lily

🥥🥥

[skelee-gro]

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪     lily.     she/her.     nineteen. british. multifandom. obsessed with fictional men. clark kent's wife. anakin skywalker's fling. mark grayson’s lover. jason todd's doll. dick grayson's partner in crime.

entering hyperspace... select which planet to go to!

coruscant ― my main blog

tatooine ― my masterlist

naboo ― frequently asked questions

mustafar ― my library blog

[scissorhvnds]

୭ ˚. vamp!jason drinking your blood during sex

series masterlist

vampire!jason will only drink your blood if he can worship you simultaneously. because this isn't about him — it can't all be about him. it's about you.

you're giving him the very essence of your life so that he can remain strong. you're allowing him access to the the most important part of you. to the thing that you need to survive. he cannot take, and not give anything in return. he cannot drink and not show you how thankful he is. 

he'd spent an hour before this proving to you — to himself — that he can be soft. that he's so much more than the sharp fangs that can take your life. 

he'll lay you on your back. then, he'll explore your ankles, your knees, up your inner thighs with gentle lips and even gentler hands. he can be gentle. jason is gentle. then hungrily — because he can't help himself, your scent had been tempting him from the beginning — up your slit, sinking his tongue as deep inside you as he can. 

one orgasm for sure, maybe two (usually two) if jason is feeling particularly needy. he needs to get you ready, he does. 

he won't stop until your thighs are quivering around his ears, till your fingers are tugging on his hair, till your whines and pleads for him are so insistent that he slowly begins to believe that what he is doing to you is okay. his lips will meet every inch of exposed skin on the side of your neck next. his kisses are soft, barely pressing against you — he's unwilling to risk bruising before his fangs can inflict their violence upon your innocent skin.

he'll prop himself up over you, gazing at your face. your pretty face. eyes lidded and glassy, lips shining and bitten through from your own teeth. beautiful. he loves you so much. so much. he'll kiss you after that, seal his lips over yours. his tongue presses against the wall of your teeth, tasting you again, and allowing you to taste yourself on him. 

just the press of your lips will unlock a ferocity in him, will crumble his restraint so fast it's like he never had it. he'll nudge his tip against your entrance before sliding in halfway in one go. 

your soft gasp, followed by a happy whine, slides down jason's thoat. he's full of you. his entire being is consumed by you. it warms him, allows his hollow body to remember what it felt like to tingle. because your touch emulates that in him. the way your fingers trail his skin — solid and strong — and he can feel it. phantom goosebumps rise across the back of his neck, phantom mechanoreceptors call out to you, kissing your fingertips in return wherever they explore. a thank you for not thinking he disgusting, for not being afraid of him, for loving him enough that he can feel human again. 

he'll slide in the rest of the way, mumbling praising into your mouth. 

"feel so good for me, angel,"

"fuck — need you to stay still, baby, not gonna last," 

"wanna feel you like this forever, want you forever, please—"

it's slow. loving. hard thrusts angled juuuust right. right at the spot that has your eyes fluttering back, your mouth drying up, brain short-circuiting to the point that you forget you're supposed to be kissing jason back. 

only then. only then will jason tilt your head to the side, trailing his nose along your jugular and sinking his fangs as deep into your neck as they'll go. 

your reaction remains the same every time. muscles clenching and fluttering around his cock, squeezing him tight, pulling him impossibly deeper. your hand will always find his, fingers intertwining against the bed, one squeeze, two squeeze, three squeeze, i love you. 

jason drinks as his hips grind into you, no longer thrusting, just feeling, the pleasure you feel from his fangs is enough. it's just as addicting for you as it is for him, you even ask for him to drink from you more often despite jason's chagrin — the thought of causing you even an ounce of pain makes him feel sick. 

his free thumb will meet your clit, rubbing quick swipes around the nub until you come again, with him following right after. the relief is immediate, evident in the tiny whimpers that jason vibrates against your neck. he was already close to blowing his load against the bed when you had come on his tongue the first time. each grind of his hips against yours, each squeeze of his fingers on whatever part of your body they can reach, each lap of his tongue against your neck is a thank you and an apology all in one. 

when he pulls away, when his fangs finally retract from your skin, he'll keep his face buried in your neck. he'll keep his tongue pressed against the two tiny wounds, lapping at them. he tells himself it's to make sure his healing venom sticks, that it covers each crevice of the wound, but jason knows deep down he's being selfish. you almost always come again every time he does it, small shudders jittering up your spin, walls contracting around him still nestled deeeep inside you, chest arching into his. the excess blood from your neck wound explodes on his tongue from where it is pressed flat and he savours it because he believes this is the last time he'll ever get to taste you like this. he thinks the other shoe has to drop soon. 

it should.

you should run. 

but you dont. you never do. you stay. arms wound tightly around him, keeping him close. trusting. loving. you snuggle into him like jason didn't just have your life in his hands, as if he hadn't been that close to taking your life if he didn't have the restraint he does.

you stay afterwards. you always do. 

an: vamp!jason comeback on a random sunday in june??? yup!

taglist: @mollymal , @redhooduwu , @girlmeetsolivia , @athenxt , @nightlights-and-twiklingstars , @silverjaysz , @l0singctrl , @drea18881 , @calicocat-ina-tuxedo , @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger , @mrbusinessman , @starr-jazz , @bat2nsignia , @vianawaits , @indigoscribe , @luviery , @kennlovespink , @jiasfiles , @arfemiz , @darkxwolfsstuff , @soggywhore , @wiishies , @spideyskywalker , @newangelle , @thatluckygirl19 , @givemefinganame , @hyyperfixationstation , @clmntin3 , @djobrat

[skelee-gro]

i need him so bad it’s not even funny

[sakunai]

YOUR ORACLE . ⋮ being apart from barbara for a mission leaves you desperate for her voice. based on this request ⋮ pairing ! barbara gordon x fem!reader cw ! phone sex, switch!babs and switch + subtop! reader, slight dumbification, guided masturbation, mentions of girlcock. ⌗ nicknames used : baby, sweetheart, slut, puppy. ⌗ so self indulgent good lord please bear with me 😭 also dialogue heavy....

The safehouse in Blüdhaven was quiet except for the low hum of the city outside the window. It had been one long week and nine days of chasing leads across state lines only to end up here, stealthing again for more information.

Dinah and Helena had caught a wrench in their latest lead on the outskirts of the city — swearing they didn’t need backup — while you were left behind, racking your brain on what you all already had to work with. You were exhausted.

The comms link was supposed to be for mission updates only, you remembered that.

But it was late. The safehouse was quiet. And you’d been apart from her for a week and nine days, enough to be translated to a lifetime of missing your girlfriend.

“Oracle,” you murmured, keeping your voice low even though you were alone, as you slipped the tiny earpiece into your ear.

The line clicked open instantly.

“Status?” Barbara’s voice was calm, professional. It made your heart lurch against your ribcage. Oracle. Barbara. Yours.

The woman who coordinated every move from her clock tower, voice calm and commanding in your ear all night. Whatever she said, you followed and wherever she led, you went in blind and trusting.

Your lips parted with no words as the ache settled in. Sure, you’ve heard her voice over the past few days, always watching and guiding you and the girls through the mission — your eyes and ears on the outside.

But you missed her voice in your ear for reasons that had nothing to do with tactical support.

