#tom welling

[thattripleabattery]

[cinematv]

SMALLVILLE (2001 - 2010) 6.09 "Subterranean"

[onlyasteelmancanbealover]

the odd couple

fratboy!clark kent x fem!chubby!nerd!reader

18+ mdni, ao3

original ask <3

summary: nobody expects the frat boy and the chubby, nerdy girl to ever look in each others’ direction. but who cares what people expect?

word count: 3.5k

contains: fluff & smut. frat clark the wonderful gorgeous sassy little gentleman, reader is a weird literary nerd, lois lane being kickass propaganda. college kids being pretentious to turn each other on, my fav. some talk of drinking/being drunk, fraternity parties. clark and reader uhaul lesbian tf outta each other, first kiss/boyfriend trope. *piv, protected sex, light and bubbly and sweet because ughhhh… *no use of y/n

a/n: well yes, @intwoweeks ! i love frat clark, if you guys want more i will definitely do more with him– fics, blurbs, whatevs. hope you like ;)

————————————͙͘͡★———————————

If we asked anyone to explain how you and Clark Kent went well together, they would be at a loss for words. From the outside, it just… didn’t make sense. But then again, neither of you really made sense as individuals. That is, you didn’t fit into boxes in the way college kids like to. 

Clark was a brother in Alpha Gamma Rho. He was a backwards-hat, cut-off tank kind of guy. The legend of AGR keggers because he never seemed to get drunk. The very same legend who held doors for everyone, even if it made him late. You could see Clark mowing down brothers on the frat lawn in a game of tackle football, or studying with a pair of crooked, taped glasses in the library. Sometimes he was pulling senior pranks, parking cars on roofs or wrapping an office in Christmas paper. Other times he was exercising his secret duty of negotiating with campus police when a party was coming up, bringing them donuts and promising no problems, if they’ll only let it run its course. Needless to say, the farmboy wore many hats– but he had a core that was simple. Warm, thoughtful, passionate love. Intentional care. Remarkable intelligence. Those were just a few things that you loved about Clark. 

And you– well, who could ever figure you out? The girl with no solid shtick. President of the literature club, occasional peer tutor through the university library, who could often be found committing drunken karaoke offenses at the off-campus bar with your friend and roommate Lois. Nobody would be shocked to see you in fishnets and lacy black everything one day, and mary janes and a denim skirt the next. You walked with your head down and iPod blasting on school sidewalks, but you managed robust debates in class. You even put on the bulldog mascot suit and rushed the field during your sophomore-year homecoming game, because your public speaking professor (assistant coach of the MetU team, coincidentally) offered anyone a pass on the final presentation if they had the guts. When your peers would walk by and see you either hiding in a novel or handing out bookmarks for your club, no one batted an eye – because you were just that girl who did anything. Knowing everyone, yet knowing no one. 

It seemed every expectation of you both was subverted by another facet. Multi-dimensional in a one-note world. College isn’t always the place for fully-formed people like that, but perhaps it can be good for finding each other… can’t it?

You and Clark worked from the beginning.

He liked you when he found you standing in the corner of one of his frat parties, cradling a vodka cranberry (heavy on the vodka) with glazed eyes, staring over the sea of bodies like someone had personally offended you. He thought your dopey frown was sweet. You both remembered that night like it was yesterday.

—͙͘͡★—

“What’s the matter?” Clark had cooed, sauntering over with an empty beer bottle and a torturous little smirk on his face. His eyes were green and bright like the light across from Gatsby’s dock. You loved Gatbsy. Your drunken self thought of Gatsby religiously. Something about drinking and prohibition, and then the thought train just…

“My one friend dragged me here, and I think she’s gettin’ her face chewed over there,” you slurred, pouting, as a black-polished nail pointed across the party to another corner near the kitchen. Your good friend Lois, the only friend you had, really, had a guy in a jersey shoved up against the wall like she wore the pants in that makeout. 

Clark snickered and rested his elbow on your shoulder, laughing softer when you tried to wrestle out from under it. “You’re friends with Lane? That can’t be right. Lois is wild– and she’s here all the time. I’ve never seen you before.”

You lifted your buzzing head and rolled your eyes, sipping your drink– nearly missing the straw, and chasing it with your tongue. “Yeah, well, she needed a resume booster and I needed to get out of the house.”

Clark grinned at your soft mushing words, and he jutted his chin out with a curiously furrowed brow. “How many of those have you had, shortie?”

With a disgruntled scoff, you deflected: “M’not short!”

“Right, you’re just tall among hobbits,” Clark said, and he sat against the windowsill beside you.

He took a second to look you over that night. You had on quite the mix: a dainty little silver necklace that would nod to self-discipline, but it was bracketed by a denim jacket filthy with button pins screaming of new wave and half-niches. A little square neck tank that revealed a freckle by your collarbone. Army green cargos that rose low enough to squeeze the chub of your hips and tummy. Your boots had to have a platform at the very least one inch tall, he deduced, because they were serious and you were still short. And to top it off, there was a plum rim around your lips but a soft, neutral center, which meant you had lipstick on at some point, and had drank it all off. 

All of your small contradictions mixed with your very suspicious glances at him made his heart thump, and he knew then and there that he could see you sitting across from him at diners and nuzzling into his neck at theaters. He saw you kissing his cheek, he saw you crying over a test, he saw you waking up with tank top straps slipping from your rounded shoulders and yawning like a cat. He saw you with him, the little romantic…

“Y’know, you don’t look like a frat party kind of girl.”

“I do what I want,” you scrunched your nose, “Nothing means anything anyway.”

“Oh, do I detect a little nihilism, shortie?” Clark teased.

You swatted his shoulder and whined, “I am not short! And do you even know what that word means?”

“What, you think I’m an idiot?”

“Who coined nihilism?” you sneered, leaning down a bit to study his eyes, to see if they shifted. 

Clark tipped his head back and craned up, giving you a knowing grin. “Nietzsche. But that one guy Jacobi was the first guy to bring it up, Nietzsche just made it big. There was that other guy who wrote about it in Fathers and Sons…”

“Turgenev,” you suddenly smiled, the drunken judgement slipping away. “You know your depressing Germans!”

“And Russians,” he hummed, smiling wider. Your eyes were big as the moon, and his heart felt like it could seize at any moment. He had to find a way to keep you. “What’s your name, smartypants?”

By the way you smiled, it was clear you preferred that nickname. 

—͙͘͡★—

It was unusual, following that fateful encounter. Usually in college you get the couple who dances around each other for years, or you get the two horndogs who can’t even wait until the first date. For you and Clark, it just started… shapeless. 

You were too drunk to walk home that night, and so was Lois, so instead of letting you crash with all the other drunkies on the ground floor of the AGR fraternity, Clark personally put you both up in his room. He slept in his buddy Oliver’s room next door, in case he heard any creepers try to catch you or Lois offguard… or if he heard any puking. Then, when he expected to find you embarrassed the following morning, you were simply precious. A perfect, whiny little picture of a hangover– asking him shamelessly for McDonald’s and hogging his mattress until the fog cleared. When he asked Lois if you’re usually so fond of quick friendships, she just raised an eyebrow and said, “Don’t be stupid.”

