cw: smut!, mean!Scott, degradation, car sex, rough oral (male receiving), spitting, slapping, angry sex
“That’s not going to happen again,” Scott had stated bluntly as he put his cock back in his jeans and buckled his belt, still smacking the same piece of gum he had been chewing before the two of you fucked for the first time in your hotel room. “I take my work very seriously. I’m not going to let some silly little girl get me fired. Now put some real clothes on, this tornado’s not going to chase itself.”
But anytime you tried your luck and pawed at his belt in the truck, he would roll his eyes while pulling over - taking his cock out and giving you what you wanted.
Scott had you bent over the passenger seat in the middle of nowhere Oklahoma, bullying his way into your cunt with his cock for the hundredth time this month. You would moan, your eyes rolling into the back of your head and he would scold you mid fuck for drooling on the head rest.
“You’re such a fucking mess, you know that, slut?” he’d demand, bringing his hand down hard on your ass when you were too fucked out to respond, “You’re dripping all over my cock and slobbering all over my fucking work truck like a bitch.”
You’d taken to leaving your hotel room door unlocked and Scott was growing accustomed to slinking through it whenever his cock got hard in the night or early morning. But some mornings he'd have to use this special privilege just to get you up on time - which always left a sour taste in his mouth.
“Lazy slut,” Scott spat, rolled his eyes as he came into your hotel room one morning after you had pressed “snooze” on your alarm one too many times. You groaned in protest as he yanked your blanket off of your already naked body - you loved sleeping naked, but especially when you knew you were likely to have a certain strict hottie visit you.
The cold air shocked your system but you were quickly warmed by Scott’s body hovering above you as he yanked you by your ankle to the edge of the bed where he was standing.
He threw your legs over his shoulders and shoved his cock inside you before landing a slap across your face and grabbing your jaw “This is all you're good for, huh?” he scoffed, shaking his head. “How many StormPar hours have you wasted sleeping in or taking so long to get fucking ready in the morning? Always making me wait for you. The only value you bring to this team is being my fuck doll. At least yo’ve got that going for you.”
All you could do was moan and nod your head in agreement, but that didn’t make Scott happy either. “Shut the fuck up,” he’d whisper harshly, bringing his hand down over your mouth as he plowed into you over and over. The hotel walls were thin, but he was satisfied enough to let you scream into his hand as he used your pussy.
He suddenly spat on your face, making your pussy tighten and gush on him, and he just let out a cold laugh. “Oh you were just made to be my little play thing, huh? They should just pay you to lay in my hotel room all day and wait for me to get back from chases to use so I can clear my head, it’d save them a lot of money - a far more practical use for you.”
As disgusted as Scott sounded as he rambled, he shattered - spraying his load deep inside you upon watching your eyes roll to the back of your head at his cruel words.
What would really make Scott’s blood boil was when you had the audacity to fall asleep in the passenger seat while he drove. Some days as the sun would set on the drive back to your hotel, your eyelids would get heavy - making yourself way too comfortable on the job for Scott’s liking.
“Let me help you make yourself more useful,” he scoffed while undoing his belt, causing you to stir awake before reaching over to grip your hair and pull your face down into his lap with one hand, the other hand safely on the wheel.
You immediately understood and got to work, sliding his already hard cock between your lips - sucking and slobbering and lathing your tongue across his veins.
He groaned and pushed your head down harder, forcing himself down your throat harshly. “Yeah, slut. I know you can take it all,” he grunted, using your hair to guide you up and down his length.
You sputtered and gagged as he used you down to the collarbone and pulled you to your tonsils before forcing you down again over and over. You;d never had your throat used so rough before and his mean inconsideration burned in your tummy and made you wet, your pussy jealous for the attention your mouth was receiving.
“All your worth is tied up in these holes, huh? Don’t think I’ve ever worked with someone more incompetent,” or as pretty as you, but Scott kept that part to himself.
Tears stung your eyes and you struggled to breathe as Scott expertly drove the car while simultaneously using your head to get himself off. “Just turn your dumb little brain off and open your throat for me, show me you can be useful” he encouraged.
Suddenly, to your relief, Scott groaned and came - holding your head down as deep as possible. You tried to keep your teeth from scraping his balls. “Fuck,” Scott grunted as his load shot down your throat and into your tummy.
He let go of your hair and you instinctively sat up and coughed, trying to clear your airway. He took his eyes off the road for a moment to glance at you, a smug smirk pulling on his mouth when he saw your red eyes, tear stained cheeks and slobbery chin.
“You’re always such a filthy mess,” he shook his head, fixing his belt and staring at the road in front of him before popping a fresh piece of gum into his mouth.
