just a former teenage fanfic writer rising from the ashes to write slowburn clark kent & bucky barnes smut and use em dashes to my heart’s content. 28. if you know me in real life, no you don’t x
does anyone feel like they want to be punished just so they would stop feeling like they are about to be punished for something. like then at least it would be over. or is it just me
what would freak4freak reader do if Dex threatened to lock her up in a basement?
Dex Thinks He Can Lock You Up In His Basement “For Your Own Good.” He Didn’t Expect This.
WC 1.4k
TW freak4freak, established relationship, switch!dex, mentions of violence, confinement, restraint and gagging, humiliation and degradation kink, free use arrangement, and explicit sexual content. Fem! Reader. Reference pic at the end of the post!
Task force agents almost killed you, so Dex killed them all.
It was simple math, really.
You had gone out looking for trouble, because apparently you adored him for killing task force so much that you had decided to try killing them yourself just to feel closer to him. Dex found you standing in the middle of the aforementioned trouble, killed everyone that you hadn’t already, and cupped your face.
He checked your pulse with two fingers, ran his fingers and eyes over you to make sure you weren’t hurt.
“They almost killed you,” he said.
You smiled a little. “I’m fine, baby.”
“They almost killed you,” he repeated.
“Dex—”
“They almost killed you.”
And then he bent down a little, shoved his shoulder into your stomach, and hauled you up over him like you weighed nothing. His arm was locked over the backs of your thighs, the other braced against your hips, as if you were gonna wander into gunfire if he put you down for even a second. You kicked once, more out of principle than hope, and Dex only tightened his grip.
By the time you got home, he went straight for the fucking basement.
“Dex.”
He only huffed.
“Dex, put me down.”
His hand flexed against your thigh. “Pretty girl,” he murmured, voice feverish, like he was talking to himself more than you. “Can’t stay out of trouble for five minutes, can you?”
Your stomach dropped.
“I’m gonna keep you down here for a little while, okay?” he said, already reaching for the door. “Just while I clean up the mess. Then I’ll come back and make it nice. You’ll be safe.”
You went cold.
“Benjamin,”
He paused, because you using that name meant you were pissed pissed.
Then the lock clicked under his hand. He had made this safe room for you, when you were manic and erratic and borderline uncontrollable. It worked, but you hated it, even if it did save your life more times than once.
After all, free use was one thing. You had both agreed to that. Dex could have your body whenever he wanted, and you could have his, but your freedom was still yours, right?
“It’s for your own good,” he said.
Poor, stupid Dex.
He really should have remembered who he was in love with.
When he reached the bottom step and shifted his weight to unlock the inner door, you grabbed the heavy flashlight from the shelf beside you and swung it as hard as you could into the back of his head. Not enough to kill him, of course! You loved him. Just enough to knock him out.
When he woke up, he was upside down.
His ankles were tied to the ceiling, body tied to the support beam in the center of the basement. His shirt was halfway dragged open by gravity, blood still smeared over his skin, rope shoved between his teeth like a gag and tied tight enough to keep all his bad ideas trapped behind it.
You knelt beside him, a pretty skirt pooled around your thighs.
Dex stared at you, testing the ropes.
His eyes were wild.
He was scared, and not of the ropes. Dex could chew through pain and spit out the bones. No, he was scared because you had that sad look on your face. Apparently, he had fucked up badly enough that you had stopped fighting and started doing whatever the hell this was.
“You hurt my feelings,” you said.
The sound he made around the gag was wet and pathetic. Spit had already slicked the rope, leaking from the corner of his mouth, sliding wrong over his cheek because he was hanging upside down. He tried to say your name. You could hear it outside of the noise: Sorry. Baby. Please.
All those half-hearted apologies were useless behind the rope.
“I gotta punish you for wanting to lock me up in the basement again.” You frowned, reaching past his face and tapped the metal column he was tied to once to taunt him.
Dex swallowed around the gag, eyes locked on yours, then flexed his bound fingers.
Then, you looked up from where you were kneeling.
You could see that he was very clearly hard.
Of course he was fucking horrified and guilty and scared half to death, and still hard enough to strain obscenely against his pants. His length was trapped thick under the fabric, too obvious to ignore, the head pressing a dark wet spot where he had already started leaking.
You laughed under your breath. “Oh, Dex.”
His eyes squeezed shut.
You reached your hand up while still kneeling, sliding your palm over him anyway.
Dex groaned through the gag.
