(Part one of Swan Comic About the Yearning! This one is a little autobiographical but it was at the top of my mind at the moment. This marks an incredible $200 raised for the Palestine Children’s Relief Fund. Fundraising link here.) thanks for your support for this important cause and thanks for being my friend on here.)
WHEN WILL MY YEARNING BRING ME GIFTS OF MONEY AND TEETH.
Part 2 of The Yearning due to smashing the milestones for fundraising efforts for the Palestine Children’s Relief Fund. I cannot believe how fast I had to post this. Thank you so much.
it's a well-known fact in the textile crafting community that "making objects from textiles" is an entirely separate hobby from "having a collection of materials to make things with."
crafters often refer to this collection as a "stash" or a "hoard."
it's normal to have, but sometimes comes with a certain awkwardness.
the problem is that it takes a very long time to make things from textiles - and it is extremely quick, fun and easy to get more materials.
Presents, impulse purchases, leftovers from other projects, things you bought FULLY intending to make something that you changed your mind about...
Another problem is that you genuinely DO have a plan for the materials! your intentions and desires are THERE!
and admitting that it isn't going to happen - or that your mind has changed, or you're no longer able to do them - can be really painful!
it's incredibly hard to say: "we are not the people who can do these things. we are not the people who WILL do these things."
but sometimes you need to.
it's a natural part of life. it might feel painful to let go of things that you really want to use, but won't. But clearing them out - and the attached guilt and shame - will make room for a lot more things in your life.
Room for things you'll use. Room for the projects you'll do.
Room and space - not for hanging on to the shades of the ambitions and intentions and people you aren't - not being held for lives you don't have - but room and space for who you are today, and who you'll be tomorrow, and for the things you'll do.
text: [ “Some of you have forgotten that only three years ago you were perfectly capable of writing an essay, writing a eulogy, telling a bedtime story to a child, and it should worry you that powerful companies have convinced us we can’t do things we’ve been doing for 5000 years.” ]
And they're absolutely specifically pushing it, make no mistake. It's not just a matter of "it's there, it's convenient, so people are going to take the path of the least resistance", it is a legitimate and concerted effort on the part of these companies to get people to outsource all these things to their models.
They're preying on insecurities to do it. Yes, you can write an essay - but can you write a good essay, they ask you. Do you not want to improve your output? Do you not want people to think of you as competent and very clever? Why go through the mortifying process of failing and failing and failing until you succeed if you can just skip the "learning" part of doing, and simply generate a ready-made product?
I'm preaching to the choir here obviously but it's a concerning thing to witness nonetheless. My kid is 6 next week and I've been teaching her that failing at things is morally neutral and in fact necessary even before the advent of AI, but it's becoming ever more important that we teach the kids that criticism and failure and discomfort aren't necessarily bad things, but just a part of the growth process.
AI companies are heavily invested in making themselves relevant. They want people to believe they can't do the things they have done unaided before and to make them become reliant on the AI models, so the AI models' existence is artificially justified.
but what if i read one of your fanfics and then went to your ao3 accounts and read all of your fanfics and left a comment on every single chapter of every single one and you got spam emails from all of my kudos and comments and it made you smile, what then? what if i brighten your day with my words like you did mine, what then???
summary: while helping you clean your room, dean gets distracted by your lip balm collection and uses it as an excuse to kiss you over and over
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You were in your room in the bunker, trying to organize the small disaster your room had slowly become over the last couple weeks.
Clothes were scattered around, the laundry basket was half full, and your bedside counter was full with makeup, skincare, hair ties, perfumes, and random little things that somehow always accumulated there.
Dean was "helping", though mostly he just wanted to be in your space.
While you organized the mess on your bedside table, he was sitting on the edge of your bed, helping with your clean clothes, though his version of folding laundry involved a lot of "inspections"
He suddenly held up a lacey pair of your panties between two fingers with a grin.
“Oh yeah” He said casually, nodding approvingly “These are definitely one of my favorites”
You looked over your shoulder.
“Dean” You laughed, shaking your head.
“What?” He asked innocently “I’m just being appreciative”
You rolled your eyes playfully and tossed a shirt at him “Fold the laundry”
“I am folding the laundry” He defended himself.
Another pair appeared in his hands a minute later.
“Ooh, and these ones?” He added “Strong contender too”
You snorted, shaking your head as you turned back to your bedside counter “You are unbelievable”
Eventually, after a lot more teasing than actual productivity, Dean finally finished folding the laundry and wandered over to where you stood organizing your bedside table.
“What’s all this?” He asked, snooping through your things.
“Just stuff that I need to put away”
Dean picked up one of your makeup products, inspecting it with squinted eyes.
“You don’t even need this stuff, y’know” He said "I like the way you look when we wake up. Messy hair and all"
You chuckled softly at that and leaned over to kiss him quickly “That’s sweet”
“I mean it” He said, setting it back down “You’re pretty without all this”
You smiled a little at that before continuing to organize things.
