Scott Lang x reader part 1 Scott Lang x reader part 2 Scott Lang x reader part 3 Scott Lang x reader part 4 Scott Lang x reader part 5 Scott Lang x reader part 6 Scott Lang x reader part 7 Scott Lang x reader part 8 Scott Lang x reader part 9 Scott Lang x reader part 10 Scott Lang x reader part 11 đ Scott Lang x reader part 12 đScott Lang x reader part 13 đ Scott Lang x reader part 14 Scott Lang x reader part 15 Scott Lang x reader part 16 Scott Lang x reader part 17
Of course they donât like Milly Alcockâs Supergirl. Sheâs a grown ass woman with zero love interests who spends the movie saving her dog, casually dismantling a sex trafficking ring while sheâs at it, and preaching the importance of being good, not nice or smiley or cheerful but good. I for one adored the movie and I really hope Iâll get to see more of Alcockâs Supergirl sheâs now my favorite iteration of her and I love her so dearly.
⎠NESSAâS 18K FOLLOWERS CELEBRATION âŽ
18 TV Ships I Love (in no particular order):
18. Dani and Jamie (The Haunting of Bly Manor)
âI know we canât technically get married but I also donât really care. We can wear the rings and weâll know. Okay? Thatâs enough for me. If itâs enough for you.â
âI reckon thatâs enough for me, yeah.â
clark kent â masterlist | requests: closed! â rules ⢠taglist: open!
IMAGINES & ONE SHOTS
kansas â fluff | wc: 0.4k
starved â smut | wc: 0.5k
off the record â fluff | wc: 1.2k
tradition â fluff | wc: 0.8k
âtoo goodâ â smut | wc: 2.2k
denim trouble â smut | wc: 0.8k
when it all comes down â angst | wc: 1.4k
âi told you to waitââ smut | wc: 2.2k
dnd (do not disturb)â smut | wc: 1k
midnight heat â smut | wc: 2.5k
sweet things â smut | wc: 3.4k
spring equinox â smut | wc: 1.2k
right there â smut | wc: 0.7k
touch and go â smut | wc: 2.1k
ego â smut | wc: 1.9k
under pressure â smut | wc: 3.1k
fantasize â smut | wc: 3k
BLURBS & DRABBLES
#001 - smut | wc: ~350
HEADCANONS & CHARACTERS
pornstar!clark ⢠countryboy!clark
- occasionally paired with: catwoman!reader
SERIES
the crown & the quill (prince!clark kent x f!reader):
summary: a prince with a mask. a lady with a pen. and a season that will change them both. - a bridgerton-inspired series.
â chapters, full series summary, + more â here
in plain sight (bsf!clark kent x f!reader):
summary: youâre in love with superman. clarkâs in love with you. the only problem? you think theyâre two different people.
â chapters, series warnings, + more â here
faking merry đ (ex-best-friend!clark kent x f!reader):
summary:Â seven days, one lodge, and a whole lot of unresolved feelings. what could possibly go wrong?
â chapters, full series summary, + more â here
Š anon-188 - est. 2025 | all writing, layouts, and designs are my original content. please do not repost, copy, translate, or recreate my work in any form. // images: pinterest; everything else is mine :)
pairing: clark kent x f!reader | genre: smut | wc: 3k
summary:Â you try to behave at work, but superman keeps getting in the way. unfortunately for clark, so does his super hearing.
warnings:Â explicit sexual content (18+), porn with plot, explicit use of written fantasies, accidental orgasm, super hearing eavesdropping, mild voyeurism, reader is horrendously down bad for superman.
a/n: inspo: fantasize by ariana grande. i have no words to explain this lmao. either way, i hope you guys like it :) let me know what you think!! <33 (also happy birthday, david!!!)
⌠i fantasize about it all the time, if you were mine⌠i'd give this pussy to you nine-to-five, five-to-nine. tryin' to behave, but i'm feelin' some type of way. âŚ
It started as an ordinary crush. Everyone had a crush on Superman, right? That was what you kept telling yourself every time your mind wandered back to his smile, the dimples that came with it, his voice, the little curl that always seemed to fall perfectly against his forehead. It was harmless... normal. Practically expected, in a sense.
That explanation became less convincing when you thought about the way the suit fit him, how it showed the shape of everything. And you did mean everything. Your eyes were particularly drawn to certain pieces. Pieces you kept to yourself when people asked what you were thinking about, because what were you supposed to say? That his arms looked obscene in that blue? That his thighs looked even worse? That those red briefs fit too damn well for something everyone was just expected to casually ignore?
Right.
So when people asked, you stuck to the basics. Kept it simple. When Lois mentioned Superman and yet another rescue, you gave something polite, something normal, something that made you sound like a decent citizen and not a woman quietly losing a fight against her own imagination. When Jimmy talked him up, you dulled everything down and smiled, nodding along like you hadnât already looked at the photo he was describing three separate times. Cat tried her luck more than anyone, of course, always watching your face a little too closely when she mentioned how good Superman looked on camera, how the lens loved him, how some men were just built to be looked at.
But you didnât fold. You just shrugged, kept your expression clean, and said, âYeah, the camera works for him." Some watered-down version of what you were actually thinking.
Clark noticed too.Â
Not like the others. No, his revelation was far more accurate. You two werenât exactly friends or anything, but you had worked on a few pieces together, which meant late nights, long drafts, shared coffee runs, and him becoming well acquainted with you whether he meant to or not. He knew your crush on Superman went far past what you let people see. Knew that your body had its own reaction reserved specifically for him. Well, not him. The other him. And at a certain point, that distinction was starting to drive him crazy.
Like today.
The bullpen had gathered around for the latest clip of Superman, everyoneâs attention fixed on the screen while yours looked almost too controlled. Soft interest. Casual smile. The right amount of impressed, muted just enough to pass as normal. But Clarkâs attention was nowhere near the screen. It was on you. While your mouth said something kind and sweet whenever Superman was mentioned, he heard how fast your heart was beating under it. Heard the slight change in your breathing when Cat said the suit looked good from a specific angle. Caught the small shift of your legs when Superman looked into the camera and answered the reporter directly, voice calm, steady, painfully familiar.
That one stirred something in him. Something he covered with a quick clearing of his throat, eyes dropping to the papers in his hand like they suddenly required all of his focus.
But then Superman laughed in the clip. Just a low, easy laugh at something the reporter said, nothing dramatic, nothing meant to be anything at all, and Clark heard you let out something that almost wasnât a sound. Half sigh, half something else, something that would have been far more dangerous if it had come out any harder.
