summary: clark kent is the perfect boyfriend. sweet, funny, annoyingly handsome, and so much more. there was only one flaw… no matter how big the bulge in his pants was, he just wouldn’t let you have sex with him! you were determined to change that, even if it killed you.
cw: 18+!!, big dick clark (like huge), oral (f and m!receiving), munch!clark, dick pronouns, just the tip, unprotected pinv
an: i want to really sincerely apologize for falling so behind on my posts :( school has been kicking my ass for the past few days and i’ve had so little motivation lately💔 im trying to get posts out for you guys, and your support seriously means the world to me
✎ᝰ.ᐟ ✎ᝰ.ᐟ ✎ᝰ.ᐟ ✎ᝰ.ᐟ ✎ᝰ.ᐟ ✎ᝰ.ᐟ ✎ᝰ.ᐟ ✎ᝰ.ᐟ
You felt like you were going crazy.
Clark’s head had been buried between your thighs for what felt like hours now, hot tongue laving over your sensitive clit before shoving into your sopping hole again. Sometimes he suckled or slurped, and you were helpless to the wrath of Clark Kent’s downright sinful tongue. How he’d learned to eat pussy this good, you didn’t know, nor did you really care. He could take you to heaven and back with his tongue alone.
Now, just because you were always left sensitive and sated from his mouth alone didn’t mean that you didn’t crave more. Crave the one thing he hadn’t let you have yet.
The rock hard cock currently straining against the seam of his sweats as he rocked against the mattress.
He hadn’t even let you see it yet. How unfair was that? He’d had you in all kinds of positions just so that he could get his mouth on your cunt—bent over the arm of the couch, sitting atop the counter, standing in the shower, held up by his strong shoulders, sitting on his face, the list went on—but the second you reached for his bulge he simply tutted and pulled away.
Or, in this case, distracted you by sucking harder on your clit while he shoved two fingers into your messy pussy.
He hummed against your folds, pulling back just barely to spit against them—as if you weren’t wet enough to water a football field.
Before he could dive back in, you tugged his dark curls back enough to see his face. You were sure you looked wrecked, considering you felt like a mess, but he only looked up at you with that same reverent gaze he always had.
“E-enough, Clark,” you panted, squirming back so you could sit up. He practically whined, following enough to press a kiss to the top of your thigh.
“Thought you liked it.” He mumbled, almost petulantly. Every so often his eyes flickered back to your cunt—hidden away from him now—like he was yearning for it.
“I do,” you replied with a huffy laugh. “I just want something else right now.”
He must’ve seen the almost predatory glint in your eyes, because he practically shivered as he sat up fully. You could see the tent in his sweats now, and it was clear he wasn’t wearing boxers underneath.
You felt feral, like you could tear him apart and consume him whole. But maybe you were just ovulating.
“Baby…” He sighed, following your line of sight to his bulge. “It’s… not a good idea.”
“Not a good idea?” You scoffed, holding back a laugh. “What isn’t? Sex?”
“Yes. No! I-I don’t know.” He stammered, holding his hands up in surrender. “I just… I dunno, baby. I’m big. Too big. I don’t want to hurt you.”
You eyed him carefully now, seeing the true fear and insecurity in his eyes. “There’s no such thing as too big, baby. We can make it work.”
But he shook his head. “No, no. You don’t get it. I am too big. I know I am. It wouldn’t be enjoyable for you, and I don’t know what I’d do if I hurt you.”
His words made you smile, the fire of need simmering down a little. Here was your sweet Clark, so worried about hurting you that he’d hold off his own pleasure and needs.
“Clark,” you cooed, reaching out to cup his cheek. “It’s okay. I love you. All of you. Can I at least see him? See if we can make him fit?
He blushed at your words, letting out a sigh. You could see the conflict swimming in his eyes, but finally he relented. He untied the string of his sweats and tugged them down, shucking them off.
Finally, finally, you were met with the sight of Clark’s glorious cock.
Your first thought was holy shit.
Your second was how the hell am I gonna fit that thing inside of me?
He was big. Insanely big. Like the kind of big you see on cheesy pornos and scoff at.
But here was you perfect Clark looking so goddamn self conscious, so worried, that you had to reassure him. So you reached forward and wrapped your hand around him, relishing in the soft gasp he let out.
You watched him carefully, making sure he was on board with your actions before leaning forward and kitten licking his fat tip. He groaned, lifting his hand towards your head but pausing halfway, like he was scared to grab you. You took his hand and guided it to the back of your head.
You took a moment to admire him. He was big, obviously, but girthy too. You got the term soup can now.
His big hand threaded through your hair gently, not even harsh enough to tug on the strands. You traced your lips down his shaft, pressing soft kisses up and down the veins there before licking up the underside of him. His cock jerked and a bit of precum dribbled out, but you caught it with your tongue.
You took him in your mouth then, wrapping your soft lips around his tip and bobbing down lightly. He hissed quietly, huge thighs tensing up while he held back from thrusting into your mouth.
