my inbox is currently open for MCU and DC only! send requests! or we can always just yap. please read this entire post before requesting a fic or blurb. my writing is tagged with #mywriting.
☆MCU masterlist here
I currently write for Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers, Bob Reynolds, and John Walker. I also write poly!stucky, poly!wintersentry, and poly!sentryagent.
I'll happliy yap about any character and anything from the MCU, don't be a stranger!
❁Ted Lasso/ Jason Sudeikis masterlist here
I used to write for Ted Lasso and Jason Sudeikis. I currently don't but this may change. I will still happily yap about anything ted lasso or sudeikis, though, rest assured.
⋆꩜ DC (working on masterlist)
currently writing for bruce wayne, clark kent, and poly!superbat.
housekeeping:
this is an 18+ blog ONLY. Minors who interact will be blocked immediately.
I will not write incest, or anything with bathroom type bodily fluids.
this is a JUDGEMENT FREE blog! that's most important. if you don't like what I post or share, keep scrolling! unfollowing me is easy and free.
i just wanna deepthroat harvey specter when he’s pissed off. he’d be so mean. so condescending with a tiniest bit of praise sprinkled here and there. holding your face to his pelvis one he works his way to the back of your throat. ab muscles clenching as he grunts and groans.
wouldn’t even get undressed either. the suit stays ON.
i feel like we all need to take a deep breath and remember that fanfiction is supposed to be self indulgent!! especially with x readers!!mischaracterisation is not a big deal as long as the writer and the readers are having a fun time writers are supposed to enjoy their writing too
we have bigger fish to fry then a little mischaracterisation!! we should all just kiss and hold hands and have fun and keep tumblr the cool place it is!!
bruce & reader meeting martha & jon and growing closer with them 🥹 the two of you have all the love for the people who raised clark and they’re completely smitten with the way clark acts around you! the little bits of affection and sweet words when you think they’re not looking! cramming into the queen sized guest bed 🗣️
bonus points for jon being slightly apprehensive about bruce at first! clark’s never explicitly said he’s into men but he’s definitely never brought one home, let alone accompanied by a third partner. but after seeing bruce with clark he’s all in! they just want their boy to be happy with people who can really know who he is and love him for it 🥹
so sorry that this took me a little short of forever, but honestly, i never wanted to stop writing this, it's such a sweet idea and i'm definitely playing around with the idea of expanding this especially in wwwl.
wc: 3.7k
pairing: superbat x afab!reader
thank you for requesting this, your brain is brilliant!
The drive to Smallville was quieter than you'd expected. Not uncomfortable, nothing between you and Bruce ever really was, not anymore, but the kind of quiet that meant something. The kind that sat between two people who were thinking too loudly to fill the space with words. You watched the landscape change through the passenger window, the city bleeding slowly into open sky, flat golden fields stretching out in every direction like the world had exhaled and finally let itself be big.
Bruce's hands were steady on the wheel, but his white knuckles gave way to his nerves.
You glanced at him sidelong. He'd dressed thoughtfully, not a suit, because even Bruce Wayne understood that showing up to a Kansas farmhouse in a three-piece would be a particular kind of disaster — but a deep navy henley, sleeves pushed to the elbows, dark trousers that probably still cost more than most people's rent. His jaw was set in that way it got when he was running calculations behind his eyes. Preparing and strategizing for something he couldn't fully map out, which, for Bruce, was maybe the most unsettling thing there was.
"You're doing the thing," you said, a teasing lilt to your voice. To distract from your nerves, you are more than willing to tease Bruce.
He didn't look at you, but you still heard the fondness in his voice. "What thing?"
"The thing where you're mentally building a dossier on two people you've never met so you feel less exposed when you actually do."
A beat before the corner of his mouth moved, barely, but you caught it.
"Jonathan Kent, sixty-four. Retired farmer, part-time hardware consultant for the county. High school athletics, modest academic record, no financial irregularities, consistent church attendance until about 2003 when records show—"
"Bruce."
He exhaled through his nose, counting as if he were almost laughing. "I'm thorough."
"You're scared."
You hit it on the nail, evident by the slight tension at his jaw, the way his thumb pressed a little harder against the leather of the wheel. You hadn't said it to be unkind, you'd said it because it was true, and because with Bruce, naming the thing was always the first step toward letting him breathe again.