That little slip of breath hit him harder than he expected.Â
Right below the belt.Â
Not that you hadnât already been working your way into his system, because you had. Slowly. Quietly. In little ways he could pretend not to notice until pretending stopped working. But this was getting harder to ignore. You were there now, wedged somewhere between Clarkâs curiosity and Supermanâs pride, reacting to a version of him you didnât know was sitting three desks away, listening to every sound you tried to hide.
All of it dragged something up in him he had no business letting loose. Something possessive. Something too pleased. Something he was fighting like hell to keep quiet.
It took everything in him not to look at you for the rest of the day.Â
And every day after that.
It had been no more than a week since you had nearly moaned in front of the entire bullpen. Superman came on the screen and you nearly did too.
What were you thinking?
It had been an involuntary response, something you usually only let happen in the quiet of your apartment where no one was around to witness it. No reporters, or editors, or Cat watching your face like she was waiting for it to tell on you. It was just something about his laugh, the tenor of it, the way it rolled out deep and warm, paired with that slight tilt of his head. Oh, and the hung smile. That too. The one that sat on his mouth a second too long and landed right between your legs before it reached anywhere else.
Jesus, you were down bad.
You knew that. Denial wasnât even worth the effort at this point. Superman was part of your job as much as he was part of your thoughts, no matter how incoherent those thoughts became when they showed up. You had sworn to yourself that you would at least try to tone it down. That he didnât need to consume every corner of your mind. That you were a grown woman with responsibilities, deadlines, and at least some self-respect left.
Unfortunately, only the logical part of your brain got the memo.
He had already broken your focus twice just this morning. Once while you were getting ready for work, toothbrush in hand, staring at your reflection while your mind wandered straight back to him for absolutely no productive reason. The brushing session went on far longer than necessary, your eyes unfocused, toothpaste nearly sliding down your wrist before you finally snapped out of it.
And again in the Daily Planet elevator, purse tucked under your arm, trying to look normal while your brain decided that 8:42 in the morning was the perfect time to replay the exact sound of Supermanâs laugh. You nearly missed your floor completely, only snapping back when Clark Kent, of all people, glanced over from beside you and said, soft and polite, âThis is you.â You blinked, looked at the glowing floor number, and stepped out too fast with a quick, âRight. Thanks.â
Yeah, embarrassing enough, but it didnât stop there.Â
Not long after you settled in at your desk, breaking news echoed throughout the bullpen, grabbing everyoneâs attention. Especially yours. There he was, flying through dust and debris, catching pieces of towering buildings like they weighed nothing. You figured the montage would be over soon, that you could will your way through it for just a few more seconds, keep your face neutral, keep your breathing normal, keep your eyes from lingering anywhere they had no business lingering in a room full of people.
But then you heard his voice.
He was talking after saving a burning building while simultaneously fighting another alien invasion in the city, because apparently one crisis wasnât enough. All smoke and wreckage around him, the streets torn up behind him, the sky still half-lit with whatever had just been trying to kill everyone. He had a few smudges across his skin, dark streaks near his cheek and jaw, his hair curly but messy in that way where you could tell this hadnât necessarily been an easy feat for him. Still, he got it done. Of course he did. And unfortunately for you, he looked damn good after doing it.
That image of him stuck with you all day, well into lunch. Normally youâd sit with Lois and Cat, let Cat bait you, let Lois talk through the latest lead, pretend you were functioning like a normal person. But today you had âso much workâ and you were just âtoo busy.â The first half was a lie, but the second half was relatively true. You were too busy.
With Superman.
You sat at your desk, pen and notebook suddenly becoming less like paper mates and more like partners in crime as you started writing. Ignoring Supermanâs presence as it radiated through your body wasnât doing you any good. If anything, it only made it worse. The more you tried not to think about him, the more your mind supplied the details anyway. The smudges on his skin. The mess of his hair. The way his voice had sounded after the fight, steady but rougher, like the city had pulled something out of him and he still had more to give.Â
So your best solution? Write it out. Maybe if you gave the thoughts somewhere to go, heâd go with them. Maybe felt like a high-risk, low-reward situation, but you were desperate enough to try.
Clark, on the other hand, had been working through revisions for your most recent piece together. Nothing too crazy, just a few additions that would support the notes youâd give him later. Easy work. The kind of work he could usually get through without much trouble.Â
And perhaps that had been the problem.
It didnât take much for Clarkâs focus to drift away to its new favorite spotâyou. His back was to you, your desk set behind his, and from what he could hear, you were having a pretty productive day. Your pen moved across the page in smooth, steady strokes, pausing here and there before starting again. He assumed they were revision notes at first, something detailed enough to help the piece, something that almost pushed his attention back to his own screen.
Almost.
Just when his mind started to drift away, he heard the telltale signs. Your heartbeat picking up, your breath cutting in shorter intervals, quiet enough that no one else would notice but clear enough to him that ignoring it became its own kind of effort. He heard the shift of your legs, crossing and uncrossing twice beneath your desk like you couldnât quite get comfortable. But more than that, your writing had changed.
The pressure. The shift from a smooth glide to the sharper scratch of pen against paper. The stroke of each letter becoming so specific, so weighted, that he could make out most, if not all, of what was being written.
âthatâs the part I canât seem to get out of my head. Always so big, like itâs too much until it isnâtâ
Clarkâs fingers slowed over his keyboard.
He had picked up on the rhythm some time ago, from the hours youâd spent working side by side. And no, it wasnât intentional. It had happened gradually, built through marked-up pages, half-finished articles, and too many notes passed back and forth. He knew the way you wrote when you were focused. Knew the difference between a quick note, a revised sentence, a thought you crossed out before it could finish.
This wasnât any of that.
I keep thinking about how it would feel to let him spread me open with those hands.
Clark went still.
The sentence formed clearly enough that his breath caught before he could stop it. For one second, he told himself to stop. That this was wrong. That he shouldnât be listening just because he could. He was raised better than that.Â
That one tugged at that Boy Scout conscience of his, just enough to have him start pulling his attention back.
Then your pen moved again.
S-u-p-e-r-m-a-n.
He couldnât have ignored that even if he tried. His attention snapped right back to where it had no business being, caught on the scratch of your pen, the weight behind each word, the small breaks in your breathing as the page filled. Every piece of it gave you away, telling him exactly what state you were working yourself into.
You wrote about wanting him all the time. About wanting Supermanâs body over you, in you, around you. About how badly you wanted to know if heâd fuck like you imagined he would. About how you didnât think once would be enough.
