Everything to know before you start!
The various practices
The Tools
healing, protecting, and grounding.
shielding and banishing
herbs,oils and crystals.| Herbs | Oils | Crystals
color magik
the sabbats
the Elements
astrology + astrology calendar
spells, hexes and curses
energy manipulation
the various entitis
Divination tool
Symbology
Shadow Work
Witchy hack
Offerings
Grimoire/book of shadows
how to work with deities. (works with entities too)
sigils.
How to create a spell
Since this show isn’t easy to come by, above you will find a link for every episode. Feel free to watch, download, gif it, whatever it is you so please.
**If there comes a day when you find yourself finding this post and the links are no longer active, feel free to shoot me a message and I’m happy to reupload.
summary: clark doesn’t make it through no nut november
cw: smut (mdni, 18+), face sitting, oral (f rec), clark creams his pants :)
wc: 755
a/n: evil laughter, cat yowl, ferocious typing, more evil laughter
Clark has been trying. Really trying. He has kept his hands to himself, taken endless cold showers and counted sheep instead of letting his fingers creep anywhere they’re not supposed to be.
He’s been good. So good.
And it’s not like you had to suffer the consequences of his decision to partake in this challenge. God, no. The amount of head you’ve been getting from him has left you in a safe floaty headspace, drifting through the colder days in a warm blanket of constant oxytocin. Just because he can’t get any doesn’t mean you shouldn’t.
His fingers have worked their magic on you, too – multiple times a day. Your pleasure always comes before his, and it certainly doesn’t have to take a vacation just because he’s chosen to abstain.
But, gosh, he’s reaching his limit.
“Cl-clark,” you moan breathlessly. Each of your legs is planted next to his head while his fingers dig into the back of your thighs. He keeps your mound pressed up against his lips as he laps at you, almost furiously so.
High on the feel of his tongue, you forget to question how he’s still breathing. Your chest flutters with every drag of the thick muscle between your folds, your own slick glistening between your legs and on the tip of his nose.
The headboard creaks as you fumble for purchase, head thrown back with pure pleasure.
Clark’s grip on you tightens, enough that it’ll leave you with a nice set of bruises to admire tomorrow, and you let out another desperate whimper while you’re grinding down against him. His strong hold aids your movements while his tongue switches between tight circles across your clit and dipping into your hole.
He swears he’s going crazy. The taste of you is too addicting, too sweet to ever be refrained from. He can’t help himself as he pulls you even closer, ignoring the building ache in his chest from not having breathed in a few minutes.
As your orgasm approaches, your breath gets quieter but heavier. The whines that spill from you become higher pitched while Clark grabs your ass to keep you glued against his lips.
He wants to see your face as you break, wants to take in every micro expression possible. But tasting you – gosh, that’s something he’d never exchange for anything.
As he continues to circle your clit, groaning and grunting against the soft, wet flesh of yours, he feels the involuntary twitch of his hips.
He’s been hard since he walked into the room and seen you simply sprawled across the bed. Between the three orgasms he’s already pulled from you, he’s only grown more restless. Continuous, helpless thrusts into the air timed with every swipe of his tongue have him questioning his morals but it’s nothing he can think about while he eats his girl out.
The tight pull in his lower abdomen feels too familiar, too achingly close and he mumbles something but with a mouth full of pussy, the words come out muffled. He is aching for release, for some kindness granted to him. Just one soft touch of yours would make him come undone in an instant.
But it doesn’t take a touch.
No. It’s the way your legs begin to shake as you near the edge for the fourth time this evening that has his balls tightening. He feels his cock spasm and pulse as he nurses on your clit, traitorous warmth spreading into every corner of his body.
And your soft, needy sounds. They fill his ears, so achingly sweet that he would do anything to bottle them up and keep them for hard times.
As you unravel, so does he. He feels your clit throb against his tongue just as an unbearable heat floods his boxers.
You slump against the headboard, just barely slipping off of him.
Clark’s entire face turns as red as the sun from his home planet as he looks down, the wet spot on his pants spreading – warm, sticky cum oozing through the fabric.
“Clark,” you gasp as you catch your breath, “That was-“
Your eyes meet his gaze, immediately registering the shame in it.
You follow his line of sight and coo softly, “Oh, honey.”
“Shoot,” he whispers, still panting, “I… wow, I, um…”
His stuttering, his beaming pink ears – they only increase the adoration you feel for him.
“It’s okay, baby,” you whisper, “It’s okay.”
“You just taste so good,” he mumbles, still too embarrassed to meet your eyes, “I couldn’t help it.”
❤︎ just a quick reminder that the best way to support authors on here is to comment and reblog ❤︎
☆ find my masterlist here ☆
Hii feel free to ignore if your reqs are closed or don't feel comfortable writing this !!
May you write a drabble were Clark is readers first good relationship, but the trauma still lingers, and reader feels bad about using the safe word (maybe readers just a bit overwhelmed) and Clark reassures them?
a/n: ugh, i can FINALLY post this. was so busy with kinktober and then hit writer's block and then wrote this in like barely two hours like a week ago and then my writer's block eased tenfold and now i can POST IT. this was such much fun and such a nice change of pace honestly. thank you thank you thank you for sending this bc it's honestly the reason i'm writing a little easier again! here you go, hope you enjoy!
cw: suggestive themes, no actual smut, safe word use, past bad relationships, hurt comfort...
“Honey?”
Clark's hand is warm where it rests desperately at your back. His brows are drawn together in a tight knot as he looks over you with a quiet franticness as he tries to soothe you with the gentle circle of his palm.