Pairing - WC: David!Clark Kent x gf!Reader | 3.75k
Summary: Loving Clark Kent means loving Superman too, even when the city steals him away on the nights you wanted him most.
Tags: 18+, MDNI, smuuuut, praise kink, oral (m receiving), kinda cock worship?, deep throat, wet and filthy, saliva as lube, nipple/breast play, tugging on hair, suit stays mostly on, cum swallowing, filthy use of lipstick, lovesick!Clark, needy!reader, established relationship, f!hair mentioned but no style, color, length described, reader wears a dress, pet names (baby, sweetheart, honey/hon)
took all day to write this, frantically with one hand. i'm sorry I don't have it in me to edit. you get whatever my lil brain gives. Thank you @honey-on-your-tongue for talking some sense into me to just write
main masterlist | Mrs. Kent Diaries
You’d been waiting for Clark to come home for two agonizing hours.
Your little black dress miraculously hadn’t wrinkled despite your nervous pacing, dramatic sighs, the way you kept sinking onto the couch only to stand again, too restless, too warm, too annoyed to sit still for more than thirty seconds.
Every slow lap from the couch to the tall windows and back again only made the ache between your thighs grow slicker, more insistent, your body winding itself tighter around his absence.
By the millionth trip to the hallway mirror, you dropped all pretenses and admitted you weren't fixing anything, just needed somewhere to channel all that restless heat.
The earrings caught the low light as you tilted your head, and your mind instantly supplied the filthy image of them swaying and tinkling while Clark’s hands fisted your hair, guiding you as you rode his cock deep and desperate.
Your perfume had warmed against flushed skin, the pulse beneath it fluttering wildly at every elevator groan or passing footstep—imagining his face buried there instead, licking, sucking, nipping marks into your throat while he growled your name.
Even your lipstick, a shade worn with the purpose to make Clark stammer half his sentences and forget all the manners Ma drilled into him, remained exactly where you’d painted it. No matter how many times you licked and pressed your lips together.
You leaned closer to the mirror, pouting, dragging your palms down your waist and over your hips exactly the way you wanted his to: rougher, needier, gripping, squeezing, digging hard enough to leave faint bruises that would heal under his apologetic kisses later. You adjusted one strap, one that hadn't even moved a single inch, imagining his fingers slipping beneath and yanking it down, too.
Pathetic, you thought. Absolutely pathetic. Dressed up and wound this badly for him.
You pictured exactly how he would’ve gone. He’d come through the door giddy and grinning, still windblown from the city, broad shoulders filling the entryway, keys clinking into the bowl. One shoe off, hand still on the doorknob, glasses slipping down his nose as a sweet greeting died in his throat: “Honey, I’m ho—oh gosh,” in that deep, raspy voice.
Or, “Sweetheart," in that strained, drawn-out way that somehow sounded like profanity.
Or your name, whispered as if he’d just found nirvana in the hallway of his own apartment.
His eyes would’ve gone to your face first because he was a good man, but not that good. They would've dropped to your throat. Then your dress, to the inviting plunge of cleavage, the curve of your waist beneath your own restless hands. Then, inevitably, helplessly, back up to your shaded lips that made him so lovesick and stupid.
In two strides, Clark'd pressed you against the wall, hands sliding under your dress to find you already soaked, fingers teasing your clit while he groaned against your lips and you moaned reminders about dinner plans.
Nothing big or expensive.
Just you and him, a candle-lit table, his hand warm at the small of your back, thumb brushing the curve of your hip, fingers pinching the meat of your ass whenever he thought no one was looking. You’d lean into him, swat his chest playfully, tug him down by the collar to kiss the hinge of his jaw, and feel the sharp catch of breath against your cheek. Let your ankle stroke against his inner thigh under the table. Watch him try to keep his voice steady while you playfully smiled at him over your menu, like you hadn’t already decided the night would end with a much sweeter, messier kind of pie for dessert.
But by minute fifty-three, a new scenario had taken over.
A slow turn in the hallway.
A sharp, lifted brow.
Maybe a wounded little, "Oh, baby. You remembered where we live?" if you felt especially cruel enough.
You’d make Clark work for your smile, let him chase you around the apartment with those apologetic, puppy-dog eyes, scolding him to freshen up. Let him put those big hands on your hips, press up behind you, and murmur apologies against your neck until you believed him. Maybe allow him to press a kiss or two to your shoulder, your wrist, the corner of your mouth.
Maybe you’d even let him drop to his knees and eat you out right there against the wall, your fingers in his thick mess of hair, riding his tongue until you came with his name on your lips.