You reached over and rested your hand on his forearm, feeling the muscles tense before relaxing.
"I am," he admitted, after a moment, quiet as if it cost him something. "Which is — I'm aware of how that sounds. I've sat across from heads of state. I've negotiated with people who wanted me dead and had the ability to do so, but…"
"This is different."
"This is completely different!" He glanced at you then, just briefly. "They raised him. Everything Clark is — everything that's good and warm and entirely too earnest about him — that came from them. And they're going to look at us and decide whether we're—" He stopped.
"Worthy of him?" you offered gently.
The word sat there between you. Bruce removes one hand from the wheel dislodging it from his forearm in order to interrwine your fingers together, giving your hand a quick kiss and a squeeze in comfort.
"I don't need their approval. Neither of us do," Bruce said, which was such an obvious deflection you didn't even bother challenging it.
"No," you agreed. "But you want it. Because you love him. And people who love Clark Kent tend to care very much about what Martha and Jonathan think." You paused. "I know I do."
He looked at you again, longer this time. The late afternoon light caught the grey at his temples, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes that he'd earned from years of squinting into darkness. There were moments, still, when you looked at Bruce and felt the full weight of him — how much he carried, how rarely he let anyone see it, how extraordinary it was that he let you.
"You're nervous too," he said.
"I'm absolutely terrified," you said pleasantly. "I've just decided to feel it without narrating it at length."
That got a real sound out of him, low, warm, and genuine. You felt it like something settling in your chest.
"They'll love you," he said, after a moment. The strategy in his voice had softened into something else, something that sounded almost like certainty. "You know that, right? You care about people the way Clark does. Not because it's expected, not for any kind of return. You just do. And you love kids, and you give everything you have to the work, and you're—" He stopped himself, recalibrated, but his voice stayed soft. "You're good. Genuinely good in a way that people recognize when they meet you."
You were quiet for a moment, both watching the fields roll past. A water tower appeared on the horizon, red letters faded by decades of sun.
"Thank you," you said, and meant it deeply. Then: "Can I?"
"Go ahead." Bruce's voice is dry, having already given up trying to get you and Clark to stop lavishing him with compliments. Because while Bruce Wayne has spent his life in the public eye, love and hate thrown at him from a young age, there's a sincerity and such obvious love in your and Clark's words that make it difficult for him to brush it off the way he has with others in the past. While he might never verbally say it, all three of you know that Bruce does secretly crave these words of affirmation, to hear the way you and Cllark see him, so completely opposite of the way he sees himself.
"You're not easy to know," you said carefully. "And I think you've heard that used against you so many times you've started to believe it's a flaw. But Bruce — the people who've taken the time? Who've actually seen you?" You turned in your seat to face him more fully. "They don't leave. Because what's underneath all the armor is someone who is so completely, relentlessly sincere about the things he cares about that it's almost overwhelming. Your integrity isn't a brand or a strategy. It's just you, and any parent who raised a man like Clark Kent will see that. I promise."
Bruce was quiet for a long moment. "You've been practicing that," he said finally.
"Me? I don't need practice to sing your praises, my love." It's silent for a beat as Bruce turns his head slightly to give you an apprehensive look. You huff, turning to look out the window, before admitting, "Okay, maybe Clark helped, but you know I get flustered otherwise."
"Of course he did."
You were still smiling about it when the farmhouse came into view.
It was exactly what you'd imagined from Clark's descriptions: white clapboard siding, a wide porch, flower boxes that had been replanted recently, a tire swing hanging from the old oak at the far side of the yard. The kind of place that looked like it had been loved over decades, not renovated. Everything was slightly worn in the way that meant it had been touched by many hands, many seasons, many ordinary and extraordinary days.
Clark's truck was already in the driveway, and so was an older Ford that had to belong to Jonathan.
Bruce pulled in slowly and had barely cut the engine before you saw him.
Clark appeared on the porch first, and even from here, you could see the way his whole face changed when he spotted the car. That smile. The one he tried to moderate in public, the one the rest of the world got in careful, measured doses. Out here it was just, unguarded, whole. He was in a soft flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up, a little flour on his forearm that suggested he'd been helping in the kitchen, and he looked so entirely himself that something in your chest ached with it. While it was only a few days of seperation, you've missed him. And from the echoed sigh from your left, so did Bruce.