His eyes wandered over the counter until they landed on a small army of colorful tubes.
“Why do you have so many of these?” He asked, picking up one of them “There’s like a hundred of them”
“Those are my lip balms”
Dean counted dramatically “One, two, three— Sweetheart, this is a problem”
“I like them” You laughed, shrugging a little “They keep my lips soft”
Dean paused, then slowly looked at your mouth.
“…Oh” He smirked “So that’s your secret for soft lips, huh?” He leaned in, pecking your lips “That’s why you’re so hard to stop kissing?" He murmured, leaning in to steal a few more lingering kisses.
You laughed softly against his lips “It is”
“Huh” He murmured thoughtfully, pressing another kiss on your mouth "Yeah. Works. I'm a fan"
You shook your head, smiling.
Then Dean picked one of the lip balms up again, squinting at the label.
“'Wild Cherry'?” He read the label “They’re flavored?"
You nod “Yeah, most of them are”
“Huh” He hummed "And here I thought you were supposed to wear 'em, not eat 'em” He teases “You got a secret snack habit I should know about?"
"It’s for the scent, you dork" You snort, poking his chest.
“The scent, huh?”
Immediately, a playful grin spread across his face.
He scooped up a handful of the tubes and held them out to you "Try 'em on"
You snorted “What, now? Why?”
"You try 'em on…" He said, his voice dropping to a low, playful tone "I’ll close my eyes, and I have to guess the flavor. It’s a very important scientific experiment"
Dean shut his eyes and puckered his lips, waiting patiently like he was taking the challenge very seriously.
“Ready” He announced.
Laughing, you picked one and applied it. Then you stepped closer and kissed him softly.
Dean kissed you back deeply, his hands finding your waist. Hhummed against your lips thoughtfully, like he was genuinely analyzing the flavor.
"Hmm, I don't know" He whispered, his eyes still firmly shut "That’s tricky. I’m gonna need another taste. Just to be sure"
You chuckled “Dean”
“What? I’m concentrating” He said innocently “I need to be sure, y’know, for the accuracy of the investigation. So c’mere”
He pulled you back in for a much longer, slower kiss.
Each time you switched to a different flavor, he’d give the same performance; furrowing eyebrows, pretending to be confused, and insisting he needed "one more sample" just to be absolutely certain.
"You know exactly what the flavors are" You chuckle.
His lips lift in a small smirk.
"I have no idea what you're talking about" He said, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you "I’m a very thorough investigator. I think I need to go through the whole collection. At least twice. Just to be sure"
You laughed. The sound making him smile before leaning in and kissing you again.
dumb idea lol i got it while shopping for lip balms because my lips are in fact very dry 🥲 anyway
we gotta get back to torrent distribution, i just watched someone eat eight grand in bandwidth charges because they ran a direct-download piracy site with local file hosting through cloudflare. torrents were invented literally for this exact reason
i have a file or folder on my pc that i want to share with other people. let's call it gayshit.mp3
unfortunately gayshit.mp3 is 750mb and im not paying for discord nitro so i need another way to send it
i put it into qbittorrent and it makes a torrent file. this is essentially a very small file that points to gayshit.mp3 so other computers can find it. kinda like a treasure map
i send this tiny file to my friend, who loads it into qbittorrent. their computer takes a moment to find mine over the vast expanse of cyberspace and then (as long as my pc is running and the file is still where it should be), it gets copied from my hard drive to theirs
this is the cool part: if somebody else loads that tiny file, they can download it from both of us. if i'm offline but my friend is on, the third person can still get it. this also means that if two people have separate halves of the file, they can download the other half from each other. as long as some combination of people have the pieces between them, they can all have the whole thing.
crucially this does not require a server!!! you can just upload the file to a few people and as long as they keep it, it's still accessible. as long as somebody, somewhere is still connected, it's available forever. the only way it goes away is if everybody disconnects from it.
ok sorry to double reblog BUT I just looked him up and he does these fantastic videos where he breaks down HOW he actually mimics the other artists’ styles. Like for ed Sheeran, he explains how he brings his voice forward in the mouth, while Adam Levine sings in the back of the mouth, stuff like that. It’s SO COOL, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone actually break down how to do this sort of thing, as a skill, instead of just treating it like a neat trick they just happen to be good at.
https://www.tiktok.com/@justinjmooremusic
I have no idea whether this is true, it seems way too stupid to be real and I have to assume it's made up, but I'm sharing because it has the vibe of something that would happen in a cartoon from the 90s that has characters burn a hole in a door by bouncing a laser pen beam between two mirrors
That's Joseph Cox from 404 media. The article has limited information but they're seeking more and their journalists will be trying to replicate it. This was meta's own ai chatbot that helped the hackers change the email. One of the accounts was the Barack Obama White House Account. Another was Sephora.
Based on a Tumblr screenshot (which we can't add here) from : @autisticvoltronld :
How will this work?
You already know who you want to work with? Great! Fill this form!
