I know this man is a virgin. everything he knows about sex is from pornography and Merle. When Merle brought women, he spied on them, He did it to "learn and be prepared" but he never had sex. when the dead rose and despite his abilities he was not sure if he would survive, He got desperate, he needed it, So he approached you like Merle would, and you fell. He wants to make you believe that he's already had sex, so he would roughly touch you and call you a whore, like he saw Merle doing. BUT the moment this man sees a pair of tits in front of him he will come in his pants.
Sorry not sorry. Sometimes these dirty ideas and scenarios come to me and I think why don't I upload it to the Internet?
English is not my first language so sorry if there are mistakes.
Needy Coworker! Clark - who finally admits his feelings for you and gets a positive answer
Needy Coworker! Clark - Who can’t get enough of your skin and touch
Needy Coworker! Clark - who begs you to stay at his apartment even though it’s only been one week of dating
Needy Coworker! Clark - who for the first time can’t focus on his work for reasons other than superman
Needy Coworker! Clark - who is missing deadlines because he’s staring at your legs, your tummy, your breasts, your pretty pretty face
Needy Coworker! Clark - who is so hard all the time it can actually hurt
Needy Coworker! Clark - who will spend however much he needs to on plan b or contraceptives because he’s addicted to cumming in you raw
Needy Coworker! Clark - who wakes up early and flies to your apartment so he can fuck you once before you both go into the daily planet
Needy Coworker! Clark - who is a perv and puts a load in your panties before you both go in
Needy Coworker! Clark - who nearly creams his pants when you subtly pull your skirt up to show him you’re rubbing yourself over your underwear. Showing him you’re massaging his load into yourself at work
Needy Coworker! Clark - who texts you constantly about how much he wants you even though you’re two feet away from him
Needy Coworker! Clark - who pleads with you to go with him to the supply closet for sex
Needy Coworker! Clark - who watched your legs closely afterward and is rewarded by seeing a steam of his semen dribbling down your leg
Needy Coworker! Clark - who is whipped and would move heaven and earth to stay being yours
⤷ warnings: f!reader, mentions of readers body, clark’s a little perv
⤷ word count:~750
clark is an ass man
not that he’d ever label himself, he says personally is best he doesn’t only like you because of your body, but you can tell what he likes best.. you think.
he’s always watching the sway of your hips as you walk past his desk, distracting him from his half-finished work.
he watches as you ‘clumsily’ drop your pen and you just have to pick it up, bend at your hips ass up directly pointed to his eyeline. he told himself to look away that perving on you like this wasn’t like him, but he just couldn’t help himself.
catching a glimpse of your upper thighs where your ass ends almost had him excusing himself to the bathroom but jimmy's laugh across the office caught him out the trance you put him in. he clears his throat nervously readjusting his tie with embarrassment as his cheeks heat turning back to his computer.
not to mention how his hands always dropped to palm at your ass when you kissed. he just got home and greets you in the kitchen? he’s kissing you with a grin, hands falling from your hips to your ass as he squeezes playfully.
although he loves missionary, his favorite, he also loves to see the way your ass ripples against his thrusts in backshots. that view of your pussy, the full view of your ass? yeah, he’s done for. he moves the globes of your ass as he thrusts into you nearly whining at the way your ass moves with each movement. each ripple sending him on edge.
or is he a tits man?
he does love when you wear those low put tops where the cleavage of your tits is most visible. he especially loves when you wear that tight button up, but you leave the last few open letting the lace of your bra peak out. he takes pride in knowing that he helped you put that very bra on this morning.
he loves when you bend over his desk, the full view of your tits, all push up from your pretty bra just itches from his face. he swallows before struggling to pay attention to whatever it is your pointing to on his screen.
he loves when you walk in a t-shirt around the house and he can see the curve of your tits matched with the hard bud of your nipple from the cool air. the cold air he might've set on purpose but who's to say?
best, he loved having you on your back thrusting into you, feeling you cum around his cock as he feels his orgasm close in. before he can cum he’s pulling out and pumping his dick over your torso, moaning before releasing his hot spurts of cum all over your pretty tits.
then he licks it all off while moaning a little.. who said that?
but then again your thighs..
god he loved the plush of your thighs, even when you complain about the chaffing, or maybe the thigh gap, he adores it all.
he likes the way they move when you walk, when he's oh-so-lucky to get to watch them just under your skirt or maybe when you borrow one of his old shirts that practically fit like a dress.
he likes grabbing them too, you'll be sitting on the couch, and he'll have no problem pulling your legs over his just so he can run his hands over your thighs, squeezing ever so gently.
or when he has you on your back and he presses your pretty thighs to your chest all to see you spread open wide for him, paying extra attention to the way your thighs look, smooched, compared to his hand.
when the two of you are at a fancy dinner, sat next to each other, rather than being apart because he can't bare not touching you, he has a hand rested on your thigh, while his thumb rubs at your inner thigh, both comforting and teasingly.
not to mention that one time he came home late from work, lazy eyed, practically dragging his feet behind him. he bent you over the counter in the kitchen fucking your thighs muttering nonsense about how soft your pretty thighs are before cumming all over them. put him right to sleep.
god how could he pick? let alone let these dirty thoughts cloud his mind for so long. but also how could he not? there’s not a single part of your body that isn’t perfect, not one inch he hasn’t looked at and smiled while wondering how he could be so lucky as to have someone so beautiful.
“I say we take this awful old thing off, yeah?” Clark Kent x fem!reader
Summary: Whiny Jealous Clark doesn’t like your Batman tank top…
Warnings: NSFW, pet names (doll, baby), reader mentioned as “girl”
AN: Wrote this on a whim. I saw a cute Batman tank top on Mercari and immediately I was inspired. Didn’t proofread this so my apologies! Enjoy!
You sat on the edge of the bed folding clothes as you watched the news. You had the habit of watching the news whenever Clark was out being Superman. Paranoid and worried but also you just loved watching him in action. The helicopters filming him struggling to keep up with him as he fights some space anomaly.
You draw your attention back to your clothes. Folding the shirts you’ve stolen from Clark that he doesn’t even allow you to give back. You’ve been procrastinating on laundry for weeks hence the outfit you currently had on. If Clark saw you he’d freak. Freak is an understatement. He’d pout and sigh like a puppy. A old and washed out Batman tank top you’ve found at the very bottom of your closet. You’ve hidden this gem from him knowing he’d feel betrayed. Can’t let Clark know you were ever a fan of someone he’s very close with.
You love Clark you truly do but despite being Superman, the most admired man on planet earth, he’d get all annoying and insecure upon seeing you in Batman merch and not Superman merch. You giggle to yourself even thinking about his reaction but you’d rather not deal with having to explain to him that you bought the tank top years ago and how you definitely think he’s the better most handsome superhero.
As you finish up with the rest of the laundry, you stand to put everything in its place. Your shirts in the drawers, your zip ups in the closet, and Clark’s shirts on the edge of your bed as you decide what to wear for the night. As you ponder you feel a quick breeze followed by a tender touch at the back of your neck. You yelp in surprise.
“Scared you baby?” Clark says as the scent of rain and the city washes over you.
“Always! I hate when you do that!” you giggle as he pushed his face further into your neck.
“God I missed you so much. What have you been up to doll?” he holds your hips and he looks over at the shirts on the bed. He smiles. He then looks behind at the tv to see where he was just at with the words “Superman has fled the scene.” He reaches for the remote and turns off the tv.
“Laundry and I was about to hop in the shower,” you playfully push him away and reach for the pile of shirts. You turn around and face him as you sit down taking his appearance in. You analyze him making sure he wasn’t hurt and didn’t have any holes in his suit that you needed to patch up. You finally look up at him and notice his face. Pure disgust. You sigh preparing for the tantrum he would throw.
“Seriously… Batman… I- where did- how could you-“ he grabs his shirts from you and places them onto the side.
“Ok I can explain-“
“Batman?! You know that guys a freak right?” he pushes you onto the mattress and burrows his face into your neck making you giggle again.
“Ugh I knew you’d say something about it. Listen it’s an old shirt. I bought this thing years ago. I didn’t have any clean shirts,” you grab his face to make him look at you. The biggest pout on his face. You hold in your laugh.
“You have awful taste you know? Batman?! I’d rather you wear Green Lantern stuff… actually… no. The thought makes me nauseous actually. Don’t wear that,” he straddles your hips making sure to not put his entire weight on you despite your previous requests for him to do so. You’ve always claimed you liked the feeling of his heavy body on yours. He always claimed he was scared he’d knock the wind out of you for doing so.
“You’re ridiculous Clark. I have like thousands of Superman shirts. You’ll survive the one Batman shirt I own,” you grab his jaw and squeeze slightly. He grabs your wrist in return and plants a soft kiss on your knuckles. The kisses travel down your arm onto your shoulder and back to your neck.
“I hate this shirt so much. I’m not a controlling guy. I don’t care what you wear but I draw the line at other superhero merch. You’re my girl. Not Batman’s girl,” his kisses travel to your collar bone and he feels your breath hitch.
“Trust me Clark. I’m well aware I’m your girl,” you say with an eye roll and a smirk which was immediately wiped off as you felt his dick press into your lower stomach. You gasp. He sits up and looks at your shirt once more.
“I say we take this awful old thing off, yeah?” his pupils are dilated, his slicked back hair now falling in front of his face framing it so beautifully, his curls slightly damp from the rain, his cheeks a dusty pink and his bottom lip in between his teeth. God he was going to be the death of you.
“Take your cape off first big blue,” you grin as you watch him quickly move to his feet and fight with his tight suit. He finally gets it off his body and there’s a moment of hesitation. Almost like he was preparing to pounce on you and rip the shirt to shreds. Which he does. Kinda.
He grabbed your ankles and pulled you closer to him at the foot of the bed. He positioned your legs around him and he leaned over. His big rough hands finding the hem of your tank top and he pulls it over your head. He holds it with his index finger and thumb. He looks at it with distaste. Then before you could blink, the shirt was gone. You look at the floor. Black dust.
“Good riddance!” he says so proudly of himself. He looks back at you only to be met with your expression filled with something that says really?!
“Good riddance?! Clark did you have to shoot it with your laser eyes?” you shake your head in disbelief.
“Well I was going to rip it to shreds first and then shoot it with my laser eyes,” he looked so damn happy it annoyed you.
“Who’s going to clean that up?” you sigh.
“…Me… after I eat you out? As an apology of course, but also because you owe me for even making me look at such an eye sore. Seriously… Batman?! I still can’t-“ you cut him off as you plant your foot on his hardened cock.
“I get it Clark. Now shut up before I pull out my Wonder Woman lingerie set.”
“…Please tell me you’re kidding. You’re kidding right?” He grabs your calf as he rubs himself further onto your foot.
“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to. Now apologize for burning my shirt.”
Can't stop thinking about Yandere Clark Kent with a breeding kink. But the thing is reader is already pregnant when she meets him. Either they work together at the Daily Planet or is a normal civilian Superman ends up saving, perhaps a neightbor living in Clark's building or a teemate, Clark becomes obsessed. I'd assume reader is only a few months along, enough to show but not huge when their yet, you know.
Pregnant reader's partner has already left them, now deeming them only as the "shitty ex". You feel like you being watched constant, "I'm not going crazy, aren't I". Perhaps this pregnancy is taking a tool on you. But hey, at least you haven't been lonely. I mean a lovely man has been coming to practically take care of you. How ever he shows up either it be as Clark or Superman, he will dote on you.
" No ma'am, let me carry that", "You must be starvin darling, let me make you something" or "I bought you some food, your eating for two after all", " Now what did I tell you about doing any work while I'm around". This boy is practically driving you up the wall, but you don't really want him to leave. I mean after what happened to the last man in you life, him abandoning you would be another punch to the gut.
But you just can't shake there is something off with this one. Maybe its just the hormones messing with you mind. He feels too close to you, and ya'll only just met a while ago. Your honestly wating for the other shoe to drop. But everyone else says he so nice, you believe them, so you brush it off for now. It feels nice to have someone look after you.
Clark dosen't really know why his obsession with you is as bad as it is. I mean he knows why he likes you, but sitting in your room while you sleep, is something else entirely. He just needs to know that you and the baby are okay. I mean anyting could go wrong during pregnancy, he's read the articles, hell even wrote a few himself. But that's the thing, what he's doing make him feel like a perv.
You just make him feel so hot and bothered. He just can't stop starring at you and that little bundle of joy your carrying inside you. He is a family man, all of this has just spiraled our of control thats all. He was just checking up on you, then he saw how sad, scared, and alone you were, and it all went down hill from there. He needed to swoop in and save you because that's what does.
He likes to imagine it was him who knocked you up, and not that ex of your. God if he was here he doesn't know what he would do, I mean he wouldn't kill but how could someone be so stupid and leave an angel like you. And in you time of need, when you possibly at the most vulnerable, but don't worry he'll take care of you, always.
Clark can barely look at you for long with yout getting hard. Constantly shifting his pants so you don't see how you make him feel. He has to restrain himself from saying what he really wants to say when you cry about how ugly you feel from being this big. He thinks your ridiculous, you have never looked more beautiful in his eyes.
Thoughts of him towering over you as he spends hours and hours pumping his seed into you. Begging and screaming for him to put a baby into you, his baby, to desperatly make him a daddy. Oh but only a man can dream. The nights he spends imagining you two on the farm with a whole litter of kids runinng around, keep him fighting harder so he can come to see you sooner.
He just hope's he has everything prepared for the baby's arrival. Clark dosen't give a danm that the baby isn't his. I mean look who he is raised by, he would take in any kid without question as long as he could raise thim with you. Finding a place in the Metropolis countryside wasn't really that hard, he just hopes you and the baby like for when he brings you here.
Telling you is going to be the harder part, I mean you'll get over it everually right? I mean you can't really raise a baby in that small dingy aprartment anyway. A kid needs running room, a big o'l nice backyard to satisfy them to their hearts content. Clark will bring you after you have the baby as to not add to any stress during your pregnancy. This is good he thinks, he'll be the best dad and hopefully husband to the both of you.
you'd finally got sammy to use some of his well earned vacation days. he didn't want to be so far from home - but you'd swayed him over with a promise of well buttered lobster rolls.
the two of you spent the first few days exploring the shore. after a long day of sun tanning on the beach, you both settled on a beach bum bar. it was offering happy hour and dollar oysters.
sitting on a high top, across from one another, sammy chugs his mug of beer. you slurp on one of the dozen oysters, sitting on the chilled ice.
"y'know," sammy drawls. "oysters are a real aphrodisiac." sammy wiggles his eyebrows. his tongue darts out and licks his bottom lip. a smile creeps onto his face.
you roll your eyes, "yeah? where'd you read that, xxxfacts.com?" you tap the hot sauce bottle onto your next oyster. you lift your leg up into sammy's lap. his hand finds it, caressing the member.
"har, har, har, honey." he scoffs at you. "no." he pouts. "think i read it in a geographic or something." his thumb runs over your painted toes with a softness, and a hint of lust.
"then, if thats the case, you don't need to eat any. you get turned on by the sound of my breathing." his face flushes bright red and he can't fight the smile, brightening up his face.
"y'know it baby." he downs his embarrassment with a long sip of his beer.
your foot breaks free from his firm hold atop his knee. you stroke the band of his swim trunks with your big toe. "i don't know sammy," you gasp. "i think," you pause, "the oysters may be working." you tease him.
"is that so honey?" you feel your husband hardening on the base of your foot.
"mhm," you nod your head pitifully. "you might just have to take me home. i feel the side effects taking over my body." you sigh and jut your bottom lip for dramatic effect. "i don't know if i can control myself around a handsome fella like you."
"is that so, sweetness?" sammy is trying and failing to hide the lust in his voice.
"uh huh," you nod your head for further confirmation. the sole of your foot fits right into the curve of his hard on. you clench your toes momentarily. you see sammy's adam's apple bob in his throat. you rub your foot up and down, watching him attempt to maintain his composure.
he grabs your foot with his dominant hand. "cut it out, before i cum right in these shorts." his voice is hushed and stern, but you hear it waver just for a second.
you lean in, just enough to feel his breath, from his flared nose. "you gonna take me home and fuck me right?"
he gives you a down turned smile. he looks you right up and down, your foot still tight in his hand, "don't i always?"
Genre: light angst, bad communication, pre-established relationship, use of “baby” and “sweetheart” slight canon violence, eventual smut, piv, make up sex, slight mention of edging, Deans self sacrificial nature.
Dean winchester x f reader.
summary- Dean got hurt for you yet again, and it pushed you just a little too far. You kept your distance from him, and he couldn’t stand it.
Dean does love you. Dean loves you so much that he doesn’t know what to do with it, there is nothing he wouldn’t do for you, no line he wouldn’t cross, no horror he wouldn’t face. The problem is that Dean doesn’t know how to show that.
His examples of receiving and giving love stopped being normal after his mother’s death when he was only four years old. It should’ve been his father’s job to teach him after that, to give him even more love than before— to hug him, to teach him how to shave, to play football with him, but he didn’t do that. Dean became a parent to Sam, a soldier trained by his father, he wasn’t a son first after his mothers death. He didn’t get taken care of the way a child should, he didn’t get tucked into bed with a story, he didn’t get a hand pressed to his head when he was sick, he didn’t get comforted by his dad when he was scared, his dad was never there. The dad he knew and still, to this day, held onto the memories of was gone, replaced by a man overtaken by grief and obsessed with the hunt.
John wasn’t around, always leaving Sam and Dean in motels while he went off, so it became Deans sole job to look after Sam. He never got to be a normal, loved kid, he had to be a mother, a father and a brother.
“Look out for Sammy, Dean.”
“Keep Sammy safe.”
One of Deans fondest memories with his father was when he was 6 and he was taught to shoot a gun for the first time, he hit every glass bottle, he thought he did great, that his father would be proud, despite that not being a normal childhood milestone. There was no hug, or high five, just a nod.
That was the kind of love Dean knew. Yelling to show worry, quick sparking anger, love that wasn’t shown as love.
That of course left him with many deep rooted, almost impossible to change, problems.
Control is a huge thing for Dean— not for ego, but having complete control so he feels secure and knows nothing is going to go wrong. This is something that rubs off onto you often, if Dean has to steamroll over you and your ideas to keep you safe, he’ll do it without the slightest hesitance.
Lock you in the car so you can’t even chance getting hurt on a hunt?
He’s done that.
Leave the motel room while you’re asleep and get the ganking over with then?
He’s done that too.
To Dean it isn’t unfair, and it isn’t undermining, it’s him making sure that you absolutely cannot get hurt. He’d tell you that he didn’t think you could handle it, that it was too dangerous for you, that you’d slow him down but that was the furthest from the truth. He was terrified of losing you and he’d go any lengths to keep you with him.
He picks fights all the time, over anything and everything, sometimes even nothing. He doesn’t know why, sarcasm and defensiveness are just the first emotions to come to him. He’s like a dog trained to fight with sharpened teeth, it’s all he has and all he knows how to do. To him, it’s all he’s good for and it’s all he’s ever going to do. He picks fights with you and he’ll pull away, because sometimes when you show that you love him or you treat him gently he doesn’t know how to take it, and he doesn’t know how to let himself be vulnerable— so he’ll get frustrated, and he’ll get almost..scared. Scared that the love isn’t real, that it’s going to be taken away from him again. He doesn’t know how to lean into the comfort, to accept the love and the care that you do have for him, so he tries to make you doubt it to see if its really going to stay.
He’ll also pull away because he doesn’t think he deserves you, but at the same time there’s nothing more that he wants than you, it’s like he’s at a constant war with himself. One side not deserving and wanting to leave so you aren’t stuck with him and everything that comes with him, the other loving you so much-and knowing you love him- and never wanting to leave your side. The former often wins, and he’ll start a fight, but Dean will always come crawling back to you and you will always be there when he does.
He’s aware just as much as you are that he doesn’t know how to handle issues without getting angry or mean. He doesn’t mean to, and he never means the things that come out of his mouth, but if he’s hurt, or cornered, or anything of the sort, his knee jerk reaction is to make the other person feel the same way. He was raised by a man like that and so he lives like one. The things he says while lashing out hurt him just as much as they hurt you, because the last thing Dean ever wants to do is hurt you, but sometimes it feels like that’s all he’s capable of.
He drinks, and he drinks a lot. Sam makes passing jokes sometimes, soaked with an underlying worry. He doesn’t drink for fun, he doesn’t drink because he likes the taste, he drinks because sometimes it’s the only thing that helps him function. It helps him go on with his life carrying all of the weight that he does, he does it to calm himself, he needs it to help him sleep, he needs it so that he doesn’t completely break down. He drinks almost every day, it’s not a “problem” to him, it’s a way to get through everything he goes through.
One of his biggest, absolute biggest, problems is how self sacrificial he can be. He was raised to be a hunter, a fighter, a weapon in a fight against all things bad— if he’s not that, he doesn’t know what he is. It’s all he knows, and he feels it’s all the worth he has. So he’ll go the extra mile every time, he will absolutely risk his life for anyone in danger and not fear the consequences. He knows that when he does die, it’ll be at the end of a knife or a pair of sharp teeth, he sees it as a good death for him. Noble. If he dies protecting someone else, someone more deserving, maybe he’d finally feel worth something more.
That, is the one problem you don’t know how to deal with.
His anger you can work around, you can brush off every mean word and see it for what it is— fear and hurt. You can snap back at him and end up tangled in a bed together.
The constant pulling away and the picking fights never last long, he always comes back to you.
The drinking is habit by now, but sometimes if you ask him to put it down, to come and lie with you, to let you numb what he’s feeling instead of the bottle, he will.
The way he throws his life around like it’s nothing, though? Yeah. That’s the one thing you can’t stand about him. You hate how little value he sees in his own life, because while he does have his plethora of issues and problems, there is so much good to him that far outweighs the bad.
Dean remembers everything about you in a way no one else would. If you tell him something, no matter how small or insignificant, he’s going to remember it. He knows that you have to check locks twice, you overuse the word maybe when you’re tired, you always save a certain flavour of candy for last because it’s your favourite, you always choose the seat closest to the door without even knowing it, you always knock on a door in the same exact rhythm. It’s nothing necessary important or vital, but he remembers all of it.
He may not think it about himself, but he has such a big heart and he can be so kind and he cares so deeply.
He sneaks animals food despite saying he’s not an animal guy.
He softens his voice as much as possible when speaking to kids and he makes himself appear smaller around them.
He’ll always check the expiration date before handing you food, you specifically, he’d eat almost anything but he knows you wouldn’t.
If your hands are full he’s taking things from you before you can even tell him you don’t need him to, and then he’s also opening every door and holding each one for you.
Dean will always look after you before himself, and as much as sometimes you feel awful about it, he does it with so much care that you think it helps him feel better too. After a bad day, or more usually a bad hunt, the first thing Dean does now that he has you isn’t reach for a drink, that comes after when he’s alone, it’s make sure you’re okay first. He’ll tell you to sit on the bed while he goes into the bathroom, he’ll fill the sink with warm water and he’ll have the shower on while he does so to warm the entire room before guiding you in and onto the counter. With hands so gentle that sometimes it doesn’t even feel like him he’ll wipe away any dirt, or blood, or whatever the hell is on you with a damp rag with a quiet intensity that hurts. He’ll ask if you want to shower, if you say yes he’ll ask if you want him there, and if you say yes to that he’s going to do everything for you while you stand under the warm water together. He’ll wash your hair, and grin sheepishly when he accidentally gets shampoo in your eye. He’ll glide his hands all over you covered in soap, featherlight over any bruises or marks— and he won’t mention them but he’ll definitely remember them. If he thinks it’ll make you feel better he’ll let you do the same for him too, he complains the whole time but beneath that he can’t get enough of it. He’d get out first and face the cold air hitting him and grab you the one towel that was on the heater, he’d just pat down with a cold towel and get redressed in what he’s sleeping in. For the rest of the night, he’s doing whatever you need. If you just need to be close to him he’s holding you as close as he can, if you want food he’ll drive to wherever you want and get it for you. If you wanna have sex and forget about the entire day, he’s definitely down for that too.
You wish he saw what you saw, because he wasn’t just his flaws, he was so much more.
The silence between you is currently the calm before the storm, you won’t speak to him. You haven’t spoken to him in almost two days. You leave a room when he enters, you look past him like he’s not there. You speak to Sam, laugh at his jokes, you speak to castiel, but Dean? You won’t even breathe in his direction. Why? You have a reason, you have a huge reason.
The hunt that you all went on before the space between you and Dean had started had gone wrong. It was a long story, long and complicated and you didn’t even fully understand what had happened to cause it to fuck up so badly, but long story short Dean did something stupid and reckless to try and keep you safe and ended up almost dying. It was a close call, a horribly close call and you’d felt sick ever since.
If Dean was so dead set on killing himself for you, then you weren’t going to be around him. Maybe that would raise his life expectancy. Losing him like this hurt, but it was better than losing him entirely.
Your silence wasn’t malicious but it was driving Dean crazy.
He was just trying to protect you, to keep you safe.
