he apologizes profusely because he knows he’s big.
he knows he has to gradually work you up but when he’s fucking you, it never truly prepares you for his size. even after the nth time, the stretch never seizes to amaze you.
his heavy hips unable to mask the weight behind them everytime he thrusts, watching your beautiful, precious face contort in pleasure. the groans that escape him let you know that he’s falling apart. it’s music to your ears while the sound of skin on skin and sticky wet slick is music to his. his warm calloused palm kneading your breasts before moving to your hips, right as he works himself in deeper.
tip kissing your cervix tastefully slow and deep til you felt him in your throat. he’s girthy and incredibly soft spoken, the killer combination that would make you let him do anything he wanted. he’s thanking you for letting him have you like this. panting in true effort while he murmurs profanities about how tight you feel.
the peak hits just as hard, crashing over both of you til you’re clamping down on him. enough for him to sputter in contentment and lose all semblance of himself.
punctuating his grinds with whimpers of your name while he paints you deep and white like it’s your wedding. so much that it leaks around him. his eyes wet with need and desire as he desperately pants, lifting his head to stare at where you connected, watching it gush down your thighs. you think he’s done, you’re bloated with him now but he’s still pulsing, veins throbbing as they continue to rub against your walls.
finally he stills, dropping his head in the crook of your neck, whispering thank you while he sniffles.
was he crying?
you don’t get to rationalize it because he’s apologizing all over again when he resumes rolling his hips into yours, swallowing your cries of overstimulation. pushing down on your lower stomach while he sticks his tongue down your throat and sloppily laps at your lips, leaving your skin wet. his fingers growing more confident by pulling you back into him while he works you. pulling out just to gather everything leaking and rut back into you again.
“gotta keep you full, hah, please? swear it’s the last one.”
Aside from someone swiping your parking spot in the morning, something much more peculiar was afoot. And it involved one, six-foot-something somebody, boring holes into your back like he might actually beam lasers into you.
Which, in this particular case, was possible. Not that you knew.
Clark couldn't help himself, really. But this was the only natural response. He'd been hovering around you, wary and unsure when he could strike up a conversation. It wasn't that he was a hindrance for you, per se — his proximity helped, mostly in the getting people out of your personal space aspect when you'd gotten on the elevator to get coffee, with him following you like a shadow and effectively blocking everyone else.
Even that hadn't crossed the odd territory. Because you'd always gotten coffee with Clark Kent.
Except this time, he was friendlier-than-necessary.
You'd noticed it first when you walked into the building.
He was already there, all leaned up next to the receptionist counter, chirping happily with Jenn. When he sees you, he greets you with the same, dorky sweet smile felt far too bright for the current hangover you were dealing with.
"How are you so…bright at 8 am?"
Clark looks over to you, a confused look taking over his expression. "Bright?"
You stare at him deadpan, wincing at the metaphorical rays growing even more blinding at the taut smile that curls at the corner of his lips, two deep indents furthering your point.
"… Never mind."
The folders that were stacked in your arm were quickly lifted off you, purse coming off next. You blink and watch the taller man beside you awkwardly shuffle the straps of his messenger bag to make space for the feminine intruder.
"Don't worry about it." He assures, pressing the lift door open for you.
Huh. It felt weird not carrying anything.
His odd behaviours hadn't stopped there.
Clark was always nice to you, but this felt much. Territorial even. Sure, you appreciated him offering to help edit your copy.
But…
"Kent. Quit following me."
He jerks upright behind you — sounds of paper crumple in his fists.
"I-I'm not!" He protests, looking at the papers he just so happened to be carrying, lifting them like a trophy, far too excitedly. "I'm just…we're headed the same way. So."
You frown as you look ahead to the door marked for the Copy Room, and a far too smug Clark who saunters in ahead of you, keeping the door open for you with the heel of his shoe.
"Right. Sorry." You mumbled, awkwardly shuffling past him. He shuts his eyes, and you don't notice how he'd taken a quiet inhale of your fluttering scent.
Maybe you were imagining things.
[2:20PM]
Clark Kent: I bought you the pastries you liked. Come to the pantry!
[2:25PM]
Clark Kent: Did you take them?
[2:30PM]
You: No.
You: I think Olsen is eating them.
"Gosh-darnit. Olsen!"
You snort at the voice that rings in the bullpen as you grab your usual gear after setting your phone to airplane mode — recorder, notes and a phoney smile in preparation for your 3 pm interview.
[3:10PM]
Clark Kent: Bought them again…Andie told me you were at a meeting.
Clark Kent: Left them on your desk. 😬
[3:30PM]
Clark Kent: Covered the box it in the blue post-its so no one steals them.
[4:10PM]
Clark Kent: Are you free after work?
Clark Kent: I know somewhere quiet we can grab a bite.
Clark Kent: Saved the owners before.
Clark Kent: I mean. I know them. From somewhere.
[4:30PM]
Clark Kent: Anyways, let me know. 🤯
[4:40PM]
Clark Kent: Scratch that. I'm sure you're tired.
Clark Kent: I'll walk you home instead.
[5:02PM]
Clark Kent: <2 Missed Calls>
…Maybe not.
The second you'd turned your phone back on, it damn near buzzes out of your hands. What must've been ten text messages in barely an hour — and a now flashing contact image of Clark dressed as Big Bird for the Halloween Party lights up. You click on the green button.
"Hello?…"
"Hi! Gosh. Hi, sorry. You weren't answering, so I thought I'd.."
"I just wrapped up. De-brief took long. Did you need something?"
"No…—…yes. Have you…um, seen the messages I sent you?"
Your gaze darts to your desk, squinting at an ominously blue Post-it-covered box. Slowly, you peel it off the plastic to reveal pastries neatly tucked in it.
"…How could I not? They were covering my lock screen entirely."
He snorts out a rather unglamorous laughter, and then it dies down abruptly, "sorry…I don't like texting. I wanted to walk you home."
"….Why?"
"I think…it's what boyfriends do, right? I haven't done this in a while."
You pause, pulling the phone away from your face. Staring at it blankly.
"Be down in ten."
Boyfriend?
Slowly, you back into your desk, slumping into your chair with a dazed look. Crap. It was about yesterday, wasn't it?
"L-Look, I need to be clear before I — mmph, do this!"
Think. Think harder.
Shaw's. Lots of tequila. Bathroom.
"Get. Em. Off." You'd rustled the larger man against the sink, yanking his belt off with such force that he jerks forward.
Between the heavy panting into each other's lips and the dire need you had for his pants to be on the ground, you were pretty sure you just agreed to whatever he was saying at that point. But what exactly was it?
You rub your forehead in concentration.
"P-Please. Wait. I want to do this properly. T-The orders — haaahh…a little…messed up."
Nope. Not that. Fast-forward.
"D-Does this mean…we're together? Mm?"
"Yes, god," you moan brokenly, drooling over the fingers he had stuffed in your mouth, fucking you hard into the sink from the back. "— ngh, Clark, yes, yes, yes!"
…In your defence, who asks someone something like that in that sort of situation?
Clark's face lights right up when he spots you leaving the building. Crossing over to you in a few long strides. He's quick to take your purse off you, and you feel a twinge in your chest.
There was no letting him down easy. It was a bandage-ripping-off sort of situation at this rate. Because this? This was like looking at a child right in the face and telling them that Santa doesn't exist or that Christmas hype was merely a scheme created by greedy men profiting off the holiday industrial complex.
You hadn't even realised you both had walked all the way up to your front door when he finally stops, bouncing at the balls of his feet.
Eager to be let in.
Oh fuck it.
"Look…Clark, I —"
"I-I know you think I can't keep up," he interrupts. Taking a step forward with a white knuckled grip around the straps of your purse. "That…I could be too soft. But…I want to learn you. What you like, i-if you'd let me."
You quirk a brow.
"…Clark…I don't exactly think we're on the same pace."
"Why…not?"
Damn him and his dejected puppy dog look.
"I'm more of a fuck on the first date sort of girl." You admit. He visibly stiffens at your words, moving like a doll to make way for you as you open your door.
"And you're sweet. I'd hate to lose you as a friend."
When you don't hear a peep from him, you'd safely assume he somehow understood.
"So…"
What you don't expect is how quickly he has arm snaked around your waist before you can even register it. Lifting you up and crossing the thresholds of your apartment.
The lock clicks shut, the purse thudding to the ground when all semblance of his politeness snaps away. You'd instinctively gripped around his shoulders in surprise. Blinking.
Clark leans in, slow enough to give you time to say no. But you lean forward instead, giving him the answer he so desperately needed.
He grunts into your lips with a familiarity — the sounds rumbling into your throat at the prolonged hum of content.
Then, he pulls back breathlessly, looking at you.
"I can keep up." He promises, placing a peck and another.
His glasses gently bumping into your nose every single time he tilts his head to get a deeper kiss. It felt far too good, and far too natural for your body to reject the notion, so you melt into him completely, curling your arms around his broad back.
it’s not even hard—he’s not even hard—and the damn thing is already blushing at the tip, thick with blood and heavy enough to rest against the dense curve of his thigh.
clark’s got those lazy, dusky veins wrapping around the shaft like vines, one in particular that runs along the underside in a thick, stubborn line that catches the light when he moves. it pulses sometimes, like it’s annoyed. like it knows he’s trying to tame it into latex and propriety.
and the condoms? the xxl ones? they look like balloon animals stretched halfway up, stuck at the swell where he starts to really thicken out. can’t even roll past the middle.
they pinch and they fucking hurt like hell.
he thought it was a brand issue at first, bought three different boxes. tried different positions in the mirror: bent forward, standing up, leg on the toilet like some godforsaken centaur and every time, it’s the same problem.
“built wrong,” he mumbles, cheeks pink, breath fogging the mirror. he won’t meet his own eyes.
but the truth is, he’s not built wrong. he’s built like clark. heavyset and freckled, like every inch of him has been kissed by the sun and decided to keep the evidence. even there, right at the base, he’s got those faint little reddish freckles dusting the skin. it’s the same shade as the soft trail of dark hair leading down from his navel, and the darker patch at the root—almost black, thick and coarse, barely trimmed because he’s too embarrassed to do anything else to it.
he doesn’t know what to do with himself. he can bench-press a tractor but can’t figure out how to be small enough to fit.
he keeps the box in the drawer like it’s a shameful secret. unopened now, just there like it’s mocking him into a reminder of how big he is.
he’s not sure if he’s supposed to apologize for it or warn someone or just… hide.
but maybe one day—maybe—someone will kiss that apologetic look right off his mouth and tell him he’s not too anything. he’s just clark. and he fits them just fine.
“hah… baby, wait a minute now-“ he whines as your hand brushes against his throbbing cock in his boxers. his hand grips the sheets tight, knuckles turning white.
“clark, you gotta relax.” you murmur, your other hand cupping his cheek while you look into his eyes. his eyes are softer than usual and definitely full of hesitation.
“i don’t wanna hurt you.” his deep voice is just barely above a whisper. heat floods between your legs.
“you’re not gonna hurt me.”
you chuckle at his nervousness before moving to straddle his hips, hands running through his hair. his eyes soften as you press kisses along his jaw, trailing down to his neck. you smile as he sighs, hands trailing up to rest on your ass.
anddd that’s how you ended up getting fucked into the bed. tears streaming down your face, smearing the perfect mascara you had on a few hours before he came over. his cock was slamming into you, hands gripping your hips as his head rests against yours.
“ah! you’re so big! cant take it, fuck clarkkk.” you babble. you you could feel him in your stomach. he was knocking all the air from yours lungs. he was that deep.
“ah, i’m so sorry.” he hisses as he kisses your lips. he pull away, his eyes trailing to your dripping hole swallowing him. he slowly pulls his cock all the way out, only to slam it back in your wetness. you choke on a moan, hand flying to grip his shoulders. “oh jeez. you feel so good.” he groans as he pushes his hand down on you lower stomach, amplifying the pleasure coursing through your body.
he looks back up at you with a smile. his eyes scan over your flushed, puffy face as you sob his name.
“see? you’re taking me so well. i cant be that big.”
you groan in frustration at his words. clark can be so silly sometimes.
your hand slams on the desk beneath you—so loud, yet it’s hardly louder than the man between your thighs.
clark’s tongue drags from your hole to your clit, licking up your juices before sucking on the aching pearl. he looks so pussydrunk, blue eyes fluttering closed with a desperate expression twisting his pretty face.
it makes you moan—which in turn makes him moan—as your hand grips clark’s hair, tugging his back down to your cunt.
he slurps up any of your juices that you give him, delightfully tonguing your hole with no abandon.