“Talk to me, baby.” Her voice softened into a coaxing whisper. You realized a little too late that your breathing had changed and given your thoughts away. Of course she caught it, when did she not?

“I’m secure. Mission’s on track. Waiting for word from the others.” You paused, rolling onto your back on the narrow safehouse bed. “I just… I really fucking missed hearing you.”

A soft laugh crackled through the comm. It was like honey on a cold night, your skin prickling with warmth. “You’re hearing me right now.”

You sighed. “You know what I mean, Barbie.”

She nearly melted. “I know... I miss having you here too,” she confessed. “The tower’s too quiet without you trying to distract me from my monitors.”

“Is that all I am now?” You teased. “A distraction?”

On the other end of the line you heard a few clicks, her keyboard. “Oh, so you’re needy,” she whispered. You could hear the smile in her voice — that shit eating grin when she had you right where she wanted you. “You should’ve led with that.”

“Don’t start.” You huffed, burying your face in the pillow briefly as you grumbled. “It’s been a week and nine days. You know how much I hate sleeping without you.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Oracle slipped away and it was just Babs, warm and velvety like home. “I keep reaching over for you at night,” she whispered. “Keep thinking about you. The way you kiss me… how your eyes get so teary when you need me.”

You bit your lip as it trembled. “Barbie… I’m aching for you.”

“Tell me where it hurts, sweetheart.”

You shivered. “Between my legs. I’ve been wet since I heard your voice.”

“Mmm. My poor girl. All worked up and no one there to take care of you.” Her tone shifted into that perfect commanding lilt she used when she was running point. “Tell me what you’d do if I were there right now.”

You shifted on the bed, already feeling warm under her imagined gaze. The ache in your abdomen grew hotter by the second, and you squeezed your eyes shut, recalling every curve and contour of her body as if she was right next to you.

“You’re so beautiful,” You breathed, a hand sliding down your stomach and under the waistband of your sleepwear. “I’d pull you on my lap… push those pretty panties down your thighs, and feel how wet you already are for me.” A palm hovered over your clothed cunt. “Are you wet, baby?

“I’m fucking soaked.” She exhaled slowly. “Been like this since you said you missed me the first time.”

“What are you wearing?”

Barbara stifled a giggle at the cliche, but it broke through and you scoffed in her ear. “Oh, fuck you, I’m working with what I have,” you complained. “Tell me, I wanna know.”

The smile remained in her voice, light and teasing. “That Gotham U hoodie you left here a while back.”

“Is your hair down?”

“Perv,” she huffed. “Yes. And no, I’m not wearing panties, I took them off. The glasses too.”

You let out a shaky breath, fingers finally pressing down over your clit through the thin fabric of your panties. The relief was immediate but nowhere near enough. “Fuck, Babs… you’re killing me.”

Barbara hummed approvingly. “Good girl. Spread your legs wider for me. I want you to talk to me, okay?”

You obeyed, thighs falling apart. The cool air hit your soaked cunt and you whimpered, you folds weeping as you rucked your panties down to your ankles.

“Touch your clit, baby. Slow circles. Just like I do with my tongue when I’m teasing you.”

Your fingers slid down, slick and eager. The first gentle rub made you moan her name. “Shit— Barbie…”

“I know, baby. I can hear how wet you are.” Her voice dropped lower. “I’m touching myself too. Grinding my clit into my hand thinking about that pretty pussy. You always get so desperate when you’re away from me.”

One finger on your clit turned into your index and middle, rolling the sensitive bud in figure-eights then pinching it softly between the knuckles. “So good, baby, missing your cute little tits right now… so fucking soft…”

You trembled from the memories of your time together. Barbara beneath you, her pretty tits bouncing as you suckled a sensitive nipple into your mouth.

“I miss you so much,” she rasped, the faint wet sounds of her touching herself came from the other end of the line. “I’m so fucking wet thinking about you. My good girl, touching herself for me miles away. Such a needy slut for Oracle’s voice, aren’t you?”

You whimpered, rubbing tighter circles as your other hand slid up to squeeze one of your breasts as if it was hers. Your hips bucked forward to chase the stimulation.

Barbara’s breathing was getting heavier. “Let me fuck you, puppy. Come on, two fingers inside — stretch that little pussy like I trained you.”

You obeyed instantly, sliding two fingers into your dripping cunt with a wet sound that made Barbara groan softly in approval.

“That’s it… juuust like that,” she praised, her voice husky. “Curl them up, baby. Feel that spot? Right where you need me?”

A broken moan tore from your throat, tears leaking from your eyes as you followed her instructions, pumping slowly at first, then faster, the heel of your palm grinding against your swollen clit. “Babs—fuck, it feels so good… but it’s not enough. I need you.”

“I know, puppy.” Her breathing was ragged now, the faint rhythmic sounds of her fingers moving between her own legs filtering through the comm. “I wish I could be there to see you... Fuck yourself harder for me. I want to hear it. Let me hear how sloppy that pretty pussy gets from my voice.”

You cried, pumping your fingers faster, the obscene wet sounds filling the quiet safehouse as your other hand left your breast to grip the sheets, knuckles turning white. “Barbie… fuck, baby… wanna fuck you so bad— tell me you want it, tell me you want me inside you. Please, please…”

A low, pleased growl came through the comm. “I miss the way you fill me up— hah—! fuck, when you make me ride you til my thighs shake… wish I could bounce my pussy all over yours baby… need you to fuck me like that again.”

That needy, desperate switch in her tone that was almost begging, sent a fresh rush of heat through you. “There’s my girl,” you sighed in ecstasy. “Just needed to turn your fucking brain off for me…”

“Yes—fuck, yes,” she gasped. Her voice cracked beautifully, the wet sounds from her end growing louder and faster. “I need you, I need you so fucking bad, baby.”

You curled your fingers harder, thrusting deep as you took control. “Yeah? You want my cock stretching you open? Fucking up into that cute little cunt?”

“I’d be so good for you… riding you just how you like. Fuck, I miss you using me. Please, baby—fuck me...”

“Atta girl, Barbie….” You added a third finger with a moan, the stretch burning so perfectly. “Fuckin brat, you had your fun.”

Barbara whimpered at your tone.

“I know what you need.” You moaned. “Do it harder. Play with your clit for me.... Rub it fast while you finger that pretty cunt. I want you to imagine my cock buried inside you, pounding you deep while I hold your hips down.”

A high, broken sound escaped her lips, echoing in the tower’s halls that made your own pussy clench around your fingers.

“I’m—hah—I’m doing it. Feels so good… I’m so close already. You always make me lose it when you get like this.”

You fucked yourself harder, hips bucking off the bed as you withdrew your fingers and focused on your clit, chasing that edge right alongside her.

A sharp cry cut through the comm, followed by a string of breathy curses. “Baby—! I’m gonna cum—fuck, I’m gonna cum so hard—”

“Not yet,” you whined, even as your own breathing grew ragged. Then, softer, almost pleading, the plea in your tone clear. “Wait for me, baby. I wanna cum with you— I’m almost there, just hold on—”

The sloppy wet sounds of your arousal splashing and making mess from how rough you were made Barbara’s his shake with need. “You’re so good— so fucking good. Fuck yourself like that. Harder, baby— cum for me, cum all over my pussy.”

