, huh? I didn’t know I had to be keeping an eye out for the women too but that works out better - it will always be just the two of us. Do you understand me?”

He claps his hands with a resounding laugh before he stands up from the table and walks around until he reaches your end.

He waits behind you as his hands press down on your shoulders. A feather light touch but you know it must take a lot of self-control for him to not crush you beneath his fingers. Homelander bends down until his lips ghost the shell of your ear and you can feel a golden strand fall loose from its gelled back style and tickle your neck.

“So, whaddaya say? Will you be mine?” You don’t even need to turn around to see the smarmy grin that must be plastered on his face; consequences don’t exist for him and if he wants you, he will have you. He doesn’t wait for your answer before his lips dive to your neck, nipping and licking at the sensitive skin there in a way that’s meant to be seductive but just makes you dry heave instead.

His grip on your shoulders tightens ever so slightly and it jolts you into action, nodding ‘yes’ erratically as you sob out into the night where only the echoes of your cries and his lips on your neck can comfort you.

Your work-life balance is about to get fucked.

masterlist

a/n: i’ve been on a teeeeeny bit of a hiatus (mental health issues, uni, blah blah blah) but now that i only have a few exams to do before i’m officially free for the summer, i thought i’d try and get back into writing! i have SO many requests to get through but i’ll open them up again - i need fresh inspo! this was super fun to write and i enjoyed it so much…why is it easier to write fanfics than actual assignments 🙃 (p.s can someone help me with tumblr spacing issues 😭)

228 notes · View notes

yepperoniro · 21 days ago

Text

──୨ৎ── Clark Kent x Fem! Reader: Doggy Style

Notes: Pure porn. I'm accepting requests for these kinds of small scenes with specific positions/kinks, by the way :)

Open Requests

• ────── ✾ ────── •

The first thing you felt was Clark’s hands, big, steady, and deceptively gentle, sliding over your hips as he shifted you forward on the mattress. The sheets bunched under your knees, your palms sinking into the bed as you braced yourself. Your heart hammered like it had no clue if you should be nervous, excited, or both, but the heat pooling low in your stomach made the answer pretty obvious.

Clark moved behind you, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world. His thumbs stroked over your waist, then trailed lower, squeezing your ass with an ease that made your breath hitch. His voice was low, warm, with just enough roughness to it to make your skin prickle.

“Fuck, baby… you’re killing me like this.”

The sound of him, half growl, half praise, sent a shiver down your spine. You arched slightly without even thinking, offering yourself up, and Clark groaned under his breath, the sound vibrating right against your skin as he leaned down to kiss the back of your neck. The brush of his lips there was soft, almost teasing, completely at odds with the way his hands spread you open, holding you in place like he could barely contain himself.

And then, he pushed into you.

It wasn’t rushed. No, Clark didn’t do rushed with you. He sank in slow, inch by inch, making sure you felt every thick, heated stretch of him until you were gasping into the sheets. His breath came heavy against your shoulder, his chest pressed to your back, and every muscle in him was drawn tight like he was restraining himself from pounding into you too soon.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, voice roughened by the effort of control. “You feel so damn good like this. So tight—fuck—wrapped around me like you were made for me.”

Your fingers clenched in the sheets, body rocking forward slightly under the weight of him. When he bottomed out, he stayed there, buried to the hilt, his hand sliding up to lace with yours and pin them against the mattress. That gesture, so protective, so grounding, contrasted perfectly with the raw hunger rolling off of him.

He pulled back slowly, dragging himself out until just the head of his cock remained inside you, and then he pushed back in with a groan that sounded like it was ripped straight from his chest. The pace started controlled, almost languid, but there was too much heat between you, too much need. Within moments his thrusts grew stronger, deeper, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room as you gasped out his name.

Clark’s other hand gripped your hip tight enough to remind you just how much strength he was holding back. You could feel it in the way his body trembled, in the way his breath came ragged against your neck. He could break the bed in half if he let go. He could destroy the entire room. But he didn’t—he never would. Instead, all that power, all that control, was funneled into each precise, devastating thrust inside you.

“Goddamn it, baby,” he rasped, voice cracking into something raw. “Look at you… taking me so good. So fucking perfect. Mine.”

The word mine hit harder than any thrust. You moaned, pressing your forehead to the mattress, and Clark responded by driving even deeper, his hips snapping into yours with a rhythm that left you breathless. He bent low, covering your back with his body, kissing the side of your face as he fucked you. His hair tickled your skin, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered in between growls of pleasure.

“I’ve got you… always got you. Nobody gets to touch you but me. Nobody.”