“gosh, honey—“ his hands grip tighter on the fat of your thighs, tugging you closer to his face. “you taste so good,” he moans between your thighs, one large hand palming at your breast.
at first hesitancy sat throughout your bones—what began as a simple make out with some egregious groping and fondling made clark drop to his knees within 4 minutes after a light bulb went off in his head; your skirt was easy to flip up.
your protests died silently after he lifted you on a random desk, hands greedily moving to pull your panties off and (put them in his pocket) away from your wet cunt.
call him a perv, sure, but he simply cannot see it that way when your back arches so prettily, thighs spreading wider for him. his hands move back to your legs, seating them over his shoulders. two thick fingers push into your fluttering pussy, groaning when he feels you clench around them.
summary: Overtime meant Bruce’s paperwork should’ve been your only problem. Instead, it turned into Dick Grayson pinning you to the desk because, of course, he never makes your job easy.
pairings: dick grayson x secretary!reader
warnings: 5k words. mature themes. unprotected p in v. internal ejaculation. breeding kink. semi-public sex. rough sex. clothed sex. breast play. clit stimulation. marking. overstimulation. dacryphilia. (light) d/s dynamics. degradation & praise kink. read & consume responsibly.
note: I am going back to my nightwing obsession and this is just the start of it!
It always felt like Dick lived to get under your skin. Every time he came into the building, he was always stopping by your desk just to bother you. Sometimes he’s leaning on the edge like he owns the place. Sometimes he stole your pen. Sometimes he commented on how you never smiled. Sometimes he just stared until you finally snapped at him. Everyone else in the office thought he was charming. To you, he was a distraction you didn’t have time for. The only reason you were still in the building tonight was because Bruce had dumped last-minute documents on you before rushing out to whatever excuse he made. You were finishing a report in his office, trying to ignore the silence that hung over the empty floor, when Dick slipped inside. You didn’t even hear him at first until he was suddenly behind your chair, warm breath against your neck as he asked if you were really working this late for Bruce. You turned with a scowl, told him to quit it, and that was all it took. His mouth was on yours before you could even stand.
Now you were sitting on Bruce Wayne’s expensive desk with your blouse pushed open, lips raw from how hard he kept kissing you. His hand slid under your skirt, pushing it up over your thighs while you clung to his shoulders. He groaned into your mouth when your fingers tugged at his belt, and you whispered against his lips, “You’re only here to make me lose focus.” He smirked, biting your bottom lip before saying, “And it’s working.” His tongue pushed past yours again. The kiss is messy and hot while your legs are wrapped around his waist as he presses closer. You let out a muffled whimper against his mouth when his bulge in his pants ground right against the thin barrier of your panties. His grip tightened on your hips like he wanted to keep you pinned to the desk. He broke the kiss for just a second just to rest his forehead against yours as he muttered, “You taste better than the coffee you pretend not to like when I bring it.”
You huffed out a breathless laugh, nails dragging across the back of his neck. “Shut up,” you whispered, kissing him again, because the last thing you wanted was to give him the satisfaction of being right. His hands were already pushing your blouse apart. Fingers pop the buttons one by one until they hang loose over your shoulders. The cool air hit your skin at the same time as his mouth dragged down your neck. It feels wet and hot at the same time while his fingers shoved your skirt higher. He didn’t bother being slow. The fabric bunched at your waist and your panties hooked down in one rough tug that left you bare on the desk. You gasped when his teeth scraped your throat and his palm squeezed your breast through your bra.
“You know it’s almost midnight,” he muttered against your skin, lips sliding to your collarbone while he yanked the bra cup down. His thumb rubbed over your nipple until it peaked under his touch. “What are you even still doing here? You planning to open the building yourself in the morning?” You let out a broken sound when he sucked at the top of your tit, biting just enough to make you jolt. Your head tipped back and you clung tighter to his shoulders. “I had work to finish,” you managed, voice obviously laced with annoyance but shaking at the edges. “Bruce doesn’t do his paperwork, so I have to.” Dick laughed under his breath and kneaded your breast harder, rolling the nipple between his fingers. “Figures. He leaves, and you’re stuck here making sure the world keeps spinning for him.” His tongue flicked over the sensitive skin again before he dragged his mouth back up to yours. He steals another kiss that makes your lips throb.
You moaned into it when his hand slipped lower to brush the bare skin of your thigh. It doesn’t take long before his hand finds the wet heat between your legs and the rough pad of his finger parts your folds. You felt his smirk against your mouth as he pressed just enough to make your hips jolt. “So wet already,” he whispered. “I think you like being caught like this.” He bites at your lip again before kissing it softly. “Don’t,” you warned, though the sound broke into a breathy whine when he pushed a finger through your slit and circled your clit. He chuckled and licked into your mouth, swallowing every noise you made as his other hand kept your tit squeezed tight, thumb flicking over the hardened tip until you were arching off the desk under him.
His mouth left your skin just long enough to mutter, “Missed this.” He removes his hand from your tit just to move it towards his belt and work with it before he kisses you again. His mouth is moving like he’s starved and can’t get enough of it. The metal buckle clinked while he continued to open it and then the sound of his zipper filled the room. He pressed his hips against your bare cunt while he worked his pants lower. He continues to grind his hard length against your slit through the fabric. You broke from the kiss to glare at him. His chest is heaving as his hand shoves your bra down even further. “Missed this? You’re always here. You show up every chance you get just to annoy me.” He laughed against your mouth, and his cock pushed heavier against you now that his pants were open. The heat of it slid over your folds and made you shiver. “Not the same,” he said, dragging the words low while his lips brushed your jaw.
“I see you at your desk, sure. I steal your pens, drink your coffee. But this? Fuck, I haven’t had this in a month.” A gasp broke from you when his cockhead rubbed over your clit, wetness smearing across the thick head. Your hand snapped down to his wrist, nails biting into his skin. “Stop acting like you’re owed anything,” you hissed, even as your legs trembled open wider for him. He grinned like he caught you in a lie and rocked his hips harder. He’s sliding his length along your slit until the fat tip presses right at your entrance. He didn’t push in, but the tease made your cunt clench in anticipation. “You’d throw me out if you didn’t want me here,” he said, biting lightly at your ear before groaning when your pussy throbbed around nothing. “But you don’t. You let me back in every time.”
Your back hit the desk as his hand caught your thigh, holding you open while his cock rubbed slowly along the wet seam of your folds. Every stroke dragged heavily over your clit, and you couldn’t hold back the way your hips tilted up to meet him. “Nngh, fuck- stop acting like you know me,” you panted, trying to push him back, but your hand clutched at his arm instead of shoving him away. He grunted low, cock sliding again over your swollen clit, smearing more slick. “I know you like this,” he said with a rough smirk against your throat. “That’s enough.” Your protest died the second his cock pushed into your pussy, slow but unrelenting. The thick stretch forced a moan out of your throat even while your nails dug into his shoulders. Wetness clung to him as he pressed deeper until you felt full, stuffed, his cockhead nudging as far as it could go.
“Fuck-” you gasped, tilting your head back when his thumb came down on your clit, rubbing in messy circles. Sparks shot through your belly, and your legs tensed around his hips. “Dick… nghh- if this costs me my job, I swear, I’ll kill you.” Your voice was strained, caught between anger and the hot tremor rolling through you. His mouth dropped to your tits without even hesitating. Lips wrapped around your nipple to suck it until it throbbed under the pull of his tongue. The wet drag made your back arch, and you whimpered as his teeth grazed lightly before his mouth moved to the other breast. Between the drag of his cock sitting heavy inside you and the swirl of his tongue on your tits, you were shaking.
He only pressed deeper when you threatened him, hips grinding forward like he wanted every inch buried. His words were muffled against your skin as he sucked harder, “Worth it.” You squirmed against him, your hand pushing at his chest even as your cunt clenched tight around him. “You’re an asshole, you know that? Always barging in, always- ahhnn, f-fuck, don’t-” Your complaint cracked when his thumb pressed harder on your clit, rubbing it in rough circles while his cock throbbed deep inside you without pulling out. A heavy groan rumbled from him when your pussy tightened even more around his cock. He broke from your tits long enough to growl, “God, you feel too good. Month without this and you’re still fucking perfect.” Your breath came out uneven, lips parting around a moan you tried to bite back.
“Hahh, nghh- stop… talking… like that.” Your hands clutched his hair instead of pushing him away while his mouth returned to your tits. He’s sucking greedily and messily. His cock stayed buried. Not moving, but every grind of his hips forced you to feel how deep he was and how soaked you’d gotten already. Your cunt clenched around him while he stayed buried to the hilt. His cock pulsing against your walls. The drag of his thumb on your clit made your thighs tremble. Every slow circle pushes you closer until your chest heaves against his mouth. His mouth remains around your nipple like he’s pumping milk out of you. His tongue was swirling while his other hand squeezed your waist. “You’re fucking insane,” you gasped while your fingers clawed at his hair as his mouth tugged harder. The words broke into a moan when his teeth grazed sensitive skin. “Nghh- Dick, I’m serious. If this ruins my job, I’ll- hahh, I’ll kill you.”
He groaned against your tit, the vibration making your nipple throb. His hips pressed forward, cockhead grinding deeper inside your cunt without pulling out. “Shut up. You’re clenching like you love it,” he muttered, lips dragging back to your other breast, tongue flicking until you cried out again. The pressure on your clit grew rougher, his thumb rubbing fast now, not gentle. You tried to twist away but your body betrayed you, pussy squeezing tight around his cock with every pass of his hand. “F-fuck- stop, nghh, don’t do that-” you begged, though your nails dug deeper into his scalp instead of pushing him away. “Month without this and you’re dripping all over me,” he rasped against your chest. His mouth left a wet trail between your tits before sucking hard at the soft flesh just above your nipple. He didn’t even wait for your reply before pressing deeper and forcing your cunt to swallow him down again.
You bit your lip until it hurt to try to hold back the sound clawing at your throat. The slick rub of his thumb on your clit finally dragged it out and a shaky moan broke loose. “Nnghh- hahh, Dick, fuck- I can’t-” Hearing you crack seemed to break his restraint. His hips drew back at last, the thick length sliding out halfway before driving back in with a wet slap. The sudden thrust made your head fall back against the desk, your moan spilling free, loud and shameless. His teeth gritted as he slammed back in again, balls smacking your ass while your pussy clenched around every inch. “God, yeah- that’s it,” he groaned, his thrusts picking up into a rough pace. The desk creaked under both your weight as he fucked you hard, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing in the office.
You choked on your own voice, eyes squeezing shut as the pounding forced your body to rock against him. “Sh-shit- too much- hahh, nghh, slow down, fuck-” The words came out broken, tangled with every gasp as his cock drove into you over and over. He pressed his forehead against your tits while his hand kept working your clit, refusing to let up. His thrusts only grew harder, the wet squelch of your pussy growing louder each time he bottomed out. Your legs trembled as he forced them wider around his waist. “I missed this. Missed you,” he panted, his words hitting hot against your skin before he sucked your nipple back into his mouth. Every thrust sent sparks up your spine, your moans spilling freely now with no control.
“Ahhnn, ffffuck- nghh, hahh, Dick-! I’m gonna-” Your nails scratched red lines down his back as his cock battered into you, relentless and deep, until your body gave in completely. His thick and hot cock stayed buried inside you while his mouth dragged across your tits. Every slow pull of his lips over your nipple sent a shiver through your body. The steady rubbing of his thumb on your clit continues and makes your thighs shake and moan despite how you tried to hold back the sound in your throat. It still slipped out anyway. A broken little moan that only made him groan against your skin. “Mmhh, fuck, you’re perfect like this,” his voice is low when he mutters while he sucked harder on your nipple. His hand cupped your other breast, kneading it roughly before pinching your bud until you gasped. “No wonder Bruce keeps you around… favorite secretary he’s ever had.”
Your chest burned with heat that wasn’t only from his mouth. “D-Dick,” you whispered while feeling embarrassed at the way your pussy clenched just from the tease. “Don’t… don’t say that.” He chuckled against your breast, breath warm over spit-slick skin. “What? You think he has a clue how pretty you sound stuffed full of cock?” His hips pressed forward while he said it, cockhead grinding deeper into your cunt without moving out. “He doesn’t. Only I get this.” Your nails dug into his shoulders as your face heated, the words twisting inside your chest. You couldn’t bring yourself to answer, only a shaky moan falling out when he rolled your clit harder under his thumb.