The more your thoughts sharpened, the more your body reacted. Your heartbeat had gone fast enough now that it wasnât even subtle to him anymore. Your breathing kept catching, then evening out, then catching again, like every line was pulling another reaction out of you. He was tuned into all of it, too tuned in, and by the time he realized how bad it had gotten, it was already too late.
He was hard.
Not gradually. Not with any warning he could pretend he missed. One second he was fine, or close enough to pass for it, and the next he wasnât. It hit all at once, a sharp drop into want that had his whole body going tense around it, leaving him straining beneath the desk, trying not to shift, trying not to make it worse.
His jaw tightened.Â
And you just kept writing.
You started with his mouth, then his hands, then yours, your thoughts slipping straight to what it would feel like to take Superman between your lips. About how good it would feel to get on your knees for him first, to feel him against your tongue, to see if he was as big as youâd been imagining every time the camera caught the front of that suit from the right angle.
That was bad enough.
Then Clarkâs brain supplied the rest.
Your mouth wrapped around him. Warm and wet, lips stretching around the tip before taking more. Your tongue gliding over him slowly, tasting, teasing, making him feel every inch of it before you let him deeper. The thought of you doing that little sigh heâd heard beforeâthe one that caught low in your throat and turned into something closer to a moan once it slipped freeâsent another pulse of heat straight through him.
Behind him, your chair creaked.
The sound was small, but to him it might as well have been a confession. You shifted in your seat, trying to move the pressure somewhere else, trying to get comfortable while your pen kept scratching across the page, and Clark heard the next thought almost as clearly as if youâd said it out loud.
You wrote about riding him. About how youâd feel him everywhere. How youâd have to take him slow at first, because heâd be too much to just drop onto, even if all youâd want to do was bounce on him the second he let you. About how your body would work have to work around his size, how youâd sit on him inch by inch and then lose your mind once you finally had all of him.
That image hit harder.
He saw it immediately. You on top of him, thighs spread over his lap, riding him slow, just like you wrote, trying to adjust before the need won out. Then faster. Harder. Your body lifting and dropping, bouncing on his cock as your hands gripped his shoulders or maybe braced against his chest. Your tits moving with the rhythm. The way your face would change once it started feeling too good to hideâ
How tight and warm youâd feel taking him.
That was the one.
Clarkâs whole body locked around it, a soft, involuntary grunt catching in his throat as he came.
His fingers curled against the edge of his desk, the force of his release hitting hard enough to leave him tense beneath it, but quiet enough for him to bury the sound under the scrape of his chair as he shifted in his seat. His other hand moved a second later, reaching for nothing in particular, just something to make it look like he was adjusting, like he hadnât just lost himself at his desk over the sound of you wanting Superman.
The movement caught your attention, pulling you out of your thoughts. Your pen paused mid-thought as the reality of where you were settled back in far too late. Work. The bullpen. Deadlines. Actual responsibilities, unfortunately. You blinked down at the notebook, shut it a little too fast, then reached for the folder sitting beside your keyboard like that had been your plan all along.
Clark heard you stand. Heard you coming toward him too, of course, which only made him sit a little straighter. Too straight, probably, but he couldnât help it. His hand lifted to his mouth, fingers resting there in a passable attempt at concentration.
Every sense he had was still tuned to you, tracking the distance as it closed, the faint shift in your breathing, the soft rustle of the folder in your hand. He forced his eyes to stay on the screen, even though not a single word made it through.
âHey,â you said when you reached his desk, holding it out to him. âI meant to give this to you earlier. Itâs just the notes for the revision.â
Clark turned enough to take it, but not enough to really look at you. He couldnât trust himself with that yet.
His fingers brushed the edge of the folder as he took it from you.
âThanks,â he said.
You gave him a small, apologetic look. âSorry. Iâve been a little distracted today.â
Clark heard your heart jump at the word distracted. Just a quick, telling little stutter beneath everything else. Unfortunately, his body had a similar reaction, sharp enough to make his grip tighten around the folder as he kept his eyes on his screen.
You didnât seem to notice. Or maybe you were too caught in your own embarrassment to look too closely.
He kept his face steady. Well, at least tried to. Then you made it worse.
âI wish I could focus like you,â you added.
Clark let out something close to a laugh, but it barely made it there. A strained huff, half-hearted at best, paired with a nod that probably looked more convincing than it felt.Â
âYeah,â he said, because it was the safest thing he had.
You smiled, still oblivious, and turned to walk away.
Focused.
That was one word for it.
Š anon-188 - est. 2025 | please do not repost, copy, translate, or recreate my work in any form.
if you want to be tagged in my future posts, comment or message me! iâm happy to do it! :) just let me know if you want all works or just for specific characters <3
⢠links: masterlist | wattpad | tip jar đŤ (support my writing!)
tips are never required, but always appreciated. thank you for being here!
pairing: clark kent x f!reader | genre: smut | wc: 3k
summary:Â you try to behave at work, but superman keeps getting in the way. unfortunately for clark, so does his super hearing.
warnings:Â explicit sexual content (18+), porn with plot, explicit use of written fantasies, accidental orgasm, super hearing eavesdropping, mild voyeurism, reader is horrendously down bad for superman.
a/n: inspo: fantasize by ariana grande. i have no words to explain this lmao. either way, i hope you guys like it :) let me know what you think!! <33 (also happy birthday, david!!!)
⌠i fantasize about it all the time, if you were mine⌠i'd give this pussy to you nine-to-five, five-to-nine. tryin' to behave, but i'm feelin' some type of way. âŚ
It started as an ordinary crush. Everyone had a crush on Superman, right? That was what you kept telling yourself every time your mind wandered back to his smile, the dimples that came with it, his voice, the little curl that always seemed to fall perfectly against his forehead. It was harmless... normal. Practically expected, in a sense.
That explanation became less convincing when you thought about the way the suit fit him, how it showed the shape of everything. And you did mean everything. Your eyes were particularly drawn to certain pieces. Pieces you kept to yourself when people asked what you were thinking about, because what were you supposed to say? That his arms looked obscene in that blue? That his thighs looked even worse? That those red briefs fit too damn well for something everyone was just expected to casually ignore?
Right.
So when people asked, you stuck to the basics. Kept it simple. When Lois mentioned Superman and yet another rescue, you gave something polite, something normal, something that made you sound like a decent citizen and not a woman quietly losing a fight against her own imagination. When Jimmy talked him up, you dulled everything down and smiled, nodding along like you hadnât already looked at the photo he was describing three separate times. Cat tried her luck more than anyone, of course, always watching your face a little too closely when she mentioned how good Superman looked on camera, how the lens loved him, how some men were just built to be looked at.