He hated the silence. He was used to loud arguments and harsh words, storming off and slamming doors. Silence was new and somehow it was so much worse. You were right there but he missed you, he missed being in the same orbit as you because for the past two days he’d felt like a stranger. He missed you leaning on him, he missed talking to you, he missed being able to come up behind you and put his chin on your shoulder. Two days was too long, he’d been sulking since it started, snapping at everyone, staring at you and hoping your eyes would meet his, he kept leaving out an extra plate of food and hoping you’d take it. He’d hovered outside of your bedroom door more than he’d like to admit before walking away. He didn’t know what else he could do and he’d finally reached his breaking point.
He’d seen you and Sam sat in the library of the bunker going over some books and you just looked normal. You weren’t looking at Sam the way you’d been looking at him— which was hardly at all, you were sat talking as you read and shared ideas about.. whatever the hell it was, he didn’t know. He didn’t know anything because you’d completely iced him out. Sam wouldn’t even tell him anything, he’d just give him these awkward “don’t put me in the middle of it” looks. He really had been trying to be patient, but he just couldn’t anymore.
Your shoulders tensed a little when you heard his gruff voice call out your name from the doorway, you shot Sam a look for not telling you that he was there before pushing up from your seat and walking out.
“Damnit-“
He called your name again but you didn’t turn around, he’d given you enough space, he wanted to fix whatever this was and he wanted to fix it now. He wasn’t doing this dancing around each other bullshit anymore. He left the room after you, catching up to you just as you turned the hallway to your bedroom. He grasped your wrist, not tight enough to hurt but just steady enough that you couldn’t pull away yet.
“Baby, come on, what’s goin’ on with you? You been acting like i don’t exist.” His voice was low and he was trying to keep it steady but you could hear the worry and the hurt underneath, and it sucked to hear that but you were still so upset with him. Of course you didn’t want to hurt Dean, but you didn’t know what else to do. You were so scared that one day one of his excessive hero moves were going to get him hurt— or worse, dead.
You couldn’t handle that, the idea of losing him.
“Nothing’s going on.” You muttered, not wanting to have this argument with him.
“Bullshit.” He butted in, his brows furrowing, taking in the way you wouldn’t even look at him.
“I mean it, i’m fine—“
“Goddamnit- quit lyin’ to me, would ya?”
His voice was a little sharper than before, his patience really wearing thin, he didn’t mean to snap but he was worried and confused, and hurt.
“You won’t talk t’me. Won’t look at me. Hell- you won’t even be in the same room as me.” He muttered, nodding towards the library you’d left as soon as he’d entered to prove his point.
It sounded crueler when he said it outloud.
“I’m goin’ crazy here.”
You felt extremely conflicted— on one hand, you really just wanted things to go back to how they were. You wanted your boyfriend and your relationship back. On the other hand you were still upset with him, and still scared that he’d lose his life over his need to play the hero.
“I’m tired, Dean.”
You pulled your wrist from his grasp and walked into your bedroom, closing the door and leaning your back against it, head dropped back and eyes closed as a sigh left you. It was exhausting being angry at him.
You half expected him to follow you, he didn’t.
He stood rooted in place, dumbfounded and staring at the door you’d walked through and closed him off with yet again. He didn’t know what the hell was happening between you and him right now, maybe he’d finally pushed you away, you’d finally realised that he was just too much to love, that he wasn’t worth it. It’s what he felt about himself all the time, and he’d thought you should too— but feeling like it now, really feeling like that could be what’s happening, it dawns on him how stupid he’d been.
How stupid the petty, unneeded fights he starts are.
How stupid his pulling away and pushing away you had been.
How close he was to ruining the best thing he’d ever had, and that scared him.
You loved him on his worst days, you loved him on the days he didn’t think you should, you loved him through everything. Through how much hell messed him up and the aftermath of it, you loved him through the end of the world— you had always been by his side.
He was close to losing that. To losing you.
Too close. You were pulling away, and he knew you were pulling away because he knew exactly what that looked like. He left to the kitchen after that and drank whatever the hell he could find.
Hours passed and you couldn’t sleep, no matter how much you tossed and you turned, no matter what side you lay on or which side your pillow was flipped over to, sleep wouldn’t come. All you could think about was Dean, he was the single, only thing on your mind.
The look on his face as you’d pulled away from him had been keeping you awake, because it’s all you could see. His face had fallen instantly into something so vulnerable in a way he never let himself be. You’d caused that, and you know that, but you were just trying to do the best thing. To look out for him for once instead of him looking out for you. If pulling away was what you had to do to stop him from getting himself killed for you then you’d take that pain on headfirst, just like he’d take it on for you.
You’re exhausted the next morning when Sam wakes you up, telling you a case had popped up and it was a good few hours out so you all had to leave pretty much straight away. You sit in the back of the impala on the way there, and the time you didn’t spend asleep was spent throwing glances Deans way. At how focused he was on the road, the way the sun shining through the window highlighted every good thing about his face— but you saw the cracks too, his hands holding onto the wheel too tightly, the strain in his jaw, the tired look in his eyes.
“You good?”
Deans voice snapped you out of your little daydream, the car was parked in a gas station and it was just you and Dean in the car. You hadn’t even noticed Sam get out.
“Huh? Yeah, fine.” You muttered, but it made your stomach twist being so cold towards him even if you thought it was the best.
“Are you? Good— I mean.”
He grunted in response, tapping his fingers on the wheel. “Would be if you’d tell me what the hell is goin’ on with us.”
Sam came back then and cut off the conversation, and you saw Deans jaw tick slightly. You had a feeling it was far from over.
The rest of the drive had been tense, but Sam had been right about there being something here for the three of you. Everything was pointing towards a vamp, easy and simple, something you’ve all dealt with dozens of times. The world seemed to be against you though, because somehow you got split up and ended up with a mouthful of sharp teeth grazing your neck, your back pinned to the ground, and no idea where Sam or Dean were.
No idea until the pressure holding you down stopped and you heard the sharp swing of a blade, and the head above you was suddenly detached. Which was gross, but the sight that replaced it was far from it.
Standing above you was Dean, with a very dark look on his face as he glared down at you and the blood on your neck.
“Get up.”
He didn’t even give you chance to push yourself up before his hands were hauling you up, keeping you right infront of him with his hands on your arms.
“The hell were you thinking? Huh? I told you to stick close.” He muttered through gritted teeth, his eyes never leaving your neck.
He had told you that, he told you that every time, and that’s the problem. You didn’t want to stick close when that meant a swing meant for you would slice through him.
“I can look after myself.”
“Yea? Cus from where i was standin’ i sorta doubt that.” He scoffed, his words coming out sharp and disbelieving. “What’s going on with you? You’d rather get your throat ripped out than be around me?”
No, god no that wasn’t it, the distance you’d made between you and him was killing you.
The look on your face faltered for just a second, and you almost crumpled right there and collapsed into him like the safe space he’d always been for you— but you held out.
“Dean, just— Can we not do this here?”
He couldn’t wrap his head around why you were being so difficult, it’s like you were trying to drive him nuts, and it was working!
“Not do this here? Really? Where then, sweetheart?” The familiar nickname was like a punch to the gut, sending you another crack closer to crumpling. “Cus you ain’t talking to me no matter where we are.”
“Guys! We’ve gotta go!”
Once again, you thanked every god out there for Sam’s timing and quickly pulled away from Dean and escaped to Sam.
Back at the bunker the tension was at an all knew high point, you could literally feel Deans eyes on you like a physical weight— even Sam had picked up on it and he’d went straight to his own room wanting to get as far away from the ticking time bomb between you as possible.
“You’ve been avoiding me for days now.”
“Avoiding- i’m not avoiding you.” Was your reply, but it fell weak even to your own ears.
He raised an eyebrow at you, stood in-front of you with his arms crossed over his chest. It still took everything in you not to stare.
“Right.” He said dryly, his eyes boring into yours. “Don’t bullshit me, have i done somethin? Is that it?”
“…No, you haven’t done anything—“
He cut you off, like he couldn’t keep the words in now that you were finally alone and talking.
“Cus that’s the only thing i can think of. You’re actin’ like i don’t exist, like we don’t exist. I don’t know what t’think, i’ve seen you, you talk to Cas and you talk to Sam but you can’t even look at me.”
“It sounds worse when you’re saying it like that.” You muttered, every word from him serving as another crack in your armour.
“Like what? Like what it is? The hell am i supposed to think, baby? It’s startin’ to look like you just ain’t into me anymore— and if that’s.. yknow, if that’s what this is then just tell me because I’m going insane tryna figure this out.”
He sounded genuinely almost nervous and that finally got your eyes snapping up to his, a mix of defensiveness and almost something insulted crossing your face that he of course caught.
“Not into you? Is that— seriously?? That’s what you think this is about??”
“Tell me then! Just talk to me! I ain’t a goddamn mind reader!”
He’d wanted the dam to break, and it had finally broken. He’d wanted the shouting, and the argument, and that’s what he was getting.
“You almost died, Dean! You almost died throwing yourself infront of something meant for me, again!” You jabbed a finger into his chest, your expression finally crumbling into one of fear and frustration. It was your turn to not let him get a word in, you’d been bottling this up for too long.
“You do it everytime!— It’s like you don’t even care! Like you want to die and i can’t stand it!”
“I’m tryin’ to keep you safe!” He snapped back, his own defensiveness rising in his throat.
“I won’t be the reason you die young— if you’re gonna keep putting yourself in danger for me then i’m not gonna give you the chance to do it, Dean! Don’t you get that!? I don’t want you to die for me!”
Your voice cracked on the last word, your eyes burning with the emotions you’d kept locked away for the past 4 days.
“Goddamn it— I’m trying to keep you safe! Ain’t you seeing that?! Everything i do— i do it to keep you safe!”
“I don’t want that! I don’t want you killing yourself because of me! It’s reckless, and it’s- it’s stupid, and it’s unfair!”
“Unfair?” He scoffed sharply, running a hand harshly across his face. “You wanna know what’s unfair?” He took a small step closer, his voice lowering into something serious rather than angry. “Everyone i love, everyone i care about, dying. Never seems to matter what i do, people die!”
“So you’d rather you die?? You’d rather i lose you instead because you don’t think before you decide to play hero!?”
He was quiet for a second, really quiet. You were sort of expecting him to just walk away as you stood there with your chest rising and falling heavily and your hands clenched at your sides.
“I’d rather it be me than you.” He finally said, his voice was quiet, but firm. There was no room for argument or changing his opinion.
“Don’t matter what it is, could be a goddamn paper cut, could be gettin’ my heart ripped out, i’d rather it be me. I can handle bein’ hurt, i can deal with pain ‘nd all that but i can’t- .. i can’t handle you gettin’ hurt.”
He took another slow step closer to you, careful this time, giving you every chance to take a step back or pull away as his hands came up to cup your jaw, his eyes glued to yours.
His eyes were glassy, you hadn’t noticed it before with being so caught up in the whirlwind in your head— but with him so close you saw it now, you saw the faint redness around his eyes too, like he’d been rubbing away tears for the past 96 hours.
His thumb ran across your cheek, relishing in finally being close to you again. “Don’t do it t’scare you, or to piss you off, or because i don’t think you can handle things. Hell, i know you can. It’s me that can’t, im the one that can’t handle it.”
“I hate it.” You admitted, your voice finally breaking into something closer to a whisper.
“What should i do then?” He muttered, his eyes searching your face. “Just stand around and watch somethin’ happen to you?”
You didn’t have an answer to that, because his stunts had saved your ass multiple times, and you didn’t just expect him to watch anything happen. You knew him better than that. You just wished he’d be less.. suicidal.
“Yknow.. i really thought you jus’ had a thing for Sammy or somethin.” He muttered with a weak grin, trying to lighten the mood even a little bit. The look on your face was killing him, especially knowing he’d caused it— unintentionally, but he’d still caused it.
“Not funny.” You muttered, but you felt your chest un-tighten slightly.
“Hey, trust me, i know it ain’t funny. Was going crazy over it.”
He’d been one more cold shoulder away from locking Sam out of the bunker to see if that changed things.
Seriously.
“I mean it, Dean.” You said finally, “I don’t want you to keep throwing yourself infront of me every time something comes at me. If i get hurt that’s on me, i don’t want you getting hurt to be on me too.”
His face did something complicated for a second, he was fighting just outright saying he couldn’t do that. It wasn’t just something he could turn off, and it wasn’t something he was willing to turn off.
“I’ll be careful, yeah? I ain’t gonna clock out on you early. ..But i’m not gonna stop lookin’ out for you, i can’t do that, won’t lie and pretend i will either.”
You sighed slightly at him and frowned, he was stubborn to a fault and you knew that but sometimes you did wish that had an off switch.
He chuckled sheepishly at the displeased look on your face at his answer, “I’ll be more careful, alright? I promise baby.”
That was the best you were gonna get from him, and you really didn’t want to fight with him any longer. He didn’t want to either. He was tired of the silence just as much as you were tired of enforcing it.
“You really thought I had a thing for Sam?”
You really shouldn’t have found it funny— but you found it funny. Pretty funny, actually.
The first smile he’d seen on your face directed at him in days and you were making fun of him— great. He tried to keep his serious, annoyed look on his face but he couldn’t help the slight twitch of his lips. He’d really missed seeing that smile.
“Shut up. You don’t get t’laugh at me after ignoring me for 4 days straight.”
Whatever reply you were about to spew out was cut off because Dean couldn’t wait any longer and he slid his hands to your waist and pulled you closer, finally getting his lips against yours after 4 torturous days.
It sucked to admit it but the second he pulled you in all of the frustration you’d had melted away against his mouth in an instant, leaning into him further and curling your hands into the front of his shirt.
It deepened quickly, it always did but this time was different. It was almost desperate on both ends, 4 days—for the two of you— was a long time to be completely hands off of eachother. How you ended up on Deans bed, underneath him and completely naked was a blur of bumping into things and tugging at eachother.
The first push in was slow and drawn out, relishing in the feeling for as long as you both possibly could. Your head dropped back into the pillow underneath you, and his hovering right above, his eyes glued to your face.
“So pretty, baby.” He groaned, his forehead dropping to yours as he finally pushed all the way in. He stayed there for a minute, his hands running all over you like he couldn’t get enough, grasping and squeezing wherever he could reach.
“Fuck- move Dean, please-“
“Not yet.” He tutted quietly, a small smile on his face as he admired your own, seeing the confusion and disappointment flicker across it.
“Four whole days sweetheart, don’t y’think i deserve a sorry for that?”
You gaped at him for a second— was he serious?
Seriously???
You groaned quietly and tried to bring him closer yourself but he stayed rooted exactly where he was, looking down at you with a smug little grin on his ridiculously pretty face. His hand snaked down between the two of you, his thumb finding your clit in light, cruel circles.
“I’m not movin’ until i hear a sorry, i could stay right here all night. Happily, too.”
“Please- god i’m sorry, Dean! Okay? Can you just- stop being an ass!”
He just shook his head and lowered his head to your neck, dragging open mouthed, wet kisses down everywhere he could possibly get to, his thumb still working lower down causing that familiar coil in your stomach to slowly tighten.
Your mouth fell open but no words came out, you were so close to the edge and—
And he pulled his hand away.
Your eyes snapped back up to his, looking utterly betrayed by the loss of his touch. It’d been 4 days without anything at all, you were wound up so tight and instead of relieving it he was making it way, way worse.
“Told ya, i wanna hear that apology first.”
He gave a very, very shallow roll, just to remind you of what he was offering, and he looked far too proud of himself. It was torture for him too, sure, he wanted nothing more than to really love on you, but he thought why not make you wait. You made him wait, for four whole days, just to speak to you.
This was just payback.
“Seriously??” Your voice cracked slightly, giving him a pleading look but still he didn’t budge. Nothing more than that barely noticeable roll of his hips.
“I’m sorry.” You groaned, your hands going up to cup his jaw. “I’m sorry i avoided you instead of talking to you, i’m sorry i acted like you weren’t there, i’m sorry i—“
Your words fell into a broken moan as he finally pulled out and sunk right back in, your hands falling to his shoulders and digging in so hard it’d no doubt leave little crescent marks mixed in with his freckles. He wasn’t teasing this time, he repeated it again, and again, and again, finally picking up a rhythm that was undeniably tender.
“Fuck— fuck i missed you, i missed you so goddamn much-“
He was rambling, low moans and quiet groans leaving him as he made it really damn clear how much he meant those words. How vocal he was has always been one of your favourite parts of sleeping with him.
“Don’t do that t’me again- don’t shut me out, shit- please don’t shut me out again baby. Couldn’t stand it.”
He didn’t care how pathetic he sounded, he needed to get through to you how much it had killed him for you to ignore him. He wasn’t the king of communication by any means, he knew that, but he’d rather try for you than get nothing at all.
“I won’t-“ You promised, your legs hooking over his hips to pull him even closer which pulled a shuddering sound from the both of you at the new angle. “I missed- fuck, Dean— i missed you too.”
You could’ve cried from relief when his hand slid back down inbetween your bodies and found your clit again, finally giving you the pressure and attention you actually needed rather than the feather-light skims he’d given you before.
“Y’feel so goddamn good baby— give it t’me, please, i’m so close sweetheart i need it. Need to feel it.”
You’d always sworn he had some weird control over your body that you couldn’t turn off, because all he had to say was those few words and your body tightened up, that coil in your stomach finally snapping and you were clenching around him, his lips falling to yours again as he followed straight after.
He didn’t pull out straight away, instead he slumped ontop of you, his head resting right in the middle of your chest which cause a huff of a laugh to leave you as he let his whole body weight practically crush you.
You didn’t push him off, though. Your fingers threaded through his hair instead as you both slowly came back from the edge, chests heaving, breathing heavy and faces flushed.
“If you ever ignore me again,” he mumbled, pressing a kiss to your chest, “I’ll seriously go crazy. Hated it. Hate not bein’ close to you anyway.”
“Yeah, i know.”
AN: i have like 6 things half finished and ive been so busy. Pls do send more requests though, i like writing things that people wanna read. ALSO does anyone wanna be on a tag list just lmk
✦Clark Masterlist - Read on aO3! - Main Masterlist✦
✦summary: all week, clark's been acting strange. he won't go near you, won't look at you, and by friday he's vanished all together. everyone seems to know why but you. but nothing's going to keep you away from him. not for that long.✦
✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, secret identity shenanigans, emotional angst, fluff, sex pollen, sex pollen level smut, a little plot for the porn (male masturbation, manhandling, clark's feral, emotional sex, dry humping, blowjobs and facefucking, dumbification, dirty talk, sensitive reader, finger sucking, clark gets nasty, body worship, crazy overstimulation, sex pollen stamnia, fingering, oral f!recieving, begging, praise kink, monster dick clark, he fucks like a machine, breeding kink), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦
✦wc: 10.5k✦
✦author's note: request and voted fic! i got. real horny with it✦
Clark has been acting strange all week.
He got into work on Monday with a red face, and you didn’t question it. He runs everywhere. It’s a little ridiculous he doesn’t have a red face more.
“Want some water?” You’d tapped on his desk, and he’d let out a sharp breath.
“Yeah.” His voice had been strangely rough, his glasses almost slipping off his nose. “Water- Water would be nice. Thank you.
He hadn’t looked you in the eyes.
Not when you brought the water to his desk, or for the rest of the day. When you got in the next morning, he was already at his desk, but didn’t do more than mumble a good morning. His shoulders had squared and rippled, when you’d walked past.
You’d gone to the bathroom, and made sure you didn’t reek of something rancid. Maybe there was a sulfur leak in your apartment and you’d just gotten used to it. Maybe you’d stepped in dog poop on the train and no one’s told you.
“Do I smell bad?” You’d asked Jimmy, and he’d looked at you like your were crazy.
“I don’t know? I don’t go around smelling people like a- A serial killer-“
“I’m not asking you to smell me like a serial killer.” You’d hissed, leaning down to block him in his chair. “I’m asking you to smell me like a friend, Lois smells me all the time-“
Jimmy had eyed you suspiciously. “If this is some weird mating dance, I’m not interested-‘
“It’s not a mating dance!”
“It seems like a mating dance-“
“It’s not-“ You’d shaken your head. “Just stop being a fucking pussy and smell me!”
Someone had cleared their throat behind you. Jimmy’s eyes had widened, fixed right over your shoulder, and you’d known who it was before you turned.
You know that low, controlled sound. You know the rush that his attention brings, and the shiver up your spine whenever he’s close. You close your eyes tight, breathing through your nose, and turn to Clark with a plastered smile.
“Hi, Clark! No one was trying to smell anyone-“
You cut yourself off when you see him. You almost forget how to speak.
He’s a wreck. Curly hair is plastered to his brow, his white button up is more sweat stains than dry spots, and there’s a vein pushing out of his neck that seems painful. His glasses keep trying to slip off his nose, and he’s shifting like even just standing is uncomfortable. He’s pale and red all at once, ruddy in his face and paper white in his fists. The flush deepens near his neck, and returns to his arms right before the cut off of his rolled up sleeves. He’s breathing through his mouth.
His eyes are black, and gleaming.
You scramble away from Jimmy, yanking yourself back from going to press a hand to Clark’s brow.
Clark takes a jagged, stumbling step back.
You look back to Jimmy, and he gives you a tight shake of his head. He doesn’t know what to do either. You’ve never seen Clark with so much as a paper cut, and now it looks like he needs a hospital.
“Hey, buddy.” Jimmy tries, voice soft. Like he’s speaking to a feral animal. “You feeling alright?”
Clark jerks his head to Jimmy, and his nostrils flare. Like he’d almost forgotten Jimmy was there.
Jimmy leans back. And you know he doesn’t mean to. It’s Clark. The softest, sweetest heart you know, shoved into a giant’s body.
But like this, Clark doesn’t look like a man. He looks like something that’s crawled out of your darkest wet dream. Like something that should be in the sky, fighting Superman. With the black eyes and sudden, jagged movements, he looks like an animal.
He looks dangerous.
And he doesn’t respond right away. Clark stares at Jimmy, breathing heavily, then squeezes his eyes shut. You and Jimmy exchange another worried look. If he’s been corrupted by something—in this world, you can’t rule anything out—and he attacks, you’re not sure you can fight him off. Emotionally or physically. Clark’s huge, he’d crush Jimmy with one fist and you’d be nothing but an annoying fly to be swatted across the room.
But whatever’s going on with Clark, he seems to drag it under control. He opens his eyes, and a thin ring of blue is back.
“I’m fine.” He rasps, staring at Jimmy. “Just- Didn’t sleep well. You know.”
Jimmy blinks. “No, uh- I don’t-“
Clark looks at you.
And you could swear the blue flickers, when your eyes meet.
“You smell good.” He mutters.
He turns like something’s dragging him, and walks away. You and Jimmy stand there for about three more minutes—in total baffled silence—before Jimmy’s mouth falls open.
“What the fuck is up with him?”
Nobody seems to be sure.
On Tuesday, he seems a little better. He eats lunch with you. Wheels his chair next to yours like usual while he’s editing, because you always catch typos he misses, and he’s a good reporter but not the best writer.
“You can’t use that word here.” You tap his laptop screen. He frowns.
“There are no other words I could use, though-“
“Corrupt?”
“But- Oh.” He sighs, hitting backspace. “See? That’s why you’re the expert.”
You laugh softly, and Clark gives you his usual small, almost shy smile.
“How’s your piece coming?” He asks kindly—always kindly—and you groan.
“Dogshit.”
“I’m sure it’s not that bad-“
“My main source backed out.” You grumble. “Like a little baby bitch. I can’t make this level of accusations again LuthorCorp without a source, it’s asking for a defamation lawsuit, and after the last one Perry would kill me-“
“But you won the last one.” Clark frowns, and you give him a pointed look.
“Yeah. Because I had a source.”
“Ah. Right.” He pauses, pushing his glasses slowly up his nose.
You watch the movement as subtly as possible. You love it when he does that. It’s a tiny, adorable quirk that makes you want to rip his hand away and push them up yourself.
“What if I said I have a source for you?” He asks softly, and you perk up.
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.” He grins. “You know, I’d think you’d have faith in me, I wouldn’t lie about that-“
“Shut up, I’m excited-“
“I can tell.” He boops your nose, and you stick your tongue out at him.
He does that all the time. He says you get a bunny nose when you’re excited about something, and then you hit him because nothing about you is bunny like.
Sometimes you say that, and he chuckles.
You have no idea. He mutters under his breath.
And sometimes he hits your nose, and your breath hitches because he touched you.
Today you keep it under control.
It’s Clark that freezes. Coughs and goes red, wheeling his chair an inch back. You frown at him, ready to ask what’s wrong, but he shakes his head like he’s already denying you an answer.
“It’s- Uh- Superman.”
You blink. “What?”
“Superman can be your source.” He grunts, shifting in his chair. “I can ask him to. For you.”
“I- You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
“I can find someone else-“
“No, I- I’ve got it.”
He stares at you. You stare back, heart swelling with something sweeter than you usually allow it to feel.
You’re used to your feelings for Clark. You try not to think about them, especially not in his presence. There’s no amount of love you’d risk your friendship for.