His hips jerked, hungry and humiliating. The ropes held him in place, but not enough to hide what he wanted.
Your hand rubbed higher over the shape through his trousers, palm dragging up until you felt him throb under the cloth. He made a strangled sound as drool gathered at his lip and dripped onto the concrete.
Messy, just as you liked him.
Dex was always so clean, so fucking orderly. Seeing him fall apart just tickles that sweet spot in your brain.
You shifted a bit, and your skirt swayed.
Dex looked straight up from under the hem, and he went so still it was almost funny.
The angle was filthy. His face was right there, upside down beside your thighs, and he could see exactly what you had been pretending he couldn’t: your panties were soaked clinging wet to you because apparently nearly dying, getting carried like a hostage, knocking out your boyfriend, tying him up, and scolding him over his hard on turned you on.
You noticed of course. “Fucking perv,” you breathed.
His length jumped under your palm as you widened your knees a little enough to be cruel.
Dex made a sound so needy it should have embarrassed him. Instead, he looked up your skirt with his mouth forced open around the rope, spit on his forehead, eyes lustful and glassy, twitching in your hand like the sight itself was going to finish him by itself.
You squeezed him through the fabric, and he arched as much as the ropes allowed, hips trying to fuck up into your fist through his pants. You finally stood up and leaned closer, your mouth hovering over the strain.
You kissed his clothed bulge, and he had a better view up your skirt now.
A gutted groan tore through the gag as your lips pressed a flutter of kisses over the wet spot at the head. Your palm held his thighs while your mouth dragged over the length, kissing little pecks here and there. He shivered. Big bad Dex, hanging upside down in his own basement, gagged and drooling while you made out with his arousal through his pants.
Your lips pressed harder over the head of him, and his hips kicked uselessly into your mouth. His eyes were glued under your skirt, like being denied made him fixate harder on the wet little mess between your legs.
You pulled back with a slick sound.
Dex whined.
“You don’t get to feel any more than that,” you said, sweet as rot. “You tried to lock me up.”
His eyes went devastated, but he twitched anyway. “Yeah,” you murmured, rubbing him again. “I know, baby. It’s awful when someone else decides what you’re allowed to have, isn’t it?”
His eyes darkened as fear sank deeper. Shame, too, perhaps, because he finally realised he had hurt you and would have gutted himself open if you asked sweetly enough.
You kissed him through his trousers again, because you weren’t merciful. You had never promised to be.
This time it was filthier. Your tongue dragged up the hard line of him while your fingers pressed into his hip, holding him still as you left a trail of damp in your wake. You mouthed at the clothed head, until his thighs strained against the ropes, until every breath came out muffled, until he looked split between begging and apologising and coming in his pants like a fucking loser.
Then you stopped.
Dex jerked forward, chasing your mouth.
The ropes didn't allow for much movement.
You laughed softly. “There. Lesson one.”
You stood over him, smoothing your skirt down.
His eyes were still glued down there, shameless.
You bent down and kissed his forehead, then the scar on his cheek.
“I’ll untie you later,” you whispered, sickening and loving all the same. “After you’ve learned not to lock me in the fucking basement.”
Dex made a broken sound.
You kissed the corner of his gagged mouth, tasting spit and rope, before you turned toward the stairs.
Behind you, Dex was silent, and not because he had learned his lesson.
Because the creep you called your boyfriend was still too busy watching the slick gathering under your skirt every step of the way.
—
Note: phew, this was done in under 30 minutes and I just needed to get it outta my system 🫠🫠🫠inspired by this Batman #147 variant cover by Jorge Jimenez! (Not saying reader is Punchline and Dex is Joker, this is just a pose reference for the story!)
warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), pornstar!reader, rough sex, spanking (light), panty pulling, unprotected sex (within filming context), clark finishes on reader, overstimulation, nsfw language + themes.
don’t want to see this kind of content? feel free to block these tags: #pornstar!clark #kentwiththegooddick #kwtgd #kwtgd kinks
By the time the video picked up, Clark was already fucking you hard enough to make the bed shake. You were face down on the mattress with your ass pushed up for him, bra still on, panties dragged off to one side. The setup was supposed to sell some rushed little quickie, one of those cheap, overused porno scenarios where nobody bothered getting fully undressed because apparently there just wasn’t time.
Clark didn’t care about any of that.
What he did care about, though, was the way your ass kept meeting his hips.