If you do not have anyone:
I will provide a google sheet to fill for those of you who do not have someone to write with. Please either choose from the people already there or fill it!
The description says 5 chapters, but we only need THREE: each writer will write three (3) chapters, for a total of six!
You (as a team) will choose two (2) tropes and two (2) prompts that are opposite!! This will be most fun if your choice are truly opposite, so keep that in mind as you choose!
Lists to chose from (Please open this link in a new tab because you will need it!)
How many words per chapter? You will decide a range between the two of you. What is doable for each writer always changes so it is up to your team to decide.
Sign up period: June 1st to June 30th
Writing starts July 1st
There WILL be check-ins every two (2) weeks!
I will need to know who is writing which chapters, so we know who to check in with.
warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), rough sex, multiple positions, porn with very little plot, oral (f! receiving), overstimulation, dominance/power-play, unprotected sex (filming context), nsfw themes + language.
Everyone in the industry knows the two of you can’t stand each other. It’s practically lore at this point. Two rising stars, two inflated egos, two sets of fans who swear their fave would destroy the other on camera.
Somewhere between swirling rumors and climbing charts, you and Clark had silently declared each other the enemy.
He thinks you’re arrogant.
You think he’s insufferable.
You both insist you’ve never watched the other’s videos, but the truth sits nasty and hot in your chest...
You absolutely have.
More than once.
More than you’d ever admit.
For years, your names have been paired on rankings, fan polls, and trending searches, pushed together whether you liked it or not, fueling the one refrain the industry wouldn’t shut up about:
You two need to film.
It would blow the numbers.
Break the internet.
Maybe even break each other.
Today, they finally got their wish.
Your agents both pitched the same message—
“One scene. Short shoot. Top-tier marketing.”
Clean, polished, easy to swallow. Clark didn’t like it. You straight up despised it. But it was the job, and the job didn’t care about your pride, your rivalry, or the way your stomach tightened at the idea of sharing a frame with him.
So you showed up anyway.
The set was ready: lights warm, cameras fixed, crew bored out of their minds. Call time quickly came and went. You stayed on standby, finishing your second bottle of water and pacing like you were determined to wear a groove into the floor.
Finally, he walked in.
Late.
Clark Kent was never late. Your agent had mentioned it more than once, swearing it was proof he was “a consummate professional,” like that was supposed to make you forget how much you hated a man you barely knew.
Which meant him being late today had to be intentional. A power play. A middle finger. A provocation.
Your irritation spiked the moment you saw him. He didn’t bother apologizing. You didn’t bother letting him think it mattered.
The two of you took your marks for the briefing, standing a careful distance apart. Close enough for the director’s sake, far enough that a silent boundary held firm.
Not a single glance exchanged. Not even a flicker.
The tension was immediate. Thick. Palpable.
And it only got worse the second the cameras started rolling.
You slipped into position like the professional you were. Smile on. Posture loose. Voice bright and playful as the director called action.
The script was ridiculous. Some overdone scenario where he’s chasing you through a house, all flirt and smirk, the kind of setup that magically dissolves into something far less innocent five minutes later.
You darted down the hallway on cue. He followed, steps measured, controlled. It was choreography disguised as spontaneity.
The scene carried straight into the bedroom set waiting for it. Predictable. Overlit. Sheets already half-tugged loose for effect.
He caught you right on cue.
His hand closed around your wrist, momentum turning into grip, pulling you back toward him like the script demanded. Your palms slid up his arms in sync with the breathy laugh you were paid to give. Still, it sounded believable.
Clark delivered his line like it was nothing, tone smooth, expression teasing and camera-ready. You answered with heat dialed in exactly to the industry’s standards. Chin angled. Shoulders rolled. Eyes locked just long enough to sell it.
Every movement measured.
Every reaction intentional.
He kept his jaw loose, even though you could see the muscle flexing beneath the skin when he thought no one would notice. You swallowed the eye roll that wanted to surface when he smirked a little too convincingly. Your fingers pressed into his arms right on cue, nails grazing skin in a way that read playful on screen. His grip settled at your waist because that’s what the script called for.
Professional. Composed. Clean.
But the air between you was anything but.
Clark kept going, leaning into the next line like he was supposed to. His hand stayed fixed at your waist, guiding you toward the next physical cue. You were meant to drift backward toward the bed in a slow, teasing retreat. But when his voice dipped—smooth and practiced, eyes tracking over you exactly the way the cameras liked—you let the eye roll slip.
Not a twitch. Not a blink-and-miss-it moment.
A full, unapologetic, slow drag upward and away.
Clark stopped mid-word.
The shift was tiny, but the air tightened as if the room recognized what was about to happen. His hand stayed at your waist because the choreography kept it there, but his attention snapped to you with a focus that had nothing to do with the scene.
“Something you want to add?” he asked, voice low but clipped.
You didn’t bother hiding the bite in yours. “Yeah. Maybe try delivering your lines without sounding like you’re doing everyone a favor.”