“Honey, please talk to me.” He sounds like he's going to start sobbing, and it only makes you feel worse as you bury your head farther into your arms crossed over your knees.
You're painfully naked, as is he at your side, a light sheen of sweat still glistening over your skin serving as evidence of earlier indulgences. You'd pull the covers over yourself, but that would require coming out of the hiding spot you'd made of yourself and showing yourself to him again. His hand is large, heavy where it warms you. You just feel guiltier.
“Please talk to me,” he urges gently. “Did I hurt you? Gosh, if I hurt you–”
“You didn't hurt me,” you croak distantly. Your voice makes you want to cry some more.
Some of the tension stringing up his body eases slightly with your words—still, he feels slimy and cold and gross. He would never, in a thousand years, ever forgive himself if he ever hurt you. His other hand comes to rest on your arms, his thumb massaging soothing circles into the skin.
“Okay,” he sighs. “What's wrong, honey? Will you tell me? You can take your time if you need.”
His kindness only makes it worse. You shrink further into yourself, trying to disappear into the mattress forever.
He's a quiet force beside you, soothing and steady and strong. He doesn't move, doesn't say anything else, just holds you as much as you'll allow as he gives you time to come around.
Then, in a quiet voice that breaks on the last syllable, you whisper, “I'm sorry.”
His eyes become even more woeful, and you're glad you don't see it because you would probably start actually crying. “What could you possibly have to be sorry for?”
Again, he waits patiently for your response. “I…” You physically slump. “I used the safe word.”
Everything keeping Clark together dissipates in a moment. His shoulders fall, his frown pulls deeper, he feels rotten inside from the mere idea of you feeling sorry for admitting your limit.
“Honey…”
“I'm sorry,” you say again, more desperate this time. “I didn't mean to, I just… It got to be so much, and I couldn't take any more. I was just… It—I'm sorry.” In your haste to explain, you stumble over your words entirely and end up breaking down into a quiet sob.
Clark, always the kindest creature on Earth, stays steady at your side. He waits for your trembling to subside, for your breath to even out, until you're calm enough to properly listen. And then he waits even longer, until you can no longer keep yourself from giving into his comfort as you allow your body to lean, just a fraction, into his warmth. He envelopes you fully, knees and all.
“Sweet love,” he murmurs, “you never have to apologize for using your safe word. I'd only ever be upset with you if you didn't use it when it was too much.” He kisses your forehead, long and slow, like sunlight on your skin.
A stray tremble has him stroking your back again. Your voice comes again, a little stronger but still just as unsteady. “I… In my last relationship… he got upset with me when I had to stop.”
Something in Clark simmers with a feeling he is deeply unfamiliar with. It makes his fingers shake, makes his jaw clench, makes his chest tight. He has to focus so much energy in keeping the sudden anger taking over his body at bay, which is easy in the face or comforting you.
“He's a jerk,” he says, sharper than intended.
A breath passes out of you, and Clark knows you enough to know it's a laugh you had tried to keep from escaping. “Will you look at me?” he murmurs so softly. “Only if you want to.”
And he lets you take your time, as he always does. When you slowly untuck yourself from your arms, letting your knees inch away from your chest just a bit. Your eyes drag slowly up his chest, over his neck, halting at his chin before finally meeting his own.
He smiles like he's just seen the sun after weeks without. “There she is,” he coos with all the love in the world. You try not to hide again.
He cradles your cheek so gently in one hand, thumb stroking as he takes his time in adoring you. “I don't think any less of you—I never could.” He swipes some tears from your skin. “I could never allow myself to even consider hurting you, especially for something as selfish as that.”
You take your bottom lip between your teeth to keep it from shaking like a leaf, his words too much for you to take. His thumb gently pulls it away. “I love you, honey. More than anything. And if you need a moment, I'll give you all the time in the world. If you decided you never want me to touch you again, I'd be devastated—” you laugh shakily, and it's music to his ears—”but I'd respect that. And anyone who doesn't never deserved you and never will.”
You're crying. He lets you because, as painful as it is to see, he knows you need it, and he's willing to hold you for as long as you want him to.
Eventually you unravel yourself for the sake of entangling yourself with him. He takes you in his arms and holds you to him like you're the most precious thing in all the worlds that exist. He rubs your back and pets your head and lets you cry until you're nothing but quivers.
“Thank you,” you whisper against his neck, kissing the skin there with loving lips.
He just shakes his head. “Please don't ever thank me for something like this,” he murmurs. “It should be implied.”
Despite his words, you hold him tighter. And then, a little more firm this time, though quieter than before, “Thank you.”
And he says nothing else, because he understands that it's important to you. He kisses your shoulder.
Clark holds you like that for a long time, listening to your breaths, taking in the scent of you, adoring the feeling of you in his arms. When you pull away just enough to see him—your hands in his, your eyes a little shy as you look between your fingers and his gaze—you offer him a little smile.
He feels a million times better knowing that the tension has left your body, and you seem at ease. He strokes his thumbs over the back of your palms. “What do you want to do now?” There's no pressure in his voice, a pure question. “Do you want to keep going or call it?”
The thought of having him on you again—his hands, his mouth, his body—is intoxicating, but you still feel so sensitive, fragile.
You sound a bit nervous when you speak, though not nearly as nervous as you had been before. “I think…I'm done. I just got a bit too overstimulated.”
He smiles. “That’s okay. I'm sorry for getting ahead of myself. Thank you for telling me.”
You duck your head at his words, trying and failing to hide a small grin. He's perfect. “You felt good,” you whisper, still holding his hands. “Just felt too good.”
The softest chuckle leaves him, true but hardly there. “I'm glad it felt good.” He leans in to kiss your forehead, warm and soothing. “C'mon.”