He stood behind you at the edge of the bed, driving into you over and over while you pushed right back, keeping pace without needing to be told. His hands locked around your hips, pulling you onto his cock as your body bounced against him with every thrust. He felt each impact through his grip, but all of his attention remained fixed on the movement beneath him.
Your panties only made everything impossible to ignore. The lace thong stayed crooked across one side of your ass, stretched tight where it still clung to you and twisted where he’d shoved it aside. Each stroke tugged the fabric a little higher, the thin strip shifting against your skin every time you took him deep again.
And you kept doing it.
Meeting him thrust for thrust. Taking every hard snap of his hips and sending your own back for the next one, making it worse. Better. Harder for him to remember there was a camera pointed at either of you. Clark watched as you arched your back for him, leaning forward until your chest pressed deeper into the mattress, opening yourself up for another hard pass. Then another. Your ass lifted higher beneath his hands like you were giving him more room to fuck you, and something about the sight of it made him sink into the moment completely.
His grip tightened around your hips first, fingers digging in as he pulled you back onto his cock. Then one hand lifted.
The first smack cracked through the room. Your ass jolted beneath his palm while his cock stayed buried inside you, the impact making everything move around him. Clark watched it happen, watched the soft recoil of your body, the way your back dipped a little lower like the sting had only made you want more.
So he did it again.
Another sharp slap landed across the same cheek, louder this time. Your body jumped beneath his hand, but your rhythm never faltered. You only pushed back onto him harder, pulling a groan from his chest. Clark did it again without slowing, his palm coming down as your hips kept working against his.
Every reaction pulled him deeper into it. The louder you got, the harder he fucked you, and the harder he fucked you, the more your body gave back. It built between you, each response feeding the next until the control he usually kept so firmly in place started slipping.
His fingers bit into your hips as he drove into you faster, each motion pulling another sound from you until one hand left and caught the lace bunched across your ass. He wound it around his fist and pulled it taut, drawing your thong higher before using it to pull you back onto him. The next one landed heavier, and so did the one after that, each pull bringing your ass straight into his hips while he pushed forward to meet you.
Your voice climbed with the pace, each sound coming quicker as your back arched farther and your thighs tensed beneath you. Still, you kept pushing back, kept taking him, even as the pressure building inside you started to ruin your rhythm.
Clark could feel how close you were in the way you kept tightening around him, gripping harder every time he yanked you back by the lace and buried himself again. And knowing it only made him lose more of that control. His thrusts got deeper, harsher, each one knocking another sound out of you while his fist stayed twisted tight in your thong. He kept dragging you back and pounding into you without easing up, your body winding tighter around him until every stroke pushed you closer to the edge.
He thought the sight before had been bad enough, damning even, but now he knew better. Clark was so caught up in the way your body met his—the way your ass lifted for him, making the fabric bite into your skin as more of it disappeared into his fist—that he almost missed the way your sounds started changing. They pitched higher, grew messier, breaking apart with every movement between you. Then your back arched differently. Your ass snapped back hard against him once before your rhythm broke, stuttering against him as your thighs went tight and started shaking.
You came around him like that, crying out while your pussy clamped down hard enough to pull a ragged breath from him. Still, he didn’t stop. Didn’t miss a single beat. The lace strained across your hips as your body jerked beneath him. Every time you pushed back or tried to move with the force of your orgasm, he pulled you closer without realizing it, keeping you right there on his cock while he drove into you again. He wasn’t thinking about the fabric anymore. Wasn’t thinking about how far he’d stretched it or how much pressure he was putting on it.
He was thinking about the way you sounded. The way your ass kept trying to meet him even while your legs shook. The way you kept squeezing around him, wet and tight and still taking every hard thrust he gave you. Every pulse around his cock dragged him closer until his own movements started getting rougher, less controlled, his hips slamming into you while your orgasm kept working through your body.
Then he pulled you back onto him again, harder than before.
Snap.
The lace gave in his fist, the sound cutting clean through everything before a little yelp jumped out of you. But even then, you didn’t stop fucking him. Your hips kept working, pushing back onto his cock with the torn fabric hanging loose around you, and that was enough to send him over.
Clark started to come with a rough, broken groan, his fist tightening around what was left of your thong as you kept fucking yourself back onto him. His hips lost whatever rhythm had been left, chasing the feeling instead as your body kept meeting every desperate rut. Somewhere in the middle of it, he swore he apologized. Thought he managed a strained, “Sorry,” but it was hard to tell when the word disappeared beneath your sounds and the relentless movement of your hips.