Your body clenched around him at those words, and Clark hissed like the sensation was almost too much. His hand left yours only to slip down between your legs, fingers finding your clit with expert precision. He worked you in time with his thrusts, unrelenting, coaxing sounds from your throat you couldn’t even recognize as your own.

Every movement was a contradiction, rough and filthy, yet threaded with the kind of love only Clark could give you. Each thrust was a declaration, each kiss a promise. And even as his pace built toward something overwhelming, even as his groans deepened and his grip on you tightened, you never once doubted you were safe. Because Clark Kent might have been fucking you within an inch of your sanity, but he was still yours, your man, your protector, your Superman. And in that moment, nothing in the world existed but him driving into you, the filthy words spilling from his mouth, and the undeniable truth that you were his.

Clark’s rhythm was relentless now, every thrust slamming deep, shaking through your whole body until you couldn’t even form words anymore. Your moans were broken things, stuttered and breathless, caught between pleas for more and helpless cries at the sheer force of him. Clark’s mouth hovered at your ear, his voice jagged and low, breaking apart like the control was slipping.

“Baby, you’re—fuck—you’re so wet for me. So perfect. Can’t—goddamn—it’s like you were fucking made for this.”

His cock dragged against every nerve inside you, the angle brutal and unyielding, and then, his fingers circled your clit again. Merciless. He was practically growling now, every ragged exhale spilling hot against your skin as he worked you closer and closer to the edge. His strength was terrifying in theory, but the way he used it, just to pin your hips steady, to hold you exactly where he needed you, was intoxicating. You tried to say his name, tried to tell him how close you were, but the only thing that came out was a strangled cry as your climax ripped through you. Your body clenched violently around him, the sensation so intense you nearly collapsed forward onto the sheets.

Clark lost it.

The moment he felt you tightening on him, his control shattered. He cursed loud, filthy words spilling from him in a voice you barely recognized as his, his hips snapping forward with punishing speed. The bed creaked under the force of it, your whole body jolting with every deep thrust as he chased his release.

“Jesus Christ—fuck—baby, I can’t—” His words were cut off by a guttural groan, his thrusts turning frantic, desperate, as though he couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t bury himself deep enough.

And then he was gone, undone behind you, grinding into you with every ounce of restrained violence finally breaking loose. His moans broke into something raw and needy as he pulsed inside you, his forehead pressing hard to your shoulder as though he couldn’t stand up under the weight of it.

For a long moment, all you could hear was the ragged sound of your breathing mixing with his. He stayed buried in you, his arms winding around your middle, pulling you upright and back against his chest so he could hold you even as both of you trembled. Clark kissed your shoulder, then your neck, his lips soft now, the growl gone from his voice as he whispered against your skin:

“You’re mine. Always. You hear me? I’ll never let you go.”

You turned your head slightly, breathless, kissing him wherever your lips could reach, his jaw, his cheek, the edge of his mouth.

“Always,” you whispered back.

And the way he tightened his arms around you, still buried deep inside, told you he believed it just as much as you did.

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yepperoniro · 21 days ago

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Mark Grayson with a clingy!talkative!also a hero!s/o because I hit my Leon S. Pennedy too hard

Golden retriever boyfriend.

Your #1 yes man

No one can TELL me this man wouldn't want you to cuddle him at every given moment.

Like.. Even in GDA HQ y'all are cuddling type shit

His arms around your waist while Cecil briefs y'all for a mission.

He knows he should be professional (as Cecil usually says.) But how can he when you're here??

You're excited about something? So is he!

Cecil probably has to split you guys up for missions because this man CANNOT focus properly when you're near him

He's so protective. Like deadass this man is always near you even when he's supposed to be doing his job.

He KNOWS he shouldn't be distracting you either, but you're too amazing.

This man would bend over backwards to please you okay

Golden retriever nerd bf <333

On patrols, if you can't fly, he's more than happy to carry you around! Totally not just because he wants to make out with you everytime you're out of the line of vision of Cecil and his drones what no!!/sarc

Adrenaline hits HARD when you're in trouble, this mf will rip a mf in HALF for putting hands on you.

You let him hit your penjamin when you fly together and he gives you giggly high kisses with his back against a billboard

He HIGHLY enjoys listening to whatever you do

Like y'all share headphones type shit.

He likes to do mushy gushy shit like playing Something Stupid by Frank Sinatra or literally anything romantic

This man is CLINGY okay.

He likes holding hands ALL the time

Since you guys work together he doesn't have to spend any time away from you, he takes HEAVY advantage.

You slack off a lot because he's always on you

Arms around your waist, his face in your neck, all of it.

He genuinely can't help it.