He eases you back to lie down, pulling you close to him as he lets you use him as a pillow. You curl up into him, beyond content and more than happy as the reality of him, his love, his understanding sinks into you.
“Clark?” you murmur. He hums, the sound deep in his chest. You bury your face in him. “I love you, too.”
He's never felt happier.
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warnings: implied that reader is a virgin, age gap (bruce is older than reader), mentions of sex, smut in next part
You twist the stem of the wine glass around between your fingers slowly. Your chin rests atop your knees as you stare vacantly at the tiny puddle left of the drink. You could go refill it, but then you’d have to go back out to the main room and man…you really do not want to do that. So you’ll sit here, swiping your tongue across the bumps of the roof of your mouth as if it's a fascinating new discovery.
The creak of hinges has you shooting upright, your back thumping against the stair step behind you. You’re not immediately sure how to act as though it’s normal that you’re sitting in the stairwell outside the fundraiser rather than in it, fraternizing with old and new money alike. You freeze, trying to relax your posture so it doesn’t look like you’re alarmed at the sight of another person, but not so relaxed that you look as bored as you are.
Your neutrality stutters when you glance up to find the host of the fundraiser. The billionaire host of the fundraiser. Bruce Wayne, the billionaire host of the fundraiser. Your posture straightens right back up and your mouth snaps shut as you make eye contact.
Should you stand up?
No, he’s rich, not royalty.
You are in his house though—
He looks you over contemplatively, “I don’t know you,” It’s not accusatory, rather he says it like it’s something interesting.
You perk up at that, immediately formulating reasons to justify your presence. “Oh, uh, no—” the words nearly spill out of your mouth all at once. You clear your throat, “I’m just a plus one for my boss—”
“Who’s your boss?” he asks, relaxed.
“Arthur Mullins.”
He looks to the side, squinting, “Mullins…he’s the executive at Williamson Industries, yes?”
You nod and he returns the gesture, slower, like he’s processing through something. “I’m Bruce,” he says warmly after a moment, holding his hand out to you.
You nod before you can even think to get any words to come out, “I—yeah, I know,” you accept his hand, shaking it as you tell him your name.
There’s a slight glint in his eye when he hears your name, and he repeats it quietly to himself. “A pretty name.”
“Oh, it’s just…” Just your name. But rather than fill him in on that fascinating tidbit, you let the sentence die off.
He smiles kindly anyway, “What are you doing in here? Party’s out there, or so they tell me.”
“I…I’m hiding in here,” you admit sheepishly.
He leans in towards you slightly, lowering his voice. “I’ll let you in on a secret—so am I,” he smiles at you like it’s easy.
Your grin matches his, “It’s your party,”
“That’s why I need to hide.” He tilts his head, “Doesn’t give you much of an excuse though, does it?”
“I don’t know anybody here.”
He puckers his bottom lip contemplatively, “Your boss.”
You shake your head, “I’m just his assistant. I’m pretty sure he just brought me as a precaution in case he needed a designated driver.”
He laughs at that, “Based on the way I’ve seen Mullins’ attempts to operate, his assistant would have to be a hell of a lot more important than just a designated driver.”
Well, he’s certainly right about that. Your boss doesn’t exactly “have it together” per se. He’s an unorganized man with little to justify his importance in Gotham, so he tends to insist on taking on more responsibility than he has any business having. Not to mention, he’s a bit of a try-hard and you’re constantly left to sweep up the pieces of his reputation that he shattered himself. Not to say he’s necessarily unprofessional, he just will do anything and everything to prove he belongs in any given space. It’s honestly a bit exhausting to watch. It’s more exhausting to try and convince him that the exchange went well afterwards.
You nod slowly, eyes on his shoes. “Mr. Mullins has…a unique approach to business. It does usually leave me fairly busy, I’ll give you that.” You take a quick deep breath, plastering on a fake smile. “But that means I occasionally get to go to fancy parties where I don’t know anyone, so..”
“Well then it sounds like you’ve got it all worked out,” he ribs, “Or don’t you agree?”
You smile coyly, “I would never be so bold.”
“I don’t mind boldness. For example, the reason I came in here is because he spotted me.”
You laugh at that, “Mr. Wayne—”
“Bruce.”
“Mr. Wayne,” you suppress your smile as you pause, choosing your words carefully. “I think he’s just networking.” He doesn’t have the money to give.
He nods surely, “He’s definitely just networking.” He really doesn’t have the money to give. You allow just the faintest wisp of a smile to adorn your face as you look down again.
You check the time and realize that you’ve been hiding away for too long and that if he hasn’t already, your boss will notice soon. You sigh quietly to yourself, “I should..”
He turns his head to the closed door where the chatter can be heard from beyond, sighing in defeat as he shakes his head looking back at you. “So should I.”
You feel a bit insecure as you stand, the gown you’re wearing is pretty but it is very much affordable and you’re sure someone as wealthy as Bruce Wayne would know the difference.
If he does notice he makes no deal of it, motioning you forward gallantly to walk ahead of him.
He follows after you, hands behind his back. “Would it be rude of me to ask you to distract him while I run for the bar?”
It’s busy, even for a Sunday afternoon, and you have to sidestep past someone nearly every step you take. You stick next to the windows of the line of boutiques down the road, trying to balance window shopping and not bumping into other pedestrians.
You're in a nicer district of Gotham, truthfully an area you don't quite belong in. So far you’ve only managed to find a couple shops that weren’t several ranges above your budget.