He exhaled through his nose, a sound sharp enough to cut. “Right. Because you’re the picture of humility.”
You scoffed and drifted backward, staying on your mark.
“You act like you invented the whole damn industry. The standard, right? Isn’t that what you tell yourself?”
Clark’s jaw ticked, a short flick beneath his cheek, but he didn’t break stride. He followed in lockstep as you retreated, like nothing was wrong, like your attitude wasn’t digging under his skin. His body aligned with yours in a seamless, camera-perfect sweep.
“Maybe I just know what I’m doing,” he said, the smoothness gone, tone edged and tight.
“Oh, you definitely think you do.” You huffed a laugh under your breath.
That was the last thing out of your mouth before his landed on yours.
It was scripted. The timing, the angle, the lean-in. All part of the choreography.
But the roughness?
That was all him.
His mouth hit yours hard—nothing polished, nothing performative. Just a blunt, punishing crush meant to be felt. His hand dragged up your side in the same rough rhythm, fingers digging in, not coaxing but hauling you closer, angling you exactly where he wanted you so the camera caught every second of it.
The director shifted forward in his seat, elbows braced on his knees.
He didn’t stop anything.
No one did.
The camera operators adjusted their rigs with silent precision while you and Clark stayed locked together, mouths fused, kissing like you were trying to hurt each other. Every shift pulled you tighter together, exactly the opposite of the soft seduction the script had planned.
Clark’s hand dropped from your waist to your shirt hem right on cue, but the execution was vicious. He yanked it up in one brutal pull, knuckles scraping your stomach. The breath that punched out of you made him press his mouth harder to yours, like he meant to chase the sound back into your throat.
It pissed you off instantly.
The shirt cleared your head, leaving you in nothing but your bra, and Clark didn’t spare it a single glance. He didn’t even try for professionalism—just whipped it aside in a careless, irritated toss that sent it sliding across the studio floor.
His mouth stayed glued to yours, hot breath mixing with yours as he spoke against your lips. “I think I work hard.”
He punctuated the words with another kiss, deeper and rougher than the first, forcing your head back with the pressure of it. His hands clamped at your hips again and shoved you backward toward the bed, the firmness of the contact nowhere in the blocking. You stumbled a step, catching yourself only because he followed, chest pressed tightly to yours.
“You’re the one acting like you’re too good to be here,” he pressed out against your lips, voice strained.
You dragged your hands up his torso for the script’s sake, but the fistful of his shirt was pure spite. One hard pull forced him to break the kiss for a single breath, just enough time for you to rip the shirt over his head. The second it cleared his shoulders, he was on you again, mouth crashing back into yours. You threw the shirt somewhere behind him without even seeing where it landed.
His mouth slid off yours and straight to your neck, not a pause, not a breath between. You jolted when he hit that spot just under your jaw, the one you hated giving away, your voice hitching before you could stop it.
“You’re full of shit,” you breathed, trying to stay steady while his mouth kept working your throat. “Half your performances look like you’re trying to prove something.”
He didn’t ease up. His lips dragged along your jaw in a rough, messy glide, the kind that smeared heat rather than placed kisses. “That so?”
You shoved at his shoulder, but he only followed the movement, dropping back to your neck with harsher, hungrier kisses.
“So you’ve watched my videos then?” he said against your skin, the words low and pointed, like he already knew the answer.
The shift hit your stomach like a punch.
“That’s not what—”
He cut you off, crushing his mouth into yours with a forceful, breath-stealing press. His tongue was on you instantly, all pressure and challenge, like he meant to dominate the space inside your mouth too.
He walked you backward without breaking the pace of the kiss, forcing you to stumble with each step until your legs hit the edge of the bed.
“I’ve seen yours too,” he muttered against your lips, breath hot and uneven as he snapped your bra clasp open.
He didn’t even look at the garment—just peeled it off and tossed it onto the bed behind you, fingers already back on your skin.
“And?” you demanded, not because you cared, not because his opinion mattered, but because you were ready to tear into whatever came out of his mouth next.
He stilled above you, eyes narrowing just slightly before he spoke. “And you’re real dedicated to those high-pitched moans. Almost sell them, too.”
Your blood went hot. “Fuck you.”
He let out a quick, humorless huff, almost mocking, while he snapped open the button of your pants—another cue you couldn’t avoid. His fingers brushed your skin when he dragged them down, rough and impatient, his voice dropping at the same time.
“You fake it like it’s your day job.”
“It is my day job,” you spit back, flicking the pants away with a sharp kick as soon as he stripped them off you.
He straightened, crowding into your space, breath hitting your mouth.
“Then try harder.”
The words were still hanging between you when he kissed you again—rough, immediate—driving you backward. His hands were already sliding down your thighs, fingers biting in, and before you could register the shift he lifted you. Your balance snapped, the dynamic flipping in one clean motion as he dropped you to the mattress, the impact knocking the breath from your chest.
