warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), pornstar!reader, rough sex, spanking (light), panty pulling, unprotected sex (within filming context), clark finishes on reader, overstimulation, nsfw language + themes.
donāt want to see this kind of content? feel free to block these tags: #pornstar!clark #kentwiththegooddick #kwtgd #kwtgd kinks
By the time the video picked up, Clark was already fucking you hard enough to make the bed shake. You were face down on the mattress with your ass pushed up for him, bra still on, panties dragged off to one side. The setup was supposed to sell some rushed little quickie, one of those cheap, overused porno scenarios where nobody bothered getting fully undressed because apparently there just wasnāt time.
Clark didnāt care about any of that.
What he did care about, though, was the way your ass kept meeting his hips.
He stood behind you at the edge of the bed, driving into you over and over while you pushed right back, keeping pace without needing to be told. His hands locked around your hips, pulling you onto his cock as your body bounced against him with every thrust. He felt each impact through his grip, but all of his attention remained fixed on the movement beneath him.
Your panties only made everything impossible to ignore. The lace thong stayed crooked across one side of your ass, stretched tight where it still clung to you and twisted where heād shoved it aside. Each stroke tugged the fabric a little higher, the thin strip shifting against your skin every time you took him deep again.
And you kept doing it.Ā
Meeting him thrust for thrust. Taking every hard snap of his hips and sending your own back for the next one, making it worse. Better. Harder for him to remember there was a camera pointed at either of you. Clark watched as you arched your back for him, leaning forward until your chest pressed deeper into the mattress, opening yourself up for another hard pass. Then another. Your ass lifted higher beneath his hands like you were giving him more room to fuck you, and something about the sight of it made him sink into the moment completely.
His grip tightened around your hips first, fingers digging in as he pulled you back onto his cock. Then one hand lifted.
The first smack cracked through the room. Your ass jolted beneath his palm while his cock stayed buried inside you, the impact making everything move around him. Clark watched it happen, watched the soft recoil of your body, the way your back dipped a little lower like the sting had only made you want more.
So he did it again.
Another sharp slap landed across the same cheek, louder this time. Your body jumped beneath his hand, but your rhythm never faltered. You only pushed back onto him harder, pulling a groan from his chest. Clark did it again without slowing, his palm coming down as your hips kept working against his.
Every reaction pulled him deeper into it. The louder you got, the harder he fucked you, and the harder he fucked you, the more your body gave back. It built between you, each response feeding the next until the control he usually kept so firmly in place started slipping.
His fingers bit into your hips as he drove into you faster, each motion pulling another sound from you until one hand left and caught the lace bunched across your ass. He wound it around his fist and pulled it taut, drawing your thong higher before using it to pull you back onto him. The next one landed heavier, and so did the one after that, each pull bringing your ass straight into his hips while he pushed forward to meet you.Ā
Your voice climbed with the pace, each sound coming quicker as your back arched farther and your thighs tensed beneath you. Still, you kept pushing back, kept taking him, even as the pressure building inside you started to ruin your rhythm.
Clark could feel how close you were in the way you kept tightening around him, gripping harder every time he yanked you back by the lace and buried himself again. And knowing it only made him lose more of that control. His thrusts got deeper, harsher, each one knocking another sound out of you while his fist stayed twisted tight in your thong. He kept dragging you back and pounding into you without easing up, your body winding tighter around him until every stroke pushed you closer to the edge.
He thought the sight before had been bad enough, damning even, but now he knew better. Clark was so caught up in the way your body met hisāthe way your ass lifted for him, making the fabric bite into your skin as more of it disappeared into his fistāthat he almost missed the way your sounds started changing. They pitched higher, grew messier, breaking apart with every movement between you. Then your back arched differently. Your ass snapped back hard against him once before your rhythm broke, stuttering against him as your thighs went tight and started shaking.
You came around him like that, crying out while your pussy clamped down hard enough to pull a ragged breath from him. Still, he didnāt stop. Didnāt miss a single beat. The lace strained across your hips as your body jerked beneath him. Every time you pushed back or tried to move with the force of your orgasm, he pulled you closer without realizing it, keeping you right there on his cock while he drove into you again. He wasnāt thinking about the fabric anymore. Wasnāt thinking about how far heād stretched it or how much pressure he was putting on it.
He was thinking about the way you sounded. The way your ass kept trying to meet him even while your legs shook. The way you kept squeezing around him, wet and tight and still taking every hard thrust he gave you. Every pulse around his cock dragged him closer until his own movements started getting rougher, less controlled, his hips slamming into you while your orgasm kept working through your body.
Then he pulled you back onto him again, harder than before.
Snap.
The lace gave in his fist, the sound cutting clean through everything before a little yelp jumped out of you. But even then, you didnāt stop fucking him. Your hips kept working, pushing back onto his cock with the torn fabric hanging loose around you, and that was enough to send him over.
Clark started to come with a rough, broken groan, his fist tightening around what was left of your thong as you kept fucking yourself back onto him. His hips lost whatever rhythm had been left, chasing the feeling instead as your body kept meeting every desperate rut. Somewhere in the middle of it, he swore he apologized. Thought he managed a strained, āSorry,ā but it was hard to tell when the word disappeared beneath your sounds and the relentless movement of your hips.
It nearly took him under completely before he remembered the scene. Remembered what he was supposed to do. More through sheer luck than any real will of his own, he slipped free at the last possible second, one hand keeping you steady while the other wrapped around his cock and stroked him through the rest of it.
His groans came out loud and unrestrained as thick, hot cum spilled over your ass. There was more than either of you expected. Some landed higher across your lower back while the rest gathered over the curve of you and slowly slipped toward the torn lace at your hips. The camera moved in close behind you, catching every filthy trace heād left on your skin. You stayed arched on the mattress, still trying to catch your breath, while Clark stood over you with his chest heaving, eyes fixed on your ass like even now, after everything, he still hadnāt seen enough.
a/n: it's been so long, guys, i'm so sorry. i'm working through my drafts this weekend, so hopefully i can post some more soon. also, not sure how i feel about this one lol. either way, i hope you guys enjoy <3
summer request festĀ is here again!! this yearās vibe is very muchĀ tiki drinks, summer nights, salty air, and bad decisions by the water.š¹šŗ open: now ā august 1st.Ā
for this event, requests are open forĀ anything and anyone on my blog ā this includes myĀ main roster, honorable mentions, AUs, and reader characters. if it exists somewhere in my little corner of the internet, itās fair game. if thereās a character/au you donāt see listed, youāre still welcome to ask and iāll let you know if i can make it happen!
requests can be sent through the ask box or dms, whichever works best. when requesting, feel free to be as specific as you'd like! all i ask is that you let me know if you have a particular version of a character in mind (ex: tom holland's spider-man/andrew garfield's spider-man).
lastly, my general rules still apply, but aside from thatā¦ consider this your open tab <3
anything related to this event can be found under:
#ā¹ź¤ rainās summer request fest ź¤ā¹
notes: the overall theme this year is a little moreĀ beach bar / tiki barĀ inspired just because thatās the mood iām in, but your requests absolutely doĀ notĀ need to be beachy or summer-themed, though i definitely encourage it! please let me know if you have any questions! š¤ all tag lists are open!
Hi hi x just want to say I love your blog! The way you paint a scene is just magic. I swear I come back daily to see if you've posted also cannot wait for more porn star Clark !!!
hi there!! this is so sweet, thank you so much šš i plan to post a few fics here soon, ps!clark included š so stay tuned!!! <3
hi rain! i hope you have a fantastic week! i just want you to know that the crown and the quill is a beautiful story. I love all of your work tbh š
hi!!! thank you so much šš i really enjoyed writing it, so iām happy that youāre enjoying it too! sadly, that is one of the series i decided to discontinue, but iām open to potentially bringing it back once i clear up some of my other works. either way, thank you for the kind words and support!! it means the world to me š„¹ i hope you have a great week as well! <3
hi lovelies!! āļøšāØ i just wanted to give a little summer update!
first and foremost, thank you all so much for your kindness and patience while i took my break. iām slowly easing my way back into writing and just taking things one day at a time. iām not quite ready to jump back in at full speed, but it feels good to be finding my way back.
while i was away, i made a few changes around my blog. i discontinued a couple of series and removed a couple of fics that no longer felt like the right fit. over the next few weeks, iāll also be updating my roster a bit. there are a few characters iām really excited to focus on, so if anyone is swapped out, theyāll simply be moving over to the honorable mentions masterlist. š¤
i also hit 2k followers a few weeks ago!!! so a BIG thank you to all of you!! iām so grateful for the love and support youāve shown me. i truly appreciate every like, reblog, comment, and message more than i could ever put into words. š„¹š with that being said, i donāt think i can fully commit to the 2k event i originally had planned. instead, iāll still be bringing back my summer request fest, just with a slightly shorter timeframe this year. more details will be coming soon! āØ
iām really looking forward to sharing more with you all again. thank you for sticking around. i love you all so much!!! šš
pairing: clark kent x f!reader | genre: smut | wc: 3k
summary:Ā you try to behave at work, but superman keeps getting in the way. unfortunately for clark, so does his super hearing.
warnings:Ā explicit sexual content (18+), porn with plot, explicit use of written fantasies, accidental orgasm, super hearing eavesdropping, mild voyeurism, reader is horrendously down bad for superman.
a/n: inspo: fantasize by ariana grande. i have no words to explain this lmao. either way, i hope you guys like it :) let me know what you think!! <33 (also happy birthday, david!!!)
ā¦ i fantasize about it all the time, if you were mineā¦ i'd give this pussy to you nine-to-five, five-to-nine. tryin' to behave, but i'm feelin' some type of way. ā¦
It started as an ordinary crush. Everyone had a crush on Superman, right? That was what you kept telling yourself every time your mind wandered back to his smile, the dimples that came with it, his voice, the little curl that always seemed to fall perfectly against his forehead. It was harmless... normal. Practically expected, in a sense.
That explanation became less convincing when you thought about the way the suit fit him, how it showed the shape of everything. And you did mean everything. Your eyes were particularly drawn to certain pieces. Pieces you kept to yourself when people asked what you were thinking about, because what were you supposed to say? That his arms looked obscene in that blue? That his thighs looked even worse? That those red briefs fit too damn well for something everyone was just expected to casually ignore?
Right.
