Venus
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ꕥWhen Superman gets blasted by some aphrodisiac monster, he tries to stay away from you but just can't.ꕥ
ꕥTags/warnings: reader knows clark is superman, smut, girlfriend!reader, sex pollen, oral (f receiving), dirty talk, vocal!clark, unprotected PIV (wrap it before you tap it folks), rough sex, overstimulation, masturbation (male), munch!clarkꕥ
ꕥWC: 3k (ish)ꕥ
ꕥInsired by Venus by Shocking Blueꕥ
ꕥAN: My first fic on here, so be kind and let me know if there are any mistakesꕥ
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When fighting intercosmic beings, the last thing Clark anticipated was a raging hard on. The cosmic being had some last dying act of revenge as it screamed, it sprayed plumes of rose-colored smoke out of what Clark could only hope was its mouth. It’s burp-esc vapors causing his mind to fill with images that would be banned from porn sites for how illicit they were. It was a version of hell that caused his suit to tighten and his body to carry itself to your apartment. His mind only caught up when he was halfway there, when he decidedly thought that he was infected with something, and he could not contaminate his sweet girlfriend as well.
He flew to the fortress of solitude and stumbled in, the bitter cold air doing little to ease his tension. As he lay down on the metal table, Gary’s diagnostics were already firing off in that calm voice.
“Sir, your heart rate is 178 bpm, your blood pressure is 200/125, and your internal temperature is elevated greatly.”
Clark sighs as his dick absolutely screams for attention. He ignores it and the overwhelming feeling of his clothes being too tight, and sits in the yellow sun's rays magnified by the large glass ceiling. Surely he will heal, and this will all be over soon. But when he lies there, the feeling only becomes more unbearable, his body humming with need.
He stands suddenly and paces the floor, but the action only causes a groan of desperate need to escape him, the feeling of the suit's rough texture on him. Time for plan B. He starts to walk out when he is interrupted by Gary’s pleas that he is still very unwell and it would be wise to remain here.
“I’ll be fine, Gary,” he assures the robot.
He files for hours, and the pain does not stop. You're sitting in your apartment with no update, and you're starting to panic. The news released hours ago was that the threat was gone, but you’ve heard nothing from your sweet boyfriend. Perhaps he's healing or just decompressing and just forgot to text you an update, even though he's never done that once, the possibility is still there.
He lands at his apartment and tears off his suit, ridding himself of the constricting fabric. Throwing himself on the sleek couch with a thud, his hand gripping his aching cock with white knuckles, every touch sends waves of pleasure down his spine. His hand speeds up as images of you flash in his mind without his permission. Images of you bent before him with your back arched, spread-eagled on a bed your weeping pussy glistening, kneeling before him with his cock in between your plush lips, him kneeling before you suffocating himself between your thighs. His hand speeds up, but no relief comes. Over half an hour of this torture and no peak to help with this awful feeling of how good it feels, but it is just not enough.
He takes a cold shower, embarrassed by his need, and dresses in starchy jeans and tries to distract himself with pushups, books, loud music, and a dull documentary, but his thoughts drift back to you in compromising positions, moaning his name in his ear. When his phone rings, and a picture of you and him smiling on the beach fills the screen, he moans out loud at the sight of you like some creep. He answers the call with held breath.
“Hey, baby, I tried texting you, but you haven’t answered. Is everything okay?”
Your voice sounds like a symphony composed to drive him to insanity. Full of worry, care, innocent love. His dick grows even harder at just the sound.
“Everything’s fine,” he grits out, cold and sharp. He usually would never speak to you in that tone, but he’s not himself currently.
“Baby, I’m worried about you. Why don’t you come over?”
It’s your pleading voice that breaks him.
“I can’t. I’ll hurt you,” He moans out.
“Clark, what is going on? Are you mad at me? Are you hurt?” he sounds odd, you think, you've never heard him so… tense
“I was sprayed by that thing, and now I’m so horny I might die. I’ve tried everything: the sun, flying, touching myself, cold showers, books, documentaries, pushups, everything! And it won't go away! It’s painful baby,” he rants angrily. He’s usually not so cavalier with his words, but he doesn't even have the audacity to look embarrassed currently, just in excruciating pain.
Your heart aches for him, you want to help him, and if helping him means letting him fuck you into next Tuesday, you are more than happy to oblige.
“Clark, come over right now.” Your voice is husky with want and commanding.
“Baby, no I don-”
“Now Clark.”
He arrives at your apartment not two minutes later, looking flushed and windswept. You pull him over the threshold by the collar of his t-shirt and kiss him before he has the chance to be a gentleman, and he responds instantly, pushing you against the opposing wall and attacking your lips with his.
