𝜗𝜚˚⋆No Nut November
౨ৎWarnings: Explicit sexual content, oral sex (female receiving), vaginal sex, desperate/needy behavior, orgasm denial (attempted), established relationship, porn with minimal plot, Clark Kent/Superman x female reader, dom/sub undertones, begging, praise kink elements, overstimulation, heavy sexual tension, teasing, sensory overload, marking/claiming behavior, multiple orgasms, creampie, resolved sexual tension, rutting/grinding
౨ৎA/N: Happy Thanksgiving yall! So glad I could post this before the month is over. I think I'm gonna post another for a different character soon too.
You lean against the kitchen counter in Clark's apartment, watching him finish the dishes after dinner. The Metropolis skyline glitters through the window behind him, all sharp neon and distant traffic. He's still in the button-down he wore to the Planet today, sleeves rolled to the elbow, glasses slightly fogged from the hot water.
You swirl the last of your wine and grin, struck by sudden inspiration.
"You know what starts tomorrow, Smallville?"
He glances over his shoulder, drying his hands on a towel. There's a smudge of soap bubbles on his forearm that he hasn't noticed yet. "November?"
"No Nut November," you say, like it's the most natural suggestion in the world.
Clark turns fully, brow furrowed in that earnest way that makes your heart squeeze. "No… nut?"
You laugh at how genuinely confused he looks, this man who can hear a heartbeat from across the city but somehow missed this particular internet knowledge. "It's a thing. Guys aren't allowed to cum for the whole month. Supposed to build discipline or something. Thought you might want to try it. You're always going on about self-control."
His ears go pink, that telltale sign that you've flustered him. "I'm… familiar with self-control," he says carefully, setting the towel aside.
"Yeah, but this is different. No sex, no jerking off, nothing. Thirty days." You tilt your head, studying him. "Bet you couldn't do it."
Clark scoffs, but there's a spark in his eyes now, competitive, defensive. "I could do it."
"Please. You like sex too much." You finish your wine, setting the glass down with a soft clink.
He steps closer, arms folding across his chest. The motion makes his shoulders look even broader. "I like you too much. There's a difference."
"Exactly," you say, poking his chest. The muscle is firm under your finger. "Which is why you'll fold in a week. Maybe less."
Something competitive flickers across his face. He hates being told he can't do something, it's the Kansas stubbornness, the same trait that makes him get back up no matter how many times he's knocked down. "You're on."
You blink. "Wait, really?"
"Challenge accepted. Whoever breaks first owes the other one anything they want. No limits." He offers his hand like you're closing a business deal.
You shake it, already tasting victory. "You're going to regret this, Kent."
He just smiles, way too confident. "We'll see."
That night, you sleep curled against his chest, his arm around your waist, and neither of you mentions that this is the last night before the bet begins. His thumb traces slow circles on your hip until you drift off. If his other hand adjusts himself through his pajama pants when he thinks you're asleep, you pretend not to notice.
Day One
Clark wakes up hard.
Not morning-wood hard. Aching, throbbing, please-God-let-me-inside-her hard. He lies there on his back, staring at the ceiling, one arm flung over his eyes. The sheets are twisted around his legs from where he'd been restless in the early morning hours, dreaming about your mouth, your hands, the way you'd sighed his name three nights ago when he'd taken you against the shower wall.
He hadn't realized how often you two have sex until the option is suddenly, brutally off the table. Seven times this week already, and it's only been three days since you last went out of town for work. There was Tuesday morning before the Planet, quick and breathless before coffee. Then Tuesday afternoon, slow and languid after you'd both come home exhausted. Thursdays morning, afternoon, and night. They were eagered that day especially. Friday, God, Friday you'd surprised him at lunch, tugging him into the supply closet with that wicked grin that means trouble.
The memory makes him harder. He grits his teeth and thinks about Darkseid. About Jimmy's truly terrible puns. About the time he accidentally used heat vision and melted Lois's coffee mug and she didn't speak to him for two days.
It doesn't help.
You're already in the kitchen when he shuffles out, wearing nothing but his boxers and a scowl. You're in one of his old Smallville High T-shirts, the faded red one with the quarterback number that's four sizes too big on you. The hem barely covers your thighs, and he can see the curve of your ass when you reach up to grab the flour from the top shelf. You're making pancakes like it's any normal Saturday, humming along to the radio.
"Morning," you chirp, glancing over your shoulder.