He was off the porch and crossing the yard before you'd even gotten your seatbelt undone. Your door swung open.
"Hey—" you started, laughing, and then you were being lifted, his arms around you, your feet leaving the ground entirely as he pulled you in close. You buried your face against his neck and held on, and for a moment neither of you said anything, just breathed each other in. He smelled like the outdoors and something warm from the oven and Clark, distinctly, irreplaceably Clark, and you felt the last of the drive's tension just dissolve.
"Hi," he murmured into your hair.
"Hi," you said back.
He set you down, cupped your face in both his hands, looked at you the way he did sometimes when you'd been apart for longer than usual, like he was checking you were real, and whole, and still his. Then he kissed your forehead, soft and deliberate, and you watched some private relief move through his expression.
Then he was already moving.
In less than a breath — a whisper of displaced air, a motion too quick to fully track — he was on Bruce's side of the car, door open, standing there with that same bright, barely-contained expression.
Bruce stepped out with all the dignity he could muster, which was considerable, and still somehow ended up pulled immediately into Clark's arms.
"Clark," Bruce said, muffled slightly against his shoulder, as Clark nuzzled into Bruce's neck, enjoying feeling both of his partners finally here with his beloved parents.
"I missed you," Clark said simply, pulling back enough for blue eyes to meet.
Any fight that Bruce had left him immediately upon hearing those words. Instead, Bruce relaxes, bringing a hand up to cup his face, thumb lightly tracing his cheekbone, a smile on Bruce's face that he could never hide around either of you. "I missed you too."
"I know."
Both you and Bruce let out a laugh at Clark's positively smug voice. Clark pulled back enough to look at him, really look, and his expression shifted into something quieter and more private, the way it did when it was just the three of you, and there was nothing to perform.
"Hi," Clark said, softer.
"Hello," Bruce said, and the word was entirely different in his mouth than it was anywhere else.
Clark kissed him with the easy confidence of someone who had figured out a long time ago that Bruce Wayne responded well to being kissed before he could argue about it. Bruce's hand moved to the back of his neck, and for a moment you just watched them, feeling that warm, particular glow that you'd never quite been able to name — that feeling of being part of something that made sense.
When they broke apart, Clark glanced back at the porch, making you follow his gaze.
Martha Kent stood at the screen door with a dish towel over her shoulder and an expression that said she had seen that whole thing and was making absolutely no effort to pretend otherwise. Her eyes moved from Clark to Bruce to you and back again, and she smiled, full and genuine, turning to say something to the man behind her.
There in the door frame just behind, Jonathan Kent was harder to read. He was watching, quietly and carefully. His gaze moved to Clark first, and then settled, briefly, on Bruce, before moving on to you. While his wife was friendly and easy to read, you surely couldn't get a clear read on the man. Hopefully, Bruce could, and you'd both be able to compare notes later.
While your group stepped up to meet them, you and Bruce shared a look that was filled with equal parts trepidation and comfort. You've faced intergalactic aliens hell-bent on destroying the world. Surely meeting Clark's parents wouldn't be too bad.
--
Martha had the gift of making a person feel immediately, unconditionally at home.
Within ten minutes of stepping through the door you had been handed a mug of something warm, guided to a seat at the kitchen table like you'd sat there a hundred times, and thoroughly interrogated in the gentlest way imaginable. She asked about your work with the kind of interest that suggested she'd actually been told about it beforehand, which meant Clark had talked about you, and the thought of that made something flutter pleasantly behind your sternum.
"It started as something after-school mostly, and centered on safe housing and creative outlets for the kids. Storytelling, art, and different ways to help kids process things that are hard to say out loud." You wrapped both hands around the mug. "It started small, but it's grown more than I expected."
Martha looked at you over the rim of her own cup with an expression that was warm and very knowing. "That's how the things that matter usually go."
Across the kitchen, Clark was helping with dinner prep despite Martha's protests. He claimed he wasn't a guest since he lived here, which has not been true for years, but he wouldn't hear it. Bruce stood slightly apart from the activity, in that way he had in unfamiliar spaces, not uncomfortable exactly, just observing and learning the room. You could see him taking in the photographs on the walls, the arrangement of things, the way Martha touched Clark's arm when she moved past him, the ease of it all.
