cw : smut mdni, rough sex, unprotected vaginal sex, creampie, squirting, reader is basically fucked dumb, apologetic clark, clark puts his foot on readers head during sex, everything is consenual
navi / m.list / inbox - requests are open!
you're both sweating with the vigor of the situation, a total contrast to snow coating the ground outside your home. you're face down, flat on your stomach with your cheek smooshed into the pillowy comforter. your legs hang off the side of your bed, spread wide. clark is standing at the edge of the mattress, pistoning into your sopping cunt like his life depends on it.
you can't even imagine how wrecked you look right now. your thighs feel warm and sticky as they attempt to adhere to clarks own as he ruts into you fervently. you're babbling praises to him and he just coos back at you through pants and groans.
"so tight sweet girl, so tight around me," he says. "'m so, mmhf, so close baby you're doing so well f'me."
the feeling clark is providing you with is utterly euphoric. you moan deeply as you feel that beautiful, familiar tingling blossom in your pussy. you squeeze around him as the feeling builds.
clark is always so self aware. he's a big guy, in all areas, and he's always so calculated and careful not to fuck you to his full extent, knowing the pain it could cause. but now, his wall crumbles, just slightly. and he can't do anything to stop it.
"you're so good honey, so perfect," he continues as he rams against that sweet spot inside you. pornographic noises tumble from your lips. clark is right on the edge with you when he gets this insatiable need, this compulsion of sorts.
he needs more, he needs to be impossibly, inhumanly deep inside you. his body acts before he can stop it.
superman's dick is spearing you open and his foot is now on your head.
he's hitting areas within you you didn't even know you had. he's so deep inside you swear you can feel him in your throat.
"god baby, im sorry," he rushes, body contradicting his words completely as he continues to rut into you. "so so sorry, i just, mmmm oh, i can't stop it, feelstoogood baby im sorry," he cries out.
you, on the other hand, couldn't be less bothered.
your body jolts with every thrust, the feeling spreading through your body is like nothing you've ever experienced before. you can feel him throughout your whole body. it's wonderful.
your vision whites out and you're screaming as your orgasm rips through you, overwhelming in all the best ways.
"gosh, gonna cum inside baby, oh shit!" clark moans out as he reaches his peak as well, pounding into you and rubbing messily on your clit, prolonging your own orgasm and causing you to squirt you release in a generous spray, all over his dick, his abs, the sheets.
he practically growls at this, filling you to the absolute brim with pearly ropes of his spend as your body practically goes numb with pleasure.
Hiii! I love your writing + my Superman obsession grows by the minute😙 Would you consider writing Clark Kent with Reader who asks him to fuck her until she can’t think because she’s stressed?
No worries if not, have an amazing day!
a/n : hiii lovely, thank you so much! my obsession grows daily as well, it's a lifestyle atp. i loveddddd this request, so sorry it took so long but i think this turned out kinda yummy. hope you enjoy and thank you for requesting!
wc : 1k
cw : smut mdni, stress, unprotected vaginal sex, creampie, praise, more condescension than degradation, dom!clark, reader is lowk fucked dumb but everything is still very much consensual, briefest allusion towards overstim/multiple orgasms if you squint
navi / m.list / inbox - requests are open!
the bullpen at the daily planet is near empty when you finally pack up for the night. to you, however, the chaos of the day still screams in your ears. phones ringing, editors barking, the steady clatter of keyboards. it all blends into one long, grating note that hasn't let up since you sat down at your desk that morning.
deadlines had been breathing down your neck all day. your piece on the city council meeting got gutted by perry who swore it "lacked bite." your coffee went cold before you even touched it. then the printer jammed. not to mention three missed calls from sources. one thing after another piled up until you became a frazzled mess.
by the time the office empties out, you're ready to combust. you shove papers into your bag, slam your laptop closed, and mutter something sharp under your breath when the strap snags on your chair.
clark notices, of course he does. he always notices. from across the room, he adjusts his glasses and gives you that small, concerned tilt of his head.
"rough day?" you don't trust yourself to answer. if you open your mouth, it might come out as a scream. so you just shake your head, offer a brittle smile, and head for the elevators.
the walk home is a blur, your thoughts a loud, spiraling mess. by the time you and clark step into the apartment you share, you feel like a wire pulled too tight. the door shuts behind you with a snap, echoing through the quiet space.
you drop your bag on the floor, kick your heels off harder than you mean to. clark sets his own things aside with his usual calm patience. when you pace past him toward the kitchen, he gently catches your hand. "hey hun," he says softly. "what happened?"
you laugh, sharp and humorless. "where do i start? perry hates my draft, the copy machine nearly ate my notes— and, quite frankly, nothing has seemed to go my way today." the words come faster, sharper, the more you go.
clark's thumb strokes over your knuckles, grounding you, but it only makes your chest tighten more. you pull your hand away and run it through your hair, pacing again.
"i'm so sick of it, clark. i'm so—" you break off, throat tight. "i don't even want to talk about it anymore. i can't think about it anymore." you turn on him then, words spilling before you can stop them. "i just want you to.." your breath stutters.
"i want you to fuck me until i can't think."
the silence that follows is thick enough to drown in. your pulse hammers in your ears. you can't look at him. you've never said anything like that before, not out loud, not with that kind of desperation.
but clark just blinks, steady and calm, as though you didn't just shatter the air between you. he moves closer, tilts your chin up gently with two fingers, and his voice is impossibly soft when he says, "sweetheart…"
your pulse is still thundering in your ears when looks at you like he always does: like you hung the moon, like nothing you could say would ever scare him off.