Not a thought behind those big gorgeous eyes

Hes also a bed hogger btw but he usually has his arms around you anyway-

LOVES waking up to you.

Breakfast in bed typa boyfriend

Also kisses too.

First thing in the morning he's kissing you, either on the lips or the forehead usually.

He takes you to Paris sometimes, when he has the time.

He pays for dinner all the time btw

He does it because he wants to like it literally doesn't matter to him at all

Genuine lover boy™

Once you see that lil sparkle in his eyes when he looks at you it's clear he's a goner

Probably the type to want to get married around a year into a relationship tbh (I'm projecting shh)

Then again you guys can stay engaged for as long as you want, plus, Cecil will probably have to give you the time off.

In conclusion: 10/10 I love heem

305 notes · View notes

yepperoniro · 21 days ago

Text

SAFEHOUSE ⋆ CK !

pairing. clark kent x fem!reader genre. friends to lovers. sexual tension. smut.

after a brutal event leaves clark weak and poisoned by kryptonite, you follow strict orders to rush him to his parents’ home — the one place you’re certain no one would find him at. a safe house.

word count. 5.1k words warnings. men in pain !! men in pain !! sexual tension. clark worrying about oc. he smells and hears her arousal bc of his super senses giggles. smut. oral (fem!receiving) MUNCH CLARK. fingering. unprotected + rough sex. size kink. tummy bulge. he puts a fucking pillow between the wall and the bed frame. they have to be very quiet. BIG COCK CLARK. squirting.

✶ inspired by events from — SUPERMAN (2025).

ana’s notes. i know this isnt anything jungkook related but .. im going through something rn with this man. i shouldve never fucking watched this movie. some details are improvised bc i lowk dont know shit abt superman (i was always more of a marvel girlie) so if theres smth in here that doesnt make sense for his character .. please just PLEASE JUST DONT OKAY. okie !! enjoy ♡

Clark Kent was a very reserved man.

Even at the office, he rarely had much to say. If someone asked about his day, he’d answer with something short — a few words, never a story. He never flaunted his accomplishments or fed off the praise. Where most of the department reeked of overbearing bragging and egotistical bastards, Clark kept to himself. He was private. Content with staying out of the spotlight.

Even as friends, you knew only fragments about him. How he liked his coffee — black, bitter, not even a pinch of sugar. That he didn’t have an Instagram, Facebook, or any kind of digital footprint beyond an email address.

And then, of course, there was the part you hadn’t known.

That he was Superman.

He hadn’t wanted you to find out — you could tell by the way he stammered and lied through an explanation the night you confronted him about it. But Clark Kent was not nearly as subtle as he liked to think he was, and you were far too observant. He was conveniently missing whenever Superman was needed. Once could’ve been a coincidence, but every time? No way.

Over time, he was okay with you knowing. He trusted you.

You were his friend. And friends trust and help each other.

Which was why you had helped him get all the way here — to his parents’ home, a beautiful farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. It was quiet. Safe.

You’d been to Clark’s apartment in Metropolis many times — a high-rise with floor-to-ceiling windows, glossy black marble tiles, and simple, modern furniture.

It couldn't have been more different from the warmth of his parents’ farmhouse in Kansas. Here, the floors were scuffed wood, every step creaking faintly, and the whole house carried the scent of timber with a soft undertone of cinnamon. Memories were painted on the walls — framed photographs of smiles, family trips, and holiday dinners.

Clark’s parents were the kind of people who opened their home to you as if they’ve been waiting for you your whole life, their kindness effortless and genuine. It was a home that radiated comfort and care, and suddenly it made sense why Clark was so well-mannered and grounded. He’d grown up in the center of it all.

His childhood room was left untouched. Band posters and old movie prints clung to the walls, their corners curling. A shelf in the corner displayed trophies and figurines that had clearly been handled and loved. For all that he was, Superman, the man who could save the world and never expect anything in return, there was something disarmingly ordinary about this space. About him.

A low groan from behind you broke through your thoughts.

“You’re still here,” Clark murmured from the bed, his voice low and hoarse. He was lying down, one hand pressed over his ribs like the pressure alone could hold him together. The suit still clung to him, faint streaks of dirt and ash dulling the bright colors. The Kryptonite’s grip had loosened, his veins back to their normal color, but he was still weak. The sun was already setting. He’d be fully recovered by morning.

“Did you want me to leave?” you asked, turning just enough to meet his gaze.

“I- No!” His head lifted slightly, urgency in his tone. “I’m just… surprised.”

There was something behind that word. Not shock, exactly, but disbelief — like he wasn’t used to someone waiting for him to recover. Like he’d expected to wake up alone.