He grunts, pours coffee with more force than necessary. The mug clinks loudly against the counter. You flip a pancake and the motion makes the shirt ride higher. He watches the curve of your hip like a starving man, traces the line of your bare leg with his eyes.
You don't tease him, not really. You just exist, soft and warm and smelling like vanilla and sleep and home, and it's torture.
"Sleep okay?" you ask innocently, sliding pancakes onto plates.
"Fine," he lies. His voice comes out rougher than intended.
You bring the plates to the small dining table, syrup and butter already waiting. When you sit down next to him, your knee brushes his under the table. It's probably accidental. It feels like lightning.
Clark makes it through breakfast by cataloging every villain he's ever fought, in alphabetical order. Atomic Skull. Bizarro. Brainiac. Cyborg Superman. When that doesn't work, he moves on to mentally reviewing the entire Kryptonian alphabet. He's up to the fifteenth symbol when you ask if he wants more coffee.
"Yes. Please. Thank you." The words come out staccato.
You hide your smile behind your mug.
After breakfast, he volunteers to do laundry. Anything to keep his hands busy, his mind occupied. He tries his hardest to avoid your underwear, knowing what he'll do if he gets his hands on them. He's folding towels in the bedroom when you walk in wearing those yoga pants that should be illegal and a sports bra, hair pulled up in a ponytail.
"Going for a run," you announce, stretching your arms overhead.
The motion makes everything shift and tighten in ways that have him white-knuckling a bath towel. "Cool. Great. Good."
You pause in the doorway, looking back at him. "You okay, Smallville? You sound like a malfunctioning robot."
"Totally fine. Very fine. Have a good run."
When you leave, he sits down hard on the bed and drops his head into his hands. It's been eight hours.
Day Two
He spends half his day at the Planet trying not to think about you bent over the kitchen counter yesterday morning, reaching for that flour. Or the way you'd stretched before your run. Or the fact that you'd come back from said run flushed and breathless, skin glowing with sweat, and headed straight for the shower. His shower. Where you'd definitely been naked.
He'd fled to the balcony and pretended to check for emergencies.
"Kent!" Lois snaps her fingers in front of his face. "Earth to Clark. You've been staring at that paragraph for ten minutes."
He blinks, refocusing on his computer screen. The article about the new city council budget initiative swims before his eyes. "Sorry. Just… thinking."
"About what? You look like someone kicked your puppy." She leans against his desk, arms crossed. "Actually, you look like someone told you that you can't have your puppy back for a month."
The metaphor is so accurate it physically hurts. "I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You've been jumpy all day. Is something wrong? Kryptonian flu? Solar flare messing with your powers?" Her voice drops, concerned now rather than teasing.
"No, nothing like that. Just tired."
Lois studies him for a moment, her eyes squinting as she traced his figure. He was hunched over, his face looked exhausted, his hair was messier than it usually is, probably from running his fingers through it all day. "Uh-huh. This wouldn't have anything to do with the fact that you keep checking your phone every five minutes, would it?"
He hasn't texted you since this morning. You'd sent him a photo of the coffee you'd made, perfectly foamed latte art in the shape of a heart. Then another of the view from his balcony, captioned "missing you already". He'd stared at that message for a full minute before typing back a simple "miss you too", afraid that anything more would sound as desperate as he felt.
"We're fine," he says. "Everything's fine."
"Sure it is." Lois pats his shoulder, not buying it for a second. "Well, when you're ready to talk about whatever's making you act like a Victorian gentleman with the vapors, you know where to find me."
Jimmy appears after she leaves, rolling his chair over with that grin that means he's about to show Clark something he doesn't want to see. "Dude, you have to check out this TikTok. It's this whole thing where guys try not to—"
"No," Clark says immediately. "Whatever it is, no."
"But it's hilarious! They're all struggling and their girlfriends are—"
"Jimmy." He uses the tone usually reserved for stopping bank robberies.
Jimmy wheels back, hands up. "Okay, okay. Geez. Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed."
If only he knew.
By the time he flies home (quietly, through the balcony so no one sees), he's vibrating with tension. Every nerve ending feels exposed. He'd stopped a mugging in Suicide Slums, trying not to think about you at home, laying in his tee shirt, with your body stretched across the couch. The mugger almost got away.
You're curled on the couch in leggings and an oversized hoodie when he arrives, reading one of those fantasy novels you love, the kind with embossed covers and maps in the front. You look up when you hear him land, face lighting up.
"Hey, you."