But he makes that rule hard to follow sometimes. When he starts being stupidly perfect.
You smile at him, wide and unrestrained. “Thank you.”
He nods—tight and jerked—stares for a long, long moment. He shoots to his feet.
“I have to go to the bathroom!” He announces to the whole bullpen.
Clark sprints away. Jimmy gives you a questioning look, and you shake your head.
He doesn’t come back for an hour. When he does, his face is wholly red again.
He’s back to not looking you in the eyes. Back to looking so sick you’re worried he might be going feral.
And you have no idea what to do.
Lois gets back on Wednesday, and the first thing she says to you is What’s up with Smallville? Perry corners you at your desk to ask if you’ve got any idea what’s Clark’s been up to that might be doing this to him. Steve loudly jokes that everyone should be placing bets on when Clark passes out. Cat keeps trying to bring him tea—a thin guise so she can suggest home remedies to whatever super hangover he has—and Clark always drinks it with shaking hands.
He listens to all her suggestions without interrupting, but whenever Jimmy suggests Urgent Care—you’ve given up on trying to get him to the ER—Clark grunts a sound like no and won’t hear another word.
You’re getting really worried. Everyone gets sick, but Clark’s always talking about his very good immune system.
And nobody gets sick like this. Legally, Perry should be making him go home, but no one can get close enough to confirm a fever, and it’s somehow not effecting his work performance.
“Clark.” You sit on the edge of his desk, keeping your voice soft. “You need to go to a doctor.”
His whole body locks up. His fingers freeze on his keyboard, and he bows his head like he’s in prayer.
“Clark-“
“Please.” He says, so quiet you almost miss it. “Back up.”
You blink. “Back up?”
He nods, and there’s a sting in your heart.
He hasn’t asked anyone else to back up.
But you slide off his desk, and take a single step back. Another, when he doesn’t relax from the first.
You clear your throat, tucking your hands behind your back. Clark lets out a heavy, ragged exhale, and looks up.
He still won’t fully meet your gaze. His darkened eyes are fixed right over your head, and you try not to let it hurt more than it already does.
“Clark.” You’ve lost a little bit of nerve. You try not to let him hear it. “The doctor-“
“I don’t need a doctor.” He tells the ceiling, and you sigh.
“You’re sick-“
“No. I’m not.”
“Dude, I- I can feel your fever from here.” The heat, rolling off his body like he’s an active star. “At least just go so they can say you’re not sick.”
He doesn’t answer. You almost take a step forward, before reeling yourself back. He doesn’t want you too close.
“Please?” You say. “It would make all of us feel better.”
That makes him look at you. For just a split second, barely a heartbeat, but long enough.
His eyes go wholly back. He wheels his chair backwards, like there’s something toxic coming off of you that he’s trying to avoid.
And it hurts. It hurts so much your face burns with shame, and your stomach does a sick clench of pain.
It’s never fun, for the man you’ve quietly been in love with for years, to look at you like you’re proximity might kill him.
The only thing that stops you from crying is worry for him.
But that’s not enough to hold back the crack in your voice.
“Clark- Please-“
He shakes his head, jaw clenching. You swallow, and take another step back.
“Oh- Okay. Sorry.”
You turn on your heels. Behind you, Clark rasps your name.
And you look back. You can’t help it.
But all he does is stare at you.
So you walk away.
Clark doesn’t come in on Thursday. Jimmy goes to check on him, but won’t report back on what he finds. When he gets back to the office, his face is bloodless and eyes wider than an owl.
“Is he-“
“He’s not sick.” Jimmy stares at you like you’re a ghost. “He’s- Um- We should- Give him space.”
You frown. “But-“
“Lots of space.” Jimmy mutters under his breath, already walking away. “And maybe me some bleach. Freakin’- Gross-“
Lois comes up next to you, watching Jimmy head into the bathroom. You’re wringing your hands, lips pressed in a painfully tight line, and Lois grabs your wrists.
“Don’t go visit him.”
You shoot her a glare. “I wasn’t going to-“
“Yes, you were.” She raises her brows. “Don’t.”
“But-“
“Don’t.”
“What if he needs something-“
“I texted his cousin. She knows what to do.”
“To…” You narrow your eyes, pulling your hands from Lois’ grip. “You know what’s going on with him, don’t you.”
Lois shrugs. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“Lois-“
“He’s going to be fine.” She says, giving you a firm look. “Don’t check on him.”
She walks away without another word.
On Friday, you go to Clark’s apartment.
You don’t go inside. Lois’ voice keeps ringing in your head, and while you’re more than willing to disobey her, it’s the way she’d said it.
Don’t.
His door is right there.
Lois’ voice fills the gaps in city noise. Pointed and direct. Almost hopeless. Like she knew you wouldn’t listen.
Don’t.
You made him soup, because you’re pathetic. He’d left his jacket at work on Wednesday, and you’d brought it home to clean up before returning it. You’d had a whole painted daydream made of pastels and watercolor, where you’d give Clark his jacket, he’d swoon with how romantic that is, and then kiss you.
But like real watercolor, the colors bleed and run. Blur together. It’s too fuzzy a picture to be reality.
You stand at his door. You don’t remember walking inside the building.
Don’t.
But you want to.
Don’t.
He could need someone, what if his cousin was busy, what if he’s been waiting for you to check on him-
Don’t.
Lois’ voice isn’t louder than your heartbeat. But it’s level. And your pulse is erratic in your throat and fingers.
And you keep seeing Clark’s face. Keep thinking of how he’d been stiffer than concrete, until you’d moved away.
He wouldn’t want to see you right now. He’d made that clear.
You put the soup and jacket on the doorstep, and ring the doorbell.
Before Clark can open it, you walk away.
On Saturday, you hole up in your apartment and work.
It’s a distraction. Anything not to think of Clark. To think of how sick he is, how he might be in pain, how he might need help but not from you. How lately he can’t stand to be in the same room as you, and apparently everyone gets to know what’s going on with him except you-
You groan, tipping your head back against the couch.
This is exactly what you’re trying not to think about.
It’s hard, though. Impossibly hard. If only because you open your email, and see a bunch of messages from Clark. You open Teams, and his messages are pinned at the top. You send Jimmy something, and have to include Clark as a contributor. Lois sends you something, and Clark is CC’d.
He’s everywhere. You can’t stop checking your phone for a message, even if Jimmy says he’s basically out of commission. Can’t really do anything right now, he’d grumbled, making a sour face. Too… Sick.
He’d said it weird, but everything about this is weird.
Usually you’d talk to Clark about that.
You miss him.
Goddamnit.
Apparently, you’re very bad at not thinking about Clark.
You busy yourself. Clean the apartment, do the laundry, waste the day, don’t think about Clark.
He gave you this pencil. Let you borrow this sweater, that you’ve been hoarding like a dragon with gold since. Sent you the cheesecake in the back of your fridge as a birthday present, and it had been horrible but you’d kept it anyway.
You lie flat on the floor, and fail not to think about Clark a little more. Maybe you should text him. Just so he knows you’re thinking of him. Or text Lois and ask for his cousin’s number, so you can ask her if he’s okay. Or let the anxiety fully overpower Lois’ voice in your head, and go visit him.
You’re about to go with that last option, when there’s a bang on your window. You shoot up with wide eyes, expecting a massive bird.
Instead you find Superman, standing in your fire escape. It’s hard to see him, in the shadows of dusk. His head is strangely bowed, his shoulders slumped in a way you’ve never seen on TV. Maybe he’s just more casual, when he’s doing home visits.
But why is he home visiting you.
Usually that would freak you out. This week, it’s just another fucking thing.
You open the window slowly, poking your head outside.
“Hello?”
Superman looks up at you, and your mouth goes dry.
He doesn’t look well.
Red and pale face, messed up hair, heaving chest. Clenched fists, sweat-slicken face, blown out eyes with barely a ring of blue-
Like Clark.
Just like Clark.
And it’s not just the ragged appearance. It’s something deeper. It’s the way he’s staring at you like he’s worried you’re going to attack him. Like he’s restraining himself from moving, like you’re a repellant and he wants to fly away.
Or something else.
Without the glasses, there’s something else.
He looks desperate. The shadows on his face look longer. Maybe it’s just the sickness overtaking him, but he looks hungry. Desperate and starved. There’s an openness on his face that wasn’t there before. And he’s not looking at you like he’s afraid or skittish.
He’s looking at you like he’s a predator. Like you’re prey.
“Clark?”
“I’m here for your interview-“
You speak at the same time. Your voice is a breath. Superman—Clark? —pushes out his words like they hurt, and falters in a second.
He stumbles back like he’s been hit. You scramble forward to catch him, your body not worried about anything but Clark is going to fall.
Your hand wraps around his wrist. He makes a deep, rumbling sound from his chest. Almost a growl.
His eyes flutter. He moans out your name, trying to tug weakly away.
“Clark- Wait-“
Superman’s body goes slack, and he collapses in your arms.
At one in the morning on Sunday, too much is happening.
You put Clark—Superman? —in your bed. Took his temperature and dropped the thermometer in shock.
He’s burning at 150 degrees.
He should be dead. You’re not even sure how you touched him without burning up.
The thermometer clatters to the ground, and Clark shifts in his sleep. Groans out a garbled, pained noise that sounds like your name.
You swallow, hugging yourself tight. It’s hard not to reach out to him, but you don’t feel like you should. He hadn’t wanted you near him, and you’ve already crossed a few lines by putting him in your bed.
Then he moans, ripping the thin sheets off his body.
That time it was definitely your name.
Superman moaned your name.
You back out of the room slowly, with an embarrassing amount of effort. You can’t rip your eyes away from him.
Clark in your bed, calling for you and rolling around like a rutting beast. Whatever’s tormenting him isn’t enough to wake him up, but it’s enough to drive you out of your mind. You bite the inside of your cheek, and force yourself to close the door. It solves the looking at him problem.
It does nothing for hearing him.
And he’s loud. You’re lucky the apartments have thick walls between units, or you’d get a noise complaint. Clark is almost howling from his room, and whenever you give into temptation and go to check on him, he’s somehow managed to rip another item of clothing off in his sleep.
It starts with his top. The symbol on his chest gets torn to shreds, revealing a broad, flushed chest. He’s got a small happy trail. Muscles that you want to trace, and boobs that might be bigger than yours.
Your eyes wander to his abdomen. There’s a happy trail that leads down, down, down, and-
Oh.
That’s… Big.
You slam the door closed, and run back to the kitchen. Cold water does nothing against the heat building in your core. You splash it on your face and drink two glasses, but you might as well be downing sea salt. You’re thirstier than when you started.
The image seems to be burned behind your eyes. Clark’s bulge. Superman’s bulge.
You still haven’t really dealt with that.
Clark is Superman. Superman is Clark. You’re sure. You’ve spent the last hour on the couch, sketching out timelines and checking your work. The random disappearances in the middle of the day. How you’ve never seen him get drunk. The fact that he’s built like a Greek god but never works out, and whenever Jimmy asks him for a routine he just says grow up on a farm.
And be a Kryptonian. That would probably also help.
To be sure—you have to be positive, before Superman wakes up and you start throwing around accusations—you cut out a pair of paper glasses and build up all your courage.
When you step into your room, it hits you like a tidal wave. The smell of sex, sweat and cum and something deeper. Clark’s ripped off his tights, and apparently the outside boxers are the only thing he’d been using for cover.
You don’t let yourself look. Your traitorous eyes try to, but you refuse to glance past his thick thighs. You won’t violate him like that. You’re here for confirmation, and nothing else.
Carefully, you wipe the sticky hair from Clark’s brow. His whole body shudders under your light touch, and he bucks up to chase your fingers when you pull away. A deep whine escapes from his lips, and you swallow.
Dear lord.
Very, very slowly, you put the paper glasses on his nose. He wrinkles it, trying to buck them off, but you plant a hand on his chest.
You don’t mean to. You move before you can think.
Clark relaxes. His body goes slack like putty, save for a single hand flying to your wrist, holding tight.
He could break you. He’s Superman. You’ve watched—albeit from afar—him pick up whole buildings. But his touch on you is light, as if you’re glass. His jaw relaxes. A purr rumbles under your hand, and his thumb starts to trace small circles.
You stare at him, every logical thought in your head evaporating in the heat of the room. The glasses confirmed exactly what you wanted them to.
Clark is Superman,
And somehow, that’s the least important thing that’s happening right now.
His brow is unfurrowed, his mouth hanging open as he pants out your name.
“Clark?” You breathe, and he moans.
This time, he calls your name. His eyes flutter in his sleep, and his hand starts to move. Dragging yours down his chest. Over his pecs, his ribs, to his abdomen and-
You yank away with a squeak, when you realize. Clark whines, immediately seizing up the second you pull away.
He looks like he’s in pain. Your touch helped, and he’d liked it, and-
No. You can’t. You won’t. You’re stronger than that, and he’s not in his right mind. Whatever’s effecting him—whatever’s strong enough to effect Superman—can’t be letting him think clearly. It would be one thing if he asked. Another to touch him in his sleep, just because he’d moved your hand there. He probably doesn’t even know it’s you.
But he’d been calling your name. He’s calling your name right now.
The steam of the room is getting to your head. You stumble away, squeezing your eyes shut when Clark keens in pain.
If you weren’t such a masochist, you’d put in earbuds to avoid hearing him. But he keeps calling your name.
And you’re not that strong at all.
Clark wakes up at four in the morning. You haven’t even managed to close your eyes.
You’re so dazed from the everything that you don’t hear him coming. You just realize the moans have stopped, and hear a quiet mumble of your name.
When you turn, Clark’s standing in the door of the living room.
He’s naked.
Fully naked.
And this time, you’re too tired stop your eyes from wandering.
He’s glorious. It’s not just the muscle and size of him, it’s all Clark. How his flexing arms are the ones that catch up when you stumble over yourself, and his legs are the ones that bring you coffee in the morning. Those fisted hands hold your hair back when you’re sick and boop your nose. His tense knees bump against yours under almost every table, and his chest keeps you tucked safely away from the world whenever you have a meltdown.
But it’s also the muscle and size of him. He looks wound up, so tight you’re worried he may snap. The coat of sweat on his skin is begging to be licked off, and his thick arms could wrap around your neck and you wouldn’t complain.
And his cock.
You don’t know how he manages to walk around with that thing. It’s bigger than the toys you’ve seen in shops, bigger than the ones in porn that have to be fake, bigger than the lewdest drawings on the internet. Thick and veiny, hard and standing proud. His balls are heavy, and you kind of want to put them in your mouth. Every inch of him is slicked with cum, and you realize you just licked your lips far too late.
Clark clears his throat. You look up with burning cheeks and wide eyes.
“Clark, I- I’m so sorry-“
“Don’t.” He mutters, shifting on his feet. You can see his arms jerking wildly. Like he’s actively stopping them from moving. “I’m the one that should be sorry, I- I shouldn’t have come here.”
He winces at his own word choice, rubbing a stain of release on his thigh. He’d been humping the sheets all night. You’d heard the squeak of the mattress, and-
“I broke your bed.” He mumbles, not meeting your gaze. “I’ll fix it when- This passes.”
“Clark-“
“Stop saying it like that.”
You blink. Clark takes a deep breath, and looks up at you.
His eyes are shining. You can’t tell if it’s with frustration, or sadness, or that something else.
“Please don’t say my name. Like that, or- At all.” His throat bobs. “It makes everything very hard.”
Your lips twitch, and you glance back to his dick. He sighs.
“Yeah. I know. There are only so many words I can use, you know.”
You laugh softly, despite everything.
Clark grabs the doorframe with a groan. It cracks under his hands, and he won’t stop staring at you,.
“Don’t laugh either.”
“I- I’m sorry-“
“And don’t apologize, or- Or look at me-“
He cuts himself off with a long moan, and you fix your gaze very pointedly on the ceiling.
“Cla-“ You cut yourself off. “Should I call you Superman?”
“No- That- That’s weird-“
“Kal-El?”
“Worse.” He grunts, and you sigh.
“I need to be able to call you something.”
“It would be better if you didn’t talk, actually.”
That makes you glare at him. He winces, face scrunching in apology.
“No, not- Not like that-“
“Not like what-“
“It’s just, when you talk-“
“It’s hard?” You snap, and you don’t know why you’re so mad all of a sudden. Maybe it’s how you haven’t slept in almost two days.
It’s probably that. But also, something needs to break. If Clark just Supermans away after everything, you’re going to kill him.
“Please don’t sat that word.” Clark mumbles, and you shake your head.
“No. I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen and give me answers.”
“I- I don’t think that’s a good idea-“
“You don’t get to decide what’s a good idea right now, boner-boy.”
He wrinkles his nose. “That… Doesn’t seem fair.”
“Maybe, but you know what’s also not fair?” You cross your arms over your chest, raising your chin. “Ignoring your best friend for a week, then showing up with a fever and- And magic boner then telling her to shut up!”
“I didn’t tell you to shut up-“
“You said I shouldn’t talk.”
“I said it would be better if you didn’t talk.” He mumbles, staring at the floor. “That’s not the same-“
“Shut up.”
“Sorry.”
The wall cracks further. You wrinkle your nose.
“You better fix the wall, Kent.”
“I will. ‘M sorry-“
“Stop apologizing to me, and just- Just tell me what’s wrong!”
You take a step forward. Clark shrinks back, but doesn’t move away.
“You’re not allowed to- To be mad.” He glances up under his lashes, and lets out another labored sigh. “Be more mad.”
That’s not promising, but your worry outweighs your anger. You nod, watching him expectantly. He closes his eyes, like he can’t bear to see your reaction.
“You know kryptonite?”
You blink. “Of course I know kryptonite, I don’t live under a rock.”
“Right. Well,” he coughs. “There’s, uh- This thing. Called red kryptonite. And it does… Weird things. To me. And other Kryptonians. Which is just Kara- My cousin- I think you’d like her-“
“Clark.”
“Sorry- Sorry.” He groans. You can trace a bead of sweat down his brow.
“Red kryptonite?” You prompt, softer than before.
His cock twitches. You try not think about it.
“I got exposed to some.” He mumbles. “Last weekend. And it never does the same thing twice, but usually it’s something like… Shrinking me. Flipping my personality, or giving me an extra power or curse or- Once it turned me into a fish-“
“It what-“
“I got better.” He says quickly. “But it’s usually immediate. This wasn’t. I- I even hoped I got lucky. That it wasn’t going to effect me at all. Then I got into the office on Monday, and saw you, and…”
He trails off, words hanging in the air.
Saw you.
You activated the red kryptonite in him.
There’s a very reasonable guess to what it’s doing. You still need to hear him say it, before you do something about it.
“What happened when you saw me?” You breathe, and he gives you a pleading look.
Makes a loose gesture to his erection. You bite back a smile. He’s going to need talking into this.
“Clark.” You say gently, and he groans.
“Please don’t make me say it.”
You give him a look, and he turns even redder than before. Stares down at his feet like a scolded child. It’s almost adorable, while also remaining impossibly hot.
“It’s very… Demanding.” He mumbles. “About certain things that I would like to do. And it is very particular about who I need to do it with. But- I can’t ask that of you-“
“Can’t you?”
Your question is quiet. You know he’ll hear you.
And Clark’s head snaps up, his jaw hanging open. He shakes his head.
“You- You can’t mean that-“
“Why not?”
You take a small step forward. Clark grabs the other side of the door way, tracking your every movement with that predatory focus.
“I’d like to.” You murmur. He grunts.
“You don’t have to pity me-“
“It’s not pity.”
He chuckles dryly. “Feels like it. I know you don’t- That’s not how you feel-“
“Who says it’s not how I feel?”
You fix him with a challenging glare, and Clark swallows.
“Uhh… Steve?”
You scoff. “Steve’s been trying to ask me out for three years, of course he’d tell you that.”
Clark shakes his head, his whole body trembling.
You’ve stopped a foot away. More than close enough for him to grab you. But he has to make that final step himself.
“I- I could hurt you.” He says, giving you that puppy look.
You shrug. “I like being hurt a little.”
His cock jumps. He doubles over, and you’re a little worried he’s going to break your whole apartment if he doesn’t move soon.
“Clark.” You whisper, taking a small step forward. “I trust you. And I- I want this. I want you.”
“No, you-“
“Don’t tell me what I feel.”
He shuts his mouth, still giving you that desperate look. You want to soothe him, but you just hold your ground.
“Will it hurt you?” You ask. “If you ignore it?”
He nods, tight and controlled.
You steel yourself, even as your nerves start to buzz.
Not with fear.
With excitement.
“Then use me.” You whisper, holding his darkened gaze. “Please.”
And Clark snaps.
He kisses you so hard you stumble. Knees buckle as Clark’s fevered lips overtake yours, and your startled squeal only lets him kiss you deeper. Your fingers fly out for something to hold onto, and find only the air.
Clark picks you up like you’re made of feathers, and there’s something steady about there being no ground at all.
If you were in your right mind, you’d think something about free fall and having no worry if there’s nowhere for impact. If you can only be caught.
But you’re not in your right mind. Because Clark isn’t kissing you like a kiss.
He’s inhaling you, and it’s already lighting you on fire.
There’s a thick arm wrapped around your waist, the other holding your back. A hand wrapped around your neck, angling him to kiss as deeply as he wants. His tongue presses over yours as he walks himself backwards.
You push back, and he moans. It’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.
Clark’s back hits the wall, his legs sinking slightly as you make out. Nothing in his hold on you falters. If anything, it tightens. Like even with your open mouth moving against each other, there’s no way he can get close enough.
You respond to everything he gives you. Clark squeezes the back of your neck lightly, and you hum happily, smiling into the kiss. He grunts, when you thread your fingers through his hair.
He sinks further down, kisses turning short and desperate. He sucks on your lower lip, nipping softly and hauling you further up his body. Your nails dig into his scalp, and he drops his arm on your waist to grab your ass.
“Clark-“
“So- Sorry-“ He groans, and you can feel him rolling beneath you, trying to get himself back under control. “You’re just- So pretty, and- And soft, and-“
He drops fully to the floor, and you start slightly when he rips his mouth from yours, before burying his face in your neck.
“Smell so good.” He almost whines. “So good.”
You take a deep breath, trying to collect yourself. You’re the sane one right now. The Clark beneath you is still your Clark, but he’s also a man who’s in a fugue state of lust. Not the mild, usually level headed, noble little dork you love.
Clark whines, when you run your nails gently against the back of his neck. He’s almost shaking, kissing and sucking on your neck like he can’t even help himself. You don’t think he can.
It makes sense why he was avoiding you. This would’ve been quite the HR violation in the copy room.
“It’s okay.” You coo, kissing the side of his head. “You can take what you need, Clark, I told you I want it-“
“You- You can’t-“
“Don’t tell me what I get to want-“
“No, you can’t.” He detaches himself from your neck, going completely still. His grip on your hips is bruising.
You don’t mind at all.
“I’ll hurt you.” He mutters, and you sigh.
“We talked about this-“
“I’ll hurt you.” He squeezes his eyes shut, over pouncing each word, and you stare at him for a moment.
You shift in his lap, trying to peer closer, and he hisses. His fingers dig into your sides, and his head slowly bows against your chest. Licking and kissing softly, as if he can’t physically stand to be that far from you.
And you feel it.
The literal alien cock pressing against your ass. You’d think was a stick if you didn’t know better.
Oh.
Right.
Clark must hear the way your heartbeat picks up, and put it together. He sighs, warm breath tickling over your breasts.
“I need to get you ready.”
You swallow. “I- I’m pretty-“ You can feel your heartbeat in your cunt, and there’s the familiar tingling ache that’s always a good sign. “I feel pretty ready-“
Clark grunts. “Not ready enough.”
“How do you know-“
“Nose.”
“Nose- Oh.” You flush. He can smell your arousal. “But that’s a good thing, right-“
“Not enough.”
He seems reduced to short worded grunts. You’re not faring much better, but there’s also a massive man below you that can’t stop sucking around your tits.
“Can you… Always smell me?” You manage to ask, and he hums.
That’s his agreement hum.
Your jaw drops.
“Are you serious-“
“I can’t help it.”
“You- You could wear nose plugs-“
“No. Like it too much.”
Your thighs squeeze, those deep words shooting straight to your cunt, and Clark groans.
“You- Can’t move-“
“You should move-“
“Won’t hurt you.” He grunts, like he’s making a vow. “Just- Need a second.”
You let out a slow breath, looking up to the ceiling. The idea comes faster than you want to admit, but you’re desperate.
“You were better when you woke up.” You say causally, stroking your fingers through his hair. “Lucid.”
Clark grunts. You smile at the air.
“You came in bed last night.”
He stiffens slightly. “Wet dream.”
“About who?”
You feel the ghost of a smile, against your chest. “You’re very… Mouthy. Like this.”
And you’ve been told that before. But something about the way Clark says it—like something he’s measuring, a note he’s jotting down for a piece—makes you feel all glowy and stupid inside.
“Wow. Mouthy.” You tease. “Not very polite, Clark.”
“There are other words I could’ve used for it.” He mumbles, and you giggle.
“Yeah? Like what?”
