Graves. they/she. non-binary femme. queer. latine. twenty-six. witch. filthy southern leftist. lover of the macabre. multifandom. write smut and fluff alike. MDNI: mature content, enter at your own risk. enjoy your stay.
who I write for + masterlists, about me, roleplay with my ST OC, or roleplay with my post Vecna Eddie!
AO3 - contains these works and more (working on updating fully)
I don't know who my intended audience is here, so whoever needs to hear this, I am begging you to learn to participate in conversations that are about things you aren't interested in.
Part of socializing and having friends is being a good listener even when you don't actually give a shit about the subject.
Your are hurting other people's feelings when you bluntly respond with "Anyway..." and then change the topic.
It can not always be about your preferred topic.
You are being rude. Yes, even if you are neurodivergent. You can be both autistic and rude.
He’s in aisle 7, staring at the rows of cereal boxes like they hold the secrets to the universe, when he notices you two shelves over. He keeps seeing and noticing you around the neighborhood.
Right now, you’re humming softly to yourself, reaching for a box of protein oatmeal on the top shelf.
The motion pulls your shirt up just enough to show a soft strip of skin above your jeans, and Simon’s brain stutters.
Not because of the skin—he’s seen worse, seen better, seen blood and bone and worse things than a bit of midriff—but because you’re so… soft. Curvy and squishy. Comfortable in your body in a way that makes his chest do something strange.
He looks away quickly. Too quickly. Knocks a box of Corn Flakes off the shelf with his elbow. It thuds to the floor.
You turn at the sound.
Eyes meet.
Simon freezes.
You flash a smile—small and shy, but real. Then you reach into the pocket of your cardigan, pull out a folded piece of paper no bigger than a Post-it, and walk over.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t dare to breathe; cursing himself internally for leaving his balaclava off today like his therapist asked him to.
You stop in front of him, close enough that he can smell which laundry detergent you use along with a whiff of your perfume, and you hold the note out between two fingers.
“For you,” you say quietly, a little unsure and shaky.
Simon stares at the paper like it might explode.
You wait a few seconds seconds, cheeks growing hot, and carefully tuck it into the front pocket of his hoodie when he doesn’t take it.
“Have a nice day,” you mumble, ducking your head.
Then you turn and walk away, pushing your trolley toward the produce section like nothing happened.
And Simon stands there for a full minute, cereal box still on the floor, heart slamming against his ribs like it’s trying to escape him.
He finally reaches into his pocket. Unfolds the note with careful fingers.
Scrawled in neat, looping handwriting, he reads:
You’re the most handsome man I’ve seen all week! :) ♡
There’s a tiny smiley face at the end.
And a little heart.
Simon’s throat closes while he reads it again.
And again; tawny eyes scanning and memorizing the words and your handwriting.
His ears burn. His palms sweat inside his gloves. His stomach flips in a way that has nothing to do with hunger.
He looks up.
You’re at the end of the aisle now, comparing two bags of apples, completely oblivious to the fact that you just broke him.
Simon folds the note carefully, and tucks it into his tattered wallet—right behind his military ID, where no one else will ever see it.
He doesn’t buy cereal that day, but apples instead.
Two bags. The same kind you were holding.
Simon is allergic to apples.
When he gets home to his flat, he sits on his couch, still in his coat, and pulls the note out again, stares at the little smiley face.
Then—slowly—he smiles; small and crooked, but real.
He tucks it back into his wallet.
Tomorrow, he thinks, tomorrow he’ll find you again. And maybe—just maybe—he’ll try and figure out how to say thank you properly without sounding like a complete fucking idiot.
Simon ends up writing a note that night, just in case his social awkwardness will betray him.
pairing: clark kent x f!reader | genre: smut | wc: 1k
summary: clark’s too pussy drunk to care that there’s an alien invasion in the city.
warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), established relationship, needy!clark, unprotected sex (p in v), riding, overstimulation, possessiveness, mild praise kink, clark ignoring superman duties, reader called "baby"
Clark had his hands on your hips, but he wasn’t guiding you anymore—he was holding on. Fingertips pressing deep into your skin like he needed the anchor, like without it, he might float up and out of himself. You were soaked, your thighs slick and trembling as you rode him, dragging his cock deep and tight with every roll of your hips.
His head was tipped back into the pillow, jaw slack, breath catching every time you sank down.
He groaned, voice wrecked. “You feel so good—baby, I…”
The rest got lost somewhere between a moan and a breathless sound, the kind he only made when he was too far gone to think straight. You could feel the way he throbbed inside you, thick and desperate, every pulse of him tightening as you moved just enough to keep him there, not enough to let him go.
And he looked ruined.
Hair damp, curls sticking to his forehead. Lips parted. Chest rising fast as he tried to breathe through it. You’d seen Clark focused. Seen him furious, calm, sweet, in control.
