in honor of this account hitting 200 “subscribers” (now almost 300 😉), i wanted to do something a little more interactive.
the fic for this event will be set as a livestream of clark, where he’ll be reacting to your comments… among other things 😏
how to participate:
send in anything you’d leave in a livestream comment section. you can:
comment below
or send an ask (anon is on!)
for variety, feel free to include:
• thirsty comments
• teasing comments
• bold / demanding comments
• shy ones
i’ll try to include as many as i can. if yours doesn’t make it in, don’t worry—if you guys enjoy this, i’ll definitely bring it back for another round! submission deadline: 3/31!
don’t want to see this kind of content? feel free to block these tags: #pornstar!clark #kwtgd #kentwithgooddick
warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), rough sex, multiple positions, porn with very little plot, oral (f! receiving), overstimulation, dominance/power-play, unprotected sex (filming context), nsfw themes + language.
Everyone in the industry knows the two of you can’t stand each other. It’s practically lore at this point. Two rising stars, two inflated egos, two sets of fans who swear their fave would destroy the other on camera.
Somewhere between swirling rumors and climbing charts, you and Clark had silently declared each other the enemy.
He thinks you’re arrogant.
You think he’s insufferable.
You both insist you’ve never watched the other’s videos, but the truth sits nasty and hot in your chest...
You absolutely have.
More than once.
More than you’d ever admit.
For years, your names have been paired on rankings, fan polls, and trending searches, pushed together whether you liked it or not, fueling the one refrain the industry wouldn’t shut up about:
You two need to film.
It would blow the numbers.
Break the internet.
Maybe even break each other.
Today, they finally got their wish.
Your agents both pitched the same message—
“One scene. Short shoot. Top-tier marketing.”
Clean, polished, easy to swallow. Clark didn’t like it. You straight up despised it. But it was the job, and the job didn’t care about your pride, your rivalry, or the way your stomach tightened at the idea of sharing a frame with him.
So you showed up anyway.
The set was ready: lights warm, cameras fixed, crew bored out of their minds. Call time quickly came and went. You stayed on standby, finishing your second bottle of water and pacing like you were determined to wear a groove into the floor.
Finally, he walked in.
Late.
Clark Kent was never late. Your agent had mentioned it more than once, swearing it was proof he was “a consummate professional,” like that was supposed to make you forget how much you hated a man you barely knew.
Which meant him being late today had to be intentional. A power play. A middle finger. A provocation.
Your irritation spiked the moment you saw him. He didn’t bother apologizing. You didn’t bother letting him think it mattered.
The two of you took your marks for the briefing, standing a careful distance apart. Close enough for the director’s sake, far enough that a silent boundary held firm.
Not a single glance exchanged. Not even a flicker.
The tension was immediate. Thick. Palpable.
And it only got worse the second the cameras started rolling.
You slipped into position like the professional you were. Smile on. Posture loose. Voice bright and playful as the director called action.
The script was ridiculous. Some overdone scenario where he’s chasing you through a house, all flirt and smirk, the kind of setup that magically dissolves into something far less innocent five minutes later.
You darted down the hallway on cue. He followed, steps measured, controlled. It was choreography disguised as spontaneity.
The scene carried straight into the bedroom set waiting for it. Predictable. Overlit. Sheets already half-tugged loose for effect.
He caught you right on cue.
His hand closed around your wrist, momentum turning into grip, pulling you back toward him like the script demanded. Your palms slid up his arms in sync with the breathy laugh you were paid to give. Still, it sounded believable.
Clark delivered his line like it was nothing, tone smooth, expression teasing and camera-ready. You answered with heat dialed in exactly to the industry’s standards. Chin angled. Shoulders rolled. Eyes locked just long enough to sell it.
Every movement measured.
Every reaction intentional.
He kept his jaw loose, even though you could see the muscle flexing beneath the skin when he thought no one would notice. You swallowed the eye roll that wanted to surface when he smirked a little too convincingly. Your fingers pressed into his arms right on cue, nails grazing skin in a way that read playful on screen. His grip settled at your waist because that’s what the script called for.
Professional. Composed. Clean.
But the air between you was anything but.
Clark kept going, leaning into the next line like he was supposed to. His hand stayed fixed at your waist, guiding you toward the next physical cue. You were meant to drift backward toward the bed in a slow, teasing retreat. But when his voice dipped—smooth and practiced, eyes tracking over you exactly the way the cameras liked—you let the eye roll slip.
Not a twitch. Not a blink-and-miss-it moment.
A full, unapologetic, slow drag upward and away.
Clark stopped mid-word.
The shift was tiny, but the air tightened as if the room recognized what was about to happen. His hand stayed at your waist because the choreography kept it there, but his attention snapped to you with a focus that had nothing to do with the scene.
“Something you want to add?” he asked, voice low but clipped.
You didn’t bother hiding the bite in yours. “Yeah. Maybe try delivering your lines without sounding like you’re doing everyone a favor.”
He exhaled through his nose, a sound sharp enough to cut. “Right. Because you’re the picture of humility.”
You scoffed and drifted backward, staying on your mark.
“You act like you invented the whole damn industry. The standard, right? Isn’t that what you tell yourself?”
Clark’s jaw ticked, a short flick beneath his cheek, but he didn’t break stride. He followed in lockstep as you retreated, like nothing was wrong, like your attitude wasn’t digging under his skin. His body aligned with yours in a seamless, camera-perfect sweep.
“Maybe I just know what I’m doing,” he said, the smoothness gone, tone edged and tight.