And you liked him from the start, too. Let’s get that straight. 

You didn’t really want to, because the reputations of frat guys seemed to lean towards accuracy in most cases– but you couldn’t deny that they could be brutally attractive. When he stalked over with a Sharks cap on backwards, pretty little curls of chocolate peeking out at the nape of his neck, flexing those annoyingly toned arms under an AGR short-sleeve, you felt heat creep up the back of your neck. If you weren’t drunk, you might have been a bit more stuttery. But it was when he gazed up at you like a puppy whilst dropping all kinds of specialized knowledge on philosophy, the soft timbre of his tone cutting through the egregious EDM shaking the house, you felt the butterflies making your toes curl in your boots. He was sweet, non-threatening, and he smiled like a wolf. Something in your gut told you that Clark Kent was hiding a whole lot of beautiful behind that brotherhood insignia on his chest. 

It took you two all but a week to fall disgustingly in love, because Clark fell first, and he was a self-starter. 

He found you at the library the day after your drunken romp at his house and brought you a coffee (his brothers felt the urge to adopt you as their pet, by the way, when they found you rummaging like a racoon through the fridge and Clark sitting on the counter behind you, staring with hearts in his eyes… and Lois asleep at his side.) The day after that, he bribed Lois with five bucks to tell him you would be leaving the literature club at four. He walked you to your tutoring shift. The next, he almost breached the creepy line when he used the student directory at the tutoring center to find your dorm number… but you didn’t mind when he showed up with Chinese food and that God-given grin. 

Then the week was up again, and there was another AGR party. You were formally invited that time; he snuck you up to the roof through a series of window-hoppings, and he kissed you when you were in the middle of a rant about women writing under male pseudonyms…

—͙͘͡★—

“And did you know that they didn’t even let George Eliot get buried in Westminster? All that judgement for being a female writer, and then the thing with her husband dying and finding a new lover, and the Church said no, so now she’s buried in Highgate and she’s never been moved! Such bullshit, because she literally redefined–”

Clark couldn’t take it. Your eyes did this special thing when you got angry over book stuff, this little flash– like someone was starting up a lighter, over and over again– and it made his knees weak. He lurched forward as if he had no control over the urge, and he pressed his lips to yours in a manner that didn’t match the preceding; gentle, like he might hurt you if he wasn’t careful. His big palms, a bit rough around the curves, cradled your cheeks, and he smiled when he felt the way you sucked in a little breath, like he made you lose your place in thought. 

You didn’t even pull away, you only let your lips brush his as you asked, "What are you doing?”

“I think I’m in love with you,” he said, like an absolute idiot. But he wasn’t one. If any girl would take that kind of truth bomb well, it would be you. He knew that for sure.

You nearly knocked him on his back with how excitedly you kissed back, lips slotting against his eagerly and unorganized, head tilting from left to right, trying to find the right way, the right pace, the best feeling. He knew within a second of your sloppy mouth that you had probably never kissed anyone before and were dying to figure it out. 

“Easy, easy!” he chuckled, passing his fingers through the strands of hair around your face. “Jeez, Einstein–”

“Shut up,” you giggled, pulling back. Your eyes were on fire in a whole new way. “You love me?”

“Probably,” he hummed. Definitely. 

“I love you,” you countered. 

“Yeah?”

“It’s probably too soon,” you reasoned, eyes drifting to his lips like they were a magnet. 

“Yeah,” he breathed. 

“Maybe we’re moving really fast,”

“Maybe.”

“What would I be?” 

“My girlfriend.”

“And you’d be my boyfriend,”

“Hopefully.”

“And you want that?”

“Sure I do.”

“You don’t think I'm fat?”

“What?” Clark mumbled against your skin, because he couldn’t take it anymore. He could volley your questions with his lips on your neck. “Stupid question… I like how much you weigh, and if you lose a pound I’ll be pissed.”

“I’ve never had a– mmf– a boyfriend before,”

“That’s fine,” a kiss.

“I might get needy,”

“Mm, please do…” a nip.

Your eyes fluttered when his hands slipped into your back pockets, squeezing happily. “I have a lot of h… homework, all the time,”

“So do I.”

“I vote in every election,” 

“Mhm, so do I,” a squeeze.

“I want to write books for a living, even if it means I’m poor,”

“I have a family farm back home… won’t ever have to worry…”

“I- I want to have kids… three kids and two dogs,”

“Farm’s definitely big enough… they better have your eyes, cutie.”

“Mmf–” It got hard to think when his teeth scraped behind your ear. “Are you even listening? You’re talking crazy,”

“Three kids, two dogs, active citizen of democracy, I’ll keep you fed and pretty and– mm, is this new perfume? – n’ you love me?”

“Oh, god… yes.”

“Good. Then we’re both crazy.”

—͙͘͡★—

So, it worked. Nothing you said turned him off or away. He practically knew what you were thinking before you said it. Clark didn’t have to learn to anticipate your every move, he just did. And you seemed to read his mind, although that wasn’t so innate as it was easy– it was all over his gorgeous, gorgeous face. 

It was one of those things where you seemed to just fit like interlocking fingers. Every strength, every weakness, they melded into a trade of wills. Where he couldn’t, you could, and you shared life like a milkshake. One straw and a lot of kissing between sips. 

Your first time was in your shared dorm room with Lois, when you remembered to lock the door but forgot to deadbolt it, and so she had the misfortune of opening it up and finding the two of your startled into fits of laughter, hiding from her grumblings about ‘boys’ and ‘privacy’:

—͙͘͡★—

You really had never felt anything like it before, and whatever bad porn you watched or had seen in artsy movies did not do it justice. Or, maybe it was just Clark.

Clark had you pressed into the mattress under two hundred and twenty pounds of soft, twisting muscle, his hands wrapped around your back and digging into your sides. You weren’t sure you’d ever be small enough to hold, but maybe you just needed a bigger guy all this time. Everything in proportion, right?

And god, he was a whiner. Clark rutted into you in what should’ve been little motions, but he was so genuinely large that any thrust made your legs shake. It was quite a struggle getting the condom on, actually, because he was so anxious to be sweet with you that his hands shook. You had to roll it on for him, and you couldn’t help but laugh at his blushing cheeks. 

“Oh, god, baby,” he whimpered, nibbling at the joint of your neck and shoulder as the plush heat of your walls throbbed around him. “Oh my god, oh my god…”

You were a hot mess, burning up and completely eager. Every grind was met with a buck of your hips, your knees hitched high and your fingernails– purple this time– digging into the meat of his back. For a first timer, you had no reservations. You moaned into the dampening hair behind his ear, “Ho-oly shit, Clark…”

His hands rushed to touch every inch of your back and sides as he lifted himself up a bit and gazed down at you. His chain dangled against your lips and he watched as you took it in your mouth, passing it between tongue and teeth, batting those sinful lashes up at him. He scrunched his face up with a weak desire and tucked a hand under your knee, opening you up that last bit before driving into you with a force that managed to compromise speed and safety. Just as his hands kneaded your tummy, just as your hands twisted the sheets up, just as the two of you were begging and pleading and whining like little vocal twin flames, Lois unlocked the door and froze in the doorway. 