You crossed the room, the floorboards creaking under each step, and lowered yourself into the chair beside his bed. His eyes followed you, searching your face, as if he was waiting for you to change your mind.

“How’re you feeling?” you ask softly.

“Pain,” he replied, a faint, breathy chuckle escaping before his eyes slipped shut. The sound was quiet, but it still carried that small thread of warmth you’d learned to recognize in him.

“Holt said you should feel fine in the morning, once the sun starts coming out,” you told him, keeping your voice gentle, like anything louder might press against his headache.

His gaze flickered, something unreadable in it before he looked away. “I wish you’d stayed in Metropolis,” he murmured, his voice low but edged with frustration. “You’re safer there.”

You shook your head without hesitation. “No.”

“Yes,” he said, more firmly this time. The softness in his tone gave way to steel, the same voice he used when there was no room for argument. “You could’ve gotten hurt just by being seen with me. If something happened, I-“ His jaw tightened. “I wouldn’t have been able to save you.”

You leaned forward slightly, catching his eyes. “Well, I wasn’t,” you said, your tone steady but gentler than your words. “Stop stressing yourself out, Clark. You’ve done enough. You should get some more rest.”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifted against the pillows, wincing a little. His hand fidgeted with the edge of his cape, eyes flicking to you and then away again.

“I, uh… I don’t…” He paused, licking his lips. “I don’t really like sleeping in the suit. It’s- uh- kinda uncomfortable. I was just… wondering if- if you could maybe… help me? Just with, y’know… the top part.”

“Y- yeah, sure,” you stammer, pushing yourself up and moving closer. Because you’re his friend. And friends help friends.

You help him sit up slowly, his breath hitching with a groan as his ribs protest the movement. Carefully, you reach behind to detach the cape, your fingers brushing the fabric with a softness that contrasts the roughness of the moment.

Then your hand finds the zipper at the back of his suit. You pull it down slowly, deliberately, revealing inch by inch of his creamy pale skin beneath — smooth, vulnerable, so human.

Clark’s eyes flutter open, meeting yours for a brief second before they close again. The silence between you stretches filled only by the soft sound of the zipper and his shallow breaths.

You help him pull the suit off his arms, the fabric sliding away to reveal his upper body — bare, exposed, impossible to ignore. His chest is broad and muscular, every line defined, almost unreal in its strength. The same goes for his biceps, thick and strong. Suddenly, your own nerves flutter, caught off guard by the closeness, the unexpected weight of this moment.

You steady the back of his neck as he leans back against the pillows, low groans rumbling from deep within him.

“You sure you don’t want me to… take it all off?” you ask quietly, the tension between you crackling like electricity.

If the room weren’t so heavy, if Clark wasn’t in so much pain, he might’ve thrown out a teasing, flirty comment about you trying to get him naked. But tonight, none of that comes.

Instead, he looks at you — eyes searching, silent, as if he’s trying to say something without words. Like he wants something he doesn’t quite know how to ask for.

“If you’re okay…” he murmured quietly, his voice soft, almost hesitant.

You gave him a small, reassuring smile, your fingers lightly tugging at the edge of the suit. He lifted his body as much as he could, every moment careful but willing — doing what he could to make it easier for you.

You kneel at the foot of the bed, fingers working at the heavy boots until they come off one by one with soft thuds against the floor. Then, with a firm grip, you take hold of the suit and give it a swift tug, the fabric sliding away until he’s left in nothing but his boxers.

On any other day, the situation might’ve been awkward — but tonight, he’s too worn down, too sore to care. His head stays against the pillow, eyes half-lidded, breaths slow and shallow.

You keep your gaze steady, careful not to linger, and carry the suit to his closet. The weight of it settles onto the hanger with a soft rustle, the deep blue and red now looking strangely still without him inside it.

“Goodnight,” you murmur, turning toward the door. But before your hand even reaches the knob, he calls your name. “Yes?” you turn back.

“Don’t go back without me,” he says, his eyes pleading in a way that makes your chest tighten. “Stay here for now. With me.”

You look at him fully this time. His body is bare, save for the thin stretch of fabric covering his hips. You’ve never seen Clark like this — stripped of the cape, of any clothes at that. It isn’t weird in a seeing your family member naked kind of way. It’s… different. Raw. It makes you nervous in a way you don’t want to think too hard about.

“I’m not going anywhere, Clark,” you tell him softly. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”

You reach for the door again, but he calls your name once more.

“Yes?”

His lips curve faintly. “Thank you.”

You smile back. “Of course.”

Because friends help friends.

Clark awoke with a start.