Maybe allow him to do it over and over, until you finally let him off the hook like always.
Because this wasn't the first time, and wouldn't be the last.
It came with the territory of loving Clark Kent, and the heavier territory of loving Superman. Missed reservations, movies paused halfway through, solo showers. Sometimes the whole city seemed to reach for him at the same time you did, and the cruel, noble thing was that you usually stepped back first.
You knew that. You loved that about him. You hated that about him a little tonight.
And because you knew Clark, because you loved him, because you were not interested in building any argument out of a rescue he couldn’t ignore, you hadn't checked the news.
Hadn’t opened your phone to search "Superman". Hadn’t refreshed the Planet’s breaking alerts or texted Lois. Hadn’t doom-scrolled shaky footage of smoke or sirens or blue-and-red blurs cutting through the sky.
You’d left your phone face down next to your purse like that made you mature, responsible, as if ignorance could quiet your wild imagination from filling in every possible reason he wasn’t home yet.
If there was a reason, he would tell you.
If there was blood, he would hide it badly.
If there was guilt, God, it'd be written all over his face.
-
You were still leaning toward the mirror, blotting your lipstick again, when the balcony door exploded inward.
Okay, not literally, but the force of Clark’s landing hit the apartment like a thunderclap. The curtains snapped like a whip. Your lipstick tube jumped clean out of your fingers and struck the floor, rolling beneath the console table as you stifled a yelp.
Then came the frantic scrape of the door, the rush of cold night air, and Clark’s boots hitting concrete, then hardwood, too fast, too heavy, every step like a hammer striking stone.
Your heart lurched into your throat as you spun around, shocked silent.
Clark was already pacing, one hand dragged through his raven hair hard enough to displace the stubborn curl at his forehead. His chest rose and fell like he’d flown across the edges of the vast universe holding his breath. He looked wired. Furious. Worn down to the bone. Like whatever happened out there sunk its claws into his shoulders and followed him home.
Every thought of playfully guilting Clark vanished clean out of your head.
"…Clark? Baby?" you breathed, nose crinkling as a burnt aroma curled around your senses. "What's wrong? Are you—?
At the sound of your voice, he turned so sharply he nearly tripped over his own boots.
It nearly broke your heart, the way his frantic blue eyes settled over you, softening just a touch. The dress. The earrings. The lipstick. The two miserable hours written all over your face. For one suspended second, he looked exactly like the Clark you’d imagined in the hallway, stunned, lovesick, and ruined by the sight of you.
Then guilt struck his features like lightning.
"Sweetheart, I'm so sorry," the words tumbled out in a breathless rush before you could say another thing. "I know I'm late. I know. There was a—a chemical fire and—and the containment team couldn’t get close enough without getting hurt, so I had to—the whole building was about to—Gosh, the entire east wall was ready to buckle, and I tried to be fast, I really did, but if I moved too fast the firefighters would probably turn to mush—and I couldn't do that—-"
He gestured helplessly, pacing again, the apologies and explanations spilling out of him like an avalanche burying any hope of organizing his thoughts.
That’s when you noticed the scorch marks.
His blue suit stretched tight across his shoulders, dark with sweat and smoke. His cape fluttered behind him in a singed, ragged mess, the bottom edge frayed. Black streaks of soot smeared across his chest, across his family crest, across the strong line of his jaw. It was his abdomen that made your stomach twist.
The fabric had been eaten clean through, the edges curled and blackened like something caustic splashed him. Beneath it, his skin was whole. Thank goodness. Smooth and unbroken under the ruin, still Clark, still impossibly untouched in the ways that should have reassured you.
But it didn’t. While the suit was destroyed, your Clark was still shaking.
“—and I knew we had dinner reservations,” he bemoaned, both hands moving now, one pinching the bridge of his nose, the other clenched around something you hadn’t got a good look at yet. “I knew, I swear I knew, and I kept thinking I could still make it if I just got everyone out. Then a second tank ruptured, and I thought, "Good Gosh, are there no other heroes out tonight," then I felt horrible thinking that, so I went back in, and—”
You frowned, worried.
Of course you were.
Always, when it came to your Clark.
But standing there with your pulse in your throat and between your thighs, taking in the ruined suit clinging to him like a second skin, the ash on the same cheekbones you kissed this morning, the heat coming off his body in waves, the raw, breathless guilt in his voice…some low, terrible, needy part of you curled awake and wanted.
Wanted him closer. Wanted your hands on him. Wanted to peel the ruined suit off inch by inch and find out how much of that frantic, superhuman energy he could spend on you.
You bit the inside of your cheek, frowning deeper, looking as grave as Clark felt.