You shrieked, grinding faster, your poor clit throbbing from the overstimulation. “Babs—Barbie— fuck, I need you—”

“I’m yours,” she gasped, fingers pumping faster, each squelching sound making your eyes roll. “I’m yours— only yours—”

That raw, possessive edge in her voice mixed with total surrender sent you spiraling as you ground your palm against your swollen clit, thighs shaking violently as your climax began to crash through you. “Fuck—! Oh god, I’m gonna cum— cum for me, Barbie—”

Her orgasm hit her hard as you cried out her name, thighs shaking while she clenched around her fingers, hips jerking and voice hoarse with a low, throaty moan. Her head tipped back as she rode her own hand through it.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” You moaned her name like a prayer, your pussy pulsing hard around your fingers as slick heat spilled down your thighs and onto the sheets, making a mess. “Jesus Christ— I’m shaking—”

“Ride it out, baby,” Barbara cooed, lightheaded and glowing.

For a long minute afterwards, the only sounds were your shared, ragged breathing and the faint city traffic outside.

Finally, she let out a soft, wrecked little laugh in your ear, the soft thump of her forehead hitting the keyboard making you smile. “Holy shit… I think I saw stars.”

You smiled, slowly pulling your hand away with a shiver, your body still tingling. “Mmm. Same. You sound so fucking pretty when you cum for me.”

“And you sound even prettier when you’re bossing me around,” she teased, voice warm and sated, full of affection. “Since when are you so mean to me?”

You chuckled, chest heaving. “Gotta keep you on your toes, Oracle. Can’t let you stay in control all the time.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” She hummed happily, a faint wet pop sound on the other end. “I like it when you take care of me.”

The silence between you two settled with the warmth of the afterglow.

“You okay over there?” You eventually murmured, and she murmured an ‘mhm’ back to you.

“You should go clean up and get some actual sleep.” Barbara said, soft but firm. “You’ve got watch later.”

“Back to business even after you just came your brains out,” you murmured fondly. “How romantic”

“You love it.”

“I do. I really do.” You paused, heart full. You paused for a moment, then sighed. “I love you, Barbie. Miss you like crazy.”

“I love you more,” she whispered, soft and sincere. “Just hurry home to me, okay? Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“...Right,” you laughed. “I’ll behave.”

The silence settled again, and neither of you spoke between the sounds of heavy breathing.

As the line remained open and the minutes passed, Barbara’s breath soon turned even and slow, her comforting presence in your ear taking you under as exhaustion finally settled over you like a warm blanket.

“...I’ll come home to you,” you whispered.

💻 : barbie barbie barbieee i love her so

[skelee-gro]

ohmygodohmygodohmygod!!! this is the type of shit i wanna seeeee!! imma need five more of these please and thank you!

[kryptidfiles]

Starving

Pairing - WC: David!Clark Kent x gf!Reader | 3.75k Summary: Loving Clark Kent means loving Superman too, even when the city steals him away on the nights you wanted him most. Tags: 18+, smuuuut, praise kink, oral (m receiving), kinda cock worship?, deep throat, wet and filthy, saliva as lube, nipple/breast play, tugging on hair, suit stays mostly on, cum swallowing, filthy use of lipstick, lovesick!Clark, needy!reader, established relationship, f!hair mentioned but no style, color, length described, reader wears a dress, pet names (baby, sweetheart, honey/hon)

took all day to write this, frantically with one hand. i'm sorry I don't have it in me to edit. you get whatever my lil brain gives. Thank you @honey-on-your-tongue for talking some sense into me to just write

main masterlist | Mrs. Kent Diaries

You’d been waiting for Clark to come home for two agonizing hours.

Your little black dress miraculously hadn’t wrinkled despite your nervous pacing, dramatic sighs, the way you kept sinking onto the couch only to stand again, too restless, too warm, too annoyed to sit still for more than thirty seconds.

Every slow lap from the couch to the tall windows and back again only made the ache between your thighs grow slicker, more insistent, your body winding itself tighter around his absence.

By the millionth trip to the hallway mirror, you dropped all pretenses and admitted you weren't fixing anything, just needed somewhere to channel all that restless heat.

The earrings caught the low light as you tilted your head, and your mind instantly supplied the filthy image of them swaying and tinkling while Clark’s hands fisted your hair, guiding you as you rode his cock deep and desperate.

Your perfume had warmed against flushed skin, the pulse beneath it fluttering wildly at every elevator groan or passing footstep—imagining his face buried there instead, licking, sucking, nipping marks into your throat while he growled your name.

Even your lipstick, a shade worn with the purpose to make Clark stammer half his sentences and forget all the manners Ma drilled into him, remained exactly where you’d painted it. No matter how many times you licked and pressed your lips together.

You leaned closer to the mirror, pouting, dragging your palms down your waist and over your hips exactly the way you wanted his to: rougher, needier, gripping, squeezing, digging hard enough to leave faint bruises that would heal under his apologetic kisses later. You adjusted one strap, one that hadn't even moved a single inch, imagining his fingers slipping beneath and yanking it down, too.

Pathetic, you thought. Absolutely pathetic. Dressed up and wound this badly for him.

You pictured exactly how he would’ve gone. He’d come through the door giddy and grinning, still windblown from the city, broad shoulders filling the entryway, keys clinking into the bowl. One shoe off, hand still on the doorknob, glasses slipping down his nose as a sweet greeting died in his throat: “Honey, I’m ho—oh gosh,” in that deep, raspy voice.

Or, “Sweetheart," in that strained, drawn-out way that somehow sounded like profanity.

Or your name, whispered as if he’d just found nirvana in the hallway of his own apartment.

His eyes would’ve gone to your face first because he was a good man, but not that good. They would've dropped to your throat. Then your dress, to the inviting plunge of cleavage, the curve of your waist beneath your own restless hands. Then, inevitably, helplessly, back up to your shaded lips that made him so lovesick and stupid.

In two strides, Clark'd pressed you against the wall, hands sliding under your dress to find you already soaked, fingers teasing your clit while he groaned against your lips and you moaned reminders about dinner plans.

Nothing big or expensive.

Just you and him, a candle-lit table, his hand warm at the small of your back, thumb brushing the curve of your hip, fingers pinching the meat of your ass whenever he thought no one was looking. You’d lean into him, swat his chest playfully, tug him down by the collar to kiss the hinge of his jaw, and feel the sharp catch of breath against your cheek. Let your ankle stroke against his inner thigh under the table. Watch him try to keep his voice steady while you playfully smiled at him over your menu, like you hadn’t already decided the night would end with a much sweeter, messier kind of pie for dessert.

But by minute fifty-three, a new scenario had taken over.

A slow turn in the hallway.

A sharp, lifted brow.

Maybe a wounded little, "Oh, baby. You remembered where we live?" if you felt especially cruel enough.

You’d make Clark work for your smile, let him chase you around the apartment with those apologetic, puppy-dog eyes, scolding him to freshen up. Let him put those big hands on your hips, press up behind you, and murmur apologies against your neck until you believed him. Maybe allow him to press a kiss or two to your shoulder, your wrist, the corner of your mouth.

Maybe you’d even let him drop to his knees and eat you out right there against the wall, your fingers in his thick mess of hair, riding his tongue until you came with his name on your lips.

Maybe allow him to do it over and over, until you finally let him off the hook like always.

Because this wasn't the first time, and wouldn't be the last.