Jonathan came in from outside around then, finishing cleaning and turning on the grill, wiping his hands on a cloth, and the dynamic shifted slightly. He greeted you warmly enough, kissed Martha's cheek on his way into the kitchen, and shook Bruce's hand with the particular firmness of a man who had formed opinions about handshakes decades ago and would not be revising them.
His eyes lingered on Bruce a beat longer than was casual before he moved to wash up at the sink, playfully ribbing his son about the large slices of pepper he cut. Clark, who noticed everything, glanced over his shoulder to look at Bruce and make sure he was okay while upholding the conversation with his dad.
You met Bruce's eyes across the kitchen and gave him the tiniest nod. It's okay, let it settle.
Dinner helped, thankfully. Something about a shared meal had a way of softening things; the passing of dishes, the filling of glasses, the particular rhythm of conversation around food that didn't require anyone to be anything other than present. Martha had cooked enough for approximately twice as many people as existed and seemed pleased by this. Clark ate with the wholehearted commitment he brought to everything and somehow made the table feel warmer just by being at it.
Bruce, to his credit, and you watched this with private admiration, didn't perform. He didn't deploy the Wayne charm, the boardroom ease, the polished social architecture he used when he needed to impress and was most likely expected to by the Kents. He was just careful and attentive, every bit of the man you and Clark have grown to love. He asked Jonathan about the land, about the mechanical issue he'd mentioned to Clark last week, and when Jonathan answered, Bruce actually listened, not nodded-while-waiting-to-speak, but listened with the same focused quality he gave to everything that mattered.
Jonathan noticed, and you, Martha, and Clark eased slightly at the new comfortable air between the group. The shift was subtle, a slight ease around the older man's shoulders, the way his responses stretched a little longer. But clearly, whatever test that Jonathon had, Bruce passed with flying colors.
After dinner, Clark was drafted into dish duty by virtue of being the person Martha trusted most not to chip anything, which left you and Bruce and Jonathan in the living room. The lamp in the corner put out a low amber light, while a baseball game murmured on the television with the volume mostly down.
Jonathan looked at Bruce for a moment before slowly starting, "Clark's never brought anyone home before."
"No," you say. "He mentioned that to us."
"Not a woman. Not a—" Jonathan stopped to consider his words. "I didn't know before. About any of it, regardless of how bad a father that makes me feel. He never said, and I never asked." There was no accusation in it, just an honesty that felt very much like where Clark had inherited his own. "I want to understand I'm not — I don't have a problem with—"
"I know," Bruce said, quietly, and slightly heartwarmed by the older man's clear attempt to try. "It's okay, I'm sure that it's a lot to come to terms with."
Jonathan looked at him steadily, and like this, you can clearly see the way Clark has emulated his father's calm, soothing tone when having a serious conversation. "I just want him happy. That's all I've ever wanted. He carries so much. More than anyone should and more than we even fully—" He stopped again to clear his throat, working through his emotions. "I just want to know that the people he chooses to carry with are — that they see him. Not the hero, but him. My son, our Clark."
The room was quiet for a moment, all of you having reached a common ground.
"Clark is the most human person I've ever known," Bruce said, not performed and not measured, but deeply true. "I don't say that carelessly. I've known a lot of people, many of whom get praised publicly for being good when they're nothing more than spoiled brats with great PR agents. He's the best of what that word means. And yes, I see him, we see him. Completely."
Jonathan held his gaze for a long moment, then he nodded, and you three continued watching the baseball game, oblivious to the shadowed figures in the background who watched the whole thing.
Later, when the house was quieter, and Martha had won the argument about everyone staying the night, you were getting ready for bed when Clark appeared in the doorway of the small guest room, shoulder against the frame, already in an old t-shirt and sweats.
"The bed's not very big," he started.
You looked at the queen-sized bed, at Bruce who was already sitting on the edge of it with his book, at Clark, and back.
"Oh, shucks. Does that mean we'll have to squeeze in together? All night between two incredibly buff, handsome, and sweet men? I don't know…" you playfully say, Bruce closing the book, laughing while enjoying the comfort of it just being you three. It's well known that the three of you always end up wrapped in one another's arms throughout the night, always drawn to the comforting presence of one another.
Clark's smile was radiant in response, quickly crossing the distance to wrap you up in his arms as he brings you to the bed, dragging Bruce back with you. In the end, Clark winds up in the middle because there was simply no version of any of you that was going to argue otherwise. He was warm the way he always was, almost unreasonably so, a kind of bone-deep warmth that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with proximity to him. You had your back to his chest, his arm loose around you. Bruce was on his other side, on his back, which was how Bruce slept, and Clark's hand had found his in the small space between them.