You startled immediately and Clark flopped on top of you, his first concern to cover you from whoever it was. But a poor moment of judgement caused him to keep going, even when Lois burst into a flurry of curses. 

“Jesus Christ, you guys– oh my god, somebody should’ve just told me, I wouldn’t have come home, couldn’t even put a fucking sock on the door like civilized people– oh my god, are you still going? Fuck, guys, ew! Privacy! Privacy in my own dorm room, that's all I ask! Boys in the room, there’ll never be boys in the room she said– oh, Christ, someone text me when it’s over!”

You devolved into helpless, shocked laughter as she babbled herself out and locked the door again, and Clark smiled into your chest as he made you punctuate every giggle with a moan. He couldn’t get enough of the way you sounded– it was breathy, like a whisper, until it hit harder and your pleasure reached a low register, whiny and hungry. He wanted to chase it out of you until you had no sound left. And he did– until your back arched, until the condom simply couldn’t take any more, until your eyes fluttered shut and wouldn’t open again, until your body twitched and slumped and every other word either sounded like “Clarkie” or “Love you.”

—͙͘͡★—

No matter what first came to pass, or whatever college threw at you, Clark didn’t budge. He knew it when he sought you out at that party. He knew you were the stroke of good luck he’d never find again. So, he kept you. Good choice, because he got a free tutor out of it- not that he needed it. The perks were really just making out in the library. 

He met your parents after a couple months, and they gushed over him. The homegrown farmboy had the good sense to bring flowers, and your parents kept them on the sill for weeks until they wilted to nothing. You showed him your childhood room, and he nearly cried at a little list of birthday wishes you had pasted next to your vanity, to which you laughed and accused, “You sap.”

Then it was his turn; he took you home on break to the farm, and his parents nearly gave Martha’s ring over on the spot. You received five pie recipes free of charge. Jonathan Kent gave you a rigorous tour of the farm, and he even let you brush the horses– one of which sneezed on your nice blouse. Clark took you into town for a new one and you got to see all the places he grew up in, and then you nearly cried, and all he could do was kiss you and tell you just how pretty you looked with grass in your hair. 

Clark bought you exactly one second-hand novel a week, and you wrote him little poems on scraps of paper and tucked them in every place possible, so that when he went through life, he’d find it unexpectedly, and remember that wherever he was, you were, too. 

He went to the slam poetry night your club hosted. You were crowned kegger queen to his kegger king at a particularly rowdy party. His brothers threw you a birthday party and got you delightfully drunk, so you could enjoy a childhood birthday wish of stargazing at midnight next to a cute boy. Said cute boy had to usher his friends to bed just so he could consummate the day you were brought into the world properly (and it was better than the first, somehow.) When you woke up the next morning, hungover in his bed, you smiled to yourself. Your tank top strap slid down your arm. He pushed it up. 

It didn’t matter on your shy or outgoing days, or when you felt dark or light. It didn’t matter when he had to put on the ‘brother’ face and do the stupid shit fraternities do. What mattered was that he protected your heart in a little box, and just when it felt like maybe you two wouldn't meet on some small level, you did. It was synchrony. It was easy.

And you know what? It didn’t have to make sense. You two were the odd couple. Soulmates exist like flames in the eyes of girls who float in the wind. He was yours, backwards hat and all, and there was nothing easier than that.

[sharklover00]

[dcorensupez]

giving inexperienced clark a bj for the first time… 18+

the first time you mentioned it, you brought it up like it wasn’t something entirely filthy.

“Clark, what if i sucked you off?” you asked as you took a sip of your morning coffee and clark almost choked on his cereal, stuttering like a teenage girl. “w- um— what?”

now, clark’s a good boy. he would never ever think of his girlfriend like that. he tries not to. especially when you’re two months into dating each other, i mean— his ma taught him better than to be a sick pervert. (not that he was in any way shape or form, surely.)

so when you asked him so carelessly, his first response consisted of a coughing fit.

you looked at him. “do you not know what it—”

“no-no. i know what it is, i just— i don’t know. i don’t want you to feel uncomfortable or feel like you have to.” he wiped his mouth on his sleeve, leg starting to bounce. he’s so sweet about everything, you don’t know whether to punch him or kiss him.

“clark, I’m the one you brought it up. don’t be ridiculous.” you dismissed his worry with a sweet smile and he’s already melting.

“yeah-yeah. okay. sure. i’d like you to do.. that.”, voice upping an octave in complete embarrassment.

and that was it. that was the conversation you had with him before the both of you finished up and went to work.

clark met you again after twelve hours. twelve whole hours of thinking about what would happen when he’d come home to you. and in order for him not to pop a boner in the middle of his shift, he doesn’t dwell on it too much. so much for that.

now he’s on the couch, looking at you as he toys with his cuticles while you’re on your knees in the middle of his spread legs. nothing’s happened yet. you haven’t even come close to touching him and he’s already turning pink, black slacks threatening to tent.

you place your hands on his knees, caressing him up and down, up and down. and clark acts like he’s been electrified.

“baby, it’s okay to be nervous.” you try not to laugh at the state he’s in. his hair’s sticking to his forehead and his chest is nearly heaving. he looks like a kicked puppy.

“m’not nervous. i just.. i’ve never done this before.” he pouts.

a hum buzzes from you. “are you sure you want this?” you check in again— just to make sure he wasn’t regretting this for any reason. to your surprise, he shakes his head with such enthusiasm, you’d think he’d get whiplash.

“no! nono. im good. i want it. please?”

you look at him for a hot second and smile, placing a kiss on his clothed knee before sitting up on your own ones, hands slithering upwards toward his belt and he just watches. his hand keeps fidgeting with the skin next to his nail bed as you unbuckle his belt and pull his boxers down along with his work pants, freeing his already throbbing cock from its confines.

this isn’t the first time you’ve seen him, nor the second. but it’s still shocking, considering how huge he is. you start to wonder why you dug this hole for yourself— but that’s flushed down the drain once the realization really settles in. so you just say it out loud.

“you’re so pretty, clark.” you mumble, taking his length in your palm, thumb tracing his veins.

and he whines. really whines— hips bucking up in instinct, pre already pearling up from his tip. “m’sorry. sorry.” he squeezes his eyes shut like some kind of virgin.

“hey, hey. it’s okay, baby. look at me.” your voice calls out to him, slowly moving your wrist in perfect circles like you’ve done this before. wait. have you done this before? he blinks his eyes open and catches your gaze.

“you’re doing so good, clark. there’s no need to be nervous. you’re perfect.” he could’ve came right then if it weren’t for his wavering resolve.

“gonna put my mouth on you, is that okay?”

he doesn’t care anymore. he just nods with a “mhm.”, small and pathetic, on the edge of drooling like a dog.

you pepper little kisses from his base to his tip and the sides of his cock, following the veins in tandem. this alone would be enough for clark. he revels in this just the way it was given to him, and he’s just fine with that.

but then its your tongue. it slips out of your plush lips and gives a little kitten lick on the underside of his tip— ripping a whine out of him. “thats— that’s good. feels good when you do that.”

“yeah?” you do it again, eyes spotting the way his fists clench.