“That’s what I thought,” he groaned, sucking one nipple into his mouth while his cock twitched inside you. His tongue flicked mercilessly, drawing more whimpers out of your throat. “Sweet little secretary, acting all shy, but squeezing me like you want me to ruin you right on his desk.” Your head tipped back at the filthy words, lips parting around a whimper. “Nnghh- stop saying that, fffuck, I can’t-” He shakes his head before he says, “You can.” Words gritted while he let go of your breast to grab your hip. The hand between your thighs never stopped working your clit, rubbing harder, faster, until your legs shook against his sides. “You’re taking it so fucking good.” Before you could respond, he finally pulled his hips back. His cock is dragging wet and slow out of your cunt before slamming back in with a wet slap.
The sudden thrust knocked a moan out of you. It’s clear and loud. Your hands clutched at his back. “Ahhnn-!” you cried, toes curling as he drove into you again, balls smacking your ass with the force. The desk rattled under the weight of his thrusts, every push deep and rough until your vision blurred with heat. He grunted hard, jaw clenched as he fucked into you. “Christ, you’re so fucking tight. Been thinking about this every time I saw you bent over those files. Pretty little blouse, short skirt. All I could picture was this pussy gripping me.” His teeth sank into your breast again between words, the sting mixing with pleasure until you gasped loudly.
“D-Dick, nghh, don’t, oh god-” Your body betrayed you, cunt clenching tighter around his cock, milking every thrust even as you tried to protest. The shame only made the heat worse, your clit throbbing under the rub of his thumb.“Yeah, that’s it. Moan for me,” he growled, fucking into you harder now. His hips snapped against you in quick and heavy thrusts that made your whole body jolt with every hit. Wet sounds filled the office. The slap of his cock in your pussy mixed with your cries until it was all you could hear. Your legs were trembling and breath catching in broken moans. “Nnghh, hahh, fffuck, Dick- it’s too much- ohhnn, god-!”
“Take it,” he rasped, forehead pressed against your tits while he kept pounding you into the desk. “Bruce’s perfect secretary is getting railed like a slut in his office. You love it.” The shame made you clench harder. Your pussy gripping his cock in greedy spasms before you buried your face in his hair to muffle your cries, but your body gave you away with every arch of your back. Every wet sound of him fills you over and over. His cock finally started to move, just dragging out slowly before sliding back in deep. The stretch is making your whole body jolt. Your legs dangled against his back, and you trembled as his hips found a steady pace. One of his hands pressed tight to your waist while the other gripped your hip to keep you steady so you would not slide down the desk.
Every thrust pushed you back, but his hold kept you exactly where he wanted you. Pinned and open for him. “Mmhh… fuck, that’s it,” he groaned as his sweat beaded on his forehead. His eyes watch your pussy swallow him down. His words were heavy but his touch stayed careful. He’s steadying your body with each hard push inside. “You’re perfect like this… You feel so good.” You can feel your cheeks heating while uncontrolled noise spills from your mouth. The stretch from his cock inside your pussy was overwhelming, yet the way he steadied your body made you feel almost safe in the mess of it.
“Nnghh- Dick, hahh, slow- it’s so deep-” you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders as your tits bounced from his thrusts. His lips brushed your ear as he answered low, “I’ll take care of you… just hold onto me.” His hips slammed forward again, the thick length bottoming out in your cunt with a wet slap. The desk rattled under your back as your moan cracked into the air. The hand on your hip tightened when your legs shook, his grip firm enough to keep you steady. “That’s it, baby… you’ve been working so hard, I know. Let me fuck some of that stress out of you.” He pulled back and drove in hard again, groaning at the way you clenched tight around him.
Your chest burned at his words, every compliment slipping under your skin. “Nnhh- oh god- don’t-” The words fell into another whimper when his cock slammed back in and rubbed right where you were weakest. “Don’t say that… I’ll- nghh- I’ll lose it-” He kissed your jaw as your body trembled beneath him, voice steady even while his thrusts grew heavier. “Yeah?” His cock dragged out and pushed back in, hard enough to make your tits bounce under his chest. His mouth caught one nipple again just to suck it into his mouth while his hips never slowed.
Your hands clutched the back of his neck to pulling him closer as your cries turned high and broken. The sound of his balls slapping your ass filled the office while wet heat dripped down the inside of your thighs. Every time he bottomed out, the weight of his cock had you twitching around him, cunt clutching tighter no matter how much you tried to hold back. “Fuckkk- nghh, ohh- Dick-!” you cried, your legs trembling against his back. The words tumbled out messy as your nails dragged across his skin. “It’s too much, hahh, I can’t- ohhnn!”
“I know,” he groaned, kissing the swell of your breast between thrusts. His hand on your hip squeezed firmly, guiding your body into every push. “You’re taking me so well. The prettiest thing I’ve ever seen sitting at that desk… and even prettier like this.” His voice cracked with effort as he buried himself to the hilt, holding you tight while his cock pulsed deep inside. “God, I’ll never get enough of this…” Your head tipped back against the desk, lips parted around moans you couldn’t bite down. The steady drag of his cock, the wet slap of his thrusts, and the low praises spilling against your skin had your body giving in completely. Your nails rake along the warm skin of his back under his shirt, and he lets out a grunt that vibrates against your ear. The fabric clings to him with sweat. It makes it easier for your fingers to dig in harder.
Your forehead presses into his shoulder, teeth sinking into the curve of his neck because you can’t hold yourself quiet. “Fuck… keep doing that,” he mutters, voice rough in your ear as he thrusts deeper. His hand clamps around your waist to steady you against him so he can move harder and his cock stretches you open with every push. A shaky breath tumbles from your lips and it muffled against his skin. Your bite makes him hiss but he doesn’t stop, instead his free hand slides down between your bodies. His fingers spread your folds so he can rub your clit in messy circles. The sudden touch makes your legs jolt, and he chuckles lowly. “Yeah… there you go. Can feel how wet you are.”
You whine into his shoulder, nails dragging across his back again, and your cunt clamps around him so tightly it forces a curse out of his mouth. His cock drags out slowly just to slam back in, and you let out a broken moan. He presses his mouth to your ear and his hot breath rushes over your skin. “You like that, don’t you? Pussy’s taking all of me.” His fingers keep rolling your clit, slick and steady, while his cock drives into you over and over. Your voice shakes when you manage to answer, “Feels so fucking good…” The words melt into another moan as his hips snap forward. “Yeah? You’re clenching like you’re gonna milk me dry,” he groans, teeth grazing your earlobe before he bites down lightly.
His back flexes beneath your nails when you drag them down again. “Shit- keep marking me up, I don’t care. Just hold onto me.” Your body jerks with every push, and legs trembling while he continues to move inside you. His hand tightens on your waist to stop you from falling back on the desk as he moves against you. Fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. Your forehead stays pressed to his shoulder and your mouth is dragging wet against his skin as you bite down again and again. You’re leaving him dotted with teeth marks. He shudders when you do it. “Fuck, you’re not letting up,” he pants, rutting into you harder, cockhead hitting deep enough to make you cry out against his throat. His fingers on your clit don’t stop, rubbing fast and messy now, making your whole body twitch in his hold. “I’m close-” the words spill from you, broken by a gasp when his cock slams deep again.
“I know,” he answers quickly, voice a low rasp. “Can feel you squeezing me.” Your nails drag hard across his back as your cunt starts fluttering around him, and your forehead presses harder into his sweaty shoulder. A cry tears out of you, muffled by his skin, while your body shakes in his grip. “That’s it… fuck, that’s it, cum all over me,” he groans, hips stuttering as your orgasm pulls him closer to the edge. He fucks you through it, fingers never leaving your clit until you’re shaking so much you can barely hold onto him. When he finally pulls his hand away, it smears slick over your waist as he grabs you tighter, pumping into your spent pussy with heavy thrusts.
His mouth presses hot against your temple while his voice breaks into a rough growl. “Not letting up ‘til I’m spilling in you.” Your body is still shaking, pussy fluttering tight around him as he fucks through your release without slowing down. The tight squeeze around him makes his breath catch, but he holds you firmer, voice rough as he says, “You feel so fucking good.” Your face presses into the side of his neck, heat soaking through his shirt as tears slip down. A broken whimper escapes against his skin, and your nails dig into his shoulders because every thrust drags you further past the edge. He groans low when you shudder hard around him, chest heaving against yours.
“Shit, you’re still clenching like that? Gonna make me lose it,” he mutters, the words hot against your ear. The sound pulls another cry out of you. A muffled sound as you bite down on your lip while your body trembles from the overstimulation. His hand strokes your hip steadily and firmly. He’s guiding you into his thrusts like he can’t let go. “Breathe, baby, just breathe through it,” he urges, kissing along your hairline, sweat dampening his forehead. His cock drags deep, pushing through the wet mess between your folds. Each stroke forces a new shiver out of you, thighs twitching as your chest rises in stuttered gasps. “I can feel every drop of you,” he grits, fucking harder now as his own control frays. His mouth brushes your jaw, his voice breaking with a groan. “You’re perfect. Fuck, I’m gonna cum inside-”
The words cut off as his hips drive forward, and his whole body shakes against you. The sound that rips from his throat is rough. Almost guttural. Like he has been holding it back for too long. His cock jerks deep and each pulse sends more slick warmth spilling into your cunt. He mutters against your skin, “God, you’re gripping me so good… you’re not letting me go.” Your nails dig harder into his shoulders when he grinds in deep again, refusing to pull out, grinding until his tip kisses the very end of you. “Stay right here,” he pants, voice hoarse while his thrusts falter. “Take all of it for me… fuck, I can’t stop.” His mouth finds the corner of your lips in a desperate kiss, teeth grazing before he groans into your mouth as another hot spill fills you.
He presses you down into the desk like he needs every inch locked inside, and his hand squeezes your waist until you whimper against him. The thrusts turn ragged as his body locks tight against yours, and he spills the last of it into your cunt. The sudden flood of his cun pushes a sob out of you, your pussy squeezing down around the twitch of his cock while he curses into your throat. His hips grind forward until every drop leaks warm between your folds, dripping down your ass onto the desk. He doesn’t let go, still holding you close, chest pressed to yours while his cock throbs inside you. His voice comes softer now, murmured through heavy breaths. “You did so good for me. Took it all so good. Look at you… fucked me perfect.”
Your face stays pressed into his neck, damp with tears, body trembling in his arms while he’s still twitching from the orgasm and you’re also a mess like him. His breath slows first, chest pressed heavy against yours until the weight starts to ease. His cock is still seated deep, twitching with the last pulses, but he finally lets out a low laugh against your hair. “Christ… look what you do to me.” Carefully, he leans back enough to see your face. His hands steady your hips when you flinch at the movement, slick already sliding down the curve of your ass. “Hold on-don’t move yet.” One hand leaves your waist to fumble at the side of the desk, pulling open the drawer he’d spotted earlier. He drags out a half-crumpled box of tissues and tugs a few free with messy fingers. He eases out of you slowly, cock wet and flushed as your pussy leaks down your thigh. The loss makes your body jolt, and he immediately presses a hand to your stomach, grounding you.
“Easy. Just me.” He crouches slightly, wiping carefully between your legs, dabbing away the mess before it can drip too far. The tissue catches on your swollen folds and you whimper, but his touch stays gentle. “Shhh,” he murmurs, eyes flicking up to yours. “I’ve got you. Don’t need Bruce’s desk looking like a crime scene.” The tease is light, but his hand is tender as he works, switching tissues when they get too soaked until you’re clean enough. Once he’s finished, he tucks himself back into his pants and fastens them quickly. Then he turns back to you, hands bracketing your waist. “Up we go.” His voice is steady when he lifts you off the desk. Cradling you against his chest like you weigh nothing. You make a weak sound of protest but your face is nuzzling into the crook of his neck, and his grip doesn’t falter.