But this—this was something else entirely.
You moved slower just to feel the way he twitched beneath you, his cock so hard inside you it ached. He tried to lift his hips, tried to chase your rhythm, but the sound that left him was rough and shaky.
“Please,” he managed, voice breaking. “I—just… please.”
Please what?
He didn’t even know. Didn’t care.
He was drunk on you, overwhelmed, his whole body shaking with how badly he wanted to come and how hard he was trying not to. You leaned forward just enough for your chest to brush his, and he whimpered, hips bucking without meaning to. It made you both gasp.
Just as you were both getting lost in it—
The world reminded you it still existed.
A sudden flash lit up the room. Bright and blue, sharp as static, cutting in through the gap in the curtains. It caught the curve of your back first, then spilled across the sheets in a stuttering burst of light.
You barely registered it at first.
Just a flicker. Just noise.
Then came the sound. Distant, but deep—an explosion, low and heavy, like thunder breaking over the skyline.
You blinked once, then twice, chest tightening as your body tried to stay focused, stay with him, stay inside the heat still rolling between your hips.
But your mind followed the chaos.
You looked toward the window.
Another flash came. Brighter this time.
You caught movement. Then more light. More sound. Something was happening—out there, past the glass, the city flashing with too many colors. You didn’t know what it was. Didn’t have to. You just knew the look of it. The weight of it.
Trouble.
The kind that called for him.
But that wasn’t the problem.
The problem was that Clark wasn’t moving.
He wasn’t listening, wasn’t turning toward the noise. Wasn’t tensing to go, to suit up, to fly.
He was still beneath you. Still buried deep. Still trembling as he held you tighter, chest rising fast, jaw clenched like he was trying to block it out. The light kept flashing. The sounds kept building. But he didn’t stop.
You opened your mouth.
“Cla—”
He shook his head once, sharp and fast, like he couldn’t stand to hear what you were about to say.
“Don’t,” he rasped, the word rough and splintered as he dragged you back down onto him, hard.
The sudden depth tore a gasp from your throat, swallowed almost instantly by the sound he made—low and guttural, like it had been ripped straight from his chest. His head pressed harder into the pillow, neck taut, the muscles there straining as his throat worked around the noise that rumbled through him.
He tried to speak again—something broken and half-formed about the Justice Gang, about how they could handle it—but the words fell apart the second your body clenched around him.
Whatever point he was trying to make instantly unraveled into a groan.
Another explosion ripped through the night, rattling the walls. Clark didn’t even flinch. He only held you tighter, his thrusts turning ragged, hungrier.
“Please,” he breathed, the word cracked and frayed. “Don’t stop. You don’t know how—how good you feel.”
The words tumbled out between moans, each one softer, more ruined than the last. He couldn’t stop. He didn’t try. His breath came hard and uneven, every exhale a mix of whimpers and praise as your hips rolled over his.
He kept begging you to keep going, and you tried—God, you tried—but he wouldn’t let up. His hands stayed anchored to your hips, dragging you down harder, faster, forcing you to match the rhythm only he seemed to know. Each movement pulled a sound from him that sounded too raw, too human for someone the world saw as a god.
Your body trembled, thighs shaking from the effort, from the slick heat between you, from the way he wouldn’t stop. The room filled with it—his groans, your gasps, the sound of your bodies colliding again and again until it drowned out everything else.
Outside, the city flashed. The sirens screamed. The night roared.
But inside, under you, Clark was gone. Nothing more than a pussy-drunk mess, stammering through moans about how perfect you felt, how he couldn’t get enough, how he needed more.
Every breath was a plea, every word a surrender. His eyes stayed on you like he couldn’t look away, pupils blown, mouth parted, wrecked beyond reason.
Whatever battle raged beyond those walls would have to burn without him.
Because right now—
Superman was fighting a battle of his own.
One he had no intention of winning.
please do not repost, copy, or claim my work as your own.
if you want to be tagged in my future posts, comment or message me! i’m happy to do it! :) just let me know if you want all works or just for specific characters <3
TW: smut, major dirty talk but in a very Clark way, talk of/active oral and fingering, this one is so cutie y’all
MASTERLIST
Clark Kent is a good man.
Well, okay, duh. Obviously he’s a good man. He’s Superman, that’s kind of his whole gig. But it’s more than that…
He’s the guy who tells delivery drivers to “be safe out there.” The kind of man who stops and smiles at a group of pigeons eating pizza on the sidewalk. Who offers to carry groceries for little old ladies and help them across the street. Who blushes when you compliment the way he styles his hair.
“S’just a little water,” he shrugs, tugging at his collar like he’s never had anyone look at him like that before even though you’re certain that every woman whose path he’s ever crossed has ogled him.