But you didnât fold. You just shrugged, kept your expression clean, and said, âYeah, the camera works for him." Some watered-down version of what you were actually thinking.
Clark noticed too.Â
Not like the others. No, his revelation was far more accurate. You two werenât exactly friends or anything, but you had worked on a few pieces together, which meant late nights, long drafts, shared coffee runs, and him becoming well acquainted with you whether he meant to or not. He knew your crush on Superman went far past what you let people see. Knew that your body had its own reaction reserved specifically for him. Well, not him. The other him. And at a certain point, that distinction was starting to drive him crazy.
Like today.
The bullpen had gathered around for the latest clip of Superman, everyoneâs attention fixed on the screen while yours looked almost too controlled. Soft interest. Casual smile. The right amount of impressed, muted just enough to pass as normal. But Clarkâs attention was nowhere near the screen. It was on you. While your mouth said something kind and sweet whenever Superman was mentioned, he heard how fast your heart was beating under it. Heard the slight change in your breathing when Cat said the suit looked good from a specific angle. Caught the small shift of your legs when Superman looked into the camera and answered the reporter directly, voice calm, steady, painfully familiar.
That one stirred something in him. Something he covered with a quick clearing of his throat, eyes dropping to the papers in his hand like they suddenly required all of his focus.
But then Superman laughed in the clip. Just a low, easy laugh at something the reporter said, nothing dramatic, nothing meant to be anything at all, and Clark heard you let out something that almost wasnât a sound. Half sigh, half something else, something that would have been far more dangerous if it had come out any harder.
That little slip of breath hit him harder than he expected.Â
Right below the belt.Â
Not that you hadnât already been working your way into his system, because you had. Slowly. Quietly. In little ways he could pretend not to notice until pretending stopped working. But this was getting harder to ignore. You were there now, wedged somewhere between Clarkâs curiosity and Supermanâs pride, reacting to a version of him you didnât know was sitting three desks away, listening to every sound you tried to hide.
All of it dragged something up in him he had no business letting loose. Something possessive. Something too pleased. Something he was fighting like hell to keep quiet.
It took everything in him not to look at you for the rest of the day.Â
And every day after that.
It had been no more than a week since you had nearly moaned in front of the entire bullpen. Superman came on the screen and you nearly did too.
What were you thinking?
It had been an involuntary response, something you usually only let happen in the quiet of your apartment where no one was around to witness it. No reporters, or editors, or Cat watching your face like she was waiting for it to tell on you. It was just something about his laugh, the tenor of it, the way it rolled out deep and warm, paired with that slight tilt of his head. Oh, and the hung smile. That too. The one that sat on his mouth a second too long and landed right between your legs before it reached anywhere else.
Jesus, you were down bad.
You knew that. Denial wasnât even worth the effort at this point. Superman was part of your job as much as he was part of your thoughts, no matter how incoherent those thoughts became when they showed up. You had sworn to yourself that you would at least try to tone it down. That he didnât need to consume every corner of your mind. That you were a grown woman with responsibilities, deadlines, and at least some self-respect left.
Unfortunately, only the logical part of your brain got the memo.
He had already broken your focus twice just this morning. Once while you were getting ready for work, toothbrush in hand, staring at your reflection while your mind wandered straight back to him for absolutely no productive reason. The brushing session went on far longer than necessary, your eyes unfocused, toothpaste nearly sliding down your wrist before you finally snapped out of it.
And again in the Daily Planet elevator, purse tucked under your arm, trying to look normal while your brain decided that 8:42 in the morning was the perfect time to replay the exact sound of Supermanâs laugh. You nearly missed your floor completely, only snapping back when Clark Kent, of all people, glanced over from beside you and said, soft and polite, âThis is you.â You blinked, looked at the glowing floor number, and stepped out too fast with a quick, âRight. Thanks.â
Yeah, embarrassing enough, but it didnât stop there.Â
Not long after you settled in at your desk, breaking news echoed throughout the bullpen, grabbing everyoneâs attention. Especially yours. There he was, flying through dust and debris, catching pieces of towering buildings like they weighed nothing. You figured the montage would be over soon, that you could will your way through it for just a few more seconds, keep your face neutral, keep your breathing normal, keep your eyes from lingering anywhere they had no business lingering in a room full of people.
But then you heard his voice.
He was talking after saving a burning building while simultaneously fighting another alien invasion in the city, because apparently one crisis wasnât enough. All smoke and wreckage around him, the streets torn up behind him, the sky still half-lit with whatever had just been trying to kill everyone. He had a few smudges across his skin, dark streaks near his cheek and jaw, his hair curly but messy in that way where you could tell this hadnât necessarily been an easy feat for him. Still, he got it done. Of course he did. And unfortunately for you, he looked damn good after doing it.
That image of him stuck with you all day, well into lunch. Normally youâd sit with Lois and Cat, let Cat bait you, let Lois talk through the latest lead, pretend you were functioning like a normal person. But today you had âso much workâ and you were just âtoo busy.â The first half was a lie, but the second half was relatively true. You were too busy.
With Superman.
You sat at your desk, pen and notebook suddenly becoming less like paper mates and more like partners in crime as you started writing. Ignoring Supermanâs presence as it radiated through your body wasnât doing you any good. If anything, it only made it worse. The more you tried not to think about him, the more your mind supplied the details anyway. The smudges on his skin. The mess of his hair. The way his voice had sounded after the fight, steady but rougher, like the city had pulled something out of him and he still had more to give.Â
So your best solution? Write it out. Maybe if you gave the thoughts somewhere to go, heâd go with them. Maybe felt like a high-risk, low-reward situation, but you were desperate enough to try.
Clark, on the other hand, had been working through revisions for your most recent piece together. Nothing too crazy, just a few additions that would support the notes youâd give him later. Easy work. The kind of work he could usually get through without much trouble.Â
And perhaps that had been the problem.
It didnât take much for Clarkâs focus to drift away to its new favorite spotâyou. His back was to you, your desk set behind his, and from what he could hear, you were having a pretty productive day. Your pen moved across the page in smooth, steady strokes, pausing here and there before starting again. He assumed they were revision notes at first, something detailed enough to help the piece, something that almost pushed his attention back to his own screen.
Almost.