The pain in his side had eased to a faint ache, and the heavy fog of fatigue was gone. The room is dim, lit only by the warm glow of the nightlight on the nightstand.

His mouth was dry. A glass of water sounded perfect.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he got up and reached for the robe hanging on his closet door. The soft fabric brushed against his skin as he shrugged it on. Then, with slow, careful steps, he made his way toward the door, moving quietly as he descended the creaking staircase.

He walked through the dark with ease — even half-asleep, his steps were quiet and calculated — but he flipped the kitchen light on anyway. The soft hum of the bulb filled the silence. He grabbed a tall glass from the cupboard, filled it from the fridge, and downed it in one long swig, the cool water sliding down his throat, washing away the dryness.

“Clark?”

Your voice was soft, groggy. He turned as you padded into the kitchen, rubbing your eyes with the back of your hand.

And then he saw what you were wearing. His sweatshirt — the gray one, hanging loosely on you, sleeves dangling past your fingertips — and pajama pants cinched tight at your waist, the legs pooling around your feet.

“Hi,” he said, the word coming out softer than intended.

“Why are you awake? What time is it?” you asked, coming to stand beside him at the kitchen island, tugging the long sleeves of his sweatshirt — his sweatshirt — over your hands.

He noticed. And for a second, he forgot how to breathe.

“Almost three,” he murmured after glancing at the clock. “I don’t know — just woke up. Can’t sleep.” His sigh was low, weary, as he leaned onto the counter, elbows braced, thumbs fidgeting like he needed to keep them busy.

“What’s wrong?” you asked softly, searching his face.

“Nothing,” he said too fast. Then let out a small groan as he rolled his shoulders — and you caught the grimace of discomfort on his face.

“C’mere,” you said with a knowing smile, motioning him closer. “Let me help.”

He hesitated, a faint smile ghosting over his lips — as if to say you don’t have to do that.

But you were already moving behind him, resting your hand on his shoulder.

The robe was loose, soft beneath your palms, parting slightly as he shifted. You could feel the heat of his skin even through the fabric. He was broad, solid, so much bigger than you; your hands looked almost delicate against him as you kneaded at the hard line of muscle beneath his shoulder blade.

“Yeah, right there,” he groans, throwing his head back as you press your thumbs into a stubborn knot in his shoulder. The sound is low, unguarded — almost inappropriate for something so innocent.

You press your lips together, heat rising in your cheeks. His robe has slipped just enough to bare more of that solid shoulder, warm under your palms. You feel every twitch of muscle beneath your tiny hands, every breath he exhales as he leans heavier on the counter.

“Better?” you murmured, digging your thumbs in a little deeper.

“Mhm,” he said, the sound deep, almost a growl in the back of his throat. His head tipped forward, giving you more access.

Your thumbs worked lower, along the edge of his shoulder blade, and you felt the faint shift of his breath — slower now, heavier.

“You’re tense,” you whispered.

“Yeah,” he said, voice hoarse, “you have no idea.”

You cleared your throat, swallowing.

“Alright,” you murmured, stepping back before you got carried away. “Let’s go back to bed.”

He didn’t argue — just pushed off the counter lazily and obediently. The robes knot at his waist had slipped slightly, a slight peek of his chest and the line of his collarbone. Your eyes darted down before you could stop yourself, and you snapped them away just as quickly — but not quickly enough. He saw you.

You turned on your heel, making your way out of the kitchen, pretending you hadn’t been caught looking. Behind you, his mouth curved, faint and knowing, and he followed behind you.

Clark could smell you. Not just the faint trace of soap on your skin, but something stronger, intoxicating — the subtle tang of arousal that hit his scent with every shift of your steps. His jaw tightened. You were just causally walking, but he could hear the faint, wet sounds between your legs.

“Here, come sleep in my room. I’ll take the couch,” he insists, acting like he didn’t know your dirty little secret.

“No, it’s fine-“

“Please,” he cuts you off gently, a quiet firmness in his voice. “Mom and Dad get up super early anyway. I wouldn’t want them to wake you up.”

You press your lips together, trying to argue, but his earnest expression makes it pointless. Finally, you sigh, smiling despite yourself. “Fine.”

His own smile is softer, lingering just a little too long. “I’ll walk you up.”

You climb the creaking stairs, Clark right behind you. Every step is weighted with tension, a quiet electricity that makes your pulse race.

You reach the room and begin to speak. “Clark, I-“

But before the words can form, the door swings shut behind him. The sound echoes sharply in the quiet house.

Then his lips are on yours. Rough. Hungry. No hesitation. Your heart skips, your knees go weak, and the air between you shimmers with everything that’s been simmering for hours.

