phantom limb (c.k)
Clark Kent x fem!reader
synopsis: On an investigation, you walk into a pink haze that sets your body on fire with pain, and need. The coworker you've been pining after (who may or may not be superman) brings you to his apartment to help with the situation
contains: MINORS GET OUT!!! explicit sexual material, titty sucker clark kent, fingering (f!receiving), reader is technically in a state so it could be seen as dub con but I wrote it so that we all understand she has wanted clark for quite a while, sex pollen, fluff, pining, feelings
LuthorCorp’s old warehouse was dark and dank. It smelled of rust and a vaguely floral chemical you couldn’t quite place. Not to mention, the place was huge! Hallway after hallway of various products, failed Kryptonite experiments, corroded metal, and a general sense of doom. Wholeheartedly, you hated it.
You and Clark had split up about an hour ago, and you’d watched his broad back retreat into the dark for a total of three minutes before you told yourself you’d pay attention. Three hallways in, you were still thinking of Clark’s muscled shoulders.
The job itself was dull. Clark had to take notes, while you took photos to accompany his piece, exposing the harm of LuthorCorp to the environment. You’d taken photos of just about every vaguely-poisonous looking material you could find, and were looking through them, eyes glued to the screen of your camera when you ran into it.
A cloud of pink, perfumed vapor hovered in the room in front of you. The scent was almost cloyingly sweet, and the cloud itself was warm. Against better judgement, you screamed. Immediately, you could hear Clark shout your name from the other end of the building, and sprint towards you, but the damage had already been done.
Your head felt like it had been stuffed with cotton, thick and filled to the brim with thoughts you should probably not be having. Thoughts about Clark, thoughts about Superman, thoughts about literally every celebrity crush you’d ever had. Your skin prickled, like little sparklers were being set alight over it, tracing paths up your arms and your thighs.
You could barely speak, the words sticking in your mouth like chewing gum, as you tried to process what was happening and tell Clark to stay away from you. Gasping, you fell to your knees, hands scrabbling for any hold in the floor as your body flared with heat, unbearable heat, like you’d been set ablaze.
Clark ran towards you, seeming to not notice the thick pink smog that had encircled your body like a gauzy veil. His hands touched your face, scanning for damage, but all you could muster was a growl of “get away from me.” He took a hurried step back, his hands shaking like he was physically restraining himself from touching your huddled form on the floor. “I– I don’t feel good, Kent,” you mumbled, palms pushing against the concrete, trying to move yourself away from him.
You could see the moment when Clark finally clocked the haze, realizing you weren’t hurt on the outside, but there was something trying to get to you from within. “Come home with me.” Clark insisted, trying not to note how your pulse fluttered even higher at the request, “Someone needs to keep watch and do the research to make sure it’s nothing toxic.”
Clark bent down, offering you a hand, ever the polite, gentlemanly coworker. You reached for him, joints screaming at the motion, and the second your skin made contact with his–
Bliss. Pure, unadulterated pleasure. Coming from all sides of your body, pressing on you like a warm blanket. You moaned– actually moaned, audible enough for the tips of Clark’s ears to turn red at the noise. Slowly, the novelty of the touch faded, and he helped you up, staggering away from the mist. He took a photo, shooting it off in a tex to “a coworker”, but you could see the contact was Mr. Terrific, which didn’t make any sense, but you assumed he had an in through his interviews with Superman.
The walk to his apartment was blissfully short. Though Clark was supporting half your weight, your organs itched in your skin, and your cheeks heated until you could feel the burn radiating off of them. You could see that the soft, whimpering noises you were making were starting to get to Clark. He was trying (key word: trying) to ignore the spike of your heartbeat, the way your thighs clenched whenever you glanced up at him, the smell of your arousal. His coworker was injured, goshdarnit, and he couldn’t stop thinking of how you would feel under him. It was obscene.
The second the door creaked open, Clark was placing you on the couch, hand cradling your head as if you were made of porcelain. Your body was limp, quick to sink into his cushions, and you groaned, because the second he took his hands away, the pain increased tenfold.
You desperately didn’t want to ask Clark for help. Truthfully, you’d been pining after him for the better part of a year now, finding solace in stolen glances at work and cups of coffee with his name and a smiley face scribbled on them. You knew he didn’t like you back. That much was obvious. You’d made it so abundantly clear with your infatuation that he would have to be blind to not see how you looked at him, and he would have to see you platonically to not respond to your subtle flirting.