“yyeah.. oh gosh, yes.”

its pathetic. he’s pathetic. you haven’t even put not a single inch of him in your mouth and he’s already gone. he’s so easy, its ridiculous. he should be ashamed of it.

its when you decide to take it a step further and slide almost his entire dick inside his throat, he starts to lose his control. “oh— oh. jeez. thats a lot, h-honey.. careful.”

his eyes nearly roll to the back of his head with even the slightest feeling of your teeth dragging soft against him and the way your tongue moves along the underside of his cock. you don’t listen to him. he’ll thank you later.

your mouth is so wet and warm, he feels like he’s just opened a door to a brand new world he hasn’t had the chance of experiencing, and he almost considers it life changing. because gosh, thats exactly what it was. and he’s glad it had to be you.

sooner or later, his hands start to feel like they don’t belong to him. he rakes his them through your scalp, tangling his fingers in your hair while you work on his dick greedily, taking in all that you can while your hands twist on the parts that can’t quite fit in your mouth yet. you’ll work up to it.

your throat suddenly swallows, taking him deeper— tears start to brim on the corner of your eyes, but you don’t mind. you love the burn that comes with his size. you live for it. and you live for the way clark tries his hardest not to buck his hips into you, but he does anyway. by accident. his tip forces itself down your slick throat— and another tear streams down your pretty face.

“angel.. m’sorry. i cant— oh, man..” it doesn’t help that you’re sucking him in even more when he tries to pull you away. he locks eyes with you, lidded and fucked, but you give him a nod, cheeks starting to hollow; a sign for him to keep going. you’re telling him that it’s fine if he loses it.

and he does. he does lose it— completely.

both of clarks hands tangle their fingers in your hair, almost gripping it as he looks at you and another whine escapes him just by seeing those tears drip down your cheeks. its such a perfect sight and he feels so guilty— but you’re using his dick so good, he’s finding it hard to stop himself.

when he begins to lose control, his hips start to move, sliding his dick in and out of your throat, and it feels like silk— wet, warm silk. he feels light engulf him, and suddenly he can’t stop.

he coaxes your head down to his pelvis while his hips work into your throat in unison, forcing you to choke on the entirety of him. tears now fall freely from your eyes, and you savor it because only god knows how much he’ll be able to actually control himself next time.

meanwhile, clarks head falls back, denting in the cushion of the couch, and he’s making sounds only you’d find in a filthy porno. “m’sorry, m’sorry.. babybabybaby… I’m so sorry—” he’s babbling mindless apologies while he fucks your face in a ruthless pace, hands almost uncharacteristically harsh, stuffing your face with his cock again and again while he rambles the same apologies.

but, god help him, he can’t stop when he looks down at you. you haven’t stopped looking at him since you started, and it only brings him closer. he’ll cum just like this. from you looking at him and stuffing your gorgeous face full of him— he groans. “hon, m’gonna.. gonna cum. pl—please. oh gosh, you’re so pretty. ‘can’t stop.”

your muffled moans vibrate through his dick, and it feels like ecstasy. you don’t wan’t him to stop, its clear. and he gets it. he gets it so quick. thats why on the next gag and tightening of your throat, he’s cumming down your mouth with his mouth hung open and his eyes completely shut, whining like he’s been starved of it like some kind of hungry dog.

his hands never let go of the firm grip they have on your hair, forcing your slick throat down on him as he bottoms out and all you do is let him, because you’ll let clark have this. and you? you drink him down like you were born to do it.

after a brief moment of breathing through your nose, his shoulders sag and he lets out the deepest exhale known mankind, the firm hold on you lessening, slipping his dick out of your mouth in short increments.

the moment clark looks down, his eyes blow wide when he realizes how much he’s been so rough with you— and just like that, guilt washes through his bones.

“oh, gosh. geez. i didnt— i-im so sorry. i was so rough with you, honey. im such a jerk.” his arms extend to yours, pulling you up from your tired knees and he’s quick to use his x-ray vision to assess any injuries he might’ve caused. nothing worse than some minor bruising, thank god. but he still could’ve really hurt you. “are you okay? does it hurt?” he panics, gentle fingers finding purchase all over your throat.

you try not to find this laughable, considering he literally just dicked you down without even thinking about it. “clark-clark. im fine. it’s fine. i liked it.” your voice is hoarse, jagged around the edges and clark could just tear up until he sees you smile.

“we have to do that again soon.”

[dyinglove903]

david corenswet being the first biblically accurate superman since tom welling is the best thing that happened to me

(that doesn't include the supermans BEFORE, like christopher reeve)

[kisakisabby]

unleashed

pairing(s): clark kent x fem!reader summary: you thought you’d have to be the one to guide him. you thought clark’s inexperience meant you’d be in control of his first time. you just didn't know that his "innocence" was the only thing holding back a level of power you can't even begin to comprehend. (or) how you tried to dominate smallville's "innocent nerd" only to be unraveled by a man who will fuck you until you forget how to breathe. wc: 6.5k content: 18+, smut, fluff, established relationship, virginity (clark), first time, size difference, nerd clark, shy reader, soft!dom, hidden strength, dirty talk, praise kink, body worship, huge cock, p in v, deep stretching, belly bulge, overstimulation, vocal clark, shaking, rough/sweet mix. author's note: my first ever explicit fic (yay)! also, english isn't my first language, so pls forgive any mistakes! this fic is a direct continuation of this story, which covers their full date. however, it is not necessary to read the first part to understand this one.

The way to his house becomes a loose sequence in your head. You’re still a bit too lightheaded to walk in a perfectly straight line, but Clark doesn’t let you "fall" at any point. He just adjusts his hand on your waist whenever you lean too far to one side, as if he’s already mastered your rhythm in this tipsy version of you. And, worse, he seems to enjoy it—to be amused by it. You see it in the little things: a low laugh that escapes when you say something without a filter, a lingering gaze when you lose your train of thought but keep talking anyway.

By the time you reach his house, you’re already in "try to act normal" mode, a bit worried about making a good impression on Mr. and Mrs. Kent. You don’t want to ruin the "little miss perfect" image they’ve already formed of you. As soon as you step inside, you realize instantly the house is empty. Your body relaxes before you even think about it, your smile widens, and your mind starts spinning ideas that are getting even harder to contain. Clark notices right away.

“My parents aren't home today,” he says, as if it weren’t already obvious. He tries to sound casual, as if it's irrelevant, but you both know what it means. You don't bother hiding it. For a second, he just watches you, as if he’s reading you.

As you head down the hallway, you feel it clearly. His presence remains close, constant, but not overbearing, as if he’s decided to stay exactly where he already is. He guides you to the bathroom so you can shower. You’re no longer stumbling, nor do you find it hard to think. You just feel that courage and that hunger still burning inside you.

When the hot water hits your body, you relax completely. Your mind starts replaying tonight’s events, and you can’t help but smile like a 12-year-old schoolgirl with her first boyfriend. Clark enchants you, and getting to know this second side of him leaves you more curious than ever. Your imagination wanders; you close your eyes and let yourself create moments, running your hands over your body, imagining, longing for them to be his. You bite your lips as you run your hands along your waist, remembering when they were his hands instead of yours.