"ah, sweetheart," he murmurs again, thumb brushing your jaw. "you've been carrying all that by yourself all day?"
you swallow hard, blinking fast. "i don't— i can't talk about it anymore, clark. i just…" the words tangle in your throat, but you force them out. "i need you to take it away. please."
for a heartbeat, his expression flickers; gentle surprise, a faint blush blooming under his glasses. but then it shifts into something steady and sure. his hand cups your cheek fully now, broad and warm, like it was made to fit there.
"you trust me with that?" his voice is lower, a little rougher.
you nod, breathless. he exhales slowly, pressing his forehead to yours. the faintest smile tugs at his mouth, tender and a little sad, like he wishes he could shield you from the whole world.
"okay," he whispers. "then let it go. you don't have to think anymore. 've got you."
his arms are around you in the next breath, pulling you against his chest. the solidity of him, the way he smells faintly of clean soap and ink and city air, it unravels the last of your defenses. you fist your hands in his shirt, clinging, while he presses a kiss to your temple.
"you work so hard, love," he says against your skin, voice warm and grounding. "you give so much of yourself, every single day. let me take care of you tonight."
the way he says it, soft promise threaded with hea, it sends a shiver through you. when he draws back enough to look into your eyes again, the concern hasn't gone anywhere, but there's something else burning there now too. something that makes your knees weak. "i'll make sure you can't think about anything else," clark says, quiet but certain.
"not work. not deadlines. just me."
"mhm, just like that baby, takin' me so well."
you're stretched around clark's cock a mere twenty minutes after your original comment. you're laid face down in pure bliss, drool slipping out the corner of your mouth as your whole body jerks with each snap of his hips against you.
this thick cock drags against your walls with a delicious rhythm. sometimes, he'll slow down, pushing in and pulling back out with practiced patience, just to see you twitch, babble, and beg even moreso. not in a cruel way, of course. no, clark kent wasn't capable of that. he only did it to turn your brain to mush that much more, simply delivering what you asked for.
ever few moments, he'll palm your ass, squeezing the flesh in between his large, calloused hands, murmuring about the perfection of the silhouette of you under him.
"look so beautiful, all fucked out underneath me," he says genuinely, reaching down to rub tight circles against your clit.
"mmmfh, th- hank you," you manage. head lolling back down against the duvet immediately after you finished speaking, the effort of holding it up too much with the state you were in.
"yeah, 'course honey," he says, punctuating his sentence with a groan as you start to squeeze around him every few seconds, a telltale sign of your impending orgasm.
you don't even notice the tears that slip out of your eyes as you reach your peak, clark's name rushing out of your mouth like it was the only word you knew.
"good baby, let go for me, i've got you. get all dumb on my cock, yeah?" the mix of reassurance and condescension cause you to clench around him again.
"fu- mmmmm shit i'm right there," you drawl, truly losing coherence by the second.
he presses his thumb to your center and rubs right up against that spongy spot inside you.
you see stars.
you scream as your body fills with warmth and you gush around him, sending him over the edge as well. he fills you up with rope after rope of his warm cum till he's spent and you're full.
"so good," you whisper, as he stills within you, a comforting hand on your lower back.
"hm, i don't know sweetheart. when was your deadline again?"
"um o-october 24th? maybe the 26th?" you respond, using all the brain power you have left to recall the date, forgetting you were even supposed to be stressed about it in the first place.
he lets out a small tut at this, and while you're not currently facing him, you can feel him shake his head in disappointment.
"sounds like we're gonna have to do this at least two more times babe. i don't want you to even be able to form a full sentence when i'm done with you. that's what you wanted, isn't it?"
you nod your head enthusiastically with the sweetest, dumbest smile, and let out the prettiest whine as he starts to thrust into you again.
HI first just wanted to say u are so talented at writing and ur stories make giggle and kick my feet and also (i don't remember if i sent in this request already or not so IGNORE ME IF I DID LOL) but i was wondering if u could write (only if ur comfy with it) a hurt/comfort with steve harrington where maybe steve and shy!inexperienced!reader are trying something a little rougher in bed for the first time and reader gets overwhelmed and asks to stop and its just steve being the sweetest with aftercare and all that :3
a/n : i adore this request, i've been wanting to write something like this for a while so thank you for this! i'm on both a hurt comfort kick and a steve kick atm (can you tell?), so i got right to writing when i saw this. thank you for the compliments on my writing, you're so sweet and i sincerely hope you enjoy this!
cw : contains smut mdni, hurt/comfort, vaginal sex, ass slapping, degradation, rough sex, use of safeword, emotional distress, crying, aftercare, fluff ending
steve's a little breathless, a little dazed, that warm, buzzing feeling in his chest that makes everything else fade out except you. your hands. your voice when you say his name. the way you're trusting him with something new, something you admitted you were nervous about but curious enough to try.
he'd proposed the idea earlier that day.
"honey?" he'd called out as he bustled through the kitchen. "can i ask ya a question?"
"you just did," you'd replied plainly, a smile tugging at your lips.
"mkay, smartass," he teased back, dropping down beside you on the couch. his knee bounced once, then stilled. "seriously. i need to ask you something."