The short walk to the leather couch in the corner is silent except for your uneven breaths. He lowers you down onto it with care and sits beside you immediately so you don’t tip over. One of his arms remains wrapped around your shoulders before he pulls you closer against him. Your blouse looks like a mess while it hangs loose on your body. Both of your bodies are sticky with sweat, but all you feel is his body heat. His nose brushes your temple as he whispers, “You did perfect. Took everything I gave you, even when you thought you couldn’t.” He presses a kiss to your hairline, voice softer now, almost a promise even if neither of you will name it. “I’ve got you. Always.” You let out a tired laugh, eyes half-shut as you mutter, “Yeah, well… we better clean this place before it reeks like sex tomorrow.”
when Planet Publishing’s editor Clark Kent was given a steamy romance for his next project, he vowed to treat it like any other assignment: professionally. a sentiment he shared with the author herself—except it wasn’t the only thing they had in common…
🖊️ WARNINGS & TAGS: coworkers to friends with benefits?; virgins; mutual yearning; some jealousy; drunken confessions; SMUT (mentions of masturbation, oral, they're both switches, big dick clark, fingering, dirty talk, praise, size kink, tummy bulge, virginity loss, unprotected sex, creampie)
📓 READER NOTES: afab!reader; no use of y/n; reader drinks alcohol and eats meat... not clark's meat, although she does that too
☕️ AUTHOR'S NOTES: @theworstwolvie @pinksplace @tw1sters thank you for giving this a quick read while it was still a fetus—your encouragement carried me here to the post button <3
i hope everyone likes this fic because between this and another in july i don't think i'll be working on anything else... alexa play see you again by charlie puth wiz khalifa
1
Cassius traced a line with his darkened eyes. It dragged heat down Vesra’s body: first her lips, then her throat, then her naked, heaving chest. The corset that damned him all night was tugged loose, but not off, instead supporting her flesh in a way more salacious than it was designed to.
“Look at you,” he growled, the rumble reverberating in the inches between their bodies. “Better than I’ve dreamed.”
Vesra had a tease at the tip of her tongue—something about Cassius having dreamt of her—but the words evaporated the moment his lips took a pert nipple between them. She gasped instead, fingers finding his dark locks, tugging gently at them in a plea for more. If he was bothered by the touch, he didn’t show it: the first kisses turned quickly into suckles and testing bites.
The warmth of Cassius’s mouth bled into her veins. It spiked into a fever when he ground his hips into hers.
“Cass,” she cried, unbidden.
He groaned, mouth still on her tit. “Feel what you do to me? That’s all your fault.”
The question was rhetorical. Vesra felt it more than enough to answer: the outline of his shaft pressed against—
Someone clears their throat.
Clark Kent looks up. So do you from the book you’re reciting.
A waiter is there: young and blonde with a face that spelled jadedness earned from countless shifts toiling in this restaurant. He’s clearly walked into worse in his career.
“More water?” he offers, tone deadpan.
“I’m good, thanks,” you smile sweetly in response, “but please get me another bottle of soju.”
“One soju, then,” he repeats, before stepping away from your table.
Meanwhile, Clark sits across you with his face on fire. He manages an apologetic look at the waiter before throwing his gaze up, silently thanking the company for booking you a private room.
A warm pendant light looks back at him.
The Korean barbecue dinner is billable to Planet Publishing for two reasons: your birthday, and the success of your second novel under the house’s wing.
It’s the book you have open in your hands: Owls on a Moonlit Marsh, a gateway drug to fantasy for romance readers, and a steamy page-turner for fantasy readers.
Now Clark didn’t edit that book. He’s just invited to this company-expensed dinner because the two of you were in Gotham for a creative writing event, in which you were one of the panelists.
And you certainly didn’t let his politeness deter you from dragging him along, pushing past his insistence that you should spend Planet Publishing’s money with someone special—maybe a boyfriend.
(Was it rude to feel relief when you told him you didn’t have one?)
So, here he is. With you. Slightly full from an extremely delicious assortment of meats and banchan, listening to you complain about the pain in writing pleasure.
Clark Kent convinces himself that you brought him along because it’s the kind thing to do. The convenient thing, even. For once, you’re in Gotham, and this place has crossed your socials too many times. He just happened to be on a business trip with you.
That dress you are wearing isn’t low-cut to seduce him so much as to make yourself look beautiful. (And God, do you look beautiful.) It’s not flirtation that flashes in your eyes, just everyday mischief. Maybe soju-induced intoxication.
But that smile… The curl of it is so dangerously familiar, he finds his eyes averting from it to not provoke any untoward ideas—because the only ideas he’s getting are rather untoward.
Between the thoughts Clark Kent thinks to avoid heartbreak, there’s no way to misinterpret that smile.
Six months of working with someone is enough time to figure out whether you’re into them. Except Clark—if he were to admit at gunpoint—would say that being ‘into’ you is a massively understated way of expressing the specific feeling he’s dealing with.
You’re under his skin like an influence.
“Now where was I…?” you hum, scanning the page of an open book.
You point at the page. “Oh, right. His shaft.”
Once again, thank God and Perry White for the private room. Otherwise, saying the word ‘shaft’ while you read smut out loud might get you kicked out of this sleek restaurant.
“That scene was good,” Clark coughs. And he doesn’t just say that because he likes you, but in all honesty. “It’s sexy. And vulnerable.”
The main characters have gone through a literal book-load of feelings, which culminated into what has been described by Tumblr users as a “clit-throbbing” smut scene. In working with you for half a year, he deeply understands—the first part about going through a lot of feelings, that is.
The latter part? He can only dream.
“Thanks, Clark. Flattery gets you everywhere,” you beam. “I have a praise kink.”
Gosh, it’s so darn warm in here. (The charcoal’s been dead for a while now.)
“I was being serious.”
“Really? You think it was good?” you reply so earnestly he sits up straighter at the attention. “I was worried we were getting repetitive—M and I could only substitute the word ‘cock’ so many times.”
Clark nearly chokes on his rice wine.
If the publishing house let you loose with your word choices, people will get ID’ed at the counter for wanting to buy your books.
And M? She’s the reason he’s working with you: the editor for your first two novels, now on maternity leave.
M stands for Mary, but only those closest to her would know that her full given name is Mary Magdalene.
Alanis Morissette would like a word.
“I’m sure ‘thrust’ is the same,” Clark murmurs, fixing his glasses.
You give the comment a thought. “Actually, not really.”
“Yeah?”
“Mm-hmm,” you nod. The green soju bottle glints in the dim as you swirl it around. “I suppose… it’s the sensation that I find difficult to write.”
Clark tries to school his heartbeat. Be professional. That’s the one thing he vowed when taking up this job: you can’t edit a critically acclaimed romantasy if you don’t take it seriously.
And the two of you haven’t gotten there. Writing the sex, he means, not having sex. There’s nowhere for you and him to go on that part. And he definitely has not thought about it. Not in the slightest.
Professional, Clark scolds himself internally.
“How so?” he asks.
Your gaze shifts away from his. That’s rare.
“Well,” you begin, tone light as a feather, “it’s hard to write about something I haven’t felt before.”
A beat of silence. Then two.
“Sorry, what?” he pipes up, voice comically tiny. “I don’t think I heard you right.”
There’s nothing for him to be nervous about, though, because you’re grinning back at him like that wasn’t a dropped bomb. He’d blame it on the alcohol in your veins, but even while sober, you’re the kind of woman who just… shoots it straight.
God knows he loves it—his heart blooms in secret joy with every flash of honesty.
Like right now.
“I think you did, Clark,” you giggle, “and now you’re getting shy about it.”
“It’s the makgeolli,” he defends, though feebly.
“I’m a virgin,” you announce.
As if it’s the Declaration of Independence.
As if the waiter didn’t just enter and place another bottle of soju on your table.
You throw him a thank you with a pretty smile, to which the young man nodded. He leaves the room without asking if you need anything else.
You have the decency to continue after the door slides shut.
“And I mean that in the PIV sense. Not that the notion of virginity makes any sense, let alone penetrative virginity.”
“No, yes, of course,” Clark stammers in reply, all while his mind asks what have you done, then, and how do I stop picturing you doing it?
Because you did things with someone else. At some point in time, you were doing things with someone else. That makes him jealous.
Clark Kent doesn’t like feeling that green thing.
He’s jolted out of his slightly bitter reverie by a nudge on his calf.
It’s the tip of your high-heeled shoe. He doesn’t need to peek under the table to see, he can picture it just fine: maroon patent leather with a pointed tip brushing short, playful strokes over the fabric of his dress pants.
His heartbeat snags. The pulse floods south.
“But with your experience, Mr. Editor,” you smile coyly, “you’ll ensure my written work is as accurate as possible, yes?”
Call it in vino veritas, or call it Ma and Pa’s education, but Clark Kent can’t lie. Not well, anyway. The truth stumbles out of his lips soon as you stop talking.
He tries to make it sound casual.
“You know, I haven’t done it, either.”
Your eyes widen, gasping out in drunken surprise.
“Really. A catch like you? The world truly is ending.”
There are many graces offered to Clark Kent tonight, and maybe the small kindnesses he did in the past are paid back in this exact moment: the waiter saunters in again to announce that the restaurant is closing soon, giving Clark a second or two to collect himself after your remark.
A catch, you called him, while he catches his breath and gathers your coats from their hangers, while his heart flies away on wings of joy. You think he’s a catch.
Or maybe you’re just being nice.
You stand and turn around. He helps you with your sleeves.
“The meal was fantastic,” you tell the waiter on your way out, appearing completely sober—save for the warm lilt in your voice.
The subject is dropped just like that.
Meanwhile, on the short walk back to the hotel, Clark Kent can only think of how you’ve never.
And how you know he’s never, either.
୨୧
When you reach the hotel, he’s not sure if you’ll even remember anything in the morning, because you’re giggling in the elevator up when the height pops your ears.
He’s not just walking you to your room, but walking himself inside your room—to make sure you’re safe, of course.
The bedroom is a mirrored layout of his just next door. He watches as you cross the threshold, dump your coat on the floor, and kick your heels off before jumping face-first onto the queen bed.
He shakes his head, but everything he does bleeds affection: he hangs up your coat and places your shoes neatly onto the side.
Then you sigh into the cold sheets, as if laying there is the best feeling in the world, and Clark tenses.
You’re safe. He isn’t.
Because that sigh reminds him of another sound.
A moan—airy, short.
Yours.
It happened last night. He could only hear it because the hotel walls aren’t as thick as he thought, or maybe because your beds were pressed up on the same side. It wasn’t loud—just him being really cognizant that your private existence and his are separated by one slab.
A concrete slab, sure, but still.
And his mind got the better of him, as it always does when you’re involved. The little noise was enough to make him think about you touching yourself. The image alone inspired him to do the same in the shower.
He’d spent a long time after feeling guilty for morphing that beautiful sound into something that resembled his name—that’s how inconceivable it is, a person like you being into a person like him.
Still, if he has a character flaw, it would be the endless hope that pours out of him. It’s in the way he tucks you under the covers and fixes a strand of your hair after.
He’s about to leave when you grab his hand.
“Don’t go,” you murmur, eyes half-closed. Even so, he sees them glazed—with both alcohol and a brand of loneliness he can’t bare to subject you to—and he folds easily.
The smile you smile when he slips under the covers is just about worth the torture of holding you in your bed.
You snuggle up into him, face buried in his chest.
But then you go and make things even harder for him. Something you keep doing even while drunk.
“Clark?” you slur.
“Hm?”
“You know I’d give it to you, right?”
“Give me what?”
“My virginity.”
Oh.
How cruel, he thinks to himself. The things people say under the influence.
“Go to sleep,” he says softly, stroking the top of your head. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about, is what he tells himself to keep the feelings at bay.
But his mind recalls the shape of your moan, and how perhaps he didn’t make it sound like his name.
You murmur something unintelligible. He wonders if you can hear the wild bang of his heart. Your prolonged silence and even breaths mean no.
He drifts off soon after.
2
You wake up feeling like a person in a daytime pad commercial who just slept like a person in a nighttime pad commercial.
That is to say: you wake up comfortable because you slept amazing. The only minor complaint would be the lack of bodily warmth on your sheets.
On the other side of the bed are wrinkled sheets, suspiciously Clark-shaped. Flashes of last night play in your head: the Korean barbecue, alcohol burning your throat, the smell of him under your sheets…
…and the things you told him.
Oh.
Well, you said what you said. It certainly isn’t the first time you embarrassed yourself just to make him look your way. The dress last night is another recent example.
Life goes on, and you figure your colleague-slash-friend probably returned to his room right after he woke, most likely flustered even with no one looking.
On the nightstand is a tall glass of water and Advil. Must be Clark’s doing.
You drink the medicine down despite 1) feeling in perfect health and 2) knowing that the water won’t quench the thirst you have for the man who poured the glass for you.