So when people asked, you stuck to the basics. Kept it simple. When Lois mentioned Superman and yet another rescue, you gave something polite, something normal, something that made you sound like a decent citizen and not a woman quietly losing a fight against her own imagination. When Jimmy talked him up, you dulled everything down and smiled, nodding along like you hadnāt already looked at the photo he was describing three separate times. Cat tried her luck more than anyone, of course, always watching your face a little too closely when she mentioned how good Superman looked on camera, how the lens loved him, how some men were just built to be looked at.
But you didnāt fold. You just shrugged, kept your expression clean, and said, āYeah, the camera works for him." Some watered-down version of what you were actually thinking.
Clark noticed too.Ā
Not like the others. No, his revelation was far more accurate. You two werenāt exactly friends or anything, but you had worked on a few pieces together, which meant late nights, long drafts, shared coffee runs, and him becoming well acquainted with you whether he meant to or not. He knew your crush on Superman went far past what you let people see. Knew that your body had its own reaction reserved specifically for him. Well, not him. The other him. And at a certain point, that distinction was starting to drive him crazy.
Like today.
The bullpen had gathered around for the latest clip of Superman, everyoneās attention fixed on the screen while yours looked almost too controlled. Soft interest. Casual smile. The right amount of impressed,Ā mutedĀ just enough to pass as normal. But Clarkās attention was nowhere near the screen. It was on you. While your mouth said something kind and sweet whenever Superman was mentioned, he heard how fast your heart was beating under it. Heard the slight change in your breathing when Cat said the suit looked good from a specific angle. Caught the small shift of your legs when Superman looked into the camera and answered the reporter directly, voice calm, steady, painfully familiar.
That one stirred something in him. Something he covered with a quick clearing of his throat, eyes dropping to the papers in his hand like they suddenly required all of his focus.
But then Superman laughed in the clip. Just a low, easy laugh at something the reporter said, nothing dramatic, nothing meant to be anything at all, and Clark heard you let out something that almost wasnāt a sound. Half sigh, half something else, something that would have been far more dangerous if it had come out any harder.
That little slip of breath hit him harder than he expected.Ā
Right below the belt.Ā
Not that you hadnāt already been working your way into his system, because you had. Slowly. Quietly. In little ways he could pretend not to notice until pretending stopped working. But this was getting harder to ignore. You were there now, wedged somewhere between Clarkās curiosity and Supermanās pride, reacting to a version of him you didnāt know was sitting three desks away, listening to every sound you tried to hide.
All of it dragged something up in him he had no business letting loose. Something possessive. Something too pleased. Something he was fighting like hell to keep quiet.
It took everything in him not to look at you for the rest of the day.Ā
And every day after that.
It had been no more than a week since you had nearly moaned in front of the entire bullpen. Superman came on the screen and you nearly did too.
What were you thinking?
It had been an involuntary response, something you usually only let happen in the quiet of your apartment where no one was around to witness it. No reporters, or editors, or Cat watching your face like she was waiting for it to tell on you. It was just something about his laugh, the tenor of it, the way it rolled out deep and warm, paired with that slight tilt of his head. Oh, and the hung smile. That too. The one that sat on his mouth a second too long and landed right between your legs before it reached anywhere else.
Jesus, you were down bad.
You knew that. Denial wasnāt even worth the effort at this point. Superman was part of your job as much as he was part of your thoughts, no matter how incoherent those thoughts became when they showed up. You had sworn to yourself that you would at least try to tone it down. That he didnāt need to consume every corner of your mind. That you were a grown woman with responsibilities, deadlines, and at least some self-respect left.
Unfortunately, only the logical part of your brain got the memo.
He had already broken your focus twice just this morning. Once while you were getting ready for work, toothbrush in hand, staring at your reflection while your mind wandered straight back to him for absolutely no productive reason. The brushing session went on far longer than necessary, your eyes unfocused, toothpaste nearly sliding down your wrist before you finally snapped out of it.
And again in the Daily Planet elevator, purse tucked under your arm, trying to look normal while your brain decided that 8:42 in the morning was the perfect time to replay the exact sound of Supermanās laugh. You nearly missed your floor completely, only snapping back when Clark Kent, of all people, glanced over from beside you and said, soft and polite, āThis is you.ā You blinked, looked at the glowing floor number, and stepped out too fast with a quick, āRight. Thanks.ā
Yeah, embarrassing enough, but it didnāt stop there.Ā
Not long after you settled in at your desk, breaking news echoed throughout the bullpen, grabbing everyoneās attention. Especially yours. There he was, flying through dust and debris, catching pieces of towering buildings like they weighed nothing. You figured the montage would be over soon, that you could will your way through it for just a few more seconds, keep your face neutral, keep your breathing normal, keep your eyes from lingering anywhere they had no business lingering in a room full of people.
But then you heard his voice.
He was talking after saving a burning building while simultaneously fighting another alien invasion in the city, because apparently one crisis wasnāt enough. All smoke and wreckage around him, the streets torn up behind him, the sky still half-lit with whatever had just been trying to kill everyone. He had a few smudges across his skin, dark streaks near his cheek and jaw, his hair curly but messy in that way where you could tell this hadnāt necessarily been an easy feat for him. Still, he got it done. Of course he did. And unfortunately for you, he looked damn good after doing it.
That image of him stuck with you all day, well into lunch. Normally youād sit with Lois and Cat, let Cat bait you, let Lois talk through the latest lead, pretend you were functioning like a normal person. But today you had āso much workā and you were just ātoo busy.ā The first half was a lie, but the second half was relatively true. You were too busy.
With Superman.
You sat at your desk, pen and notebook suddenly becoming less like paper mates and more like partners in crime as you started writing. Ignoring Supermanās presence as it radiated through your body wasnāt doing you any good. If anything, it only made it worse. The more you tried not to think about him, the more your mind supplied the details anyway. The smudges on his skin. The mess of his hair. The way his voice had sounded after the fight, steady but rougher, like the city had pulled something out of him and he still had more to give.Ā
So your best solution? Write it out. Maybe if you gave the thoughts somewhere to go, heād go with them. Maybe felt like a high-risk, low-reward situation, but you were desperate enough to try.
Clark, on the other hand, had been working through revisions for your most recent piece together. Nothing too crazy, just a few additions that would support the notes youād give him later. Easy work. The kind of work he could usually get through without much trouble.Ā
And perhaps that had been the problem.
It didnāt take much for Clarkās focus to drift away to its new favorite spotāyou.Ā His back was to you, your desk set behind his, and from what he could hear, you were having a pretty productive day. Your pen moved across the page in smooth, steady strokes, pausing here and there before starting again. He assumed they were revision notes at first, something detailed enough to help the piece, something that almost pushed his attention back to his own screen.
Almost.
Just when his mind started to drift away, he heard the telltale signs. Your heartbeat picking up, your breath cutting in shorter intervals, quiet enough that no one else would notice but clear enough to him that ignoring it became its own kind of effort. He heard the shift of your legs, crossing and uncrossing twice beneath your desk like you couldnāt quite get comfortable. But more than that, your writing had changed.
The pressure. The shift from a smooth glide to the sharper scratch of pen against paper. The stroke of each letter becoming so specific, so weighted, that he could make out most, if not all, of what was being written.
āthatās the part I canāt seem to get out of my head. Always so big, like itās too much until it isnātā
Clarkās fingers slowed over his keyboard.
He had picked up on the rhythm some time ago, from the hours youād spent working side by side. And no, it wasnāt intentional. It had happened gradually, built through marked-up pages, half-finished articles, and too many notes passed back and forth. He knew the way you wrote when you were focused. Knew the difference between a quick note, a revised sentence, a thought you crossed out before it could finish.
This wasnāt any of that.
I keep thinking about how it would feel to let him spread me open with those hands.
Clark went still.
The sentence formed clearly enough that his breath caught before he could stop it. For one second, he told himself to stop. That this was wrong. That he shouldnāt be listening just because he could. He was raised better than that.Ā
That one tugged at that Boy Scout conscience of his, just enough to have him start pulling his attention back.
Then your pen moved again.
S-u-p-e-r-m-a-n.
He couldnāt have ignored that even if he tried. His attention snapped right back to where it had no business being, caught on the scratch of your pen, the weight behind each word, the small breaks in your breathing as the page filled. Every piece of it gave you away, telling him exactly what state you were working yourself into.
You wrote about wanting him all the time. About wanting Supermanās body over you, in you, around you. About how badly you wanted to know if heād fuck like you imagined he would. About how you didnāt think once would be enough.
The more your thoughts sharpened, the more your body reacted. Your heartbeat had gone fast enough now that it wasnāt even subtle to him anymore. Your breathing kept catching, then evening out, then catching again, like every line was pulling another reaction out of you. He was tuned into all of it, too tuned in, and by the time he realized how bad it had gotten, it was already too late.
He was hard.
Not gradually. Not with any warning he could pretend he missed. One second he was fine, or close enough to pass for it, and the next he wasnāt. It hit all at once, a sharp drop into want that had his whole body going tense around it, leaving him straining beneath the desk, trying not to shift, trying not to make it worse.
His jaw tightened.Ā
And you just kept writing.
You started with his mouth, then his hands, then yours, your thoughts slipping straight to what it would feel like to take Superman between your lips. About how good it would feel to get on your knees for him first, to feel him against your tongue, to see if he was as big as youād been imagining every time the camera caught the front of that suit from the right angle.
That was bad enough.
Then Clarkās brain supplied the rest.
Your mouth wrapped around him. Warm and wet, lips stretching around the tip before taking more. Your tongue gliding over him slowly, tasting, teasing, making him feel every inch of it before you let him deeper. The thought of you doing that little sigh heād heard beforeāthe one that caught low in your throat and turned into something closer to a moan once it slipped freeāsent another pulse of heat straight through him.
Behind him, your chair creaked.
The sound was small, but to him it might as well have been a confession. You shifted in your seat, trying to move the pressure somewhere else, trying to get comfortable while your pen kept scratching across the page, and Clark heard the next thought almost as clearly as if youād said it out loud.
You wrote about riding him. About how youād feel him everywhere. How youād have to take him slow at first, because heād be too much to just drop onto, even if all youād want to do was bounce on him the second he let you. About how your body would work have to work around his size, how youād sit on him inch by inch and then lose your mind once you finally had all of him.
That image hit harder.
He saw it immediately. You on top of him, thighs spread over his lap, riding him slow, just like you wrote, trying to adjust before the need won out. Then faster. Harder. Your body lifting and dropping, bouncing on his cock as your hands gripped his shoulders or maybe braced against his chest. Your tits moving with the rhythm. The way your face would change once it started feeling too good to hideā
How tight and warm youād feel taking him.