"i'm listening," you agreed, shutting your book and setting it aside.
steve rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, eyes flicking anywhere but your face. "how would you feel if we tried being a little… rougher?"
"rougher?" you repeated. "i'm not quite sure what you mean."
"y'know," he said, voice dropping, shy but earnest. "in the bedroom." that familiar pink flushed the tips of his ears, the one that always showed up when he was nervous but trying anyway.
"oh." your eyes widened slightly. a beat passed. "what exactly would that entail?"
he'd been careful then, stumbling over his words, stopping often to make sure you understood, to make sure you knew you could say no. he told you it didn't have to mean anything scary. that it could just be firmer touches, more intensity, more passion. maybe some new positions or ways of talking. he made sure, though, that you knew the most important part was that you stayed in control.
"just somethin' new. not that anything's wrong with what we're doing now, of course, but i just thought it could be fun. just give it some thought hun, don't have to give me an answer right now."
you'd nodded, heart racing, curiosity buzzing under your nerves. you trusted him. that was the truth of it.
he was so gentle with it, so kind and calm. and when the two of you were having sex, he'd literally give you anything you wanted. he fucked you slow and deep, sweet praises whispered into your ears. always gentle and attentive.
it was like he dedicated his life to finding out just how to melt your brain and send all your thoughts gushing out from between your legs in all the best ways. he always knew which buttons to press, he had sent you to moon with pleasure countless times. sex with steve was a dream, so who were you to deny him after all he'd given you?
so there you found yourself, mere hours later, face smattered with kisses of excitement from your boyfriend after giving your consent to his idea.
now, here, with the room quiet and the air heavy with that familiar closeness, steve thinks everything's fine.
he thinks the way your body tenses beneath his hands is anticipation. thinks the way you go quiet is focus, nerves settling instead of spiking. he murmurs reassurance, presses closer, caught up in the moment, caught up in wanting to do this right for you.
he doesn't notice right away when your breathing starts to come too fast.
you're face down ass up, hence why he can't see your face and therefore can't read you like he'd normally be able to. right now, he thinks you're enjoying it, and you're trying to tell yourself the same.
his balls smack against your ass with every thrust, and it feels good, nothing feels bad about the sex itself. you try to ground yourself in the comfort of that familiar pleasure, tuning out the other aspects of it. steve reaches down to rub your achy clit, and you let out a moan.
see, you tell yourself, you do like this. you just need a minute to adjust, that was all. you really do get lost in the feeling for a minute, one sweet minute. you can feel your arousal soaking his thick cock as he pounds in out of you, his hand palming the supple flesh of your ass.
that's when he delivers a sharp smack to your ass with his free hand. your body jolts, your cunt squeezing around his dick within you in surprise.
steve, not knowing any better, thinks its a clench of pleasure, as is typical. so he responds. "oh yeah baby, you like that? fuckin' squeezin me in, i know you do. such a slut."
the word steals the air from your chest.
you were used to good girl and pretty baby and sweet angel. you had known you agreed to this, but you didn't expect it to make tears prick the corners of your eyes. you're hardly even registering the fact that steve is still pounding into you, too busy trying to calm yourself internally before the dam breaks.
steve doesn't see how your hands curl in tighter, not around him, but into the sheets like you’re grounding yourself. you tell yourself to breathe, to wait it out, because this is all pretend. steve is gentle and patient and you don't want to disappoint him. you don't want to be the reason everything screeches to a halt.
but it keeps building. the pressure in your chest, the buzzing under your skin. too much. too fast.
you're broken out of the panic your brain is going into by another sharp slap to your asscheek, causing you gasp aloud.
"shut up, whore. take my cock."
and that's when you realize you need to stop.
"steve," you try, voice thin.
"didn't i just say to shu-"
"red. redredredredred," the word spills from your lips in a pure panic, like it's the only thing you know.
he freezes.
steve pulls back like he's been burned, hands lifting away from you as he shifts so he can see your face. his expression changes in an instant, concern wiping away every trace of heat. then, you see the panic in his own face, causing the guilt to sear through you like a hot iron.
the sobs are flowing freely now, you couldn't stop them if you tried, only adding to your embarrassment. you want nothing more than to run away and hide, but of course, you can't manage that right now. so you do the best you can do and scramble backward on the bed, balling yourself up by the headboard and hiding your face in your hands.
steve's heart drops. you're scared of him.
the thought hits harder than anything else ever could, knocks the air clean out of his lungs. he stays completely still, hands hovering uselessly at his sides like he's afraid even moving might make it worse.
"hey," he says quietly, voice already breaking. "hey, it's okay. i'm not, i'm not coming any closer, alright?"
you don't answer. your shoulders are shaking, breath coming in short, uneven pulls as you hide your face. the sight twists something ugly and painful in his chest.
"sweetheart,” steve murmurs, softer now, grounding himself before he even thinks about grounding you. "you did the right thing. you hear me? you did exactly what you were supposed to do."
when you don't pull away, he slowly lowers himself to sit on the bed, not next to you, just close enough to be there if you want him. he grabs the blanket and gently drapes it over your shoulders, careful, like every movement matters. because it does right now.