“Oh, you definitely think you do.” You huffed a laugh under your breath.
That was the last thing out of your mouth before his landed on yours.
It was scripted. The timing, the angle, the lean-in. All part of the choreography.
But the roughness?
That was all him.
His mouth hit yours hard—nothing polished, nothing performative. Just a blunt, punishing crush meant to be felt. His hand dragged up your side in the same rough rhythm, fingers digging in, not coaxing but hauling you closer, angling you exactly where he wanted you so the camera caught every second of it.
The director shifted forward in his seat, elbows braced on his knees.
He didn’t stop anything.
No one did.
The camera operators adjusted their rigs with silent precision while you and Clark stayed locked together, mouths fused, kissing like you were trying to hurt each other. Every shift pulled you tighter together, exactly the opposite of the soft seduction the script had planned.
Clark’s hand dropped from your waist to your shirt hem right on cue, but the execution was vicious. He yanked it up in one brutal pull, knuckles scraping your stomach. The breath that punched out of you made him press his mouth harder to yours, like he meant to chase the sound back into your throat.
It pissed you off instantly.
The shirt cleared your head, leaving you in nothing but your bra, and Clark didn’t spare it a single glance. He didn’t even try for professionalism—just whipped it aside in a careless, irritated toss that sent it sliding across the studio floor.
His mouth stayed glued to yours, hot breath mixing with yours as he spoke against your lips. “I think I work hard.”
He punctuated the words with another kiss, deeper and rougher than the first, forcing your head back with the pressure of it. His hands clamped at your hips again and shoved you backward toward the bed, the firmness of the contact nowhere in the blocking. You stumbled a step, catching yourself only because he followed, chest pressed tightly to yours.
“You’re the one acting like you’re too good to be here,” he pressed out against your lips, voice strained.
You dragged your hands up his torso for the script’s sake, but the fistful of his shirt was pure spite. One hard pull forced him to break the kiss for a single breath, just enough time for you to rip the shirt over his head. The second it cleared his shoulders, he was on you again, mouth crashing back into yours. You threw the shirt somewhere behind him without even seeing where it landed.
His mouth slid off yours and straight to your neck, not a pause, not a breath between. You jolted when he hit that spot just under your jaw, the one you hated giving away, your voice hitching before you could stop it.
“You’re full of shit,” you breathed, trying to stay steady while his mouth kept working your throat. “Half your performances look like you’re trying to prove something.”
He didn’t ease up. His lips dragged along your jaw in a rough, messy glide, the kind that smeared heat rather than placed kisses. “That so?”
You shoved at his shoulder, but he only followed the movement, dropping back to your neck with harsher, hungrier kisses.
“So you’ve watched my videos then?” he said against your skin, the words low and pointed, like he already knew the answer.
The shift hit your stomach like a punch.
“That’s not what—”
He cut you off, crushing his mouth into yours with a forceful, breath-stealing press. His tongue was on you instantly, all pressure and challenge, like he meant to dominate the space inside your mouth too.
He walked you backward without breaking the pace of the kiss, forcing you to stumble with each step until your legs hit the edge of the bed.
“I’ve seen yours too,” he muttered against your lips, breath hot and uneven as he snapped your bra clasp open.
He didn’t even look at the garment—just peeled it off and tossed it onto the bed behind you, fingers already back on your skin.
“And?” you demanded, not because you cared, not because his opinion mattered, but because you were ready to tear into whatever came out of his mouth next.
He stilled above you, eyes narrowing just slightly before he spoke. “And you’re real dedicated to those high-pitched moans. Almost sell them, too.”
Your blood went hot. “Fuck you.”
He let out a quick, humorless huff, almost mocking, while he snapped open the button of your pants—another cue you couldn’t avoid. His fingers brushed your skin when he dragged them down, rough and impatient, his voice dropping at the same time.
“You fake it like it’s your day job.”
“It is my day job,” you spit back, flicking the pants away with a sharp kick as soon as he stripped them off you.
He straightened, crowding into your space, breath hitting your mouth.
“Then try harder.”
The words were still hanging between you when he kissed you again—rough, immediate—driving you backward. His hands were already sliding down your thighs, fingers biting in, and before you could register the shift he lifted you. Your balance snapped, the dynamic flipping in one clean motion as he dropped you to the mattress, the impact knocking the breath from your chest.
Your hands went to him on instinct, grabbing at his shoulders, pulling him in because the scene demanded closeness, but he didn't give you space for anything else. He kissed you through every inhale, every half-spoken word, mouth rough and insistent as he closed the rest of the distance, fitting himself between your thighs. His hips rolled once—slow, taunting—and the pressure forced a sound out of you before you could stop it.
Clark swallowed the sound in another messy kiss, lips slick, teeth catching as his hands dragged over you, grabbing whatever he could reach. You weren’t gentle either—your nails scraped over his shoulders and down his spine, catching on heat and skin. Nothing about it was controlled; it was all messy and hungry, fueled by irritation neither of you bothered hiding.
He moved without warning, mouth tearing from yours to close over your throat, the change as sharp as the heat he left behind. He didn’t pause or savor; he bit and sucked his way lower, each mark a quick, punishing claim that left your skin flushed and burning.
Your breasts caught his mouth next. His tongue slid over sensitive skin, his teeth scraping lightly around your nipple, just enough pressure to make your back arch in spite of yourself. He moved on fast, kissing down the center of your stomach in hot presses that felt more like claims than anything meant for camera.