But the fire inside you raged on, and your body grew hot, too hot, and suddenly you were pulling your shirt off, trying to breathe because the heat was suffocating you and you were drowning in the weight of your need and–
“What… what are you doing?” A mug clattered to the floor in Clark’s kitchen. He was staring at you, eyes sticking to your face, like he knew that if he dared look lower, he'd never be able to look away from the flesh you’d bore to him, to his apartment.
“Kent…” you mumbled “ ‘m so hot, it’s like it's eating me,” Clark’s eyebrows knit together, and he crossed the room in two strides, placing a hand to your forehead. “Sweetheart–” you whimpered, the touch, and the way the pet name slid off his tongue mixing in your brain, “sweeheart, what is eating you?”
“You– you saw it, Clark, the pink stuff, it’s making me all warm and itchy and gosh ineedyousobad–” you clapped a hand over your mouth, realizing what you’d said. Clark’s mouth was slightly open, the shock evident on his face like it was written across his forehead. He didn’t say anything. You didn’t either. You just stared, stared at the outline of his lips and the way they were pressed together in a firm line. You stared at his biceps, thighs clenching unconsciously, and you tried to pretend you weren’t in the worst pain of your entire life.
The moment passed quickly, because Clark’s cell buzzed with a call, and he jumped to take it. You rolled over on the couch, pretending that the press of the cushions against your skin wasn’t about to send you into orbit. You could barely make out the conversation, listening with all your might and only catching Clark’s side. It didn’t sound particularly good. The talk contained a lot of sentences like “she’s been dosed with what?” and, “Will it wear off?” and even a “You don’t realize what you’re asking of me, T” and then the conversation was over, and Clark folded his knees to sit next to you on the ground.
“It’ll last about ten hours– the burning, that is.” You nodded, not trusting what words would come out of your mouth next. Clark looked exhausted, hair sticking up at odd angles like he’d been running his fingers through it. You wished you could run your fingers through his hair.
“But uh. I’m sure you want to know what the drug is.” He said flatly, shoulders wound and tense, worry painting his features. He was paler than usual, his skin looking too light against the dark curls splayed over his forehead. You nodded again, rolling over to face him properly, your noses inches apart, faces close enough together that his eyes went kind of crossed so they could focus on you. “Sex pollen,” he breathed.
“To try to stimulate the birth rate in Metropolis.” You groaned, pain sparking behind your eyes as you flopped back over onto your back.
“I uh–” Clark swallowed, and took a deep breath. “I was told that if you… achieved orgasm, it would erm… help.” He turned away, curling further into himself like he thought that if he could make himself smaller, the problem would become smaller as well.
The two of you said nothing for a minute, until Clark got up, grabbing a blanket to drape over your chest, just for something to do. “You can stay here for a while, I can try and find some medicine but I don’t really keep it in the house.” This spiked your curiosity a little, and you raised an eyebrow, silently questioning him. “I don’t really need it,” he shrugged.
“Do you.. Do you not get sick?” you rasped, brain working a mile a minute. “Something like that, yeah.” He muttered.
“Clark…” He loved the way his name sounded on your tongue, like you were savoring each letter, saved just for him. No ‘Kent’ anymore, just Clark. “Clark, are you Superman?”
The look on his face would’ve been funny if you weren’t currently feeling like your body was catching alight. The blood drained out of his face, and his mouth gaped wordlessly, like he was struggling for air. “I..” he broke off, but before he could explain better, a new wave of pain flooded your system, and you arched off the couch, body wracking with liquid fire. Clark was on you in a second, blowing precious cool air onto your skin. “Touch me, Clark, I need it so bad, pleasepleaseplease,” You moaned, gripping onto his shoulders, nails clenched on his shirt. Against better judgement, your hips bucked, chasing any sort of friction as the pit in your stomach burned deeper.
Your hands were scrabbling across the broad plane of his chest, trying to hold on like Clark could shield you from the pain. He grabbed your wrists, clutching them together with one hand so he could pin them above your head. “Calm down,” he muttered, trying to think of something, anything to stop the pain you were in, but all you did was moan and turn your head away from him, too embarrassed at your actions.
“Do you… Do you have a boyfriend or someone I can call? To uh, help you?” Clark looked like the sentence hurt to speak, but he steeled himself for the answer anyway. “No Clark,” you groaned. “The only person I would want to help me is already here,” you said quietly. And Clark, bless him, had the audacity to look around, like there was some sort of man in the apartment with you that could give you the pleasure you needed to get better.