It came with the territory of loving Clark Kent, and the heavier territory of loving Superman. Missed reservations, movies paused halfway through, solo showers. Sometimes the whole city seemed to reach for him at the same time you did, and the cruel, noble thing was that you usually stepped back first.

You knew that. You loved that about him. You hated that about him a little tonight.

And because you knew Clark, because you loved him, because you were not interested in building any argument out of a rescue he couldn’t ignore, you hadn't checked the news.

Hadn’t opened your phone to search "Superman". Hadn’t refreshed the Planet’s breaking alerts or texted Lois. Hadn’t doom-scrolled shaky footage of smoke or sirens or blue-and-red blurs cutting through the sky.

You’d left your phone face down next to your purse like that made you mature, responsible, as if ignorance could quiet your wild imagination from filling in every possible reason he wasn’t home yet.

If there was a reason, he would tell you.

If there was blood, he would hide it badly.

If there was guilt, God, it'd be written all over his face.

-

You were still leaning toward the mirror, blotting your lipstick again, when the balcony door exploded inward.

Okay, not literally, but the force of Clark’s landing hit the apartment like a thunderclap. The curtains snapped like a whip. Your lipstick tube jumped clean out of your fingers and struck the floor, rolling beneath the console table as you stifled a yelp.

Then came the frantic scrape of the door, the rush of cold night air, and Clark’s boots hitting concrete, then hardwood, too fast, too heavy, every step like a hammer striking stone.

Your heart lurched into your throat as you spun around, shocked silent.

Clark was already pacing, one hand dragged through his raven hair hard enough to displace the stubborn curl at his forehead. His chest rose and fell like he’d flown across the edges of the vast universe holding his breath. He looked wired. Furious. Worn down to the bone. Like whatever happened out there sunk its claws into his shoulders and followed him home.

Every thought of playfully guilting Clark vanished clean out of your head.

"…Clark? Baby?" you breathed, nose crinkling as a burnt aroma curled around your senses. "What's wrong? Are you—?

At the sound of your voice, he turned so sharply he nearly tripped over his own boots.

It nearly broke your heart, the way his frantic blue eyes settled over you, softening just a touch. The dress. The earrings. The lipstick. The two miserable hours written all over your face. For one suspended second, he looked exactly like the Clark you’d imagined in the hallway, stunned, lovesick, and ruined by the sight of you.

Then guilt struck his features like lightning.

"Sweetheart, I'm so sorry," the words tumbled out in a breathless rush before you could say another thing. "I know I'm late. I know. There was a—a chemical fire and—and the containment team couldn’t get close enough without getting hurt, so I had to—the whole building was about to—Gosh, the entire east wall was ready to buckle, and I tried to be fast, I really did, but if I moved too fast the firefighters would probably turn to mush—and I couldn't do that—-"

He gestured helplessly, pacing again, the apologies and explanations spilling out of him like an avalanche burying any hope of organizing his thoughts.

That’s when you noticed the scorch marks.

His blue suit stretched tight across his shoulders, dark with sweat and smoke. His cape fluttered behind him in a singed, ragged mess, the bottom edge frayed. Black streaks of soot smeared across his chest, across his family crest, across the strong line of his jaw. It was his abdomen that made your stomach twist.

The fabric had been eaten clean through, the edges curled and blackened like something caustic splashed him. Beneath it, his skin was whole. Thank goodness. Smooth and unbroken under the ruin, still Clark, still impossibly untouched in the ways that should have reassured you.

But it didn’t. While the suit was destroyed, your Clark was still shaking.

“—and I knew we had dinner reservations,” he bemoaned, both hands moving now, one pinching the bridge of his nose, the other clenched around something you hadn’t got a good look at yet. “I knew, I swear I knew, and I kept thinking I could still make it if I just got everyone out. Then a second tank ruptured, and I thought, "Good Gosh, are there no other heroes out tonight," then I felt horrible thinking that, so I went back in, and—”

You frowned, worried.

Of course you were.

Always, when it came to your Clark.

But standing there with your pulse in your throat and between your thighs, taking in the ruined suit clinging to him like a second skin, the ash on the same cheekbones you kissed this morning, the heat coming off his body in waves, the raw, breathless guilt in his voice…some low, terrible, needy part of you curled awake and wanted.

Wanted him closer. Wanted your hands on him. Wanted to peel the ruined suit off inch by inch and find out how much of that frantic, superhuman energy he could spend on you.

You bit the inside of your cheek, frowning deeper, looking as grave as Clark felt.

Then his left hand shifted against the moonlight, and you finally saw them: flowers.

A bouquet of deep red roses, crushed almost beyond dignity in his tense fist. The stems were bent. A few petals had scattered across the balcony tiles during his landing, bright as little drops of crimson against the concrete and hardwood.

“Clark," you interrupted, lips slightly parted.

He stopped mid-stride.

You pointed. “Flowers?”

He blinked, looking down at his own hand as if he’d never seen it before.

"Fl—oh. Yeah." He sighed, shoulders sinking. "Bought them just after clocking out. Called ahead, was supposed to drop them off, have the waiter bring them out before the appetizers, or when you sat down. I hadn't decided. I was going to pretend I had no idea what was happening, which sounds so silly saying it aloud— because—because you always know when I’m lying, but I thought maybe if I did it badly enough, it would be charming—"

Endearing, utterly charming, painfully attractive word vomit paired with disheveled hair, ragged breaths, smoke-smudged skin, and the kind of rippling muscles the ruined suit was doing absolutely nothing to hide.

Shit. You wanted him now.

"—I guess we’ll never know, because I’m two hours late and the roses are destroyed and I smell like a poorly managed high school chem lab—"

"Clark, stop!" you called, firmer than you meant to.

The rambling died in his throat.

His eyes lifted to yours, then moved over you slowly this time, not in panic or apology, but with a stunned, helpless heat that landed everywhere his hands desperately wanted to. Your face. Your lips. The line of your throat. The dress hugging your waist, your hips, the soft rise and fall of your breasts as your breathing changed under his attention.

Ah, there he was. Not exactly the fantasy. Arguably better.

Very late, soot-streaked, holding ruined flowers, staring at you like the whole burning city had fallen away and left him with nothing but this apartment, this hallway, and you.

Your thighs pressed together before you could stop them.

"Sweetheart,” he swallowed faintly, drawling it out like a curse.

Swallowing a moan, you asked instead. "Did everyone make it out alive? Safe?"

He nodded, still staring.

"Then it's okay, everything is okay, promise." Clearing your throat, you stepped toward him quickly. "What's important is you are home, too. Alive and safe. What you need is to get out of that suit. It's ruined."

"I can fix it,” he countered, still watching your lips with that dazed expression. "The suit, I mean. Gary can—"

"The Fortress is thousands of miles away."

You stopped right in front of him, close enough to smell the smoke and something metallic and sharp tingle in your nostrils. Close enough to feel the warmth rolling off him, to see the soot caught in the laugh lines and dimples beside his mouth, to watch his unmarked skin shift and tense beneath the torn, ruined fabric every time he breathed. "We can deal with it tomorrow."

Clark glanced down at himself, brows pinched. "Right. Tomorrow. I'm sorry, I should probably—"

"Clark?" you nearly whimpered.

"Yeah? What is it?"

"Shut up."

You rose onto your toes, caught the back of his neck, and pulled him down, snuffing further protests.