Clark draws slowly back, staring at you with those drunken, dark eyes.
“A brat.”
A lot of the fight leaves you, very fast. No ones ever looked at you like that. Like you’re something they want to chew on, carefully and deeply. To leave a mark while keeping every part of you both ruined and intact.
And his voice. Lower than you’ve ever heard, and hoarse with desire. You were already a lot woman. This just seals your fate.
“I should jerk you off.” You blurt.
Clark makes a sound like a wounded animal, and drops his brow against yours.
“You- You can’t just say that-“
“But it will help.” You give him your best, pouty and pleading expression. “You’ll feel better enough to- To get me ready.” You try to keep your voice level, as if you’re not thrilled just to say the words. “And then… More.”
Clark doesn’t answer. He just closes his eyes again, breathing heavily through his mouth. You wait, but you start to get a little worried he didn’t hear.
“Can you please look at me-“
“No.” He grinds out, and you frown. Reach up to cup his face.
“Clark-“
“Don’t ask me to move.” His words are tight. Pushed through his teeth.
You feel his cocks twitch, near your ass.
“Clark.” You make your voice soft. Traced the tensed line of his jaw, the bridge of his nose. He whimpers at the touch, and you smile. “It’s okay.”
“I- I need to get you-“
“I’m going to touch you, okay?”
His throat bobs, but he nods. Short and tight.
Enough.
You scoot back, and Clark lowers his legs at a painfully slow pace you accommodate you. Your ass drags over his dick, and he hisses, rutting up.
“Sorry-“
“It’s okay.” You say quickly, smiling slightly. “Good preview.”
He looks at you in befuddled exasperation. Opens his mouth like he’s going to snap something else out about you being a brat.
You settle against his knees, and don’t give him a chance.
The sound Clark makes when you wrap your hand around his cock is holy. Deep and guttural, like a man already wrecked. You let him sit in your loose grip for a second, watching his chest heave and eyes flutter.
He’s throbbing under your touch. You can barely hold him with the single hand.
You add a second, and squeeze at the base.
Clark makes another one of those beautiful noises, and grabs your wrist.
“Be- Be careful.”
You pause. “Does it not feel-“
“Feels good.” He grunts. “Too good. Gonna- Oh, fuck-“
Your mouth falls open. Clark swore.
You started to stroke his cock, and he swore.
And more. You need more. More of his swears, his sounds, his sweat running down his bare chest and the way he’s moaning your name. You need to see him fall apart, because once he’s back in control—once this massive dildo of a dick is inside you—you’re not going to be able to focus on such things.
You set a quick pace. Skin slapping and hot, unraveling him quickly.
Clark calls your name, his hands slamming back to grab at the walls. You watch in awe as his fingers sink into the wood, creating a slot for him to hold onto.
“Like- Like that- Shit.” He tosses his head back, moaning loud and lewd. “Yeah, baby, oh- Right there-“
He cuts himself off, rolling his hips up into your touch. You squeeze him again, switching your hands so one can thumb at the weeping slit on his head. Pre-cum leaks all over your fingers, and your lean further down.
You want to taste him.
When you slide off his legs—keeping your hands working—Clark says your name in a rough, garbled warning.
“What- What are you-“
You wrap your lips around the tip of him, flicking your tongue where your thumb had been. Clark makes a sound you’ve never heard from anyone before, his free hand flying to grab your neck.
The grip is tight, but painless. You’re in no danger of pain.
There’s something thrilling about how he’s gripping you so possessively. Like a life line.
You drop your hand to play with his balls. Clark bucks up into your mouth, bumping against the back of your throat.
“Sorry- Fucking Christ-“
You moan happily around him, drooling lips pushing down further. Your tongue swirls around him, and you suck, bobbing your head up and down. Trying to make him lose control again.
It doesn’t take long. Not when you reach up to his hand on your neck, and push it down.
“Are you-“
You moan, and Clark gives in.
He fucks your face like it’s a toy. Cock slipping in and out from between your lips, your spit staining with his pre-cum. Tears prick at your eyes, but you dig your nails into his thighs, refusing to be pulled off.
“Look- Look at you- Holy- Holy shit-“
Clark moans your name, and you let your hand drift back his balls. He slams up at the featherlight touch, and the tears start to flow.
“You’re so good at this sweetheart, so- So good-“ Clark moans, hips thrusting to meet every bob of your head. “Your mouth is so warm, and- And soft-“
You suckle lightly, the praise going right to your core. Your ass is sticking in the air, grinding up into nothing as he uses you.
And you can feel how close he is. His balls are tightening under your fingers, his cock twitching and pulsing, and-
Clark yanks you off suddenly, with one last cry of your name. Before you can protest or try to go back down, you see why.
He’s cumming.
And he’s not stopping.
Thick white ropes spurt from his dick, and you stare, transfixed. Every time you think he must be done, more comes. When the geyser finally stops, there’s not a place it hasn’t hit.
Clark lets out a shaky breath. You look up to him with wide eyes. He stares back, licking his lips.
“If you-“
“Do that inside me.”
You speak at the same time again. Clark blinks, leaning back slightly, and you flush.
“I- I mean- Clark-“
He starts to drag you forward, and your words turn into a squeak. Your being manhandled right into his lap, your ass still sticking up in the air and your hands just barely bracing you on the ground.
“I heard you.” He drawls, running a hand over the curve of your ass. “Pretty well, actually.”
His hand drags over your exposed core, and you whimper.
“Don’t- Don’t tease-“
“Trust me.” He mutters darkly. “I won’t.”
Two thick fingers toy at your clit, and you push yourself higher into the air. He knows exactly how to flick that little button, to drive you insane.
“Oh- Oh god-“
“If I had time.” Clark murmurs, almost to himself. “I’d keep you here for the rest of the day. Watch the sweetness drip down your legs,” his fingers trace over your sensitive inner thighs. “Let you make a mess in my lap. Wait ‘till you’re begging for it, then touch you,” one, broad finger rubs around your fluttering hole. “Nice and slow, until you feel what I’m dealin’ with right now.”
You moan, gaping at the floor. Clark gets a southern, Kanas drawl when he’s horny. It makes you clench around nothing, and he chuckles.
“Oh, you like that.” He presses the tip of his finger in, and you whine. “Yeah, I know. Know better than anyone, sweetheart.”
He pushes his hips slightly, forcing your ass higher into the air. There’s a rip, and cold air hits your core, making you shiver. His cock, still so hard, bumps against your tummy right as his finger slips into your cunt.
“Claaaark.” You moan, squeezing tight around him.
You’re rubbing backwards, trying to take him deeper. He splays one hand on your lower back, keeping you from getting what you want while still letting you chase the false hope.
He crooks his finger slightly, twisting it in a circle. You go limp, wrapping your arms around his thigh and pressing your cheek down for support.
“That’s it.” He mutters. “Just seeing what you need, it’s alright. Shit,” he lets out a sharp breath, cock twitching against you. “You’re so wet. I- I gotta-“
You hear it start to possess him, and you can’t be surprised when he pulls the finger out. Still, you twist to whine at him, maybe try to drag his hand back. He’s strong, but you’re horny, and that’s sure to help you somehow.
Instead, you trip on your own hands and collapse back down at the sight before you.
Clark cleaning your arousal off his fingers, eyes closed and face slack like he’s having a fine meal.
You can’t look away from it. It’s the hottest, most lewd thing you’ve ever seen. You whimper when he goes back into for more, dragging two fingers between your pussy lips before returning them to his mouth. He does it over, and over, and over again. Sometimes giving a little attention to your clit, like he’s milking you for more.
You’re a flushed, wiggling mess when he finally pulls his fingers away with a pop. His eyes are wholly black, gleaming with lust and fixed on yours.
There’s nothing left of you but putty, when Clark slowly starts to rub your pussy again. You’re a smeared, wrecked mess that can’t stop grinding back onto his hand, and he smiles down at you.
It’s predatory, but still soft. Exactly what you expect from him now. Pulling out the hair that got stuck in your mouth, all while slowly fingering your cunt.
“Wanted to do that for so long.” He coos, pushing two fingers deep inside of you. “You’d come into the office and start gettin’ wet right next me, I was slobbering like a dog. Thought I’d lose my mind, every single day.”
His fingers go deeper, bumping against your g-spot. You keen, making an almost unearthly sound from your chest. Clark notices it. Of course he does.
“There she is.” He mutters, starting to pump his fingers fast. Pushing against the gummy point over and over, until you’re drooling.
Your head has never been this empty during sex before. But you’ve also never been put over Clark’s lap like this. Fingered into oblivion while his dick pushes into your stomach. You start to push up—he needs attention—but Clark pushes you back down with a grunt.
“Need to be inside you.” He grunts. “Need you ready.”
Well. If he needs it.
It’s easy to relax into the feeling. Clark starting to thumb at your clit, rubbing it back and forth like a bop-it toy. Between that and his fingers, Clark is almost pulling pleasure out of you like a machine. It doesn’t take long for you to feel like you’re close. Your face his presses into his bare leg, your pussy fully pried open and well touched. You can feel the familiar tension inside you, about to burst.
“Clark- Clark-“ You don’t have the strength to twist, so you scratch at his leg. “I- I’m gonna-“
“I know.” He mutters, and fuck, you don’t doubt him. “Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart. Cum on my hand, let me feel it.”
It only takes a few more moments. Release hits you quickly, and lasts long. Thighs shaking and loud moans escaping your lips as Clark keeps playing with you.
You’re dazed from the orgasm. It’s the strongest you’ve ever felt, and your cunt is still pulsing when Clark’s fingers pull away.
“You’re ready.” He mutters, and you agree with a garbled sound.
He laughs, leaning down to kiss the back of your head as you quiver. He pulls you up into his lap, and you can feel his cock sliding between your folds. Both of your are so slick with everything there’s no friction. The tension in Clark tells you he’s close to going feral again, but his voice is still sweet.
“Just- Stay like that, beautiful.” He kisses the side of your head. “And if it- If anything starts to feel bad, tell me. I’ll stop.”
And you believe him. You know just how much this is affecting him, but you also know he’s Clark. And there isn’t a force on earth that could make him hurt you like that.
“Can you- Can you please say you’ll tell me-“
“I’ll tell you.” It’s barely more than an exhale.
Clark hears it.
“Good. Good girl.” He kisses your neck this time, and you whimper. “Let me- Can’t do it here. Not right.”
You’re not sure what he’s talking about until you’re airborne. Clark tosses you over his shoulder, holding you steady with one arm around your knees, and you blink at the cum and sweat stained floor. You might have to move, after this.
Maybe Clark could let you live with him.
Too fast. And not the thing to worry about right now.
Get fucked stupid, then think about your living situation and relationship status.
That’s a good plan. The best plan.
There really couldn’t be a better one, you decide. Not when Clark starts to rub your clit again, using the full pressure of his palm.
“Keeping her ready.” He rumbles, and you hum. You’re certainly not complaining.
You’re already close to another orgasm, when he lowers you down onto the bed. Your back hits the mattress, and you immediately reach between your thighs, fondling at your pussy hopelessly. Nothing feels as good as Clark’s hands. He might’ve already ruined you forever.
“Don’t do that.”
Those very hands catch your wrists. You stumble over your breath, when you look up at Clark.
He’s back into feral caveman mode. Stroking his cock with one hand, the other squeezing yours gently before setting it down at your side.
“I touch you.” He grunts, and you can’t argue with that.
You lay down, spreading your legs slowly. In offering. Clark makes that guttural sound, his dick somehow looking like it’s gotten harder. You swallow. It’s very hard not to touch yourself with a massive, hulking god standing over you and jerking himself off. For Clark, you’re going to try.
He’s been reduced back to deep noises from his chest and moans of your name, but he’s not making any attempt to move on you. He’s just… Staring.
Stroking his cock, and watching you. Looking between your wet, gaping pussy and flushed face, beating himself into his fist.
He moans, and doubles over. Pumps so fast his hand becomes a blur, and god you’d like him to do that to you later.
His face lands on your inner thigh. Soft stubble grazing the oversensitive area, cold breath pushing against your clit. You grab his hair, back arching off the bed at the taunting pleasure. Clark moans, watching you clench around nothing.
You cry, as his face fully presses into your cunt. It’s right as he finishes himself off, his cum painting the mattress and covering your ankles.
Clark rises back up, and for a second you just stare at each other.
“Didn’t mean to do that.” He rasps, and your lips twitch.
“I liked it.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Of course you did.”
Clark falls back over you, kissing you deep and slow. You call tell that the clear-headed affect of the orgasm is lasting for a shorter and shorter time.
And Clark choses to use it, just to kiss you.
He tests the head of his cock up and down your pussy, making sure to push it against your clit before going back down, and starting to slide slowly in. There’s almost no resistance, and he hums against your lips.
“Goin’ slow.” He mumbles. “While I can.”
You nod. It’s all you can manage.
He feels just as big—if not bigger—than he looked. Never has a cock stretched you so greatly, and so well. The fullness is incomparable, and you’d be worried you couldn’t take it if your pussy wasn’t greedily swallowing him whole.
“That’s it.” Clark groans, pushing in every inch so torturously and amazingly slow. Forcing you to feel every single inch. “There’s you go, just- Just take it- Fuuuck-“
He moans your name, and you kiss him. You want to feel everything he has, vibrating through your chest. Straight into your cunt.
Clark bottoms out, hiding his face in your neck. You blink up at the ceiling, trying to push off more tears. It’s good, unbelievably good, and your body doesn’t know what to do with it.
“Tight.” Clark mumbles against you, and you laugh breathily.
“Big.”
He looks up at you, and for a second, you only see Clark. Your best friend, looking out of you, always kinder than he needs to be.
“’m serious.” He says, low and rough. Like a secret. “When I call you pretty. When I- When I say I want you-“
You kiss him, and Clark melts into you in a second. You can’t stop your smile.
“I know.” You breathe, and he nods.
“Love you.” He pushes in almost an inch deeper, like the words spur him on. “So much.”
You blink, and his eyes widen.
“That’s- Um- I don’t think I meant to- You feel really good and my brain is soupy-“
Kissing to shut him up will only work so many times. You cover his mouth with your hand, every inch of you feeling alive. From his words, his body, every single inch of this glorious man that’s somehow, all yours.
“My brain is soupy too.” You whisper, clenching purposefully around his cock.
Clark grunts, rutting forward. You giggle, and he gives you a dangerous look.
“Very soupy. But,” You beam. “I love you too. And I’m very serious.”
Clark pauses. Smiles into your hand, eyes shining in the dark. You feel a little like your floating. You’d like to be rocketed right up to heaven.
“Make me dumb.” You breathe, and Clark’s shoulders square.
Your hand is knocked away in a second. His mouth attacks yours, and the moment he starts to move, an orgasm is ripped from your very core.
You scream, locking up and clenching around him. Clark moans against your lips, grabbing your knees and pushing them up to your chest. It’s a deep angle, and you can feel every inch of him, sliding in and out of your cunt. His balls slap near your ass, and his mouth hangs open as he stares down at him.
He’s fully gone to the red kryptonites effects. There’s no question, as he bends you in half and starts to fuck you like a doll. But he still doesn’t let his strength slip. You feel completely safe in his hands.
Safe and attended to.
You’ve never fucked a man who makes sure to hit your g-spot so much, and Clark’s barely even lucid right now. But he drills down into it, moaning your name and making those sinful, beautiful sounds.
It’s too much for your poor pussy. Two is a lot of orgasms. Three is your—usual—max, and that’s usually with time between. But Clark isn’t letting up. And you’re getting close again.
“Cla- Clark-“ You whine out, and he fucking growls. “Clark, I’m gonna-“
He makes a deep noise of understanding, and starts to fuck you harder. You cry out, grabbing uselessly at the sheets as the next release gushes from your pussy, flying up your spine like ecstasy.
Clark finds his own release there. With you clenching tight around him, writhing with overwhelmed pleasure and moaning his name like a hymn as you come. He throws his head back and starts to fuck like an animal, roaring your name.
He grabs your jaw, demanding your eyes on his. His thumb presses on your lower lip.
Cockdrunk and empty headed, you open your mouth and start to suck.
It feels even better than you’d thought. At first it’s nothing, just painting your walls and sticking so deep inside you, you think it knocks you into another, tiny orgasm. Then it’s more, spurting out of your pussy as he keeps fucking into you. An obscene fountain, staining your ass and thighs.
Then it’s too much. You’re not sure you can breathe, but the lights dancing on the edge of your vision only add to the euphoria.
Now, it’s everything. You’re full. So full. You never want to be empty again.
And you don’t think Clark would allow that anyway.
Because he’s still fully hard inside of you. And with how he’s staring at you, you don’t think there’s a space of sound mind anymore.
Clark just stares at you, still mindlessly sucking on his thumb and growls.
You giggle as he grabs your hips and flips you onto your stomach. Drags your ass back up into the air and pushes himself back in with a thick moan.
There’s a chance that his cum is transferring some of the sexual stamina onto you. It’s the only possible way you can last this long. Clark fucks into you from behind, kissing up and down your spine as his balls slap against your clit. Your fourth orgasm hits you, and you think you see he stars.
Clark cums again. You don’t know how there’s still possibly space for it, but nature finds a way.
You giggle into the sheets. Clark kisses your shoulder, rutting deeper and deeper into your abused pussy.
He might take your laughter as a challenge. Suddenly you’re being flipped over, and Clark’s impaling you on his dick once more, forcing you to slide down and feel every inch.
It’s a good thing you get giggly when you have good sex.
If he sees it as a challenge, you’re ready to lose, over and over and over again.
On Sunday, Clark fucks you through the afternoon and into the night.
There isn’t a spot in the apartment that doesn’t feel the aftermath. After making you ride him, he clambered over you and held you to his chest, fucking you with just your knees on the bed. After that you ended up on your back, then riding him again, then somehow on the floor. Against the wall. In the doorway, your face pressed against the window, Clark flying and holding you in his lap. By the time the sun was over your head, you were a wordless, dumb mess. Clark had you in a headlock and you were smiling like an idiot, taking his cock over and over again until you think you reshaped each other.
Now, standing in the shower to wash off the everything, you think if you reached down and touched yourself, you’d find Clark completely rearranged your guts to his shape. When you’d looked at him during the soft, quiet cleanup, his cock had certainly looked like you’d molded him to only fit in you.
It’s an oddly romantic thought.
There are lots of those to go around.
Clark’s waiting for you in the living room. He’s been trying to clean, but you don’t think there’s a point.
“I told you I’m going to have to move,” you joke, and he sighs.
“Well, I- I really tried, but-“ He wrinkles his nose. “I think it got in things. When I- Yeah.” He groans. “I can see it.”
“See it-“
“X-ray vision.”
“Oh.” That fun revelation had gotten lost in everything else. It’s going to take some getting used to.
Clark bows his head, almost in shame.
“Sorry I didn’t tell you,” he mutters.
You shake your head. “It fine-“
“I wanted to-“
“Clark.” You place a hand on his chest, smiling softly. “It’s okay. Really.”
He blinks at you, then relaxes.
“Really?” He asks anyway, and you nod.
“Really.” You nod to the floor. “I can even start apartment hunting right now.”
Clark laughs at that, and you beam.
It’s the same. Even after I love yous and the sex marathon, it’s still just Clark. And you’re more lucky to have that, than anything else.
“You could move in with me.” He suggests quiet and nervous, and your eyes widen.
“I-“
“If it’s too fast, you don’t have to, I- Geez, I haven’t even taken you out on a date yet, never mind-“
“Clark.” You raise your voice, forcing him to quiet down. “I was thinking the same thing earlier.”
He starts slightly. His lips twitch. “You were?”
You nod, and he grins like you handed him the sun.
“It’s not- Maybe too fast-“
“Maybe.” You shrug. “But I- I’ve loved you for years.” You look down to your fingers. “And we kind of lived together before. For work. And you’re my friend, first, so if you think it’s fine-“
Clark pulls your own trick. He grabs your face, and shuts you up with a deep, long kiss. You smile, rising up to meet him, and it’s barely been a day, but it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“I’m gonna do it right, though.” Clark says against your lips. “Take you out. Woo you.”
You laugh. “Bring it on.”
✦End note: sex pollen fics are so fun i feel like im getting a secondary high✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
warnings: none— tooth rotting fluff, flirting, workplace au
inexperienced!clark who's never really flirted before you. it's not like he wasn't interested in women, and he had tried to talk to them (keyword being 'try'), but every time he got a little flustered, he just seemed to turn into a stuttering, blushing idiot. so when you, the woman he'd been clearly crushing on for months, start shamelessly flirting with the 6'4 man at the water cooler in your office, it doesn't take much for his heart to start racing.
"so, clark, i was wondering if you were doing anything this friday?"
"oh- uh, gosh! i uh, no, no i'm not, " he chuckles, trying to contain himself and act suave. "i'm free. on friday." he runs his hands through his combed hair. pull it together, clark! he thinks to himself. "do you want to, uhm, would you like to do something? out? with me? would you like to go out with me?"
you pause for a minute, holding back the smile; "yeah," you laugh a little "i'd like that"
"y'know maybe we could go to that new sports bar that opened up on 42nd? jimmy told me it's nice, and it's near my apartment— oh my goodness, not that i'm insinuiating, i'm so sorry, i was just saying- darn it!" he puts his hands over his eyes for a second "i'm blowing this, aren't i?"
you pause again, and smile. "not at all."
clark kent masterlist. feel free 2 send requests/asks !
Synopsis: Superman’s got a dirty secret, but Clark Kent’s got an even dirtier secret.
Superman isn’t supposed to have favourites, especially not among the most persistent criminals in the city. And Clark Kent is definitely not supposed to let a flirtatious coffee shop interaction with the same criminal, who doesn’t know he’s Superman, throw him off his game!
CW : MDNI—smut; unprotected pinv 👀, fingering, oral (f rec), lowkey foot job, handjob, clark cums in his pants 👀, perv!clark, male masturbation, missionary, smell kink (?).improper use of X-Ray vision, improper use of super-hearing, squirting, cowgirl, prone bone?, doggy, dirty talk, hungry!clark, superdick 👀, degrader!reader, softdom!clark, sub!clark (?). vigilante!reader. (not so)enemies to lovers. a lil angst. dorky!clark x flirty!reader. double identities. (13.2K word count oof 🙈)
“Oh, Fuck!” You yelled as your back hit the wall.
You feel like a giant gave you a fat pat on the back as the contact with the wall makes the air inside your lungs knock out of your mouth.
“Fff—Fucking Super..ssshit.” You struggled to mumble out as you wiped the blood seeping from the corners of your mouth with a thumb.
“I don’t want to hurt you.” He spoke as he walked towards your limp body, his tone getting impatient the more you threw those insults that specifically irritated him, “And stop calling me— Supershit..It’s very disrespectful.”
Just as he finishes his sentence, you lunge at him. Your arms wrapping around his neck in what seems to be an attempted, and very awkward, headlock.
You both don’t really remember when this became a routine. All the immature roughhousing in a dark alleyway, or a quiet parking lot near a McDonald’s, or right now; In an abandoned building with so much debris you could die from that alone.
Every night since these past few weeks, he’d hear a crime being committed by you from across the frickin’ city and show up to beat your ass.
But, he’d never throw you to jail—he only says he will, in the name of justice and stuff—but he doesn’t.
This time he seriously rolled his eyes in annoyance when he saw you attempting to burn the house of, who you said, was some conservative white dude who pissed you off.
Well, you didn’t even get to explain before Superman lunged at you.
Like, what the fuck? Sure your actions aren't very ethical, but you didn’t exactly do anything wrong! You’re just fighting fire with fire.
Now you find yourself back here another night, fighting Superman.
Clark sighs, grabbing your arm around his neck to break free. Unexpectedly, you twist and fall back—pulling him along with you as you put him in a chokehold, with his back against your chest as your arms wrapped around his neck.
He coughs, “Oh— Gosh.”
You smirk at his struggle, tightening your grip while his hands repeatedly tapped your arms, trying to tap out.
“Pftt. I’m not letting you go until you admit defeat.” You whispered in his ear—your low, silky voice being the only thing Superman hears despite having exceptional hearing beyond human capabilities.
“C’mon, Supershit. Say it.” You urged him as the arm you have wrapped around his neck pulls forward, choking him even more.
“Say. It.”
Superman closes his eyes, shakily breathing in—looking almost euphoric. Just as he opens his eyes again, a sleazy smile creeps upon his bruised, and fucked face as his head slightly turns to the side, facing you. He huffs out a cocky laugh, making you frown.
“The hell are you laughing ab—“; before you had the chance to finish your sentence, you felt a warm and gushy liquid splash onto your face.
You grunt in disgust, harshly pushing him somewhere to the side as your hands find your face—wiping the liquid frantically.
“Why the fuck would you spit your nasty blood on my face, you fucking loser?!” You yelled, hands rubbing your eyes as you felt the sting on one of your pupils.
What pissed you off the most—was that you couldn’t tell which eye was the one that was hurting.
Not even a second later, you felt him blast off. Your hands leave your eyes, squinting as you watch him fly away. You huff out angrily—stomping on the chalk-like texture of pieces of broken drywall—as you yelled profanities at him.