He pulls back just slightly, just enough to catch his breath, but the tension in his body is still taut. Pink lips, flushed cheeks, hair falling down his forehead, and those blue eyes darkened with something raw and hungry — lust, need, something you’ve never seen from him before.

He waits. Silent, expectant. Waiting for words you don’t have. Waiting for you to say stop, or a Clark, you’re reading me wrong — but none came.

Instead, your hands find the back of his neck, gripping him, pulling him impossibly closer. His lips meet yours again, feverish and demanding. Every inch of him pressed close, every gasp and low groan filling the space around you. You don’t pull away. You can’t.

He groans against your lips, words muffled but urgent. “Could smell how wet you are,” he breathes, “wanna feel it.”

You don’t pull back. “Touch me, please,” you murmur, guiding his hand. His fingers, much larger than yours, slither inside his your pants. He slides a finger up your folds, warm and slick, and you shiver against him.

“C- clark,” you moan, breath shaky, pushing your hips further into his hand.

The house is quiet, his parents asleep down the hall. Nothing exists outside the room — just the press of lips, the taste of each other, the wet, delicious sound of him touching your sopping pussy.

“Can I taste it, too?” he asks, lips and kisses trailing down your neck.

“Yes,” you moan, shivering. “Please.”

Without another word, he sinks to his knees, hooking a finger into the waistband of the pajama pants you’d stolen from him and pulling them down. You step out, bottom half bare, your panties gone in the washer with the rest of your clothes.

He looks up at you, holding your gaze, and then leans in closer. His tongue flicks out before he takes the first careful lick of your sensitive clit. His eyes flutter shut, lashes brushing his cheeks, as he tastes the sweet, wet arousal that’s been coating your inner thighs. You gasp, already hypersensitive, nearly collapsing at the slightest touch, knees weak from the rush of pleasure.

“So sweet,” he whispers against your clit, mostly to himself — but you can hear it, and can’t help smiling through your breathless moans.

Your fingers thread through his raven curls, brushing the strands from his eyes so you can watch his face. His brows are knitted tight in focus, lips and tongue working you over like he’s starving for it.

“Oh, god,” you moan, voice cracking. “Fucking hell.”

He hums low in his throat, the vibration shooting straight through you. His hands slide up, cupping your ass, pulling you harder against his mouth until his face is buried so deep it feels like he’s trying to breathe you in — like he wouldn’t mind suffocating there.

His eyes flutter open, locking on yours as his lips seal around your clit. The heat of his tongue makes your knees weak, and then — oh fuck — he moves one hand from your ass and slides a finger inside your sopping hole. Just one, but with how big his hands are, it feels like so much more.

You’re grateful for how wet you are; it lets him push in smoothly, his finger gliding in and out with ease while his mouth works your clit.

You can’t tear your eyes away from him. Your mouth falls open in a silent moan, breath coming fast.

“You like that?” he murmurs against you.

You nod frantically. “Fuck, M’gonna cum already, you’re so fucking good at that.”

He smiles against your clit, a low sound rumbling in his throat. Then, cruelly, his mouth disappears, his finger still stroking inside you but slower, lighter, just enough to drive you crazy.

“Clark,” you whine, breathless. “Wh- what are you doing?”

“Wanna hear you beg for it,” he says, voice low, almost a growl. His finger curls, hitting that perfect spot, and your legs tremble.

“Please,” you gasp, hips grinding down to chase his mouth. “Please, Clark- I need you-“

Instead of finishing what he started, Clark pulls back abruptly, sliding his fingers out of you — leaving you achingly empty. You whimper at the loss, hips lifting instinctively, but he’s already grabbing your waist and laying you down flat against the bed.

His chin glistens, but he doesn’t bother wiping it. The robe slips from his shoulders with a careless tug, revealing nothing but hard planes of muscle and smooth, golden skin. You take a shaky breath as he pushes your knee apart with ease, positioning himself between your thighs like he owns them.

You let out an audible whine. He’s taking far too long on purpose, and he knows it.

“Hold on, baby,” he murmurs, low and steady, sinking onto his stomach. His fingers find your clit with maddening precision, spreading your slick over every swollen inch before sliding back inside, stretching you deep. “Just wanna make you cum first… before I fuck you.”

His fingers start to scissor inside you, stretching you open, and you can’t help the moan that slips out — soft, but loud enough to make Clark cautious. Quickly, his free hand grabs the hem of your sweatshirt and yanks it up to your mouth.

“Bite down,” he orders, pushing the fabric between your lips. You obey instantly, teeth sinking into the cotton, your muffled sounds vibrating against it. “That’s it. So good for me.”