"i'm so sorry," he says, and there's no defensiveness in it. just honesty. "i should've noticed sooner. i should've checked in. that's on me."
your sobs hitch at that, something in his words cutting through the spiral in your head. "i didn't mean to," you choke out. "i didn't wanna ruin it, please, i'm sorry, i just-"
his head snaps up as he cuts you off. "hey. no, no. don't, honey." he swallows hard and meets your eyes. "you could never ruin anything by telling me you're overwhelmed. ever."
he finally reaches out, stopping just short of touching you. "can i hold you?" he asks quietly. "or do you want space?"
the choice steadies you more than anything else.
"hold me," you whisper.
steve moves immediately, but gently, wrapping you up like you're something precious, not fragile. he pulls you against his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other rubbing slow, soothing circles into your back.
"you're safe," he murmurs over and over. "i've got you. i promise i've got you."
your breathing slowly starts to match his, the tight knot in your chest loosening as he stays exactly where he is, all warmth and steady presence.
after a while, when the tears finally begin to taper off, steve presses a kiss into your hair.
"thank you for trusting me enough to stop it," he says.
you sniffle, clinging to his shirt. "i was scared you'd be mad."
he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes shining. "mad?" he shakes his head. "baby, i'd rather stop a hundred times than ever make you feel like that again."
he tucks the blanket tighter around you, forehead resting against yours. "we don't ever have to try that again unless you want to. and if you do, we go slower. we talk more. or we don't do it at all. i just want you to feel safe with me.”
you nod, exhausted but calmer now, and let yourself melt back into his arms. steve doesn't let go of you until your breathing has fully evened out.
even then, he keeps one arm wrapped around you, the other smoothing slowly up and down your back like he's afraid the moment he stops, you might slip away again. when you finally pull back just enough to wipe at your face, he's already reaching for the box of tissues on the nightstand.
"here," he murmurs, handing them to you like it's a gift of some sort.
you dab at your cheeks, eyes still glassy, exhaustion settling into your bones now that the panic has burned itself out. steve watches you carefully, not in a way that feels overwhelming, more like he's memorizing you, checking that you're really okay.
"can i get you some water?" he asks. "or juice. or," he huffs out a quiet breath. "honestly, whatever you want."
"water sounds good," you say softly.
he nods and is gone in seconds, moving with quiet purpose. when he comes back, he helps you sit up against the headboard, steadying you with a hand at your back while you take slow sips. he doesn't rush you, doesn't look away, just stays right there like he's anchoring you in place.
"any dizziness?" he asks gently.
you shake your head. "just tired."
"okay." he presses a kiss to your temple. "that makes sense."
steve pulls the blankets up higher around you, tucking you in with surprising care, like he's done this before, like taking care of you is second nature. he slips a pair of his sweatpants over your legs, helps you into one of his soft t-shirts without a word, all calm movements and quiet reassurance.
when he finally settles back beside you, he opens his arms again. "c'mere."
you don't hesitate this time, curling into his chest and letting your head rest right where it fits best. his hand resumes those slow circles on your back, his thumb tracing absentminded patterns like he's trying to soothe every last lingering tremor out of you.
"i never meant for it to go that way," he says. "i should've payed better attention. next time i'll-"
now it's your turn to cut off his rambling, "steve. its okay. i know. i know you."
the relief that washes over his face is immediate. he exhales, forehead dropping to rest against the top of your head. "god," he murmurs. "that means everything to me."
he stays with you until your eyes start to droop, until your body finally relaxes fully into his. even then, he doesn't move, just adjusts the blankets, presses one last gentle kiss into your hair, and keeps holding you like that's exactly where he's meant to be.
you fall asleep feeling warm, safe, and cared for, wrapped up in steve harrington's quiet promise that you're always allowed to stop, and he'll always be there when you do.
🔥with Steve!! (maybe a stepcest where you’re Steve’s bratty new step sister?) but u def dont have to write that! :)
omfg. yum. this is my first time writing stepcest/something dark like this but i'm pretty proud of how it turned out. ik this is different from anything i've written before, so this is your gentle reminder to scroll if you don't like it! also, if you enjoy and have a specific idea i def wouldn't mind making this a mini series...
cw : smut mdni, dark themes (stepcest), unprotected vaginal sex, degradation, rough sex, mentions of steve's iconic letterman jacket but steve & reader are ofc out of highschool & are consenting adults
gracies 500 celebration ❄️ / navigation / inbox - requests are open!
"where... what the hell," steve mumbles in annoyance to himself as he rummages through the dryer. "coulda sworn i put it..... oh that fucking brat," he seethes.
he stomps down the staircase, fury rolling off him, "i know you took it!" he yells. "now where the hell is my damn-" he's stopped in his tracks by the sight of you.
there you are, sat on the countertop, in your stepbrother's prized letterman jacket.
the jacket sits heavy across your shoulders, oversized and impossibly warm, the very one he practically lived in during high school. the white leather sleeves are soft and worn at the elbows, scuffed in all the right places, the green wool torso a little faded from years of wear. the yellow stripe along the cuffs and waistband stretches snugly, and the big block "H" on the chest gleams faintly in the kitchen light like a trophy he isn’t quite ready to share.
especially not with you.
you perch on the countertop like you own it, legs dangling, popsicle in hand. sticky blue liquid dribbles down the sleeve, leaving tiny rivulets across the leather. you're entirely unconcerned, humming to yourself, one corner of your mouth smeared with the melting treat.