Just when his mind started to drift away, he heard the telltale signs. Your heartbeat picking up, your breath cutting in shorter intervals, quiet enough that no one else would notice but clear enough to him that ignoring it became its own kind of effort. He heard the shift of your legs, crossing and uncrossing twice beneath your desk like you couldnât quite get comfortable. But more than that, your writing had changed.
The pressure. The shift from a smooth glide to the sharper scratch of pen against paper. The stroke of each letter becoming so specific, so weighted, that he could make out most, if not all, of what was being written.
âthatâs the part I canât seem to get out of my head. Always so big, like itâs too much until it isnâtâ
Clarkâs fingers slowed over his keyboard.
He had picked up on the rhythm some time ago, from the hours youâd spent working side by side. And no, it wasnât intentional. It had happened gradually, built through marked-up pages, half-finished articles, and too many notes passed back and forth. He knew the way you wrote when you were focused. Knew the difference between a quick note, a revised sentence, a thought you crossed out before it could finish.
This wasnât any of that.
I keep thinking about how it would feel to let him spread me open with those hands.
Clark went still.
The sentence formed clearly enough that his breath caught before he could stop it. For one second, he told himself to stop. That this was wrong. That he shouldnât be listening just because he could. He was raised better than that.Â
That one tugged at that Boy Scout conscience of his, just enough to have him start pulling his attention back.
Then your pen moved again.
S-u-p-e-r-m-a-n.
He couldnât have ignored that even if he tried. His attention snapped right back to where it had no business being, caught on the scratch of your pen, the weight behind each word, the small breaks in your breathing as the page filled. Every piece of it gave you away, telling him exactly what state you were working yourself into.
You wrote about wanting him all the time. About wanting Supermanâs body over you, in you, around you. About how badly you wanted to know if heâd fuck like you imagined he would. About how you didnât think once would be enough.
The more your thoughts sharpened, the more your body reacted. Your heartbeat had gone fast enough now that it wasnât even subtle to him anymore. Your breathing kept catching, then evening out, then catching again, like every line was pulling another reaction out of you. He was tuned into all of it, too tuned in, and by the time he realized how bad it had gotten, it was already too late.
He was hard.
Not gradually. Not with any warning he could pretend he missed. One second he was fine, or close enough to pass for it, and the next he wasnât. It hit all at once, a sharp drop into want that had his whole body going tense around it, leaving him straining beneath the desk, trying not to shift, trying not to make it worse.
His jaw tightened.Â
And you just kept writing.
You started with his mouth, then his hands, then yours, your thoughts slipping straight to what it would feel like to take Superman between your lips. About how good it would feel to get on your knees for him first, to feel him against your tongue, to see if he was as big as youâd been imagining every time the camera caught the front of that suit from the right angle.
That was bad enough.
Then Clarkâs brain supplied the rest.
Your mouth wrapped around him. Warm and wet, lips stretching around the tip before taking more. Your tongue gliding over him slowly, tasting, teasing, making him feel every inch of it before you let him deeper. The thought of you doing that little sigh heâd heard beforeâthe one that caught low in your throat and turned into something closer to a moan once it slipped freeâsent another pulse of heat straight through him.
Behind him, your chair creaked.
The sound was small, but to him it might as well have been a confession. You shifted in your seat, trying to move the pressure somewhere else, trying to get comfortable while your pen kept scratching across the page, and Clark heard the next thought almost as clearly as if youâd said it out loud.
You wrote about riding him. About how youâd feel him everywhere. How youâd have to take him slow at first, because heâd be too much to just drop onto, even if all youâd want to do was bounce on him the second he let you. About how your body would work have to work around his size, how youâd sit on him inch by inch and then lose your mind once you finally had all of him.
That image hit harder.
He saw it immediately. You on top of him, thighs spread over his lap, riding him slow, just like you wrote, trying to adjust before the need won out. Then faster. Harder. Your body lifting and dropping, bouncing on his cock as your hands gripped his shoulders or maybe braced against his chest. Your tits moving with the rhythm. The way your face would change once it started feeling too good to hideâ
How tight and warm youâd feel taking him.
That was the one.
Clarkâs whole body locked around it, a soft, involuntary grunt catching in his throat as he came.
His fingers curled against the edge of his desk, the force of his release hitting hard enough to leave him tense beneath it, but quiet enough for him to bury the sound under the scrape of his chair as he shifted in his seat. His other hand moved a second later, reaching for nothing in particular, just something to make it look like he was adjusting, like he hadnât just lost himself at his desk over the sound of you wanting Superman.
The movement caught your attention, pulling you out of your thoughts. Your pen paused mid-thought as the reality of where you were settled back in far too late. Work. The bullpen. Deadlines. Actual responsibilities, unfortunately. You blinked down at the notebook, shut it a little too fast, then reached for the folder sitting beside your keyboard like that had been your plan all along.
Clark heard you stand. Heard you coming toward him too, of course, which only made him sit a little straighter. Too straight, probably, but he couldnât help it. His hand lifted to his mouth, fingers resting there in a passable attempt at concentration.
Every sense he had was still tuned to you, tracking the distance as it closed, the faint shift in your breathing, the soft rustle of the folder in your hand. He forced his eyes to stay on the screen, even though not a single word made it through.
âHey,â you said when you reached his desk, holding it out to him. âI meant to give this to you earlier. Itâs just the notes for the revision.â
Clark turned enough to take it, but not enough to really look at you. He couldnât trust himself with that yet.
His fingers brushed the edge of the folder as he took it from you.
âThanks,â he said.
You gave him a small, apologetic look. âSorry. Iâve been a little distracted today.â
Clark heard your heart jump at the word distracted. Just a quick, telling little stutter beneath everything else. Unfortunately, his body had a similar reaction, sharp enough to make his grip tighten around the folder as he kept his eyes on his screen.
You didnât seem to notice. Or maybe you were too caught in your own embarrassment to look too closely.
He kept his face steady. Well, at least tried to. Then you made it worse.
âI wish I could focus like you,â you added.
Clark let out something close to a laugh, but it barely made it there. A strained huff, half-hearted at best, paired with a nod that probably looked more convincing than it felt.Â
âYeah,â he said, because it was the safest thing he had.
You smiled, still oblivious, and turned to walk away.
Focused.
That was one word for it.
Š anon-188 - est. 2025 | please do not repost, copy, translate, or recreate my work in any form.
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fuck rain you always know exactly how to write a clark that i LOVE. a little too shy and obviously too sweet and incredibly respectful on the outside but a little pervy (not that it's his fault) on the inside. perfection. also? thirsting over superman and the way he looks in his suit? she's just like me fr.
i love you rain. and i miss you. and this is an incredible fic to come back with. and i love you (again).
summary: sometimes, it's just too big. but clark knows you can take it.