It nearly took him under completely before he remembered the scene. Remembered what he was supposed to do. More through sheer luck than any real will of his own, he slipped free at the last possible second, one hand keeping you steady while the other wrapped around his cock and stroked him through the rest of it.
His groans came out loud and unrestrained as thick, hot cum spilled over your ass. There was more than either of you expected. Some landed higher across your lower back while the rest gathered over the curve of you and slowly slipped toward the torn lace at your hips. The camera moved in close behind you, catching every filthy trace he’d left on your skin. You stayed arched on the mattress, still trying to catch your breath, while Clark stood over you with his chest heaving, eyes fixed on your ass like even now, after everything, he still hadn’t seen enough.
a/n: it's been so long, guys, i'm so sorry. i'm working through my drafts this weekend, so hopefully i can post some more soon. also, not sure how i feel about this one lol. either way, i hope you guys enjoy <3
clark kent who can't fuck you in doggy because he keeps leaning down to kiss you. just can't help it, he needs to feel your whimpers as he bullies that thick cock deep in your core. he needs to feel you squeal into his lips as his palm presses onto your lower abdomen, where the tip of his cock nudges into that sickly good, gummy spot of your hot, warm walls.
there's a compromise he settles with — pulling you against him as he lays on his side. parting your thighs that much wider with his sheer width, tangled around his limbs as he finds purchase around the soft fat of your skin. that same, dull arousal paralyses you when he realigns his slick, reddened tip back into your entrance.
though you aren't sure if the change in position was for your or his benefit. especially now as clark's stuttered, desperate, needy grunts warm your tongue at every snap of his hips.
Pairing - wc: David!Clark Kent x Gf!Reader - 2.4k
Summary: Clark tells you "it's fine" when you cancel on him again for work. Liar, Liar...
Tags: 18+, mdni, masturbation (m), detailed fantasy sequence (69, f + m receiving oral, p in v), Clark cums thinking about you, pussy pronouns, breeding kink, brief mention of pregnancy (no you are not) Established relationship, use of petnames (baby, hon, sweetheart), just stupid, unedited brainrot
I'll need to start tagging submissions as "finger lickin' good." gif by @ahrigifs
main masterlist | Mrs. Kent Diaries
Maybe he was in a rut.
Clark couldn't be certain, but the timing sure felt cruel. Silly. Damning. Devastating.
Like getting your period the morning of a long-planned seaside romantic getaway.
Three nights in a row, you’d called him honey-sweet and apologetic, exhaustion clearly dragging every syllable.
"It'll be another late night and early morning at work. All week, honestly." A tired yawn crackled through the receiver. "I think I’m going to crash at my place rest of the week, and see you this weekend. I’m so sorry, baby. I miss you, believe me."
Clark vehemently insisted there was nothing to apologize for, never mind the fever prickling beneath his skin, and that his cock jumped at the simple sound of your voice.
"How many times have I called you at ungodly hours for the same reasons? Deadline or disaster? Have you ever held it against me?" Was his counter, and before you replied with a deadpanned, "Actually, Clark, now that you bring it up..." He hurried on before you could finish.
He was A Man. A grown man who could survive five nights without making sweet, sweet passionate love to you.You needed to focus and rest, and he'd wait centuries to have your undivided attention if that was what loving you required. Fortunately, it was only until the weekend.
"I miss you, but most of all, I love you, sweetheart. It's fine!" All of this was said with his free hand locked around his knee, blunt nails pressing hard enough to leave pale crescents in the skin while he tried to force himself into believing it too.
But everyone knew the unspoken rule: anyone who said "it's fine!" that cheerful were liars.
.
The tension finally boiled over the second Clark stepped through his front door the following evening. He carelessly tossed his glasses and phone on his bedside table, pressed a fist to his mouth, and released a sigh heavy enough to empty his lungs.
Was it pathetic to be half-hard and aching just from missing you this badly? Or was that devotion? Yearning? Or, as Steve would undoubtedly tease with that little smirk, "whipped?"
Speaking of – Clark tugged his belt loose in a sharp tug. Dress shirt buttons followed. Zipper. Slacks shoved down his thighs, until he's whipping his cock from the confines of his slacks with a shaky, relieved sigh. The cool apartment air did nothing to help soothe the heat coursing through him.