The lamp was off, just pale moonlight through the curtain, casting everything in soft silver.
"They love you," Clark said, to the ceiling, to both of you, happiness clear in his voice.
"Your mother loves us," you said. "Your father has decided to accept Bruce, and by extension me, which I think is functionally the same thing."
"That's actually his version of love," Clark confirmed, pulling you in closer.
Bruce made a sound that was almost a laugh. A comfortable quiet settled over you three, while outside, crickets started up a familiar tune. The old farmhouse had its own sounds — creaks and exhalations of a structure that had held its shape for decades.
"I forgot," Clark said softly, "what it feels like in this house. Being here. I spent so long not coming back because it was — I didn't want them to see how much I was—" He stopped, and you felt his chest rise and fall. "But tonight just felt like, like I could breathe."
You turned enough to press a kiss to his shoulder, feeling the bed creak and the sound of Bruce doing the same.
He pressed his lips to your hair. Then, across you, quiet: "Thank you for coming."
Bruce's thumb moved once across Clark's hand, the simplest possible thing, but the message was clear: Here. I'm here.
You listened to the farmhouse breathe, felt Clark's heartbeat slow into sleep, steady and faithful as everything else about him. Felt Bruce's stillness on the other side, not restless, for once.
Just here, with your partners, do you close your eyes and think, with a fullness that didn't quite have words yet: so this is what it feels like. Not a place, exactly. Not four walls and a quilt and moonlight, but still something like home.
Down the hall, Martha appeared at the bedroom door in her robe, while Jonathon looked up from his book.
"They asleep?" he asked.
"Mm." She climbed in beside him, settled against his shoulder in the way of forty years of the same motion. He was quiet for a moment, before turning to look at his wife.
"He looked happy," Jonathan said finally. "Clark. Happier than I've seen him in—" He shook his head, letting out a long sigh. "A long time."
Martha smiled, soft and certain. "I know," she said. "I saw the way he looked at them when they weren't watching." She reached over and turned off the lamp. "Like he couldn't believe they were real."
Jonathan was quiet again. "Good people," he said eventually, like a conclusion reached.
"Very good people," Martha agreed.
And the farmhouse held all of them gently, as it always had, through seasons and secrets and all the ordinary and extraordinary shapes that love takes when it finally finds its way home.
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bruce and clark trying to shove both their cocks in your mouth. obv they’re massive and it doesn’t work, but their tips smushed against each other and rubbing against your tongue is otherworldly. they’d def make out with each other above you, too.
bruce and clark trying to shove both their cocks in your mouth. obv they’re massive and it doesn’t work, but their tips smushed against each other and rubbing against your tongue is otherworldly. they’d def make out with each other above you, too.
the back of your thighs were bruised. deep, burning pain that was caused by the slap of his strong, muscled legs against yours.
your lips were parted, but there was no sound, except for small whimpers and gasps when his tip punched your cervix.
"so fucking wet for me," he groaned, chest pressing your back further into the bed.
bruce had your hips meanly arched, the curve of your back dipped low enough that your spine threatened to crack.
it was so fucking good.
he pushed his hips as far as he could go, holding himself there. a sharp whine shot out of your lungs. you attempted to crawl away. push yourself up to get reprieve from the pressure. he was everywhere. your walls struggled to accommodate his size, even after all the time you have spent together, even after how well your body knew his.
"yeah? awe, you like that don't you, huh, sweetheart?" he cooed. you could feel the smugness in his words painting your back. he gave you another harsh trust, pressing himself impossibly deeper. "take it for me — yeahhhh — just like that, such a good girl for me."
his words were filth in your ear.
"just needed some cock, huh, baby?"
"so perfect for me, can feel you sucking me in,"
"taking it so fucking good for me, honey, god — fuck,"
your face was mushed in the pillow, fingers clenched around his silk sheets. his fingers wrapped into the back of your head, releasing your muffled cries from the fabric.
"nuh uh, wanna hear you, hear how good i'm making you feel," his chest pressed you further into the matress, lips dragging against the shell of your ear.