Your hands went to him on instinct, grabbing at his shoulders, pulling him in because the scene demanded closeness, but he didn't give you space for anything else. He kissed you through every inhale, every half-spoken word, mouth rough and insistent as he closed the rest of the distance, fitting himself between your thighs. His hips rolled once—slow, taunting—and the pressure forced a sound out of you before you could stop it.
Clark swallowed the sound in another messy kiss, lips slick, teeth catching as his hands dragged over you, grabbing whatever he could reach. You weren’t gentle either—your nails scraped over his shoulders and down his spine, catching on heat and skin. Nothing about it was controlled; it was all messy and hungry, fueled by irritation neither of you bothered hiding.
He moved without warning, mouth tearing from yours to close over your throat, the change as sharp as the heat he left behind. He didn’t pause or savor; he bit and sucked his way lower, each mark a quick, punishing claim that left your skin flushed and burning.
Your breasts caught his mouth next. His tongue slid over sensitive skin, his teeth scraping lightly around your nipple, just enough pressure to make your back arch in spite of yourself. He moved on fast, kissing down the center of your stomach in hot presses that felt more like claims than anything meant for camera.
At your hips, he hooked his fingers into your underwear and dragged them down in one uninterrupted motion, the sudden chill replacing the heat of his hands. He didn’t even watch them fall. He just kept moving, mouth trailing lower before he slipped off the mattress and dropped to his knees.
His grip found your thighs a second later—tight, claiming. He hauled you forward in a single pull, your body hitting the edge of the bed with a jolt that forced your legs open under him.
He didn’t hesitate. Not for a second.
He went down on you like he meant to ruin you fast, mouth working in quick, hungry strokes that felt messy and deliberate at the same time. His tongue pushed into every soft place, his mouth dragging over you with heat that bordered on mean. It hit you immediately. Hard. A sound climbed up your throat before you could stop it, loud and raw, nothing like the controlled moans you gave on camera.
Clark pulled back just enough to speak, breath hot against you, voice rough from how hard he was working.
“So that’s what you sound like when you’re not faking.”
You opened your mouth, ready to snap something back, but you barely got a syllable out.
He sucked you into his mouth again, harder this time, tongue curling exactly where you were most sensitive. The shock of it tore another sound from you, louder than the first. His grip tightened on your thighs, holding you wide, refusing to let you move even an inch out of his reach.
Your voice cracked as another moan broke free. Overstimulation was already clawing at you, rising fast, coiling low in your stomach with almost embarrassing urgency. Five minutes of a scene and he had you shaking.
You reached down, fingers tangling in his hair in a desperate attempt to ground yourself. You meant to guide him. Maybe pull him back. Anything to regain a hint of control.
Except, Clark wasn’t phased in the slightest.
If anything, the second your fingers tangled in his hair, he doubled down. A low, hungry moan vibrated against you, shooting straight through your core. His tongue pushed deeper, relentless and greedy, his mouth working over you in a way that made your thighs tense.
His grip tightened on you, holding you exactly where he wanted you. No shifting. No escape. He kept you open for him, kept you locked down while he devoured you like he’d been waiting to do it all day.
And he didn’t stop.
The cameraman stepped in for the close-up, expecting controlled, pretty footage. Instead he caught the raw mess of it: your thighs trembling, Clark’s mouth buried between them, his shoulders tensing as he ate you out like he needed it more than air. The wet drag of his tongue. The sound of his breath. The way your fingers convulsed in his hair.
It was too much. Too fast. Too focused.
Your orgasm slammed into you before you even had a chance to think about fighting it. It ripped through you in a hot, uncontrollable wave, your back arching, your breath breaking into half-rasped gasps. Every pulse of it shuddered against his mouth, and he kept going, licking you through the aftershocks until every muscle in your body fired at once.
When Clark finally let up, just long enough to rise to his feet, you barely had half a second to recover before the whole moment turned on its head.
Clark’s hands closed around your hips, and in one practiced sweep he flipped you onto your stomach. He pulled you up just long enough to position you—then pressed you back down, harder this time. Your chest hit the mattress as your hips rose under his hold, leaving nothing between his impatience and your body.
Behind you came the faint clink of metal—his belt—followed by the slide of fabric and the heavy rustle of clothes hitting the floor.
Instinct dragged your gaze over your shoulder.
Your breath caught the second you saw him. His cock was thick and swollen in his fist, weighty enough to make your mouth go dry in an instant.
Your eyes lifted to his, and he didn’t look away.
Not even for a moment.
He stepped into you, all heat and intent, his hand clamping onto your hip to pull you flush against him. In the same breath he angled himself, the thick head of his cock sliding over you in a slow, devastating stroke that made your thighs shake from overstimulation. You were still sensitive—still throbbing from coming on his tongue—but that didn't stop him.
Clark pushed in without hesitation, without giving you time to brace. Just one deep, heavy drive that stretched you around him in a way that felt downright obscene.