And boy, does Clark look like a tall glass of water when you see him again in the lobby, seated in one of the plush armchairs. You keep telling yourself it’s the suit, but the hotel receptionist is wearing the same color and cut—yet you’re not salivating at the sight.
“Good morning,” you chirp, wheeling your small suitcase while you walk towards Clark.
He stands. He always does when you enter a room. Those manners and looks in one person would incur panic upon suburban mothers everywhere.
“Thanks for the Advil.”
“It’s no problem.” He smiles back at you. You sense immense politeness—more than usual. “How did you sleep?”
“Really well. You?”
“Yup, out like a light.”
“Must be the alcohol,” you reply.
It would’ve been a decent lie, if not for the whole beat that passed silently before Clark coughs out a response equally weak to yours.
“Yes, it was… really good alcohol.”
You agree that the soju was excellent, but the better the booze, the worse the sleep.
You know you slept well because he was in your bed. You just don’t know if this is his normal display of shyness or if he’d rather die than admit it.
Either way, it’s just who he is: Clark is too kind to turn you down and too professional to ever address what you told him last night.
Lucky for you, there’s plenty of time to lick your wounds.
The two of you drive back to Metropolis. Clark sits behind the wheel of his car. The traffic leading up to the Interstate is egregiously heavy, just like the air inside the vehicle.
Small talk makes it worse—and for the record, the two of you usually converse just fine. His mindless distraction is changing radio stations as if he knows what he wants to listen to. Meanwhile, you pretend to do something productive on your laptop: developments for your third novel, the last of the installment.
Developments. Psh. All you have are bullet points.
ves forced into divine deal with zalrythar god of secrets
she can’t tell anyone including cass
figure out b plot
cass thinks ves is pulling away and confronts her
she obv stonewalls
angst haha
resolve b plot
cass and ves both end up in god-mandated sex
That takes you less than a minute to type out. The car hasn’t moved for the last seven.
You spend the next three staring at his hands on the steering wheel.
୨୧
Even when traffic eases as you reach Metropolis, the tension doesn’t. It thickens the closer he gets to your destination, palpable by the time Clark turns into your street. The GPS lady shuts up at this point, leaving you and him to stew in silence.
Your apartment is just up ahead. He’s slowing the car down and you internally curse yourself.
There’s no way you can take any more of this, the tip-toeing a shared truth like it’s a secret. There’s no way he isn’t aware—he wouldn’t be so quiet otherwise. And you’ve seen him truly oblivious: someone would ask him out to dinner and he’d think it’s because they want to talk business.
If you do this, he’s probably going to think you’re even more shameless than he initially thought.
What he doesn’t know is that you want to be an honest person around him. Just your luck that, in your case, being honest means shamelessly wanting him.
“Clark?” you call out as he tugs at the handbrake. Your voice isn’t fully gathered, underused in the silence of the ride back, and you sound a little less sure than you’re used to.
“Hm?” he hums back, looking over at you. The car hums, too.
You shift your body to face his, seatbelt clicked free, like that’s going to help you breathe in better.
“Something happened yesterday.”
His jaws clench once. Eyes widen a fraction. You aren’t asking a question.
“Yes. We slept toge—I mean, I fell asleep on your bed.”
Clark Kent isn’t a good liar by nature, but you’d be lying, too, if you said you didn’t pay special attention to his voice. The words come out too fast, and there’s a slight pinched quality to his voice that clues you in on his farce. You’ve known him long enough to learn his tells.
“And?” you ask.
He thrums his fingers on the steering wheel.
“You also told me… you’re a virgin.”
You don’t spare a beat, lest he finds a way to escape this situation.
“And so are you.”
He nods. “Yep.” There’s a pop on the ‘p’, heavy with an acceptance of his fate.
Your lip twitches up in amusement—he looks so close to spontaneous combustion, the tapping of his fingers like a ticking time bomb.
“Gosh,” Clark smiles, the shaky, worried kind, “you don’t think that’s funny, do you?”
That catches you off-guard and a little offended. “Why would I? We’re in the same boat.”
“No, yes, of course,” he stammers. “I'm sorry, I just—"
“—thought an erotic novelist can’t possibly be a virgin?"
There’s a pause.
" Yes,” he admits. “I mean, it’s my fault. I assumed. From your books, of course! Not from anything else.”
You laugh a little at his jitteriness, and funnily enough, he seems to relax.
“It’s okay. I was just—” you search for the right word, “tickled. Two virgins writing and editing paperback smut.”
He laughs this time. You take in the dimples of his cheeks, and suddenly the totally silent car ride home fizzles out like a distant memory.
“Not that I think sex is a prerequisite, by the way,” you add, just to make sure you’re not staring at him too much. “You’re a good editor, Clark.”
He seems to be taken aback, eyes locked on yours.
“That’s because you’re a great writer.”
He ends that sentence with your name, spoken it’s holy. Something in you cracks open.
The reality is that writing comes easy because he fuels your dreams. All you do is extend them. You take every little thing he gives you in real life, surgically pluck it out of context, and blow it out of proportion. The lingering brush of his hand after a hug. A touch on your lower back in a crowded room. Him leaning down to hear you better.
He’s the fire that kindles your prose. Inspires your imagination until he’s shaped like a man who wants you.
Writing is the highest form of wishful thinking, after all.
You used to think Clark Kent wanting you is an impossible thing, but now? Maybe it’s not.
Because his face takes on a kind of expression you’ve only written about.
His eyes darken.
“Clark?”
“Yes?” he replies, a microsecond too fast. He’s scared. Or nervous. Or both.
Either way, you are too—because there’s no turning back after this.
“That’s not all I told you, was it?”
You catch his throat bob. When he speaks, his voice is taut, like the air in the car.
“No.”
Your fingers twitch from seeing his jaw clench.
The urge to touch him wins out, and you find yourself moving both hands to cradle his face, thumbing at the tense spot. His breath visibly hitches: you can tell from the rise of his chest when you bridge the gap between your seats.
“I meant what I said, you know,” you murmur, not even looking him in the eye anymore. Your gaze lands lower.
His lips are parted so beautifully… but you make sure to stare straight into him when you nail your own coffin shut.
“I’d give it to you.”
He needs to know you mean it.
As if those words were permission, he leaned down and closed the gap entirely, kissing you.
He’s more sure than you thought he’d be—and God, that’s past tense, because you now know how he kisses: slow, deep, with the rumbly beginning of a groan brewing in his chest. You melt into his body as much as the car will allow, the hand on his face slipping back to card through dark locks.
That’s when he feeds the sound straight into your mouth.
The groan isn’t the only thing that travels. His hands do too. One drags a path up your side to tug you closer. Another snakes to your nape, as if the kiss could get any deeper.
Your tongues dance and you moan at his taste.
“Fuck,” you breathe, lips still on his. You nip at his bottom lip in between words. “You want it? Want me to give it to you?”
His reply is hazy above all yes, like he just woke from a dream or is drifting into one.
“Yes. Please. I want it—want you.”
“Good,” you smile, releasing his lip with a pop, “wanna take yours, too.”
The look on his face is something you wish you could photograph.
He’s red—just from kissing—lips swollen and rosy, a tiny, faint pool of drool out one corner. His glasses are askew.
You fix it with a smile.
“Come upstairs.”
3
Upstairs takes an elevator ride where he stands behind you to hide his boner—just in case someone walks in, he reasons—but you make it through your door soon enough.
Not without you fumbling with your keys and giggling into his mouth.
By the time Clark tumbles into your bed, bringing you down with him, he’s already painfully hard under his slacks.
Everything smells like you.
Your hand on his chest draws a cheeky line down his stomach past his belt, and he sighs in relief. You sit back on your haunches, still straddling him, finally palming the tent that’s formed in his pants.
He gasps at the touch, mouth open, already missing your lips on his.
“So hard already,” you murmur. “Take this belt off.”
He obeys, quiet except for the clink of metal. The belt drops somewhere on the floor with a thunk. Your pretty hands work his zip, tugging just enough to reveal a dark blue pair of boxer-briefs.
Then he feels your weight shift on the bed. Watches you move down until you’re face-to-cock with his still-clothed erection.
“How far have you gone, Clark?” you ask, light as a feather, breath warm against the fibers of his underwear. The sight of you smiling between his legs is so dizzying, he grips the sheets for anchor. “Did you at least get blown?”
“Yea—ah,” he pants, because your hand is on his cock again. Palming. Squeezing.
You hum. Fingertips playfully stroke down his length from over the boxer-briefs, fondling his balls. “When was the last time?”
“Don’t know,” is his immediate, husked-out answer. There’s no past in his mind. Just the present, as unbelievable as it is—your bed, you, your hand, your pretty face… “Don’t care, just, please—”
As if triggered by his begging, you sit back up, leaving his cock completely touch-starved.
He sighs, because you’re thumbing his bottom lip. The touch isn’t kind. As a matter of fact, it’s a little mean: your finger is pushing his lip to the side, teasing the plush of it, pulling it down just a bit before letting it bounce back.
He likes it.
You chuckle when he takes your thumb in his mouth, even before you push it past his lips.
“So eager,” you drone, your other hand stroking his hair. “You want it that bad?”
“Yes,” he says, except it sounds more like mmph with his mouth occupied.
He lets your thumb go, only to kiss at your open palm. One quiet sound after the other, he presses his lips into your hand more—until very soon, he’s literally making out with it. His own hand is gripping yours close to his face, keeping you still.
“What exactly do you want, Clark?” Your words carry more breath than voice, and his blood sings.
“Anything you’d give to me,” he answers.
It’s at that point you choose to wrest your hand away, settling back down between his legs. You lean down to peck on his hard-on—it jumps excitedly under the fabric. You laugh, thumbing at the waistband.
Then you pull his boxer-briefs down, and there he is.
All of his inches, eight or nine, you’re not sure, but the exact measurement doesn’t matter—not when he’s relatively equal to the length of your forearm.
Surprise, surprise. Your big sloppy crush has a big fucking dick.
A dick so pretty you might cry—especially because it’s already crying a pearly bead at the tip. You trace a prominent vein that runs on the underside, lick your lips as he bucks into your hand.
You look at his face and a cruel amusement takes over you: Clark is propped on his elbows, cheeks bathed red, jaw slack like he’s just ran up fifty flights of stairs.
And you haven’t even done anything.
Rising up to your knees, you move to his face. A kiss on his lips, slow and deep. Then ten more light ones all over his cheekbone, jaw, neck, throat, up to his ears, at which point he’s stuttering out the beginnings of your name.
Your hands part his legs wider, letting you situate yourself more comfortably between them. He gulps. You move back down to the center of his expanse. Your head tilts, mouth a dangerous distance from where he’s most sensitive.
“Can I kiss you here?”
Your fingerpad teases the tip. Pre meets your skin, warm and sticky. You smear it on his fat head.
“Yes.”
Christ, was that a whine? Your little smile turns devious, nose nudging his cock. It twitches again, as if autonomous from the rest of him—like it’s developed its own mind and is begging you greedily to give it more.
“You’re so big, Clark. Will you even fit?” you muse, fingers curling around him, pumping once, twice. He throws his head back with a grunt, the movement so sharp you think he might be pulled at with a leash.
Well. You’ll figure out the answer to that later. For now, you should play with your meal.
You slip the tip into his mouth and watch shivers wrack his body. After swirling your tongue on it once, you let go with a pop, purring.
“So sensitive. What am I gonna do with you?”
Meanwhile, Clark is losing his mind.
“Your—f-fuhh—fault,” comes his raspy reply just as you descend one, two, three inches more. Gosh, your mouth is so warm, so tight…
You chuckle, and the vibrations rattle him up to his ribcage. It occurs to him that he might’ve said those things about your mouth out loud. Rather than mortification, he feels elation, because even when you move up and the warmth is gone, you’re teasing his tip with your tongue again, and it feels so good he might cry.
The circles in his vision must be mimicking your wet heat drawing patterns on him.
One of his hand sinks into a pillow, the other cards digits through your hair.
An expletive escapes the moment you hollow your cheeks, far too sudden for him to take back.
“Fuck,” he gasps, the sound tailing off with dumb, repeated attempts of forming your name. Most of his brain is in his hips now as they swivel in hopes to get more of him in your mouth, but your fingers splay beautifully on the rippling muscles of his abdomen.
“Uh-uh. Stay still.”