A call of your name has you blinking rapidly and turning around as if you’re lost. It doesn’t take long for you to pick the six foot two billionaire out of the crowd and it’s only half a second longer before you realize he’s walking towards you. A few people collide shoulders with you as they move past thoughtlessly, no regard for the personal space of the idiot that stopped in the flow of traffic.
You let him approach a couple feet closer before you ask him, “Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Wayne?” The presence of his figure in front of you allows for a break from being bumped into, as he seemingly makes for a far more easily seen and intentionally avoided target.
He sways a bit, “Bruce. I’m not sure yet,” he looks down to the couple of bags you’re holding, extending his hand out. “May I?”
It takes you just a moment to move past your surprise at the request, allowing him to hold them for you. “Are you in a rush?”
You shake your head quicker than you meant to, “No, I—not at all,” he gestures his head forward, allowing you to walk before him.
You traipse ahead in silence for a moment before deciding against biting your tongue, “What exactly is it you’re not sure about?”
He raises his voice a bit so you can hear him over the crowd, “Whether or not you’ve got plans on the 19th.”
You look back at him, “What’s on the 19th?”
He stops with you as you admire a set of jewelry inside a window display, “We’re hosting a gala for something or something else, hopefully less boring than the fundraiser.”
You blink, “You’re inviting me?” He nods. “Why?”
“I could use someone who wants to be there even less than I do.”
He said it so casually it takes you a second to even register his meaning. You blink, face contorting defensively, “That’s not—” you can barely make out the smile on his face as he continues on walking.
You shake your composure back together and trail after him, rushing to catch up. “I don’t think Mr. Mullins would be very happy to hear that I’m attending a business gala without him.”
He shakes his head as he scans over the crowd, “He can’t fire you for that.”
“He’ll try.” He would. A petty little man, he is.
He scans across the rows of clothes leisurely. “Well, then he can speak to me about it. Besides, it wouldn’t be for business.” And then he just lets that sentence linger.
It takes you a moment to recover from those words and begin to start processing the world around you again. After a few more feet down the sidewalk he pulls you gently to the side by your lower arm, out of the rush of traffic, and looks at you dead on, “What do you think?”
You try not to waver under the weight of the eye contact, “I don’t…uh, I don’t really have…” you look down, hoping to get the message across without actually having to say the words.
He glances into the store window next to you and raises his eyebrows, “Well then I’d say we’re in the right place.”
You can’t manage to tell him that this store is definitely far too expensive for you, walking through the door as he opens it for you, albeit apprehensively.
Well. Up close window shopping is more fun anyways.
The spotless white of the floors and walls has you intimidated, and just as much so by less by the no doubt designer clothes lining the walls. The saleswomen all look pretty highbrow themselves, hair up in tight buns and uniforms chic.
You only break from gawking at the store to look behind you at Bruce. You note the way his eyes roam around blindly, looking for something and clearly having no means to narrow down where it might be. You take one more glance around, immediately finding the women's section with no such difficulty.
“This way.” You say, nodding your head over to the left. He recovers nicely and lets you lead the way towards the section of dresses. You peer back at him, “You don’t seem like someone that does much of his own shopping.”
Thankfully, he laughs at that. “Well, special occasions.”
You keep your gaze ahead this time, asking as casually as you can, “Is this a special occasion?”
He hums in consideration, “I’d say so.”
You stop upon approaching the dress section, taking in the immediately stunning display of options.
“What are you doing up here anyways?” you ask, hand brushing across a particularly plush dress.
“Ah, I was headed to a meeting.”
“Oh,” you frown, looking at him. “Don’t you need to go?”
He shakes his head with a puckered lower lip, “No.”
A few seemingly heiresses roam down the aisle mindlessly, not caring much that you’re in their path.
Bruce sees them before you do, knowing well that they were not going to excuse themselves. “Sweetheart,” he nudges you gently to the side, closer to him as the group passes. His hand remained open-palmed and flat as he guided you to the side, seemingly very careful not to touch you with uninvited boldness. Though you’re quite shaken by the chivalry of the gesture, a brazen touch wouldn’t have been the worst thing in the world.
As your arm brushes against a rack of clothing your gaze follows, met with something rather appealing.
Bruce is quick to notice you admiring the sleek black dress that looks like something you’d see a model wearing on a runway. “You like that one?”
“It’s nice, yeah,” you murmur, not really thinking. You flip the price tag over and your face drops. “It’s $800.”
He nods thoughtfully, “We can find a nicer one,” he says, though it’s clear he knows exactly what your problem with the price tag was.
“I can’t—” you restart, “I would never have a reason to wear something this nice again.”
He shakes his head coolly, “That’s alright.”
Your shoulders drop and your head tilts seriously, “It’s not, though.”
“You like it?” He looks you in the eyes, his own searching for a truthful answer.
“I mean, of course, but it—”
He nods affirmatively, “Then we’ll get it. Problem solved.” He turns his back to the rack, casually observing the rest of the store goers. “Pick your size.”
Apparently not one to argue, you thumb through the row until you find one that should fit.
You sigh, realizing that you’re running out of time to mention that you don’t have $800 to spend on a dress. “I can’t—”
“You don’t need to,” he says simply as he takes the dress off the rack and drapes it across his arm, making his way towards the salescounter.
You try to stop your mouth from hanging open as you follow, “It really is okay, I don’t need—”
His grin cuts you off, just in time for you to hear him mutter, “Sweet girl..” to himself. You stop right in your tracks, feeling very thankful that he’s not looking at you right now because you’re certain the look on your face would give you away.
He still doesn’t face you as he calls out, “Come on,” as he continues on.