For half a second, he held still, too careful, too Clark, one ruined bouquet hanging limply at his side, and the other hand hovered near your shoulder. Then you kissed him harder, one hand sliding into the damp hair at his nape while the other curled into the collar at the front of his suit, and whatever restraint he had left cracked.

Clark groaned against your lips, the sound vibrating through your chest.

His free hand found your waist, still trembling with leftover adrenaline, and yanked you flush against him, no longer gentle. You felt every hard inch of him: the solid wall of his chest, the ridges of his abs through the torn suit, and the thick, unmistakable bulge of his cock already straining against your belly. He tilted his head, lips parting wider, tongue sliding hot and urgent against yours.

The kiss quickly turned hungry, messy, open-mouthed with his apology, with your impatience, with the two hours you’d spent wanting him and the whole ruined night he’d carried home in his chest.

Soot from his jaw smudged your cheek. Your lipstick smeared across his mouth and chin as he chased the connection, sucking on your tongue before nipping your bottom lip hard enough to make your knees buckle and a fresh wetness to flood your panties.

One of his hands slid down to grip your ass, squeezing the flesh and pulling you tighter so you could grind against the rigid length of him.You moaned into his mouth, nipples tightening against his chest, your soaked cunt throbbing with every roll of his hips.

God, you wanted nothing more than for Clark to rip the dress off and fuck you right here, bent over the console table or legs wrapped around his waist with your back pressed against the windows, taking every thick inch until you were dripping down his cock and screaming his name.

You broke the kiss only enough to breathe against his lips, one hand still fisted tight in his hair, tugging just the way you knew made him weak.

“Baby,” you murmured huskily, lips brushing his. “I can help take the suit off.”

Bracing his thighs, you lowered yourself to your knees before he could argue, the movement making your earrings sway and tinkle softly just as you'd imagine.

The position put you at eye level with the scorched gash in his suit. You reached up, fingers hovering over the blakened edges, and began carefully peeling it away from his skin. The material, though thick and clinging stubborn even in pieces, gave way under your persistent hands.

Beneath it, Clark's abdomen was warm. Whole. Trembling when your knuckles grazed along his hip bone.

Above you, Clark made a sharp, strangled groan and immediately looked away, jaw rigid, the ruined bouquet still clutched in his white-knuckled grip as the last thread of his composure.

Pursing your lips to stifle a giggle, you worked the torn section free, exposing more of him: the ladder of his ribs, the hollow of his pelvis, the dark trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband. You let your gaze follow that trail hungrily, licking your lips.

Sure, the suit was always tight, but now it was impossible to miss the pronounced ridge of his erection, pressing against the red fabric of his briefs, curving and straining upward, the thick head already leaking.

Oh, your poor, guilty, late, soot-streaked Superman, trying so hard to be polite when his body had very clearly remembered what yours had been aching for the last two painstaking hours.

"Hmm, I know you like what you see," you purred, looking up at him through your lashes, pulse fluttering wildly at your throat.

A choked sound tore from his heaving chest.

"I—you—it's the dress," he stammered, his free hand hovering near your cheek, fingers twitching. You spared him the pain and leaned into his touch, letting him cup your face.

"The dress?" you blinked up, wide-eyed, mock-innocent, drawing your shoulders forward so your cleavage spilled forward.

"And the earrings. Plus, your smile. Your voice. That lipstick," he finally admitted, almost desperate. "And you. Mostly you. Entirely you, actually. You're so beautiful. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Even during the fire, I kept picturing you waiting for me, and I was late, and the reservations, and the roses, and—"

He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing, abdomen tensing. “The reservations. Can we still—”

“Dinner’s not happening tonight,” you explained gently, glancing at the wallclock with exaggerated sorrow. “The restaurant stopped seating twenty minutes ago. Hell, even fifteen minutes after our reservation lapsed.”

His shoulders sank once more, thumb stroking your cheek with heartbreaking tenderness when you glanced up at him. "Yeah, I figured."

"But," you continued, curling your fingers into the waistband of his suit, tugging it down. "I am hungry."

The sound Clark made when his thick, flushed, slick-at-the-tip cock sprang free was half groan, half profanity prayer.

You wrapped a hand around the base, fingers barely meeting, pumping him a few times before notching the fat head between your parted lips. The sight of him, so hard and leaking in your palm, made your mouth water with primal anticipation.

Leaning in and parting wider, you licked a slow, wet stripe up the underside, tracing every vein from root to tip. He was proportional to everything else about him. Which meant he was a lot, and received a lot of attention.

Clark’s entire body jerked with every drag of your tongue. The hand grasping the flowers eventually let go. Petals scattered as he gripped the back of your neck with that perfect blend of gentleness and desperate strength you’d fantasized about.

"Oh," he begged. "Hon, please."

Drawing a breath, you took him past your plush lips and into your warm mouth.

For a moment, you stayed still to feel the weight of him on your tongue. To savor the taste of salt and skin. You sighed dreamily, eyes rolling back, hollowed your cheeks, and sank down, down, down, until your nose buried into the thatch of dark hair at the base, until the head nudged the back of your throat and you had to pull back just enough, gasping, gagging, drawing more breath.

Your eyes watered, paying no mind to wipe them away. Saliva pooled messily down your chin, over his balls, dripping onto the valley of your breasts. You went right back, messier, wetting, pushing further until your throat fluttered and squeezed around his thickness. Your earrings tinkled with every enthusiastic bob of your head.

“Baby—you're— incredible,” Clark managed, each word bashful and strained between ragged breaths.

The hand cupping your cheek slid down your shoulder with a grunt, thumb tracing your collarbone before tugging the strap of your dress gently until it fell, then the other. The fabric peeled away onto your waist, baring your breasts to the cool air. His broad, callused palm groped one immediately as he groaned.

"Your mouth, the way you take me—so deep—that lipstick—"

You whimpered around his cock at the praise, the high-pitched vibrations making his hips twitch. Lipstick smeared across his shaft in streaks, marking him exactly the way you’d imagined while waiting. You took him to the root again, throat fluttering around his thickness, swallowing deliberately so the tight muscles milked him. Your pulse raced against his cock with every heartbeat.

"Gosh—" His hips bucked involuntarily harsher that time. He immediately stilled, a flush creeping up his neck. “Sorry, sorry, hon, I didn’t mean to—”

Clark’s hand tightened at the back of your neck, the other gripping your shoulder, holding you steady as his thighs trembled beneath your touch, with the willpower not to fuck your face the way he fucked your cunt.

“No—more—sorry's,” you quickly warned when he tried to apologize for another sharper buck, sucking harder in retaliation despite the radiating ache in your cheeks and jaw.

The wet, rhythmic squelching of your mouth working him filled the room. You pulled off just long enough to lap at his slit, tongue swirling through the leaking fluid, then took him whole again.

His hand on the back of your head, then loosened, then tightened again, like he couldn’t decide whether to pull you closer or push you away. He was babbling praises now, sweet praises spilling from his lips between raspy moans.

"You’re so good to me—so darn good—how are you so good at this—your mouth, your tongue—" A guttural sound broke his sentence in half when you swirled your tongue at the base, curving your head. "You look so beautiful like this. W-with that darn lipstick, I said that — alright r-right? I wanted—I want you all night. All day. Every second I was out there. I couldn't stop—"

Through his ramblings, his generous, callused fingers dragged through the thick strings of saliva dripping down your chin and onto your chest, using the messy spit as slick, warm lube to glide over your skin. He spread it across your stiff nipple in slow, meaningful circles, making them glisten.