If anything, fredom made the weight of his need more worse. The heavy pulse, the glossy bead already gathering at the slit, the way his length kicked against his stomach as though reaching for a body that wasn’t there.
He tried the cold shower first. Sensible, right? Stood under the icy spray, willing the rut to settle, willing his body to behave like the grown man he kept insisting he was. He rifled through unsexy thoughts: taxes, Perry's editorial calendar, the tamales Ma and Pa raved about when he last spoke to them.
Ninety seconds later, water was streaming over his closed eyes while every drop slipping down his chest became your fingers. Your palms spreading over his stomach. Your nails scratching lightly through the dark trail beneath his navel. Your warm mouth chasing the water lower, lower, until your knees struck tile and that pretty, wicked smile curved against the base of his cock.
He nearly broke the shower handle off with a frustrated growl, cock still brutally stiff between his legs, skin flushed crimson despite the chill.
In his haze, Clark climbed into the empty bed nude, triggering another cruel wave of reminders. Cold sheets welcomed him instead of your legs. Silence settled where your sleepy chatter should have been. No warm body curled beneath his arm. No soft complaint when he crowded too close. No hand wandering beneath waistbands because neither of you had ever been particularly convincing when pretending you only wanted to cuddle.
He stretched out across the sheets until his face buried into your pillow, inhaling the lingering scent of your shampoo, your shower gel, your favorite perfume dabbed behind your ear, you, you, you.
The scents went straight to his cock, and the urge hit like a meteor. With a pained whimper, Clark rolled onto his stomach and pressed his stiff, leaking member against the expensive sheets you bought when you first started spending the night.
Eight-hundred thread count, you’d told him proudly.
He wondered whether they were supposed to survive a sexually frustrated Kryptonian. Probably not.
.
The grinding began slowly, desperately, and experimental. Pleasure washed over him. Again, harder. Soon, wet smears marked every thrust, the motion creating a delicious friction against his sensitive tip, sharp enough to make his breath hitch.
Soon, slow wasn’t nearly enough to scratch that impossible itch.
His hips moved harder, faster, each desperate thrust leaving another damp streak across the fabric. His fists twisted into the sheets on either side of his head until the tendons rose along his wrists and the linen began to fray between his fingers. His tongue rested wetly against his bottom lip as he panted into your pillow, groaning each time his hips pressed down and the fabric dragged tightly along the underside of his cock.
The sounds spilling from him were embarrassingly primitive.
Low grunts. Broken breaths. A needy whine he would deny even under Kryptonite.
Eventually, they all melted into the only coherent thing he could say: your name.
Your name, muffled, over and over while your Clark humped the mattress in a poor attempt to fuck the fantasy of you out of his system. Bless his heart, it wasn't working.
If anything, it sharpened his hazy imagination into vivid, filthy focus. Your weight settling over him, knees planted wide on either side of his head, as you leaned forward in that sixty-nine position you’d joked about one too many times to make him suspect something.
You'd take his cock in hand with a slow stroke, press a kiss at the tip, stretching and hollowing your mouth around him until your nose brushed the heavy weight of his balls when you forced yourself deeper.
From underneath, he’d have the perfect view.
The generous curve of your plump ass hovered over his face. The delicate slope of your back arched deeper. The soft underside of your thighs framing his face while you lowered your core onto his mouth, already wet enough to leave a shining streak across his lips. His thumbs would dig into the soft flesh to keep you from clamping shut around his head while he buried his face between your legs. He would lick you messy, broad stripes through your puffy folds, sucking your clit until your hips bucked against his smothering mouth, then push his tongue into your dripping hole while the tip of his cock bruised the back of your throat.
You’d happily choke around his cock a little. The tight spasm of your throat wound squeeze the head.
Let your saliva spill down his shaft in warm, messy trails until it gathered along his happy trail, and he’d moan directly into your pussy,
"She's beautiful from this angle."
"She tastes so sweet."
"Shd clenched perfectly around my tongue just now. Please, sweetheart, please have Her do it again?"
Golly, Clark’s hips jerked hard enough to shove the mattress and frame several inches across the floor.
Continuing his fantasy, he would then coo about filling Her up so full, until She was overflowing with his come, until you were marked as his inside and out. At the same time, your mouth worked his cock with wet, sloppy determination, swallowing until your throat refused and pulling back with strings of spit still connecting your lips to the swollen tip.
He’d imagine you pulling off long enough to look over your shoulder, glassy-eyed and breathless, begging in a raspy voice to breed you, baby, put every drop where it belongs with his cum already on your tongue before he’d realize even giving it to you.