At your hips, he hooked his fingers into your underwear and dragged them down in one uninterrupted motion, the sudden chill replacing the heat of his hands. He didn’t even watch them fall. He just kept moving, mouth trailing lower before he slipped off the mattress and dropped to his knees.
His grip found your thighs a second later—tight, claiming. He hauled you forward in a single pull, your body hitting the edge of the bed with a jolt that forced your legs open under him.
He didn’t hesitate. Not for a second.
He went down on you like he meant to ruin you fast, mouth working in quick, hungry strokes that felt messy and deliberate at the same time. His tongue pushed into every soft place, his mouth dragging over you with heat that bordered on mean. It hit you immediately. Hard. A sound climbed up your throat before you could stop it, loud and raw, nothing like the controlled moans you gave on camera.
Clark pulled back just enough to speak, breath hot against you, voice rough from how hard he was working.
“So that’s what you sound like when you’re not faking.”
You opened your mouth, ready to snap something back, but you barely got a syllable out.
He sucked you into his mouth again, harder this time, tongue curling exactly where you were most sensitive. The shock of it tore another sound from you, louder than the first. His grip tightened on your thighs, holding you wide, refusing to let you move even an inch out of his reach.
Your voice cracked as another moan broke free. Overstimulation was already clawing at you, rising fast, coiling low in your stomach with almost embarrassing urgency. Five minutes of a scene and he had you shaking.
You reached down, fingers tangling in his hair in a desperate attempt to ground yourself. You meant to guide him. Maybe pull him back. Anything to regain a hint of control.
Except, Clark wasn’t phased in the slightest.
If anything, the second your fingers tangled in his hair, he doubled down. A low, hungry moan vibrated against you, shooting straight through your core. His tongue pushed deeper, relentless and greedy, his mouth working over you in a way that made your thighs tense.
His grip tightened on you, holding you exactly where he wanted you. No shifting. No escape. He kept you open for him, kept you locked down while he devoured you like he’d been waiting to do it all day.
And he didn’t stop.
The cameraman stepped in for the close-up, expecting controlled, pretty footage. Instead he caught the raw mess of it: your thighs trembling, Clark’s mouth buried between them, his shoulders tensing as he ate you out like he needed it more than air. The wet drag of his tongue. The sound of his breath. The way your fingers convulsed in his hair.
It was too much. Too fast. Too focused.
Your orgasm slammed into you before you even had a chance to think about fighting it. It ripped through you in a hot, uncontrollable wave, your back arching, your breath breaking into half-rasped gasps. Every pulse of it shuddered against his mouth, and he kept going, licking you through the aftershocks until every muscle in your body fired at once.
When Clark finally let up, just long enough to rise to his feet, you barely had half a second to recover before the whole moment turned on its head.
Clark’s hands closed around your hips, and in one practiced sweep he flipped you onto your stomach. He pulled you up just long enough to position you—then pressed you back down, harder this time. Your chest hit the mattress as your hips rose under his hold, leaving nothing between his impatience and your body.
Behind you came the faint clink of metal—his belt—followed by the slide of fabric and the heavy rustle of clothes hitting the floor.
Instinct dragged your gaze over your shoulder.
Your breath caught the second you saw him. His cock was thick and swollen in his fist, weighty enough to make your mouth go dry in an instant.
Your eyes lifted to his, and he didn’t look away.
Not even for a moment.
He stepped into you, all heat and intent, his hand clamping onto your hip to pull you flush against him. In the same breath he angled himself, the thick head of his cock sliding over you in a slow, devastating stroke that made your thighs shake from overstimulation. You were still sensitive—still throbbing from coming on his tongue—but that didn't stop him.
Clark pushed in without hesitation, without giving you time to brace. Just one deep, heavy drive that stretched you around him in a way that felt downright obscene.
His head tipped back the moment he sank into you, mouth parting on a deep, ragged sound he didn’t bother trying to swallow. Your eyes slammed shut, breath breaking as your body took him in, the fit somehow overwhelming and impossibly right.
A moan tore out of both of you at the same time, low and loud and almost shocked. Like neither of you expected the connection to hit that hard, or for the first thrust to feel so full and so impossibly right.
For one short, breathless second, nothing else existed. Not the irritation. Not the years of rivalry. Just the way he fit inside you, deep and exact, like your body had been built to take him.
Clark started moving before you even got your bearings. His hips snapped forward in tight, controlled thrusts, as if he thought easing into you would help him adjust to how good you felt around him.
It didn’t.
The moment he felt you squeeze again, something in him cracked.
His hips slammed into you, faster and faster, each thrust sharper than the last as he chased the wet sound your body gave him when he bottomed out. The bed frame started to creak under the pace he set, every hard snap of his hips jolting you forward, your fingers scrambling for anything to hold on to.
Your grip on the mattress tightened, jaw clenching as you swallowed back every moan. You refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing how good he was fucking you. The restraint burned—through your lungs, through your stomach, through every tight, unsteady muscle in your legs. And still, the pleasure kept building, hard and fast, threatening to roll right through your attempted composure.
He noticed.
Immediately.
“Really,” he gritted out, hips pounding into you again. “You think I’m not hearing what you’re trying to hold back?”
Before the words even settled, his hand shot to your leg and hauled it up onto the bed, forcing you open and into a deeper angle that knocked a breath out of you so hard your vision pricked at the edges.
He didn’t slow. He didn’t give you a second to adjust. He just drove into you with even more force, the new position hitting something that made heat explode across your nerves.
You fought the sound rising in your throat, teeth clenched, nails digging into the bedding—
Then he thrust again.
Hard.
Perfect.
Devastating.