"Hey yourself." He drops his bag, toes off his shoes, and immediately crowds into your space. He can't help it. He's been thinking about you all day, and now you're here, solid and real and his.
You let him press against you, setting your book aside. His nose finds that spot on your neck that always smells impossibly good, something floral and warm that he can't quite identify. He breathes in deep, hands sliding around your waist.
"Missed you," he murmurs against your skin.
"Mmm. Missed you too." Your fingers card through his hair, and he makes a sound that's embarrassingly close to a purr. "Bad day?"
"Just long." He's lying by omission. Every day is going to feel long for the next twenty-eight days.
He presses closer, lips brushing your pulse point. You tilt your head to give him better access, and he takes it as the invitation it is, trailing kisses up the column of your throat. Your breath hitches, fingers tightening in his hair, and the sound goes straight through him.
His hips roll forward almost without conscious thought, seeking friction, relief, anything. He's so hard it hurts, and you're so soft against him, and for a moment he forgets everything except the need to be closer, closer—
You catch his wrists when his hands start to wander south. "Rules, Clark."
The reminder is gentle but firm. He groans into your shoulder, hips rolling helplessly against your thigh one more time before he forces himself still. The effort it takes is monumental. Herculean. Sisyphean.
You pat his cheek, sympathetic but unmoved. "Poor baby. One whole day."
He wants to argue that it's been thirty-six hours actually, that every minute feels like an eternity, that he's this close to flying to the Arctic and punching icebergs until the ache subsides. Instead, he slumps against you, defeated.
"This was a terrible idea."
"Your idea," you remind him, trying not to laugh.
"You challenged me."
"And you rose to it, Smallville. Very heroic." You're definitely laughing now, the sound vibrating through your chest where he's pressed against you.
He spends the rest of the night glued to your side, arm around your waist, fingers tracing innocent circles on your hip like touch alone might keep him sane. You let him, even shift to accommodate him better when you move to the bedroom. He falls asleep with his face buried in your neck, breathing you in, and dreams of all the things he can't have.
Day Three
Movie night. You pick something with explosions so he has something to focus on besides the way your thigh is draped over his lap. Something from Marvel that makes him scoff every once in a while.
You're wearing his grey sweatpants, the ones that disappeared from his drawer three months ago and that you swear you know nothing about, and a thin camisole, hair still damp from the shower. You smell like you usually do, something sweet and warm, and it's driving him slowly insane.
Halfway through the film, he can't hear the dialogue anymore. All he hears is your heartbeat, steady and close, and the soft rustle of fabric every time you breathe. Your fingers card idly through his hair, blunt nails occasionally scraping against his scalp in a way that makes him want to arch into the touch like a cat.
He can hear every tiny sound you make. The almost-inaudible hitch when your breathing shifts. The soft sigh when you stretch slightly. The faint rustle of cotton against skin. It's overwhelming, a symphony composed just for him, and he's drowning in it.
He shifts, trying to adjust himself without you noticing. You notice.
Your hand stills in his hair. Your heartbeat kicks up, just a fraction. He can smell the change in your scent, subtle but there. Arousal, faint but unmistakable.
"Clark," you warn softly.
"I know," he rasps. His voice is wrecked already, rough with want. "I'm trying."
You pause the movie. The sudden silence is deafening. The room falls quiet except for both of your breathing, his coming too fast, yours carefully controlled. The city hums outside the window, but it feels like you're alone in the entire universe.
He looks at you with those ridiculous blue eyes, pupils blown wide and dark. His jaw is tight, a muscle jumping as he clenches it. He looks wrecked, undone, like he's holding himself back through sheer force of will that's rapidly crumbling.
It seems to have finally collapsed.
"I can't—" He swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing. "Please touch me. Anything. Your hand, your mouth, I don't care. I just—"
You cup his jaw. His skin is warm, almost burning in its heat. "It's only day three."
"I know," he whispers. His eyes fall closed. "I know, but I'm begging you."
He drops to his knees in front of the couch before you can answer, hands on your thighs. The movement is fluid, graceful despite its desperation. He presses his forehead to your knee, and you feel the warm wash of his breath through the thin fabric of the sweatpants.
"Let me taste you," he breathes against your skin. "Please. I'll be so good, I swear. I'll make you feel amazing and I won't ask for anything else, just— let me do this. Need to taste you, need to feel you, need—" He breaks off, shaking.
You've never heard him sound this desperate. Not even the night he came home after almost dying in space, when he'd held you so tight you could barely breathe and made love to you like he was memorizing every inch of your skin.