His head tipped back the moment he sank into you, mouth parting on a deep, ragged sound he didn’t bother trying to swallow. Your eyes slammed shut, breath breaking as your body took him in, the fit somehow overwhelming and impossibly right.
A moan tore out of both of you at the same time, low and loud and almost shocked. Like neither of you expected the connection to hit that hard, or for the first thrust to feel so full and so impossibly right.
For one short, breathless second, nothing else existed. Not the irritation. Not the years of rivalry. Just the way he fit inside you, deep and exact, like your body had been built to take him.
Clark started moving before you even got your bearings. His hips snapped forward in tight, controlled thrusts, as if he thought easing into you would help him adjust to how good you felt around him.
It didn’t.
The moment he felt you squeeze again, something in him cracked.
His hips slammed into you, faster and faster, each thrust sharper than the last as he chased the wet sound your body gave him when he bottomed out. The bed frame started to creak under the pace he set, every hard snap of his hips jolting you forward, your fingers scrambling for anything to hold on to.
Your grip on the mattress tightened, jaw clenching as you swallowed back every moan. You refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing how good he was fucking you. The restraint burned—through your lungs, through your stomach, through every tight, unsteady muscle in your legs. And still, the pleasure kept building, hard and fast, threatening to roll right through your attempted composure.
He noticed.
Immediately.
“Really,” he gritted out, hips pounding into you again. “You think I’m not hearing what you’re trying to hold back?”
Before the words even settled, his hand shot to your leg and hauled it up onto the bed, forcing you open and into a deeper angle that knocked a breath out of you so hard your vision pricked at the edges.
He didn’t slow. He didn’t give you a second to adjust. He just drove into you with even more force, the new position hitting something that made heat explode across your nerves.
You fought the sound rising in your throat, teeth clenched, nails digging into the bedding—
Then he thrust again.
Hard.
Perfect.
Devastating.
The moan ripped out of you, hitting the room so sharply the mic crackled with feedback. It shocked even you, your body betraying every ounce of stubborn pride you had left.
“That’s what I thought,” Clark said, voice thick, breath ragged. He didn’t slow for a second. He kept fucking you with relentless force, hips driving into you as your body jolted under him again.
You cried out again—louder, frayed at the edges—and Clark’s focus stayed rooted on your body, on the way it clenched and trembled around him as he pushed you right to the edge.
The spell broke with a shuffle from the crew, sharp enough to snap Clark back to the set—back to the reality of lenses pointed straight at both of you. His rhythm shifted immediately, hips drawing back into a slower, controlled pattern that had nothing to do with mercy and everything to do with staying on mark.
The director called for the next setup, and you both moved without thinking.
You separated on cue, bodies parting in the clean, professional way the scene required—even though neither of you had actually come down. Clark took his mark on the mattress, settling onto his back, breath still rough. You followed him up immediately, swinging a leg over his hips and sinking onto his lap, the heat between you snapping right back into place.
The moment your body met his, he grabbed you, dragging you down into a kiss that was all teeth and tongue and frustration. The argument you’d both been choking back bled straight into it—sloppy, rough, impatient. You each tried to spit out one last jab between breaths, but every word vanished under the next brutal slide of his tongue. His insult broke off into your mouth. Yours never made it past your lips.
The room changed around you—lights shifting, cameras repositioned, calls murmured—but you were already moving.
You tilted your hips, lined him up, and sank down on him in one hard, unforgiving push. You didn’t give either of you room to breathe. Not even when his groan broke into the kiss. You kept moving, lifting only to grind back down, rolling your hips until your stomach twisted and his jaw clenched.
Your hand planted beside his head as you shifted your weight, straightening just enough to change the angle—and every slow drag took him deeper, the pressure intense and filthy and perfect.
Clark’s hands chased your motion, sliding up your sides and over your ribs before dropping back to your hips with a grip that made your breath skip.
He took over the pace, guiding you faster, fingers digging into your skin as he pulled you down onto him again and again. The motion lifted his head from the mattress, his eyes finding yours with a sharp, hungry challenge. You could feel the tremor in his fingers, the strain in his breath, the subtle slip of control he couldn’t hide.
Your hands slid up his chest and wrapped around his throat—not enough to choke him, just enough to hold yourself steady while you fucked yourself down on him. His eyes screwed shut at the contact, a rough exhale tearing out of him like the pressure only turned him on more.
His head dropped back onto the bed, just for a second. Just long enough to show you exactly how hard he was fighting the pleasure you were dragging out of him.
His throat flexed beneath your hand, his mouth falling open as his hips drove up into yours like he couldn’t stop himself.
When he looked up again, your eyes met.
And everything between you went molten.
He grabbed the back of your head, fingers twisting in your hair, and yanked you down to him. Your lips smashed together in a kiss that felt like a threat. You slapped your hands onto the mattress beside his head to keep yourself steady while he devoured you, your faces sliding together as the kiss went desperate and dirty fast.
Then he started fucking up into you.
Rougher.
Deeper.