The moan ripped out of you, hitting the room so sharply the mic crackled with feedback. It shocked even you, your body betraying every ounce of stubborn pride you had left.
“That’s what I thought,” Clark said, voice thick, breath ragged. He didn’t slow for a second. He kept fucking you with relentless force, hips driving into you as your body jolted under him again.
You cried out again—louder, frayed at the edges—and Clark’s focus stayed rooted on your body, on the way it clenched and trembled around him as he pushed you right to the edge.
The spell broke with a shuffle from the crew, sharp enough to snap Clark back to the set—back to the reality of lenses pointed straight at both of you. His rhythm shifted immediately, hips drawing back into a slower, controlled pattern that had nothing to do with mercy and everything to do with staying on mark.
The director called for the next setup, and you both moved without thinking.
You separated on cue, bodies parting in the clean, professional way the scene required—even though neither of you had actually come down. Clark took his mark on the mattress, settling onto his back, breath still rough. You followed him up immediately, swinging a leg over his hips and sinking onto his lap, the heat between you snapping right back into place.
The moment your body met his, he grabbed you, dragging you down into a kiss that was all teeth and tongue and frustration. The argument you’d both been choking back bled straight into it—sloppy, rough, impatient. You each tried to spit out one last jab between breaths, but every word vanished under the next brutal slide of his tongue. His insult broke off into your mouth. Yours never made it past your lips.
The room changed around you—lights shifting, cameras repositioned, calls murmured—but you were already moving.
You tilted your hips, lined him up, and sank down on him in one hard, unforgiving push. You didn’t give either of you room to breathe. Not even when his groan broke into the kiss. You kept moving, lifting only to grind back down, rolling your hips until your stomach twisted and his jaw clenched.
Your hand planted beside his head as you shifted your weight, straightening just enough to change the angle—and every slow drag took him deeper, the pressure intense and filthy and perfect.
Clark’s hands chased your motion, sliding up your sides and over your ribs before dropping back to your hips with a grip that made your breath skip.
He took over the pace, guiding you faster, fingers digging into your skin as he pulled you down onto him again and again. The motion lifted his head from the mattress, his eyes finding yours with a sharp, hungry challenge. You could feel the tremor in his fingers, the strain in his breath, the subtle slip of control he couldn’t hide.
Your hands slid up his chest and wrapped around his throat—not enough to choke him, just enough to hold yourself steady while you fucked yourself down on him. His eyes screwed shut at the contact, a rough exhale tearing out of him like the pressure only turned him on more.
His head dropped back onto the bed, just for a second. Just long enough to show you exactly how hard he was fighting the pleasure you were dragging out of him.
His throat flexed beneath your hand, his mouth falling open as his hips drove up into yours like he couldn’t stop himself.
When he looked up again, your eyes met.
And everything between you went molten.
He grabbed the back of your head, fingers twisting in your hair, and yanked you down to him. Your lips smashed together in a kiss that felt like a threat. You slapped your hands onto the mattress beside his head to keep yourself steady while he devoured you, your faces sliding together as the kiss went desperate and dirty fast.
Then he started fucking up into you.
Rougher.
Deeper.
Each thrust lifting your body a few inches before slamming you back down onto him. His hands found your hips again, grip locked in place, using your body to meet every snap of his hips.
He found his pace—a brutal, even drive that said he wanted the scene back on his terms.
But you refused to give him that.
Not again.
You pushed your hips down into each thrust, meeting him stroke for stroke. The collision of your bodies got louder, wetter, filthier, the kind of rhythm that burned through both of you. You rolled your hips to match him, then pushed harder, forcing him to feel every grind, every clench, every deliberate movement meant to steal that control right back.
Your moans kept climbing, spilling out faster than you could swallow them, but you held on to the last shred of defiance you had left.
Even as you shook on top of him, even as he fucked you like he meant to split something open in you, you still fought him for the lead.
And then you got it.
Clark’s rhythm slipped. Just barely. Just enough to tell you his mind wasn’t on control anymore. It was on the way you were slick around him, the way he kept sliding in deeper, the way your body wouldn’t stop pulling him in.
That tiny lapse was all you needed.
You straightened, dragging your hands up his neck and jaw to push yourself upright. You used the grip to sit tall on him, his cock pushing deeper as your spine locked into place. Then your hands dropped to his chest, planting hard, fingers curling for balance.
You started riding him like you had something to prove.
Hard. Fast. Unrelenting.
Each roll of your hips ground you down to the base, the impact sharp enough to punch the air out of both of you. The pace you set was vicious, filthy, a direct response to the way he’d just tried to take you apart.
Clark wasn’t ready.
The shock hit his face first—then his breath. You could feel the air leave him as you dropped down on him again, harder, forcing him deeper as you took control. His head tipped up, eyes locked on the way your body moved on top of him.
You bounced on him like you wanted to bruise his hips with your own, your rhythm brutal, your thighs burning, your body slamming down on him again and again until the sounds coming out of him were nothing short of desperate. It was filthy and calculated, and it had him clenching his teeth, trying not to finish just from watching you ride him.
You moved faster. Dirtier.
Clark’s moans slipped out without him meaning to, low at first, then sharp when you dropped down hard enough to make his hips lift into yours. You were gasping too, breath catching every time his cock dragged against that spot inside you, but you refused to ease up. You chased the angle, chased the shock in his eyes, chased every sound he didn’t want the studio to hear.
You almost had him.
His hips stuttered. His mouth fell open.
But Clark wasn’t going down that easy.