You worshipped him for a few minutes, your hand trailing down to toy with the soft skin of his heavy balls. He didn’t let you do that for long, pulling you off his cock with a strained “g’nna cum ‘f you keep that up.”
You looked up at him then, fluttering your wispy lashes at him. “I want you to fuck me, Clark. Please.”
He groaned again, closing his eyes for a few moments. “Baby, please. You’re gonna be the death of me.”
“C’mon,” you whined, pouting now. “Please? I promise I can take you. How about just the tip?”
He seemed intrigued at that, perking up a bit. “Just the tip?”
“Uh-huh. All you do is put a little in. Please, Clark, I just want to feel you.”
He was quiet for a few moments, thinking. Then he sighed. You knew he’d never say no to you.
He guided you to lie on your back, tugging and shifting your hips until you were where he wanted you. Then he settled himself between your hips, taking his cock in his hand.
You strained your neck to look down at him, grinning. triumphantly. He caught your grin and gave you a look that said watch it.
“What?” You asked innocently. “He’s just so pretty.”
Clark scoffed out a soft laugh, his hand landing in your thigh to spread you open more. He took his tip in his palm, slowly guiding it through your folds. Immediately he was exhaling shakily, making an O shape with his hand so that he could thrust his cock into it while simultaneously running through your soaked folds. Every time, his tip kissed your clit just barely, sending sparks through your lower half until you were squirming uneasily.
“Claaark,” you whined. “Put it in me. Please. I’m hurtin’.”
He used his freehand to brush a stray hair off your forehead, tucking it behind your ear. Judging by the furrow between his brow and the way he clenched his jaw, he was just as worked up as you.
“I know, I know. I got ya’, baby.” He murmured, eyes focused on your winking entrance now. Slowly, he guided his tip to your entrance and began pushing in.
He only went in about two inches, but the feeling of his fat mushroom tip stretching you out was glorious enough. He practically whined when he first entered, gripping you hips like a vice. You were already a whining, moaning mess by the time he began doing shallow little thrusts. They were small, but you could feel them in the very depths of your being.
You couldn’t wait to see what the whole thing felt like.
He was losing pace now, thrusting a bit further in with each sloppy roll of his hips. Not that you minded, your moans we’re spilling out of you uncontrollably, soft babbles of words you wouldn’t remember in thirty minutes.
And this was only the tip.
Finally, after a few more stuttered thrusts an strained groans, he pulled out of you and spurred cum onto your lower stomach. And your mound. And your heaving tits. He even managed to gets little on your cheek.
You were both panting softly as he came down, using the pad of his thumb to swipe cum off of your belly. You caught his hand, bringing it up to your mouth and sucking the milky fluid off his finger. He swallowed hard enough you could see his Adam’s apple bob.
“Next time, I’ll take the whole thing.” You murmured with a glance down at his cock. To your surprise, it was still achingly hard.
Maybe next time would be a lot sooner than you first thought.
James Gunn saw David Corenswet blushing, giving heart eyes and being in love with his wife in that audition tape and thought "I need to give this man the role, he's gonna be the most yearning Clark Kent the world has ever seen" and that was a genius move on David's end
the thing is that this easter egg is so fucking obvious if you're even remotely familiar with anything taylor-related, but saying to a normal person "yeah no taylor swift is about to announce an new album and we know that because she just posted 12 pics of her wearing orange on instagram" makes you look. well. in need of medical attention to be honest
Clark who bans you wearing lip gloss at the office because it distracts him too much <333
He'll literally stroll right over to you while you're typing away at your computer, finishing up a paper for the week and just lean against your desk until you acknowledge his presence.
"Uhhh, can I help you?" The tease in your voice pairs obnoxiously with the exaggerated eyebrow raise you give him.
Clark doesn't say anything. Just stares down at your glossed lips, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth before pulling you into a soft kiss.
You're momentarily stalled by the action. Almost embarrassed by Clark being so open about PDA in the office but you dont have long to mess over it when the pulls away just as fast. He keeps his hand on your chin, turning your face left and right while running his tongue over his lips.
"Cherry?"
You give a blank nod, still shocked.
"Yeah you're not allowed to wear that anymore." Is all he says as he turns around to heads to his desk.
"Wear what?" Your swivel your chair in his desks direction, eyes following him as he takes a seat.
"Your lip gloss — you look like a damn doll." His voice strains somewhat as he turns back to his computer. And you don't miss the way he discreetly adjusts the bulge in his slacks.
You immediately pull up the lip gloss brand page on your computer and add 6 more tubes to your cart.
I kinda wanna do a jurassic world dr, I just can't choose between Owen Grady or Henry Loomis to be my bf, but I might just make them both to be my bf's, cause why not? it's my reality
SINCE SHE WAS A LITTLE GIRL SHE KNEW SHE WANTS A WORK WHERE SHE CAN GIVE HER OPINION ON WHAT SHE ADORES THE MOST, FASHION. Which is why she choosed to become a journalist, sure making and designing clothes or even walking the runway must be more entertaining and not as boring as sitting and writing about the latest trends, but not to Greta. Greta was never one who kept her opinions to herself, which led to tons of conflicts in her life, but nothing could break her spirit, whenever she got rejected from a workplace, she took a few hours off to cry at home and then tried again, until she finally got a job at a company that only focused on the news related to fashion, she soon became one of the best writer there, mainly because she was in her early twenties she knew the latest trends like the back of her hand.