You wonder what he would do if he just let himself go, since he seems to harbor the same longing you do. Does he notice your tank tops the same way you caught him looking today? Has he already dreamed of you, without controlling where his mind leads him? In the shower, has he also let his thoughts go down this path, just as you are now? All these questions, added to the assumptions of how he would act if neither of you held back anymore, make you feel the heat pool between your thighs.

You know how long you’ve been wanting this, especially after neglecting your own needs for so long. You decide then that you won’t let this chance slip through your fingers, that you won't swallow your desires out of shyness once more, and that tonight, Clark will know what’s been filling your mind whenever he’s near you. Despite the alcohol, you’re still you, and just imagining yourself with this courage before him makes your knees weak. He’s always been the only person with whom you feel you can be yourself, without being self-conscious, without feeling so much shame. But just the idea of starting this makes your head spin.

You’re snapped out of these thoughts by a knock on the door.

“Come in, it’s unlocked,” you say, a bit nervous, aware of your own vulnerability: completely naked and exposed. This time, you don’t cover yourself with the shower curtain, trying to move forward somehow, wearing a mask of confidence that’s easily unmasked when the clear flush on your cheeks is noticed. To your great disappointment, the innocent boy is standing there with one hand covering his eyes and the other holding a white towel.

"You forgot the towel" — he said, completely oblivious to the fact that he just ruined your whole plan. Or maybe not so oblivious. His voice came out strangely tense, too fast, as if he were trying to get in and out of there before his courage failed. Even covering his eyes, Clark seemed all too aware of your presence, the hot steam filling the bathroom, and the vulnerability of the situation.

He reached his arm toward the sink counter and left the towel there without looking directly at you. Still, you noticed the way his throat moved as he swallowed hard before turning away too quickly for someone who was supposedly calm. This pulled a small smile from you. Maybe he was more rattled than he wanted to show.

The door closed behind him, and you let out a low sigh before finally grabbing the towel. Water was still trickling down your skin as you dried yourself slowly. When you finished, you found the change of clothes Clark had left. Your smile appeared the moment you pulled on nothing but his shirt. Standing before the mirror, you watched the exaggeratedly loose fit of the fabric on your body. His scent was still there, and it provoked a warm, intimate sensation. You weren't exactly short, but dating someone nearly 6'3" made any piece of clothing look massive.

After that, you tried to put on the pajama pants. It was a disaster. As soon as you let go of the waistband, the pants slipped down your hips. A laugh escaped and, holding the fabric with one hand, you left the bathroom looking for him. As soon as Clark looked up, his expression changed immediately.

"I’ll look for something in my closet that fits you" — he says, his lips still curved in that crooked smile as he leads you to the bedroom. You walk in right behind him, still holding the pants that insist on slipping. Clark notices and lets out a low laugh, clearly trying to hide how funny he finds it. Then he looks at you again — this time for too long.

"By the way… you look lovely in that shirt." The comment makes your face heat up instantly.

"Clark…"

"I’m serious." And by the way he keeps looking at you, it’s hard to believe it’s just an innocent compliment. "I want you to keep it."

You already open your mouth to refuse, but Clark approaches before any word can come out. The quick kiss he leaves on your lips completely interrupts your protest. "The gift is more for me than it is for you" — he murmurs.

You try to hide your smile as he rumbles through the closet. Clark pulls out a pair of pants. Too big. Another. Even worse.

"How do you guys live like this?" — you ask, indignant, holding the pants that threaten to fall again. — "This is completely useless."

Clark laughs without even looking back. "Never thought much about it."

"Of course not. You’re nearly six-foot-three, anything stays up on you."

This pulls another laugh from him. After a few more frustrated attempts, Clark sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "Maybe my mom has something that fits you better."

"No way!" The answer comes too fast. Just the idea of wearing Mrs. Kent’s clothes without her permission makes your shyness collapse.

"So what do you intend to wear?" The question hangs in the air. Clark holds your gaze, and you notice when his imagination slips for a second. The flush rising up his face gives it all away. An idea pops into your head; you go to the drawers and find a pair of his boxers.

"It’s literally just a pair of makeshift shorts" — you continue, amused by his state. — "Relax, Kent."

"I’m not nervous."

"You turned red."

"It’s hot in here."

You look around the room in silence before turning back to him. "Clark, it’s raining outside."

He finally laughs, rubbing his face. He turns the other way while he waits for you to change. "You're having a lot of fun with this, aren't you?"

"Maybe a little."

"All done" — you say, excitedly, opening your arms. Clark turns around cautiously. The moment his eyes land on you, his expression changes. There was something almost dangerously personal about seeing you wearing his clothes like that. You tilt your head as you notice the silence.

"What?" — you ask, amused.

"Nothing..." — he tries to answer, but the words scramble.

"Stop looking at me like that" — you murmur, starting to get embarrassed too.

"Like what?"

"Like I’m… I don’t know."

Clark laughs softly and steps closer. "You're beautiful." The simplicity of the answer makes your heart trip. "Do you have any idea how much you affect me?" — he asks quietly, almost as if the confession had escaped before he could stop it. Your heart trips inside your chest. For a second, you can only stare at him. And then it’s him who approaches this time.

His hand moves slowly to your face, his fingers sliding against your skin with a delicacy that makes your stomach flip. His thumb caresses your cheek before his hand stops at the nape of your neck, firm enough to keep you close. Then he kisses you. For real. Not hesitant like before. Not too careful. Deep. As if something inside him had finally given in.

You immediately feel the difference in the way he holds you. His breath mingles with yours while his fingers at the nape of your neck tighten slightly, pulling you closer. Your heart races, and Clark seems to feel it. Without really noticing, you start walking backward while he follows every move naturally, without breaking the kiss for a second. Until the back of your legs finds the bed. You sit on the edge, pulling him along without even thinking. Clark stops between your legs immediately. The kiss finally breaks for a moment, but only so he can look at you. And that look nearly finishes you. Hot. Surrendered. Completely lost.

His breathing is ragged again. You run your fingers along his jawline, and it seems to destroy the rest of the resistance that still existed. Clark goes back to kissing you immediately. More intense this time. More desperate. Now it’s your hands that grip behind his neck, fingers intertwining there as if wanting to ensure he won't back away. But he doesn't back away. On the contrary. Clark stays there, leaning over you, pressing you gently into the covers. His body so close to yours that now you can feel him against your thigh. You hear a low groan escape his lips.

The kiss slows down just enough for both of you to catch your breath. His forehead rests against yours for a moment. The silence between you gets heavy in a different way now. His hand stays on you, finally wandering over your body, while his eyes search for yours. You don't give him a break; you press your hands against his chest and, for a second, see a mix of fear and sadness in his eyes, worried that you were going to end this moment. But it’s the opposite. You move on top of him, fitting perfectly. Before he has a chance to do anything, your hips roll against him, pulling another sound from both of you.

Clark’s lungs seem to lock for a second. He lets his breath out slowly, a sound between surrender and relief. His hands now spread firm against your back and hips. Clark doesn’t look away; he watches the curve of your neck and the start of your collarbone revealed by the shirt’s collar. His jaw tenses.

"You have no idea" — he whispers, his voice vibrating so low you feel his chest against yours — "the effort I’m making not to break whatever exists between us right now."