Each thrust lifting your body a few inches before slamming you back down onto him. His hands found your hips again, grip locked in place, using your body to meet every snap of his hips.
He found his pace—a brutal, even drive that said he wanted the scene back on his terms.
But you refused to give him that.
Not again.
You pushed your hips down into each thrust, meeting him stroke for stroke. The collision of your bodies got louder, wetter, filthier, the kind of rhythm that burned through both of you. You rolled your hips to match him, then pushed harder, forcing him to feel every grind, every clench, every deliberate movement meant to steal that control right back.
Your moans kept climbing, spilling out faster than you could swallow them, but you held on to the last shred of defiance you had left.
Even as you shook on top of him, even as he fucked you like he meant to split something open in you, you still fought him for the lead.
And then you got it.
Clark’s rhythm slipped. Just barely. Just enough to tell you his mind wasn’t on control anymore. It was on the way you were slick around him, the way he kept sliding in deeper, the way your body wouldn’t stop pulling him in.
That tiny lapse was all you needed.
You straightened, dragging your hands up his neck and jaw to push yourself upright. You used the grip to sit tall on him, his cock pushing deeper as your spine locked into place. Then your hands dropped to his chest, planting hard, fingers curling for balance.
You started riding him like you had something to prove.
Hard. Fast. Unrelenting.
Each roll of your hips ground you down to the base, the impact sharp enough to punch the air out of both of you. The pace you set was vicious, filthy, a direct response to the way he’d just tried to take you apart.
Clark wasn’t ready.
The shock hit his face first—then his breath. You could feel the air leave him as you dropped down on him again, harder, forcing him deeper as you took control. His head tipped up, eyes locked on the way your body moved on top of him.
You bounced on him like you wanted to bruise his hips with your own, your rhythm brutal, your thighs burning, your body slamming down on him again and again until the sounds coming out of him were nothing short of desperate. It was filthy and calculated, and it had him clenching his teeth, trying not to finish just from watching you ride him.
You moved faster. Dirtier.
Clark’s moans slipped out without him meaning to, low at first, then sharp when you dropped down hard enough to make his hips lift into yours. You were gasping too, breath catching every time his cock dragged against that spot inside you, but you refused to ease up. You chased the angle, chased the shock in his eyes, chased every sound he didn’t want the studio to hear.
You almost had him.
His hips stuttered. His mouth fell open.
But Clark wasn’t going down that easy.
Before you could push him over the edge, his hands shot up and caught your upper arms. His fingers wrapped tight around them and he yanked you down onto him, pinning your body to his. You hit him with a breathless shock, trapped and held exactly where he wanted you.
Then he took over.
His feet planted hard on the bed, muscles flexing as he thrust up into you with brutal precision. His hips lifted clean off the mattress, slamming into you again and again, each impact knocking another helpless sound out of your throat. Your body jostled with every thrust, your breath breaking in sharp, uncontrollable gasps.
There was no fighting it. No leverage. He had you pinned and open and taking everything he drove into you.
He buried his face against you, breath scorching your skin as he kissed, sucked, dragged his mouth along your neck without slowing for a single second. Each thrust was harder than the last, his groans spilling against your skin as he forced himself not to come, the strain ripping through his voice.
You clawed at his arms, grabbing whatever you could reach, your nails catching on skin and muscle as the pace tore through you. Every slam of his hips made your whole body lock up, pleasure coiling tight, climbing fast and hot.
You were right on the edge.
Again.
Your whole body pulled tight around him, breath stuttering, thighs shaking, the climax sitting so close it felt like it was vibrating beneath your skin.
And with the same speed he locked you down, he let you go.
Clark released your arms and you pitched forward, catching yourself on your forearms beside his head. Your chest stayed pressed to his as his hands clamped back onto your hips, dragging you into motion again. The angle was messy and overwhelming, every downward grind sinking him deeper, every lift pulling a gasp from both of you.
It was nothing but panting between you, breath hitting breath, mouths brushing but not quite kissing. Your face was twisted with it, pleasure raw and unmasked. The moans you’d tried to hide earlier came out freely now, high and desperate, forced past your lips with every slick grind of your hips.
Clark kept his eyes locked on yours the whole time.
Even this close, even with your bodies slamming into each other in a frantic, unsteady rhythm, he tracked every twitch of your expression, every break in your breath, every flicker of the orgasm building under your skin.
Then he changed the game again.
His hand slid from your hips to the underside of your thigh, and before you could even gasp through that, his fingers were on your clit.
He rubbed you with firm, ruthless circles, the pressure fast and deliberate, timed perfectly to the rocking of your hips. The combination hit like a shockwave. Your breath broke entirely, your moans climbing in pitch without your permission. High, sharp, needy. The kind you couldn’t fake if you tried.
You were going to come.
Hard.
Soon.
And this time you didn’t want to hold a single thing back.
Your muscles started to lock up, pleasure clawing through you, but you still tried to ride him, hips stuttering as you forced yourself to keep moving.