"come for me," he whispered, lips curving into a satisfied as you tensed and shook underneath him. he pushed himself up, hands shoving your upper body back down as he began to slam back into you and chase his own release.
because, even though bruce loved to show you how much he cared for you, he always loved to see how much he could ruin you more.
an: first attempt at practicing drabbles, sowwy to inignia for using you as my test dummy
18+ only! harvey specter who loves shoving his face between your legs.
harvey specter who loves shoving his tongue in your cunt. loves the feeling of it clenching down on him, trying to keep it inside.
has no qualms with his nose bumping against and pressing into your swollen clit as he moans at the next wave of arousal that slips out of you.
emits the most primal, animalistic groans against the sensitive skin there. it’s his favorite after a bad day, a rough case, or family drama. the place where he can truly let his eyes fall shut and relax. it’s a bonus that you get off on it, too.
could be at the end of the day on his couch, during a workday in the file room after everyone has left, even right after you wake up, pushing him away because you haven’t freshly showered.
harvey doesn’t care. he loves the taste of you regardless. a little tangy, sweet, it has his cock growing exponentially. loves the smell, too. you can always feel him draw in deep breaths, breathing you in.
he’ll often fuck his hand while he’s down there. so focused, so locked in that the only tell is his deep grunts that vibrate against you and make you squirm.
ooooh i just want to be bouncing on harvey specter’s cock and digging my nails into his firm chest and belly.
i know yall have seen the shirtless pics of our man, with all his muscles it would feel hard as a rock!! hearing him grunt and groan as your fingernails leave little intentions in his skin. he’d be so flushed too, a pretty rose color that starts at right under his collarbones.
leaning forward just a bit to drag your clit across the hair at his base!! he’d get so turned on watching you use him 😛
Pairing: Clark Kent (Superman 2025) x f reader
Summary: Kryptonians have a yearly breeding season where they’re consumed with the need to wildly fuck for days. You’re helping your boyfriend Clark through it. It’s, uh, more intense than you expected.
Tags: smut, p in v, rough sex, breeding, rut, mating press, dirty talk, possessiveness, mates, feral alien Clark, aftercare, Gary cameo
Word count: 1.3k
Read below or read on AO3
Clark is never more strongly reminded that he is an alien as during his yearly rut.
It turns out that Kryptonians have a mating instinct and breeding season. Clark’s has synced up to this yellow sun's solar year, which is handy for planning ahead to ask for the time off work at The Daily Planet and inform the other superheroes he’s going to be unavailable for a week.
But Clark hates his rut. It makes him feel insane, mindless with lust, out of control. In other words, powerless—not something Superman has much experience with or patience for.
Because without a female to breed, all he can do is frantically masturbate again and again, never quite satisfied yet always compelled to keep going and spill his seed one more time. He instinctively feels that if he could spill it inside someone, make her bear something of his, he wouldn’t have to chase completion as often and would find the whole thing pleasurable. Although he doesn't at all want a harem like his bio parents advised, he sure wouldn't mind having one person to breed.
This year, he’s finally getting his chance, because for the first time ever, he's brought a girlfriend with him to ride out his rut in his Antarctic fortress: you. He was nervous about how it would go, but you assured him you could take it. You wanted to be there to provide relief for him.
But you had no idea just how feral Clark would become in rut.
He's got you bent in half, your own knees flattening your breasts, sobbing and drenched in sweat, trapped under his heavy body as he savagely fucks you. His teeth are bared like he’s a snarling wolf, rabid with lust, growling and grunting in a throaty voice you barely recognize. There’s a trace of Clark left in his eyes, the last shred of control he’s holding onto, the only thing that’s keeping him from actually hurting you with his bestial power.
Not that you’re not sore—you’ve been going for hours now, losing track of how many times you’ve come. All you can do is hang on while he uses your body to sate his unearthly urges. You try to dig your nails into his biceps, but his skin is as unyielding as the drive of his cock.
“Jus’ one more, gotta give ya one more load,” he mutters between gritted teeth. “You can take it, jus’a few more minutes baby, good mate, so good f’me.”
His cock is bigger in rut, every ridge and vein more pronounced, emphasizing how inhuman it is. He’s always been a lot to take, but the sharper edges now, the way it threatens to split you open and plunges so deep, makes it hard to breathe, and yet you relish the way it lights you up as it hits every spot you have and then some. His balls, too, feel especially heavy and large as they collide against your ass with a wet slap on every thrust.