Before you could push him over the edge, his hands shot up and caught your upper arms. His fingers wrapped tight around them and he yanked you down onto him, pinning your body to his. You hit him with a breathless shock, trapped and held exactly where he wanted you.
Then he took over.
His feet planted hard on the bed, muscles flexing as he thrust up into you with brutal precision. His hips lifted clean off the mattress, slamming into you again and again, each impact knocking another helpless sound out of your throat. Your body jostled with every thrust, your breath breaking in sharp, uncontrollable gasps.
There was no fighting it. No leverage. He had you pinned and open and taking everything he drove into you.
He buried his face against you, breath scorching your skin as he kissed, sucked, dragged his mouth along your neck without slowing for a single second. Each thrust was harder than the last, his groans spilling against your skin as he forced himself not to come, the strain ripping through his voice.
You clawed at his arms, grabbing whatever you could reach, your nails catching on skin and muscle as the pace tore through you. Every slam of his hips made your whole body lock up, pleasure coiling tight, climbing fast and hot.
You were right on the edge.
Again.
Your whole body pulled tight around him, breath stuttering, thighs shaking, the climax sitting so close it felt like it was vibrating beneath your skin.
And with the same speed he locked you down, he let you go.
Clark released your arms and you pitched forward, catching yourself on your forearms beside his head. Your chest stayed pressed to his as his hands clamped back onto your hips, dragging you into motion again. The angle was messy and overwhelming, every downward grind sinking him deeper, every lift pulling a gasp from both of you.
It was nothing but panting between you, breath hitting breath, mouths brushing but not quite kissing. Your face was twisted with it, pleasure raw and unmasked. The moans you’d tried to hide earlier came out freely now, high and desperate, forced past your lips with every slick grind of your hips.
Clark kept his eyes locked on yours the whole time.
Even this close, even with your bodies slamming into each other in a frantic, unsteady rhythm, he tracked every twitch of your expression, every break in your breath, every flicker of the orgasm building under your skin.
Then he changed the game again.
His hand slid from your hips to the underside of your thigh, and before you could even gasp through that, his fingers were on your clit.
He rubbed you with firm, ruthless circles, the pressure fast and deliberate, timed perfectly to the rocking of your hips. The combination hit like a shockwave. Your breath broke entirely, your moans climbing in pitch without your permission. High, sharp, needy. The kind you couldn’t fake if you tried.
You were going to come.
Hard.
Soon.
And this time you didn’t want to hold a single thing back.
Your muscles started to lock up, pleasure clawing through you, but you still tried to ride him, hips stuttering as you forced yourself to keep moving.
It was too much. Too good.
Every grind dragged a helpless sound out of your throat, the tension snapping higher until the only thing you could do was break.
“Clark—”
It came out of you before you even realized it.
You had never said a co-star’s name on camera. Not once. The moment it slipped, Clark reacted instantly. He pulled you down into a kiss before the sound even finished leaving your lips, swallowing it whole. You were still whining into his mouth, the noise catching in your throat as he thrust up into you harder.
You tried to pull back, pushing up onto your hands in some blind attempt to brace yourself against the pleasure building inside you. But he didn’t let you. His mouth followed yours, catching your bottom lip between his teeth. He tugged, slow, deliberate, eyes locked on yours the entire time. The pressure made you gasp again, your whole body shuddering as he let your lip slip free.
You fell back down against him, arms giving out. Your forearms hit the mattress beside his head, your chest brushing his as your breath came out in hot, uneven bursts. You were melting over him, shaking apart, and all you could do was cling.
Your hands slipped behind his neck, fingers curling around him, pulling him closer like your body needed the contact, needed him right there while you came apart again.
Clark felt it.
All of it.
He lifted his head and kissed along your jaw, down your neck, open-mouthed and hungry. His breath hit your skin in hot bursts as his hand kept working between your legs, rubbing you through every tremor, every sharp gasp, never letting up on the pace that had you unraveling.
You said his name again.
Loud.
Strained.
A sound ripped straight out of your chest.
“I know,” he breathed against your throat, the tone softer than anything he’d given you the entire shoot. His mouth brushed your skin when he said it, voice low and rough. “Come for me.”
Your body didn’t give you a choice.
It hit you without warning—sharp, explosive, ripping through your muscles so hard your arms locked around his neck. You pulled him closer, dragged him with you as your torso lifted off his for a split second, your whole body arching in a frantic snap of ecstasy. The sudden movement pulled his cock free, but he didn’t ease up.
He didn’t even hesitate.
His fingers kept moving, fast and merciless, like he wanted to wring every last ounce of pleasure out of your trembling body. The cry that came out of you wasn’t even a moan anymore—too sharp, too raw, too shocked by how much you still felt.
You tried to twist away from the pressure, hips jerking, thighs trembling uncontrollably, but he didn’t allow it. Clark’s arm wrapped tight around your waist, hauling you back into him, locking you against his chest. He held you still, held you open, held you exactly where he wanted you while his fingers kept dragging you through the aftershocks.
You writhed in his grip, breath breaking, body fighting and craving the sensation at the same time.
Then you moaned his name again. Not pretty. Not performed.
Wrecked.
The sound ripped into his ear, high and ruined, and something in him snapped. His breath hitched, his hips jerked up on instinct and a rough, guttural sound tore from his throat. A hot pulse spilled across his stomach as he came hard beneath you, his body tightening under yours in short, violent tremors.
He had never come during someone else’s orgasm on set.
Never from just touching.
Never from losing control like this.
His fingers didn’t stop until his own release forced him still. Only then did his touch ease, the pressure fading as your body fell against his in pure exhaustion.