You’ve seen him hold open doors for moms with strollers. Watched him hand a crumpled five to a kid running a lemonade stand in 65-degree weather. Stood to the side while he greeted a random golden retriever with genuine sincerity in his voice when he told it, “you’re doing a great job, pal.”
You’re not sure when it first hit you. Maybe it was the fourth time he apologized to the lamp in your living room that he always bumped with his shoulder. Or maybe it was when he whispered “hi, babies” to a nest of robins right outside the door to your building.
He’s warm. Big and strong and so stupidly good. You used to think it had to be a performance. Some overcorrected Kansas-boy thing. But it’s not. That’s just Clark.
And yet—
The second the front door closes behind you, his hand is on your lower back, that ever present smile goes (somehow) softer around the edges.
“Been thinking about you all day,” he murmurs, and it’s not even what he says—it’s how he says it. Like the thought’s been an ache.
And then he kisses you.
Deep. Sure. His hand spans the middle of your back, pulling you in close like he can’t get enough. The coat slips from your shoulders, your purse thuds to the floor, and his mouth moves like he’s been starved for it—like it’s the only thing that kept him sane all day.
Then he whispers—
“You were so wet for me last night. I could still taste you this morning.”
You go still.
And then your knees nearly give out.
“Clark,” you whisper.
He falters—like he hadn’t meant to say any of that. He pulls back slightly, breath fanning your cheek.
“I probably shouldn’t have said that out loud,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry.”
You grab his shirt, already breathless when you shake your head. “Keep going.”
He stares at you like he’s never heard anything so devastatingly good in his life.
“You want me to?”
You nod, lips parting.
His mouth brushes yours, barely there. His hands are warm against your waist.
“I woke up hard this morning thinking about how soft and wet you were last night… just from my fingers. Gosh, honey—”
You gasp—because he says it like that. Not dirty, not cocky. Just so honest.
Just so Clark.
Your head hits the wall with a soft thud and you try to find words, but then his hand is sliding up your shirt, dragging his palm over your ribs, over the swell of your breast like he’s been waiting to do this.
You whimper. A high pitched, desperate little sound.
Clark hums like he’s delighted. And also embarrassed by how delighted he is.
One hand lifts your thigh around his waist, and his other drags the hem of your shirt higher, until his knuckles are brushing your bare hips.
“I had to jerk off in the shower just to calm down enough to look you in the eye at breakfast without taking you on the counter.”
You moan into his mouth, clutching his arms for balance.
“God, Clark—”
“You looked so pretty pouring your coffee. You always look pretty. But jeez—wearing my shirt, all soft-eyed and sleepy, and all I could think about was how good you sounded last night when I had you coming on my face.”
And just like that, you’re gone.
Helpless. Heart pounding. Writhing against him.
His hand drops between your legs, finds your core under your panties, and groans when he feels how soaked you are.
“Golly, sweetheart,” he breathes. “You’re gonna make me lose my mind.”
You reach for his belt like it’s the only thing you can do to keep upright.
It’s not fast, but it’s not slow either. It’s the kind of desperate need that’s been simmering all day. He kisses you through the first thrust like it’s an apology for making you wait this long—like he can’t believe he gets to have you again.
And even when he’s inside you, he still sounds so fucking sweet.
“You feel so good. I don’t ever wanna be anywhere but inside you.”
“Been thinking about this since I left this morning. Couldn’t stop.”
“I don’t just wanna have you, sweetheart—I wanna keep you forever.”
You come undone beneath him, hand fisting in the back of his shirt, and he cradles your head like you’re breakable even as you tremble around him.
And then he gasps, stutters, loses rhythm. He whimpers, honest to God whimpers, and buries himself deep with a whispered “oh gosh, baby, I—”
When your breathing finally settles and your back slides down the wall just a little, legs still shaky, Clark kisses the top of your head.
Then, almost shyly:
”…Sorry if I was talking too much.”
You look up at him—lips swollen, clothes askew, skin flushed—and grin.
His cheeks are flushed, curls a mess, and he looks genuinely concerned that maybe he’d said something he shouldn’t.
“Clark,” you whisper, pulling him back in for another kiss, “if that was too much, I hope you never learn moderation.”
He laughs—soft, bashful, and bright.
Then he glances toward the window, where a pigeon’s landed on the fire escape.
“Oh hey there, little guy,” he says with a grin, before turning back to you with what you think has got to be the sweetest smile on earth.
And that’s the thing—he is Superman. But he’s also the man who talks to pigeons and makes you come apart every night like it’s his life’s mission.
That’s the man you fell in love with—every good, impossible, perfect inch of him.