That scenario had Clark rutting faster, the bed creaking, squeaking, shifting under his barely-contained strength. His eyes suddenly flared hot with unrestrained heat vision, twin red beams scorching pinpoints through the mattress and most likely the floorboards before squeezing them shut.
Precum soaked a dark, sticky patch into the sheets beneath his cock, and his lower abdomen made every grind slick. A dark lock of hair clung to his forehead. His drool made the pillow damp against his cheek, and still.
Still, he couldn’t stop whining your name, couldn’t stop chasing the phantom sensation of your body molded along on his torso, and your slick coating his chin and dripping down his neck
Take him deeper. Sit down harder. Use his mouth.
Somehow, the fantasy deepened.
He’d pull you from his face and roll you beneath him before you finished. Your legs would be spread around his hips, knees pressed to your breasts while he lined himself up and pushed inside. He could almost feel you wet and hot around him. So, so tight after days apart that the first stroke would make both of you shake.
His mouth would cover yours while he fucked you open, tasting himself on your tongue and you on his lips. Every thrust would drive your body higher against the bed. Every needy sound you made would disappear into his mouth while the headboard struck the wall in a rhythm the neighbors could never mistake for anything else.
Mine. The word slid into the fantasy with frightening ease. My sweetheart. My girl. My perfect, exhausted Love
Spread beneath him and finally too ruined to think about anything else. Clark pictured his hand closing around your jaw, thumb slipping between your lips as he told you exactly what he intended to do.
Fill you, and keep filling you. Have my fingers gather my spend from your thighs and push it back deep before it tried to leak out again.
No matter how many times he admired the image of white from your swollen pussy, he groaned so loudly the windows trembled.
Gosh, how he wanted to breed you properly. To pin your hips down and fill you before the first load had stopped leaking.
Wanted your thighs sticky, your belly wet, the sheets beneath you soaked with both of you.
Wanted your voice exhausted because of him instead of work.
Until it stuck...or didn't.
The thought should have slowed him. Instead, it made his balls draw tight.
Did he want to watch your body change because of him? Did you? Or was this simply the rut talking? Some ugly, instinctive Kryptonian corner of him desperate to erase five lonely nights by marking you so thoroughly that even distance couldn’t make him doubt where he belonged—
With a mix of relief and disappointment, Clark came hard with a harsh cry of your name, hips jerking in short, punishing bursts as thick ropes of his spend spilled out onto the warm linen. More followed with each weakening thrust, hot come smearing along his cock and stomach as he continued to grind through the oversensitive aftershocks.
The orgasm left him shaking, heaving, and glazed in a cold sweat, drool still slick on his lips. His lips started to tingle from the real possibility of having you exactly like this on the weekend, letting him ruin you the same way he ruined these damn nice sheets, just more.
His spent cock give a weak, hopeful twitch.
.
The phone rang and Clark startled violently, eyes flying open as your name and that soft, smiling contact photo he’d taken one sleepy Sunday morning lit up the screen.
"Ahh, shoot!"
He fumbled for it, one frantic reach nearly sending the phone skidding off the table. He caught it on the second attempt and pressed it to his ear, swallowing against a throat gone dry, and breathing remained uneven.
Your suspicion came through the line immediately after his greeting."You sound funny. Everything okay?"
"Yeah—no, I’m fine." His voice cracked around the age-old lie. Clark cleared his throat, forcing something painfully casual into it. "Everything’s fine. Just… Superman duties, you know how it is. Tell me about your day."
You hummed, unconvinced, but too exhausted to press him. Instead, you continued talking, your voice low and worn-soft through the receiver, each affectionate little pause slipping beneath his skin. You told him about work, about a coworker who had nearly driven you insane, about the lunch you had forgotten to eat until far too late.
Clark listened, asked the right questions, and made the appropriate sympathetic noises between pauses. Guilt tightened his chest when you asked about his day, speaking to him in that drowsy voice you usually reserved for the minutes before falling asleep against his chest.
Unfortunately, another part of him remained painfully aware that you were lying in bed somewhere else. Perhaps wearing one of his old shirts you now claimed as yours. Perhaps curled on your side with bare thighs brushing together beneath the hem, touching the place where his body usually pressed against yours and missing him badly enough to ache too.
Clark knew better than to let his thoughts wander again, but then you called him baby once more.