Clark grins at the words leaving your mouth that were aimed for him only, looking back down to catch a glimpse of your tiny looking figure down below before accelerating towards the moonlight.
Monday rolls in and you feel like you could die. Literally die.
You hear the repetitive jingle of the weird bells this coffee shop still has on their doors as you watch the barista fumble a can of whipped cream while trying to make someone’s drink look cute. You tap your feet impatiently, humming to a song as your eyes dug into the back of another barista’s skull.
You’ve been waiting for a latte for what seems like the past 10 minutes.
It has been 2 nights since your fight with Superman, and you still feel miserable. Your toe feels as if it’s bent the other way, and you could genuinely die.
Just then; two drinks, looking entirely the same, are placed on the pick-up counter. The barista calls out your name as well as some guy’s—Clark—without clarifying whose cup is whose. Before you could ask, she goes right back to take in more orders.
“Shit day.” You mumbled under your breath as you turned the cups over to see hand writing so unreadable, doctors would want to wear that barista’s skin due to envy.
You decided to just taste test, hoping the owner of the other cup wouldn’t see. Doesn’t matter if they did anyway. Just as you were about to take a sip—
“You?” You hear a male voice behind you, and woah.
“You—You’re holding my.. uh, order. I meant.” He corrected himself, pushing his glasses up almost nervously.
He’s cute. Definitely.
Probably six foot something, really muscular for a dorky looking dude, and also— very nervous..
“Oh, sorry.” You said, squinting really hard to look at the handwriting on the cup, “..Clark?”
His head shot up, wondering if you figured out it was him—the one and only Clark Kent who also fucked you up just two nights ago in your altercation with him as Superman.
Clark thinks he lost his shit probably the moment he stepped into the cafe; From the countless nights of having to fight you, Clark is super sure he can recognise the way your heart beats when you’re panicked or when you’re about to lunge at him.
He probably remembers the way you breathe in a little sharper when you’re bleeding, or the rumble in your throat when you give him a dry, humourless, laugh.
What he did not anticipate was his ability to remember all of that when you guys weren’t fighting—and he’s pretty sure you recognise him too.
“Are y’gunna take it?” You spoke, hand reaching out for him to grab the coffee from you.
You didn’t recognise him?
“Sorry— Uh. Yeah, thanks.” He said.
During the split second his fingers brushed against yours, he noticed the deep red and blues of the bruises plastered just above where the neckline of your shirt starts. He probably should be a little gentler next time, he thinks.
“No wife?” You casually ask, taking him aback as he sipped his coffee.
He coughs up the sip he was taking, “W—What?”
You smiled at how flustered he was, “No ring on your finger.. no hair tie on your wrist. I suppose you’re single?” You spoke as your fingers lightly wrapped around his wrist.
Wow, your hands are really soft.
This shouldn’t be Clark’s primary thought—but he’s just so used to the same hands throwing him punches— that he’s a little wrapped around how soft your hands feel when they’re not intentionally trying to hurt him.
“I’ll take that as a yes.. Clark.”
And gosh. The way his name rolls off your tongue in that silky voice when you’re not calling him Supershit?
You took a random pen from the counter, writing down a series of numbers on his cup. “Call me, okay?” You smile at him, eyeing his coffee cup, before turning—intentionally making sure your shoulder grazes his chest as you walk away.
He couldn’t help but take in the soft, gentle, flower-like smell of your shampoo. You smelled clean, and dangerous at the same time.
And your smile? Coming from the same mouth that would usually snarl at him before you ran off after committing another crime? That small curve of the corner of your lips could kill him. Definitely.
“Oh, gosh.” He breathed out as you finally left the cafe, not even realising he held his breath. He shut his eyes, shaking his head before rushing to The Daily Planet.
You winced as you made your way up the fire escape stairs, gripping the handles as you looked into the window of each room as you made your way up.
It was a late Tuesday night, and you had just finished giving (mostly getting) a beat down after having to intervene in a gang robbery—despite having stolen a few snacks from the 7/11 close by just a few minutes prior.
Nevertheless, you couldn’t bear seeing a bunch of innocent, elderly people being held at gun point; So you intervened, forgetting that despite wearing a mask that only covers the top half of your face, and a skin tight black leather suit, you were still human.
And humans aren’t immune to bullets.. especially when the human’s idea of a disguise suit is a black, long sleeved leather top with shorts so short—all you needed to do was put on a pair of leggings underneath—and you’d recreate Superman’s suit.
Now, your boot’s heel kicks open the window of the person you came here for—the cutie from the cafe.
Clark.
You slung your leg over the window, making your way into his apartment. Your heeled boots stepped on the glass pieces from the window you had broken, making a mental note to apologise or leave a note.
He wasn’t home yet though, so you took the liberty to explore his place. His place was very dark, a little bit messy with some clothes on the floor.
You sighed, slumping on his couch before wincing due to the wound you got from the graze of a bullet.
Your cheekbones were bruised, and there were a few cuts on your upper lip. You feel like there’s a bunch of rocks pushing against your ribs, and the pungent smell of blood from the bullet graze pisses you off.
Just as you lean your head back to slump on the couch—the dim, yellow-orange overhead lights in the kitchen click open, making you yelp in surprise.
Clark also yelps in surprise by the sound of your voice, “Wha—Why r’y here?”
“God, you scared me!” You exclaimed, cutting him off. You think he probably doesn’t recognise you with your mask on, so you untie the string under your hair, pulling your mask off. “It’s me. From the coffee shop.”
Clark does not know what to do. Yeah, of course it’s you. His super hearing clarified that already when he was taking the elevator to his floor, and heard that familiar pace of your heartbeat as you breathed in and out.
He thought you were here to fight Superman; that you had somehow found out where he lived. But no.
You were here for Clark. For him.
“Your place was close.” You say, answering his question when he doesn’t say anything.
Clark stops in his thoughts. “How do you know where I live?”
You pressed your lips together. “Skills I learned.. from connections.”
“Connections?”
“Yeaaaah. Well— from my brother.”
“Your brother?”
“Bruce.. Wayne.”
BRUCE WAYNE?
That Bruce Wayne who is a billionaire, who is also Batman, who is also someone Clark knows very much?!
Bruce Wayne’s sister is flirting with him?
That very much explains how you are (somewhat) capable of lasting so long in a fight with him—Superman.
You held a sarcastic smile before speaking, “Yeaaaah. Kinda figured out your address.” You paused, “I didn’t know you were a little farm boy.” You teased.
Clark’s mouth is slightly agape as he watches you, shutting it quickly when he realises how stupid he probably looked. “Yeah, I— uh, grew up in Kansas.”
“Yeah, I know.”
He pushes up his glasses.
“You didn’t call me.” You spoke again, your legs crossing as you leaned against the couch.
He was standing in front of you, and God, did he look good.
A white button up with black dress pants, crooked glasses, and a curly piece of hair falling neatly by his forehead while the rest settled in all sorts of directions.
“Since yesterday morning; Y’haven’t called.” You continue—your voice, almost as low as a whisper, makes Clark gulp.
Yeah, because you are also the very same woman I fight every other night.
“Work— I was busy with work.” He answers, his voice cracking. Your eyes dropped, eyeing him from head to toe before coming back up to meet his eyes.
“Would you have called.. anytime soon?” You say.
Your voice only seems to gravitate him towards you as he takes a small step forward by the sound of you, close enough that your feet could nudge just below his knee.
Clark stammers, “Y—Yeah. Maybe.” He says, trying to be casual.
Your eyebrows knit together and curved, having a pitiful look as your eyes stayed on his. It was the same look you’d give him—as Superman—when you were going say something that would start to get his blood boiling.
It was mocking.
It was kinda hot, actually.
Golly.
He wonders if you really didn't know he was Superman, or if you were actually just interested in Clark. His heart skips a beat a little when he thinks of the latter.
“Maybe?” You repeated in faux confusion—almost mockery—as your eyebrows stayed knit together, looking at him through your lashes.
He tries to look away, but accidentally looks down at where your cleavage was.
Golly.
Your eyes were still on him—except your right foot is moving up his leg to his lower thigh and he thinks he could combust.
Your foot nudges his thigh, signaling that you are anticipating an answer. His breath shudders and he nods his head, “I mean, I guess.. I would have—“ Your foot moves higher, and he gulps, “..I would call you.”
Clark lets out a sigh that could also very much also be a whimper when your heeled boots meet his clothed erection.
In all honesty, Clark was so distracted and overwhelmed by you filling all of his senses that he hadn’t even taken to notice how much tighter his pants had felt since he saw you— and also how evident it was.
You huffed out a small laugh, your heel hooking on the waistband of his pants, pulling him down to face you.
Clark’s knees hit the ground, his chest settling between your parted thighs while you stay seated on the couch. Your face is just a few inches away—the pointed toe cap of your boots still pressed against him, applying just enough pressure for him.
“I’m injured, that’s why I came.” Your voice drops into a whisper, and you stop teasing. You glance away for a second before your hand reaches for the side of his face, “I just thought seeing you would.. make me feel better.”
Your lips drop to his cheek, pressing a feather-light kiss on it, “I miss you. And I'm sad you didn’t call.” You say as your lips leave his cheek, your breath grazing against his ear.
Clark shudders, one of his hands reaching to grip your thighs unconsciously.
The fact that the quickened heartbeat he’s hearing right now is actually his and not yours also makes him a little scared.
“Oh, Gosh.” He gasps when your foot rubs against his erection again; This time, rubbing in slow circles instead of nudging him here and there.
Clark is pretty sure he’s going to lose some face the next time you fight him as Superman; considering how this interaction with you will never, ever, allow him to focus in a fight against you ever again.
He does make a mental note to himself to stop you after another slow rub from your foot, or maybe he’ll let you do it just one more time—scratch that.
The way you make him feel in his head does not help his case. And he’s now sure that he doesn’t want you to stop, either—like, ever.
And if anyone had a sight like you on their couch in front of them, they wouldn’t want it to stop too—Clark thinks.
Your foot stops rubbing in circles and instead traces his length from top to bottom while you place a soft peck on his lips.
Before you could pull away, Clark places a firm grip on your hips, pulling you forward again into a proper kiss.
Your foot keeps tracing, and rubbing, and tracing, and rubbing. And Golly, your lips are so soft but you’re kissing him so feverishly.
Clark whimpers. And whimpers, and whimpers, and whimpers—until his hands move to your shoulder and jaw to ground himself while he pulls away from your lips, his head falling to the crook of your neck.
He shudders, his hips bucking against your foot involuntarily, and you gasp with a laugh, mockingly, “Did you jus—“
He whines in embarrassment to stop you from asking and you laugh, peeling his face from your neck.
Both your hands cup his cheeks, “Call me next time.” You spoke before placing a kiss on his nose. Then, you push his face away, getting up from the couch and making your way to the window.
“Wait, my window—“
You gave him a nervous chuckle that was purely insincere considering you weren’t all that sorry about the window.
“So sorry— about this. I was hoping I could distract you from that.” You say. “If I didn’t distract you enough, I hope I at least made up for it?” You continued with a cheeky grin.
Before Clark could answer, you hop onto the fire escape stairs through the window, leaving Clark alone with his thoughts. And God, did he have a lot.
“Augh— Oh God! Shi—“ You exclaim when you land face first on the concrete floors of a parking lot in front of an abandoned mall, making you roll on the ground before your forehead hits the rough floor. “Ow—!”
Your chest heaves as you hyperventilate from how far you had run—only to get your feet entangled by a few plastic bags when you tried to look up to see where he flew to.
It was dark—maybe around 2 in the morning—and the only crime you committed was stealing another item from that 7/11. But of course. The manager of the store had to have given Supes’ a free chocolate bar or something once; and before you knew it, he was chasing you.
You contemplate on whether you should keep doing routine crimes at night, or just settle to do them during the day time where Superman is usually busy dealing with other things.
Because God, why was he so free at 2am? Oh shit, he doesn’t need sleep; You groan at the thought.
“Golly! Are you okay?” You hear his irritating voice.
In a matter of seconds, the same man chasing you rushes down to place a hand on your shoulder. Superman holds you, helping you get up while your eyebrows furrowed.
“What’s..up with you today?” You say, pushing his hand off your shoulder before taking a step back in case he lunges at you. But he doesn’t. And that confuses you.
Clark doesn’t say anything and just looks at you. He had his usual face on, but you can see the micro-expressions he couldn’t contain— and it was telling you he was.. guilty? or.. nervous? or.. whatever!
“You would usually pull me by my leg to throw me in a jail cell—or lunge at me.” You speak again as you observe him before deciding to take a step forward, still keeping your guard up.
You leaned in close enough to whisper by his ear, “You look nervous today, Big Blue.”
His breath shudders and you can hear it. Before you can say anything else, he blasts off.
You scoffed—preparing to yell some profanities at him, thinking he left, before you felt a hand around your ankle, “Woa—! B’careful, Super-fucker!”
His hand held you by your left ankle as he flew around the city of Metropolis, holding you upside down. You tried protesting by kicking your free leg at him, making his lips curl into a cheeky grin as his eyes looked down at you.
Just then, you pull out a small ball-looking thing from your back pocket and throw it at his chest.
The second the ball had made contact with him—gas exploded everywhere, making him crash onto the flat roof of a random building.
You both rolled over on the roof before the impact allowed you to stop, yet his five fingers were still wrapped around your ankle.
“Let— go!” You spoke while on your back, propping your elbow on the concrete roof before using your other leg to attempt to kick his face.
Clark was on his stomach, his face right by your knee as he kept his grip on your ankle. He looked up to meet your eyes as his other arm was placed on top your hip to halter any movements or—tantrums, as he called it.
He doesn’t look away from your eyes so you glared and frowned at him, lips instinctively twitching into a snarl.
“I’m not going to let you go, but I won’t turn you in,” He says, “—If you agree to return the item you stole.”
You groan, your leg attempting to kick up like those seven year olds who throw tantrums on the floor. He snickers a little before wiping the smile off his face when you frown.
“I only took a tiny bag of chips— I just needed a late night snack, dude!” You explained as your hands tried to pry away the hold of his left arm that caged your hips.
“It’s not good to steal.” He grunts, attempting to keep you still as you continuously squirmed weirdly underneath him to break free.
“How do you know I’m not super broke and can’t afford it and have to steal for a living?” You retorted.
“Because you’re Bru—“ He stops midway, looking away for a half second before meeting your eyes again, “You’re— You’ve got a.. bruutally amazing style. Not cheap, for sure.” He nods at his own words.
“I could’ve stolen it.”
He ignores you and attempts to adjust before you feel his elbow digging into your stomach, making you yelp.
“Hey— Ow, that hurts!”
“Oh gee, I'm so sorry about that!” He panics as that same arm soothingly rubs the part he had nudged.
You were taken aback. His fingers pressed slow circles against your stomach, as if he had completely forgotten who you were and what he was supposed to be doing.
“Stop— stop doing that, Supercreep.” You say, in a lower voice, as you pushed him off of you.
This time, he doesn’t attempt to hold you down as you get up. He stands up and looks away for a second to recollect himself. However, when he did look back, you were already lunging at him.
Your force throws the both of you off the roof and he flies up while your body envelopes him from the back, both your arms wrapped around his neck to choke him.
Clark couldn’t help but take in the scent of you. He noticed you put on a different type of perfume when you have your suit and mask on. It was stronger; like instead of the rose you’d smell like during the day, you smelled like the thorns of that same rose during the night.
Before he could get lost in his thoughts, he accelerates back down to the ground.
The sudden drop in direction made the chokehold you had on him falter, so he takes that chance to grab you by the arm to get you off his back. You yelped, feeling yourself fling sideways— thinking he dropped you, before you felt his arm around your waist.
By then, you gained a view of the alleyway he was probably going to land on. Your fist nudges his face sideways, throwing a punch.
“Hey—!” He exclaims, grabbing the fist that was throwing punches at him.
Your left cheek is met with the ground before you could throw an insult. You lay on your stomach with your arms raised by your head as one of Superman’s hands wrap around the back of your neck, holding you down to the ground as he had one knee in between your thighs and the other propped up on the ground by your left hip.
You squirm in that weird, wiggly way again before your eyebrows grow furrowed in confusion and amusement.
You froze for a moment.
“..Is your…boner pressing up against me, right now?” You say, feeling his chest against your back and a subtle erection poking your lower back.
You hear him stammer at your question, and you really wish you could see his face right now. You hear the leg he had propped up by your left hip falter as he now kneels behind you.
“Holyyy shit, you are!” You laughed, like this was the highlight of your night.
“Y—You’re evil.” He groans before tightening his grip on the back of your neck, pushing your head further onto the ground as you teasingly giggled at his reaction, half of your lower lip being bitten by your upper teeth in a cruel smile.
“Did I do that?” You asked, squirming against his erection. He lets out a breath, his head falling by your neck. “D’ya reckon I could help?” Your neck slightly twists, and before you could even try to look back at him, you feel his grip tighten again—warning you.
“C’mon Big Blue.. Why don’t you show me how big you really are?” You tease, a low rumble escaping your throat as you let out a laugh that was strained due to the hold he had on your neck.
Clark releases his grip and blasts off immediately and you groan at the release of pressure.
You prop your hands on the ground to push you up on you back before turning to take a look at him accelerating through the night sky, still giggling.
The bullpen of the Daily Planet was filled with noise; keyboard smacking, phones ringing off the hook, and Perry shouting across the room about a front-page deadline.
Clark was hunched over his desk, his eyes narrowing in an attempt to properly focus on a report about city infrastructure or something. His glasses were halfway down the bridge of his nose, and a few loose curls draped over his forehead.
But despite his attempt to stay focused on work, all he could think about was you.
His brain was playing the last two nights in a relentless loop; How his apartment lingered with the smell of you. How pretty you looked sitting on his couch. How he could still feel the ghost of your touch. How soft your lips were. How gentle your hands were.
But also how differently your eyes landed on him when you thought you were fighting a different guy—Superman. How you laughed mockingly. How you snarled at him. How rough you were. How you touched him.
How he spent hours trying to get rid of the thought of you—in a very unconventional way.
Jimmy spoke, “Hey. Apparently, there’s a girl waiting fo..”
Jimmy’s voice completely drowned in Clark’s mind because just then, his super-hearing catches on to the elevator door opening and a certain rhythm of footsteps, the sound of heels clicking. The very heels that you’d worn during that fight last night.. as well as the other night.
Then came that familiar sound of a beating heart. Calmer than he’d remember from last night, but there was no doubt it belonged to you.
Still, Clark froze. His hands hovered over the keyboard, as his eyes were extremely alert, looking around for you. He could smell you.
No, it couldn’t be.
He slowly turned his head, and there you were; walking past rows of desks with a brown paper bag from a local deli in one hand and two iced coffees in the other.
You stood in front of his desk, placing the paper bag on his desk. “Woah. Man, who is she?” Jimmy whispered as he eyed the girl in front of Clark.
Unlike last night where you wore your signature leather-black suit with a little cleavage, this time you wore an airy blouse with a loose, silky skirt. Your hair was pulled into a messy half-up half-down, and you would’ve perfectly looked like the embodiment of innocence if you didn’t have that mischievous glint in your eyes.
You and Clark had a little bit of a staring contest in the moments where Clark’s brain was too fried, at the sight of you, to function.
Your lips curved into a dry, teasing smile, “Hey, Kansas.”
Good golly.
It was the same tone you used when you irritated him by calling him Supershit or another variant of that—but why was Clark not irritated this time? It sounded no different but it still made him feel so weird, a muffled whine slipped out of his throat because of how scared he was.
“You— ..What are you doing here?” He asked to which you smiled.
“I’m.. actually sorry about that window— I bought you something in hopes that you’d forgive me.” Pure casualness. Your voice was so casual, Clark was even more scared. You were just so casual.
You bite your lip, chewing on the skin before continuing, “But if it’s not enough, I don’t mind paying for the damages I caused.”
Clark cleared his throat, “..You don’t have to,”
I forgot about it the moment you flashed me a smile. I didn’t even mind, anyway.
“I’m not mad, either.”
But Gosh. I am so, so, so scared.
You smiled at his words. “Thanks Kansas. Well, I’ll see you around okay?” You say as your index finger poked the tip of his nose before pushing his crooked glasses up for him. Your eyes smiled with your lips, because of course you just had to have the type of smile that could turn his brain into mush.
“Enjoy your food! —Oh, and call me if you miss me!” You yelled as you made your way to the elevator.
Jimmy slid his chair towards Clark’s. “Who was that? Is she single?” Jimmy asked as he looked at your walking figure. Clark cleared his throat, “She’s.. we just get coffee from the same place, Jimmy.” Clark says before nudging Jimmy away.
Good gosh.
It’s been weeks.
He would interact with you as Clark Kent during the day at the same coffee shop, or sometimes even a date. He’s counted, and there’s only been three dates over the span of three weeks. It’s definitely not enough, and he will keep that in mind.
But at night, when you don’t end up staying over with Clark Kent—which you rarely did, anyway—he would interact with you as Superman. The crimes you were committing wasn’t even his reason to come and fight you anymore—it’s just, if you won’t visit Clark Kent, then Superman will visit you.
He can’t stop it. You’ve fully occupied his mind, and you didn’t even kiss Clark again after that night. He felt selfish. He wanted more—whether he was Clark or Superman to you.
Every now and then, he’d find himself bucking his hips into his hands at the thought of you. Either after a fight, or after seeing you during the day.
He sometimes never even thinks about you inappropriately, his body just reacts, and he especially hates when it reacts while he’s fighting you.
The sight of you straddling him, gripping his jaw before throwing another punch. Or, the sight of you under him with your face pressed against the cracked floors as he pushed you against it. Or, when he gets a view of your tits pressed against the wall.
Good Gosh.
He’s accidentally used his X-Ray vision on you one time, accidentally getting a peak of what was under your clothes. After he wipes away the reminder of his guilt, he’s sure he’ll spend his whole life trying to apologise, even if you weren’t aware of what he did.
Now, it was ten in the evening. Superman had just finished dealing with a creature created from a science experiment gone wrong. He was tired, through and through.
But he knows. He knows he won’t be able to resist drowning out the noises he hears just in case you decide to commit a crime. He also knows he won’t be able to resist flying towards your direction if he even so hears you yelling at a dog—he’d say that, that is a crime in itself, just to have an excuse to see you.
So, he flies to his apartment—getting inside through his bedroom window to make sure that creature didn’t scruff him up too badly for when he sees you tonight as Superman.
He closes the window behind him when he lands in his bedroom, making his way out the bedroom door and into his living room.
The city lights from his windows illuminated his living room and kitchen. It was especially dark tonight, but he didn’t bother turning on the lights as he anticipated having to go to you soon.
Clark makes his way to the fridge, pulling out a carton of orange juice, unscrewing it, then chugging it.
“Who knew?” It was your voice. Clark turned around, only to see your figure sitting up from the couch.
Darn him. How did he not detect you? And, oh dear, he’s got his Superman suit on and no hypno-glasses.
“I was here for Clark, but apparently; International superhero, Superman, and the Daily Planet’s journalist, Clark Kent.. apparently live together?” Your voice was dripping from how fake your confusion sounded.
Clark turns his head, avoiding your gaze, as if the damage wasn’t already done.
You stood up from the couch, humming, “Are they brothers?—Or lovers?” Mockery was the only word that could be used to describe your tone, “Or are they... the same person?” He could hear you behind him, the only thing distancing the two of you was his kitchen counter.
“It’s— I..” Clark turns to meet your gaze and stammers, and you actually do give him time to explain—except he doesn’t, and you scoff.
“Was it fun? Was seeing me being so vulnerable with Clark Kent fun? When you knew it was the same guy I’d fight with by nightfall?”
No more mockery. You were hurt. Emotionally.
“No..” He whines, “I’m so— so, so, sorry. I didn’t mean to—“ Clark breathes, hurriedly making his way to you as you turned your back at him to have some distance, as well as ground yourself.
You feel Clark nearing you and you turn around, “I hate you, Supershit—Clark Kent. Whoever the hell you are.” You spoke as your index finger harshly pokes at his chest.
Clark whines, his eyebrows knitting together in distress at your tone. Just as you were about to walk off, hitting his shoulder with yours, you feel him pull you by the arm and into a back hug.
You sighed in impatience. Clark takes in a deep breath, inhaling your scent. Tonight you haven't worn any perfume but he still nudges his face into the crook of your neck as both his arms wrap around your waist, entrapping your whole body in his hold.
“I was going to tell you. I swear.” He mumbles into your neck and you weren’t sure if he cried and a tear of his had fallen by your neck, or if you were hallucinating. “I just.. I didn’t know how.”
You shiver when his breath grazes your neck, feeling his forehead drop on the slope on your shoulder, “You could recognise me from how my heart beats?” You changed the topic.
You push his head away, turning around to face him as both your hands cupped his cheeks to wipe a tear, “I used a biomechanical patch that emits low frequency.. which drowns out the sound of my heartbeat.”
Clark doesn’t say anything; your gadget being the least of his worries.