Obviously you’re not stupid. You know what type of intentions a billionaire playboy must have with a younger girl that he doesn’t even really know. However, if said billionaire is offering to buy you a pretty dress…no, you’re not sleeping with him because he bought you a dress—of course not—and you’ve made absolutely no promises to do so, so what’s the harm in letting him? Really?
And yeah, maybe it’s a plus that he’s not bad looking, but how is that your fault?
You stand a bit awkwardly next to him as he puts his card in the machine, not even glancing at the outrageous number, and declines the offer for the receipt.
As you exit the store together and stand at the doors as he hands your original two bags back to you along with the new shiny black one that on its own looks like something people would pay for.
“You will be there?” he asks, eyes more hopeful than you were prepared for.
You nod, gesturing the bag up, “Well you just bought me the dress.”
He shrugs that off, “I would’ve bought you the dress anyways.”
You linger in the midst of the ado wearing a dress that you feel far too overshadowed by, fidgeting with the half empty wine glass in your hand. Unfortunately, this time around you were invited by the host of the event and it would be extra rude to run away and hide. That doesn’t stop you from considering it, though.
A hand sliding across your lower back has you momentarily startled, and for reasons you couldn’t quite verbalize, you’d naturally assumed it was Bruce. The disappointment rings strong when you turn around to be met with the sight of an even older man, who looks considerably wine drunk.
“Hello there, Miss.,” The words themselves are polite but the salacious smile on his face and the way his eyes have no trouble roaming your body gives you a solid idea of what this conversation is going to entail.
“Hello,” you fake a polite, tight smile and shift your attention to the rest of the room.
This does nothing to deter him, as he takes a sizable step back into your line of sight. “Having a nice time?”
The man is clearly from money, if his attire didn’t give it away his attitude sure did. There’s an heir of entitlement around him, like he’s inherently deservant of your attention—a quality you were notably surprised to not have found in Bruce.
You give him your faux-smile again, this time tighter but half a second longer for the sake of politeness. A rookie mistake.
“Can I buy you a drink?” He asks, gesturing to the bar.
“I’m okay, thank you,” you say, gesturing your wine glass up.
A momentary flash of irritation crosses his face, but to his credit, he does a better job recovering from it than you would have expected. Though, that’s not really saying much. “Well, pretty little thing like you shouldn’t be all alone here,”
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” Both of your heads snap to the side, finding a much more welcome surprise than you’d previously received.
Your counterpart's posture straightens immediately, “Mr. Wayne,” he fawns, “What a lovely event you’ve thrown. I’m sure the Bernsteins will be appreciative.”
Bruce hums, eyes narrowed slightly. “You are…”
The man startles and rushes to finish off his sentence, “Alexander Watson, senior executive to the accounting department for the research wing of the company.”
He nods slowly, no recognition actually present in his eyes. “Ah. The research wing of the company that just blew fifteen million dollars on prototype self-operating cell phones.”
You’re trying hard to fight the smile creeping up on your face.
“What exactly is a self-operating cell phone?”
Watson’s face drops, hurrying to justify his approval of the proposal’s funding. As he rambles, Bruce’s gaze lowers to where Watson has once again placed his hand on your hip, though he’s not close enough to you for it to rest fully or naturally. You don’t know him well but you can say confidently that he doesn’t look pleased.
He looks back up to Watson, attitude challenging. “Surely you’re not poking around where you’re unwelcome?”
Watson stutters at that, blinking and shaking his head quickly. “No, no, of course not! I was just hoping to provide the young lady with some company. That’s all.”
“And so you have.”
“I—,” about two steps behind in this conversation, Watson finally decides to retreat, “Yes, good evening, Mr. Wayne.” He bows his head and shuffles away back into the crowd.
“Mr. Wayne,” you smile knowingly, turning to him. “How are you?”
The hardness of his gaze fades quickly as he takes in your appearance, quite liking how you wear the dress you’d picked out.
“Things are looking up,” he smiles, “You look lovely.”
“Thank you,” you glance over to where Watson has made his way to the bar, likely about to down an entire glass. “Mr., uh, Mr. Watson makes quite the impression.”
His smile turns a bit sullen, “You know last year he tried to convince the board that battery-powered battery chargers were going to be the next big thing?”
You blink, tilting your head, “Thought you didn’t know who he was.”
His eyes are fixed on the wall as he tugs the corner of his lip down, knowing he’s been caught but not really caring. “I’m sorry to have been away for so long, it seems everyone needs my attention at these things.”
“At the gala that you threw? I’d imagine so.”
He rolls past that smoothly, “You’re having a good time?”
“I am,” you say with a confirming head bob.
He regards the room with a numb expression, “You know, I think I’m getting bored with all of this.”
You smile at him, brow furrowed, “It’s only been an hour.”
He looks at you, eyes wide. “It’s only been an hour?” He’s exaggerating his surprise to make you smile, and it works.
“I think we should go,” he says lower.
You stare at him, bemused. “You still have a whole room full of guests.”
He shrugs, “They’ll filter out on their own eventually.”
He clocks your hesitation easily, accurately noting it to be more out of politeness than actually wanting to stay at the party. “What, you’re not ready to leave?”
You look around at all the mostly old, posh guests, disinterested small talk evident all across the room. You take a breath, “Alright, yeah. Let’s go.”
He smiles and leads you out a side door and through a corridor that’s significantly longer than you’d expected.
“Do you always ditch your parties this early?” you ask, following closely.
He makes a sharp right at the next doorway, “If I can manage it.”
You look around at the high wooden ceilings and grand furniture. “Aren’t some of them friends of yours?”
He shakes his head, “My friends aren’t here.”
You frown at that, “Then why do you throw them at all?”
“Why did you show up last weekend?”
You nod slowly, understanding. “It’s your job.”