Then he’s back down, tongue sealing over your clit. The sensation is sharp and overwhelming, and your legs try to clamp around his head on instinct. He doesn’t let you — his arm hooks around your thigh, holding it wide open with effortless strength, practically hugging your leg against his head as he devours you.

You moan into the sweatshirt, muffled and ragged, hips bucking involuntarily into his mouth as your body trembles with need.

He groans low, mouth pressed to your clit, fingers pumping relentlessly inside you. The friction, the slick heat, the press of his mouth — it all coils tight inside you until you can’t hold back.

Your walls clench around his fingers, gripping him, legs instinctively squeezing shut as the heavy wave of euphoria crashed throughout your body. Your chest rises and falls wildly, and your moans spill out muffled but desperate, through the fabric he shoved into your mouth.

He drinks you up thoroughly before pulling back, lips glistening, dimples peeking through as he licks them. His fingers slip out, and he sucks them clean as well, tasting your arousal like it was the sweetest treat.

He climbs back up, pressing himself face to face with you, and carefully pulls the now-wet fabric of the sweatshirt out of your mouth.

“You’re a dirty man,” you tease, breathless.

“Didn’t hear you complaining a minute ago,” he replies, leaning down to press a quick, teasing peck to your lips. “You want more, or should we just go back to sleep?”

You bite your lip, suddenly shy, the memory of what just happened making your stomach flutter. “Want you,” you murmur, voice soft but certain.

He smirks before leaning down, kissing you so gently it has you weak, tongue exploring yours as if trying to memorize every curve. He pulls back with a final, teasing peck, holding himself up above you.

Then, with one swift tug, he strips off his last piece of clothing and tosses it aside. His cock bounces free — flushed pink, thick. and standing tall, almost smug about the way it makes your breath hitch.

Kneeling over you, he strokes himself slowly, eyes locked on yours.

“Clark,” you say, voice stern but trembling.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, a soft moan escaping him.

“You’re so… big,” you admit, eyes wide.

“You can take it,” he replies, calm but commanding.

“No, I don’t think I can,” you whisper, heart hammering.

“Yes, you can. C’mon,” he urges, lowering himself closer, teasing the tip against your clit.

He pressed just enough to mix your slick with his pre-cum, dragging it along your folds, and the feeling in the pit of your stomach returns, sharp and insistent. You don’t even think about pulling back anymore.

“Ready?” he murmurs.

You hesitate, then nod anyway, heart pounding.

He smirks and taps his tip against your pussy a few times, making you jolt, before finally pushing it inside. Just the head slips in at first, the stretch sharp but addicting.

“Good?” he asks, voice low.

“Y- yeah… just- just go slow,” you breathe, fingers clutching the hem of your sweater like a lifeline.

Clark nods, obeying, easing inch by inch. The intrusion burns and thrills all at once. He’s not just long — he’s thick, every bit of him prying you open, molding your body to fit his. You’ve never taken anything like this, not even your little friend sitting in your drawer beside your bed back at home.

“You’re so warm and tight- fuck,” he groans, eyes fixed on where you’re joined, watching every slow inch disappear inside you.

Your hand slips down instinctively, pressing against your stomach as he bottoms out with a deep, shuddering breath.

“God, you’re gonna split me in half,” you manage, half joking, mainly serious.

Clark lets out a low chuckle, eyes squeezing shut like he’s hanging into control by a thread. “You got it. Just… give me a second.”

The thin layer of sweat on his body glows under the dim lighting, tracing every line of his chest, his abs, those massive arms you secretly wouldn’t mind being in a headlock by. You stare, unable to look away.

“You okay?” he asks, voice ragged.

“Mhm,” you hum, still pressing where you can feel him through your stomach.

You can feel him through your stomach.

“Alright,” he says, opening his eyes again, gaze dark and steady on you. “Gonna move now, okay?”

You nod frantically, fingers fisting the sheets on either side of you, bracing for what you already know is about to be the ride of your life.

Clark pulls out slowly, painfully, then eases back in with less resistance this time. You’re dripping, slick coating him, smearing over the tops of his thighs with every deliberate push. It’s so warm, so wet, every nerve screams at how good it feels.

“Go faster,” you breathe, voice shaky.

His eyes flick up to yours, brows raised. “You sure?”

“Yes,” you moan quickly, pressing your lips together, trying to stay composed.

He pounds into you harder, setting a faster pace, and the flimsy twin bed groans against the floorboards with every thrust.

You tug at the hem of the sweatshirt clinging to your overheated skin, desperate to peel it off.

“No,” he snaps, catching your wrists. His eyes are dark, hungry. “Keep it on. Wanna fuck you in this.”