“Courtesy of WayneTech.” You said, “I am very flattered you could recognise me from my heartbeat alone, Superman.”
Your hand drops to his shoulder, giving him a pat before speaking, “But God, you fooled me with just glasses?”
“Hyp—Hypo-glasses.. They’re designed to make people not recognise me with them on.” His hands find your hips, grounding himself, “Please take the— the patch thing off.”
“You wanna hear me?” You spoke in a low tone, the calm, intimidating one with a hint of dry humour,
“Y’like hearing me?”
Clark’s gaze on you falters and he looks away. You snickered in mockery, your hands pushing away the hands he had placed on your hips. God, he looked just like a dejected little puppy.
“You played a fool of me, Superfuck. I don’t like it.” You say, shaking your head as your eyes stayed on his. “You really did shock me, though. So, ten outta ten on that.”
“Please, let me make it up to you.”
“How?”
Clark goes silent for a moment, and you are sure that’s all the answers you need. You give him the opportunity—the chance—to fix things up, but he goes silent. And that’s all the confirmation you need.
You remove the WayneTech patch from your wrist, crushing the fragile technology before it falls onto the ground. And you could physically see Clark exhale at the sound of your heartbeat.
It was slow; slower than any pace he had ever heard from you. You were calm, and that was enough to break his heart.
“I think I would’ve been a little less upset if you at least tried to make me feel like less of a fool.” You say, “But it’s obvious you don’t know what to do, and you just hope apologising will fix it.”
His lips twitch, almost into a frown. You place a lingering kiss on his cheek before walking out of the door.
27 unread messages from Kansas cutie
4:02 AM
Kansas Cutie: What I did was so stupid, I’m so sorry
Kansas Cutie: Please don’t ignore mw
Kansas Cutie: I’ll do anything
Kansas Cutie: I’ll be whoever you want me to be
Kansas Cutie: Pkease call me
It’s been nearly a week and Clark hasn’t heard any sign of you. Not at the coffee shop, or at night, or anywhere in Metropolis, for that matter. And he thinks he might die.
You would get messages from him during random times of the day, but would never be bothered enough to block him because you weren’t exactly mad. You just felt betrayed? Fooled? Whatever it was, it wasn’t a positive feeling.
That’s how you find yourself sitting at the bar, staring intently at the bartender who looks somewhat like Clark. He is cute, but the small smile he gives you every time he hands you another drink shows that he’s obviously not interested, just friendly.
Clark was really friendly, too. But he was also interested. Like, a lot.
You think you should probably stop. Your mind is hazy and clouded, and you’re so drunk to the point where men would try to hit on you then quickly leave due to how unattractively you were slurring out words.
But the bartender. He’d glance at you to make sure no guy overstepped any boundaries and your heart would flutter, but he seriously just felt too friendly.
“—Claark. You look.. a loooot like my Cl—Clarrkiee.” You hicupped, your index finger pointing at the bartender just as he slides you another drink before stopping midway.
He laughs. Oh, God. “Even your— laugh is the frickin’ same!” You gasped before falling into a fit of hicupped giggles.
You tried to reach out for the drink, your head laying on top of the arm you placed underneath for support. The bartender looks at you, tilting his head, before pulling the drink back.
“Heeeyyy! That’s mine.” You frowned, lifting your head up from the counter.
He laughs again, “Miss, I think you should stop drinking. You’ve been here for hours, I don’t know if I could even legally continue serving you drinks.”
You pout and dramatically sigh. “You are so like Claark.” You spoke, propping your elbows up as your chin rested on your hands. “But he loves—or loved.. me. I don’t know.” You end your sentence with a pout and another hiccup.
The bartender smiles at you as he cleans a cup; but just as your eyes threaten to flutter shut, he decides to reach out for the phone you had slammed on the counter earlier.
It was still on, opened to Clark’s texts from this morning.
11:28 PM
You: clark?
Kansas Cutie: Yes? Hello? Call me please
Kansas Cutie: Please call me
You: could u pick her up?
You: lemme send u the link
You: she’s real messed up for you bro
Kansas Cutie: Who is this?
Kansas Cutie: Is she okay? Hello??
You: Google.maps//location-link
After five minutes or so, give or take, you open your eyes to see a meaty man with pajama pants, a white tee with a comic book character, and glasses.
“Claarkkkie!” You exclaimed with joy before your face dropped again, “Bastard.” You mumble, frowning as your face slumps down onto the bar counter, your right cheek being squished.
“How many have you had to drink?” Clark spoke, his hands pushing a strand of hair behind your ears.
“Beyond human capabilities, probably. She’s been here since we opened.” The bartender spoke before making eye contact with Clark, observing him. “Hey! She’s right, we do look somewhat alike.”
Clark feels a little pang at his heart at the thought of you possibly having flirted with the bartender, but he gives a small, pursed smile before holding you by the arm to lift you up. One of your arms wraps around his neck, as the other one is held up by him—guiding you as you walk.
“Treat her right, man.” Clark hears the bartender yell as he walks out of the bar. You look up at Clark and giggle when his eyebrows frown at what the guy said.
By the morning, you find yourself comfortably wrapped in a duvet with a soft pillow under your head. Your body had turned to the side as you slept, giving you a view of the city through the windows.
The sun was especially bright and warm today. You, however, felt the total opposite of bright and warm.
But, you’re out of that skin tight skirt from last night, and you’re in comfy clothes. You also don’t feel that uncomfortable feeling of your mascara being messily dried up around your eyes. Hell, you might actually be feeling bright and warm today.
Only if the hangover doesn’t hit you yet.
You groggily rubbed your eyes, sighing as your hand raised in the air to stretch.
Just then, you felt an arm wrapped tighter around your belly as you shifted. And, you felt someone’s nose nuzzle deeper into the crook of your neck, breathing you in before sighing.
“What the fuck.” You whispered to yourself. You mentally give yourself a slap in the face, assuming you let some guy take you home last night.
And oh, God. Could you have been drunk enough to have sex with whoever it was? No way! You have clothes on right now.
You purse your lips, lifting the duvet to double check if you had clothes on.
You did.. except the shirt on you wasn’t yours and you were in your underwear instead of your skirt. Shiit.
“It’s the weekend.. Sleep in.” A low voice spoke from behind you. Oh, fuck. That’s Clark.
Did you have sex with Clark last night?
You took a second to think;
“Nooooo, Superman— Put me. down!” You hiccuped.
You felt your body slump over a couch, “Golly. What should I do..” You heard Clark’s voice speak from above you.
“You should—“ You giggled, “Should.. kiss me. Heh.” You couldn’t contain your giggles.
You pulled Clark by his arm, making him fall towards you—his arm caging you so that he wouldn’t fall face first into you. “Kiss me, please?” You asked, looking at him through your lashes with a pout.
“I— You’re drunk.”
Shit. He wouldn’t have fucked you while you were drunk, right?
You tried to slither out of his hold, but his grip on your waist only tightens. His other hand slithers underneath your head, giving you support.
You turned to face Clark. “Superman doesn’t need sleep..” You mumbled, as you nudged his face out of your neck with your palms. His eyes were still closed, and you took the liberty to observe his features.
Your palms cup his cheeks as you tried to lean in to kiss him. He moves his head away anyways, making you pout again.
“I can’t take advantage of you while you’re.. drunk,” He whispered—almost whining, as if it was also killing him to not be able to kiss you.
“But I want you to kiss mee.” You frowned, theatrically pouting your lips as your eyebrows scrunched.
He sighs, sitting down on the couch next to you and turning your shoulder so you could face him. Clark opens his mouth and hesitates, taking a while before speaking, “If I do what you want, w—will you forgive me?”
“Mmhm.” You nodded, climbing onto him before you even finished.
“Wait, are you completely sure you wanna do this?”
“Drunk wordsss are.. sober thoug—thoughts, Clarkie. Yeah.” You spoke, nodding at your own words as you straddled him.
Clark gulps, blushing at the nickname you had called him. He pushes his glasses up before helping you reposition yourself; Your hands find his face, taking off his glasses— then your arms wrap around his neck, thumb caressing his nape.
You lean in, pausing to take a look at his eyes before placing your lips on him.
“Good gosh.” He sighed. A very, very content sigh leaves him and his arms fully hug your waist, pulling you in impossibly close.
You part for a second, your hands coming to grip his shoulder, before leaning in again. Clark’s head tilt to capture your lips, his lips moving incredibly slow as you nudge yourself closer to him.
Clark unwraps his hand around your waist, letting one hand roam around your back while the other holds your hip down, grounding you.
The both of you part, and your thumb caresses his lower lip. Clark grabs your wrist and places a kiss by the flesh near your thumb.
“Can I be your boyfrie—?”
You nod before smashing your lips onto him again.
That’s all you could remember. Shit.
“Clark, get off me, dude.” You spoke, your palm pressing his chest to push him away. Clark whines and opens his eyes, looking at you.
You sat up on the bed and contemplated for a moment. “Look— whatever I said or did last night.. Forget about it, okay? I didn’t mean anyth—“
“You said drunk words are sober thoughts.” He says, pushing the duvet off of him as he groggily gets up too.
You almost forgot that he’s also that Superman that you dislike so much. But his hair is so much like Clark and he looks at you like how Clark would—not how Superman would.
You pursed your lips, and he continues, “I don’t want us to break up.”
You mentally rolled your eyes at his ridiculousness, setting your feet on the ground as you got off his bed. “We’re not together, Clark. I was drunk!” You exclaimed, walking out of his bedroom in his T-Shirt and your panties.
He quickly follows behind you. “Also, did you strip me out of my clothes last night?” You spoke, your eyebrows furrowing. Obviously he did—you weren’t in your clothes from last night—but you asked anyway. “Also—I didn’t wear a bra when I was out last night. Did you look, you perv?!”
“I didn’t look, I swear!” He says, trailing behind you as walked around the living room—trying to find your clothes. “I mean I did.. but only for a little bit— It was to help you put my shirt on!” He spoke.
You turned around, stopping dead in your tracks. You hesitated for a moment before asking, “We didn’t have sex, right?” You voiced dropped, genuinely asking.
“No —I swear.” Clark says, and your furrowed eyebrows deepen, looking at him suspiciously, “We didn’t! But you did ask for a kiss, so I complied.” He says, looking away for the last part.
You turned around again, back facing him as you rubbed your forehead to calm yourself.
You hear Clark shuffling behind you, and feel his arms around your waist. He stuffs his head by your neck, not bothering to move your hair away as he breaths you in. Boy, does he like doing that.
“I don’t want us to break up.” He mumbles in the crook of your neck.
“I didn’t— God, Clark.” You sighed as your head leaned back against his in frustration.
“Drunk words are sober thoughts.” He mumbles.
You clicked your tongue, pushing him away and turning to face him. “Stop using my words against me.” You say, poking his chest harshly as he grins.
His hands find your hips. “But you’re not mad anymore, right? You.. forgive me?” Clark speaks. “We’re not gonna break up?”
You turn your head away, rolling your eyes at the fact that you were actually considering not to do it. You suck in a sharp breath as you turn your head to face him again.
“I’m not mad at you anymore, no. But we’re not..” You pause, sighing, “We’re not compatible, Clark. You’re literally Superman—“
“I’m also Clark.” He cuts you off as his thumbs rub slow, soothing, circles by your hips, “I want this with you. I want you.”
You go quiet for a moment and Clark is already mentally preparing a speech to convince you.
He doesn’t have the chance to say another word when you practically jump on him—your arms wrapping around his neck as your lips find his.
You nudge him closer, pulling his neck forward as you kiss him. Clark hugs your waist, lifting you off the ground, and your legs wrap around his hips as he walks somewhere random—his back hitting the wall, sounding an “Oof—“ into the kiss.
He turns around, making you rest your back against said wall as his head tilts sideways to give you more access into the kiss. You get off him, your feet finding the ground as he cages you between the walls.
One of your legs moves up, making him hold one of your thighs up while the other stays on the ground. You use that opportunity to grind against him, making him break the kiss—shuddering as his forehead rests on your shoulder.
Your palms find his cheeks, lifting him off your forehead. “For the record, I want you too.” You mumble hesitantly and Clark lights up at your words.
Your palm pushes his head away to the side as you get embarrassed by your own words. You part from Clark, walking away.
“Wait, noo.. Where are you goin—“
He sees you making your way back to the bedroom and doesn’t finish his sentence. “Don’t make me say it.” He hears you say as you open the door, walking in. Clark trails behind you, a cheeky smile plastered on his face.
Clark doesn’t see you upon walking in, but hears you behind him— trying to ‘attack’ him. “Shit—!” You yelp when he turns around and grabs you, carrying you, just as you were about to lunge. Your hands find his shoulder while his hands support the legs you had wrapped around his waist.
“Oh yeah. Super-hearing.” You mumble to yourself as he walks to his bed. He sits down by the edge, having you straddle him.
Clark’s hand places a loose strand behind your ear before leaning in to kiss you. You instinctively wrap your arms around his neck as you rocked against him. Your pebbled nipples graze his chest and you let out a shuddered breath against his ear when you pull away.
You feel his subtle hard-on and are surprised by his length. You laughed at his reaction, kissing and continuing to rock against him as he tightens his grip around you—pulling you even closer.
However, you stop smiling when you feel him growing underneath you. “You’re a grower?” You ask, pulling away from his lips.
He tries chasing your lips, but you palm his chest, stopping him. He nods shyly at your question.
“How big are you, soft?” Clark gets more flustered by your question, looking away for a second.
“8 inches.. I think.” He answers in a quiet voice. You are visibly taken aback.
“Shit..” You let out before even realising and you feel Clark looking at you like a dejected puppy, thinking he scared you off or something. “It—It’s not a problem. I just.. Well I mean you’re big, and a grower.”
Clark’s hand caresses your hair, “We don’t have to.. you know.”
You shake your head, your eyebrows furrow. “No, I want to.. Unless you don’t—“
“I do! I— do..”
You snort before leaning in again. You take his hands that were resting on your hips and guide him under your shirt. His lips falter for a second, but your persistent lips ground his.
You grind against his erection, and you’re pretty sure your underwear is soaked in arousal. Clark’s hands are guided by yours to cup your breasts. Clark’s breath hitches at the flesh under his palm before he thumbs your pebbled nipple in slow, satisfying circles.
You break the kiss and you suck in a breath at the sensation, your mouth shaped into an O as you grind down a little harder onto him.
He peppers kisses from your jaw to your neck before you hastily take the shirt on your body off. Clark helps you, and revels at the sight of your body.
“You—You’re.. Wow.”
His hands cup your breasts, pushing the two flesh together as he kisses them. Clark’s tongue glides along your nipples before pressing open mouth kisses from your neck back down, releasing him from his grip.
As he continues to trail kisses over your neck, you randomly ask him, “Have you ever improperly used your X-Ray vision on me?”
Clark is flushed, and he stops midway. “..Well..”
“Clark!” You yelled in an accusing tone as your palm slapped his chest.
“It was never on purpose! I swear..” You eye him at his words and he stares back with a nervous, goofy smile.
You mumble a curse word under your breath as your hands reach out for the hem of his shirt, lifting it off. You unconsciously bite your lip at the sight of him, and sigh.
He grins before leaning in to kiss you, his lips trailing from your lips, down to your jaw, then your neck. He kept sucking by your neck, as if to leave a mark.
While Clark worked on your neck, your hand sneaks to the waistband of his pajama pants—sliding under them to give him a proper stroke.
Clark bites your neck when he feels your hand stroke him halfway. “Gosh— I’m so sorry.” He apologised, licking and kissing the spot he bit.
You giggle, almost evilly, as you continue to stroke him. He stops sucking, and his head drops to your shoulder, his chest heaving as his arm hugs your waist.
Clark feels your thumb trace the slit of his tip and he moans. You snicker again as you teased him—your hand around his length tightens, but you don’t move properly to give him the pleasure he needs.
His head leaves your shoulder, coming up to face you. His hand finds yours, removing your hand from underneath his pants.
He flips you over, caging you with his arms before pressing kisses down to your chest. You sigh, your hands caressing his curly hair as he makes his way down.
Clark takes a second by your chest, placing kisses by your heart as his super hearing focuses on the slow, calm rhythm of your heart beat.
Everything feels so intimate, especially to him. All he can hear is you. Your breathing, your heartbeat, the rush of your blood, and the way you breathe so lowly. And you smell, so, so, so good to him.
He feels like his Kryptonian instincts are not so far from those of a dog. He can’t stop taking in the way you smell—perfume or not.
“Supershit...” You tease him with the nickname breathlessly when you feel his index finger and middle finger move your underwear to the side, gathering your arousal with his fingers before moving to your clit—rubbing slow circles.
His ears are red. He looks up and places a kiss on your stomach before traces kisses by your inner thighs. He moves off the bed, kneeling by the edge of it as your legs prop on his shoulders—your back on the bed.
He kisses your thighs, “Good gosh— you’re..” Kiss. “..so, so..” Kiss. “..so incredible.” Kiss. “..so perfect.” Kiss.
Clark’s fingers move to the waistband of your underwear, pulling it off when you nod. Your breath shudders when you feel your arousal sticking onto the fabric of your underwear.
Clark places a kiss by your opening, then your clit. You let out breathy moans as he sucks on your clit—your hand tugging on his hair.
His middle and ring finger probes your opening and your hips twitch, grinding onto his fingers. He cheekily smiles at your want and continues sucking on your clit, one of his fingers pushing inside while your hands push his head towards your heat.
You grind against his nose when he slides in another finger; pulling out completely before nudging it deep inside you. You feel Clark’s hand exploring your insides, and he curls his fingers.
Even as quiet as you were, Clark could hear even the slightest twitch in your breathing. His finger leaves you almost completely before pushing back in, curling by that spot again. This time, a small whimper leaves your throat and Clark smiles, proud of himself.
His tongue rubs steady circles against your clit while his freehand pushes down on your lower stomach, making you squirm. He feels you tighten around his fingers at the pressure.
His hand keeps applying pressure as his tongue and his fingers work on you. The pressure he applies on your lower stomach is perfect, and you start moaning— occasionally whimpering when you bite your index finger’s knuckle.
“Clark—“ A broken moan escapes you to tell him you’re close.
But Clark knows. Of course, he does. He’s hearing the most obscene noises thanks to his power; of how wet you are inside, of how his fingers make squelching noises, the way your heartbeat intensifies. How loud you are to him compared to how much you’re actually letting out.
His mouth leaves your clit, stopping his sucking just to kiss it. “Gosh. You’re perfect to me.. Everything— Every single thing about you.” You hear him whisper, his breath grazing your clit.
You grind against his fingers, as well as the air that surrounds your clit. His mouth finds your clit again, and he mentally thanks his Kryptonian blood—for the ability to hold his breath for so long. Because Gosh, could his face stay stuffed here forever.
Oh, thanks to the super hearing, too.
You whine, and he can tell you’re so close.
He doesn’t relent. Instead, he fastens his pace. His fingers leave you almost empty before filling you again. Clark’s hand is heavier on your lower stomach now and you squirm underneath him, the hold you have on his hair, tightening.
His fingers bury deep inside you, and you let out a broken moan as you come. Your hips twitch against his hold as his fingers keep working in and out of you, faster than before.
Your head is thrown back while your freehand covers your eyes at the overwhelming feeling. When the hand he has on your stomach pulls away and presses even harder, you feel something gush out of you. Your thighs quiver before feeling something wet drip down them.
“Oh, fuck. Did I just.. fucking squirt?” You moaned, still catching your breath at the lingering sensation of your orgasm.
Clark goes quiet, almost still, and you think you’ve scared him off. You mentally laugh at the thought of him being taken aback as you squirt all over his stupid face.
You look down when he takes a little too long to answer. You see him transfixed on the sight of you, but he notices that you noticed him and quickly looks away.
You snort, struggling to sit up. Your hand leaves his hair and cups his chin to make him look up at you. “We're you X-Ray visioning me, Supershit?” You teased with a laugh.
He avoids your gaze, his hand pulling yours away by your wrist. “Don’t call me.. that.”
You laugh when you see blush creeping down his neck. You wipe off your arousal on his chin and around his mouth.
Clark gets up, and you pull him to you by his waistband, getting him to hover over your body as you move backwards. Your back hits the bed frame, as well as some pillows, and Clark reluctantly removes his pants after the comment you made about his dick.
You breathe in at the sight of him. Your hand reaches to give him a full stroke while he hovers over you. “You’re big.” You whispered, “Is this one of the reasons they call you Big Blue?”
Clark sighs at the sensation of your hands around him, his head falls as he twitches against your hold. “Stop.. being mean.” He says and you let out an airy laugh.
“I’m serious, Big Blue. It’s a compliment, I swear.” You say, an arm around his neck to pull him into a kiss. He sighs into the kiss as your other hand continues stroking him.
You pull away for a second, “Wait, didn’t you get a hard-on during one of our fights after I gave you a foot job as Clark Kent?”
Clark is taken aback by your sudden question. He bites his lip, looking suspicious and you laugh the millionth time this morning. “Don’t talk about that.” He whispers as he leans in.
He holds you by your wrist as his lips move against yours, before releasing his grip to let you move on top of him.
He sits up against the bed frame as you straddle him, your hand finding his erection. Your thumb circles the slit of his tip and he whines. You let go and hover over his length, giving him a teasing smile. He grips your hips, urging you to stop the teasing.
You give him a peck, cupping his jaw, before sinking down. You let out broken gasps at how much his length splits while Clark sucks in a sharp breath.
“F—Fffuck! Clark—“ You moan as he unintentionally pushes you down fully. Your hands grip his hair by the nape of his neck as you moan against his ear.
“O—Oh, gosh. I’m so sorry..” Clark apologises, his hands leave your hips and caresses your back up and down soothingly.
Your hips buck against his, and you part from his neck. You grind down, your clit rubbing against his lower abdomen. Your eyebrows knit together as your upper teeth bites down on your lower lip.
Clark looks at the lewd sight of you as you struggle on his cock, making him involuntarily buck up into you.
You moan—and it doesn’t help the fact he’s trying to be gentle.
“Sup—er shit—“ You whined under your breath and Clark’s eyebrows pulled together at your words, looking like a sad puppy.
“S—stop..” He frowns.
You suck in a deep breath as you move, feeling his hand slide up and down your back to support your figure. His other hand caresses your head before travelling to your jaw, pulling you into a kiss as you move up halfway along his length.
“God.. Clark. I should’ve— opted on.. missionary…” You joke, but Clark huffs with an amused smile that you still had such a mouth while struggling to take him.
And with that mouth, he’s sure you can take more. Clark flips you over, hooking your legs with his arms as he slams into you.
“Fuuck— Oh my God!” You yelled as Clark repeatedly rams into you. You think you might die halfway through, but with the little bit of energy you had, you looked down—only to see that he doesn’t even pull out fully before slamming back in—and you’re already dying under him.
Is this him being gentle?
You mentally curse yourself for forgiving this Kryptonian giant, and your head turns sideways—letting out breathy moans—as your hands fall by your head.
“Pl—Please..” Clark moans, his fingers cupping your jaw as he penetrates you, “Look at me.. Please?”
You turn your head to look at him. To think you were the only one struggling was a serious joke. When you did look at Clark properly, his chest was heaving. His mouth fell open and his eyebrows knit together in distraught.
But Clark Kent is the top ten happiest man on Earth right now. He’s completely engulfed by your entire being—completely infatuated with everything you are.
His lips travel to your tits, a hand cupping them as he sucked on the flesh. He studies your reaction as he gently nibbles on your nipples.
You tighten around him and he moans, his head falling to your shoulders, “Clark— you’re too…I’m gonna gonna—!”
“I know.. It’s okay. Gosh— Just..”
He looks down at your face, unable to contain the feeling of wanting to bury his lips into yours. He kisses you and picks up his pace, feeling your hips buck.
Clark’s abdomen continuously rubs against your clit with every thrust, and his elbow cages the sides of your head as he gently caresses your hair.
He hears your stuttering breathing against his ear, and thrusts deep inside of you; Hips bucking as he focuses on the erratic beat of your heart.
“Oh—! Mm’Clark.. Fuck, fuck, fuck—“
Just then, your legs wrap around him and you tighten around his length, locking him deep inside as you come. Your back arches, and one of his hands instinctively holds your back to support you. He penetrates you slowly through your orgasm.
He can’t help but stare at your belly, seeing the way you wrap around him so good through his X-Ray vision. He cums at the sight, his mouth falling open, “Good Gosh.. baby..”, Clark breathes, “Do you see that?”
One of his hands comes to push down on your belly, reveling at the sight. You squeeze around him again, squirming at the overstimulation. Clark feels your hand nudging his face—as if weakly trying to slap him—and he smiles.
“Stop using.. your stupid power, frickin’ perv…” You mumble and he leans in to kiss you.
You wince at the feeling of him pulling out. You feel his hand guide yours, placing it just around his neck and you sigh into the kiss.
You pull him in impossibly close, feeling his hands fall onto your waist. Clark sits you up, and you break the kiss.
The sunlight shining into the bedroom settles on him—you can’t help but adore the way he looks when your fingertips brush a curl that falls onto his forehead, to the side.