His palms traded sides, giving attention to the neglected breast, sending sparks straight to your clenching cunt, the perfect counterpoint to the frantic, greedy rhythm of your mouth. The wet heat of your mouth, the cool air on your skin, the rough pad of his thumb made you moan louder and longer than before.

"Yes," Clark hissed. "Yes, jus'—just like that, hon. I love—when you sound like that. I love—when I can feel it. When you—”

You pulled off just long enough to lap at his slit, tongue darting out and swirling, then sank back down, taking every inch until your nose pressed against his pelvis and you swallowed around him.

Clark’s eyes fluttered shut, chest heaving, jaw clenching so tight the muscle jumped beneath his filthy sweat-slicked skin. "I’m—I can’t—Hon, you’re going to make me—I'm gonna—ohh sh—shoot—"

His words dissolved into breathless moans. Low. Broken. The kind of sounds you'd happily spend eternity coaxing from him. You felt him familiar throb against your tongue, thick and pulsing. His hand fisted tighter in your hair, the other gripping your shoulder hard enough to leave faint bruises that would be soothed under his kisses later.

With a broken cry that rattled through his chest, Clark came.

Hot, thick spurts flooded your throat in heavy waves. You swallowed every drop, throat fluttering and milking him while your lipstick left fresh smears along the shaft.

You kept sucking gently long after, lazily nursing him through the oversensitivity until his legs shook and soft, blissful whimpers slipped from his lips.

Only then did you pull off his massive length with a wet pop, thin gleaming strings of saliva and cum connecting your swollen, glossy lips to his still-twitching cock, dripping meassily onto your breasts.

Clark stared down at you like you’d hung the moon, the stars, and made the sun rise every day just for him, blue eyes dazed, tender, overflowing with love. His hands trembled as they cupped your face, thumbs brushing away tears and spit from your cheeks and lipstick-smeared lips as you caught your breath, all while whispering hushed words of praise and affection that made your cunt clench and squirm to once again chase that heat.

Suddenly, he lifted you by the waist, pressing your bare back against the cool window. The glass fogged beneath your heat as he dropped to his knees, rucking your dress high up onto your waist. Your legs draped instinctively over his wide shoulders, heels digging between his shoulder blades.

"I need—" he started, and then stopped, nuzzling against the soaked crotch of your panties, inhaling deeply, lips nipping at your swollen clit through the fabric with silent, pleading permission.

"I know, baby," you cooed, carding your fingers through his thick, messy curls, tugging just right. Your voice was deliciously raspy from how thoroughly you’d taken him. "You’re hungry. I can help with that, too."

The soot-stained suit still hung off him in tatters.

Scattered rose petals littered the floor around you both like crimson confetti.

And the night had barely even started.

.

.

Tags: @sphynxx @untilmynextstory @sevinaqia @animegamerfox @dreaming-starlet @catsdenia @friedunknownphantom @garfieldhollander @httpstoyosi @alexandritte80 @may-machin @snowsgames @athenxt @kristne13 @nobeautywithoutstrangeness @wtfrudoinhere @thel0v3hashira143 @vanillapjm @doctorwhoandfairytaillover @marvel-hiddles-stark @foremma444 @yyiikes @kooquetre @niceforcum22 @tw1sters @strawbvrrystrgirl @pinksplace @ticklish-leafy-plant @crazycatchloe @clarknsun @rynwritesstuff @luvekent @lilypad-55449 @serenityrjd @stellarbstar @a-lumos-in-the-nox @thychuvaluswife @sparklingsin @punkrockrr @sunlightkent @thceseus @mollymal @thceseus @anon-188 @yesshewrites1 @ackleskisser-mp4 @maiamore @rh1nestcned @planet-cutieee

[skelee-gro]

good god i am salivating!!

jae strikes again!

[thceseus]

saw you’re making jason todd reqs can you write him with a reader who’s always sleepy and tired and jason’s just so gentle and takes care of her especially during yeah

safe and sound. ⨾ Jason Todd ¹⁸⁺

pairing: Jason Todd x reader

summary: You were always tired from the stress and life, good thing Jason knows you so well to please you even when you're sleepy.

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, flufffff, established relationship, jason is a gentleman, soft sleepy sex, jason todd is a consent king, almost no dialogues, unprotected p in v sex, creampie.

wc: 1.7k words.

a/n: i am so sorry for only making this one now nonnie!!! i love the request so much i wanted to make a drabble but it turned out longer. also yes this made me wanna cry bcs i want him so bad.

masterlist

For how ferocious he looks and acts to others, somehow, Jason Todd is the most tender person you know.

Like when you had a restless night where sleep just won’t come, his deep and gravelly voice would be a balm to your heart and mind, lulling you to sleep in an instant as he talked about anything and everything—from a childhood story, to a cat he met during patrol last week.

Mornings were a ritual where he’d wake up first, already washing up, ready in the kitchen to brew some coffee for the day. He would never wake you up on purpose unless you prompt him the night before.

When you’re sick? It feels like his tenderness triples—no, it was times a hundred. He would fuss out of love. He’d cook your favorite soup, brew some tea with a hint of honey for your sore throat. He would never mind if you were dampening the sheets underneath you as you sweat the fever out when you sleep, immediately changing the soft cotton the moment you wake up so you won’t feel chafed.

Even when you’re needy—he’d know your cues. Your eyes would flicker with a certain kind of look, filled with craving and, most of all, love. Jason would immediately ask what you want, however you want it, even if it’s full-on rough or lazy and soft. anything, he’d be there to make it come true.

And you’re someone who was always halfway to sleep. During the day, even after a full night of slumber, it’s even worse when your job gets in the way of your rest. It’s not laziness, more of an exhaustion already set deep inside your bones after the long shifts and the late nights, and not to mention, well, life.

Jason always noticed, though. When your eyes would droop slower, or when your hums became softer—he’d be there to guide you to bed in an instant. arms wrapping your frame, fingers absentmindedly running along your back as your breath settled and deepened.

Again, Jason Todd is the infamous anti-hero, Red Hood. known to fight brutally, have no mercy, always so sharp and savage. But to you, he’s just… Jason.

Soft and gentle Jason.

just like tonight, where you came into his flat soaked—your hood, tired and soaked from Gotham’s rain, and dripping onto his welcome mat. body shivering to no end ever since you realized how you forgot to pack your pocket umbrella into your bag.

He was already there. Sharp features highlighted by the only warm lamp lighting the whole living room, his scars—proof of his years of vigilante work—gleaming under it. He looked up at the sound of the lock turning, his face immediately etched in worry as he saw your state.

He stood up, went to his bathroom to get a towel, and began taking care of you as if it were routine. He helped you out of your soaked jacket, untied your shoes, and undressed you before leading you onto the couch, where he’d gently pat your hair dry.

His presence was warm as he carefully slipped you into fresh clothes, kissing your cheeks and your forehead wordlessly—but you could feel how much he was saying through the things he did.

He sits close beside you after. thumb finding the back of your hand, brushing your knuckles like he was remembering each bump as he recalled his day. You’d nod off, body leaning towards his—chasing his comfort. He would make sure to adjust himself so you won’t feel uncomfortable too.