Your resolve cracks like cheap glass.
"Take the sweatpants off," you say quietly.
He has them down your legs in a heartbeat, gentle despite the urgency. His hands shake slightly as he slides them over your feet, tossing them aside. You're not wearing anything underneath, you stopped bothering with underwear in the apartment months ago, much to his eternal delight, and his sharp inhale is audible.
"God," he breathes. "You're already wet."
You are. You have been since he started looking at you with those desperate eyes. The knowledge that he felt that for you in three days with nothing but longing makes heat pool low in your belly.
He spreads your thighs with reverent hands, positioning himself between them. For a moment, he just looks, and you feel exposed in the best way, seen completely.
"You're so beautiful," he murmurs. "Can't believe you're mine."
Then his mouth is on you, and coherent thought becomes impossible.
He eats you out like it's the only thing keeping him alive, like your pleasure is oxygen and he's been suffocating. Thorough, worshipful, messy. His tongue drags through your folds with deliberate slowness, learning every response, cataloging what makes you gasp and what makes you moan. When he seals his lips around your clit and sucks gently, your back arches off the couch.
You hips start to buck, grinding slightly on his face even as he holds you down. Sounds of your heavy breath and his slurping fill the room instantly. It's messy and desperate, as if it's been three years instead of three days.
"Clark— fuck—"
Every time you make a sound he hums against you, encouraged, the vibration making your thighs tremble. He's always been responsive in bed, attentive to every signal your body gives him, but this is something else entirely. This is worship. This is devotion.
His tongue circles your entrance before pushing inside, and your hand flies to his hair, gripping tight. He groans like you've given him a gift, the sound muffled and filthy. His nose nudges your clit as he works his tongue deeper, and the stimulation has you grinding against his face again.
He lets you this time, encourages it even, hands gripping your hips to pull you closer. One of his hands slides up under your camisole, palming your breast, thumb finding your nipple. The sensation makes you cry out.
"That's it," he murmurs against you, pulling back just enough to speak. His lips are shiny, pupils blown so wide his eyes look almost black. "Want to hear you. Want to know I'm making you feel good. You have no idea how much I've thought about this. Every day, all day. The taste of you, the sounds you make. Been driving me crazy."
Then he's back, licking broad stripes through your folds before focusing on your clit. The pressure is perfect, not too much but exactly enough, building steadily.
When you come the first time, it rolls through you in waves, pleasure sparking up your spine. Your thighs clamp around his head and you pull his hair hard enough that it would hurt anyone else. He rides it out with you, gentling his movements as you come down, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs.
You're catching your breath, loose-limbed and satisfied, when he slides two fingers inside you. Your over-sensitive body jolts, but he's careful, patient.
"One more," he says against your thigh. "Please. You taste so good, want to feel you come on my fingers. Want to remember this for the next twenty-seven days. Please, sweetheart."
How can you deny him anything when he asks like that?
He curls his fingers just right, finding that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. His mouth finds your clit again, tongue moving in devastating circles, and the combination is overwhelming. The second orgasm builds faster than the first, harder, more intense. When it crashes, you actually cry out his name, head thrown back, thighs shaking.
Only then does he pull back, lips swollen and shiny, eyes glassy. He rests his cheek on your thigh and looks up at you like you hung the moon and painted the stars.
"Thank you," he breathes. "Thank you, that was— God. You're incredible."
You stroke his hair, catching your breath. Your whole body feels warm and heavy, thoroughly satisfied. You tug him up by his hair, gentle but insistent, and he follows willingly, crawling back onto the couch. His body covers yours in a heartbeat, all that solid weight and heat pressing you into the cushions.
He's still fully clothed, soft henley clinging to his chest, sweatpants tented at the front, and the contrast makes you shiver. You're bare from the waist down, camisole rucked up around your ribs, and the feel of his clothed form against your oversensitive skin is electric.
"Clark," you breathe, hands sliding under his shirt to trace the ridges of his abs. His muscles jump under your touch, like he's been waiting for this for centuries instead of days.
He captures your mouth in a kiss that's all desperation and relief, lips parting yours with a groan that vibrates through your chest. His tongue sweeps in, tasting of you, and you arch into him, fingers digging into his back.
He kisses like he's starving, like this is the first meal after a famine, deep and thorough and a little messy. One hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek, while the other braces against the couch arm to keep from crushing you.