"hey," you say cheerfully, licking the popsicle, oblivious to the mess. "looking for this?"
steve stops dead at the bottom of the steps, hands on his hips, jaw tight. the sight of you sitting on the countertop, draped in his letterman, popsicle in hand, sticky sleeve glinting in the light, is… infuriating. though, it's something else too, something he's not ready to admit.
"you took my jacket?!" he shouts, voice a mix of disbelief and mock outrage.
you shrug, grinning, leaning back on your hands. "was in the dryer, seemed lonely. thought it needed company. plus, have you forgotten stevie? we're siblings now. this is what siblings do. they share."
the popsicle drips again, and you swipe it off your chin with his your sleeve, right over the leather. it's at this moment that the jacket falls open just enough to show that you're not wearing much else.
in fact, you're not wearing anything else.
steve groans, rubbing a hand over his face. "you're fuckin' filthy."
"mm, tastes fine," you say innocently, giving your popsicle another pointed suck.
steve narrows his eyes, but even as he's fuming, both of you are fully aware of the growing bulge in his jeans.
and that brings you to where you are now, face down, ass up in your stepbrother's bed, his glorified jacket still adorning your frame as his cock is buried to the hilt within you.
he's ramming into you like you're unbreakable, balls slapping against your clit every time he pushes in. you're babbling uncontrollably, murmurs of "stevie" and "so good" and "love it so much" all jumbled together as you drool onto his pillow.
"you like this, huh? you like me to fuck you like this? you know why? cuz you're a slut for my cock."
all you can do is moan in response, your brain mushy with pleasure. this wasn't this first time this had happened, and even in your hazy state, you're sure it's far from the last.
"so fuckin tight for me," steve groans, "pussy needs me, huh babe?" he questions condescendingly.
"mhmm," you answer, more of a whimper than a reply. it all feels too good. steve's cock is so big, he practically splits you open every time you two fuck, and you can't even imagine how sore you'll be tomorrow morning. you can't bring yourself to care either. the only coherent thought you have is how grateful you are that you're home alone as you begin to scream out with your approaching orgasm.
"you gonna cum f'me? go ahead, cream on my fuckin' cock babe, shit-" steve encourages as your sweet cunt tightens and pulses around him.
you're right on the edge when his voice deepens. "tellin' me we gotta share n' shit since we're brother and sister now, right?" he's panting through sharp thrusts to get the words out. "well how's this, you're gonna share this pussy with me. any time, anywhere, i'll take what i need from it. it's ours now, sis."
you cum so hard your ears ring and your vision goes white.
Hiii idk if you’ve already thought about it but I think a take on Sabrina Carpenters “Tears” where Clark is just doing normal everyday stuff and being his usual helpful self and reader is just LOSING IT, completely over taken by the feral lust of witnessing a man you love being competent and just an overall sweetheart!!! Or flipped where Clark is obsessed with reader doing domestic everyday stuff would also be super cute if you’re into that instead!🤩
a/n : hiii, this is such a cute idea omg. i've seen a couple other people do this so i did go with the latter to switch it up a touch. i've also seen plenty of the smut approach, so i hope you don't mind that i went more fluff loverboy!clark with this one. thank you for requesting!
cw : very suggestive but no actual smut, single brief description of partial nudity, very girly reader, very fluffy, clark is just enamored with you it's adorable
wc : 1.7k
navi / m.list / inbox - requests are open!
sunlight slides through the blinds in soft strips, warming the kitchen floor and the edge of clark's newspaper. he hasn't turned a page in five minutes.
you're at the stove in one of his old shirts, sleeves rolled, humming to the radio as if the morning exists just for you. the smell of coffee and vanilla lotion hangs in the air, and every small movement, bare feet against tile, the lift of your arm when you reach for a plate, it pulls his attention like gravity.
he tells himself to focus on the paper. he doesn't.
"you're awful quiet, hun," you say without looking back. "too early for superman thoughts?"
he smiles into his mug. "just thinkin'."
"dangerous habit," you tease, flipping a pancake.
when you stretch for the cinnamon in the top cabinet, the shirt slides higher on your thigh, and clark's pulse jumps before he can stop it. the soft curve of your ass is exposed, the rosy shade of your lace panties just barely peeking out when you lean forward.
he looks down, pretending to stir his coffee, the spoon clinking a little too loudly. be a gentleman, he reminds himself. she's just making breakfast.
but there’s something about you in his kitchen, soft hair catching the light, that easy hum under your breath, that feels like the most intimate thing he’s ever seen.
you turn with two plates balanced in your hands. "you could've helped, you know."
he stands too fast. "sorry, i was.. thinking."
"again?" you laugh, setting the plates down. "you do that a lot."
he rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed and fond all at once. "occupational hazard."
you slide into the chair next to him. there's a faint streak of flour on your cheek. when he reaches over to brush it away, you go still for a moment, eyes catching his.
"thanks," you murmur. his thumb lingers just long enough for the air to tighten between you.
"you're welcome." neither of you moves. the city outside hums softly; the kitchen smells like butter and sunlight. clark breathes in slow, steady... well, he tries to.
"you're staring," you say, a grin tugging at your mouth, despite the fact that it's stuffed full of pancakes at the moment.
he finally gives up the pretense of reading. "can't help it."
"you always say that."