• Read more from me here •
DC @wwvvii @never-brooks @deans-yn @ohperiodtpoohhh @lunaleah @httpstoyosi @xanaxiii
WICKED GAMES…… sitting on your boyfriend’s lap proves a bigger issue than you thought
18+ MDNI
🏷️ fem!reader,hands free orgasm,sub!clark [0.6k]
You’re sitting on his lap leaning over the open laptop sat on the kitchen table,scrolling through a news article he called you over to show you and he’s calling on every power in the universe to help him not blow his load right here and now. You’re wearing those pj shorts that he wants banned from the house for this exact reason,the ones that your ass practically swallows up and leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. Maybe if he just doesn’t look and keeps thinking about anything else he can play this off,maybe if he thinks about work yeah wor- oh god oh god why do you keep moving like that? Do you really need to be squirming so much to read an article? You’ve got to be able to feel him through his flannel pyjamas,surely? If he looks down he can see the outline of his cock nestled between your ass cheeks. He wants the ground to open up and swallow him,what was wrong with him? You must think he’s some sort of pervert,you can’t even sit on his lap without all the blood in his body rushing to his cock. It’s pathetic,he can feel his cheeks heating up as he thinks of you maybe pulling your shorts down,maybe even slipping him out of his pants,lining him up to your entrance and sinking down on him. You wouldn’t even have to move,he’d be happy just to feel your walls gripping around him,fluttering and twitching trying to accommodate his size,you’re always so tight and so warm and so we- what is your deal?! You’re doing it on purpose,you must be,each shift of your hips,the arch of your back as you place your elbows on the table in front of you,you’re torturing him! It’s embarrassing,mortifying really at how close he is,how he can feel his balls tightening with each little wiggle of your ass,how much he wants to thrust up into your softness and make a mess of himself. What would you say to him if you felt the wet patch start to bloom across his pants,would you scold him? Tell him he’s disgusting? Make him clean up the mess by wetting your fingers with it and have him lick them clean? Would you sink down on him anyway,ride him to another orgasm while his sticky cum clings to your thighs? He loves that sound,the thwap thwap thwap of your bodies meeting while he thrusts up into you,your arousal dripping down his balls. Would feel so good, so good “feels so good”. The words escape his throat before he can even register them,a pathetic whine as he ruts himself into you,one,twice. That’s all he needed,just that little bit of friction to have him soaking himself. “s’good s’good” he moans out,sitting up to wrap his arms around your body,pulling you back towards his chest,hands squeezing anywhere they can. He would apologise later,beg for forgiveness for being such a disgusting pervert,sink to his knees in front of you and take anything you wanted to give him but right now he needs to fuck up into you and cry into your ear as his body goes into overdrive,soaked cock twitching and already half hard again.
foreword: just wanted to play with a southern gothic catholic fleabag-style priest eddie in my barbie sandbox dont mind me… blurb and moodboard slapped together. et voila
cw for religious themes and also blasphemy :) smut, mdni
+++
Tennessee heat makes everything shimmer.
Wide, flat plains with golden grasses quaver in the afternoon sun as you push through the front doors of the church. The hinges creak, and the lock slides into place under your fingers- clean as always.
It is dark and cool as you walk between the pews. Candles flicker from the end of every aisle, and from the sconces set into the confessional booth.
You slip behind the heavy red curtain. The padded bench remembers your shape, forms to your weight.
To your left, a creak, a sigh. Only the patterned wood divider separates you and Father Eddie.
It’s warm in the booths, air heavy with summer and incense. You can hear every minute noise he makes- every stretch of spine, every rise and fall of breath.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” You practiced on the way over, silk ribbon pulling through your fingers all the while. “It’s been four days since my last confess-”
“Five days.” Father Eddie’s voice is low, smooth as the pink fabric wound around your knuckles. “Five days, my angel. I’ve counted.”
“Forgive me.” It comes out as gently and meekly as planned, though you’re sure he can hear the smile in your tone. “Five days, then. How very sinful of me.”
“Don’t fret. I’m feeling rather gracious, today.” There’s a soft rustling, then the noise of a metallic zipper. Father Eddie hisses through his teeth. “How ‘bout you tell me your sins.”
The pink ribbon flutters to the floor as your hand slips beneath the waistband of your skirts. “Well, Father- there’s been an awful lot of lust.”
“Shit.” The expletive is out before he can smother it.
You want to poke fun at the obvious blasphemy, but you’re too wet to think properly. Your head tips into the back wood paneling with a thunk. “And fantasies, Father- so many of them, plaguing me day and night.”
The slick noise of your fingers against your cunt joins the sound of Eddie’s fist around his cock.
He’s panting already, and you wish you could see it. The sheen of sweat under his bangs, dripping into his stiff collar. The cleft in his lower lip, prone to cracking and bleeding in this heat.
Last Sunday it split while he was preaching at the pulpit. A droplet of ruby red sat unnoticed for a whole ten minutes, clear as day from the back row.
You had to excuse yourself to the cramped bathroom to do exactly what you’re doing now.
“Tell me,” Eddie begs, breathless. The light through the divider shifts as he settles more heavily against the bench. “Tell me all of it.”