He returns the nod, adding, “Only difference is, there’s not a chance in hell you get paid enough for the work you do for Mullins.”
For the sake of maintaining your wishful facade of professionalism, you’re going to not acknowledge that incredibly accurate statement. Instead you smile politely and continue on walking. He seems to get the implication, returning it with an even brighter adornment.
“Well, money’s money,” you say wryly.
His smile fades a bit, “You shouldn’t have to worry about things like that.”
You shrug, “A day in the life,”
He looks sullen upon hearing that, with more sympathy than you’d have expected from someone of his stature. He’s done nothing if not surprise you, though.
“Here,” he says, taking hold of the handle of a glass door. It opens to a garden, lit up beautifully by the moon and outdoor light. A fountain sits in the middle, water rhythmically gushing out of the top and trickling down the sides. The bite of the Gotham night air burns at your cheeks a bit and you find yourself thankful the dress you’d chosen is so long.
Bruce leads the way to an expensive marble bench positioned nicely in front of it, allowing you to sit first before following suit. Your hands find a place in your lap, clasped together awkwardly in an attempt to find warmth through contact.
It takes Bruce less than ten seconds to stand, remove his suit jacket, and drape it over your shoulders before sitting back down. The material is thicker and warmer than you would’ve expected, surely reminiscent of the perks of being owned by a billionaire.
He doesn’t look at you to acknowledge the grateful expression on your face, simply carrying on like it didn’t happen. “Was hoping it was warmer,” he murmurs.
Your focus momentarily goes to the icy cold stone of the bench under your thighs, initially finding it uncomfortable before deciding the coolness actually felt quite soothing. You remove your gaze from the gray stone and turn your head to find Bruce already focused on you.
You start to say something, though you’re not sure what it would’ve been, when he brushes his thumb over your bottom lip, pulling it down.
Well, he certainly knows what he’s doing, doesn’t he?
His eyes stay on your lower lip as he murmurs, “You’re a pretty girl, you know that?”
God, he’s a professional.
You look up at him and refrain from saying anything, waiting to see if he follows it up with something that will make you regret agreeing to coming out here with him.
He doesn’t.
You shift, moving your hands off your lap to rest on the stone under you. “You can’t just do this—”
He smiles and lowers his chin to look you in the eyes, “Then what can I do for you?”
“You—” you blink rapidly, “Stop it.”
His coy beam persists, “Stop what?”
You raise your gaze up to him ever so slightly, a pouty expression across your face that you’re trying to sell as serious. “You’re trying to make me nervous.”
“Do I make you nervous?” He tilts his head down further, a ghost of a smile echoing on his lips, “I don’t mean to, sweet girl.”
Your eyes drop to the ground, biting your tongue. “Yeah.”
His simper grows, “I’m serious. I’d hate to scare away a new friend.”
You laugh at that and he perks up a bit at the sound, “What? We’re not friends?”
You cock your head to the side, “You’re the one who said none of your friends are here.”
He hums, “Maybe I spoke too soon.”
“You think so?” You should probably stop flirting so much.
“Yeah,” he leans in a bit closer, “I do.”
“Why’s that?”
“Maybe I want to be your friend,” his hand finds a place atop yours.
Your eyes flicker across his face as he closes in, “What if I don’t want to be yours?”
His eyes are on your lips, “I’m sure we can work something out.”
You take a slow deep breath, “Your intentions are blurry.”
He smiles lightly, amused. “We’ll have to clear that up then, won’t we?” His lips are inches away and his voice is soft as he says, “I’m going to kiss you now, okay?”
You look up at him eyes wide, barely processing his words as you nod. He gently grasps your jaw in his hand, tilting your head up. His other hand finds the back of your head, holding you in place as he kisses you with intention. Your hands hover in the air for a second before holding onto his forearms.
He breaks the kiss only to give you another sweet one right after. Your mouths remain close when it’s over, eyes still shut, trying to catch your breath. You stay like that for a moment until he kisses you once more on your cheekbone before pulling away. His hands drop to rest on your knees, the weight of them gentle.
He hums lowly, “Sweet thing..”
Being under the heaviness of his gaze leaves you feeling vulnerable. It’s starting to get you concerned with the potential levity and implications of kissing him. The expectations.
“You…” you stare down at where his hands meet your skin, not quite sure that you actually meant to start that sentence.
“What?” he frowns, brow pinched. Your chin lowers further as your mouth forms a tight line. He shakes his head, “No, it’s alright. What is it?” he asks gently.
It takes a surge of willpower for you to get the sentence out, “You just want to sleep with me..”
He frowns harder at that, pulling back a bit. “No. I’m…” he sighs, “I’m not trying to lure you in just to toss you out right after.”
That makes you look up again. His voice has a sincerity to it that you weren’t prepared for.
He continues, “I would like to, yes. Yeah. You’re beautiful, of course I would, but..” he looks down at his hands before looking back up at you, “No, that’s not the most important thing to me.”
You break eye contact again, thinking over his words. If that’s not the most important thing to him, what is? You can’t think of what else he could possibly want from you, a billionaire who could have anything he wants..the only thing you could have to offer in his eyes is sex.
Right?
He exhales, “If you want to leave, I’ll call you a car. No hard feelings.” He nudges your chin up gently so you’ll look at him, but he gives you the freedom to fight against it if you wanted to.
You let him move you.
“I don’t want to leave,” you tell him, looking into his eyes. “What do you want?”
“Whatever you want,” he says it like it’s automatic. You physically can’t help but roll your eyes at the corniness of it. He doubles down, though, “Seriously. Anything.”
You smile in disbelief, shaking your head.