“Please, baby, let me help you,” you murmur against his lips, and he groans as his hip bucks into yours without permission. You grind back into him with a gasp. His lips are hot and insistent on your neck, feasting on any of your skin he can reach.
“Tell me to stop,” he groans against your soft skin. He can’t do this to you, take advantage of you like this. Maybe this aphrodisiac is deadly to humans. He wants to stop, but he can’t. You smell like a devilish combination of your shampoo, your body lotion, your perfume, your house, your natural musk, your laundry detergent, your dampening panties, your soda sitting on the coffee table, like you and it's intoxicating. He’s like an addict, the way he’s basically huffing your neck with deep breaths.
“No. Do not stop, Clark,” you whine as you rake your hands through his hair. His lips are hot on your skin, searing a path down your neck, teeth nipping at the delicate skin like a starved man.
“I don’t want…” he trails off after finding a particularly captivating hollow in your neck and sucks a bruise with a focus unlike you’ve ever seen.
“I think that's a lie, sweetheart.” You giggle out. You grab a hold of his chin lightly and guide his mouth back to yours. He groans like you’ve punched him, his lips more hungry and demanding.
Time seems to move at a different speed when you’re like this, his lips devouring yours, tongue and teeth clashing, moving like melting honey. His hands kneaded desperately on your hips before rushing to the small of your back, then drifting to your ass to grip you closer. Clark has always been passionate, but this feels entirely different. Entirely desperate. Entirely and completely in need. He’s usually patient, teasing, maybe even a little cocky, but right now? He kisses you like you’re water, and he’s a man dying of thirst. When you pull back, his lips chase yours until you push lightly on his chest. Superman might be able to live without oxygen, but you are not so fortunate and have to come up for air for a moment. Clark looks at you like a kicked puppy, his blue eyes eclipsed by lust blown pupiples.
“I’m sorry,” he whines, but his apology is much less convincing due to the greedy nature of his hands on your body.
“Clark,” your eyes find his, and in one of those moments of human need, almost telepathic understanding, he understands that though he’s the one being affected by the aphrodisiac, you are needing. Needing him now more than you can comprehend.
The next moments are blurry in your memory, flurries of clothing being stripped, hungry hands, moving to the living room, and your body landing on the sofa before he follows on top of you. Lips finding yours, like how every moment his are not on yours, it feels like a poison coursing through his veins, an unbearable pain that only the sweet salve of your love can soothe.
His hard cock is flushed and absolutely weeping with need. It should be pathetic how much he wants you, but then again, you can’t help but find it deeply erotic. It also helps that you’re almost leaking onto the uplorstry with your own desire for him.
Words seem to fail you both, too loud yet not loud enough. With a nod from you, he slips inside your fluttering entrance, groaning loudly. The stretch of him stings as it always does, but it quickly disappears into a melting pool of pleasure in the base of your spine.
“Clark! Holy- oh my-” your head lolls back as he sinks deeper inside you. He is buried to the hilt when a groan rattles his chest.
“I’m sorry, princess, I didn’t prep you. I’m so sorry, love,” he's looking at you with those pathetic puppy eyes again. He's right, he usually will make you cum on his tongue and around his fingers before he would even consider getting inside of you. He’s large, and without some prep, he can be a little painful, but when he looks at you like that, your body responds like he’s spent hours between your thighs and not minutes kissing you in your doorway. You don’t know what's wrong with him. Why he’s like this, but you most certainly don’t mind.
His lips leave a burning path down your neck as he rocks his hips into yours. You can feel him calling on every ounce of strength to be some version of gentle.
“Clark, please, I can take it,” you tell it’s taking everything in him to hold back, and if he’s in such pain, you just want to help him. His hands shake from their place on your hips. You grasp his chin to make him look at you, your eyes again. His eyes are droopy and lust-filled behind his glasses. You take them off (you usually make him keep them on cause he’s so hot with them, but you need him focused currently), and he nuzzles into your palm on his cheek.
“Baby, you need to feel better. Please. Let me help. Just take it out on me. Use me,” you try to convince him with your eyes that you're serious and want this. Want him. Badly. And it seems to break the poor man. With an agonised groan, his hips twitch.
“Are you-” you interrupt him, your patience running thin.
“Yes, Clark.”
He hoists your thighs over your shoulders, hips snapping against yours, and it’s akin to heaven. He's so deep it feels like he's in your throat, and all you can do is gasp and moan at the sensation fluttering around his brutal thrusts.
You thought he was vocal before, but it’s like every thought the man has spills from his lips, babbling and groaning.
“You're so pretty.”
“Gosh, keep squeezing love.”
“My perfect girl”
“You're stunning.”
“Feel so good.”
Your hips start to canter into his, matching each thrust with eager need.
“This pussy is amazing.”