Clark holds your wrist, encouraging you. He leans into your touch; eventually leaning to kiss you again.
“I love you.” He whispers into the kiss, and you’re taken aback. You whisper his name, but your voice is drowned out when he kisses you again.
You feel Clark’s fingertips trace your spine as you pull him deeper into the kiss.
Clark begs for you to stay another night, but you tell him you think you both should slow down.
Clark almost cries at that, so you mentally roll your eyes and agree.
It’s already eleven at night, and neither of you are home yet. Clark was busy with Superhero stuff, while you got bored—so you roamed around the city for stuff to do.
By 12, you climbed in through his living room window and yelped at the sight of him—still in his Superman suit—sitting on the couch in the dark. “Dude, put a frickin’ light on!”
Clark doesn’t say anything and he stands up. He pulls out a video from the news of you running from a bank robbery, the news calling you some weird given nickname. He sizes you up, and you chuckle with faux nervousness. “That’s not me.”
He sighs and lifts you off your feet, his head buried into the crook of your neck as he breathes you in. “Baby— You’ve got t’stop doing that.”
“But that’s literally not me?”
“They gave you a nickname.”
“Alledgedly me.” You raised your eyebrows, titling your head.
Clark releases you, placing you on his kitchen counter. He unties your mask, taking it off, before his eyes involuntarily drop down to the little bit of cleavage your black suit exposes. And you notice.
Your fingers brush his hair away, “A little distracted, Big Blue?” You spoke—just above a whisper. Your hands trail down to his chest, tracing the ‘S’ on his chest before tracing the subtle outline of his abs.
Clark’s breath hitches and he reaches out, grabbing your wrist. You look up at him through your lashes and smirk.
Eventually, you feel yourself pressed against one of his walls—Clark’s chest against your back while his hips buck into you through your clothing as your breathing stutters.
His hands roam around your stomach, and you reach out for him from behind. You turn and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him into a kiss.
You jump and Clark catches you, your legs wrap around his waist while your fingers trace the fabric of his cape. Your other hand pulls his neck in closer and you feel the both of you lift off the ground.
Slowly, Clark flies from the living room to his bedroom. A grunt leaves your mouth when he drops you on the bed.
He hovered over you and you placed a hand on his chest, tracing the ‘S’. “God, this suit irritates me.”
Clark is genuinely offended, “Hey— I thought it looks great.” He retorts.
“My suit looks great. But I have too many bad memories with this ‘S’ on your chest, Big Blue.” You say as you poke his chest.
He chuckles and takes hold of your wrist, “Your suit does look good.” He peppers kisses from your wrist to the little bit of cleavage your suit exposes—just above the zipper of your suit. “And.. we can always make new memories with my suit.”
He kisses your knuckles and sits up, while you look at him amusedly. Your hand rests under your hands as he gets up, turns away, and dramatically turns back to you.
Clark’s cape swooshes theatrically, “Hey! I’m Superman. And you, miss, are?” His hands reach out, in expectation to shake yours.
You laugh, sitting to humour him. “I am.. someone who loves your suit.” You mock, trailing your fingers up the bicep visible through his sleeve.
Clark groans and falls onto you, making sure to not settle his whole body weight against your smaller figure, as his head buries in the crook of your neck. “Gosh.. You make this so hard.” He mumbles.
You grin, and it’s almost like he could sense it. “Not— like that.. I mean, yes, but— I.. Gosh.”
“Wow.” Your voice is fauxly amused, “That’s dirty, Superman.” You whisper.
You hear a low whine from him, telling you to quit teasing. Your back arches and his hand slithers underneath, hugging you. Clark breathes you in, fully content, while you—despite Clark not putting his full weight on you—felt suffocated by the sheer size of him.
“What’s your thing with sniffing me?” You asked as your fingertips roam around his back, tracing his cape. “Also how hard is it to get this suit off? It looks skin tight.” You casually asked, genuinely serious.
He doesn’t answer. Instead you feel his tongue on your neck before you feel his erection. “It’s not that hard to.. take the suit off.”
You breathed out a sound almost like laughter, and you felt him subtly rut into your leather shorts. “Sorry— You just smell.. really good.”
“I think it’s the.. same perfume I wore when Superman accidentally got a boner in the middle of a fight.” You say, pretending to think deeply.
Clark narrows his eyes, annoyed. But, not really.
He parts from your neck and you feel him staring at your chest before his hand moves to unzip your leather top, halfway before stopping to reveal just enough of your tits.
Clark’s head falls to your chest, breathing in once more, before sucking on an erect nipple. You sigh, grinding yourself against his abdomen.
He turns you over, laying you down on your stomach as he trails kisses around the little bit of skin the ends of your shirt exposes.
“Golly.” He mumbles when his face meets the black leather shorts that he never really noticed were this short. Your ass is lifted up in the air when his hands fumble to the button of your shorts.
“Supes’— Chill.” You speak when you feel his arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you closer to feel his boner against you.
“Sorry..” He mumbles, pulling off your shorts and trailing kisses up your thighs as his fingers tug on the waistband on your underwear, “It’s just— I can smell you. Gosh— I can hear your heartbeat too, and it’s driving me crazy.”
You feel his nose probing your entrance before you hear shuffling behind you.
Before you could register, you feel his tip gather the slickness of your arousal and you moan. Your right cheek is squished against the pillows while your hands gather the fabric of his bedsheets— and your ass instinctively grinds against the sensation.
Your suit’s top is still on, and for some reason, Clark just won’t take it off.
Clark’s palm settles on your waist, and you feel him push in. He bottoms out and your hands grip the sheets—your mouth dropping into a wide O as your eyes squeezed shut.
You feel Clark rut impatiently into you before his other hand moves the splayed hair around the back of your neck to the side. His chest is pressed against you and you feel him kiss around the back of your neck as he thrusts into you.
He slows his pace and steadies himself, his hand intertwining with yours from the back as he slips almost completely out—leaving only the tip inside of you—before pushing back in slow and slamming in deep just as he bottoms out.
“Augh—Mmpf, fucking Super.. Shit!..” You moan.
Clark kisses the side of your cheek that isn’t squished against the pillows, his mouth moves just below your ears as he continues peppering kisses.
His pace gets brutal the more you moan. But Clark is sure no one would be able to control themselves with a sight like this below them.
Broken moans leave your mouth, and Clark leaves your neck. Your top eventually rides up from the back due to Clark’s thrusts—exposing your back back to him.
“Golly.. Y’don wear— a bra under this?” He grunts as his intertwined fingers leave yours to trace the spine of your back.
“Clark—Mmph—“ Your moans are muffled into the pillows when you feel his chilly fingertips run up and down your back.
You feel his hands trail to the flesh that bounced in rhythm with his thrusts. Clark cups your (partially) clothed tits, his index finger circling your nipples.
You squeeze around him and the hand he has around your stomach tightens, pulling you forward and backwards to match his pace. Clark hisses, “Baby—“
“Clarkie— I’m gonna..” You moan, and Clark fastens his pace before you could finish your sentence, “Fuck—! Fuck, fuck fuck.” You moan into the pillow, gripping the sheets as he drives into you.
Clark’s hand grabs hold of the back of your neck as he thrusts, holding your head against the pillow. The sight of your top rolling upwards and the way the flesh of your ass ripples with every thrust is killing him. If he looked for too long, he would’ve come the second he penetrated you.
He grunts, keeping his eyes on the visible part of your face—as well as the quickened beat of your heart as you neared your orgasm. His eyes involuntarily trail to the way you suck his length in and out, strings of arousal connecting your bodies.
His eyebrows knit in distraught at the sight, his mouth hanging open as he moans. Clark slows his pace to focus on how much you suck him in before he hears your whines.
“Faster—pleasee, Cl—llark..”
He huffs out a breathless laugh and quickens his thrusts, leaving your mouth to shape out an O as incoherent moans leave your throat.
Just then, your hips roll back when he thrusts inside and you cum—gripping the bedsheets as he continues thrusting slowly, but deeply through your orgasm.
You whine when his head drops down to your neck, his hands roaming to your chest. He breathes you in and mutters what could’ve been a swear word and spills into you.
You breathlessly giggle when he swears. And he knows you’re gonna tease him for that later.
But right now, he can hear your pulse, quickening again; you getting worked up again when his cum fills you up through his deep thrusts.
He feels you squeeze around him again, and sees the mix of the arousal you both had released, dripping down your thighs as his thrusts grow sloppy, eventually stopping.
You let out a low whimper, and gasp when he pulls out. Clark keeps your ass up by holding your hips— breathing in at the sight of his cum, and some of yours, dripping slowly out of your hole and onto your thighs.
He wets his lip but halts any movement when you grunt, “I can feel you staring, perv.”
You get out of his grasp, falling back onto your back with an, “Oof—“
He still had his suit on, the very visible ‘S’ on his chest—besides his pants, which were off, obviously. Thank God anyway, you would’ve bursted out laughing if he tried to fuck you with that little red underwear looking thing still on.
You feel Clark kissing from the side of your thigh all the way up to your hips, and your hand caresses his hair. “For the record..” You say when he comes up to kiss your neck, “..I love you, too.”
Clark parts from your neck and stares at you. Before you could hear a word from him, you feel him—growing hard against the side of your left thigh.
“Oh— Clark!” You exclaim, pushing his face away with your palm in disgust. “I was trying to be romantic.”
Clark pulls you into a kiss, “Noo, it is romantic! I’m sorry— I couldn’t control it!” He says as he pulls you on top of him.
“Does the ‘S’ on your chest stand for Sex?” You ask, poking his chest. Clark doesn’t say anything, eyeing your figure like a perv again.
His fingers take hold of your zipper, and fully unzips your top, a cheeky smile plastered on his face as he does so.
Clark can literally never pull out for the life of him. He used to be better. When you guys first started dating, he always made sure to keep condoms in the nightstand, just in case. Then after a while, it turned into marathon sessions where you burned through three to four condoms in a night. Inevitably, when the box ran empty, and neither of you wanted to stop for ten minutes to go grab more. Clark promised he would pull out. And to his credit he did. Barely. The feeling of sinking into you, completely raw. Feeling every muscle twitch, subtle clench, wetness oozing out around him, almost got him. You almost regretted telling him to pull out, getting to feel the true heat and heft of him, along with his tip sliding in and you, made you reconsider how awful pregnancy would be. You both kept saying how you needed new condoms, and Clark was always saying how he would definitely go out after work to pick up another box.
But somehow, every night, when Clark is settled between your thighs, desperately rutting into you, his hands gripping your hips, the box never showed up. Your legs would lock in around his strong hips, digging your heels into the dimples on his lower back, your hands gripping anywhere they could find purchase on. You really are scared of getting knocked up. Even though you really don’t take any precautions. You honestly are. It’s just…watching Clark grip his dick, pulling the skin back and rubbing his leaky tip up and down your folds…you can’t exactly stop him. His eyes half closed and locked onto where your hips meet when he fully bottoms out, seeing your body clench and pulse around him with his xray vision. Just seeing your internal muscles grip him makes him want to blow his load. You guys should really get condoms soon.
One night. It was just going to be one night. But that’s also what you guys said about going raw. It was Clark’s birthday, what else were you supposed to do. A day off from work, museum visits, nice dinner, cute blue lingerie. Letting him cum inside you was just the cherry on top. You almost came from how needy he already was. Holding your legs over his shoulders while he feverishly ate you out. His hands held onto your hips, pulling you impossibly closer to his face. Surprisingly, he put you in a collapsed doggystyle for tonight, his hands never getting enough of your ass and hips. He rambled into your spine as he bottomed out, licking and kissing your heated flesh. His pace almost knocks the wind out of you. His arms wrap around your waist, while he whines and pants against your neck. Even on his birthday, Clark would never be selfish. He makes sure you come around his cock, out of wanting to please you, but also because the feeling is otherworldly. After you come, catching your breath, you reach around and grip his ass, “don’t pull out” you mumble, your cheek pressed against the pillow. He makes you say it over and over, whimpering louder as he holds onto your thighs and ruts into you for his own pleasure,
“Oh gosh honey…oh honey, p-please say it again?”
“D-don’t pull out, baby,”
Whine, “oh you really mean it…? Oh gosh, you’re sure?”
“I’m serious, Clark. Don’t you dare pull out…wanna feel it all,”
He kisses and buries his face into your shoulder, letting out a string of noises most men his size would be embarrassed to make. His cock twitches incessantly, balls drawing up tight. He thrusts slowly, feeling himself slowly empty into your accepting cunt. You groan into the pillow at how hot it feels. It was already a surprise the first time Clark came on you, how warm it was compared to your already hot skin. He holds you tight, keeping you still as he bottoms out, catching his breath and making sure every last bit goes in. You guys really need to start buying condoms.
Obviously, after getting a taste for it, neither of you can resist. Somehow, Clark can go to the store to pick up Plan B, but never come back with a box of condoms. Not that either of you notice. You’re too busy with your ankles on his shoulder while you hold onto his waist. He buries his face into your collarbone, occasionally dropping his head to suck on your breasts. Watching himself fill you up is a borderline fetish for him. Whenever he cums, he’ll tilt his head down and just watch how your bodies react to each other. You pulsate and occasionally clench around him, keeping him nice and warm. His cock twitches, needing to be as deep as possible whenever his load starts to shoot. Watching your gummy walls happily absorb all his load, only a few drops ever leaking out. You try to be responsible, not having sex every night, but it’s growing increasingly difficult with Clark always rolling over in bed, kissing your neck and rubbing your sides. How could you deny such a needy face. Even during foreplay, Clark used to cum from handjobs or dry humping, knowing he’d just fill up a condom or cum all over your tummy. But now, it’s like he’s saving it all up for when he’s buried inside you. Neither of you should’ve been surprised when the test was positive. Apparently, you both missed the part on the box that said it won’t work if you’re ovulating. You both should be worried, stressing about finances, but instead, you both find yourself in the same place that landed you here. On the bed, ass up, gripping the sheets while Clark kissed down your back. Guess there’s really no need for condoms anymore.
thinking about calling clark kent big boy during sex, but in a slightly condescending way.
you're riding him into the mattress, teasing him relentlessly by slowing down every time he gets too close, pinching his nipples when he squeezes his eyes shut, grinning when he inevitably lets out a whimpering 'golly'—because that's about the worst he'll say. and clark doesn't even complain, only sits there and faces your sweet torture with a small frown. he's being so good, so pliant, letting you use him exactly how you want, so you take pity. "d'you wanna come, big boy?" you coo, petting his hair. he only whines, bucking his hips in sync with the rolling of your hips. he knows better than to try and break your rhythm, so he holds back. "huh? is it too much for you?" it's sickly sweet, the way you say it, and he knows you don't really care wether it's too much for him or not, but his mind is hazy and all he can bring himself to do is cry out a pathethic, "yes!"
"look at you," you sneer, making his dick throb inside of you. "superman can't even handle a good fuck." it makes him tear up, even, and he sobs out, "i can! i can take it," but you're not convinced. you grind down om him harder. faster. meaner. testing his words. and when clark throws his head back with a loud, unrestrained moan, your smirk widens.
"i'm not sure you can, clarky," you pout at him. "you're already falling apart and we've barely even begun."
he whimpers, shaking his head frantically. he wants to be good for you, wants to hold back, but his heart is bursting at the seams. and so is his release. his fingers twist in the sheets, trying to ground himself and keep him sane, but it doesn't work very well because with a loud tearing sound, your bedsheets get ripped apart.
"clark!" you scold, but you don't stop. god, you don't stop and now clark only has two loose pieces of fabric to hold onto. so he forgoes them in favor of you, bracing his arms fully around your frame and burying his head in your chest with a sob. and you can't help but coo at him, threading your fingers through his dark curls as you bring him closer and closer to the edge. his cock twitches when you pull, and you know he's almost there. "c'mon, big boy," you moan, "let go f'me." and he does, he does. clark is crying against your chest, calling himself, "your big boy, 'm, 'm yours, yours," spilling his warm cum inside of you. and you're talking him all the way through, moaning his name as your own orgasm washes over you. "good boy, clark, my big boy, feels s' good."
so yeah, clark has developed some kind of pavlovian response to the words out of your mouth. he can't hear you say the word "big," definitely not combined with the word "boy" right behind it, without his cock twitching to life and an embarassing amount of precum staining his pants. but that's not your problem, is it?
tags/warnings: idiots in love, casual relationships not working out, tell her you love her you coward, mentions of sex, jealous ben, softer ben, ooc ben?
notes: you just know hes jealous af
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Soldier boy doesn’t do relationships.
He doesn’t do long term.
He doesn’t do needy chicks with their expectations or demands. He’s not one of those schmucks with sawdust for brains that convinces himself a crippling mortgage, three snot nosed kids, and one pussy for the rest of his life is enough.
But then you came along. And you started this thing.
He was quick to define it of course. This was private. You didn’t go out on dates. You didn’t go wailing about how you come apart on Soldier Boy’s cock every night to the slop they call newspapers today.
He even had even implemented rules for your hookups. Neither of you bitched when you couldn’t come over. He didn’t do kisses and cuddles. You got what you both needed and then you went your separate ways.
Casual.
He couldn’t let you get attached.
And he wasn’t attached either. But he was nosy. He could hear you poking around in his bathroom, getting ready for work. Rushing.
No time for a shower or makeup because he’d had you pinned beneath him, lapping at you like a man devouring his last meal, a grin tugging at his face as you protested that you absolutely had to get ready for work right until he sucked on that spot that made your eyes roll back in your head, dumb and boneless, just how he liked you.
So when your phone buzzed on his nightstand, he was curious. If anything he was hoping that you might have a text or something that would mean you wouldn’t have to leave. His cock was still hard, but you didn’t have time for that, so he was waiting until you’d gone to sort himself out. If you didn’t have to leave, well, that suited him just fine.
He leant over lifting it up off the wood until it lit up. You had a raft of notifications, but the one that had just come through was from something called Tinder.
You matched with Jack! Say hi now.
Ben frowned, though he didn’t know why. Didn’t know what that feeling inside him was either, though it sat sourly in the pit of his stomach.
As you walked out of the bathroom, unfurling your hair from your shirt as you tied it up, he slung it on the nightstand and watched you. That thing bubbled inside him until it blurted out without warning, ‘what’s Tinder?’
‘What?’ you said, stilling just a fraction. He noticed. He always did.
‘Your phone buzzed,’ he said, jutting his chin in the direction of the offending item. You looked at it and the scooped it up, checking the notification but not opening it.
‘You matched with Jack,’ he said, letting the insinuation sit in the air around you.
‘Oh it’s just a socials app,’ you lied, throwing it in your bag without looking. Soldier boy hesitated. He didn’t know much about that stuff. He’d heard about it along with all the other stuff he didn’t have a grasp on yet. But he didn’t do social media, and he avoided the whole app thing like the plague, so the phone someone had given him after he broke his first one in half out of frustration mostly served as a paperweight. But Jack still sat bitterly on his tongue.
He didn’t say anything, just sat there bare-chested, jaw tight, cock still straining under the sheets in a way he wanted you to relieve right now, though there was something behind your eyes that meant he knew you wouldn’t.
‘I um… I should go,’ you said. Soldier Boy said nothing, just nodded, pretending to be deeply interested in rolling himself a joint as you slipped out quietly.
And after that he should have let it go. He wanted to. Not because he wasn’t curious but because these days his curiosity he had found often led him to needing people. The world didn’t work the way it used to. And he hated that.
He hated that he had to ask Hughie, of all people. Hughie who’d laughed in his face and then immediately gave him that panicked look pussies got when they knew they were in trouble if they didn’t answer him correctly. He’d asked if he was wanting to expand his dating pool. Soldier Boy’s heart sank.
And then he’d locked himself in his room. Sitting. Sulking.
Thinking of you.
Thinking of you and Jack.
And yet when you’d texted, the only reason he really kept the phone around, asking if he minded you coming over after work, he hadn’t said no.
He’d been quiet though. You’d noticed that. Jaw set, eyes absent of their usual warmth when he was teasing you for needing him again so soon after this morning. He’d normally make fun of you, ask if you’d been thinking of bouncing of his cock all day. He’d whisper sweet nothings on your ear, if sweet came in the form of ‘my needy girl’ and ‘bet you soaked through your damn office chair, huh princess?’
He’d still made you come apart. Still had you writhing as you rode him, still pounded you into the mattress, finishing inside you with a heavy grunt before sliding off, rolling over, grabbing his weed off the nightstand, and busying himself with rolling a joint so he didn’t have to look at you. You noticed it, figured he was in another one of his moods, and sighed.
Feeling none of the usual softness that you’d become accustomed to was coming your way you busied yourself with getting dressed. You pulled on your shirt, untucking the hair you were sure looked like a bird’s nest out of your collar. before you moved to grab your underwear and jeans. Soldier boy watched you, admiring the curve of your ass before it disappeared behind cotton and denim.
Off somewhere else. To someone else.
‘So,’ he said, clearing his throat. You looked over expectantly, ‘what are you doing later?’
‘Nothing much,’ you shrugged.
‘Hot date, huh?’ he grunted.
‘No,’ you frowned, your eyebrows pulling together which made you look cuter than it ought to, ‘why would you think that?’
‘Your app.’
‘My what?’ you said, before it dawned on you, ‘oh.’
Soldier Boy said nothing.
‘Is that a problem?’ you asked.
‘Why would it be a problem?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ you said, ‘you’re being weird.’
‘About you fucking other dudes?’ he scoffed, ‘why would I be weird?’
‘Ben,’ you sighed.
He looked away from you, the muscle in his jaw twitching with irritation. You moved around the bed, perched yourself on the edge of it. He still wouldn’t look at you.
‘Are you jealous?’ you asked, unable to take the amusement fully out of your voice because you knew that would make him look or rather glare at you.
‘Jealous?’ he baulked, ‘why the fuck would I be jealous?’
‘I don’t know, you tell me,’ you challenged. Ben scowled and you dropped your voice lower, ‘you were the one who said that this was casual, remember?’
‘It is.’
‘Okay so you fuck other girls, right?’
Ben didn’t say anything. Because he didn’t. He hadn’t for a long while. Since about three weeks into this thing.
Since you were too tired to go home and he’d been nice enough to let you stay, already breaking his own rules. When he’d woken up, you were wrapped around him, head on his chest, lips pouted out against his skin in a way that made you look like a fish. The cutest damn fish he’d ever seen.
‘I didn’t make a date…with Jack,’ you offered quietly, ‘we messaged, but he was-’
‘A limp-dick commie.’
‘Perfectly pleasant and polite,’ you corrected, raising a scolding eyebrow at him, ‘and didn’t use phrases like limp-dick commie because he’s not a thousand years old-‘
‘Watch it.’
You smiled wryly and saw a smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. You sighed.
‘I just thought there was no harm in looking. That I should make the most of it, but you’d get bored eventually…that I should have options,’ you explained.
‘What am I, a fucking temp job?’
‘I don’t know what we are. You said you don’t do more than this,’ you said.
‘You do?’
‘I’m not stupid enough to think that when I’m fifty, I’ll wanna be going out of my mind wondering if you’re out there fucking some other woman,’ you said.
‘Are you jealous?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
Ben took a breath, searching your face.
‘Are you?’ you asked.
‘I’m not good at this.’
‘Evidently,’ you said.
‘I’ve not done the whole relationship thing,’ he started, the words feeling awkward between you.
‘Colour me surprised,’ you teased gently.
‘Not sure I’m a boyfriend material,’ he muttered.
‘You’re really selling it here,’ you joked, but when he stayed quiet, your expression softened, ‘Ben, I’m not asking you to marry me here.’
He let out a weak, quiet breath of a laugh.
‘So…what are you asking?’ he said after a minute, his voice smaller than you’d expected. Smaller than the man you found took up every inch of space, every corner of your mind, every facet of your life.
‘That we’re less casual?’
‘You don’t fuck any other guys?’
‘I didn’t fuck-’ you sighed when he raised an eyebrow, ‘okay, no other guys. That goes for you too.’
‘No other women. Got it.’
‘I meant you can’t fuck other guys,’ you teased.
‘Watch it,’ he mused. You leaned forward, allowing his hand to capture your chin, his calloused thumb rough against your skin.
Pairing - wc: David!Clark Kent x Gf!Reader - 2.4k
Summary: Clark tells you "it's fine" when you cancel on him again for work. Liar, Liar...
Tags: 18+, mdni, masturbation (m), detailed fantasy sequence (69, f + m receiving oral, p in v), Clark cums thinking about you, pussy pronouns, breeding kink, brief mention of pregnancy (no you are not) Established relationship, use of petnames (baby, hon, sweetheart), just stupid, unedited brainrot
I'll need to start tagging submissions as "finger lickin' good." gif by @ahrigifs
main masterlist | Mrs. Kent Diaries
Maybe he was in a rut.
Clark couldn't be certain, but the timing sure felt cruel. Silly. Damning. Devastating.
Like getting your period the morning of a long-planned seaside romantic getaway.
Three nights in a row, you’d called him honey-sweet and apologetic, exhaustion clearly dragging every syllable.