I. GRETA AND CLARK'S RELATIONSHIP
GRETA AND CLARK'S RELATIONSHIP STARTED WITH A SCENE THAT PEOPLE WOULD ONLY SEE IN MOVIES. Greta, being only 5'0 feet tall, of course had to have a cereal as her favorite that was almost always on the top shelves that she could barely reach, most of the time she would jump until she finally can grab it, or choose something to push it down with, but one time it was a really tall stranger who literally rushed to help her like some superhero, and after a very awkward conversation Clark managed to ask for Greta's number. Clark didn't stopped until she was his, he knew he had to have her on their first date, because when Clark bought up the topic of family Greta yapped for atleast ten minutes about how she wants two kids, a golden retriever, some cozy cottage near the woods, so it wasn't that suprising to anyone when after a month they started dating.
I. GRETA'S MOODBOARD
fashionista. bows and lace. iced coffee. night owl. romcom fanatic. angel vibes. shopaholic. skirts and heels. owner of the colors pink and white. autumn baby.
I am so tired of missing my s/o every second, every minute and every each day. Just let me be there already so I could feel his embrace. I couldn't want anything more. Gosh, I wanna cry so bad.
cw: 18+ MDNI ; body worship, oral (f. receiving), soft dom!sam
You’re still in your jeans when Sam gets on his knees.It’s after a hunt. You’re bruised, exhausted, dried blood still clinging to your temple—but Sam looks at you like he’s seeing an angel. Like the burn marks, the scabs, the way you limp just slightly—none of it makes you less. It makes you holy.
“Take these off,” he murmurs, voice thick. His hands are already working at your belt, mouth moving against your hip like a silent prayer. “Please.”
You don’t stop him. You let him pull your jeans down slow, revealing the curve of your thighs, the scar on your knee from three hunts ago, the healed bite marks at your inner thigh that never faded. His hands are shaking when he peels your underwear down too, like he’s unwrapping a relic that doesn’t belong to him.
“God, look at you,” he whispers. And he does. He looks. Sam drops to the floor, palms on the backs of your thighs to keep you steady, and then leans in—his lips brushing a reverent kiss over the crease of your thigh. Then higher. Then the other side. Every kiss is soft, achingly slow, like you’ll break if he isn’t gentle.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you whisper. “I’m just—”
“You’re everything,” he says hoarsely, cutting you off. “You don’t know what it does to me—seeing you fight. Seeing you survive. You walk out of hell like you belong in heaven.”
Your hand finds his hair, fingers curling tight.He kisses the scar above your mound. The one you hate. You flinch, and Sam frowns.
“No,” he says, voice rough. “Don’t ever hide this from me. You earned every mark on this body.” His eyes flick up, dark and glassy. “This is the holiest thing I’ve ever touched.”
You nearly cry. Then Sam lowers his mouth to your core, and you do. He doesn’t rush. His lips part and he licks a slow, aching stripe up your folds like he’s tasting something forbidden—something divine.
Your knees tremble, and his hands steady you, thumbs drawing soft circles into your thighs.
“Sam,” you gasp, eyes fluttering shut.
“Let me pray,” he whispers. And then he devours you. His tongue is everywhere—broad strokes through your folds, slow curls around your clit, tracing delicate shapes you can’t decipher because your brain’s gone. He groans when you whimper, like the sound feeds him, and sinks lower to lap at your entrance, then back up to suck your clit so gently you arch off the bed.Your moans fill the room, broken and desperate. You clutch at his hair, your stomach, anything to anchor yourself.
“Fuck—you’re so good—Sam, please—” He doesn’t stop. He won’t stop. Not when you taste like salvation. Not when you grind against his mouth, chasing your high with helpless little cries. Not when he feels like he’s cleansing himself every time you moan his name.
Sam’s tongue works you open until your thighs are trembling around his face, and you’re gasping—“I’m—gonna—Sam!”
Your orgasm crashes through you so hard you forget where you are. Your body locks up, legs shaking, and Sam just holds you, mouth still moving, tongue gentle now, like he’s easing you down from something sacred
.When it’s too much—really too much—you squirm, breathless, overstimulated. He finally pulls away, face glistening with you. He looks dazed. Blessed.
You try to sit up, to pull him up to kiss him, but he doesn’t move right away. He kisses your thigh again. Then the inside of your knee. Then your hip.
“I think you’re my redemption,” he says quietly. “I know I don’t deserve you.”
You lean down, cup his jaw, force him to look at you. “You’re wrong,” you whisper. “But even if you weren’t—I’d still let you pray like that again.”
Sam smiles, slow and reverent.
“Good,” he says, voice wrecked. “Because I haven’t finished worshipping you yet.”
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