But you want to be crushed. You hook a leg around his hip, pulling him closer, and he rolls his hips down instinctively. The hard length of him presses against you through the thin fabric of his sweatpants, right where you're still slick and throbbing from his mouth. The friction is exquisite, a spark that reignites the fire he'd just coaxed from you.
He breaks the kiss with a gasp, forehead pressing to yours. "Sweetheart— I shouldn't— we have the bet—"
"Forget the bet," you whisper, nipping at his jaw. Your hands roam lower, palming his ass to encourage another grind. "You lost already. Lasted three days. That's enough control."
He huffs a laugh that's half groan, eyes squeezing shut as he rocks against you again, slower this time, deliberate. The bulge in his pants drags along your folds, the cotton barrier adding a teasing roughness that makes you both shudder. You can feel him throb, the heat of him seeping through the fabric, and it makes you clench around nothing, aching for more.
"God, you're so wet," he murmurs, voice rough and reverent. "Can feel you soaking through my pants. Been thinking about this— about being inside you— every second."
His hips circle now, grinding in a rhythm that's torturously slow, building the pressure between you. Each pass rubs the head of his cock, still trapped behind fabric, against your clit, sending jolts of pleasure up your spine. You're both panting, breaths mingling in the scant space between your faces. His glasses are fogged again, slightly askew from the kissing, and you reach up to pull them off, tossing them onto the coffee table with a clatter.
Without them, his eyes look even bluer, more intense, locked on yours as he keeps moving. The couch creaks faintly under the shift of his weight, but neither of you cares. His free hand slides under your camisole, pushing it higher until your breasts are exposed. He ducks his head to take a nipple in his mouth, sucking gently, and the sensations have you moaning his name.
"Clark, please," you beg, fingers threading through his curls again. You're grinding back now, meeting his movements, the slick slide making everything hotter, messier. His sweatpants are damp where they press against you, a testament to how worked up you both are.
He releases your nipple with a soft pop, lips trailing up your chest to your neck. "Tell me what you want," he rasps against your skin. "Anything. I'll give you anything."
"You," you say simply, tugging at the waistband of his pants. "All of you. Inside me. Now."
He nods frantically, sitting back just enough to shove his sweatpants and boxers down in one hurried motion. They catch at his knees, but he doesn't bother kicking them off fully, too impatient. His cock springs free, hard and flushed, tip glistening with pre-cum. The sight makes your mouth water, but there's no time for that. He's already settling back between your thighs, guiding himself to your entrance.
He pauses there, just the head notched against you, and looks down at you with something like awe mixed with agony. Wanting so desperately to shove himself as far in as possible, but wanting you to enjoy every second of what he has to offer. You see his hesitation and pull him down into a kiss, messy and wet.
He sinks into you on a long, slow thrust, and the stretch is perfect, filling you completely. You both groan into the kiss, his body shuddering as he bottoms out. He's so deep, so hot inside you, and for a moment he just holds there, forehead against yours, breathing ragged.
"Missed this," he whispers. "Missed you. So much."
Then he starts to move, pulling back almost all the way before driving in again, deep and hard. The pace is desperate from the start, no teasing buildup, just raw need. His hips snap against yours, the sound of skin on skin filling the room, mingled with your gasps and his low growls.
He's everywhere: hands roaming your body, mouth on your neck, your breasts, your lips, like he can't decide where to focus, like he needs to touch all of you at once.
You wrap both legs around his waist, heels digging into his back to urge him deeper, faster. He obliges, angling his hips to hit that spot inside you that makes your vision blur. Pleasure builds again, coiling tight in your core, and you can tell he's close too, his thrusts growing erratic, breaths coming in harsh pants against your ear.
"Come with me," he pleads, one hand slipping between you to circle your clit. "Want to feel you— please—"
The added pressure sends you over the edge, clenching around him as waves of ecstasy crash through you. Your nails rake down his back, hard enough to leave marks if he weren't invulnerable, and he follows seconds later, burying himself deep with a broken moan. Heat floods you as he spills inside, his whole body trembling with the release.
He collapses against you, careful not to crush, but you pull him closer anyway, wanting the weight. For long minutes, you just lie there, tangled and sated, his heart thundering against yours. The movie is long forgotten, the city lights twinkling indifferently through the window.
Finally, he lifts his head, that soft smile back on his face. "So… I lost."
You laugh, stroking his cheek. "We both did. Worth it."
"Definitely." He kisses you gently, lingering. "Rematch next year?"
You arch a brow. "Only if you think you can last longer than three days."
"Challenge accepted."
Even Superman has limits, and you're apparently his.