"Don't hold back" — you murmur, your voice low but heavy with an urgency that seems to vibrate in the air. — "We’ve held back for long enough, Clark. I don't want caution anymore."

For a second, you expect him to pull you back. But instead, you feel his body stiffen under yours. His fingers now barely touch the fabric, hovering as if they were afraid to leave a mark. Seeing this retreat, something turns cold inside you.

"Clark?" — You start to pull away, doubt showing in your expression. — "What is it? If you... if you don't want to, or if you changed your mind, just say so."

"No!" — His response is immediate, almost desperate. He grips your arms with exaggerated delicacy. — "It’s not that. It’s never that. I want you more than anything else."

"Then what’s the problem?" — You shoot back, your voice rising a notch. — "Because it doesn't make sense. I’m here. You’re here. I want you and, by the way you were kissing me just now, you want me too."

Clark’s chest aches seeing that flash of hurt in your eyes. "Please…" His voice comes out raspy, almost like a plea. Before you can distance yourself, his hands close around your waist with a firmness you’ve never felt before. He pulls you back with an urgency that takes your breath away.

"Please, don't pull away from me" — he begs, the words coming out broken as he presses his forehead to yours. — "I can't stand to see that doubt on your face. I’d spend the rest of my life in the dark if it meant I’d never see you look at me as if I were capable of rejecting you."

When his lips find yours again, the heat is absolute. Clark’s hands, large and suddenly trembling, move up your thighs, pulling you so that the fit is total. "It’s not you. It was never you" — he murmurs against your mouth, never stopping his touch. — "I look at you and I feel like I’m holding the most precious and delicate thing the world has ever created. You’re so sweet, so…" He hesitates, letting out a heavy sigh while his body vibrates against yours. "If I truly give in, if I stop measuring every move… I won’t know how to be gentle. I won't know how to be slow. The fear of hurting you because of my selfishness is the only thing keeping me whole right now."

His hand moves up under the loose shirt, his skin meeting yours in a contrast that makes your spine arch. Clark lets out a low growl and tilts you back on the mattress. As he buries his face in your neck, his voice resonates against your skin: "You drive me so crazy I forget how to breathe," he admits in a whisper. His mouth finds the sensitive spot just below your ear, and his teeth graze there with a pressure that makes you let out a moan. — "It fills me with fear knowing I’m a second away from losing control of everything."

His hands now don't just touch; they claim. Clark’s muscular tension is almost solid, a contained force ready to explode at any touch of yours. When you feel his hip press against yours, firm and without the hesitation from before, it’s clear he’s finally stopped trying to just be the "good boy" from Smallville. You feel his weight — not just the physical, but the burden of years of restraint — crashing down on you. When he says he’s afraid of not knowing how to be slow, you don't back away. For the first time, you feel you need exactly that: someone who wants you with an intensity that defies logic. Your hands move up his broad shoulders, feeling muscles rigid as granite, and you pull him down.

"Then don't be," you breathe against his mouth, feeling the tremor that runs through his spine. "Don't be slow, Clark. Not with me. I'm not made of glass... and I'm not going anywhere."

The air in the room seems to vanish. This reassurance was the final snap of a dam breaking. Clark launches himself with the hunger of someone who has spent a lifetime fasting. You feel the pressure of his fingers in your flesh and a wave of electricity runs through your spine. Finally, that solid body is pressed against yours, much hotter and firmer than your imagination predicted. With an agility that makes your head spin, Clark wraps around your waist and, in a blur, lifts you into the air as if you weighed nothing. For a millisecond, gravity disappears before you are pressed against the mattress with an overwhelming firmness. The wooden bed lets out a dry creak, an audible protest under his strength.

Clark is between your legs now, arms stretched, one on each side of your head, supporting his own body as he looks down at you. You are blind with lust, nails dug into his back. His hands move down to the hem of the shirt, and the way he pulls it, almost tearing the fabric, makes you let out a husky laugh. His eyes are so dark the blue seems to have vanished.

"You have no idea," he growls against your skin, his mouth moving down to your bust, "how much I tried not to think of you this way. Every night."

It's your dream becoming real. Clark wants you with the same intensity and sees you with the same purity. He closes his eyes for a second, trying to regain a fragment of sanity.

"Look at me." His voice is no longer a whisper; it's a low command. "I need you to promise me something. Now."

You can barely breathe. He brings his face close to yours, forehead against yours. "I’m… I’m not like the others." He gives up on trying to explain and focuses on the urgency of the moment. "If at any point I weigh too much... if I do anything that makes you uncomfortable, you tell me immediately. You stop me. Understood? I need to hear you say it."

You see the genuine fear in the depths of his eyes and, though you don't understand the full extent of what he fears, you agree, feeling his heart hammering against your palm.

"I promise, Clark."

The sound of your voice is the final trigger. His "filter" crumbles. Amidst the kisses, you slide your hands to the zipper of his pants, leaving him in only his boxers. It's impossible not to look, and even more impossible to avoid touching him. You love the sounds he makes, feeling him react to your touch. He holds you with an inevitable strength, pinning your wrists gently above your head against the pillow. There is no pain, only the feeling of being dominated by someone who could bend steel but uses that power to protect you. It’s ironic to remember how you spent the night testing the waters, thinking you’d have to be the experienced guide. Now, seeing the clarity with which he commands you, the realization finally hits. Clark starts to lose his excessive caution; the movements become fluid and decisive.

"I spent so many nights imagining this..." he confesses, his voice so thick it vibrates inside your chest. "I dreamed of your scent, of this heat... but reality is a coward compared to this. Nothing in my dreams came close to how warm you are."

How has he never done this before? How does he know exactly where it aches from wanting so much? Clark pulls back for a moment just to analyze the mess he’s left: flushed cheeks, red lips, panting breath, and a marked neck. Your hips writhe at the interruption and a moan escapes when he presses his fingers against the wet fabric of the boxers you're wearing. It’s exciting to see it soaking his underwear; the last barrier between you. You close your eyes, feeling vulnerable and desperate. Clark devours your gaze as he pulls the fabric, eliminating the final barrier. When he finds your intimacy, without warning, you let out a muffled cry. He spreads your moisture with an imperious sweetness.

"Look at me," he commands. "I want you to see how I'm looking at you. I want you to know I’ll never forget this sight. You’re perfect."

Clark is no longer the hesitant boy; he is an attentive observer, noting how your breath hitches and your pupils dilate. He circles with his thumb, driving you into a frenzy with a dexterity you never imagined he hid. He holds your thigh, opening it wider, exploring the emotional power of seeing how he affects you. Seeing that he is the only one capable of pulling these sounds from you gives him a new, silent confidence.

"Fuck, Clark... you're so good at this. I can't... Slow down, I don't want to finish too fast," you try to say, failing miserably.

"I need to feel you so much..." he confesses, his voice broken, almost in a sob, as if the effort to stay with just fingers were a torture.

Moved by a surge of audacity, you lock your hands on his shoulders and return the kisses hungrily, trying to dictate the pace. Clark relaxes his weight, allowing your exploration, but his body is like an immovable mountain. He lets out a heavy sigh, watching your attempt at control with the smile of someone who delights in your grit. You accept the most pleasurable defeat of your life. You are no longer the guide; you are the discovery.