CWs: 18+ MDNI!!!! clark kent x fem!reader, size kink, mating press, unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it folks), snarky!clark, kissing, some praise, use of pet names, clark's a good man even though he's a little sassy, established relationship i guess?, talking you through it i guess? in a way?, no use of y/n. i think that's it!
author's note: quick little thing because i haven't posted in a while, i hope you all enjoy! literally wrote this in my drafts so i don't even have a word count. im assuming it's around 1.5k? anyways, sorry about the lack of content guys - working on a massive multi-chapter fic AND putting some stuff together for 1k. should have some more stuff posted later this week (maybe)! love you all!
"Fuck," you hiss, head tilted back and burying itself into the pillows beneath it. You suck in a stuttered, shallow breath and whine it out. You're unable to take any sort of full breaths, anyway; Clark's too busy taking up all the space in and around your body.
He's got you pressed into the mattress, completely unable to do anything but focus on the way he's fucking you. It's a brutal mating press this time. Your legs are curled up almost to your chest, and his arms are caging you in, and the way he's got his face tucked into the crook of your neck is ensuring that you're feeling all of his weight. Just how you like it.
And although the mating press is brutal, his pace is not. It's slow, and deep, and careful, because Clark knows how much you can handle. Knows you well enough to clock when you need him to take his time. Knows exactly how to ensure that you're enjoying yourself, and, make no mistakeâyou are enjoying yourself.
But he's just so fucking big. Buried in you so deep. All nine inches of him, hard and heavy and utterly and completely filling. All 6'5 of his height and 240 pounds of his weight pinning you down beneath him.
Sometimes he's too big.
Clark shifts above you. He's still got you in that mating press, but now one of his arms is tucking beneath your waist, moving your hips up just enough to make him push deeper into you. You gasp. It's the first time that you're able to suck in that much air since he's been on top of you.
"Clark!" you whine, loud and stilted and a little strained. You'd been screaming all fucking night. You're surprised you even have a voice anymore.
"S'too big!"
He smiles against your neck. Trails a few soft kisses on the column of your throat before he lifts his head out of your neck and looks down at you. You don't realize he's taken his arm out from beneath your waist until you feel his hand on your chin tilting your face down and forcing you to look into his eyes.
"Did I hear that right? It's too big, baby?"
He punctuates that question by pulling back, almost completely out of you, then pushing all the way back in. Every fucking inch. All in less than a second. A quick, deep thrust, one that punches all of the air out of your lungs for the thousandth time tonight. Your back arches as much as it can with all of his heft on top of you. The shallow excuse of a breath you had frantically sucked in gets shoved out of your chest.
âYes!â you squeak out. Clark laughs at you; itâs not cruel, but it has your already flushed face burning a little more. He presses his hips a little deeper, a little harder, and your eyes roll back into your head. That ache, that familiar burn with getting stretched open on his cock, is the most confusing thing; feels so good even though heâs practically on the verge of splitting you in half. You throw your head back, and your hips squirm, and your fingers dig into the bedsheets beneath your body so you can try and pull yourself away from him.
Itâs no use, though. Clarkâs hand leaves your chin and attaches to your right hip, his hold on you tight and sturdy; you couldnât go anywhere if you tried. Not that youâd actually want to, of course.
âYou want me to take it out?â he asks.
That question wasnât really a question. Maybe it was a threat. Or a death sentence, because taking all of that pain and pleasure away before you can finish might actually kill you. Almost as much of a death sentence as the way he pulls his hips back; this time, he pulls all the way back. Completely out of you. He keeps the thick, blunt tip of his cock pressed against your cunt, though. What a fucking tease.
Your eyes shoot open and, through all your quick panting and pathetic whimpering, you manage to glare at him and cry out, âNo!â
He flashes one of those pretty crooked smiles at you. Always so cocky whenever he hasnât earned the right to be. Just makes him hotter.
âNo?â he asks. Then he huffs.
âThought you said it was too big, honey?â
You start to push out a garbled mess of a protest, but you cut yourself off with a guttural, borderline animalistic moan when you feel him gently glide his length through your sensitive folds. A soft, back and forth rocking that only lasts a couple seconds. The slick sound when he rolls his hips back and forth is nothing but sinful. Makes your pussy flutter and clench aroundâmuch to your dismayânothing.
âPlease,â you beg, breathy and whiny and pathetic above all else. You havenât been able to take a full, deep breath since heâs started fucking you. Unfortunately, the panicking from how he isnât fucking you anymore has squeezed your lungs like a vice. Canât take a deep breath without him fucking you, either. All you can do is pant up at him like some sort of bitch in heat, andâŚwell, it wouldnât be a stretch to classify yourself as one.
Clark picks up on that, judging by the way his hand glides up your stomach and toward your chest. His palm lays over the center of it, allowing his fingers to splay out over your flushed, sticky skin. His hand is, just like him, massive. Proportionate to his gigantic body. The tips of his fingers can reach your collarbones while his thumb is steadily brushing back and forth over the spot just above your heart. He could probably hear it hammering in your chest, just like he can hear every pitiful excuse of a breath you keep trying to suck in.
âTell you what,â he mutters. âYou take one deep breath for me, and Iâll put it back in.â
âClark,â you groan, a wobbly little pant that you struggled to get out.
âBreathe,â he commands. âBreathe, or youâre not getting what you want.â
Now heâs holding himself hostage from you. Of course.
In true Clark fashion, he teases you while heâs waiting for your response. Continues to gently glide his cock through your folds, letting out a soft, low growl and hanging his head for a moment. He laughs, breathy and a little desperate, and his hips buck. It sends a jolt through both of your bodies; seems like the idiotâs gone and teased himself, too.
âBetter do it fast, honey. Donât think I can last much longer.â
How does one force their brain to force their lungs to manually breathe? In, out, in, out. Seems pretty simple. But your brain doesnât wanna cooperate, because all you can feel is the tip of Clarkâs cock brushing over your clit again and again and again as he keeps rolling his hips. You whimper so loudly that it echoes off your bedroom walls; when your head falls back onto your pillow, you shut your eyes. Squeeze them so tight that you see starsâalthough that could also be because of the oxygen youâve been depriving yourself of.
Then, it happens. You do some sort of hard reset. You suck in a big, deep breath, chest fully expanding and bumping against Clarkâs.