"i always mean it," he answers, voice low but sure.
your smile softens. the morning folds around you again; quiet, golden, and charged with everything unspoken.
the apartment door clicks open just as clark loosens his tie. he hears your voice before he sees you; light, bright, carrying that small-victory excitement that always makes him smile.
"okay, don't freak out, but i think i found the perfect color!" he looks up from the couch. you're framed in the doorway, bag swinging from your wrist, sunlight catching on the faint shimmer of your freshly done nails. they’re medium long and pale pink, glossy, almost translucent. soft enough to look delicate, but the way you hold your hands out to show him feels anything but shy.
you cross the room in a few quick steps, perfume curling ahead of you. clark's tie hangs loose around his collar, sleeves rolled to his forearms. he tells himself to stand, to greet you normally, but his gaze catches on your hands again and stays there.
"it's called bubble bath," you explain, wiggling your fingers under the warm light of the lamp. "cute, right?"
"cute," he repeats, though the word lands lower in his throat than he means. his voice sounds rougher than it should, and he clears it with a quick laugh. "very cute."
you tilt your head. "you don't sound convinced."
"i am," he says quickly. then, quieter, "maybe too convinced."
you blink, surprised by his tone, but the smile that follows is soft and all too knowing. you sit beside him on the couch, folding your legs under you, hands still lifted between you like small pink secrets. clark tries to focus on what you're saying; something about the salon playlist, the girl who did your nails, but every movement draws his eyes: the delicate curve of your wrist, the way the polish catches the light when you talk with your hands.
it's ridiculous, he thinks, to be undone by nail polish. but it isn't the polish. it's you, the easy confidence, the sweetness in your voice, the way domestic things never fail to look extraordinary on you.
you reach for his hand without thinking, pressing your freshly manicured fingers against his palm. "see? smooth. the acrylic is a new formula, so they said it'll last two months." clark swallows hard and tries and fails to repress a dirty thought about how your new nails would look wrapped around a different part of his body.
"guess i'll have to admire them for a while then."
your laugh bubbles out, gentle and pleased. "admire away." he should pull his hand back, but doesn't. the touch is light, innocent, and yet the air feels heavier now, like even the smallest movement could break something open. he looks at you, the spark in your eyes, the flush in your cheeks from the walk home, and realizes that holding himself steady around you might be the hardest thing he’s ever done.
"what?" you ask, grin softening into curiosity.
he shakes his head. "nothing. just… you look happy."
"i am," you say simply, leaning into the couch. "it's a good day."
clark nods, forcing himself to breathe normally. "yeah. it really is."
the conversation drifts to quieter things after that; dinner plans, a show you both half-watch, but his mind keeps circling back to the way your hands looked when you first walked in.
he tells himself he's being ridiculous, that you'd laugh if you knew how beyond flustered he felt. but when you rest your head against his shoulder and sigh, all soft perfume and warmth, he thinks maybe being ridiculous is exactly what loving you feels like.
later, the apartment is quiet. outside, the city hums low and steady; inside, it's just the soft click of the tv and the occasional scrape of your fingers against the couch pillow. you're curled up beside him, knees tucked under you, phone in hand, flipping through messages without much focus. the soft light from the lamp casts a warm halo over your hair, catching the highlights just right.
clark watches, his body uncomfortably aware of the way you lean into him, the faint brush of your shoulder against his chest, the easy comfort of your presence. he tries to focus on the show, he really does, but every little movement you make sends a ripple through his mind.
you glance at him, smirk tugging at your lips. "you've been quiet all evening."
he clears his throat, running his hand through his curls briefly, trying so hard to be subtle, controlled, but failing miserably. "just… uh, enjoying the view," he says, voice low.
"view, huh?" you arch an eyebrow, holding your phone like a shield but not really hiding the teasing glint in your eyes. "and what exactly are you seeing?"
clark swallows. "you." he can’t help it. "all of you."
you laugh softly, a little breathless, and shift closer. the scent of your shampoo drifts across him, faint and sweet. "all of me, huh? even my ridiculous scrolling habits?"
he nods, throat tight. "especially that."
you smirk again, nudging him with your knee. "clark…"
"yeah?" his voice drops. every word feels heavier now, thick with unspoken tension.
you tilt your head, curious, playful, and he's mesmerized by it. the way you look at him: soft, warm, teasing; it makes everything in him ache to reach out, to brush your hair from your face, to hold you closer, to… something.
"you're staring again," you whisper, mock exasperated but with a quiet heat that matches his own.
"can't help it," he murmurs, voice rougher than he intended. "you're… too much."
"too much, huh?" you laugh, a soft, airy sound, fingers brushing over his arm in casual affection, and the effect is devastating. "and what am i too much for, exactly?"
clark swallows hard. "for me." his hand itches to linger somewhere, anywhere, but he keeps it tucked to his side, clenched just enough that it's a conscious effort. "you're… irresistible."
you lean back a little, eyes glittering, lips twitching with that playful curve that sets his chest pounding. "hmm. i see."
he shifts closer anyway, careful, measured, so the air between you is just heavy enough to feel like something electric. he watches your fingers trail along the couch arm, the subtle motion that makes it impossible for him to act like a gentleman without a tiny fight.