“Alright,” he returns your smile, straightening, “Here’s what we’re going to do. Do you need a ride home?”
You blink at him, “I’m going home?”
“You are,” he nods softly, “Do you need a ride?”
“No.”
He nods again, more like he’s working through something in his head. “Okay. You’re going to go home and think through what you want. If you decide you want to, come back here next Saturday.” he stands up, extending his hand out to you, “Then you can let me know what else you want and we can get to work on that too.”
You start to shake your head, “I can—”
He drops his chin seriously, “Think on it.”
You relent easily, taking his hand and coming to a stand.
“Alright?” Again, his question is genuine. He does really want to know if you’re on board with this plan.
Already going against his request, you agree without a thought, “Okay.”
He starts to lead you back over to the garden door with a head nod and a kind smile.
It ultimately was not a decision you had to think very hard on.
You’d considered every scenario of how this could play out and none of them ended with regret as far as you could guess.
You’ll still admit though, there was one scenario you had missed, apparently, which is why you were immeasurably confused when you showed up and he invited you to play chess.
He’s not wearing a fancy three piece suit this time, but his clothes are still very nice. With the sunlight peeking through the windows, you’re able to see the manor more clearly than you had been the other night. It really is a beautiful home, clearly very old and charmed, but there’s a lot of little details of character and history scattered around. There’s portraits and photographs of his parents from when he was young and furniture decorated with trinkets all throughout, kept absolutely spotless and dust free. Everything is neat and tidy but there’s still traces of the house being lived in with the patched throw pillows and worn carpets. Still, it’s very, very placid.
You’ve met new money plenty of times over the course of dealing with countless businessmen for Mr. Mullins but old money is something entirely different. You don’t really have a frame of reference here. New money is almost always brash and demanding, they like things done quickly and correctly the first time around. They’re usually not very interested in hearing what you have to say (even if it would save them a lot of trouble) and prefer it when the assistants women keep their mouths shut. Bruce has proven to be very different from these standards already and you’re not sure where to begin with placing new ones.
You’re about halfway through a second game, and while you’re not awful at chess, you get the impression that he’s easing up on you considerably.
You sit on the floor in front of a short coffee table, the game having no clear lead so far.
“I think this is stressing me,” you mumble, no actual weight behind your words.
“It’s just chess,” he says, not looking up from the board.
You watch him move his knight forward as you ask, “And that’s all we’re doing?”
“As it stands, yes,” he looks up at you, though you don’t return his gaze.
“Yeah,” you sigh, sliding your rook, “But later?”
“Later?”
“Well, you said...” you meet his eyes, “You said you wanted to sleep with me.”
He nods slowly, “I do. Is that alright?”
You consider it for a moment. You already knew that, if you really weren’t okay with it you wouldn’t have come here. And yeah, the idea makes you a little shaky, but in a good way.
“Yes,” you tell him, moving your queen forward two spaces.
“Are you sure?” he presses, moving to sit on the side of the table rather than behind it.
You do the same, sitting on your knees. “Yeah, I just..” you shift your weight, eyes wandering. “I’m not…overly experienced.”
He just smiles at that, like it’s endearing. Your words didn’t quite convey your meaning but your tone did. In any case, he understands the implication. “That’s alright, sweetheart. I’m not going to throw you in the deep end.”
You nod, looking down again.
“You’re nervous,” he comments.
“No, I’m—I mean, maybe,” your voice is barely a murmur by the end of the sentence.
He’s quiet for a moment, observing the way you fiddle with your rings. “What if we get you something pretty to wear? Something that makes you feel pretty. Whatever you want.”
He fishes his wallet out of his pocket, opening and pulling out a lump of cash without even looking. He holds the money out to you wordlessly and you can see from the bill on the outside that it’s at least a couple hundred dollars.
You shake your head instantly, “I can’t take that.”
He doesn’t put the money down but his eyes turn to begging. “Please. I just want you to feel good.”
“Bruce—”
He wavers a bit at that but it’s more of a falter than you’ve seen from him before so it’s easy to take notice of. “What?”
He shrugs barely, “I like when you say my name.”
Your eye contact holds for a moment and your resolve starts to shake almost instantly.
You exhale, “I’m not taking more than a hundred.”
“Two hundred.”
“Bruce.”
He smiles and picks out some of the cash and pockets it, handing you the rest. You don’t comment on the fact that it’s a hundred and fifty more than you’d agreed on.
You look down at the money in your hand like it’s a foreign object, shaking your head. “I don’t even know what to get.”
His thumbs start to rub reassuring circles by the bend of your knees, “Anything you want,” he tells you. “What do you like? Silk, lace, cotton, anything.”
You look up, tilting your head at him with a furrowed brow. “It doesn’t matter what I like, th—”
“It only matters what you like,” He says seriously, lowering himself to meet your gaze. “I’ll love it, no matter what you pick. Don’t worry about that.”
You lean forward a bit instinctually, “Okay.”
His eyes scan across your face in something that you can only recognize as awe.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” you whisper.
“I want to kiss you again,” he says, voice even quieter.
Your eyes go to his mouth and you can only manage a nod, lips already parted.
He moves forward not a second later, kissing you with more fire than you’d gotten to see the other night. His hands grab at your waist, squeezing lightly as you hook one hand around the back of his neck, pulling him closer.
You hear the clatter of chess pieces falling over as he moves nearer to you, large frame leaning over you. You push up on your knees, meeting his lips up at his level. His hands caress around your hips as the kiss gets deeper.
You just start to fumble with the hem of his shirt when he takes your hands in his, pulling them away before breaking the kiss.