His cock twitched against the cooling, sticky mess, then again. The spent length began to stiffen beneath his stomach, dragging slowly through his own come as blood rushed back into it.
Clark squeezed his eyes shut.
Your tired voice kept flowing through the phone, sweet and trusting, while he buried his face deeper into your pillow and inhaled what remained of your scent.
His hips shifted restlessly, chasing relief he had barely finished giving himself. Shame should have stopped him.
Instead, the idea that you were talking so innocently while he lay covered in his own release, getting hard again because you had called him baby of all things, made fresh need tighten low in his stomach.
Every filthy thought returned twice as vivid.
Your mouth. Your pussy. Your hoarse little plea to fill you.
How silly of him to think one damning orgasm would be enough.
“still, he couldn't stop whining your name, couldn't stop chasing the phantom sensation of your body molded along on his torso, and your slick coating his chin and dripping down his neck.
pairing: clark kent x f!reader | genre: smut | wc: 3k
summary: you try to behave at work, but superman keeps getting in the way. unfortunately for clark, so does his super hearing.
warnings: 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. ✦
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 hadn’t 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 didn’t fold. You just shrugged, kept your expression clean, and said, “Yeah, the camera works for him." Some watered-down version of what you were actually thinking.
Clark noticed too.
Not like the others. No, his revelation was far more accurate. You two weren’t 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, everyone’s 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 Clark’s 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 wasn’t 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.
Right below the belt.
Not that you hadn’t 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 Clark’s curiosity and Superman’s pride, reacting to a version of him you didn’t 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.
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 wasn’t 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 didn’t 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 Superman’s 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, “This is you.” You blinked, looked at the glowing floor number, and stepped out too fast with a quick, “Right. Thanks.”
Yeah, embarrassing enough, but it didn’t stop there.
Not long after you settled in at your desk, breaking news echoed throughout the bullpen, grabbing everyone’s 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 wasn’t 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 hadn’t 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 you’d 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 “so much work” and you were just “too busy.” 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 Superman’s presence as it radiated through your body wasn’t 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.
So your best solution? Write it out. Maybe if you gave the thoughts somewhere to go, he’d 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 you’d give him later. Easy work. The kind of work he could usually get through without much trouble.
And perhaps that had been the problem.
It didn’t take much for Clark’s focus to drift away to its new favorite spot—you. 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 couldn’t 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.
—that’s the part I can’t seem to get out of my head. Always so big, like it’s too much until it isn’t—
Clark’s fingers slowed over his keyboard.
He had picked up on the rhythm some time ago, from the hours you’d spent working side by side. And no, it wasn’t 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 wasn’t 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 shouldn’t be listening just because he could. He was raised better than that.
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 couldn’t 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 Superman’s body over you, in you, around you. About how badly you wanted to know if he’d fuck like you imagined he would. About how you didn’t think once would be enough.
The more your thoughts sharpened, the more your body reacted. Your heartbeat had gone fast enough now that it wasn’t 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 wasn’t. 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.
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 you’d been imagining every time the camera caught the front of that suit from the right angle.
That was bad enough.
Then Clark’s 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 he’d heard before—the one that caught low in your throat and turned into something closer to a moan once it slipped free—sent 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 you’d said it out loud.
You wrote about riding him. About how you’d feel him everywhere. How you’d have to take him slow at first, because he’d be too much to just drop onto, even if all you’d 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 you’d 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 hide—
How tight and warm you’d feel taking him.
That was the one.
Clark’s 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 hadn’t 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 couldn’t 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.
“Hey,” you said when you reached his desk, holding it out to him. “I meant to give this to you earlier. It’s just the notes for the revision.”
Clark turned enough to take it, but not enough to really look at you. He couldn’t trust himself with that yet.
His fingers brushed the edge of the folder as he took it from you.
“Thanks,” he said.
You gave him a small, apologetic look. “Sorry. I’ve been a little distracted today.”
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 didn’t 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.
“I wish I could focus like you,” 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.
“Yeah,” he said, because it was the safest thing he had.
You smiled, still oblivious, and turned to walk away.
if you want to be tagged in my future posts, comment or message me! i’m happy to do it! :) just let me know if you want all works or just for specific characters <3
• links: masterlist | wattpad | tip jar 🫙 (support my writing!)
tips are never required, but always appreciated. thank you for being here!
areudirty
dailybridgerton
theartofmadeline
amandla
origamiaround
prguitarman
germansingergirl