You slumped onto him, chest to chest, limbs limp, your breath shaking against his collarbone. His arm loosened but didn’t leave you. He held you where you landed, both of you covered in sweat and shaking, still trying to drag air into your lungs.
Your eyes met again, unfocused but locked, and everything around you disappeared.
No set. No lights. No crew. No scene. Just raw, heavy silence and the two of you breathing into each other’s mouths like you didn’t know how to stop.
For the briefest stretch of time, you were sure he felt it too. Something passed between you in a quiet flicker. Then another. A silent question. A silent answer.
Then—
“Cut!” the director shouted, the word loud enough to split the air.
The room snapped back to life all at once. Footsteps, shifting equipment, someone clapping, someone else praising the take. Compliments scattered across the set as people moved around you with hurried, rehearsed efficiency.
His gaze finally shifted and yours followed. The contact broke in a slow, reluctant slide, and it felt like waking up too fast. Your bodies separated by inches, then more, until the space between you reminded you where you were, who was watching, what this was supposed to be.
Even then, neither of you spoke. Neither of you dared.
Because whatever happened in those last few moments wasn’t acting, and both of you knew it.
a/n: sorry this turned into a whole novella lmao… i truly couldn’t stop. also, a part two is already brewing, so stay tuned! enjoy!! <3 (if there are any typos, please ignore them lol. i only proofread this once).
for more pornstar!clark content, visit @kentwiththegooddick!
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last updated: 1/29/2026 - check back for more!
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warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), f!reader, unprotected sex, creampie kink, dirty talk (reader to clark), cum spreading, begging, orgasm control (barely), overstimulation, nsfw language + themes
“Just the tip,” you’d said, like that would somehow make a difference. Like it would undo the dozens of times he’d been deep inside you. On camera. Off camera. Bent over the couch. In the shower. The kitchen.
Still—Clark had nodded.
Agreed.
The video opened with you already on your back, legs spread open for him like it was nothing new. His cock was hard, flushed, leaking, pressed right up against your entrance. That first little nudge. Just a tease. Just a taste.
Clark held the camera in one hand, the frame tight on the part that mattered most—where he was thick and twitching, where you were wet and open. His other hand gripped his base hard, trying to keep himself from sliding in too far.
He had told himself it’d be easy, that it wasn’t anything he hadn’t done before on set. But what he miscalculated was you.
The way you looked laid out like that. The way you pulsed around the head of his cock. The way your voice hit when you started talking to him.
“That’s it,” you said, soft and slow. “Just the tip, remember?”
He dragged back, inching out until just the swollen head caught at your opening, then pushed back in with a low groan.
You tilted your head back, eyes fluttering before landing right on him again. Your voice came low and smooth, made for the camera but aimed only at him.
“Even a little bit feels so good, doesn’t it?”
Clark exhaled hard through his nose, the muscles in his arm flexing as he held himself back. His hand shifted slightly, adjusting the angle, making sure the camera caught everything—the mess between your thighs, the way you sucked him in like your body couldn’t help it.
“Your cock looks so good like that,” you whispered, smiling as you pulsed around him again. “All thick and red. You like that, don’t you? You like watching it.”
He did. Too much.
Clark leaned back slightly, shifting for a cleaner view. His fingers slipped off his base until only two rested there to guide him—one on each side, just enough to keep himself steady. He moved slow at first, careful, the tip dragging through your heat in tight, teasing passes.
You reached down, fingers brushing his as you spread the slick between your bodies. You pressed in a little firmer, dragging it all the way down his shaft, coating him in it, fingertips gliding over every thick inch he was trying so hard not to bury inside you.
He groaned, quiet and raw. The kind that caught in the back of his throat.
His hips twitched and he slipped a little deeper, grunting at the feel of it—your walls squeezing him tighter the second he sank past the head. He caught himself, pulled back fast, jaw tight.
Then did it again two strokes later.
He was trying. But every time you clenched, every time your body hugged him like that, it was like your pussy was trying to drag him all the way in.
He couldn’t help it.
The pressure hit him all at once. His hips jerked, and he pulled back just enough for the first thick pulse to hit your clit, cum streaking across you. His voice got louder, less controlled, the sound scraping out of his chest before he slipped back in.
The slide was messy, wet with his release, and the noises coming from him were nothing but need—short, rough breaths as his hips pressed forward again, chasing the feeling instead of stopping it. His hand dropped between you without thinking, fingers finding your clit, rubbing hard, spreading his cum everywhere as he worked you through it.
Your moans climbed, sharper, louder, each one catching higher in your throat.
He was still trying—still keeping himself right there at the edge, just the tip. But he was already gone. His cock kept nudging deeper, your body pulling him in before he could stop himself.
The tension sat between you, thick and obvious.
You felt it. He felt it. Neither of you said a word until you finally broke, the restraint snapping clean.
“Clark,” you said, voice unsteady. “I want more. Give me more.”
You begged him for it, hips rocking up, hands gripping his wrist like you were trying to drag him in yourself.
“Please.”
That did it.
Clark let out a low sound and gave up completely. He buried himself to the base and fucked you like he was made for it. Full strokes now. Deep. Filthy. His hand dug into your thigh, holding you open for him, keeping you exactly where he needed you.
Every time he bottomed out, it was a reminder—“just the tip” had never really stood a chance. Not with you sounding like that, or how tight and hot you felt, or the way your body clung to him like you were trying to keep him there.