That was the one.
Clarkās whole body locked around it, a soft, involuntary grunt catching in his throat as he came.
His fingers curled against the edge of his desk, the force of his release hitting hard enough to leave him tense beneath it, but quiet enough for him to bury the sound under the scrape of his chair as he shifted in his seat. His other hand moved a second later, reaching for nothing in particular, just something to make it look like he was adjusting, like he hadnāt just lost himself at his desk over the sound of you wanting Superman.
The movement caught your attention, pulling you out of your thoughts. Your pen paused mid-thought as the reality of where you were settled back in far too late. Work. The bullpen. Deadlines. Actual responsibilities, unfortunately. You blinked down at the notebook, shut it a little too fast, then reached for the folder sitting beside your keyboard like that had been your plan all along.
Clark heard you stand. Heard you coming toward him too, of course, which only made him sit a little straighter. Too straight, probably, but he couldnāt help it. His hand lifted to his mouth, fingers resting there in a passable attempt at concentration.
Every sense he had was still tuned to you, tracking the distance as it closed, the faint shift in your breathing, the soft rustle of the folder in your hand. He forced his eyes to stay on the screen, even though not a single word made it through.
āHey,ā you said when you reached his desk, holding it out to him. āI meant to give this to you earlier. Itās just the notes for the revision.ā
Clark turned enough to take it, but not enough to really look at you. He couldnāt trust himself with that yet.
His fingers brushed the edge of the folder as he took it from you.
āThanks,ā he said.
You gave him a small, apologetic look. āSorry. Iāve been a little distracted today.ā
Clark heard your heart jump at the word distracted. Just a quick, telling little stutter beneath everything else. Unfortunately, his body had a similar reaction, sharp enough to make his grip tighten around the folder as he kept his eyes on his screen.
You didnāt seem to notice. Or maybe you were too caught in your own embarrassment to look too closely.
He kept his face steady. Well, at least tried to. Then you made it worse.
āI wish I could focus like you,ā you added.
Clark let out something close to a laugh, but it barely made it there. A strained huff, half-hearted at best, paired with a nod that probably looked more convincing than it felt.Ā
āYeah,ā he said, because it was the safest thing he had.
You smiled, still oblivious, and turned to walk away.
if you want to be tagged in my future posts, comment or message me! iām happy to do it! :) just let me know if you wantĀ all worksĀ or just forĀ specific charactersĀ <3
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tips are never required, but always appreciated. thank you for being here!
IN HONOR OF superman (2025) being released a year ago, and david corenswet forever changing my life, i wanted to put together a little fic roundup for the man of tomorrow! š¤
first fic: kansas āĀ fluff | wc: 0.4k
summary: clark tells you everything, but thereās just one thing you canāt get past.
most recent fic: fantasize ā smut | wc: 3k
summary:Ā you try to behave at work, but superman keeps getting in the way. unfortunately for clark, so does his super hearing.
most popular fic: dnd (do not disturb) ā smut | wc: 1k
summary:Ā clarkās too pussy drunk to care that thereās an alien invasion in the city.
personal favorites:
tradition ā fluff | clark grew up with home videos. you decided to keep the tradition going.
ātoo goodā ā smut | everyone calls clark kent a boy scoutātoo polite, too perfect, "too good." at the Planet dinner, he shows you just how wrong they are.
ego ā smut | just clark and his HUGE cock ego, among other things.
under pressure ā smut | clark canāt leave you aloneāeven when he really, really should. the pressure buildsā¦ and something has to give.
pornstar!clark - masterlist
series: in plain sight (bsf!clark kent x f!reader) āļø
summary: youāre in love with superman. clarkās in love with you. the only problem? you think theyāre two different people.
if anyone wants to do their own version of this, please do!! iād love to see everyoneās picks. iām tagging a few lovely moots too, but of course, no pressure at all! <3
pairing: clark kent x f!reader | genre: smut | wc: 3k
summary:Ā you try to behave at work, but superman keeps getting in the way. unfortunately for clark, so does his super hearing.
warnings:Ā explicit sexual content (18+), porn with plot, explicit use of written fantasies, accidental orgasm, super hearing eavesdropping, mild voyeurism, reader is horrendously down bad for superman.
a/n: inspo: fantasize by ariana grande. i have no words to explain this lmao. either way, i hope you guys like it :) let me know what you think!! <33 (also happy birthday, david!!!)
ā¦ i fantasize about it all the time, if you were mineā¦ i'd give this pussy to you nine-to-five, five-to-nine. tryin' to behave, but i'm feelin' some type of way. ā¦
It started as an ordinary crush. Everyone had a crush on Superman, right? That was what you kept telling yourself every time your mind wandered back to his smile, the dimples that came with it, his voice, the little curl that always seemed to fall perfectly against his forehead. It was harmless... normal. Practically expected, in a sense.
That explanation became less convincing when you thought about the way the suit fit him, how it showed the shape of everything. And you did mean everything. Your eyes were particularly drawn to certain pieces. Pieces you kept to yourself when people asked what you were thinking about, because what were you supposed to say? That his arms looked obscene in that blue? That his thighs looked even worse? That those red briefs fit too damn well for something everyone was just expected to casually ignore?
Right.
So when people asked, you stuck to the basics. Kept it simple. When Lois mentioned Superman and yet another rescue, you gave something polite, something normal, something that made you sound like a decent citizen and not a woman quietly losing a fight against her own imagination. When Jimmy talked him up, you dulled everything down and smiled, nodding along like you hadnāt already looked at the photo he was describing three separate times. Cat tried her luck more than anyone, of course, always watching your face a little too closely when she mentioned how good Superman looked on camera, how the lens loved him, how some men were just built to be looked at.
But you didnāt fold. You just shrugged, kept your expression clean, and said, āYeah, the camera works for him." Some watered-down version of what you were actually thinking.
Clark noticed too.Ā
Not like the others. No, his revelation was far more accurate. You two werenāt exactly friends or anything, but you had worked on a few pieces together, which meant late nights, long drafts, shared coffee runs, and him becoming well acquainted with you whether he meant to or not. He knew your crush on Superman went far past what you let people see. Knew that your body had its own reaction reserved specifically for him. Well, not him. The other him. And at a certain point, that distinction was starting to drive him crazy.
Like today.
The bullpen had gathered around for the latest clip of Superman, everyoneās attention fixed on the screen while yours looked almost too controlled. Soft interest. Casual smile. The right amount of impressed,Ā mutedĀ just enough to pass as normal. But Clarkās attention was nowhere near the screen. It was on you. While your mouth said something kind and sweet whenever Superman was mentioned, he heard how fast your heart was beating under it. Heard the slight change in your breathing when Cat said the suit looked good from a specific angle. Caught the small shift of your legs when Superman looked into the camera and answered the reporter directly, voice calm, steady, painfully familiar.
That one stirred something in him. Something he covered with a quick clearing of his throat, eyes dropping to the papers in his hand like they suddenly required all of his focus.
But then Superman laughed in the clip. Just a low, easy laugh at something the reporter said, nothing dramatic, nothing meant to be anything at all, and Clark heard you let out something that almost wasnāt a sound. Half sigh, half something else, something that would have been far more dangerous if it had come out any harder.
That little slip of breath hit him harder than he expected.Ā
Right below the belt.Ā
Not that you hadnāt already been working your way into his system, because you had. Slowly. Quietly. In little ways he could pretend not to notice until pretending stopped working. But this was getting harder to ignore. You were there now, wedged somewhere between Clarkās curiosity and Supermanās pride, reacting to a version of him you didnāt know was sitting three desks away, listening to every sound you tried to hide.
All of it dragged something up in him he had no business letting loose. Something possessive. Something too pleased. Something he was fighting like hell to keep quiet.
It took everything in him not to look at you for the rest of the day.Ā
And every day after that.
It had been no more than a week since you had nearly moaned in front of the entire bullpen. Superman came on the screen and you nearly did too.
What were you thinking?
It had been an involuntary response, something you usually only let happen in the quiet of your apartment where no one was around to witness it. No reporters, or editors, or Cat watching your face like she was waiting for it to tell on you. It was just something about his laugh, the tenor of it, the way it rolled out deep and warm, paired with that slight tilt of his head. Oh, and the hung smile. That too. The one that sat on his mouth a second too long and landed right between your legs before it reached anywhere else.
Jesus, you were down bad.
You knew that. Denial wasnāt even worth the effort at this point. Superman was part of your job as much as he was part of your thoughts, no matter how incoherent those thoughts became when they showed up. You had sworn to yourself that you would at least try to tone it down. That he didnāt need to consume every corner of your mind. That you were a grown woman with responsibilities, deadlines, and at least some self-respect left.
Unfortunately, only the logical part of your brain got the memo.
He had already broken your focus twice just this morning. Once while you were getting ready for work, toothbrush in hand, staring at your reflection while your mind wandered straight back to him for absolutely no productive reason. The brushing session went on far longer than necessary, your eyes unfocused, toothpaste nearly sliding down your wrist before you finally snapped out of it.
And again in the Daily Planet elevator, purse tucked under your arm, trying to look normal while your brain decided that 8:42 in the morning was the perfect time to replay the exact sound of Supermanās laugh. You nearly missed your floor completely, only snapping back when Clark Kent, of all people, glanced over from beside you and said, soft and polite, āThis is you.ā You blinked, looked at the glowing floor number, and stepped out too fast with a quick, āRight. Thanks.ā
Yeah, embarrassing enough, but it didnāt stop there.Ā
Not long after you settled in at your desk, breaking news echoed throughout the bullpen, grabbing everyoneās attention. Especially yours. There he was, flying through dust and debris, catching pieces of towering buildings like they weighed nothing. You figured the montage would be over soon, that you could will your way through it for just a few more seconds, keep your face neutral, keep your breathing normal, keep your eyes from lingering anywhere they had no business lingering in a room full of people.
But then you heard his voice.
He was talking after saving a burning building while simultaneously fighting another alien invasion in the city, because apparently one crisis wasnāt enough. All smoke and wreckage around him, the streets torn up behind him, the sky still half-lit with whatever had just been trying to kill everyone. He had a few smudges across his skin, dark streaks near his cheek and jaw, his hair curly but messy in that way where you could tell this hadnāt necessarily been an easy feat for him. Still, he got it done. Of course he did. And unfortunately for you, he looked damn good after doing it.