And then he sees it the moment your eyes flicker towards him for just a beat. Though hidden underneath the exhaustion, it was there—the desire, burning lowly in your eyes, just enough for it to make his stomach clench.

So he asked gently, fingers brushing your cheekbone. “wanna sleep or do you want me?”

You felt the knot in your heart unravel. relieved that Jason understood you so much to read you so precisely, and also asked the questions before you both started something. And you know that you can be honest with him. no matter the answer, he won’t be disappointed. If you say sleep, he would tuck you in and stay—but if you say him, he would make it his life goal to make you feel satisfied.

You answered with a soft “yes”, reaching out to him.

He took it as an invitation, slowly leading you into the bedroom—not rushing you once. He matched every movement, every rhythm of your breath, so attentive.

When he softly laid you down on the bed, he lowered himself over you. His fingers brushed along your cheeks once more, thumb mapping out your lips, before he kissed you, so softly it almost made all the worry—tiredness in you all disappear.

The thing is, sex with Jason when you’re sleepy is never loud, never rough, and performative. It would start quietly, with kisses that let you know he was there fully. The way his fingers moved would make you feel safe to just to let everything go.

He would carefully strip you out of your fresh pajamas, kissing every inch of your newly exposed skin. When you’re both naked, he’d watch you—study you as if it was the first time you shared this kind of intimacy.

the way your face flushed, your chest rising more than normal, lips parted in anticipation—yet your eyes were still half-lidded, both from the sleepiness and need.

You look vulnerable and trusting.

But he wasn’t the type to take advantage in that. With each motion, he’d uttered the words.

“Is this okay?”

“Tell me if you want me to slow down.”

“Squeeze my hand if it’s too much.”

His voice stays constant with tenderness because he knows that when you’re sleepy, your consent often comes in tiny gestures: nods, soft sighs, and words breathed out, a subtle but visible clench of your thighs—he has learned all of it.

So when you spread wide and prop your legs up on his hips, he knows that you’re fully ready.

He’d stroke his thick and hard cock gently to spread the precum from his tip—already there the moment he saw how much you needed him—before kissing you once more. His fingers skimming your ribs, down to your hipbones.

You let out a soft gasp as his swollen tip finally grazes your sensitive clit. walls fluttering immediately from the tiny sensation he gave.

“Ready?” he asked.

You nodded, and he finally served. The moan you let out was the loudest one tonight as he began stretching you open inch by inch. His lips stayed close against your face, where they would kiss the furrow in your brows when you feel the delicious burn simmering in your guts.

He also let out the most unraveling sound as his own body shuddered. a deep guttural groan against your neck when his cock was buried to the hilt. “You always feel so good, sweetheart…”

He settled his pace. deep and slow, not once rushing. He’d learn when to pull and push in again from the way your lips let out soft breaths and your walls clenching.

And again, he’d make sure you’re still in it. If your eyelids fall, he’d murmurs soft words until you lift your eyes to look at him again. If you drift mid-kiss, he’d brush his thumb along the slow pulse of your neck, grazing it to make you more alert.

“Feel me, okay? look at me…”

He said before kissing you. Your arms would wrap around him, chasing his peacefulness as if you can’t get enough of the feeling of his body on yours. moans grew louder as the coil inside you was pulled more and more with each gentle thrust of his hips against yours.

He felt it. the way your cunt would flutter around him more frequently, how your eyes would roll back, your back arching—closing the gap between you more and more.

You finally came with a soft surrender rather than an explosive passion. a soft yet echoing exhale that made your body tremble. a small, unguarded sound as your body jolts in pleasure. The arms around him tightened with every clamping flutter of your walls, clinging onto him like he was a lifeline.

And he followed closely. The way your cunt gripped his cock, making him lose his composure—ending in him spilling his milky seed inside you with a louder moan. His own body trembled with the overwhelming pressure—no matter how subtle it is compared to the more detonating sex you’ve had before.

He kissed you again softly, muttering even softer words of gratitude and affection. When he pulled out, he was on his feet instantly. running a washcloth under the sink in his bathroom, making sure it’s the perfect temperature. When he came back, he saw how you were practically half asleep.

He’d carefully clean the sticky mess between your thighs, the sweat that made your hair stick on your forehead, before planting a lingering kiss there as well.

Pulling a stray shirt he threw earlier, he’d gently straighten you up to pull it over your head. then a fresh pair of panties from the dresser, and also boxers for himself. No shirt though, he knew how much you enjoyed the feeling of his bare skin as you slept.

His hand carefully tucked you under the sheets afterward, making sure you felt no cold throughout the night, before following you. His arms wrapped around your shoulders, cocooning you into the safety that is Jason.

You could only smile as you watched him, too exhausted to do anything else. but god, does he make you feel like you were the most cherished person in this world.

He’d murmured words like a lullaby. silly stories, gentle promises, I love yous. If you finally talk half-asleep about your worries or what happened throughout the day, he would listen—answering at the right times and without ever rushing you.

And with each day with him, you learn his roughness is an armor he wears for everyone else but you.

© thceseus, 2026 ༝ likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated. thank you for reading! ᢉ𐭩

[skelee-gro]

i think i just levitated… i need him

[kryptidfiles]

Dirty Dancing

Pairing - WC: David!Clark Kent x bsf/theater actress!Reader | 700 (sorry It was meant to be 300 per the challenge!) Summary: The familiar comfort of scripts, dinner, and Clark's apartment starts feeling a little too close to call friendship. Day 5 of June Jukebox Scribbles Tags: flirty and fluffy, Clark yearning hours, mutual pining, close proximity (dancing, singing), almost kiss mwah mwah mwah💋

rewatched Spider-Man 3...do the twist

event masterlist

Practice stretched well into the evening, the way it usually did when you showed up with a new script and that hopeful sparkle in your eyes.

Clark listened to your audition monologue until the words lived in his bones, pausing only to offer soft notes slower on the turn, breathe before the last line, don’t rush the heartbreak.

Every time you launched into it again, you shined brighter. Pride and this deep and aching warmth swelled in his chest each.

Dinner followed like always: garlic, basil, flour dust on the counter this time.

You at his stove. Him passing the salt before you asked. Flour on his shirt from when you’d accused him of hovering and flicked it at him. Tomato sauce smudged across your cheek after you leaned in to taste from the spoon he held to your lips. 

Clark knew his gaze lingered lately.

Maybe because his apartment started keeping you even after reluctant good-bye's and good-nights: your mug beside his coffee maker, his blanket you stole when you were cold, your stack of books claiming his nightstand with a bossy little, “Trust me, Kent. These are good.”

Somewhere along the way, his favorite part of every day had become waiting for your knock at his door. 

And now, his neighbor's record player crackled through the paper-thin walls. A familiar opening harmonica kicked in as a bright and bold croon followed.

Hey, hey, baby!

You perked up, turning to him with hands clasped to your chest. “Oh, I love this song, Clark!”

He grinned. Of course he knew that! He knew everything you loved with your whole heart.

Before he could answer, you traded the wooden spoon in his grasp for yours and tugged him closer.

“C'mon! Dance with me! I need the practice!”

Clark didn't hesitate. One broad palm settled low on your waist, fingers splayed as he drew you in. The other laced tighter through yours. Your bodies pressed flush from the start, and he couldn't help but tease you.