“I love you.”
“I need you.”
“Good girl”
“So pretty like this.”
It’s like a spell; every word that falls from his lips makes you melt and moan.
“Those sounds baby-golly.”
“Keep looking at me.”
“Such a good pussy.”
“You got it.”
That all too familiar feeling builds in the base of your spine. Warmth bleeding through your veins.
“Attagirl.”
“Look at you, taking me so well.”
“You’re perfect.”
One of his hands that was kneading your hips moves to your messy clit, the swollen nub almost painful to the touch, but god does it feel good when his thick, talented fingers circle it.
“That’s it, sweetheart.”
“So good, baby.”
“Wanna cum on my cock, huh?”
“Gonna let me fill you up, my princess?”
The string of yes’s and please’s that flow from you are almost embarrassingly needy, just so cock drunk as you watch him move in and out of you like your hypnotized by the sight of his cock disappearing and reappearing.
“Like watching, baby?”
He’s so thick and deep that you can see your stomach bulge with every thrust. He takes one of your hands and places it over the curve.
“Feel that?”
“Feel how good you’re taking me?”
“Such a good girl for me.”
A shudder runs down your spine, back arching off the sofa and into him.
“That’s it, my love.”
“You make me feel so good.”
“I’m so close.”
“Fuck! Clark, I’m gonna, oh baby-” You try to warn him as it feels all of a sudden like you're on the edge of a massive chasm about to tumble. Then he does something absolutely evil and brings one of his hands back to your clit, rubbing it in tight little circles.
“Attagirl, come on. Cum for me.”
And you do, clamping down as sparks fly behind your eyes, thighs shuddering, some truly pornographic sounds leaving your lips. But he doesn’t even falter, keeping the same bullying pace.
“Good girl. So perfect love.”
His hands find your breasts as the edges of your orgasm fade. Squeezing the soft flesh while still pounding into you. Your mind is fuzzy with pleasure as hip moth succkles on your left nipple, one hand on the other breast, giving it some attention, and the other hand digging into your hip to keep you from squirming away, his hips still meeting yours in dizzing thrusts.
He worships each one, eyes closed in soothed bliss, moaning like your skin is the most delectable thing he's ever tasted, he seems to run with that idea and kiss down your soft skin. You whine at the loss of him inside you, until he is face-to-face with your now fluttering, dripping core, looking at it like a lion about to feast on a gazelle. He shoves his face and begins digging into the soft lips with his tongue and teeth, slurping up the essence flowing out of you. He’s grunting and groaning your name against the sensitive skin.
“You taste so good, holy-”
He can’t even finish his own sentence before he dives back in. he’s always given good head, but damn, this is on another level, before he was watching every twitch and breath you made to try and make it feel better for you. But now? It’s like he couldn’t care less if it feels good for you, like he simply needs to taste everything you’ll give him.
“Clarkie! Holy shit!” you gasp out as your hands tug on his dark curls. He groans into your flesh, but you could not decipher what he meant. You tasted like sweet summer sun and lazy mornings and something so human and musky that Clark couldn’t imagine being parted from between your thighs. That is, until he hears it.
A moan that causes a break in him. A gasp that sends a shiver down his spine. It’s not like you even tried to sound good for him, but having him feast on your pussy has an effect. He sits back from you, a dazed look in his eyes.
“Fuck.”
Clark never swears. Like ever. Like you’ve never heard him swear until now. Surprise etched in every corner of your face. He doesn't seem to notice, burying his throbbing cock inside you again and fucking you harder than before. Entirely selfish in his movement, groaning into your shoulder. Folding your legs over his shoulders to get deeper, the momentum of his thrusts causing the couch to bang into the wall loudly, probably leaving a dent. Again, he doesn’t seem to notice or care, pistoning into you.
Words seem to fail him, only half-formed whines of your name and the first syllables of exploitives fall from his lips. Your cunt is so sensitive that even the feeling of the dark curls at the base of his pelvis rubbing against your clit is overwhelming. When you clamp down on him, he only groans and starts to fuck you deeper and harder until he whimpers in your ear.
“Need you to cum, sweetheart. Need you to squeeze me.”
He’s breathless, pleading. It doesn’t take long until you're babbling his name and fluttering around him and squeezing him with deep pulls cumming once again. He makes a hungry grunt before leaning down to your ear.
“Gonna cum baby, shit, gonna fill you up.”
You make a keening noise as he moans and thrusts into you. You feel him throb and leak inside you, finally being able to reach his climax, and it feels so incredibly good, like finally breathing after what felt like years without oxygen. He collapses on top of you with a sigh, his dick finally softening.
“Thank you, honey. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine Clark. Just come to me first next time. You worried me half to death.”
“Yes, ma’am.”