“Easy, sweet girl,” he smiles, nudging you back with little force.
You groan, “Why?”
He barks out a laugh at that, stroking your hips again. “I’m not fucking you for the first time on the floor.”
“Then let's go somewhere else,” you nod up towards the stairs.
He shakes his head, that soft smile still playing on his lips. “Not tonight.”
You sit back on your heels again, frowning.
He brushes your hair back, murmuring, “No. But for now, I'll kiss you ‘til you can’t think if that’s what you want.”
You really hope you didn’t perk up at that as much as you think you did.
part two
🌾🌽 i heard a rumor that if you like without reblogging your crops will be cursed but hey what do i know 🌾🌽
pairing: clark kent x f!reader | genre: smut | wc: 1k
summary: clark’s too pussy drunk to care that there’s an alien invasion in the city.
warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), established relationship, needy!clark, unprotected sex (p in v), riding, overstimulation, possessiveness, mild praise kink, clark ignoring superman duties, reader called "baby"
Clark had his hands on your hips, but he wasn’t guiding you anymore—he was holding on. Fingertips pressing deep into your skin like he needed the anchor, like without it, he might float up and out of himself. You were soaked, your thighs slick and trembling as you rode him, dragging his cock deep and tight with every roll of your hips.
His head was tipped back into the pillow, jaw slack, breath catching every time you sank down.
He groaned, voice wrecked. “You feel so good—baby, I…”
The rest got lost somewhere between a moan and a breathless sound, the kind he only made when he was too far gone to think straight. You could feel the way he throbbed inside you, thick and desperate, every pulse of him tightening as you moved just enough to keep him there, not enough to let him go.
And he looked ruined.
Hair damp, curls sticking to his forehead. Lips parted. Chest rising fast as he tried to breathe through it. You’d seen Clark focused. Seen him furious, calm, sweet, in control.
But this—this was something else entirely.
You moved slower just to feel the way he twitched beneath you, his cock so hard inside you it ached. He tried to lift his hips, tried to chase your rhythm, but the sound that left him was rough and shaky.
“Please,” he managed, voice breaking. “I—just… please.”
Please what?
He didn’t even know. Didn’t care.
He was drunk on you, overwhelmed, his whole body shaking with how badly he wanted to come and how hard he was trying not to. You leaned forward just enough for your chest to brush his, and he whimpered, hips bucking without meaning to. It made you both gasp.
Just as you were both getting lost in it—
The world reminded you it still existed.
A sudden flash lit up the room. Bright and blue, sharp as static, cutting in through the gap in the curtains. It caught the curve of your back first, then spilled across the sheets in a stuttering burst of light.
You barely registered it at first.
Just a flicker. Just noise.
Then came the sound. Distant, but deep—an explosion, low and heavy, like thunder breaking over the skyline.
You blinked once, then twice, chest tightening as your body tried to stay focused, stay with him, stay inside the heat still rolling between your hips.
But your mind followed the chaos.
You looked toward the window.
Another flash came. Brighter this time.
You caught movement. Then more light. More sound. Something was happening—out there, past the glass, the city flashing with too many colors. You didn’t know what it was. Didn’t have to. You just knew the look of it. The weight of it.
Trouble.
The kind that called for him.
But that wasn’t the problem.
The problem was that Clark wasn’t moving.
He wasn’t listening, wasn’t turning toward the noise. Wasn’t tensing to go, to suit up, to fly.
He was still beneath you. Still buried deep. Still trembling as he held you tighter, chest rising fast, jaw clenched like he was trying to block it out. The light kept flashing. The sounds kept building. But he didn’t stop.
You opened your mouth.
“Cla—”
He shook his head once, sharp and fast, like he couldn’t stand to hear what you were about to say.
“Don’t,” he rasped, the word rough and splintered as he dragged you back down onto him, hard.
The sudden depth tore a gasp from your throat, swallowed almost instantly by the sound he made—low and guttural, like it had been ripped straight from his chest. His head pressed harder into the pillow, neck taut, the muscles there straining as his throat worked around the noise that rumbled through him.
He tried to speak again—something broken and half-formed about the Justice Gang, about how they could handle it—but the words fell apart the second your body clenched around him.
Whatever point he was trying to make instantly unraveled into a groan.
Another explosion ripped through the night, rattling the walls. Clark didn’t even flinch. He only held you tighter, his thrusts turning ragged, hungrier.
“Please,” he breathed, the word cracked and frayed. “Don’t stop. You don’t know how—how good you feel.”
The words tumbled out between moans, each one softer, more ruined than the last. He couldn’t stop. He didn’t try. His breath came hard and uneven, every exhale a mix of whimpers and praise as your hips rolled over his.
He kept begging you to keep going, and you tried—God, you tried—but he wouldn’t let up. His hands stayed anchored to your hips, dragging you down harder, faster, forcing you to match the rhythm only he seemed to know. Each movement pulled a sound from him that sounded too raw, too human for someone the world saw as a god.
Your body trembled, thighs shaking from the effort, from the slick heat between you, from the way he wouldn’t stop. The room filled with it—his groans, your gasps, the sound of your bodies colliding again and again until it drowned out everything else.
Outside, the city flashed. The sirens screamed. The night roared.
But inside, under you, Clark was gone. Nothing more than a pussy-drunk mess, stammering through moans about how perfect you felt, how he couldn’t get enough, how he needed more.
Every breath was a plea, every word a surrender. His eyes stayed on you like he couldn’t look away, pupils blown, mouth parted, wrecked beyond reason.
Whatever battle raged beyond those walls would have to burn without him.
Because right now—
Superman was fighting a battle of his own.
One he had no intention of winning.
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