âAtta girl. I knew you could do it,â he purrs. Leans down to press soft kisses on your chin, and the corner of your lips, and down your jaw while he lines himself up and sinks right back into your cunt. Thereâs no resistance at all. Your breath hitches in your throat and you tense up, mouth dropping open without any permission from your brain. Although, your brainâs letting you down a lot right now, soâŚbest to not depend on it.
âGive me another deep breath, baby,â Clark whispers, breath fanning out against your ear. Heâs buried to the hilt again, voice a little strung out and voice a little shaky. But heâs doing a lot better than you, so who are you to talk?
You canât breathe again. Heâs too deep, and he feels too good, and the angle heâs got you at is keeping his tip pressed right against that spongy spot that makes you shake when he pays too much attention to it. Your fingers, desperate to find something to tear up, meet his shouldersâif he was a normal human being, youâd have left a few deep cuts in his back from how hard you just clawed down it.
But you manage to do it after a beat. To suck in a deep breath, to moan it out, to blubber about how good heâs got you feeling. Or maybe it was just gibberish. Who knows? At least you got the air in. At least you rediscovered how to breathe.
âJust like that, baby. Good girl,â he praises you. Honey-sweet, like he always is.
âYou keep breathing deep and slow like that for me, and weâll go as long as you want.â
summary: making a mess isn't always a bad thing - clark kent knows that well.
word count: little over 1.3k!
CWs: 18+ MDNI! explicit descriptions of sex, edging (m!receiving), premature ejaculation (bless his heart), dom!reader x sub!clark if you squint but they switch around lol, pet names, no use of y/n, body worship (m!receiving), messy sex, fem!reader x clark kent, some kissing, some playful banter and teasing. i think that's it.
author's note: putting on my best rocky voice for you guys when i say enjoy enjoy enjoy! let me know your thoughts on this one, and stay tuned for next week's daily freaks entry đ
series masterlist
Clarkâs always been the one to worship you first.
He holds you so reverently in his hands while heâs whispering his soft prayers into your skin, while heâs kissing every inch of you he can get his hands and lips on, while his hands are slowly undressing you and his eyes are drinking you in, sparkling with love and lust and everything in between.
Thatâs why he always has such a hard time when itâs the other way around.
âHoney, please,â he groans up at you. Youâve been perched on his thighs with one hand running up and down his torso for the last few minutes, mapping each dip, curve, and line of his massive, muscular frame. The gentle scrape of your nails through his thick, dark happy trail when you inch a little further toward his hardened cock makes him shudder. Makes him squirm. Makes him whine.
One of his hands twitches in the sheets beneath him, aching to reach out and touch you and yet not doing it because he knows whatâll happen if he does that. Youâll just go slower. Prolong the torture.
âYouâre so pretty,â you whisper. Your eyes meet, and you wink at him, and his already pink blush turns red almost immediately.
âPrettiest thing Iâve ever seen. You know that?â you ask. Gentle and sweet, not teasing in the slightest. Itâs not that you want to tease him. Itâs just that heâs so cute when heâs being teased, you canât really help yourself when you do it.
âLook at how perfect you are.â Your hand runs up his happy trail and toward his chest, fingers lingering over his skin and making him squirm even more. You lean down to kiss over each spot your fingers trace. Each kiss you plant on him has him huffing out a frustrated little breath.
âSo big and strong,â you purr into his chest, a gentle compliment that softens the blow when you continue with, âand youâre just falling apart beneath your girlfriend. Big, strong Superman canât handle it when I touch him, huh?â
âYouâre gonna kill me,â he breathes, head falling back into the pillows beneath it, jaw tightening and eyes squeezing shut. His thighs shift and you get scared for a moment; scared that heâll just push you forward with them and make you ride him. Heâs done it before.
But heâs being particularly good tonight, albeit restless. He settles again. You sit back up on him and return to dragging your fingers up and down his abdomen. Heâs so thick, so warm, so soft. Hell, you might just give up on this teasing act. Youâre well aware of the mess youâre making between your own thighs, the one thatâs probably dripping down your skin and onto his.
âYou wanna know what my favorite part is?â you ask. Better to change the subject than to give in. Your fingers stall at his happy trail. He pants a pathetic little confirmation out at you, hands still aching to touch you as they dig into your bed a little harder. He forces his eyes open, but theyâre lidded.
âThis,â you answer, fingers softly curling into and toying with the thick, dark mat of hair just beneath his belly button. This happy trail has always been your favorite. You spend extra time playing with it when youâve got your hands on his body, or kissing it when youâre on your knees in front of him.
You especially enjoy when heâs beneath you like this, cock hardened to an unbearable degree, twitching and dribbling precum all over that pretty happy trail youâve loved since the first time you saw it.
A particularly large drop of it falls onto the back of your hand where youâre still touching his happy trail. It makes you giggle. You lean forward to kiss him; soft, slow, and featherlight. Not enough to give him anything, but just enough to keep him waiting for more.
Before you pull away from him, you pat his lower abdomen and whisper, ââCause itâs so cute when you make a mess all over yourself right here. Especially when itâs just for me, baby.â
You smile when he whines and tries to reconnect your lips, his entire body straining in an attempt at keeping his composure despite him breaking it. When you sit back up and brush your fingers over the underside of his cockâteasing and hardly-thereâhe whimpers so loudly, squirms so roughly beneath you, that youâre concerned for your neighbors. His constant moving is making the bed frame shake, and youâre almost certain that heâs being so loud that the windows might have shook.
âShh,â you gently coo. You bring your hand up to your mouth and wait until heâs got his eyes on you to lick up the mess he made on your skin. Clarkâs face is practically glowing, now. Bright red, flushed with need and embarrassment and, above all else, love.
âIâplease,â he whines, hips canting when you return your hand to his body. âPlease, justâŚI need you, honey. Please.â
You feign pity with a gentle jutting of your bottom lip.
âYou need me, huh?â
A quick nod of his head is what you get. You hum. Your fingers slide down his stomach, stopping at his happy trail so you can coat them with his precum.
âFine,â you tell him. âIâll take pity on you since youâre being so good for me.â
Then you wrap your hand around his cock, thumb gently running over the head of it. As soon as you start pumping your hand up and down slowly but firmlyâjust how he likes itâhe sucks in a deep breath. That breath punches out of his chest as a loud, pathetic cry of your name.
Thatâs because heâs already spilling his load all over your hand and himself. A few ropes of it shoot up to his stomach, pooling in his belly button, painting over the dark, coarse hairs of his happy trail, and gently dribbling down your knuckles and fingers once heâs gotten most of it out.