He fists the sweatshirt though, yanking it up just enough for your tits to spill free. They bounce with every thrust, and his hand is on you instantly — rough, possessive — squeezing like he owns them.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice low and filthy. “In my clothes. My bed. Taking my cock like you were made for it.” His hand drags slowly down to your waist as he leans close, his chest flush against yours. “Should just make you mine already, huh?”

You can’t even speak — he’s so big, stretching you to the point of insanity, every thrust knocking the wind out of you. It’s almost feral now, the pace, the way the twin bed screeches across the floorboards, springs crying out with every slam. The headboard keeps smacking against the wall, a steady rhythm.

Clark didn’t lock the door. If his parents wake up and come down the hall to investigate, you’ll both be caught — sweaty, naked, and guilty. The thought only makes your stomach flip harder.

“Fuck,” Clark grits out, suddenly stilling inside of you. One hand cradles your head as the other yanks a pillow out from under you. He shoves it between the headboard and wall, eyes flashing back down at you. “Pussy so good, gonna get me in trouble.”

“Clark, M’so close…” you whisper, breathless — too breathless to say it louder, or you’d scream it.

“Yeah? C’mon, baby,” he growls, rocking his hips rough and deep, “wanna feel you cum around me.”

The knot in your stomach tightens to something sharp, electric — not just release, something bigger, heavier. Your brows pinch together, sweat slick on your skin, and you bite your lip hard to keep from crying out.

“M’gonna cum- c- cover my mouth, cover my mouth!” you squeal, the words tumbling out high and panicked.

Clark’s large hand slaps a hand over your mouth, his palm broad and warm, and you grab his wrist instinctively, your fingers not even reaching around it.

Your body seizes up, clenching around him, so tight it nearly drags him under with you — and then it happens. A sudden rush, a warm spray, your release spilling out uncontrollably, soaking his stomach, his thighs, the sheets.

Clark chokes out a moan, eyes blown wide at the sight. “Fuck…” His hips stutter, fighting for control, watching every drop. It’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen — and he’s already thinking about how to make you do it again.

You scream, drooling into his palm, but he couldn’t care less — if anything, it spurs him on. He keeps pounding into you with a ruthless rhythm, chasing his own high. And when the squirting doesn’t stop, when your pussy somehow clenches even tighter around him, he finally pulls out with a guttural curse. His hand works his cock in rough, urgent strokes until hot ropes of cum spill across your stomach, getting on the sweater as well.

He pulls off of you with a long, ragged exhale, chest rising and falling rapidly.

“I don’t want to boost your ego” you murmur, still catching your breath, “but that was my first time doing that.”

“Huh,” he breathes out, eyes wide. “Really?”

“Well,” you tease, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “No one can be hung like you are.”

He chuckles, shaking his head, a faint pink tint creeping across his cheeks.

“God, Clark,” you breathe, glancing down at the mess, “now it’s gonna be obvious when I change clothes.”

“Hey, you made a mess too!” he whines, tugging at the rumpled sheets.

“You think we were being too loud?” you ask, tilting your head as you watch him wipe away all the fluids with the sheets he was going to wash anyway.

“Definitely,” he says with a grin, voice teasing as he gets up and looks for his robe somewhere on the floor. “Maybe we should just leave now… save ourselves the embarrassment.”

You smirk, shifting on the bed. “You might have to carry me this time, though. Just got my world absolutely rocked by Superman down there.”

He freezes for a second, then chuckles, fumbling for his robe and tying it back around his waist. “You did not just call my dick Superman,” he says, shaking his head, still chuckling.

You only hum, shrugging the sweater off and heading to his dresser to find clean clothes that don’t have his cum on them!

“Uhm…” he starts, fiddling with his hands like he can’t decide where to put them. “I… I wanna make things right. The whole… hook up stuff isn’t really my thing. So, when we head back to Metropolis… I was wondering if you- like, maybe you’d wanna go out for dinner, or stay in and I could cook for you instead? Or, um, if not that’s totally fine, I get it! We can just stay friends, act like nothing happened-“

“Clark,” you cut him off, walking toward him. “You just fucked the living hell out of me, and now you’re all shy?”

He laughs nervously, scratching the back of his neck, eyes darting everywhere but yours. “Sorry… so? What do you think?”

You nod, smiling. “I would love that. Honestly, I’d be pissed if you wanted to just stay friends after fucking me like that.”

He chuckles, sliding a hand around your waist to slap your ass. You squeal a little too loudly.

“Shh!” he hisses, leaning closer, smirk tugging at his lips.

You playfully swat him with the shirt in your hands. “You really underestimate your strength, you know that?”

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