Following orders is usually a thing he’s good at. Just not today. Not now.
Now, all he can think of is how good it feels—his mouth echoes those thoughts with babbles of “so good, feels so g-good, you’re perfect”—and how if you keep this up, he’ll come in an embarrassing amount of time.
It’s already taking everything in him not to let that happen.
But then he catches you look up at him.
The sun’s still out, bathing the room with enough light to show him exactly what makes him nearly crumble:
Your pretty lips, wrapped around his thick cock, head bobbing up and down to reveal the glisten on him—a mix of precum and spit—your hair messy around his hand.
“Stop,” he groans, holding your skull still so he can gently pull himself out of you. There’s a line of drool that connects your mouth and his cock. “Stop, don’t wanna come—”
The surprised tinge in your reply almost breaks his heart. “You don’t want to?”
He shakes his head, reconstructing his breaths. “Not until I’m inside you.”
For once in his life, you don’t talk back, and he’d be damned to let the opportunity slip.
Clark Kent grew up learning how to take things into his own hands. He puts that into practice with you, grabbing you up by the waist, laying you down on the bed. He takes your clothes off: slowly, because every inch of bare skin is the closest he’s been to heaven, because he wants to savor this, because he thinks you’re beautiful.
Says it too, even if it’s whispered.
He has you in your underwear, teasing the strap of your bra. “Can I take this off, sweetheart?”
You nod instead of giving him mouth. A rarity.
He’ll give you mouth, instead: by kissing you as he unclasps your bra with one hand (still no comment from you). Once it’s off, he drags his lips down your throat, then collarbone, then your heaving chest, where he lets himself stare for once. His warm breath caresses your skin, while heat pours out from his gaze.
He finally leans down, laving at a nipple. Polite first, hungry just two seconds later. His entire mouth is involved: sucking at your chest, a large hand squeezing around your flesh to feed more into him. Your hand digs into his curls when he hums, teeth grazing playfully as you arch for more.
He looks up.
You’re a dream. He’s sure he’s dreamed of this once—except instead of blurred images and hazy glows that tortures him at night, the scene is crystal. He sees everything through his glasses: each strand of lashes on your pretty eyes, the color of your skin against the sheets, how your hair splays on the pillows.
Actually, speaking of pillows—and dreams…
“Here,” he wrests one from under your head and taps the side of your hips, “lift your hips up for me.”
You do it, but it seems you’ve found your voice again. The cheeky retort comes out breathless.
“Really, Clark? You’re gonna use that line on me?”
He adjusts you on the pillow, lips pursed—both from your tease and the sight of you, naked, save for the cute underwear raised up to meet him.
It’s already wet at the gusset. There isn’t much for him left to imagine.
“Just because you’re a writer doesn’t mean you’re immune to it,” he hums, peeling the material off of you. You instantly fall silent.
He groans at the sight of you clenching around nothing, slick threatening to dirty the pillowcase you’re resting on.
Two fingers drag a path down your mound to your wet entrance. Two moans erupt when he circles there—yours higher pitched than his, because he touches like it’s payback for some unseen grudge. Surely you don’t know how long he’s thought of you like this, how long he’s struggled with the guilt of fantasizing about his hot colleague, only to find this.
Your soaked cunt winking at him.
“You’re so wet,” his digits dip, collecting your juices. Your hips buck. “Is this from sucking me off?”
“No, I was thinking about winning the lottery,” you moan, betraying your impatience, “yes, it’s because of you, stupid!”
He laughs. He’s wanted you way too long—you can wait a little longer.
“Need to prep you,” a thumb pushes the hood off your clit, only for him to do nothing but look at it.
You shiver under his gaze, tease audibly lacking the bite. “Is this how you do it—stare?”
His eyes meet yours, blue eyes almost burning. Your throat bobs. That’s what fuels him.
“You tell me,” he murmurs, “you’re the erotic novelist.”
Fingers explore again, barely touching, always circling, and he bites back a moan at the sight of you arched like that, like your hips are hungry for more. His touch doesn’t relent, although it’s taking everything in him not to take every part of you right then and there.
“Clark—”
“You wrote something like this before,” his thumb swipes your clit. His name on your lips breaks, but those eyes on your face never does. “Page 347 of Owls. ‘When his finger sinks inside her, she gasps like she’s never breathed air’…”
Just then, he does as he says. His middle finger stretches you, one knuckle deep at first, then two, then all the way in. You writhe, stuttering a moan at how slow he is, before the sound dies in your throat with a gasp.
The base of his palm presses against your clit.
Clark catalogs your reactions with the precision of a machine. The warmth of his touch is anything but. So is the slight crinkle between his brows: signs that he’s testing his own boundaries by stretching yours so slowly.
“Or is it the next page? ‘The rhythm he sets replaces the beat of her heart—except nothing about the slow scrape of his fingers echoes the relentless thumping in her chest.’”
When he moves his fingers, the dimples on his cheeks begin to show. He smiles down at you, free from the pretense of professionalism:
He doesn’t commit your lines to memory because he’s a dedicated editor. He does it because he thinks about doing those things with you—so, so often.
“Fuck—Clark—” you whimper, the syllables choked out as his other hand pins your hip.
One finger becomes two, but the pace doesn’t change. Still arduous, still torture. Clark’s eyes are glazed: in watching you lose your mind underneath him, he loses his in trying to erase true words laced with alcohol. Your voice floats in his memory:
And I mean that in the PIV sense.
Does that mean you’ve done this before, with men who aren’t him? Were they any good? Did you like them, or did you let them in your bed just to use them? Doesn’t make a difference, Clark decides, because they still got to be with you. Were they the reason you wrote passion so well, or was it because they were so shit at it you had to take matters into your own hands?
Speaking of taking matters into your own hands, your voice floats in his memory again. Not words this time.
“You touched yourself, didn’t you?” Clark grunts, fingertips kissing your cervix at the word touched, “Two nights ago. In the hotel.”
You don’t answer, but your widened eyes said enough.
He leans down. Presses his forehead against yours.
“Heard you through the wall. Sound so sweet. Wanna hear it again.”
He kisses your lips once before moving down the expanse of you, flat on the bed between your very open legs—thanks to his gentle grip around one ankle, spreading you out for him to see.
But before you can shiver at the loss of his warm shadow, his lips closes around your clit, and you give him what he wants.
An open moan, loud enough to bounce off the walls.
Clark moans, too. The sound vibrates directly onto your cunt, you can’t help but spasm. He doesn’t stop. The flat of his tongue presses entirely on you, never really still: soon, he starts sucking and licking and teasing your poor clit. He tastes you, and a steady stream of muffled groans leak from his mouth—the same way your pussy leaks juices around his thrusting fingers, the squelch squelch squelch growing faster and louder in the room.
“You wrote about this so many times,” he murmurs against your slick, “d’you like it that much?”
Your answer is an unintelligibly keen noise.
“I love it,” Clark is purring now, hazy with your taste, “I’ll help you write lines later, m’kay? Want you to soak my hand, my tongue—”
Your body must’ve mistook that as an order, because the orgasm hits you out of nowhere, hot-white and sparking off your every nerve. You arch, convulse, slurring his name like you can’t speak while your pussy gushes around his fingers as they thrust through your spasms, unrelenting.
He breathes out a blasphemy, the first “oh my God” you’ve ever heard coming out of his mouth. Your senses are only starting to come back, but he replaces his fingers with his tongue, and you can’t hear anything past your own scream.
He fucks you just like that, lapping at your juices like he hasn’t drank in ages.
Something within you unstitches, and you feel your body leaping past overstimulation to overwhelming pleasure. You don’t tell him to stop—how can you, when he’s so clearly drunk on your pussy? He moans words into you like it’s a pet, coos of “You’re so pretty when you come”, “Tastes so good for me” vibrating against your core.
The cool frame of his glasses bumping against your inner thigh only makes everything feel better.
“Clark,” you cry, and he already knows. Already mumbling encouragements into your cunt.
“Want you to come again, honey, c’mon, you can do it, yeah?”
You do. The crest tugs at your spine like a string, and your hips seek his mouth as if looking for a place to give.
He takes it—slurping, licking, kissing.
When your white-edged vision comes back from the dappled blurs, he’s already shirtless and sitting on his heels, looking down at something.
You follow his gaze.
It stops at his cock resting on your stomach—the exact measure of how deep he’ll be.
There’s a smile on Clark’s face. Kind, but not kind enough that he won’t fuck you into the mattress.
“See that, sweetheart?” he leans down, feeding the words straight into your ear. “We’ll make sure you take everything, m’kay?”
When you whimper and close your eyes—because how is that thing going inside you?—he tuts once. Cups your jaw with a broad palm, still sticky with your juices. Another time and place, you’d scold him, but now?
“You need to watch,” he says, “so you can write about it.”
Your eyes blink open, only to find his pupils blown out black.
Now you’re screwed—or just about to be.
The fat head of his cock rubs against your hole, hot, smearing precum on your cunt. You mewl, eyes fluttering shut again, but he tightens his hold on your jaw, whispering “c’mon, honey, look at me” like his voice doesn’t make things worse.
Like he’s not just as wrecked.
Lips slick, parted, and a little swollen, hazy eyes half-lidded, Clark Kent is the picture they put next to the definition of lust.
But you’re the same, because his cock nudges your clit again and you melt, stammering your truest wish into his mouth:
“Please, Clark, please fuck me, need you to fuck me—”
How he isn’t already cumming all over you is beyond his comprehension.
“Oh, attagirl,” he breathes, before finally sinking in.
The stretch isn’t as painful as you thought it’d be, but maybe that’s just how desperate you are for him. Clark doesn’t seem to be holding up so well, though: he’s panting just a breath away from your lips, exhales shaky at the tightness that wraps around him, holding back the need to just slam into your perfect heat.
Inch by excruciating inch, he sinks into you, then stops. You gasp at the feeling: full. How you managed to take him all so easily is a mystery.
You call his name, clenching around him. His answer is strained, brows knitted.
“I’m only halfway in, baby.”
A wave of desire and dread washes over you at the realization. Those blue eyes, though black now from dilated pupils, drift momentarily down, before they lock onto yours again.
He pushes in.
Your jaw falls slack in disbelief, walls stretched by the veiny ridges of him. His girth bullies your cunt to take his shape. He watches as he thrusts the thickest part of him inside you, studying each twitch and blink and stutter, looking out for pain, but finding pleasure above all else.
This time, you know he’s all the way in. Your vision blacks out a little at the heft.
“There we go, good girl, so good for me, you’re perfect…”
Those words come tumbling out, both a reassurance for you and a distraction for Clark—because you’re so warm and tight and wet around him, he might lose himself if he doesn’t focus.
“Breathe for me,” he hums, but he’s not breathing right either.
This is it. His cock is inside of you—the first one to ruin you, if he doesn’t mess this up and ruin himself first.
Meanwhile, you watch Clark pant above you, his forearms flexing as they bracket your head, face red from restraint.
The sight makes you clench and he moans.
“D-Don’t—a—ah,” his chest heaves.
That pulls a grin out of you, weak as it is. You clench again, this time intentionally.
He grits your name out between teeth. “I said, don’t.”
“Why?” you husk, even though you know the answer.
“Gonna make me c-come.”
You stroke his cheek to guise the fact that you’re not doing much better yourself—not with all eight, nine inches of his hard cock pulsing directly against your walls like that.
The thought strikes you then: this is the closest you’ve ever been to someone—quite literally speaking.
And it’s Clark who’s holding you right now. Clark. Endlessly polite and often sweet Clark. Easily ragebaited into a rant Clark. Charming without meaning to, helps with the best of intentions Clark.
It’s precisely because you’re with him that your mouth decides to say something stupid. Call it a defense mechanism—from what, you’re not sure, because he’s already inside you, what the fuck are you defending yourself from?—but the words slither out anyway.
Playful. Teasing. You say it right by his lips, the exact opposite of what you had in mind.
“You can cum, Clark. I’ll just find someone else to help me write my book.”
When in fact you’ll never let anyone else between your legs ever again.
Something in Clark shifts. His throat bobs with it, eyes sharpening past the haze of lust.
Then he’s on his knees, gripping your hips with both hands, before thrusting up without pulling out even an inch—like deeper is possible. You feel him in your lungs. He does it again.
This time, both your eyes and his snap down to the faint bulge near your stomach.
The view doesn’t stay for long. He drags his inches out of you, slowly, all the way to the tip, before plunging deep once more.