That image of him stuck with you all day, well into lunch. Normally youād sit with Lois and Cat, let Cat bait you, let Lois talk through the latest lead, pretend you were functioning like a normal person. But today you had āso much workā and you were just ātoo busy.ā The first half was a lie, but the second half was relatively true. You were too busy.
With Superman.
You sat at your desk, pen and notebook suddenly becoming less like paper mates and more like partners in crime as you started writing. Ignoring Supermanās presence as it radiated through your body wasnāt doing you any good. If anything, it only made it worse. The more you tried not to think about him, the more your mind supplied the details anyway. The smudges on his skin. The mess of his hair. The way his voice had sounded after the fight, steady but rougher, like the city had pulled something out of him and he still had more to give.Ā
So your best solution? Write it out. Maybe if you gave the thoughts somewhere to go, heād go with them. Maybe felt like a high-risk, low-reward situation, but you were desperate enough to try.
Clark, on the other hand, had been working through revisions for your most recent piece together. Nothing too crazy, just a few additions that would support the notes youād give him later. Easy work. The kind of work he could usually get through without much trouble.Ā
And perhaps that had been the problem.
It didnāt take much for Clarkās focus to drift away to its new favorite spotāyou.Ā His back was to you, your desk set behind his, and from what he could hear, you were having a pretty productive day. Your pen moved across the page in smooth, steady strokes, pausing here and there before starting again. He assumed they were revision notes at first, something detailed enough to help the piece, something that almost pushed his attention back to his own screen.
Almost.
Just when his mind started to drift away, he heard the telltale signs. Your heartbeat picking up, your breath cutting in shorter intervals, quiet enough that no one else would notice but clear enough to him that ignoring it became its own kind of effort. He heard the shift of your legs, crossing and uncrossing twice beneath your desk like you couldnāt quite get comfortable. But more than that, your writing had changed.
The pressure. The shift from a smooth glide to the sharper scratch of pen against paper. The stroke of each letter becoming so specific, so weighted, that he could make out most, if not all, of what was being written.
āthatās the part I canāt seem to get out of my head. Always so big, like itās too much until it isnātā
Clarkās fingers slowed over his keyboard.
He had picked up on the rhythm some time ago, from the hours youād spent working side by side. And no, it wasnāt intentional. It had happened gradually, built through marked-up pages, half-finished articles, and too many notes passed back and forth. He knew the way you wrote when you were focused. Knew the difference between a quick note, a revised sentence, a thought you crossed out before it could finish.
This wasnāt any of that.
I keep thinking about how it would feel to let him spread me open with those hands.
Clark went still.
The sentence formed clearly enough that his breath caught before he could stop it. For one second, he told himself to stop. That this was wrong. That he shouldnāt be listening just because he could. He was raised better than that.Ā
That one tugged at that Boy Scout conscience of his, just enough to have him start pulling his attention back.
Then your pen moved again.
S-u-p-e-r-m-a-n.
He couldnāt have ignored that even if he tried. His attention snapped right back to where it had no business being, caught on the scratch of your pen, the weight behind each word, the small breaks in your breathing as the page filled. Every piece of it gave you away, telling him exactly what state you were working yourself into.
You wrote about wanting him all the time. About wanting Supermanās body over you, in you, around you. About how badly you wanted to know if heād fuck like you imagined he would. About how you didnāt think once would be enough.
The more your thoughts sharpened, the more your body reacted. Your heartbeat had gone fast enough now that it wasnāt even subtle to him anymore. Your breathing kept catching, then evening out, then catching again, like every line was pulling another reaction out of you. He was tuned into all of it, too tuned in, and by the time he realized how bad it had gotten, it was already too late.
He was hard.
Not gradually. Not with any warning he could pretend he missed. One second he was fine, or close enough to pass for it, and the next he wasnāt. It hit all at once, a sharp drop into want that had his whole body going tense around it, leaving him straining beneath the desk, trying not to shift, trying not to make it worse.
His jaw tightened.Ā
And you just kept writing.
You started with his mouth, then his hands, then yours, your thoughts slipping straight to what it would feel like to take Superman between your lips. About how good it would feel to get on your knees for him first, to feel him against your tongue, to see if he was as big as youād been imagining every time the camera caught the front of that suit from the right angle.
That was bad enough.
Then Clarkās brain supplied the rest.
Your mouth wrapped around him. Warm and wet, lips stretching around the tip before taking more. Your tongue gliding over him slowly, tasting, teasing, making him feel every inch of it before you let him deeper. The thought of you doing that little sigh heād heard beforeāthe one that caught low in your throat and turned into something closer to a moan once it slipped freeāsent another pulse of heat straight through him.
Behind him, your chair creaked.
The sound was small, but to him it might as well have been a confession. You shifted in your seat, trying to move the pressure somewhere else, trying to get comfortable while your pen kept scratching across the page, and Clark heard the next thought almost as clearly as if youād said it out loud.
You wrote about riding him. About how youād feel him everywhere. How youād have to take him slow at first, because heād be too much to just drop onto, even if all youād want to do was bounce on him the second he let you. About how your body would work have to work around his size, how youād sit on him inch by inch and then lose your mind once you finally had all of him.
That image hit harder.
He saw it immediately. You on top of him, thighs spread over his lap, riding him slow, just like you wrote, trying to adjust before the need won out. Then faster. Harder. Your body lifting and dropping, bouncing on his cock as your hands gripped his shoulders or maybe braced against his chest. Your tits moving with the rhythm. The way your face would change once it started feeling too good to hideā
How tight and warm youād feel taking him.
That was the one.
Clarkās whole body locked around it, a soft, involuntary grunt catching in his throat as he came.
His fingers curled against the edge of his desk, the force of his release hitting hard enough to leave him tense beneath it, but quiet enough for him to bury the sound under the scrape of his chair as he shifted in his seat. His other hand moved a second later, reaching for nothing in particular, just something to make it look like he was adjusting, like he hadnāt just lost himself at his desk over the sound of you wanting Superman.
The movement caught your attention, pulling you out of your thoughts. Your pen paused mid-thought as the reality of where you were settled back in far too late. Work. The bullpen. Deadlines. Actual responsibilities, unfortunately. You blinked down at the notebook, shut it a little too fast, then reached for the folder sitting beside your keyboard like that had been your plan all along.
Clark heard you stand. Heard you coming toward him too, of course, which only made him sit a little straighter. Too straight, probably, but he couldnāt help it. His hand lifted to his mouth, fingers resting there in a passable attempt at concentration.
Every sense he had was still tuned to you, tracking the distance as it closed, the faint shift in your breathing, the soft rustle of the folder in your hand. He forced his eyes to stay on the screen, even though not a single word made it through.
āHey,ā you said when you reached his desk, holding it out to him. āI meant to give this to you earlier. Itās just the notes for the revision.ā
Clark turned enough to take it, but not enough to really look at you. He couldnāt trust himself with that yet.
His fingers brushed the edge of the folder as he took it from you.
āThanks,ā he said.
You gave him a small, apologetic look. āSorry. Iāve been a little distracted today.ā
Clark heard your heart jump at the word distracted. Just a quick, telling little stutter beneath everything else. Unfortunately, his body had a similar reaction, sharp enough to make his grip tighten around the folder as he kept his eyes on his screen.
You didnāt seem to notice. Or maybe you were too caught in your own embarrassment to look too closely.
He kept his face steady. Well, at least tried to. Then you made it worse.
āI wish I could focus like you,ā you added.
Clark let out something close to a laugh, but it barely made it there. A strained huff, half-hearted at best, paired with a nod that probably looked more convincing than it felt.Ā
āYeah,ā he said, because it was the safest thing he had.
You smiled, still oblivious, and turned to walk away.
if you want to be tagged in my future posts, comment or message me! iām happy to do it! :) just let me know if you wantĀ all worksĀ or just forĀ specific charactersĀ <3
ā¢ links:Ā masterlistĀ |Ā wattpad | tip jar š« (support my writing!)
tips are never required, but always appreciated. thank you for being here!
pairing: clark kent x f!reader | genre: smut | wc: 3k
summary:Ā you try to behave at work, but superman keeps getting in the way. unfortunately for clark, so does his super hearing.
warnings:Ā explicit sexual content (18+), porn with plot, explicit use of written fantasies, accidental orgasm, super hearing eavesdropping, mild voyeurism, reader is horrendously down bad for superman.
a/n: inspo: fantasize by ariana grande. i have no words to explain this lmao. either way, i hope you guys like it :) let me know what you think!! <33 (also happy birthday, david!!!)
ā¦ i fantasize about it all the time, if you were mineā¦ i'd give this pussy to you nine-to-five, five-to-nine. tryin' to behave, but i'm feelin' some type of way. ā¦
It started as an ordinary crush. Everyone had a crush on Superman, right? That was what you kept telling yourself every time your mind wandered back to his smile, the dimples that came with it, his voice, the little curl that always seemed to fall perfectly against his forehead. It was harmless... normal. Practically expected, in a sense.
That explanation became less convincing when you thought about the way the suit fit him, how it showed the shape of everything. And you did mean everything. Your eyes were particularly drawn to certain pieces. Pieces you kept to yourself when people asked what you were thinking about, because what were you supposed to say? That his arms looked obscene in that blue? That his thighs looked even worse? That those red briefs fit too damn well for something everyone was just expected to casually ignore?
Right.
So when people asked, you stuck to the basics. Kept it simple. When Lois mentioned Superman and yet another rescue, you gave something polite, something normal, something that made you sound like a decent citizen and not a woman quietly losing a fight against her own imagination. When Jimmy talked him up, you dulled everything down and smiled, nodding along like you hadnāt already looked at the photo he was describing three separate times. Cat tried her luck more than anyone, of course, always watching your face a little too closely when she mentioned how good Superman looked on camera, how the lens loved him, how some men were just built to be looked at.
But you didnāt fold. You just shrugged, kept your expression clean, and said, āYeah, the camera works for him." Some watered-down version of what you were actually thinking.
Clark noticed too.Ā
Not like the others. No, his revelation was far more accurate. You two werenāt exactly friends or anything, but you had worked on a few pieces together, which meant late nights, long drafts, shared coffee runs, and him becoming well acquainted with you whether he meant to or not. He knew your crush on Superman went far past what you let people see. Knew that your body had its own reaction reserved specifically for him. Well, not him. The other him. And at a certain point, that distinction was starting to drive him crazy.
Like today.