âWow,â you whisper, giggling at him and continuing to pump his cock up and down despite the fact that heâs finished. His body is shaking, trembling, writhing on the sheets while he babbles something resembling a million different thank yous and pleas for you to stop moving your hand.
You donât stop moving your hand.
âYou made such a mess, baby. Did so well for me, didnât you?â
âYes!â he whines. Bucks his hips up so roughly that you slip forward on his lap and have to press your free hand against his big, broad chest. That gets you to take your other hand off of his cock. The way you slip forward and end up sitting right on top of his happy trailâlegs straddling his torso and pussy fluttering from the sound of his sweet, overstimulated noisesâhas an idea popping up in your head.
âYeah, youâre being so good for me. Now sit still and let me use you for a little while,â you mumble, rolling your hips forward and shuddering from the sensation that greets you there. The coarse hairs of his happy trail rub against your clit just right; just enough to make you moan his name as your head lolls forward and you dig your nails into his chest.
Each shift of your hips is short and quick. Punctuated with the lewd schlick of your wetness and his come mixing together while you get yourself off on top of him. All Clark can do is stare at you. Admire you. Caress your thighs and hips so gently that itâs almost like heâs not touching you at all. He smiles up at you, though. Sends you a wink and runs his tongue over his bottom lip.
âSeems like you needed me just as much, honey.â
tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, clark is a liiiitle mean, orgasm denying, a bit of cockwarming, stern talk from clark kent heh, unprotected p in v sex, creampie. wc: 1090.
Daily Freaks masterlist | masterlist
Youâve been rereading this section of the book for god knows how long.
You were in Clarkâs apartment, which was practically yours now, as usual, sitting on his bed after you took it over for yourself. With your laptop on your lap, a textbook in your hand, and flashcards and more notes surrounding you.
Not to mention the endless number of coffee cups your boyfriend had made tonight, highlighters once propped beside you now scattered on the ground, and how you were wrapped in one of his thick hoodies to keep you warm.
You were stressed. It was only days till your final projectâs deadline, and you were stuck because of the burnout, the one Clark has been nagging you about.
A growl then ripped out from your throat as you shoved your book away, throwing your head back against the pillows. âFuck this. My brainâs a mush at this point. I canât do this anymore.â
Clark glanced at you then, but he didnât make any comment. Not yet, at least.
Your thoughts began rambling, running to the point of breaking down. Maybe itâs because of the lack of food you consumed, or maybe the lack of rest, but what you know is that you needed all the thoughts to be gone.
And what better way than to have Clark fuck you senseless?
You look up at him, eyes all hazy from the stress and need just from thinking about his thick cock plunging into you.
âClark, baby?â you asked sweetly.
He only hummed in response, still annoyingly so focused on his papers.
You frowned unknowingly. âCan you help me?â
His attention finally shifted, turning back to look at you. âYou finally gonna sleep now?â
You huffed in protest, of course he was in on this again. âI told you Iâm not tired, Clarkââ
âYet you keep whining and crying all day, baby,â his tone more stern than usual, the veins on his neck bulging just like they always did when his patience was wearing thin.
âI told you I need to finish this soon!â Your brows knitted in protest, the stress now fueling your annoyance at him.
âWell, not by making yourself miserableâŚâ he let out a quiet sigh, knowing that he canât do anything when youâve made up your mind. So he decided to be a reliable boyfriend instead.
âWhat do you need help with, sweetheart?â his tone was so much softer now, his attention fully on you as he stood up from his desk towards the bed, instinctively tidying up your mess along the way.
âWill you make it all go away, please?â You looked up at him as he towered over you from the edge of the bed. Your hands trailing down from his chest to his stomach and lower, making him let out a shaky breath while his muscles twitch.
âNow you want me, huh?â his fingers trailed your jaw, tipping your chin up. âYouâve been ignoring my warnings all day, so hereâs something. You have to earn it today, baby.â
The next thing you know, you were perched on his lap. His hard cock slapping against your thighs, his pre making his tip glisten so deliciously.
Your pants were gone, panties bunched up to the side as he teased your folds in a way that made you tremble on top of him.
âYou have to promise me to take care of yourself, or you wonât come. Okay?â he whispered the words into your ears.
âBut Clark, I canâtââ before you gasped as he lifted you easily, guiding you down on his cock so agonizingly slow. His tip entering you, stretching you split wide open inch by inch, till you could feel all of his veins along your walls.
âNo moving. Youâve been denying me, so now Iâm denying you,â his tone sharp, like a warning.
âPleaseâ please, ClarkâŚâ you whimpered, cunt fluttering as you try your hardest not to move, or he wonât let you reach your climax after all.
Your breaths deepened, insides burning, clit throbbing from being so close yet so far.
He began lecturing you. On how you should take more care of yourself, how you should stop skipping meals and drink more water, and how you should take more breaks so you wonât be in this situation again.
But you canât think anymore.
He tutted then, hand finding your cheeks as he cupped them. âListen. Be a good girl and repeat what I said.â
You nodded, trying your best to recollect the things he had told you all night. âHahhâ no skipping meals, drink waterâClark please!â
âI said no. Repeat what I told you,â he squeezed your cheeks harder.
And your cunt canât help but have a mind on its own. You always find it hot when Clark use that serious tone on you, as rare as it isâso your walls kept contracting, making you produce more and more of your slickness that was now seeping outside and dripping onto his base.
Now his own control was weakening with every pulse of your hole. You can hear how his breath kept hitching with every beat, how his hips buck just the slightest, you almost canât tell.
The both of you were so close, so you decided to just comply.
âOkay fineâ I promise to stop after this,â you whimpered. âIâll eat and drink more water Clark, I promise.â
He let out a sigh, before his demeanor changed. He kissed your cheek, your jaw. âGood girl. Now let me make you feel good, yeah?â
You then let out a quiet cry as he began bouncing you up and down his cock, moaning louder as his fingers began to make tight circles around your clit.
All the while, he kept praising you in your ears, kissing you with every word.
It was quick. You felt the orgasm tipping from every thrust he gave, the soft words, the way his fingers worked so methodically, like he had done it a thousand times.
âGonna comeâ!â you gasped.
âGive it to me, sweetheart,â he rasped, before letting out a moan as you finally reached your edge.
Your walls fluttered violently, your whole body shaking on top of him, and your mouth parted to let out the most beautiful moans heâd ever heard.
He kept kissing your face as you ride out your high, his own cock spilling with a deep groan into your ears.
âYou did so good for me⌠now come on, let me cook you dinner, then we can sleep, okay?â