It was too much. Too good.
Every grind dragged a helpless sound out of your throat, the tension snapping higher until the only thing you could do was break.
“Clark—”
It came out of you before you even realized it.
You had never said a co-star’s name on camera. Not once. The moment it slipped, Clark reacted instantly. He pulled you down into a kiss before the sound even finished leaving your lips, swallowing it whole. You were still whining into his mouth, the noise catching in your throat as he thrust up into you harder.
You tried to pull back, pushing up onto your hands in some blind attempt to brace yourself against the pleasure building inside you. But he didn’t let you. His mouth followed yours, catching your bottom lip between his teeth. He tugged, slow, deliberate, eyes locked on yours the entire time. The pressure made you gasp again, your whole body shuddering as he let your lip slip free.
You fell back down against him, arms giving out. Your forearms hit the mattress beside his head, your chest brushing his as your breath came out in hot, uneven bursts. You were melting over him, shaking apart, and all you could do was cling.
Your hands slipped behind his neck, fingers curling around him, pulling him closer like your body needed the contact, needed him right there while you came apart again.
Clark felt it.
All of it.
He lifted his head and kissed along your jaw, down your neck, open-mouthed and hungry. His breath hit your skin in hot bursts as his hand kept working between your legs, rubbing you through every tremor, every sharp gasp, never letting up on the pace that had you unraveling.
You said his name again.
Loud.
Strained.
A sound ripped straight out of your chest.
“I know,” he breathed against your throat, the tone softer than anything he’d given you the entire shoot. His mouth brushed your skin when he said it, voice low and rough. “Come for me.”
Your body didn’t give you a choice.
It hit you without warning—sharp, explosive, ripping through your muscles so hard your arms locked around his neck. You pulled him closer, dragged him with you as your torso lifted off his for a split second, your whole body arching in a frantic snap of ecstasy. The sudden movement pulled his cock free, but he didn’t ease up.
He didn’t even hesitate.
His fingers kept moving, fast and merciless, like he wanted to wring every last ounce of pleasure out of your trembling body. The cry that came out of you wasn’t even a moan anymore—too sharp, too raw, too shocked by how much you still felt.
You tried to twist away from the pressure, hips jerking, thighs trembling uncontrollably, but he didn’t allow it. Clark’s arm wrapped tight around your waist, hauling you back into him, locking you against his chest. He held you still, held you open, held you exactly where he wanted you while his fingers kept dragging you through the aftershocks.
You writhed in his grip, breath breaking, body fighting and craving the sensation at the same time.
Then you moaned his name again. Not pretty. Not performed.
Wrecked.
The sound ripped into his ear, high and ruined, and something in him snapped. His breath hitched, his hips jerked up on instinct and a rough, guttural sound tore from his throat. A hot pulse spilled across his stomach as he came hard beneath you, his body tightening under yours in short, violent tremors.
He had never come during someone else’s orgasm on set.
Never from just touching.
Never from losing control like this.
His fingers didn’t stop until his own release forced him still. Only then did his touch ease, the pressure fading as your body fell against his in pure exhaustion.
You slumped onto him, chest to chest, limbs limp, your breath shaking against his collarbone. His arm loosened but didn’t leave you. He held you where you landed, both of you covered in sweat and shaking, still trying to drag air into your lungs.
Your eyes met again, unfocused but locked, and everything around you disappeared.
No set. No lights. No crew. No scene. Just raw, heavy silence and the two of you breathing into each other’s mouths like you didn’t know how to stop.
For the briefest stretch of time, you were sure he felt it too. Something passed between you in a quiet flicker. Then another. A silent question. A silent answer.
Then—
“Cut!” the director shouted, the word loud enough to split the air.
The room snapped back to life all at once. Footsteps, shifting equipment, someone clapping, someone else praising the take. Compliments scattered across the set as people moved around you with hurried, rehearsed efficiency.
His gaze finally shifted and yours followed. The contact broke in a slow, reluctant slide, and it felt like waking up too fast. Your bodies separated by inches, then more, until the space between you reminded you where you were, who was watching, what this was supposed to be.
Even then, neither of you spoke. Neither of you dared.
Because whatever happened in those last few moments wasn’t acting, and both of you knew it.
a/n: sorry this turned into a whole novella lmao… i truly couldn’t stop. also, a part two is already brewing, so stay tuned! enjoy!! <3 (if there are any typos, please ignore them lol. i only proofread this once).
for more pornstar!clark content, visit @kentwiththegooddick!
Some is better than none. Some is better than none. Some is better than none. Walking for three minutes, is better than nothing. Drinking a glass of water and eating a snack, is better than nothing. Wiping down the counter, is better than nothing. Small things are not nothing. Small things are not nothing. Small things are not nothing. You don’t have to achieve grand things if all you’re capable of right now is the smaller things. They are still achievements. Don’t do nothing just because you don’t think you’re capable of doing bigger things, just do something you’re capable of today. 