"It'll be another late night and early morning at work. All week, honestly." A tired yawn crackled through the receiver. "I think I’m going to crash at my place rest of the week, and see you this weekend. I’m so sorry, baby. I miss you, believe me."
Clark vehemently insisted there was nothing to apologize for, never mind the fever prickling beneath his skin, and that his cock jumped at the simple sound of your voice.
"How many times have I called you at ungodly hours for the same reasons? Deadline or disaster? Have you ever held it against me?" Was his counter, and before you replied with a deadpanned, "Actually, Clark, now that you bring it up..." He hurried on before you could finish.
He was A Man. A grown man who could survive five nights without making sweet, sweet passionate love to you.You needed to focus and rest, and he'd wait centuries to have your undivided attention if that was what loving you required. Fortunately, it was only until the weekend.
"I miss you, but most of all, I love you, sweetheart. It's fine!" All of this was said with his free hand locked around his knee, blunt nails pressing hard enough to leave pale crescents in the skin while he tried to force himself into believing it too.
But everyone knew the unspoken rule: anyone who said "it's fine!" that cheerful were liars.
.
The tension finally boiled over the second Clark stepped through his front door the following evening. He carelessly tossed his glasses and phone on his bedside table, pressed a fist to his mouth, and released a sigh heavy enough to empty his lungs.
Was it pathetic to be half-hard and aching just from missing you this badly? Or was that devotion? Yearning? Or, as Steve would undoubtedly tease with that little smirk, "whipped?"
Speaking of – Clark tugged his belt loose in a sharp tug. Dress shirt buttons followed. Zipper. Slacks shoved down his thighs, until he's whipping his cock from the confines of his slacks with a shaky, relieved sigh. The cool apartment air did nothing to help soothe the heat coursing through him.
If anything, fredom made the weight of his need more worse. The heavy pulse, the glossy bead already gathering at the slit, the way his length kicked against his stomach as though reaching for a body that wasn’t there.
He tried the cold shower first. Sensible, right? Stood under the icy spray, willing the rut to settle, willing his body to behave like the grown man he kept insisting he was. He rifled through unsexy thoughts: taxes, Perry's editorial calendar, the tamales Ma and Pa raved about when he last spoke to them.
Ninety seconds later, water was streaming over his closed eyes while every drop slipping down his chest became your fingers. Your palms spreading over his stomach. Your nails scratching lightly through the dark trail beneath his navel. Your warm mouth chasing the water lower, lower, until your knees struck tile and that pretty, wicked smile curved against the base of his cock.
He nearly broke the shower handle off with a frustrated growl, cock still brutally stiff between his legs, skin flushed crimson despite the chill.
In his haze, Clark climbed into the empty bed nude, triggering another cruel wave of reminders. Cold sheets welcomed him instead of your legs. Silence settled where your sleepy chatter should have been. No warm body curled beneath his arm. No soft complaint when he crowded too close. No hand wandering beneath waistbands because neither of you had ever been particularly convincing when pretending you only wanted to cuddle.
He stretched out across the sheets until his face buried into your pillow, inhaling the lingering scent of your shampoo, your shower gel, your favorite perfume dabbed behind your ear, you, you, you.
The scents went straight to his cock, and the urge hit like a meteor. With a pained whimper, Clark rolled onto his stomach and pressed his stiff, leaking member against the expensive sheets you bought when you first started spending the night.
Eight-hundred thread count, you’d told him proudly.
He wondered whether they were supposed to survive a sexually frustrated Kryptonian. Probably not.
.
The grinding began slowly, desperately, and experimental. Pleasure washed over him. Again, harder. Soon, wet smears marked every thrust, the motion creating a delicious friction against his sensitive tip, sharp enough to make his breath hitch.
Soon, slow wasn’t nearly enough to scratch that impossible itch.
His hips moved harder, faster, each desperate thrust leaving another damp streak across the fabric. His fists twisted into the sheets on either side of his head until the tendons rose along his wrists and the linen began to fray between his fingers. His tongue rested wetly against his bottom lip as he panted into your pillow, groaning each time his hips pressed down and the fabric dragged tightly along the underside of his cock.
The sounds spilling from him were embarrassingly primitive.
Low grunts. Broken breaths. A needy whine he would deny even under Kryptonite.
Eventually, they all melted into the only coherent thing he could say: your name.
Your name, muffled, over and over while your Clark humped the mattress in a poor attempt to fuck the fantasy of you out of his system. Bless his heart, it wasn't working.
If anything, it sharpened his hazy imagination into vivid, filthy focus. Your weight settling over him, knees planted wide on either side of his head, as you leaned forward in that sixty-nine position you’d joked about one too many times to make him suspect something.
You'd take his cock in hand with a slow stroke, press a kiss at the tip, stretching and hollowing your mouth around him until your nose brushed the heavy weight of his balls when you forced yourself deeper.
From underneath, he’d have the perfect view.
The generous curve of your plump ass hovered over his face. The delicate slope of your back arched deeper. The soft underside of your thighs framing his face while you lowered your core onto his mouth, already wet enough to leave a shining streak across his lips. His thumbs would dig into the soft flesh to keep you from clamping shut around his head while he buried his face between your legs. He would lick you messy, broad stripes through your puffy folds, sucking your clit until your hips bucked against his smothering mouth, then push his tongue into your dripping hole while the tip of his cock bruised the back of your throat.
You’d happily choke around his cock a little. The tight spasm of your throat wound squeeze the head.
Let your saliva spill down his shaft in warm, messy trails until it gathered along his happy trail, and he’d moan directly into your pussy,
"She's beautiful from this angle."
"She tastes so sweet."
"Shd clenched perfectly around my tongue just now. Please, sweetheart, please have Her do it again?"
Golly, Clark’s hips jerked hard enough to shove the mattress and frame several inches across the floor.
Continuing his fantasy, he would then coo about filling Her up so full, until She was overflowing with his come, until you were marked as his inside and out. At the same time, your mouth worked his cock with wet, sloppy determination, swallowing until your throat refused and pulling back with strings of spit still connecting your lips to the swollen tip.
He’d imagine you pulling off long enough to look over your shoulder, glassy-eyed and breathless, begging in a raspy voice to breed you, baby, put every drop where it belongs with his cum already on your tongue before he’d realize even giving it to you.
That scenario had Clark rutting faster, the bed creaking, squeaking, shifting under his barely-contained strength. His eyes suddenly flared hot with unrestrained heat vision, twin red beams scorching pinpoints through the mattress and most likely the floorboards before squeezing them shut.
Precum soaked a dark, sticky patch into the sheets beneath his cock, and his lower abdomen made every grind slick. A dark lock of hair clung to his forehead. His drool made the pillow damp against his cheek, and still.
Still, he couldn’t stop whining your name, couldn’t stop chasing the phantom sensation of your body molded along on his torso, and your slick coating his chin and dripping down his neck
Take him deeper. Sit down harder. Use his mouth.
Somehow, the fantasy deepened.
He’d pull you from his face and roll you beneath him before you finished. Your legs would be spread around his hips, knees pressed to your breasts while he lined himself up and pushed inside. He could almost feel you wet and hot around him. So, so tight after days apart that the first stroke would make both of you shake.
His mouth would cover yours while he fucked you open, tasting himself on your tongue and you on his lips. Every thrust would drive your body higher against the bed. Every needy sound you made would disappear into his mouth while the headboard struck the wall in a rhythm the neighbors could never mistake for anything else.
Mine. The word slid into the fantasy with frightening ease. My sweetheart. My girl. My perfect, exhausted Love
Spread beneath him and finally too ruined to think about anything else. Clark pictured his hand closing around your jaw, thumb slipping between your lips as he told you exactly what he intended to do.
Fill you, and keep filling you. Have my fingers gather my spend from your thighs and push it back deep before it tried to leak out again.
No matter how many times he admired the image of white from your swollen pussy, he groaned so loudly the windows trembled.
Gosh, how he wanted to breed you properly. To pin your hips down and fill you before the first load had stopped leaking.
Wanted your thighs sticky, your belly wet, the sheets beneath you soaked with both of you.
Wanted your voice exhausted because of him instead of work.
Until it stuck...or didn't.
The thought should have slowed him. Instead, it made his balls draw tight.
Did he want to watch your body change because of him? Did you? Or was this simply the rut talking? Some ugly, instinctive Kryptonian corner of him desperate to erase five lonely nights by marking you so thoroughly that even distance couldn’t make him doubt where he belonged—
With a mix of relief and disappointment, Clark came hard with a harsh cry of your name, hips jerking in short, punishing bursts as thick ropes of his spend spilled out onto the warm linen. More followed with each weakening thrust, hot come smearing along his cock and stomach as he continued to grind through the oversensitive aftershocks.
The orgasm left him shaking, heaving, and glazed in a cold sweat, drool still slick on his lips. His lips started to tingle from the real possibility of having you exactly like this on the weekend, letting him ruin you the same way he ruined these damn nice sheets, just more.
His spent cock give a weak, hopeful twitch.
.
The phone rang and Clark startled violently, eyes flying open as your name and that soft, smiling contact photo he’d taken one sleepy Sunday morning lit up the screen.
"Ahh, shoot!"
He fumbled for it, one frantic reach nearly sending the phone skidding off the table. He caught it on the second attempt and pressed it to his ear, swallowing against a throat gone dry, and breathing remained uneven.
Your suspicion came through the line immediately after his greeting."You sound funny. Everything okay?"
"Yeah—no, I’m fine." His voice cracked around the age-old lie. Clark cleared his throat, forcing something painfully casual into it. "Everything’s fine. Just… Superman duties, you know how it is. Tell me about your day."
You hummed, unconvinced, but too exhausted to press him. Instead, you continued talking, your voice low and worn-soft through the receiver, each affectionate little pause slipping beneath his skin. You told him about work, about a coworker who had nearly driven you insane, about the lunch you had forgotten to eat until far too late.
Clark listened, asked the right questions, and made the appropriate sympathetic noises between pauses. Guilt tightened his chest when you asked about his day, speaking to him in that drowsy voice you usually reserved for the minutes before falling asleep against his chest.
Unfortunately, another part of him remained painfully aware that you were lying in bed somewhere else. Perhaps wearing one of his old shirts you now claimed as yours. Perhaps curled on your side with bare thighs brushing together beneath the hem, touching the place where his body usually pressed against yours and missing him badly enough to ache too.
Clark knew better than to let his thoughts wander again, but then you called him baby once more.
His cock twitched against the cooling, sticky mess, then again. The spent length began to stiffen beneath his stomach, dragging slowly through his own come as blood rushed back into it.
Clark squeezed his eyes shut.
Your tired voice kept flowing through the phone, sweet and trusting, while he buried his face deeper into your pillow and inhaled what remained of your scent.
His hips shifted restlessly, chasing relief he had barely finished giving himself. Shame should have stopped him.
Instead, the idea that you were talking so innocently while he lay covered in his own release, getting hard again because you had called him baby of all things, made fresh need tighten low in his stomach.
Every filthy thought returned twice as vivid.
Your mouth. Your pussy. Your hoarse little plea to fill you.
How silly of him to think one damning orgasm would be enough.
Make the hot nerd Clark Kent your boyfriend? Check. Next step is to get him to actually admit that you're dating.
▸ PAIRING & WC: Nerd!Clark Kent x Popular F!Reader — 2.6K
▸ WARNINGS: Hints of explicit written implicitly (mature rating), little hurt/comfort, miscommunication
▸ A/N: felt a lil cliché!! just two goobers dating in secret and dealing with what that means :) wrote this so long ago but finally posting!
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The last thing you anticipated when you started dating Clark Kent was for him to keep you a secret. A dirty little secret. Like a stain in Clark’s perfect, good-boy-next-door, straight-A’s, teacher’s pet record.
He has personally never made you feel as such, not when you’re so head over heels with this man who’s six-four of pure mush and fluff. He says “golly” when you surprise him with something sweet and blushes into a ripe tomato when you tease him with something spicy. His glasses slip when you kiss him too long, fog up when you get him two degrees hotter under your fingertips.
You’re obsessed with him.
However, you let doubt shroud the clarity of your judgment and his feelings towards you when things like this happen.
When he swings open his dorm room door to find you standing in the hallway with the biggest, happiest grin on your face, he immediately panics and pulls you in. He sticks his head out into the hallway to check if anyone saw you. His eyes dart around every nook and cranny in search of probing gazes. It is only when he is satisfied with the quiet that he closes the door behind him with a deep sigh.
“Baby, calm down,” you laugh, dropping your bag onto the floor before coming up to him and pressing him up against his door.
“I am calm,” he says nervously and nudges his glasses up on his face again. His eyes fall to meet yours first, then drop to your lips — glossed up shiny the way he likes it, before lifting back up.
Your lips curl into an amused smirk at how red he has gotten. “Nobody saw me, Clark. Don’t worry, I’m still your dirty little secret.”
His brows furrow at your words and, before he can respond, you’re sliding your hands up his broad chest and around his neck to tug him down to meet your lips. You chase after him hungrily, eager to taste the familiar kick of bubblegum on his tongue. Clark groans into your mouth as he picks you up, your legs immediately wrapping around his torso.
You giggle when he stumbles back onto his bed, and you’re scrambling to climb and straddle his lap. He tastes as good as always. His hair is slightly damp from his fresh shower, based on his text only minutes ago when he confirmed you’re good to come over. He smells like that lavender shampoo you love, the one you left once at his place and he never returned. His skin is warm and soft, tender underneath your delicate fingertips as you trace up his arm.
Times like these, the voices in your head quiet down. You’re not two kids from two different social circles. It’s only you and Clark, and Clark and you.
Clark spends his time with people who have 4.0s and are out there ready to change the world — if not already working towards it. They are future Nobel Peace Prize winners, the kind that do not have to buy them with daddy’s money. Revolutionaries. You hear them in classrooms, answering questions in rapid fire and challenging professors with words you can barely grasp.
You, on the other hand, are surrounded by people who host tailgates and Greek parties, who are inebriated more than sober throughout the week, and have abysmal class attendance to the point of surrender from most teachers. You love them, you absolutely do, but you also understand that they aren’t ones to care about changing the world — making money and networking, sure, but not so much about the other good stuff.
The two of you might as well live on different planes of existence.
Part of it is your personal insecurity (that’s something to deal with in therapy!), but another part of you is sincerely concerned that Clark doesn’t feel as strongly about you as you do him. Sometimes, when the worries get too much, when they occupy too much space in your brain, you let the words roll off your tongue.
“Why are we still doing all this in secret, Clark?” The moan that leaves your lips is caught between both petulance and desire as Clark drags his lips down your neck, sucking little love bites onto your skin. You’ve learned that, even if he is relatively secretive of you, he loves marking his territory. Typical men.
“Dunno what you mean,” he mumbles lazily against your skin, clearly too distracted to be having this conversation. Drunk off your smell, your warmth, your skin.
You giggle when his breath tickles your skin. He slowly makes his way back up, slanting his lips over yours and nibbling on your pout. “Come on, we’ve been hiding our relationship for months. I want to go on dates with you. I could take you to parties, you said you wanted to meet more people — and, even if I don’t understand half the presentations you do on thermonuclear dynamics, I’ll still sit in the audience to support you.”
You’re fully taking advantage of the fact that Clark is distracted by the wet drag of your mouth down the column of his throat, his throat bobbing as his heart rate picks up. You’re coaxing him to give you permission with soft kisses along his jaw while he mutters incoherently, his usually big and brilliant brain taking a little more time to compute your words.
It’s satisfying, you have to admit. To have someone as big, as handsome, as smart as Clark putty in your hands. You smile quietly into his neck as you shift your hips just right, just enough to have him let out a little whine.
“If we were out in the open, I could kiss you anywhere you want. Remind everyone that you’re mine,” you hum, pleased.
“Honey,” he breathes out in a near whimper.
“So tell me, hm, what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours? Why won’t you let us go public?” You press up against him and ensure every inch of you is touching every inch of him. All you need is a teensy yes. One word from him to allow you to share this with all your friends.
For someone who shares everything with their best friends, keeping this relationship a secret has been an impossible feat. Nights you sneak away from your shared apartment. Days spent dodging questions about your whereabouts. Lying to your friends. It’s not you.
It’s not Clark’s fault. The two of you agreed to this early on; well, Clark mentioned the desire to keep it hush-hush, and you — like he is now — were too caught up in him and immediately agreed to his terms and conditions. You should’ve known better, should’ve read all the stipulations.
“Please,” he pleads, lungs devoid of any capacity for oxygen.
But please isn’t an answer. Not really. That silence is louder than anything. Your chest tightens as another fear sinks and takes root in the stiffness of your muscles. “Are you embarrassed by me?” Your voice is a tad quieter this time, a tremor in your fingers as you draw away from him.
Clark looks at you through hazy eyes, his usually bright sapphire irises clouded over into a murky blue. Confusion tugs at his brows. “Honey,” he says again.
Still not an answer.
With a heavy heart, you decide that it's best if you leave now — while you still can, while your pride is still semi-intact. Self-awareness has always been your strong suit, but self-restraint balances on the precarious line of your greatest strength and your fatal flaw. This time, you remind yourself that you know better. So you rewind your movements, reluctantly peeling yourself off him and getting to your feet.
His eyes follow you, wide and bewildered, as you gather your bag. You avoid his prying gaze. It’s easier to focus on the rough fabric of your backpack and the cool metallic touch of the doorknob on your palm. Just as you’re about to twist the door open, a hand settles against the door beside your head.
A shudder wracks through you when his lips ghost the back of your neck. His lips hover, never quite touching. “Stay,” he murmurs quietly.
Resolve, you remind yourself. You have some of that left. “I should go,” you say, with none of it.
“Stay,” he urges once again. For a man who usually babbles nonstop about whatever topic is plaguing his mind, he is a man of few words today.
“I can’t do this, Clark. I don’t want to keep hiding like this. If you’re ashamed of me—” your throat tightens, “—then maybe you should find someone who makes more sense for you.”
“Makes more sense for me,” he repeats, numb.
Before you can step away, his hands tighten on your shoulders to turn you around. Your head immediately ducks, eschewing the expression on his face that will undoubtedly be your undoing. Your resolution crumbles like sand when he uses his fingers to gently tip your chin up to face him.
Clark watches the slight quiver of your lips and searches your eyes. “Honey,” he murmurs, voice frayed, “what’s going on? Why now?”
“I don’t know, I just— I don’t understand. If you don’t want to be seen with me, why see me at all?” The words tumble clumsily from your lips as you struggle to form the syllables on your tongue.
“What makes you think I don’t want to be seen with you?” His tone is soft, almost patronizing if you didn’t know Clark any better, but you know his question comes from a point of curiosity, confusion.
Your lips twist in displeasure as you scowl up at him. His gaze smooths around the edges. “Why do you think?” There are no teeth to your words. Even when you try to protect yourself, you’ve never been able to be cruel to Clark Kent.
Clark’s lips part again, another explanation — or excuse — on his tongue.
“Don’t,” you cut in, sharper now, though your voice wavers, “I don’t want to hear it. Just… let me leave with a little pride left. If you— if you don’t want to be with me, then I don’t want this either. I deserve better than this.”
His expression splinters and shifts between confusion and hurt, and a touch of what you may mistake as love. His gaze cracks as he leans down again to capture your lips with his. He swallows your little protests, weak ones that carry no weight, and lifts you again to plant you on his desk. Relentlessly chasing after you, your love, your lips. His mouth trails fire across your skin and you are only human.
“Clark,” you exhale sharply when he kisses a particularly sensitive spot behind your ear. “Hold on. We need to— oh fuck.”
“That mouth of yours,” he mutters and steals another kiss. “I know. We need to talk. Can’t help myself when I’m with you.” The weight of his unwillingness to be apart from you is heavy in the air as you make every effort to regain control of your breathing.
“We need to talk.” It’s your turn to echo him, mostly for your own sanity.
“I love you.” The words that leave Clark’s mouth come out in such a rush that you almost get whiplash. You’re not even entirely sure that you heard him right. Judging by the flush that spreads quickly up his neck, across his cheeks, to the tips of his ears, your listening skills may be better than you think.
However, your brain is still struggling to connect the dots. There are so many questions circling through your mind, one a far cry from the next. You don’t know if this is him pulling a get-out-of-jail-free card, an easy phrase to tame the wildfires spreading in your brain.
“What?” is the only response you can muster, and it comes out as a squeak.
“I love you,” he repeats, firmer this time. He says it again and again, punctuating each word with a kiss to your temple, your cheek, your nose, your jaw. He says it like a prayer, a promise.
“W-where is this coming from?”
Clark only grins down at you, boyish in a way that makes your heart stutter against your ribs. “Think I’ve always known. I just… never found the right time to say it.”
“How is this— what are you talking about?”
“I was never ashamed of you. Never even crossed my mind.”
“Then why all the secrecy?”
Clark scratches his cheek as pink tints it again. “Well, funny you mention it,” he starts, voice dripping with apprehension. “You’re going to think it’s silly, but I never wanted you to be ashamed of me.”
“Ashamed of you?”
“You’re… really cool. Like really cool. You’re completely out of my league and every day I question why you’re even seeing me,” Clark swallows thickly, “I keep waiting for the day you realize that you deserve better and I thought we were doing both of us a favor if you want to end things clean. No mess, no fuss since nobody would know about us in the first place.”
“Clark,” you scold as your brows pucker disapprovingly.
He ducks his head and presses his temple against yours, closing his eyes as his chest rises with a deep inhale. “I love you, I do. I realize now that I’ve been stupid for making you feel that way, because that’s the last thing I want you to feel. Never want you to doubt my feelings for you.”
Tilting his head, he kisses you — swift and chaste. Sweet, just like him. “I guess we’ve both been incredibly silly then,” you laugh against his lips.
Clark picks you up again, easily, for that matter. His strength sends a shiver up your spine. He brings you back to his bed and lets you fall back, limbs sprawled comfortably across his mattress. The sight of you just like this, exposed but not vulnerable, has molten lava traveling through his veins.
He traces his fingers up your stomach, revealed from where your shirt has ridden up, towards your sternum, over the hem of the lace clinging onto your body like second skin. Clark proceeds to spend the next thirty minutes or so — he doesn’t quite know, time is abstract when he’s with you — worshipping every single inch of you.
Distracted by everything that is you, he misses the door swinging open until he hears a cry that immediately has him faltering, his large frame covering every exposed piece of you. You don’t seem frazzled, instead looking over his shoulder with an amused quirk of your lips.
Lex has a hand slapped over his eyes, blindly grabbing around his desk before his fingers catch the corner of his laptop. They immediately latch onto it and drag it towards him. “Fucking hell, Clark, warn a man,” he snaps as he shoves his laptop against his chest.
“I thought you had calc at this time!”
Lex smartly chooses not to respond, instead reaching for the door on his way out. “Next time, put a sock on the door!”
Color spreads quickly across his face and you can’t help but drink in how pretty he looks all red. “Think Lex will tell anyone?” You muse, more entertained than anything.
Clark rolls his eyes with a grin, leaning down to capture your lips again. “Can’t care less. Now, where were we?”
the thought of reader being bored while cuddling naked with clark so she starts using his cock as a pretend microphone for her to speak into
being silly and domestic and comfy with him in bed, teasing him by crawling to the end to be aligned with his soft cock and having fun with it….. miming that you’re peeling him like a banana and pulling his foreskin down…… tapping on it like a microphone with the “is this thing on” line….. pretending his cock is your toothbrush and rubbing it against your teeth like you’re brushing and clark just laughs and whines at you playfully to stop when you know he likes it cause he’s getting hard. minutes later he’s bouncing you up and down while you’re in reverse cowgirl and it’s not funny anymore cause you’re both too distracted to giggle while you fuck each other so fast and so hard
You would never think of it since Clark does have a humanoid appearance, but his dick proves just how much of an alien he is. When you first saw it, you weren't sure if you could even take a dick like his. His manhood stood proudly at almost eight inches, so thick that your fingers almost can't wrap around it. It's so heavy that it isn't even able to stand up on its own, just twitching against his meaty thighs. Curved in a way that's supposed to hit your g spot on the first try.
And that's not even the freaky part! His dick has these grooves along the shaft that'll lightly buzz inside of your cunt when he's close to cumming. And when he does shoot his insanely large load inside of you, those grooves turn into soft hooks that catch the walls of your vagina, not allowing him to pull out. You'll think that'll hurt like hell, but somehow it feels freakishly amazing.
Then his cock has the nerves to knot you! A glowing bulge forming at the end of his shaft. Slowly stretching you out, making sure none of his fertile cum doesn't spill out of you. And you remember when I said insanely large load? Yeah. Clark has severe hyperspermia, with huge amounts coming every time, his load lasting for about three to five minutes. White, thick, greedy cum shooting into your womb and coating your walls white. You'll have pools of cum coming out of you, and it's such a pain to clean (luckily Clark offers to help you out). Clark can't even get in pants with his crouch being soaked in seconds for the huge volume of pre cum.
Should I make a fic with all the weird and freaky alien things about Clark? If you likey feel free to request * wink wink*