"'Kay, but careful," he spun you toward the dining table. "Can’t risk burning Metropolis’s star actress before her big audition tomorrow."

Your laugh warmed him clear through as you slid over the hardwood in imperfect sync, singing under your breath while the kitchen gathered around you in all its mess: flour streaked across his shirt, sauce bubbling too hot on the stove, a dusting of parmesan on the counter, your script abandoned dangerously close to a smear of olive oil.

I said, "That’s the kind of gal I’d like to meet."

Your hip brushed against his thigh on the turn, then again, cheekily. Clark’s hand dared to slide lower. Flour dusted from his shirt onto yours as your breasts pressed against him after each twirl and twist.

"She’s so pretty," Clark sang again, eyes holding yours as the words no longer felt borrowed. "Lord, she’s fine."

Your lips pressed together, and you ducked your face into his chest bashfully before he could see too much of what all of this did to you.

But Clark felt it.

Your fingers curled tighter around his bicep.

Your breath caught against the cotton of his shirt.

Clark’s thumb traced a slow circle over your spine as he dipped his head close enough to catch the scent of your shampoo beneath garlic and basil.

"I’m gonna make her mine, all mine," he sang against your hair.

He heard your heartbeat jump instantly, and so did his.

Finally, you looked up at him, face illuminated in the golden kitchen light.

"All mine," you mouthed back, squeezing his hand.

Traces of city noise, music, the sauce, your script all faded beneath the rush of blood in his ears.

All he saw was his best friend. His favorite person.

The one who had been with him through every bad day, every small victory, every lonely stretch of life he'd never quite knew how to fill.

The woman he wanted beside him for every tomorrow he could imagine.

One flour-dusted hand rose to your cheek, thumb swiping gently at the tomato sauce there, but neither pulled away after it was gone.

Gosh, you were so close.

Close enough to notice the way your head tipped just so with a half-lidded gaze fixed on his lips.

Close enough that if he ducked his head just a tad lower—

I wanna know if you’ll be my—

A violent hiss erupted behind him, and you both startled apart gasping.

“Shit, Clark! Our dinner!” you yelped, slipping from his embrace to point.

Clark groaned, lunging to cut off the stove while you scrambled for a dish towel, wiping at the spill with shaky hands and laughing like you hadn’t just almost kissed him in the middle of his ruined kitchen.

The pasta was spared, the kitchen still stood, the actress unscathed. And whatever almost happened between you was merely...delayed.

Because when Clark looked back at you, still smiling at him like he hung the moon and eyes lingering on his lips.

—my girl. Hey, hey, baby!

Only one thought remained.

Soon.

He was going to ask you to choose him differently.

I'm gonna make her mine, all mine.

.

.

Tags: @sphynxx @untilmynextstory @sevinaqia @animegamerfox @dreaming-starlet @catsdenia @friedunknownphantom @garfieldhollander @httpstoyosi @alexandritte80 @may-machin @snowsgames @athenxt @kristne13 @nobeautywithoutstrangeness @wtfrudoinhere @thel0v3hashira143 @vanillapjm @doctorwhoandfairytaillover @marvel-hiddles-stark @foremma444 @yyiikes @kooquetre @niceforcum22 @tw1sters @strawbvrrystrgirl @pinksplace @ticklish-leafy-plant @crazycatchloe @clarknsun @blueki16 @rynwritesstuff @luvekent @lilypad-55449 @serenityrjd @stellarbstar @a-lumos-in-the-nox @thychuvaluswife @sparklingsin @punkrockrr @sunlightkent @thceseus @mollymal @thceseus @mollymal @anon-188 @yesshewrites1 @ackleskisser-mp4 @maiamore @rh1nestcned

[skelee-gro]

bring back yearningggg

[kryptidfiles]

Safe Sex

Pairing: David!Clark Kent x villain/anti-hero!Reader | wc 450 Summary: Your cat-and-mouse game with Superman comes to a head. Day 2 of June Jukebox Scribbles Tags: smutty, 18+, MDNI, close proximity, foreplay (m + f receiving), breast play, teasing, brief unprotected p in v

sorry I'm rusty and still recovering! any mistakes? you didn't see them!

event masterlist

You almost ghosted Metropolis with the rare Lunar Tear glinting between your fingers, intending to tuck it into the daring plunge of your catsuit, if only the vault’s failsafe hadn’t slammed home with a bone-deep snap.

That was who-knows-how long ago. Time warped under the crimson strobe.

Each pulse sculpted Superman beside you, etching every plane you’ve memorized on moonlit rooftops and rain-slick alley walls, where breathless pauses and sermons of "reform" always melted into desperate touches that stopped just shy of everything, leaving you both shaking and frustrated.

Months of pursuit taught you Big Blue's cadence: catch, kiss, release, repeat. Tonight, that rhythm fractured.

"I know you could peel this door like foil, baby," you gasped breathlessly, nails clawing into his cape while his thick thigh rides the soak-seam of your suit, sending sparks of pleasure through your clit. "G-get both of us out."

He answered with touch: large fingers capture your wrist with disarming gentleness, his thumb sweeping tenderly along your lifeline until the hefty slipped from your grasp and clinked forgotten between your feet.

Summer blue eyes, dark with storming desire, held your gaze.

"Not until you give it up," he rasped, palm skimming from waist to ass, grinding you harder onto the meat of his thigh.

The other finally drags with your zipper south, exposing the swell of your breasts. Rough fingertips brushed your stiff nipples, pinching lightly and drawing needy whimpers from your throat that ricochet off steel. "No more games, yeah?"

"Try harder, Big Blue," you teased back, arching into his touch with doubled enthusiasm. Your teeth nipped his jaw, tongue soothing the barely-there mark. "Isn’t playing cop to my robber a thrill?"

His groan answered for him, vibrating through your chest. One hand settles on your ass, squeezing, drawing you impossibly flush; fabric sparks against fabric, nipples pebbling as his cock twitches against your stomach. Zippers descended lower, belts clattered, all revealing flashes of tantalizing skin.

You quickly sank to your knees, tongue tracing the sculpted groove of his abs before freeing him with practiced flicks. He’s heavy, jerking when your mouth envelopes the crown. His head thuds back against the door; your name escapes from his throat like prayer while you hollowed your cheeks, stroking the thick length and savoring the shudder rolling down his frame.

"Good God— sweetheart—" The plea broke as you pulled off with a wet pop, licking a slow stripe up the underside.

"P-promise me you’ll behave,” he tried again. "Walk away clean otherwise," he panted hotly against your ear, fingers finally slipping between your slick folds to thrust two thick digits deep inside. "No more thefts."

"No, I can't promise that I won't do that," you moaned, words spilling out shakily as pleasure coiled tighter. "B-but I’ll make it— worth your while if — if you let me keep— playing bad, baby—"

Superman's control snapped once again.

His eager mouth claimed yours in a ruinous kiss, withdrawing his fingers and replacing them with the blunt head of his cock, nudging and pushing into your dripping heat, and finally, finally, filled you.

"Kal—!" You clenched around him, lost in raw surrender.

All the while, the Lunar Tear lies ignored, winking with each crimson flash while you and you and Big Blue burn hotter, brighter than any jewel this vault could ever guard.

.

.

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[skelee-gro]

i’m in fucking heat oh my godddd!!