"Then do it. Do whatever you want with me." It’s the only thing Clark needed to hear.

He gets rid of the last piece of clothing with trembling hands, an urgency bordering on desperation. Shame loses its importance the moment he reveals his member to you. You are only human; it’s impossible to hide the stare you give his cock. It’s large — you already imagined it was, wished it would match the rest of that massive body — but reality is better. It’s definitely bigger than you expected. For the first time, you see shyness on his face; the mischievous smile waning as he tries to look away.

Your hand moves down his abdomen, following the path to what you truly desire, but you don't wrap around it until he confirms with a nod. The man in front of you folds his arms on the bed, bringing his mouth to your chest. He sucks your nipples while trying to stifle his own sounds, but fails miserably. Your hand slides carefully down his thick cock, not out of care, but with the intention of returning the same torture. He definitely can't wait any longer.

He pulls away from your breasts and aligns himself with your entrance. The penis passes between your folds, pulling moans that make him pulse against you. When he finally slides inside, millimeter by millimeter, his countenance contorts into an expression that looks like pain. Blue eyes are half-closed, eyelids trembling as he seeks your gaze, attentive to any sign of hesitation. The sight of your surrender makes him want to combust; furrowed brows and an open mouth show the herculean effort to maintain control.

Both of you let out a heavy, shallow breath. An anxiety grows in your chest as you realize how difficult it is to take him, and he’s not even halfway. It should scare you, but my god... there’s something in how he fills you, stretches you, and makes you run even wetter that is just too much. He lets out a low whimper, a sound of pure agony and pleasure. You embrace him tightly, believing he’s reached the limit of physical exhaustion.

But then, the rhythm changes and the truth hits with a shiver of incredulity. As you wrap around his back, you realize those muscles aren't tired; they are rigid as granite, without a single sign of fatigue. He buries his face in your neck and you understand: he isn't trembling because he's reaching the end, but because he's using all his colossal power to stop. What you thought was his limit is actually the effort of a man who could walk through walls, fighting his own nature to be gentle. He definitely scares you and melts you at the same time.

The room starts to spin. The dark-haired man goes painfully slow until he reaches very, very deep. He rests his cock there inside you, closing his eyes and concentrating on how every inch of you is soft and wet around him. He goes back to kissing your neck while tracing his fingers over your swollen clitoris. When you get used to his size, you roll your hips subtly, indicating you're ready.

He starts shallow, slow thrusts, but your thighs tremble every time he reaches the bottom again. His eyes are fixed, hypnotized by the bulge forming in your belly because of him. It’s driving him crazy. He advances a bit more, pulling out almost to the end just to fill you again, starting to have fun with the effect he causes. You whimper, arch, and sigh, giving him the certainty that it’s all okay.

As his restraint shatters, he melts, hungry. Every move sends an electric shock through your spine, leaving you totally hyper-stimulated. His weight over you is crushing; your head spins and your eyes roll back, unable to process the absurd pleasure. You try to babble any response, but words die in failed moans against damp skin.

His gaze doesn't leave your face as he unlocks months of silent torture. You lose yourself completely, drowned in a divine physical sensation, surrendered to a man who decides, finally, to destroy you with pleasure. For the first time, his voice emerges heavy, raspy, and dangerously reckless against your ear. He lets out a short laugh, a vibrating sound that echoes inside your chest.

"Look at you..." he whispers, his breath burning your skin as he penetrates you with a depth that makes you babble. "So beautiful like this, all undone in my arms. I love the way you try to keep your eyes open but simply can't. I love how you tremble just from me being near. You have no idea how good it feels to finally be able to feel you like this, without needing to pretend I’m not dying to break you in half."

He leans in more, his sweat-damp body glued to yours. He bites your earlobe, intensifying the movement.

"You have no idea, my love, but I spent months watching you and counting the seconds to do exactly this. Remember that night on the porch? I had to get away from you because the way you looked at me almost made me take you right there, against the wall. I controlled myself so many times I lost count..."

You try to move your hand to your mouth to stifle the sounds, but he holds it, pinning your wrists again and delighting in how helpless you are beneath him. A wave of pleasure fills your senses as you arch your back, making him hit the exact spot that makes you shed a tear along with a sound you hadn't let out yet.

"Keep going, darling... lose yourself for me. I have all night, and I guarantee I won't tire before I see you begging for every inch I’m still holding back."

You force your eyes to focus, but the sight of him above you is almost offensive. He flashes a smirk, proud and predatory, savoring the fact that you are completely destroyed under him. While blood pulses in your chest, he remains impeccable, without shedding a single drop of sweat.

His fingers get faster and rougher against your clitoris, and you have to beg for a break before you fall apart too soon. Your lips are a red blur, swollen and raw from how much you punished them so as not to scream. Even with him stopped, your jaw fails. Air comes out in hungry spasms. If you try to join your lips now, you know you’ll only moan embarrassingly. It’s humiliating and addictive to feel his fingers like meat-shackles crushing your wrists against the mattress.

But you were always hard to tame. Your passivity dies the moment you find that look of pride. A snap of stubbornness crosses the fog of your mind and, instead of just crumbling, you lock your fingers into his arms, feeling the hardness of granite under your skin. You pull yourself together amidst the chaos, forcing your body to stop just receiving and start fighting back. With a decided arch, you force your hips against his, seeking the deepest possible contact, dictating a new, erratic, and hungry rhythm.

The challenge in your eyes makes the man in front of you growl. In a brute movement, he locks his hands on your waist and kneels on the bed, suspending your hip in the air. He supports your weight with one arm while using the other hand to continue crushing your clitoris, matching the rough and fast pace he’s turned into. Regret burns when you realize he’s turned you into a porcelain doll. He is steady as a rock, pulling you back and forth by the waist with terrifying ease and burying himself back in you with a thrust that makes you lose your voice. With every move, his cock scrapes deep against your cervix, stretching your internal walls that already pulse desperate, soaking his base with the excess lubrication dripping down your thighs.

"What is it, sweetheart? Wasn't it enough? Do you need even more? Is that why you tried to take control?" He asks already knowing the answer, aware of how absurd the provocation is when all you can do now is cling to him while proliferating the lowest curses ever heard.

"Did you think... you were going to be in charge now, darling?" he taunts, his voice failing as he restarts the thrusts, now from a much deeper and more devastating angle. "Try... try to keep up with me now."

"I can't..." you try to beg, but the sentence is interrupted by a sharp scream when his thumb crushes your clitoris with inhuman speed. Your whole body arches, fingers digging into his skin, leaving red marks. "Stop... no, don't stop!"

The dark-haired man lets out a raspy and desperate laugh, forehead pressed to yours, the heat emanating from him merging with your own. He is fascinated by your lack of control. He pulls you into a crushing embrace, pinning your torso against his biceps, and you feel his sweat mix with yours, creating a grip that makes every move heavier and louder. His other hand moves down with cruel precision; his thumb finds your swollen and throbbing clitoris. He crushes it with a speed that makes your body have involuntary spasms. You try to close your legs, try to run from the excess sensitivity, but he keeps you open, forcing you to feel the delicious agony of being stimulated and filled at the same time.