“So close, gonna fill ya up and breed ya right, fuck a baby into this pretty pussy.” He’s slicking in and out of you faster, riding on a river of his own cum from your previous rounds. Your cunt is drenched, throbbing. “Can’t wait to make you all round with me, like a perfect mate. Gotta fill you to the brim with my seed so it takes, give it all to you.”
“Yes, please, fuck it inside me, fill me up!”
“Take it!” he shouts, tightening his hands on the back of your thighs. “Take all my seed, fff—” A roar rips from his chest as he snaps his hips forward and unleashes, flooding your womb with fresh cum, leaving part of himself deep within your body. His balls are pressed tight against you, and you can feel them throbbing, unloading all they have into you.
That feeling, of him truly breeding you, unravels you as well—you gasp as a wave washes through you, soft-edged with your weariness but no less blissful and deep. “Oh yes, baby, milk me, milk every drop from your mate, that’s it,” Clark groans as he feels your cunt clamping around his still-throbbing cock.
He grinds himself into you, making sure he’s gotten his cum as deep as possible, before letting go of your thighs and collapsing on top of you—but catches himself with his own flying power so that he’s touching you without crushing you. He’s not making you hover, but you feel weightless anyway, the air around you gone all syrupy as you float through your pleasure.
His lips press to yours, the kiss tender yet intentional, claiming. You let your trembling legs drop to the mattress, and Clark promptly hooks his around them, caging himself around you more thoroughly, but his body is soft, like a lazy cat draped over you. It seems like he might finally have run out of steam, at least for now. You stroke your hands over his back and he lets out a raspy little hum.
“Are you alright?” he murmurs, hoarse.
A little aftershock shivers through your wrung-out body. “Yeah,” you sigh.
Suddenly the door opens, and over Clark's shoulder you can see his superbot Gary entering with a tray. Clark is already wrapped around you, blocking your naked body from view, but he tightens his hold on you and jerks up his head. “Mine!” he snarls. “My mate!”
Gary continues to approach, unperturbed. “I have no interest in your human,” he says, and if he wasn't a robot, you would swear he says it in a weary tone, like he's tired of Clark's nonsense. “I would remind you, sir, that you were the one to ask me to bring in water and food for your companion whenever I heard you cease mating.”
Your cheeks burn with embarrassment at hearing the nonchalant way he discusses you having sex and at knowing he was listening to it happening, but try to remind yourself that he's just a robot and sex means nothing to him.
Clark seems to be having a little trouble remembering this, because he growls low in his throat, but lets Gary get close enough to set down his tray on a table beside the bed. He doesn't loosen his arms until the robot is gone, and his mind seems to clear a bit once the two of you are alone again. “I can't help it,” he mutters as he sits up enough to grab some water for you, his softened cock finally slipping free of your body.
“I know, honey,” you say as you gingerly sit up too, trying to clench to keep a wet spot from forming beneath you, though it's hopeless. You ignore it and take several long gulps of water, then pick up a bowl of chocolate-studded trail mix. It’s your favorite kind from Trader Joe’s, which you doubt you ever told Clark directly, but which he must have noticed. You give him a big smile. “You’re such a sweetheart for arranging the snacks ahead of time. Though, did you have to tell Gary to listen to us ‘mating’?”
He wrinkles up his nose. “I didn’t put it like that, just told him to come in when we were quiet. He…inferred.”
You laugh. “He’s a smart robot.”
Clark massages your aching hips while you eat, and you let out a groan when his strong thumbs press into your tender muscle.
“You really are alright?” he asks with his brows knit together, and you nod, still chewing. “What else do you need?”
You swallow. “I could use a nap, if that’s possible.”
“I can hold myself off for a few hours, I think.”
You find a dry spot on the bed and settle down together, Clark's warm body spooned up behind you, the two of you fitting together just as perfectly this way as when he was inside you. You’re meant to be in his arms. His fingers lace with yours and spread over the curve of your belly. “Mine,” he whispers.
Comments and reblogs are very appreciated and inspire me to keep writing!
I’d also love to connect with other people in the fandom since I’m new to this one, so send me a message if you want to chat about Clark, writing, or whatever!