A piece of you crumbled when he looked over his shoulder, like confirmation he couldn’t think of you that way. “I’m sorry, ‘m so sorry Clark, imsorryimsorryimsorry” you grit out, “I’ve wanted you for a year, since I walked into the Planet, and I tried to be respectful because I know you don’t see me like that, but god, you’re the only one I want to help and I know that’s uncomfortable.” It was the most coherent you’d sounded since you’d been dosed, and it broke his heart to see you like this.
“Darling, no.” He whispered. “I’ve wanted you a while too, it’s just you’re not you right now, and I don’t want to do anything you’d regret.” Your heart burst, beating hard enough for Clark to hear, and you whined again. “I won’t regret it, Clark, I swear– I need it so bad, it hurts so bad Clark!” His hand released your wrists, and cupped the side of your face, the callouses on his palm scraping against your cheek.
You could see the moment he gave in, the fight behind his eyes dying as he took in your flushed cheeks, nipples hard through your bra, and the smell of how turned on you were.
“Fine.” He muttered, claiming your lips with his tongue pressing against the seam of your mouth, begging for entry. When your lips parted, his tongue dove in, licking and tasting, giving you the relief that you’d been begging for hours from him. His hand slipped down your face, pulling at the cups of your bra, before gently pinching your left nipple.
You gasped, arching into his touch immediately. It felt like everything. Like a thousand people singing their prayers to Clark, to pleasure, to whatever was happening between the two of you. The pain lifted off of your body like a sheet, revealing the delight of Clark’s hands on you.
His lips parted from yours, and you whined in protest, not before he wrapped them around your other peak, licking and sucking like he was trying to drain the life from you. It felt so good, so good, that you could feel your orgasm building in you like a wave, all of the pain receding from the shore of your body.
“Clark– ‘m gonna–” you broke off, whimpering at the force of his fingers on you. He slid his hands lower, a digit rubbing between your legs, circling closer and closer to where you needed him. “Baby–” he groaned, like you were the one touching him. “Baby you are so wet,” he was gasping, mouthing harder at your tits, leaving them spit-slicked and hard. One long finger slipped into you, curling to meet the spongy spot hidden between your legs. Your hips chased his fingers, bucking into his palm, searching for something, anything to ease the ache that had settled deep in your bones.
“Clark, I’m coming–” you bit off, sinking your teeth hard into his shoulder, not caring if you left a mark. You came hard, spots forming in your vision as you groaned into Clark, not caring how loud your noises were becoming. He worked you through it until your legs shook from exhaustion, until you were begging for him to stop, tears pooling in your eyes as you pushed his hand away from your body.
“All better?” He asked, voice low in the newfound quiet of the post-orgasmic peace that Clark had granted you. “All better,” you murmured back, staring blankly at the ceiling, trying to internalize all that had just happened. Clark licked his finger clean, then reached for you, holding you to his chest as he moved to carry you to his bedroom.
You could feel the evidence of his arousal, hot and heavy against your core, with your legs wrapped around his torso, but your heavy lidded eyes protested as you offered to help him, to repay what he had done for you. “No.. No I’m okay, love” he mumbled into your ear, his neck flushed red.
His lamps were already off, and his bed neatly made when he gently laid you into it, pulling the duvet back so you could warm yourself up under his blankets. He smoothed them back over you, rubbing your shoulders as you settled face-down into his pillow, body laden with exhaustion.
“I… I meant what I said,” said Clark, quietly. “I have wanted you for a while, since you started bringing me coffee, since you started writing those notes…” He broke off, staring at the lights of the city outside the window. “And I trust you a lot. And I think,” he paused, looking down at the outline of you in the sheets. You let out a soft snore, already fast asleep. “I think I’m in love with you.” The words echoed through the room without any ear to hear them, you continued sleeping soundly, the cars on the street continued honking, and the world spun on.
But for Clark, the words changed a little piece in his heart, wrapped in post it notes and coffee sleeves and borrowed coats. It grew a little bigger, and took up more residence in him as he gave your shoulder a final squeeze, and grabbed a spare pillow to head out to the couch.
There was a lot ahead for the two of you, and a hard conversation waiting for the morning, but Clark could feel you, like a phantom limb, the faint thud of your heartbeat soothing him from the room over as he drifted off into sleep.