The camera was still rolling when it hit you. Your body arched, trembling, breath catching as you came around him, hard. He felt it. Watched it. The way your thighs shook. The way your cunt pulsed around his cock like you wanted more even as it wrecked you.
Clark’s breath came rough, chest rising hard as he finally pulled out of you. He glanced down at the screen, then back at you, a crooked, knowing smile already forming.
“So much for just the tip,” you whispered, still shaking from the way he’d left you.
You sat perched in Clark’s lap, legs parted just enough, wearing a tiny skirt so thin it may as well not exist. The curve of your ass fit perfectly against him, every slow shift making it worse each time you moved. The camera crew was barely ten feet away, lenses pointed at you both, lights warming the back of your neck. The whole room had that staged-classroom feel: an old wooden desk, chalkboard filled with fake notes, stacks of untouched textbooks. It smelled faintly of sawdust and studio heat.
But you weren’t paying attention to any of that.
And neither was he.
Clark was doing his best, trying to stay in character, actually putting in the effort. But it didn’t matter. He was hard. Not the half-there stiffness that came with easing into a role. No. This was twitching-under-you, can’t-stop-shifting-in-his-seat hard.
Didn’t help that you were doing your job maybe a little too well. Playing the part just right. Sweet, eager, pushing your lines with that wide-eyed tone that sounded innocent if you didn’t listen too close. But Clark was listening. And watching. And feeling the way your weight settled just a little more each time you leaned forward to say another line.
He couldn’t think straight and worse—you still had another scene to shoot. Still had to get through the whole build-up. Dialogue. Teasing. Position resets.
On top of that, you kept saying it. Kept calling him Professor Kent.
That wasn’t in the script. You had improvised it and decided to keep torturing him with it. Every time the title left your mouth, soft and breathy, it sent another sharp pulse through him. He tried to keep a straight face. Tried to stay in it. Still, none of that hid the fact that he was one second from losing it.
You leaned in again, shifting just a little closer, playing the perfect student with the most dangerous intentions.
Then it came.
That same line every script insisted on. The one about making up grades. About needing just a little help to pass.
Cheesy. Predictable. Porn history-level cliché.
But Clark didn’t care. Not today.
Because all it meant was that the scene had finally hit the point where he didn’t have to pretend anymore.
So when the cue came, he didn’t hesitate. Hands on your hips. Mouth on yours. The kiss hit fast, messy, tongues deep before either of you fully registered it.
Clothes went fast after that. You stripped him with quick, greedy hands, kissing him through the process, letting the camera catch flashes of skin. His shirt hit the floor. His belt clattered next. By the time the cameraman repositioned for a close-up, Clark was fully naked, and you were in nothing but your skirt—the fabric shoved high around your hips, barely hanging on.
Then you moved again.
He expected you to climb onto the desk. Or straddle him. Anything the script actually called for.
What he didn’t expect was you pushing him back.
He let it happen, stumbling just a step as you pressed him up against the desk. His thighs hit the edge, the wood creaking under his weight, and then you were lowering yourself to your knees in front of him.
Clark barely had time to take in the position before your hands were back on him. Your fingers wrapped around the base of his cock, stroking once, slow and tight.
Then you looked up.
Right into his eyes.
That alone could’ve done it. But then your mouth opened and you took him in.
His head dropped back fast, lips parting on a sharp breath, chest rising too quick to hide. Both hands shot behind him, gripping the desk just to keep steady. His hips rolled into your mouth without a single thought for the camera, but the lens caught everything.
You worked him like you had all the time in the world. Measured at first, letting him feel every inch. Your hand stayed firm at the base while your mouth slid down over him, pulling back only to spread more of your spit with the next pass.
When you finally lifted off him, his cock slipped free with a wet sound that made his knuckles go white. You looked up at him with that lazy, sweet smile—the kind that said you knew exactly what you were doing—then ran your tongue up the underside of his length, a teasing glide that had his whole body jolting.
That was it.
Clark reached down and hauled you up without a word. His grip turned urgent fast, guiding you around and folding you over the desk.
There was technically another shot. Another angle. Another few lines, even.
But he was past that.
He shoved your skirt up, clearing the fabric so he could get a full, unobstructed view of you, a view he’d been fighting for since you sat in his lap. One hand locked around your hip, firm and claiming, while the other guided himself into place.
Then he pushed in.
The stretch forced a gasp out of you, your hands bracing against the desk as your body tightened around him. A low, wrecked breath escaped him as he drove the rest of the way in with one hard thrust, hips flush to yours like holding back wasn’t even an option.
He stayed deep and started fucking you in short, hungry strokes, his breath catching with every movement.
You arched for him, spine curving, hips tilting at just the right angle. It was supposed to be a performance cue, but Clark reacted like you’d hit a nerve.
His fingers dug into your sides. His thrusts changed instantly—harder, deeper, nothing careful left in them.
The camera kept rolling but Clark wasn’t performing anymore. He was in it. In you.
His head dropped low, eyes fixed on the way your body took him, on the way you trembled under the force of it. His cock dragged through your slick heat, hips pistoning so hard the desk groaned beneath you. The legs scraped against the floor with every slam forward, a sharp, steady grind that matched the rhythm of his body.
You were trying. Trying to hit the poses, trying to look back at him, trying to give the camera something clean. But it all fell apart, breaking into ragged sounds as your eyes screwed shut and your mouth fell open while he pounded into you.
Somehow you kept going, staying with the script. You lifted one leg onto the desk, opening yourself wider, giving him more, exactly the way the shot list called for.
Clark lost it.