Taglist: @azarianfalkner (comment if you want to be added or removed)
roy harper, dick grayson and you making out sloppy style ˚.✦
Your back was pressed against the wall, Roy’s hands gripping your waist like he was afraid you’d disappear, while Dick crowded in from the side, one palm sliding up your neck to tilt your head exactly how he wanted.
Roy kissed you first, messy and open-mouthed, tongue sliding against yours with zero shame. Saliva slicked your lips, a thin string of it catching when he pulled back just enough to breathe before diving in again. Dick didn’t wait his turn. He leaned over Roy’s shoulder and caught your mouth next, softer at first but quickly turning hungry, licking into you while Roy’s teeth grazed your bottom lip. Their tastes mixed together, something sweet and completely addictive. You could feel the wet heat of their mouths trading off, tongues tangling with yours in a sloppy rhythm that left your chin shiny and your head spinning.
Roy made a low sound in his throat, pressing his body flush against yours so you felt every line of him. Dick’s hand slipped under your shirt, fingers warm on your skin, while his lips moved from your mouth to the corner of Roy’s jaw, kissing him too. It turned into a three-way mess, mouths sliding together, tongues brushing in the middle, saliva dripping down your chin and probably theirs too. The sounds were obscene too, wet smacks and soft gasps filling the tiny space.
Then Roy suddenly pulled back, breathing hard, his freckled face flushed dark under the faint emergency light leaking through the door crack. His eyes looked a little wide, a little scared underneath all that heat.
“We’re still friends, right?” he asked. “I mean… this doesn’t fuck everything up?”
You and Dick both paused, lips still parted and glistening. A tiny giggle bubbled out of you first, then Dick’s followed right after, soft and just a tiny bit condescending in the sweetest way.
“Of course we are,” you said, already leaning back in, pressing a sloppy kiss to the corner of Roy’s mouth.
Dick mirrored you, nipping at Roy’s bottom lip before murmuring against it, “Duh, Roy. Best friends.” His voice had that teasing lilt, making Roy's ears red.
Roy let out a shaky breath that turned into a laugh, but before he could overthink it again, you and Dick were on him together, mouths claiming his at the same time. Tongues sliding wetly, saliva mixing in that delicious three-way tangle once more and Roy melted back into it, hands clutching at both of you like he never wanted to let go.
steve rogers holding a magic wand to your clit while he fucks you for the first time.
18+ only you guys
we all know he’s a man of incredible self control but the second those vibrations go through you and up his swollen cock he’s lost all restraint. that combined with how hard you’re squeezing him has his hips stuttering, jaw slack, and eyes hazy.
this wasn’t a thing in the 40s! it’s pretty new to him so he’s already even more turned on by the fact that to him it’s a little taboo. he casts his eyes down to watch his cock move in and out of you, the hair at his base matted from how wet you are.
the sounds he makes are nothing short of obscene either, little whines and breathy grunts you didn’t know a man of his size could make.
when he orgasms it’s probably the strongest one he’s ever had, he can’t help but continue to rut into you with each pulse of his cock. cums for at least 50 seconds straight, and even though he’s a super soldier he has a slight tremor after.
immediately asks you about other toys like that in the shower later and is giddy when he sees that you ordered a vibrating cock ring.
loud and assertive harvey specter who’s reduced to soft words and breathy moans when you have him in bed.
scratch that, when you have him in your life.
he can be ripping someone a new asshole, loud shouts and spiteful words, but the second you walk in his shoulders are relaxing and he calls your name so softly it could be considered a whisper.
in bed, he softly begs for you, even though he’d die before admitting it. just melts into you the second you touch him. total definition of a service top.
even his eyes go soft for you. when you’re curled up next to him with the moonlight casting over you. when you’re in one of his shirts he wore to the office that hasn’t made it to the washer yet- you love that it smells just like him.
when you sit on the couch, wine glass in hand and on the phone with rachel or your best friend, he can’t help but sit next to you and rest his head on your shoulder, silently begging for attention. he doesn’t bother to busy himself, just watches you with puppy dog eyes while you sip your wine and catch up with your friend. often times you’ll bring a hand up to card through his hair, and it melts him every single time.
harvey’s heart breaks when you cry. whether it’s from a sad video, bad news, or just a bad day. gets so caught up in fixing whatever upset you that sometimes you have to remind him you just want to be held.
big tall and mean harvey would literally just be reduced to a puddle around you. a puddle with structure, mind you- but melts around you nonetheless.