The bullpen had gathered around for the latest clip of Superman, everyoneās attention fixed on the screen while yours looked almost too controlled. Soft interest. Casual smile. The right amount of impressed,Ā mutedĀ just enough to pass as normal. But Clarkās attention was nowhere near the screen. It was on you. While your mouth said something kind and sweet whenever Superman was mentioned, he heard how fast your heart was beating under it. Heard the slight change in your breathing when Cat said the suit looked good from a specific angle. Caught the small shift of your legs when Superman looked into the camera and answered the reporter directly, voice calm, steady, painfully familiar.
That one stirred something in him. Something he covered with a quick clearing of his throat, eyes dropping to the papers in his hand like they suddenly required all of his focus.
But then Superman laughed in the clip. Just a low, easy laugh at something the reporter said, nothing dramatic, nothing meant to be anything at all, and Clark heard you let out something that almost wasnāt a sound. Half sigh, half something else, something that would have been far more dangerous if it had come out any harder.
That little slip of breath hit him harder than he expected.Ā
Right below the belt.Ā
Not that you hadnāt already been working your way into his system, because you had. Slowly. Quietly. In little ways he could pretend not to notice until pretending stopped working. But this was getting harder to ignore. You were there now, wedged somewhere between Clarkās curiosity and Supermanās pride, reacting to a version of him you didnāt know was sitting three desks away, listening to every sound you tried to hide.
All of it dragged something up in him he had no business letting loose. Something possessive. Something too pleased. Something he was fighting like hell to keep quiet.
It took everything in him not to look at you for the rest of the day.Ā
And every day after that.
It had been no more than a week since you had nearly moaned in front of the entire bullpen. Superman came on the screen and you nearly did too.
What were you thinking?
It had been an involuntary response, something you usually only let happen in the quiet of your apartment where no one was around to witness it. No reporters, or editors, or Cat watching your face like she was waiting for it to tell on you. It was just something about his laugh, the tenor of it, the way it rolled out deep and warm, paired with that slight tilt of his head. Oh, and the hung smile. That too. The one that sat on his mouth a second too long and landed right between your legs before it reached anywhere else.
Jesus, you were down bad.
You knew that. Denial wasnāt even worth the effort at this point. Superman was part of your job as much as he was part of your thoughts, no matter how incoherent those thoughts became when they showed up. You had sworn to yourself that you would at least try to tone it down. That he didnāt need to consume every corner of your mind. That you were a grown woman with responsibilities, deadlines, and at least some self-respect left.
Unfortunately, only the logical part of your brain got the memo.
He had already broken your focus twice just this morning. Once while you were getting ready for work, toothbrush in hand, staring at your reflection while your mind wandered straight back to him for absolutely no productive reason. The brushing session went on far longer than necessary, your eyes unfocused, toothpaste nearly sliding down your wrist before you finally snapped out of it.
And again in the Daily Planet elevator, purse tucked under your arm, trying to look normal while your brain decided that 8:42 in the morning was the perfect time to replay the exact sound of Supermanās laugh. You nearly missed your floor completely, only snapping back when Clark Kent, of all people, glanced over from beside you and said, soft and polite, āThis is you.ā You blinked, looked at the glowing floor number, and stepped out too fast with a quick, āRight. Thanks.ā
Yeah, embarrassing enough, but it didnāt stop there.Ā
Not long after you settled in at your desk, breaking news echoed throughout the bullpen, grabbing everyoneās attention. Especially yours. There he was, flying through dust and debris, catching pieces of towering buildings like they weighed nothing. You figured the montage would be over soon, that you could will your way through it for just a few more seconds, keep your face neutral, keep your breathing normal, keep your eyes from lingering anywhere they had no business lingering in a room full of people.
But then you heard his voice.
He was talking after saving a burning building while simultaneously fighting another alien invasion in the city, because apparently one crisis wasnāt enough. All smoke and wreckage around him, the streets torn up behind him, the sky still half-lit with whatever had just been trying to kill everyone. He had a few smudges across his skin, dark streaks near his cheek and jaw, his hair curly but messy in that way where you could tell this hadnāt necessarily been an easy feat for him. Still, he got it done. Of course he did. And unfortunately for you, he looked damn good after doing it.
That image of him stuck with you all day, well into lunch. Normally youād sit with Lois and Cat, let Cat bait you, let Lois talk through the latest lead, pretend you were functioning like a normal person. But today you had āso much workā and you were just ātoo busy.ā The first half was a lie, but the second half was relatively true. You were too busy.
With Superman.
You sat at your desk, pen and notebook suddenly becoming less like paper mates and more like partners in crime as you started writing. Ignoring Supermanās presence as it radiated through your body wasnāt doing you any good. If anything, it only made it worse. The more you tried not to think about him, the more your mind supplied the details anyway. The smudges on his skin. The mess of his hair. The way his voice had sounded after the fight, steady but rougher, like the city had pulled something out of him and he still had more to give.Ā
So your best solution? Write it out. Maybe if you gave the thoughts somewhere to go, heād go with them. Maybe felt like a high-risk, low-reward situation, but you were desperate enough to try.
Clark, on the other hand, had been working through revisions for your most recent piece together. Nothing too crazy, just a few additions that would support the notes youād give him later. Easy work. The kind of work he could usually get through without much trouble.Ā
And perhaps that had been the problem.
It didnāt take much for Clarkās focus to drift away to its new favorite spotāyou.Ā His back was to you, your desk set behind his, and from what he could hear, you were having a pretty productive day. Your pen moved across the page in smooth, steady strokes, pausing here and there before starting again. He assumed they were revision notes at first, something detailed enough to help the piece, something that almost pushed his attention back to his own screen.
Almost.
Just when his mind started to drift away, he heard the telltale signs. Your heartbeat picking up, your breath cutting in shorter intervals, quiet enough that no one else would notice but clear enough to him that ignoring it became its own kind of effort. He heard the shift of your legs, crossing and uncrossing twice beneath your desk like you couldnāt quite get comfortable. But more than that, your writing had changed.
The pressure. The shift from a smooth glide to the sharper scratch of pen against paper. The stroke of each letter becoming so specific, so weighted, that he could make out most, if not all, of what was being written.
āthatās the part I canāt seem to get out of my head. Always so big, like itās too much until it isnātā
Clarkās fingers slowed over his keyboard.
He had picked up on the rhythm some time ago, from the hours youād spent working side by side. And no, it wasnāt intentional. It had happened gradually, built through marked-up pages, half-finished articles, and too many notes passed back and forth. He knew the way you wrote when you were focused. Knew the difference between a quick note, a revised sentence, a thought you crossed out before it could finish.
This wasnāt any of that.
I keep thinking about how it would feel to let him spread me open with those hands.
Clark went still.
The sentence formed clearly enough that his breath caught before he could stop it. For one second, he told himself to stop. That this was wrong. That he shouldnāt be listening just because he could. He was raised better than that.Ā
That one tugged at that Boy Scout conscience of his, just enough to have him start pulling his attention back.
Then your pen moved again.
S-u-p-e-r-m-a-n.
He couldnāt have ignored that even if he tried. His attention snapped right back to where it had no business being, caught on the scratch of your pen, the weight behind each word, the small breaks in your breathing as the page filled. Every piece of it gave you away, telling him exactly what state you were working yourself into.
You wrote about wanting him all the time. About wanting Supermanās body over you, in you, around you. About how badly you wanted to know if heād fuck like you imagined he would. About how you didnāt think once would be enough.
The more your thoughts sharpened, the more your body reacted. Your heartbeat had gone fast enough now that it wasnāt even subtle to him anymore. Your breathing kept catching, then evening out, then catching again, like every line was pulling another reaction out of you. He was tuned into all of it, too tuned in, and by the time he realized how bad it had gotten, it was already too late.
He was hard.
Not gradually. Not with any warning he could pretend he missed. One second he was fine, or close enough to pass for it, and the next he wasnāt. It hit all at once, a sharp drop into want that had his whole body going tense around it, leaving him straining beneath the desk, trying not to shift, trying not to make it worse.
His jaw tightened.Ā
And you just kept writing.
You started with his mouth, then his hands, then yours, your thoughts slipping straight to what it would feel like to take Superman between your lips. About how good it would feel to get on your knees for him first, to feel him against your tongue, to see if he was as big as youād been imagining every time the camera caught the front of that suit from the right angle.
That was bad enough.
Then Clarkās brain supplied the rest.
Your mouth wrapped around him. Warm and wet, lips stretching around the tip before taking more. Your tongue gliding over him slowly, tasting, teasing, making him feel every inch of it before you let him deeper. The thought of you doing that little sigh heād heard beforeāthe one that caught low in your throat and turned into something closer to a moan once it slipped freeāsent another pulse of heat straight through him.
Behind him, your chair creaked.
The sound was small, but to him it might as well have been a confession. You shifted in your seat, trying to move the pressure somewhere else, trying to get comfortable while your pen kept scratching across the page, and Clark heard the next thought almost as clearly as if youād said it out loud.
You wrote about riding him. About how youād feel him everywhere. How youād have to take him slow at first, because heād be too much to just drop onto, even if all youād want to do was bounce on him the second he let you. About how your body would work have to work around his size, how youād sit on him inch by inch and then lose your mind once you finally had all of him.
That image hit harder.
He saw it immediately. You on top of him, thighs spread over his lap, riding him slow, just like you wrote, trying to adjust before the need won out. Then faster. Harder. Your body lifting and dropping, bouncing on his cock as your hands gripped his shoulders or maybe braced against his chest. Your tits moving with the rhythm. The way your face would change once it started feeling too good to hideā
How tight and warm youād feel taking him.
That was the one.
Clarkās whole body locked around it, a soft, involuntary grunt catching in his throat as he came.
His fingers curled against the edge of his desk, the force of his release hitting hard enough to leave him tense beneath it, but quiet enough for him to bury the sound under the scrape of his chair as he shifted in his seat. His other hand moved a second later, reaching for nothing in particular, just something to make it look like he was adjusting, like he hadnāt just lost himself at his desk over the sound of you wanting Superman.
The movement caught your attention, pulling you out of your thoughts. Your pen paused mid-thought as the reality of where you were settled back in far too late. Work. The bullpen. Deadlines. Actual responsibilities, unfortunately. You blinked down at the notebook, shut it a little too fast, then reached for the folder sitting beside your keyboard like that had been your plan all along.
Clark heard you stand. Heard you coming toward him too, of course, which only made him sit a little straighter. Too straight, probably, but he couldnāt help it. His hand lifted to his mouth, fingers resting there in a passable attempt at concentration.