"clark," you say again, softer this time, almost a purr. "you're bein' weird, babe."
he can't stop the grin that tugs at his lips. "i'm being honest," he says, voice low. "you… you do things without even realizing it. and somehow, you make me lose my head every single time."
you tilt your head, examining him with a sparkle of mischief in your eyes. "hmm. that's… flattering."
he swallows, keeping his composure, even as every fiber of him is screaming to pull you closer. "good," he whispers. "because i'd never lie about it."
the two of you lapse into quiet again, the kind of silence that hums. he feels the weight of the moment pressing warmly against him, the soft brush of your hand, the curve of your smile, the natural grace of you simply being yourself.
clark knows he shouldn't, and quite honestly can't say more, can't act more than this. but the ache is there, delicious and teasing. and you, still completely unaware of the storm you've stirred, rest your head against his shoulder, smile curling faintly, fingers brushing lightly against his chest.
and in that quiet, domestic evening, he thinks: maybe this, just you, just being you, is the most dangerous, irresistible, hot thing in the world.
hiii i saw ur looking for marauders reqs! could i request some hurt/comfort with poly!marauders or honestly any of them individually with a reader who becomes nonverbal when she gets upset or overwhelmed??
ty!! love your writing❤️
a/n : ooohh how i love a good hurt/comfort. i went w/ poly as i haven't rly written anything for them as a group yet and i've really been wanting to, so thank you for giving me this! big disclaimer though : i don't have any personal experience with being nonverbal, but this was written with care and empathy. i did my best to research so i hope i represented it properly and that this can be relatable or comforting to someone. thank you so much for your support and this request love!
you've had worse days, technically, but something about this one just… unravels you. your quill snapped halfway through an essay you didn't understand to begin with. then someone bumped your shoulder in the corridor, didn't bother to say sorry. you dropped your ink bottle before dinner. every little thing felt louder, sharper, harder to swallow.
by the time you climb through the portrait hole, it's all pressing down at once. the gryffindor common room is golden and noisy, firelight glinting off brass buttons and prefect badges, laughter echoing too loud. usually it's homey. tonight it feels like you can't breathe in it.
the boys are there, of course they are. the marauders have practically claimed the corner couch by the fireplace as theirs. james is half lying across it, socks mismatched, playing idly with a snitch that flickers gold in the light. sirius is perched on the armrest, his boots kicked off, laughing at something james said. remus, calm as ever, is curled up with a book on his lap, one hand absently rubbing at a scar on his wrist.
normally, the sight of them makes you smile. now it just makes your chest tighten. you freeze halfway across the room. the sound is too much; the fire crackling, the chatter, the metallic click of the snitch's wings. the noise scrapes against the edges of your thoughts until words stop making sense. you can't find the space between inhale and exhale anymore.
remus notices first, like he always does. his head lifts, eyes flicking up from his book to you. he studies you for half a second, enough to see it. the stillness. the way your eyes dart around without landing.
"hey," he says quietly. "hey, love. you alright?" you open your mouth, but the air just catches. no sound comes out. your throat feels closed off, heavy. you shake your head, maybe, or maybe you just blink too long.
sirius straightens, his grin fading instantly. "darling?" he asks, voice soft for once.
james, ever the last to notice but always the quickest to move, sits up properly. his brows knit. "what's wrong, sweetheart?"
you can't answer.
the pressure in your chest climbs higher, your heartbeat loud in your ears. you want to say i'm fine or just tired, anything to make the worry in their faces ease, but the words are gone.
remus is already up, crossing the space slowly. "too much?" he murmurs, his tone low enough that it's just for you.
you nod, small and sharp. your fingers curl into the hem of your jumper.
"alright," he says, voice like warm honey. "alright, we'll go slow, yeah?"
sirius slides off the armrest, landing lightly on his feet. "d'you want us to leave you be for a bit, love?" he asks. you can tell he's trying not to crowd you, his usual swagger gone, replaced with something uncertain and sweet.
you shake your head. you don't want to be alone. you just can't talk.
james catches that, bless him. "okay," he says softly, getting up too. "we'll stay right here, promise. no pressure."
remus reaches out, careful, and offers his hand. you let him take yours. his touch is warm, grounding.
sirius grabs the blanket off the back of the couch and drapes it over your shoulders, tucking it gently under your chin like he's afraid you’ll shatter if he moves too fast.
james guides you to sit down, murmuring little nothings: "easy, there you go, love," "we've got you, just breathe." his voice is low and rhythmic, like he's trying to sync his words to your breathing.
you sit between them, remus on your left, sirius on your right, james kneeling in front of you. the firelight paints them golden. you stare at the flicker of it, trying to match the rhythm of your breaths to the rise and fall of the flames.
remus squeezes your hand once, gentle. "can i touch you?" he asks. you nod, and he slides his arm around your back, pulling you carefully against his side.
sirius starts fiddling with the fringe of the blanket, humming under his breath, one you can't place, slow and soothing.
james reaches up to smooth your hair, his fingers brushing your temple like he's tracing away the tension there.
no one rushes you. no one asks questions. they just stay.
remus leans his chin lightly against the top of your head. "you don't have to say anything, dove," he murmurs. "not a single word."