“Fuck—!”
You’re busy crying out when he leans back down. His hand gathers your wrists above your head, the other firm on the side of your hip—both anchors to the slow pace he builds.
“‘s this what you need?” he rasps, voice broken between lazy thrusts that ring loud, “Writing—nmm—material?”
“Aah—”
“You gonna write about how,” thrust, “he’s so deep, she can see him in her stomach?”
Your eyes widen, first at the bulge on your lower belly, then at him.
“About how she cries out for him?” Thrust.
“—a-nghh—”
“How she’s clenching around him,” he mouths against your ear, words slurred, “like she doesn’t want him to leave?”
The cant of his hips pick up speed, and soon there are plap plap plaps of his balls slapping your ass under your moans and his. His hand on your wrists becomes a lever from which he thrusts.
The air hangs heavy with sweat and a heady scent. The bed begins to creak.
You’re rutting up into him, the swivel of your hips growing more and more desperate with each murmur of his name—he watches you the entire time, entranced by the roll of your bodies.
“Fuck, look at you,” he whines at the sight, eyes glazed over.
“Wanna touch,” you mumble, drool beginning to pool on one side of your lip. Your fingers claw the air. “Please, let me touch—”
He lets go of your hands. You drag him into a kiss that tangles your moans together, all while his hipbone bumps into yours again and again.
The freedom he gives you damns him: your hands raking down his chest makes him shiver, so do your nails digging into his bicep. The worst part happens when you tug at his hair: a response to one particular slam that hits a spot in you, in turn drawing a garbled moan out of him.
You can’t stop touching him, and he’s all the worse for it.
With each fuse of your hips and his, your walls clutch him like you’re trying to keep him inside. Out to the tip, in to the hilt, splitting you open with each store, coating his cock with you while he bullies that spot that makes you beg so beautifully: “yes, Clark, please!”
It’s clear you’re close. It hasn’t been long since Clark got acquainted with your pretty pussy, but the way she clenches is enough to clue him in.
He’s not doing any better: eyes dark behind glasses that sit askew, swollen lips parted. His only hope now is to pound into that gummy spot in you again and again and again while he spews praise in your ear—make you come before he does, because it’s too good for him not too: he’s so hard and you’re squeezing him so tight, rubbing delicious friction that’s all at once too much and not enough.
You respond with nails raked down his naked back, the mantra of ‘Clark Clark Clark’ shooting ecstasy straight to his head, fueling the piston of his hips.
The sounds of your bodies aren’t helping him hold on: wet slaps betray the mess he’s making out of your pussy. Every thrust makes him yours. Make you his.
He groans at the thought. Depraved as it is, his cock being the first to ruin your pussy does something indescribable to him. At the tail end of that thought is something sweeter:
The same way that he’s your first, you’re his. He doesn’t want any other.
He paraphrases professions of love into everything else but the words he loves working with. Instead he employs a language said by the body: through his hips now ramming deep strokes into you, the way his arms wrap around you until you can’t see anything except him. Your heels drag on his back now—he spares a second to hook one over his shoulder before plunging back into you, deepening the angle.
He glances down. Your nails sink into his arms. They look pretty.
You look pretty: eyes blank, hair a mess, skin misted with sweat as you lay arched underneath him…
“God, you’re perfect,” he breathes.
Meanwhile, you're so full your brain decides to empty itself. Its only care right now is your basest of needs.
“So good,” you whimper, “Clark you feel so good, gonna cum…”
“Yeah? Me too, honey,” he pants, voice reedy, “where do you want me?”
“Inside, p-please, need you inside—”
That answer unspools all restraint in him, and he lets his hips go of their very last bit of restraint: he pistons into you with abandon as he siphons groans into your lips in exchange for your climbing moans, the two of you feeding into each other’s lust until your heat is too much.
“I can’t, honey, I—”
It’s too late: he’s spurting all the way inside you, breathlessly gasping your name.
“Gah—nggh—”
The flooding sensation of his orgasm, hot and sticky, triggers your own. The tension shatters in your body: your legs quiver on his shoulder and around his waist, voice broken as your nerves turn into livewires that burn bright at the edges of your vision, electrifying everything to white.
He’s on you the entire time you come, breath warming your ear. The spurts don’t stop. You’ve never been fuller—until he pulls out of you and you moan, not just from the loss of his cock, but also the messy splatter of him on your stomach and tits.
The thought is faint, but the sensations are real: he’s still fucking cumming.
Now you’re just not quivering, you’re a quivering mess. Even with your senses flashbanged, slowly reconstructing themselves from that orgasm, you register the warmth that drips down your hole and onto the bedsheets.
Then the quiet lands. Your breaths even. He still hovers over you, glasses fully fogged up and crooked. The sight is stupidly hot, but you don’t like that you can’t see him.
You slowly take them off.
Blue eyes look back at you. His pupils aren’t so dilated now, and you see a different emotion in them as they widen.
Concern.
“Gosh—I—are you okay? did I hurt you? ”
He thumbs at your cheek. It’s wet. When did you start crying?
“No, no,” you stammer, “I’m fine. It’s just… that was—”
You stare, wordless. He stares back.
“It’s perfect. You’re perfect, Clark.”
His shoulders drop with heavy relief, warm breath fanning your face as he leans over you again.
“Thank goodness.”
That makes you giggle.
“Don’t laugh. I’ve wanted you for so long, I can’t possibly mess this up.”
A beat. You blink up at him. “You have?”
He doesn’t answer. Just buries his face in your neck, undoubtedly redder than before. His voice is muffled against your skin.
“I just—I like you so much it hurts.”
You huff in amusement, raking your fingers through his hair. A silent plea for him to look up at you.
He obeys. You smile, thumbing the fat of his cheek.
“When I touched myself two nights ago, I was thinking about you.”
His eyes widen, though just a fraction. Maybe it’s not so unbelievable, after all—but he allows himself to expend the last ounce of his surprise.
You raise your brow. “Is it really that unexpected?”
He kisses your fingers. Sweetly this time. “I… It’s an outcome I’ve never considered.”
You lean up. The peck lands on his chin. “Why else would I invite you to an expensive Korean barbecue, silly?”
Clark smiles so earnestly it almost blinds you. Thank God he hides in your neck again.
“So you like me, too?”
“Yep. Like, a lot.”
୨୧
Ten minutes later, you’re in the bathtub, back pressed against his chest.
The sun is setting outside, the drawn blinds creating light serrations that spill across your bathroom tiles. Metropolis is strangely quiet. The only thing you perceive is the lazy drip of the faucet into the water’s surface.
Maybe you’re just preoccupied by the replaying of your memories. Every little detail collects in the forefront like the soap suds Clark massages into your shoulders—before you know it, you’re stringing together words in your head, a momentum you can’t stop even if you wanted to.
Huh. You’re… inspired.
Maybe you should do this more often.
Clark kisses the nape of your neck as you bask in the silence. The sensation grounds you back to reality, and a realization dawns. You sit up straighter in the water.
He notices.
You turn to face him.
“What’s wrong, honey?”
“My suitcase,” you say, “it’s still in your car.”
He smiles so warmly you think you might melt and be one with the bath water. The expression looks so sweet and innocent on him… except you feel his cock hardening against your ass.
“Sweetheart, I don’t think you’ll be needing clothes for a while.”
THREE MONTHS LATER
“C’mon, write something,” Clark pants playfully, hands on your hips, driving his cock into your weeping cunt as he watches the fat of your ass bounce with each thrust, “You can do it—you’re a smart girl, aren’t you?”
Time doesn’t make any sense, not when he’s rubbing against your walls so good, but you do know you’ve been at this for a while. Your body can’t even hold itself up: chest glued to the damp sheets, ass held up by his hands, arms limp in front of you.
Your hands rest above the keypad of a laptop. On its screen is a word processor, its typing cursor blinking back at you tauntingly. The page’s contents are measly, only about halfway filled—unlike your cunt that’s full with his length.
It’s your fault for planning so many sex scenes. But it’s the final installment of your trilogy, the perfect breeding ground for emotional sex.
You’re guessing that breeding ground is what Clark thinks about you, too, aside from his undying respect for you: because his thrusts are getting messier the way you know he’s about to cum, and sure enough, with his chest against your back and his mouth sputtering “that’s it, take it, gonna fill you up, sweetheart, you’ll let me?” in your ear.
He waits for your pathetic mewl of an okay to spill inside you.
His orgasm pulls a weak one out of you, because God knows how many times he’s made you. You shake underneath him, gasping for air while he does the same.
Then it begins: the delicious replay your mind does after every tangle with him. While the shivers ebb, your memory picks up the details…
Your feeble fingers begin to type. Slowly, as if each key ignites a thing he said not ten minutes ago.
You can hear Clark smile in his voice. He buries his lips in your hair.
“One week till the manuscript deadline,” he husks. “Let’s work hard together, yeah?”
Then his hand drifts down to play with your clit and you lose your train of thought.
Oh, well. Surely Planet Publishing can extend a deadline for their bestselling writer.
BONUS
Herons Under Sycamore Shade — Author Interview with Cat Grant
Q: Speaking of sex, there’s a lot more this time around.
A: Well, it’s the last book. I wanted it to go out with a bang, so to speak.
Q: This is a personal opinion of mine, having read all three, but you should also know that many reviewers thought the quality of erotica was somehow better in this one. To quote the Gotham Gazette: “…breathtakingly real while making you forget about reality.”
A: That’s such high praise. Thank you!
Q: What changed (between the first two installments)?
At this point, the author smiles in a way that I can only describe as coy. Don’t believe me? Ask the photographer.
summary : in which Clark’s in a rut trying to avoid you for your own good until you’re ovulating. And quite literally do it like they do on the discovery channel.
(IM SORRY. this song is such a jam, based on the song by the bloodhound gang
Contents : Swearing , Clark in a rut, oral ( f receiving) , face riding , Alien tongue. making out, Clark sniffing you , biting , humping , whimpering, howling, P IN V UNPROTECTED, breeding kink, levitating, mentions of pregnancy, belly bulge , pincers , mating press, rough sex, size kink, man handling , pussy sniffing. Reader calling Clark superman and kal, crying, manhandling , hyperspermia
3k words !!
SEXUAL CONTENT BELOW THE CUT
MDNI
Clark has been avoiding you for the last two days. There was something sickeningly off about him. He refused to kiss you, refused to look at you. Whenever it was bedtime he would sleep in the guest room and locked it.
In a way it made you feel a little insecure. Was there something wrong with you?? Did you upset him?
And then came the whimpering whenever he was near you. Or the fact every time he went into the guest room you could hear him. Groaning painfully and the creaking of the bed. Getting off using his hand. The pillow. A toy you once bought him EVERYTHING. BUT. YOU.
He was in a rut. No way in hell was he going near you. Because he wound hurt you by fucking you into oblivion. You're too small to handle something like that. He would hate if he hurt you. It's unforgivable.
And that's when you started aching. Your pussy throbbing desperately for touch. For anything it can get. You had started humping a pillow when Clark left for work. Rutting your hips making sure it rubbed against your clit every single time making you whimper.
But it wasn't enough. It wasn't Clark. You needed him because he knew exactly how to fuck you. How to take care of you and give you everything you need.
That night you were in the kitchen cutting up some strawberries when the door to the guest room opened, of course you waited for him to ignore you again. Until.... He smelt it. A sweet lingering smell. Not the strawberries no no... this smell made him even more hard. His 10 inch kryptonian veiny dick bulging out of his pants painfully from just the sheer smell. And he whimpered.
Then... you heard sniffing. Clark walks over to you and starts sniffing you. Grabbing at your waist and inhaling your scent. His skin was roasting hot.
"Baby what are you doing?" You giggle softly and he inhales deeply before letting out a low growl and pulling your head back slightly to kiss you deeply. It's a kiss that makes your toes curl. Shoving his tongue into your mouth and rutting his hard dick against your ass relentlessly.
The sensation made you more needy , more soaked between the legs kissing him back more hungry. It all made sense. He was in a rut. You're ovulating.
You're both fucked. Figuratively and literally.
Within seconds you're more bent over the counter and he's thrusting against you. Essentially imitating fucking you to get friction on his dick. He was scared to go all the way. He would hurt you. But you needed this. You knew he needed this.
"Baby?" You coo at him and he growls painfully at you disturbing him. But he forces himself to stop.