Every sense he had was still tuned to you, tracking the distance as it closed, the faint shift in your breathing, the soft rustle of the folder in your hand. He forced his eyes to stay on the screen, even though not a single word made it through.
āHey,ā you said when you reached his desk, holding it out to him. āI meant to give this to you earlier. Itās just the notes for the revision.ā
Clark turned enough to take it, but not enough to really look at you. He couldnāt trust himself with that yet.
His fingers brushed the edge of the folder as he took it from you.
āThanks,ā he said.
You gave him a small, apologetic look. āSorry. Iāve been a little distracted today.ā
Clark heard your heart jump at the word distracted. Just a quick, telling little stutter beneath everything else. Unfortunately, his body had a similar reaction, sharp enough to make his grip tighten around the folder as he kept his eyes on his screen.
You didnāt seem to notice. Or maybe you were too caught in your own embarrassment to look too closely.
He kept his face steady. Well, at least tried to. Then you made it worse.
āI wish I could focus like you,ā you added.
Clark let out something close to a laugh, but it barely made it there. A strained huff, half-hearted at best, paired with a nod that probably looked more convincing than it felt.Ā
āYeah,ā he said, because it was the safest thing he had.
You smiled, still oblivious, and turned to walk away.
if you want to be tagged in my future posts, comment or message me! iām happy to do it! :) just let me know if you wantĀ all worksĀ or just forĀ specific charactersĀ <3
ā¢ links:Ā masterlistĀ |Ā wattpad | tip jar š« (support my writing!)
tips are never required, but always appreciated. thank you for being here!
fuck rain you always know exactly how to write a clark that i LOVE. a little too shy and obviously too sweet and incredibly respectful on the outside but a little pervy (not that it's his fault) on the inside. perfection. also? thirsting over superman and the way he looks in his suit? she's just like me fr.
i love you rain. and i miss you. and this is an incredible fic to come back with. and i love you (again).
pairing: clark kent x f!reader | genre: smut | wc: 3k
summary:Ā you try to behave at work, but superman keeps getting in the way. unfortunately for clark, so does his super hearing.
warnings:Ā explicit sexual content (18+), porn with plot, explicit use of written fantasies, accidental orgasm, super hearing eavesdropping, mild voyeurism, reader is horrendously down bad for superman.
a/n: inspo: fantasize by ariana grande. i have no words to explain this lmao. either way, i hope you guys like it :) let me know what you think!! <33 (also happy birthday, david!!!)
ā¦ i fantasize about it all the time, if you were mineā¦ i'd give this pussy to you nine-to-five, five-to-nine. tryin' to behave, but i'm feelin' some type of way. ā¦
It started as an ordinary crush. Everyone had a crush on Superman, right? That was what you kept telling yourself every time your mind wandered back to his smile, the dimples that came with it, his voice, the little curl that always seemed to fall perfectly against his forehead. It was harmless... normal. Practically expected, in a sense.
That explanation became less convincing when you thought about the way the suit fit him, how it showed the shape of everything. And you did mean everything. Your eyes were particularly drawn to certain pieces. Pieces you kept to yourself when people asked what you were thinking about, because what were you supposed to say? That his arms looked obscene in that blue? That his thighs looked even worse? That those red briefs fit too damn well for something everyone was just expected to casually ignore?
Right.
So when people asked, you stuck to the basics. Kept it simple. When Lois mentioned Superman and yet another rescue, you gave something polite, something normal, something that made you sound like a decent citizen and not a woman quietly losing a fight against her own imagination. When Jimmy talked him up, you dulled everything down and smiled, nodding along like you hadnāt already looked at the photo he was describing three separate times. Cat tried her luck more than anyone, of course, always watching your face a little too closely when she mentioned how good Superman looked on camera, how the lens loved him, how some men were just built to be looked at.
But you didnāt fold. You just shrugged, kept your expression clean, and said, āYeah, the camera works for him." Some watered-down version of what you were actually thinking.
Clark noticed too.Ā
Not like the others. No, his revelation was far more accurate. You two werenāt exactly friends or anything, but you had worked on a few pieces together, which meant late nights, long drafts, shared coffee runs, and him becoming well acquainted with you whether he meant to or not. He knew your crush on Superman went far past what you let people see. Knew that your body had its own reaction reserved specifically for him. Well, not him. The other him. And at a certain point, that distinction was starting to drive him crazy.
Like today.
The bullpen had gathered around for the latest clip of Superman, everyoneās attention fixed on the screen while yours looked almost too controlled. Soft interest. Casual smile. The right amount of impressed,Ā mutedĀ just enough to pass as normal. But Clarkās attention was nowhere near the screen. It was on you. While your mouth said something kind and sweet whenever Superman was mentioned, he heard how fast your heart was beating under it. Heard the slight change in your breathing when Cat said the suit looked good from a specific angle. Caught the small shift of your legs when Superman looked into the camera and answered the reporter directly, voice calm, steady, painfully familiar.
That one stirred something in him. Something he covered with a quick clearing of his throat, eyes dropping to the papers in his hand like they suddenly required all of his focus.
But then Superman laughed in the clip. Just a low, easy laugh at something the reporter said, nothing dramatic, nothing meant to be anything at all, and Clark heard you let out something that almost wasnāt a sound. Half sigh, half something else, something that would have been far more dangerous if it had come out any harder.
That little slip of breath hit him harder than he expected.Ā
Right below the belt.Ā
Not that you hadnāt already been working your way into his system, because you had. Slowly. Quietly. In little ways he could pretend not to notice until pretending stopped working. But this was getting harder to ignore. You were there now, wedged somewhere between Clarkās curiosity and Supermanās pride, reacting to a version of him you didnāt know was sitting three desks away, listening to every sound you tried to hide.
All of it dragged something up in him he had no business letting loose. Something possessive. Something too pleased. Something he was fighting like hell to keep quiet.
It took everything in him not to look at you for the rest of the day.Ā
And every day after that.
It had been no more than a week since you had nearly moaned in front of the entire bullpen. Superman came on the screen and you nearly did too.
What were you thinking?
It had been an involuntary response, something you usually only let happen in the quiet of your apartment where no one was around to witness it. No reporters, or editors, or Cat watching your face like she was waiting for it to tell on you. It was just something about his laugh, the tenor of it, the way it rolled out deep and warm, paired with that slight tilt of his head. Oh, and the hung smile. That too. The one that sat on his mouth a second too long and landed right between your legs before it reached anywhere else.
Jesus, you were down bad.
You knew that. Denial wasnāt even worth the effort at this point. Superman was part of your job as much as he was part of your thoughts, no matter how incoherent those thoughts became when they showed up. You had sworn to yourself that you would at least try to tone it down. That he didnāt need to consume every corner of your mind. That you were a grown woman with responsibilities, deadlines, and at least some self-respect left.
Unfortunately, only the logical part of your brain got the memo.
He had already broken your focus twice just this morning. Once while you were getting ready for work, toothbrush in hand, staring at your reflection while your mind wandered straight back to him for absolutely no productive reason. The brushing session went on far longer than necessary, your eyes unfocused, toothpaste nearly sliding down your wrist before you finally snapped out of it.
And again in the Daily Planet elevator, purse tucked under your arm, trying to look normal while your brain decided that 8:42 in the morning was the perfect time to replay the exact sound of Supermanās laugh. You nearly missed your floor completely, only snapping back when Clark Kent, of all people, glanced over from beside you and said, soft and polite, āThis is you.ā You blinked, looked at the glowing floor number, and stepped out too fast with a quick, āRight. Thanks.ā
Yeah, embarrassing enough, but it didnāt stop there.Ā
Not long after you settled in at your desk, breaking news echoed throughout the bullpen, grabbing everyoneās attention. Especially yours. There he was, flying through dust and debris, catching pieces of towering buildings like they weighed nothing. You figured the montage would be over soon, that you could will your way through it for just a few more seconds, keep your face neutral, keep your breathing normal, keep your eyes from lingering anywhere they had no business lingering in a room full of people.
But then you heard his voice.
He was talking after saving a burning building while simultaneously fighting another alien invasion in the city, because apparently one crisis wasnāt enough. All smoke and wreckage around him, the streets torn up behind him, the sky still half-lit with whatever had just been trying to kill everyone. He had a few smudges across his skin, dark streaks near his cheek and jaw, his hair curly but messy in that way where you could tell this hadnāt necessarily been an easy feat for him. Still, he got it done. Of course he did. And unfortunately for you, he looked damn good after doing it.
That image of him stuck with you all day, well into lunch. Normally youād sit with Lois and Cat, let Cat bait you, let Lois talk through the latest lead, pretend you were functioning like a normal person. But today you had āso much workā and you were just ātoo busy.ā The first half was a lie, but the second half was relatively true. You were too busy.
With Superman.
You sat at your desk, pen and notebook suddenly becoming less like paper mates and more like partners in crime as you started writing. Ignoring Supermanās presence as it radiated through your body wasnāt doing you any good. If anything, it only made it worse. The more you tried not to think about him, the more your mind supplied the details anyway. The smudges on his skin. The mess of his hair. The way his voice had sounded after the fight, steady but rougher, like the city had pulled something out of him and he still had more to give.Ā
So your best solution? Write it out. Maybe if you gave the thoughts somewhere to go, heād go with them. Maybe felt like a high-risk, low-reward situation, but you were desperate enough to try.
Clark, on the other hand, had been working through revisions for your most recent piece together. Nothing too crazy, just a few additions that would support the notes youād give him later. Easy work. The kind of work he could usually get through without much trouble.Ā
And perhaps that had been the problem.
It didnāt take much for Clarkās focus to drift away to its new favorite spotāyou.Ā His back was to you, your desk set behind his, and from what he could hear, you were having a pretty productive day. Your pen moved across the page in smooth, steady strokes, pausing here and there before starting again. He assumed they were revision notes at first, something detailed enough to help the piece, something that almost pushed his attention back to his own screen.
Almost.
Just when his mind started to drift away, he heard the telltale signs. Your heartbeat picking up, your breath cutting in shorter intervals, quiet enough that no one else would notice but clear enough to him that ignoring it became its own kind of effort. He heard the shift of your legs, crossing and uncrossing twice beneath your desk like you couldnāt quite get comfortable. But more than that, your writing had changed.
The pressure. The shift from a smooth glide to the sharper scratch of pen against paper. The stroke of each letter becoming so specific, so weighted, that he could make out most, if not all, of what was being written.
āthatās the part I canāt seem to get out of my head. Always so big, like itās too much until it isnātā
Clarkās fingers slowed over his keyboard.