A sound tore from his throat, half-moan, half-grunt, as he gripped your hips tighter and fucked harder. The desk started to jump under you, hammering against the floor with every thrust, the whole setup threatening to give out underneath you.
But he didn’t stop. Couldn’t.
Clark leaned forward, body crowding yours, his chest hovering over your back as he pushed deeper into you. One hand shot past your shoulder, grabbing the far edge of the desk, fingers biting into the wood just inches from your face.
Pressure gathered low in your belly, slow at first, then sharper with each brutal stroke. Your hips tipped forward, thighs shaking.
The pace. The stretch. The sound of him panting behind you. All of it wound tighter and tighter inside you.
Finally your body snapped.
Your orgasm tore through you, sharp and sudden, a rough curse spilling out as your hands grabbed at anything you could reach.
You felt him stutter. Felt the pulse run through him at how hard you squeezed around him. And still, his hips kept driving into the slick between your thighs, like nothing in the room existed except the way your body held him.
He was close. You could feel it in the way his rhythm sharpened, in the strained sound scraping out of his throat, in the grind of his hips as he chased the edge.
Then it happened.
One thrust too deep. One squeeze too hard. His strength slipped.
Crack.
The desk lurched beneath you. One leg snapped with a violent splinter, the whole surface dropping into a sudden slant that dragged you both down with it. You hit the angled wood with a sharp gasp, Clark still buried inside you, the shift pulling a broken sound from the both of you.
He froze for half a second, panting above you.
He knew. Knew what had just happened. That he’d lost control. That he’d let it go too far. He shouldn’t have. Not on set. Not like this.
An apology started to form—until he looked down.
His gaze dropped to the way your body had landed, hips tilted, ass lifted, your back arched in a perfect line. The broken desk had given him a new angle, a better one, one that left you framed under him in the most obscene way.
Whatever professionalism Clark walked onto set with?
It died right there on the spot.
He gripped your hips again, fingers curling into your skin, and started dragging you back on him like nothing had broken at all. His thrusts picked up fast, cock driving into you over and over. The sounds were louder now, messier—his hips smacking against your ass, your breath catching every time he bottomed out.
You were waiting for someone to yell cut. For the camera to pull back, for hands to intervene.
But nothing came.
And when he hit that spot inside you again, you couldn’t even think about stopping. It knocked your thoughts clean out of your head. Your mouth fell open. Your hands flattened on the desk’s broken surface trying to keep yourself upright.
Clark’s focus blurred as his rhythm slipped into something unforgiving. His hands shifted to your lower back, anchoring you, pulling you into every hard thrust, forcing you to take all of him. He let out a rough groan as your body clamped down on him again, pulsing so good, so tight.
The desk’s collapse had done something unholy. Your body opened to him perfectly now. He could feel the way his cock rubbed right against that spot inside you every time he pushed in, could feel how your thighs shook more with each stroke, how your breath grew tighter.
Your second orgasm built fast. It tore up your spine with sharp intensity, rushing through you without giving you a moment to brace. Your body tensed as you came hard, a harsh cry ripping out of you as you locked around him once more.
The way your body clenched pulled a gravelly sound from Clark, his thrusts faltering for a second before returning with raw urgency. He fucked you through it, riding every pulse, every aftershock, until the pleasure choking him finally broke loose.
He yanked back at the last moment, cock sliding free just in time for thick heat to spill across your ass in uneven streaks. You felt it drip and couldn’t help the breathless laugh that followed as you pushed your hips up again.
Clark was still trying to catch his breath when the cameraman stepped in for the close-up, zooming in on your slick skin, your lifted hips, and the way the broken desk slanted beneath you. That final shot lingered, slow and focused, capturing every trace of the mess he made and everything he destroyed getting there.
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WHAT THIS BLOG POSTS
• kink blurbs (feel free to send suggestions!) • pornstar AU requests + scenarios • NSFW asks + drabbles • “send Clark a question” • fake Pornhub stats / achievements / badges • fun video concepts + AU expansions • video layouts + previews
standard pornstar au fics will still live on my main writing blog @anon-188 ex: “she sent it. i used it.” “study break” i just want to have a separate space for extra content :)
WRITING & PAIRING INFO
• all pairings are f!reader when applicable • all characters are 18+ • everything will be tagged appropriately
WILL WRITE
the usual:
fluff, angst, smut, threesomes, porn dynamics, filming concepts, power-play (fully consensual), obsession/jealousy, toxic relationships, cheating, etc.
also open to:
bdsm (not an expert but willing!), porn industry tropes, ranking videos, POV scenes, video kink concepts, etc.
stepcest: only within a porn-industry context (scripted/performative, not actual familial dynamics).
honestly? if it’s not in my hard no’s, feel free to ask.
HARD NO’S
i will not write content that includes or romanticizes:
homophobia, transphobia, racism, racial fetishization, incest, pedophilia, zoophilia, underage relationships, SA (non-con/dub-con), self-harm, eating disorders, minors in sexual contexts, feederism, celebrities, piss kink, gunplay, knifeplay, petplay or any other animal-related kinks.
if something isn’t listed but i’m not comfortable writing it, i’ll kindly let you know!
EVENTS
during events or open request periods:
please be kind + patient while i work through everything. i want to give each idea the attention it deserves! additionally, i reserve the right to skip or decline any request i'm not comfortable with or don't feel confident writing. thank you for understanding!
ASK BOX
open for EVERYTHING —
suggestions, questions, inspo, thirst, wild ideas, p!link submissions (via DMs), whatever chaos you want to send.
TAGS
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FINAL NOTES
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