"yeah," james adds softly, thumb brushing the back of your hand now. "we get it, love. we know."
the noise of the common room fades after a while. someone must've gone to bed; the fire burns lower.
sirius stretches out, resting his head in your lap. his hair tickles your wrist, and he turns just enough to look up at you. "you're doing great, y'know that?” he says quietly. "just breathing. that's enough."
something in you eases at that. not all at once, more like a knot slowly untying. the air starts to move again. the tightness in your chest loosens just a bit.
james notices it instantly this time. "there you are," he says softly, relief coloring his tone. he presses a kiss to your knuckles. "we've missed ya."
remus's hand traces slow circles against your back. "it's okay," he whispers, voice close to your ear. "you don't have to talk until you're ready. we'll wait as long as it takes."
and they do.
minutes pass, or maybe longer, time feels strange in their warmth. sirius's fingers find yours beneath the blanket; remus hums something low and steady. james eventually stretches out beside you on the couch, his arm resting across your legs like he's anchoring you to the world.
the fire burns low, painting the three of them in gold and shadow. you close your eyes.
when you finally manage to speak again, your voice comes out quiet, fragile. "thank you," you whisper.
remus smiles against your hair. "always, darling."
sirius tilts his head, grin sleepy and soft. "you don't ever have to thank us." and james, always the one to make you laugh even when you don't mean to, nudges your knee. "you're stuck with us, sweetheart. can't get rid of us even if you tried."
you let out a breathy laugh, barely a sound, but real. sirius beams like you just performed a miracle.
the fire pops softly, the warmth wrapping around the four of you like a living thing. remus's heartbeat hums steady against your shoulder. james's thumb draws idle patterns against your knee. sirius's breathing evens out until hess almost asleep in your lap.
and for the first time all day, you feel quiet in a way that doesn’t hurt.
sososo in love with this prompt for him, it fits him so well.
gracies 100 follower celebration 💐
51 : "can you give me a massage?" "no, because you moan really loud and our neighbours think we’re having sex.”
cw : suggestive, clark being a competitive lil shit
wc : 800
clark kent & his noise problem
you're curled up on the couch with a blanket and a book when you hear the familiar thud of clark landing on the balcony. not superman's graceful public landing, no, this is the tired, homebody version. there's a muffled grunt as he slides the glass door open, stepping inside in his suit with the top half unzipped to his waist.
he’s already rubbing the back of his neck.
"long night?" you ask, looking up from your book.
"mhm," he hums, dropping onto the couch beside you. his hair is still wind-tousled, cheeks pink from the cold. "car accident on 5th. then some guy thought it was a great idea to jump off the planet building, no he wasn't suicidal, just an idiot. caught him… barely. gosh, my shoulders are killing me," he rambles.
he tilts his head toward you, hopeful, scarily similar to the way krypto looks when he wants a treat. "can you give me a massage?"
your eyes remain on the page of your novel this time, "no, because you moan really loud and our neighbors think we’re having sex."
clark freezes. "i— what?"
"you heard me."
his mouth falls open, his glasses slipping a little down his nose. "that—" he sputters, cheeks becoming redder, "—that was one time."
you give him a pointed look. "clark, it was not 'one time'. last week, you sounded like you were auditioning for a soap opera."
"that’s not—" he sits up straighter, truly flustered now. "you were hitting a knot in my back! i didn't mean to—"
"yeah, well, mrs. johnson next door gave me the wink in the hallway, so congratulations, you've ruined the laundry room for me."
his ears go red, the way they always do when he's caught between embarrassment and laughter. "okay, first of all, i do not sound that bad."
"oh, hun, you do," you say sweetly, shutting your book and setting it aside. "like… clark kent starring in a very dramatic radio play."
he groans —the exact noise you're talking about— and you just point at him. "see?!"
"that doesn't count!" he protests, and before you can react, he leans forward, bracketing you between his arms on the couch. "you know what? i'm gonna prove it."
"prove what? that you can get through a massage without sounding like you're dying?"
"exactly," he says, grinning now, competitive streak lighting in his eyes. "go ahead. try me."
you raise a brow. "and if you fail?"
"then i do all the dishes for a week."
"…and if you win?"
his grin turns smug. "you owe me dessert every night until the end of the month.”
you pretend to think it over, but honestly? you already precisely know how this is going to go.
"deal."
ten minutes later, clark is lying shirtless on his stomach, head turned to the side so you can see the little smirk playing on his lips. you plant your hands on his shoulders and start working into the muscles. you feel him tense immediately.
"relax," you murmur.
"i am relaxed," he insists, voice slightly strained, like he's trying to convince himself moreso than you.
you press harder, and that's when it happens: the first slip. a low, muffled sound escapes him before he bites it back.
you pause, grinning. "strike one."
"that was not a—" he cuts off because your thumbs find the knot just under his shoulder blade.
this time, the sound he makes is halfway between a groan and a sigh, and you have to press your lips together to keep from laughing. "strike two."
"okay, okay," he says, voice muffled in the pillow. "that one doesn't count either—"
"oh, it counts," you say, leaning into it now, working over the knot until his back muscles loosen.
it's all over after that. by the third sound, he's clutching the couch cushion, cheeks flushed, muttering something about "unfair tactics". by the fourth, he's actually laughing between noises, fully aware he's lost.
you pull back, smug. "dishes for a week. hope you like the smell of lavender soap."
he rolls onto his back, looking up at you with that boyish grin that still knocks you sideways. "fine. you win. but you have to admit… i was quieter this time."
you snort, flopping down beside him. "quieter, sure. still dramatic as hell."
he leans over, kisses your temple, and murmurs, "guess you'll just have to keep practicing on me."
you groan —not the way he does— and toss a pillow at his face, collapsing into his arms with a giggle promptly after.