He had picked up on the rhythm some time ago, from the hours youād spent working side by side. And no, it wasnāt intentional. It had happened gradually, built through marked-up pages, half-finished articles, and too many notes passed back and forth. He knew the way you wrote when you were focused. Knew the difference between a quick note, a revised sentence, a thought you crossed out before it could finish.
This wasnāt any of that.
I keep thinking about how it would feel to let him spread me open with those hands.
Clark went still.
The sentence formed clearly enough that his breath caught before he could stop it. For one second, he told himself to stop. That this was wrong. That he shouldnāt be listening just because he could. He was raised better than that.Ā
That one tugged at that Boy Scout conscience of his, just enough to have him start pulling his attention back.
Then your pen moved again.
S-u-p-e-r-m-a-n.
He couldnāt have ignored that even if he tried. His attention snapped right back to where it had no business being, caught on the scratch of your pen, the weight behind each word, the small breaks in your breathing as the page filled. Every piece of it gave you away, telling him exactly what state you were working yourself into.
You wrote about wanting him all the time. About wanting Supermanās body over you, in you, around you. About how badly you wanted to know if heād fuck like you imagined he would. About how you didnāt think once would be enough.
The more your thoughts sharpened, the more your body reacted. Your heartbeat had gone fast enough now that it wasnāt even subtle to him anymore. Your breathing kept catching, then evening out, then catching again, like every line was pulling another reaction out of you. He was tuned into all of it, too tuned in, and by the time he realized how bad it had gotten, it was already too late.
He was hard.
Not gradually. Not with any warning he could pretend he missed. One second he was fine, or close enough to pass for it, and the next he wasnāt. It hit all at once, a sharp drop into want that had his whole body going tense around it, leaving him straining beneath the desk, trying not to shift, trying not to make it worse.
His jaw tightened.Ā
And you just kept writing.
You started with his mouth, then his hands, then yours, your thoughts slipping straight to what it would feel like to take Superman between your lips. About how good it would feel to get on your knees for him first, to feel him against your tongue, to see if he was as big as youād been imagining every time the camera caught the front of that suit from the right angle.
That was bad enough.
Then Clarkās brain supplied the rest.
Your mouth wrapped around him. Warm and wet, lips stretching around the tip before taking more. Your tongue gliding over him slowly, tasting, teasing, making him feel every inch of it before you let him deeper. The thought of you doing that little sigh heād heard beforeāthe one that caught low in your throat and turned into something closer to a moan once it slipped freeāsent another pulse of heat straight through him.
Behind him, your chair creaked.
The sound was small, but to him it might as well have been a confession. You shifted in your seat, trying to move the pressure somewhere else, trying to get comfortable while your pen kept scratching across the page, and Clark heard the next thought almost as clearly as if youād said it out loud.
You wrote about riding him. About how youād feel him everywhere. How youād have to take him slow at first, because heād be too much to just drop onto, even if all youād want to do was bounce on him the second he let you. About how your body would work have to work around his size, how youād sit on him inch by inch and then lose your mind once you finally had all of him.
That image hit harder.
He saw it immediately. You on top of him, thighs spread over his lap, riding him slow, just like you wrote, trying to adjust before the need won out. Then faster. Harder. Your body lifting and dropping, bouncing on his cock as your hands gripped his shoulders or maybe braced against his chest. Your tits moving with the rhythm. The way your face would change once it started feeling too good to hideā
How tight and warm youād feel taking him.
That was the one.
Clarkās whole body locked around it, a soft, involuntary grunt catching in his throat as he came.
His fingers curled against the edge of his desk, the force of his release hitting hard enough to leave him tense beneath it, but quiet enough for him to bury the sound under the scrape of his chair as he shifted in his seat. His other hand moved a second later, reaching for nothing in particular, just something to make it look like he was adjusting, like he hadnāt just lost himself at his desk over the sound of you wanting Superman.
The movement caught your attention, pulling you out of your thoughts. Your pen paused mid-thought as the reality of where you were settled back in far too late. Work. The bullpen. Deadlines. Actual responsibilities, unfortunately. You blinked down at the notebook, shut it a little too fast, then reached for the folder sitting beside your keyboard like that had been your plan all along.
Clark heard you stand. Heard you coming toward him too, of course, which only made him sit a little straighter. Too straight, probably, but he couldnāt help it. His hand lifted to his mouth, fingers resting there in a passable attempt at concentration.
Every sense he had was still tuned to you, tracking the distance as it closed, the faint shift in your breathing, the soft rustle of the folder in your hand. He forced his eyes to stay on the screen, even though not a single word made it through.
āHey,ā you said when you reached his desk, holding it out to him. āI meant to give this to you earlier. Itās just the notes for the revision.ā
Clark turned enough to take it, but not enough to really look at you. He couldnāt trust himself with that yet.
His fingers brushed the edge of the folder as he took it from you.
āThanks,ā he said.
You gave him a small, apologetic look. āSorry. Iāve been a little distracted today.ā
Clark heard your heart jump at the word distracted. Just a quick, telling little stutter beneath everything else. Unfortunately, his body had a similar reaction, sharp enough to make his grip tighten around the folder as he kept his eyes on his screen.
You didnāt seem to notice. Or maybe you were too caught in your own embarrassment to look too closely.
He kept his face steady. Well, at least tried to. Then you made it worse.
āI wish I could focus like you,ā you added.
Clark let out something close to a laugh, but it barely made it there. A strained huff, half-hearted at best, paired with a nod that probably looked more convincing than it felt.Ā
āYeah,ā he said, because it was the safest thing he had.
You smiled, still oblivious, and turned to walk away.
if you want to be tagged in my future posts, comment or message me! iām happy to do it! :) just let me know if you wantĀ all worksĀ or just forĀ specific charactersĀ <3
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yes, of course!!! iām just dealing with a lot right now, so inspiration is kind of slow and rare these days. hoping my break will help with some of that <3
pairing: clark kent x f!reader | genre: smut | wc: 3.1k | KENT <- collab m.list (be sure to check out the other lovely fics & stay tuned for more!!!)
summary: clark canāt leave you aloneāeven when he really, really should. the pressure buildsā¦ and something has to give.
warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), clark cusses 2.5 times, unprotected sex (p in v), pussy drunk!clark, rough sex, loss of control, furniture breaking, overstimulation, nsfw themes + language, reader called ābabyā
a/n: clark breaks the bathtub while fucking you. thatās it. thatās the fic. A BIG THANK YOU to @tw1sters for including me in this collab!!! i had so much fun writing this and canāt wait to read everyone elseās!! hope you guys enjoy! <3 //graphics: @sparklingsin ā thank you ash for the beautiful header below. still canāt get over how talented you are!! š¤š¤
Clark was supposed to be leaving for work.
Well, that had been the plan, at least. He was mostly dressed for it too, shirt crisp, tie half-adjusted, sleeves buttoned, everything in place except the last few steps that would actually get him out the door.Ā
His shoes waited by the couch. His jacket was draped neatly over the dining room chair. Just a few final adjustments and heād be gone.
It should have been simple. Really, it should have. But when it came to you, simple had never been something he could count on.
You were minding your own business. Relaxing. Existing. Apparently, that alone was enough to ruin whatever focus he had left.
Clark stood at the sink, adjusting his tie in the mirror, fingers working at the knot with practiced precision. He fixed it once, then again, and again, like something about it still wasnāt sitting right, even though it had been perfect the first time.
Behind him, the tub sat visible in the reflection, and you were there, sunk low in the water, completely at ease. Steam filled the room in slow curls, softening the edges of everything, including you.
Clarkās eyes kept flicking toward you in the mirror, quick at first, then slower. Then longer. And longer. Long enough that heād forget what he was doing entirely before dragging his gaze back up to his own reflection like that might somehow fix it.
He swallowed hard and forced his attention back to his tie.
Focus.
Clark straightened, running a hand through his hair before adjusting his glasses, eyes fixed on his reflection to anchor him there, to keep him moving, to keep him fromā
His gaze slipped again.
Slower this time. Heavier in a way where he couldnāt even pretend it was accidental.
The water moved when you shifted your legs, the surface breaking just enough to catch and follow, offering brief, shifting glimpses before settling again. Droplets clung to your shoulders and throat, slipping slowly over your skin each time you moved, tracing small paths he couldnāt stop noticing. The whole room felt warm with it, thick with quiet and water and the faint scent of whatever youād poured into the tub.
You werenāt even doing anything, not really, which only made it worse. Clark couldnāt seem to look anywhere else, or think of anything else for that matter.
That didnāt stop him from trying, though.
And God, did he try.Ā
Clark let out a slow, steady breath, deeper than it needed to be, like it might push whatever this was back down where it belonged.
āAlright, baby,ā he said, voice quieter than usual. āI have to go.ā
He turned and stepped closer as he said it, already leaning down before the sentence had fully settled between you. It was supposed to be quick. Normal. Just one last soft kiss before work.
Clarkās hand braced on the edge of the tub as his lips met yours, gentle and familiar, something that shouldāve ended there but didnāt. You were warm, your mouth slightly parted, soft where you gave under him without resistance.
He lingered a second too long, catching the faint drag of your lower lip before pulling back just barely, his breath brushing yours.
His gaze dropped to your mouth againāand stayed there.
Something tightened in his chest, heavier now, pushing up from where heād tried to bury it.Ā
He kissed you again.Ā
Longer this time.Ā
And then again, deeper, his mouth pressing into yours with intent, the kiss opening, getting away from him, losing whatever restraint had been left in it. His hand on the tub clenched tighter, grounding himself in the strain while the other came up to your face, thumb pressing along your jaw as he pulled you into him.
He should have stopped. He knew that. Knew that this was the last thing he should be doing right now.
The thought flickered, thin and useless, drowned out by the way you felt, by the way your lips moved with his, by the immediate reaction in his body. Heat hit him low and sharp, his cock caught tight beneath his slacks, the pressure there before he could even pretend otherwise.
Still, he didnāt pull away.
His mouth stayed on yours, each kiss deepening with every second he didnāt stop. His breathing shifted, uneven, heavier now, pulling through his nose in quiet bursts that brushed hot against your skin. Every inhale came tighter than the last, tension winding through his chest instead of easing down.
You laughed softly against his mouth, a quiet, breathy sound that brushed his lips when you spoke. āYouāre gonna get all wet,ā you murmured, the words light, amused, as if this was still something easy. Still playful.