"What?? Are you okay? What do you want?" He whimpered and you push yourself off the counter and turn around to look at him and tilt your head looking at his blue eyes that are threatening to darken, the joggers he's wearing and white shirt . Then you look down at his joggers. His pants are bulging. Dick about to rip out. The dark patch forming just from how good you fucking smell to him. It’s the most addictive thing he’s ever smelt and it’s hurting him even more to be around you right now.
"Baby... you're gonna get sick , you need this ..." You sigh at him and his jaw clenched shaking his head.
"You don't know what you're saying, I will hurt you. When I start I can't stop." But as he was saying it his dick was twitching at the sound of your voice. How pretty you were. How small you were. Just how easy it would be to split you into two with his dick.
"I'm telling you. I can handle it. Now come with me before I fuck myself" you taunt him walking to the bedroom and taking your clothes off. And within seconds he's following the scent of your pussy like a bloodhound. And there you were. Laid naked on your bed spread out for him. The way your pussy was dripping and all puffy for him. The sweet musky smell paining him more. He's ripping his clothes off like a feral animal before climbing onto the bed and crawling between your legs. Dipping his head down and sniffing your pussy. Inhaling the scent , his eyes turning a wicked dark blue.
Then a pained howl slips from his mouth as he's rutting his hips into the sheets and looking at you.
"Please.. can I.. please baby.. please?" He's whimpering and humping the bed panting like a dog. He’s so needy and he knows it.
"Clark. This is for your own good. Take what you need. I love you. I trust you!" You coo. That's all it took. For him to bite your thighs dragging kisses along them before diving into your pussy like a mad man. Lapping at the juices and rubbing his nose all over your clit making you shriek. If he could live between your legs for the rest of his life he would die a happy man.
He's dragging his tongue in and out of your pretty hole trying to get as much of your wetness all over his face. He's nasty. You're grabbing his head pulling him closer and humping his face whimpering. His nails dig into your thighs, the wedding ring on his hand glistening, pulling you even closer like he's trying to suffocate himself.
Moments later he's spinning you both around so you're sat on his face.
You rut against his mouth screeching at how good it felt. Until... his tongue goes deeper into your pussy than it usually does. Stretching deeply into your pussy and dragging all over your walls. Slurping you out and you shudder going cross eyed.
Meanwhile he's humping the air. He needs to fuck you. You reach your hand out pumping his dick and he whimpers underneath you. The Precum runs all over your hand and he’s now humping your hand desperately. You pull your hand off licking your fingers.
But as you try get off his face he's growling pulling you back down and shoving his tongue deeper and rubbing his nose at your clit still sniffing your arousal.
And you came. Hard. All over his face whimpering and he's sucking it up making sure nothing gets left behind pulling his tongue out of your sopping hole and lifting you off his face.
Then you're rapidly flipped onto your stomach and he's propping your legs up and pushing your head down putting his mouth near your ear panting and almost shuddering.
"Last chance baby... you know I can't stop right? My genes won't let me.." a soft kiss to your cheek his breath desperate and hitching.
"And I told you. Take what you need. We're married Clark. I trust you!" You look at him and he throws his glasses on the side table grabbing his dick and slamming it into your aching pussy with no remorse. Burying his throbbing kryptonian dick. You felt your walls stretching out brutally and he's letting out a gut wrenching grunting howl as he starts thrusting brutally and grabbing your waist.
"OH FUCK! CLARK!" You squealed and he's grunting like a mad man thrusting deeper. Head thrown back like he's needed this his entire life.
"OH MY F—- GOSH! NGhhhhh!! I'm sorry I'm sorry I have to do this I can't help it" He's going harder both arms wrapping around you tugging you closer.
Your pussy was squelching and squeezing his dick and he's groaning loudly eyes rolling back. You close your eyes for just a moment feeling sensitive from your last orgasm. When you feel like you're floating. Literally floating. Your head all fuzzy and light. And when you open your eyes. You quite literally ARE. You're in the air. Nowhere near the bed. You shriek limbs thrashing about the new angle making you bent in half as he's plummeting harder into you.
"Clark!! I'm gonna fall!” You shrieked and his arms tightened around you more and he whimpered at his deep he could fuck you like this. He really couldn’t help it.
"N...no!! I'm sorry baby you're safe with me. Just take it. Please just." He grunts still holding back slightly. The tinge of nice Clark is still there. That wasn’t going to help him. He needed this out of his system before it destroyed him.
He plummeted deeper using your entire body as leverage while your head hung and it made you dizzy and the blood rushes to your head. The impending orgasm felt like it was going to destroy you.
So when it rips through you making your cunt tighten around Clark's dick he whimpers shuddering and you felt dizzy.
He slowly stops levitating pulling you onto his lap facing away from him and fucking up into you through the orgasm grunting like a mad man. His hands on your breast and he's biting at your neck leaving marks.
You shriek bouncing on him slightly. Two orgasms deep and the sound of the wetness of your pussy fills the room. He's still inhaling the scent groaning.
"C..Clark..?" You whimpered ans he tilts your head back kissing you again. Pushing his tongue into your mouth letting you taste yourself. His lips working against your own perfectly.
"Hmm?" Talk to me!" He muttered against your mouth.
"You're holding back. I told you not to!" You moan bouncing on his dick desperately trying to get off.
"I told you. I'll hurt you. Don't make me do this baby. Please nghhhh I know what's best for you. If I lose control. I'll hurt you and you'll wind up pregnant." He whimpered into your ear and you get off his dick making him growl again grabbing your waist.
"So do it. Lose control. Breed me Clark. Get your wife pregnant." You spat out and within seconds you're being grabbed and thrown down onto the pillows. His instincts have taken over and he's pushing your legs apart.
"Not gonna be finished with you until you're stuffed with my cum baby.."He shoves into you all again plummeting his dick in ans out of your sopping wet pussy making you squeak and he's howling all over again grunting as he fucks into you. "OHHHH NGHHH I'm so sorry.. oh my fu... FUCK!" He splutters out which is rare for him to curse. But the way your pussy is clamping on him turns him crazy.
"CLARK!" You scream and he's pushing your legs over his shoulder leaning down to kiss you deeply , you whimper into his mouth lashing your tongue with his and whimpering. His dick is bullying your pussy with everything he can. All 10 inches. The girth making your pussy slobber all over him.
It feels like you're gonna be split in too but you can't stop him. You need this. He needs this. He needs to breed you.
"Gonna get my baby all swollen. My pretty wife is gonna carry our baby.. OUR baby" He grunts pushing your legs down more desperately fucking you.
His hand reaches down to rub your clit harshly and fast so it’s not long before another orgasm comes crashing down and you cum so hard you’re almost pushing his dick out.
“No baby.. no no cmon.. you need me in here. Yeah. You wanted this.” He pushes further into you burying himself to the hilt bucking his hips. You’re moaning louder. He’s whimpering.
“Baby I can’t cum again..” You whimpered a tear falling and he grunts carrying on
“Yes you can. I’ll get you there!” He’s pushing your thighs down more it’s shocking how you’re not breaking in half. Instead you’re wailing. Loudly. Tears falling down your face.
“No no.. I’m sorry.. I’m sorry I’m like this… oh… gosh baby… you’re so beautiful!” He leans down kissing your tears away plummeting faster while he’s whimpering. Your pussy is throbbing around him and tears start falling down his own face rutting into you harder and the headboard is smashing against the wall.
“OH… honey! S..stop! I …FFFF…NGHHH!”
The neighbours are pounding on the wall.
“WILL YOU TWO STOP ACTING LIKE ANIMALS!” You hear them yell and somehow it only spurs Clark on more as he sobs slamming in and out of your stretched out and abused pussy.
He moves your legs helping you wrap them around his waist and he’s yanking you closer to him somehow managing to be tougher if that was even possible. You sink your teeth into his shoulder and drag your nails down his back and he howls again his thrusts slowing down but plummeting deeply.
The bed creaks desperately and threatening to break. But he’s not stopping.
“Gonna breed you. Huh. Is that what my wife wants. To be so stuffed with my cum so hard that you get swollen?” He coos tauntingly slamming his lips back on yours in a claiming kiss that’s rougher than the others.
“Yes!! Yes superman! Breed me. Breed me with your fucking kid Kal el.., gonna get so big..make you a daddy!” You splutter out his kryptonian name and he stops for a second pulling away for a kiss. His eyes now darker than they’ve ever been. Dilated. Almost black.
“What… did you just call me?” He pants desperately.
“Kal el…” you pant legs shaking. The way it slips off your tongue makes his dick throb Inside you.
“Again” He enunciates with a brutal thrust.
“Kal… kal el.. love you so much.” You whimper and he does it again.
“Again. Say it again. I love you fuck.. gosh! Please!”
“Kal el… oh my fucking god kal!” You screech and he’s lost it. He’s fucking you like a complete animal grunting and growling loudly. He doesn’t even care that the neighbours can hear.
“My pretty human wife. You’re gonna look so good pregnant! “ He growls so loudly slamming into you relentlessly and the bed is shaking brutally.
He looks down lifting his torso slightly watching his dick poke out of your stomach with every thrust. He loved how tiny and helpless you were. He’s so sick. Quite literally he’s in a rut. But he can’t help it. You’re perfect.
God he was gonna love you pregnant. All swollen. Boobs getting bigger. Carrying HIS baby because that’s what HE did to YOU. The thought alone makes his head fuzzy and wanna fuck you harder than humanely possible.
His hand reaches down pushing down onto the bulge fucking you harder and you sob feeling the final coil build. This was the orgasm that felt like it was going to break him.
“Clark..kal el! I’m gonna -“ You shrieked before you collapsed around his dick. Sucking him in so hard you milk him and he yelps loudly shoving himself in and your head goes fuzzy. You feel sharp pincers latching onto your gummy walls and you cry out tears rapidly falling.
“I’m sorry baby.. I’m sorry.. I’m gonna cum and it’s gonna be a lot okay?” He tried to move and the pincers yank him in further and you wail.
With a gut wrenching sob he cums hard rutting load after load into your wrecked pussy, the cum already swelling your pussy up and warming you up more. The spikes dig further in locking him in place as he keeps cumming. You felt so full.
You whimper trying to push him out but he can’t. He physically can’t.
Until he can. And he’s back to being an animal. Slamming every last bit he can into your pretty little womb making sure it keeps. Making sure he can fuck you so hard you’re pregnant.
The bed creaks sickeningly before snapping sending you plummeting and he’s somehow deeper than he was before. Your legs in the air angling you so his cum goes further inside you.
“Oh my gosh… baby! Are you okay?” He gasps his eyes back to the blue you know and love and a small sniffling sob rips from your mouth. He’s pulling out and pulling you into his arms rocking you like a baby.
“Oh I’m sorry… I’m so sorry .. I love you I’m sorry!!” he’s kissing all over your face and shushing you gently. But the sobs turn into laughter and little giggles.
He immediately looks concerned ans tilts his head “baby what’s so funny? I hurt you? I’m horrible!”
You look at him face puffy from crying and snort out weakly.
“I think we might need a new bed” you beam stating the obvious and he shakes his head wiping tears away.
“Ya think? I think we’re gonna need new neighbours” he chuckles weakly already grabbing you some comfy clothes and helping you pull them on.
The pounding on the walls happens again.
“YOU FUCKING SICK BASTARDS SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Clark scoffs knocking back on the wall politely.
“EXCUSEEEE ME ! Me and my WIFE are trying for a baby THANK YOU!” he shakes his head pulling on some of his own clothes and scooping you up carrying you to the guest room. You climbed onto his chest on the bed and hug him so tightly resting your head on his chest to listen to his kryptonian heartbeat.
“I missed you baby… so much. Please never avoid me again.” You sigh and he rubs your back gently and sighs.
“I’m sorry baby … just doing what’s best for you. The last thing I ever wanna do is hurt you. You’re safe with me always.” Another kiss on the top of your head. Your nose. Your lips. Anywhere he can just to comfort you and let you know that he’s not a threat in any way.
“I can’t believe we broke the bed. I mean it though. I really do wanna have a kid with you baby…” he coos and your heart thuds.
“Trust me with the way you’re going. I doubt it won’t be long till I am and we can always keep trying!”
YEW N ME BABY AINT NUFFIN BUT MAMMALS SO LETS DEW IT LIKE THEY DEW ON THE DISCOVERY CHANNEL 🫵🫵🫵🫵
HELLO!! HI!!! uhm.. I missed Clark. Sorry pookie been cheating on you with Scott 😖😖😖