You feel your pussy pulse in frenzied waves, trying to bite his cock with every thrust, while the wet sound of lubrication being beaten between you fills the room. The man over you loses control of his speech; his mouth is open and saliva shines on his lips while he lets out low, guttural groans. He watches as your head hangs back, as your fingers dig into his arm until they leave marks, and the pleasure on his face is almost painful to see. He is discovering that he can break you, and the realization makes him accelerate until the rhythm becomes a blur of flesh and heat.

He pins you against his chest with the arm that supports you, crushing your breasts against his rigid torso in a sort of possessive embrace. Every nerve in your pussy burns with pleasure, the walls contracting in spasms trying to suck every inch of him inside. The dark-haired man is losing his head. His face is transformed; blue eyes seem to roll back, neck veins pop, and breath comes in short yelps. He can no longer form coherent sentences.

"So... so... tight..." he babbles, his tongue locking while his speed becomes inhuman. He lets out a low growl and, in a move of pure urgency, changes the dynamic again. He lays you down hard, sinking your back...

He lets out a low growl and, in a move of pure urgency, changes the dynamic again. He pins you down hard, sinking your back into the sheets and pressing your knees against your chest, a position that leaves you completely vulnerable and wide open. His weight over you is crushing in a delicious way, and when he buries himself again, the thrust is so long and deep that you feel the air escape your lungs. His cock slides the entire length of your canal, stretching the inner walls that already pulse and burn from so much sensitivity, hitting the bottom with an impact that makes you arch your back instantly.

He locks his arms beside your head, his biceps bulging and rigid as stone, while using his hips to press you against the mattress, seeking maximum friction between his base and your swollen clitoris.

"I can't... I can't... be gentle..." — he pants against your mouth, his voice failing as he loses himself in the sensation of being sucked in by you. "You're so warm... it hurts so much... how much I need this."

You feel every inch of his thickness mapping your interior, a raw pressure that makes you let out short, stuttered moans, your voice already raspy from shouting his name. His gaze is glazed, his mouth half-open letting out sounds you never imagined hearing from him as he withdraws almost entirely, only to launch himself back into you with everything. You stop just receiving, refusing to accept the trance, and pull Clark by the nape of his neck, forcing a clumsy and urgent kiss, mixing saliva and short breaths. You lock your legs around his lower back, eliminating any millimeter of space. There is no longer any way to escape the impact; he is hitting deep, stretching everything, and the sound that comes from your throat is a sharp gasp of someone who has lost control of their own breath. You open your mouth to ask for more, to tell him how much you love him, but the sound doesn't come.

Your throat locks; the air simply doesn't reach your vocal cords. You try to articulate his name, try to say you're reaching the peak, but you can only let out failed and stuttered pants. Clark notices your struggle. He sees the desperation in your eyes and the way you try to speak without success, and his gaze becomes something you've never seen before: a mixture of deep adoration and absolute hunger. He understands exactly what your body is begging for.

Instead of backing away, Clark wraps you in a crushing embrace, pinning his chest to yours and holding you against the mattress with a sacred firmness. He takes you in entirely, his large hands splayed on your back, keeping you joined to him as his rhythm becomes fierce. The wet sound of friction between your parts fills the room, a raw sound that accompanies his whimpering breath in your ear.

"Come for me..." — he whispers, his voice raspy, without any politeness, feeling how your interior is tight and boiling around him.

You feel the accumulated pressure overflow. Your head hangs back and you surrender, your body arching in a tense curve as the orgasm tears through you. You try to scream, but the sound dies in a sob against his shoulder. Clark feels your spasms, feels you come apart against him, and that finishes off whatever bit of control he still had.

He delivers the final thrusts, blind and deep, burying himself to the maximum limit before locking. The muscles in his back bulge, rigid as granite under your fingers, and he lets out a long groan of pure relief. You feel his hot and abundant jet flood your depths, a rhythmic and invasive pulse that seems to last an eternity, sealing that moment of lust and total surrender.

He remains there, heavy and motionless over you, his face hidden in your neck, protecting you from the world outside while the heat of both of you continues to flow, proving that now, finally, you are one. The silence that follows is thick, filled only by the sound of breaths trying, slowly, to regain their rhythm. Clark doesn't move immediately; he seems to savor the weight of the moment, keeping his face hidden in the curve of your neck while leaving a few chaste and damp kisses there, as if he were thanking you in silence.

Slowly, he props himself up on his elbows so as not to crush you, but without breaking contact. Your hands move up his back, caressing the tired muscles with a lingering affection, moving down to the nape of his neck where his hair is damp with sweat. You hold him tightly, welcoming him, making it clear that he is safe there.

When he finally pulls away, Clark looks at you with a shyness you’ve never seen before. His blue eyes are shining, a little wet, and he looks almost dazzled, as if waking up from a dream.

He watches you with an adoration bordering on the sacred. "I was so afraid of... of not being what you expected. Of hurting you."

You let out a sweet laugh and caress his face, kissing the tip of the dark-haired man's nose.

"It was perfect, Clark. It was better than anything."

He smiles, a relieved and genuine smile that lights up his face. With extreme care, he withdraws and pulls you to the center of the bed, delicately wiping away a tear that escaped your face with his thumb. He wraps you in a spooning embrace, his broad chest pressed against your back, his arms surrounding you as if he were your personal shield. He doesn't stop touching you; there are small kisses on your shoulders, slow caresses on your arms, small gestures from someone who is marveled by the physical proximity. Clark buries his face in your hair and lets out a sigh of pure peace.

"Thank you for being the first," he murmurs, his voice vibrating against you. "I'm glad it was you. I didn't want it to be anyone else in the world."

He pulls you a little closer, ensuring you're warm under the duvet, and remains there, in vigil, watching over your sleep as his heart finally finds the rhythm of yours.

[innorality]

Imagine Clark and ovulation like... Can he sense it... Smell it... Is he affected by the pheromones

yes, yes and fucking yes.

ovulating had never really, truly affected you that much. sure, it did have a few effects on you and yeah, maybe you were hornier than usual, but truthfully, if it weren't for your cycle tracking app, you wouldn't even know you were ovulating.

that was until you got with clark kent.

he was just so desirable, so attractive. tall, strong, kind, and cute... the basically perfect boyfriend! in addition to the wonderful sex you two had.

and you knew you were insatiable when you ovulated around him. you knew he had enough stamina to quench your thirst, to meet and satisfy your every need.

what you didn't know, however, is that he shared those needs.

clark kent often damned his superhuman abilities, but when you were ovulating? he thanked the lord he had them.

he was as affected by your ovulation as you were, if not more. he could see it, smell it. the otherwise imperceptible scent of your pheromones affected him in greater ways than it could affect any human, and the constant layer of sweat that covered your slightly warmer skin added to those effects.

and he's so shy and respectful that, even when he knows you're ovulating, he doesn't pounce on you. he waits for you to start speaking to him with that low, sultry voice, to start touching him with those soft, warm hands, to kiss him with those plush lips and to press those tender breasts against him.

and he's so dizzy because, god, the pheromones emanating from your sweat are driving him insane and all he wants to do is to grab you and fuck you senseless, filling you up with his seed to fertilize the egg that has been patiently waiting for him.