His response came in the way his mouth pressed harder to yours, more insistent, the kiss turning urgent without pause. His hand flexed against the edge of the tub again, grip tightening, fingers pressing into the porcelain for resistance, for something solid to hold while everything else slipped further out of his control.
A faint sound gave under his palm.
Small. Thin. Barely there.
A hairline crack split through the porcelain, too quiet for anyone but him to hear, but he caught it all the same. That faint give beneath his hand, the smallest surrender under pressure, something yielding when it shouldnāt have.
It echoed too closely. Too much like the way his restraint had been going, not all at once, but splitting, fracturing, giving in pieces he wasnāt getting back.
He didnāt notice himself leaning closer at first. It just happened gradually, his weight shifting forward, his body following where his mouth already was, where his focus had narrowed completely.Ā
The edge of the tub pressed into his body, then more and more. He kept going. Closer. Further. Until there wasnāt really a line left to cross.
His weight tipped past the edge before either of you could slow it, one knee dropping into the water, then the other, his mouth still fixed to yours. The bath surged around him, spilling hard over the sides as his clothes soaked through all at once. His shirt and pants stuck to him in seconds, ruined and heavy, water streaming from the fabric and pooling across the floor.
It didnāt matter. None of it did. The mess, the sound, the fact that he had been halfway out the door minutes ago. All of it dropped away under one singular focus.
You.
His hands were already on you, firm, urgent, pulling you up and into him with a kind of need that made it clear he was past the point of caring how it looked. Water sloshed violently with the movement, spilling over again, your body shifting against his as he maneuvered you onto his lap.
It wasnāt neat or careful. It was messy, rushed, a little clumsy in the way urgency always was with him when he got like this. Clark moved fast, driven by how badly he needed you there, by how little patience he had left to get you there any other way.
You startled, breath catching sharply, the surprise obvious in the way your hands braced against him, the way your body reacted to the suddenness of it. He didnāt ease up, didnāt even think about slowing down. His mouth found yours again, rougher, open, all urgency now. He sank lower into the tub beneath you, water shifting hard around his body, soaking him through completely, but it didnāt register. Not with you on him.
His hands moved like he couldnāt pick a place, like he needed all of you at once. One slid up your back, broad and hot, pressing you down into him, fingers spreading between your shoulder blades before sweeping lower. The other traced down your side, slow for half a second before taking hold of your hip, then shifting again.
Higher.
His hand closed over your breast, fingers curling around the weight of it as he squeezed. His thumb moved slowly over your nipple, pressing, rolling, pulling a breathy reaction from you. The sound you made hit his mouth, and he swallowed it instantly, tongue pushing in to taste it, to take more of you anywhere he could.
His hips worked beneath you with no real attempt to hide it anymore, rolling up against you with purpose. His cock pressed against you through the soaked fabric of his slacks, the friction pulling a low, strained sound from him as it jumped against you, needy and insistent. His hands settled harder at your hips, keeping you right where he needed you.
Steam hung thick around you both, heat wrapping tight, softening everything around the edges until even his glasses began to fog.
It registered for half a secondā
That was all it got.
Clarkās hand shot up, ripping the glasses from his face before they could fog over completely. He tossed them aside without looking, the frames skidding across the bathroom tile with a sharp crack that failed to pull his attention.
His mouth crashed into yours again, deeper, sloppier, breath hot and wrecked as his hands went right back to you, gripping, sliding, squeezing like any space between his hands and your body was too much.
Clark wasted no time. One hand dropped from you just long enough to fumble at his belt, fingers clumsy with urgency as he yanked it loose. The buckle knocked dully against itself before he shoved his pants down, fabric resisting under the water, soaked and clinging as he forced it out of the way beneath you. The movement jostled you both, water splashing up and over the edge again,Ā but he didnāt pause, didnāt dare break the rhythm of his mouth against yours.
He didnāt give you the usual slow slide, didnāt ease you into it like he normally would. The second he freed himself, he was already pulling you closer, lining himself up more by need than patience, his breath catching the moment he found you before pushing in all at once.Ā
The stretch hit immediately, sudden and full, pulling a cry from you as your body clenched around him. Clark groaned at the feel of it, low and broken, his head dipping forward like the sensation had knocked the rest of him loose.
āShiāā
The word broke apart in his throat, cut off into something rougher.
There was no time to adjust, no chance for your body to catch up before his hands found your hips and started moving you again. His hands locked onto you, fingers sinking in as he guided you into motion, pulling you down onto him, lifting you back up, setting a pace that hit hard and fast right from the start.
Water sloshed violently with every movement, spilling over the edge in steady waves, the sound of it mixing with breath and skin and the wet slide of your bodies coming together again and again.
It didnāt take long before you caught it, matched itā
Then took it.
Your hands twisted into his soaked button-up, fingers curling tight in the fabric as you shifted your weight and rode him properly, not just following anymore. You bounced on him, harder now, faster, the angle changing as you ground down between each lift, dragging him deeper every time you came back down. The friction got to him immediately.
A ragged sound slipped out of him, as you took over, his hands braced at your hips while your pace started pulling him apart. Each movement worked more out of him, left him less steady, less able to hide how badly you had him.
You feltĀ too good.
Too tight, too warm, too perfect around him, every bounce pulling another rough sound from him, every grind making his grip tighten.
He was already gone.Ā
Fucked out in a way that stripped him down to instinct, to reaction, to nothing but the feel of you working him over. He could feel it bleeding into everything else too, that lack of control, the way heat built behind his eyes each time you sank down, the way his strength kept threatening to slip into his hands where they held you. Even the air leaving him came out wrong now, too hot, too wrecked.
He tried to keep it all in check, tried to rein it in before it got away from him.
Clarkās jaw tightened, breath snagging as his hands clung to you with a care the rest of him had no room for. Everything in him wanted to push harder, take more, fuck up into you with all the strength he kept buried under skin and restraint. He held it backĀ by inches, barely, muscles locked beneath you while his touch stayed careful through sheer force alone.Ā
It worked.
Mostly.
Until you leaned forward.
Your arms slid around him, pulling him close, pressing your body flush against his as his breath broke hard in his chest. The sound of his name left you in a low, wrecked moan, dragged straight out of you with the roll of your hips, each one locking tighter around him.
āBabyāā he tried, the word breaking halfway through, strained, like the start of a warning he already knew wouldnāt survive the next second.
You didnāt slow down, didnāt give him the space to finish it, and he didnāt fight for it either. The warning lost shape in the way you kept moving, in the fact that he didnāt want you to stop at all.Ā
Your hips drove down again and again, relentless, the pressure building with every movement, taking him deeper each time, too much and not enough all at once. It stacked on him fast, sensation piling as his hands dug into your waist.
And then your hips sank lower.Ā
One deep, filthy grind.
It pressed him all the way in and held him there, your weight settling fully, the drag of it hitting something sharp and exact that tore straight through whatever control he had left.
Clarkās entire body seized before a loud, guttural groan ripped out of him as he came hard, hips jerking up into you on instinct.Ā
His hand slammed down with it, the force splintering through the side of the tub hard enough to break a chunk loose. Porcelain gave way beneath his palm, the side splitting open as water flooded through the gap and rushed across the floor.
At the same time, his eyes flashed.
Just for a split second.
A flare of heat vision shot wide, too sudden for him to catch, striking the metal faucet behind you with enough force to shatter it clean. The pipe split with a harsh snap, water bursting out hot and pressurized, hissing into the room and adding to the chaos.
āShitāā
His eyes squeezed shut instantly, jaw clenching hard as he tried to rein it back in, like he could force himself under control if he just held tight enough. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you in, locking you against him as another rough groan tore out of his chest, muffled against your skin.
Water poured around you now, from the split-open side of the tub, from the broken pipe, soaking everything, flooding the tile, but he didnāt stop.
He couldnāt.
Your reaction caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat, a choked inhale, a sound that never fully formed as the pace hit too fast, too hard. Your body tried to respond, hands tightening on him, fingers gripping into soaked fabric, but every attempt got swallowed by the next thrust, the next snap of his hips that stole whatever you were about to say.
The break in the tub shifted everything, the side giving way enough to let his legs spread wider beneath you, changing the angle completely. He felt it and used it without hesitation, hips bucking up into you even as he was still coming.
He kept you pressed to him, hands locked at your hips as he fucked up into you through the broken rush of water, through the soaked mess around you, through the wreckage of everything heād already let go too far.
āIām sorryāā he gritted out, the words catching as his hipsĀ snappedĀ again. āIāll fix itāI promiseājustāā His hands pressed harder into your hips, breath shuddering hot between you.Ā
That was the only thing left in his head.
Need.
His paceĀ changed, not easing, only deepening, his body rising to meet yours as he dragged you down against him in heavy rolls that kept him buried inside you while he chased the feeling again and again. His hands moved with it, guiding the motion, making you feel every inch of him as he ground up hard, breath breaking with each grind.
Clark forced his eyes open, pulling himself back into it, into the moment, into you. His brows pulled tight immediately, mouth parting on a ragged breath as his gaze dropped between you, locking onto where your bodies met. He watched the way you took him, the way he disappeared inside you with every movement, and the sight tore another wrecked sound from his chest.
The reaction chased up his spine just as fast, too much, too immediate, and his head tipped back on instinct, eyes squeezing shut again before it could go any further. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding as he tried to contain it, tried to fight that heat building fast and dangerous behind his eyes again. It came back stronger, hotter, threatening to spill if he lost even a fraction more control.
But that didnāt stop him.Ā
āKeepāā his voice faltered, breath catching, ākeep goingādonātāā
You could see how badly he was fighting it. It was there in the hard set of his jaw, in the faint tremor running through his hands, in the way his breathing refused to settle even after everything. The pressure hadnāt eased. If anything, it had gotten worse.
Your mouth parted, instinct kicking in, ready to ask if he was sureābut he caught it.
Maybe it was the way your hips stilled for half a second. Maybe it was the breath you pulled in, that slight pause before you spoke. Whatever it was, he felt it instantly, his hands locking at your hips hard enough to keep you there.
āDonātāfuckādonāt stop,ā he groaned.
His hips ground up as he pulled you down harder, the motion breaking his words into something rougher, something he barely seemed to realize had left him.
The edge of it cracked just as fast as it came.
His voice dropped in sync with your hips, the tone softer but no less strainedā
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CONGRATULATIONS! @anon-188 @theworstwolvie @venigrantrogers >:) i will make graphics for you.
thank you everyone for your interest! i hope you 1) have a great summer and 2) in a somewhat fated manner, find the right pic for your moodboard šāāļø