Then his left hand shifted against the moonlight, and you finally saw them: flowers.
A bouquet of deep red roses, crushed almost beyond dignity in his tense fist. The stems were bent. A few petals had scattered across the balcony tiles during his landing, bright as little drops of crimson against the concrete and hardwood.
“Clark," you interrupted, lips slightly parted.
He stopped mid-stride.
You pointed. “Flowers?”
He blinked, looking down at his own hand as if he’d never seen it before.
"Fl—oh. Yeah." He sighed, shoulders sinking. "Bought them just after clocking out. Called ahead, was supposed to drop them off, have the waiter bring them out before the appetizers, or when you sat down. I hadn't decided. I was going to pretend I had no idea what was happening, which sounds so silly saying it aloud— because—because you always know when I’m lying, but I thought maybe if I did it badly enough, it would be charming—"
Endearing, utterly charming, painfully attractive word vomit paired with disheveled hair, ragged breaths, smoke-smudged skin, and the kind of rippling muscles the ruined suit was doing absolutely nothing to hide.
Shit. You wanted him now.
"—I guess we’ll never know, because I’m two hours late and the roses are destroyed and I smell like a poorly managed high school chem lab—"
"Clark, stop!" you called, firmer than you meant to.
The rambling died in his throat.
His eyes lifted to yours, then moved over you slowly this time, not in panic or apology, but with a stunned, helpless heat that landed everywhere his hands desperately wanted to. Your face. Your lips. The line of your throat. The dress hugging your waist, your hips, the soft rise and fall of your breasts as your breathing changed under his attention.
Ah, there he was. Not exactly the fantasy. Arguably better.
Very late, soot-streaked, holding ruined flowers, staring at you like the whole burning city had fallen away and left him with nothing but this apartment, this hallway, and you.
Your thighs pressed together before you could stop them.
"Sweetheart,” he swallowed faintly, drawling it out like a curse.
Swallowing a moan, you asked instead. "Did everyone make it out alive? Safe?"
He nodded, still staring.
"Then it's okay, everything is okay, promise." Clearing your throat, you stepped toward him quickly. "What's important is you are home, too. Alive and safe. What you need is to get out of that suit. It's ruined."
"I can fix it,” he countered, still watching your lips with that dazed expression. "The suit, I mean. Gary can—"
"The Fortress is thousands of miles away."
You stopped right in front of him, close enough to smell the smoke and something metallic and sharp tingle in your nostrils. Close enough to feel the warmth rolling off him, to see the soot caught in the laugh lines and dimples beside his mouth, to watch his unmarked skin shift and tense beneath the torn, ruined fabric every time he breathed. "We can deal with it tomorrow."
Clark glanced down at himself, brows pinched. "Right. Tomorrow. I'm sorry, I should probably—"
"Clark?" you nearly whimpered.
"Yeah? What is it?"
"Shut up."
You rose onto your toes, caught the back of his neck, and pulled him down, snuffing further protests.
For half a second, he held still, too careful, too Clark, one ruined bouquet hanging limply at his side, and the other hand hovered near your shoulder. Then you kissed him harder, one hand sliding into the damp hair at his nape while the other curled into the collar at the front of his suit, and whatever restraint he had left cracked.
Clark groaned against your lips, the sound vibrating through your chest.
His free hand found your waist, still trembling with leftover adrenaline, and yanked you flush against him, no longer gentle. You felt every hard inch of him: the solid wall of his chest, the ridges of his abs through the torn suit, and the thick, unmistakable bulge of his cock already straining against your belly. He tilted his head, lips parting wider, tongue sliding hot and urgent against yours.
The kiss quickly turned hungry, messy, open-mouthed with his apology, with your impatience, with the two hours you’d spent wanting him and the whole ruined night he’d carried home in his chest.
Soot from his jaw smudged your cheek. Your lipstick smeared across his mouth and chin as he chased the connection, sucking on your tongue before nipping your bottom lip hard enough to make your knees buckle and a fresh wetness to flood your panties.
One of his hands slid down to grip your ass, squeezing the flesh and pulling you tighter so you could grind against the rigid length of him.You moaned into his mouth, nipples tightening against his chest, your soaked cunt throbbing with every roll of his hips.
God, you wanted nothing more than for Clark to rip the dress off and fuck you right here, bent over the console table or legs wrapped around his waist with your back pressed against the windows, taking every thick inch until you were dripping down his cock and screaming his name.
You broke the kiss only enough to breathe against his lips, one hand still fisted tight in his hair, tugging just the way you knew made him weak.
“Baby,” you murmured huskily, lips brushing his. “I can help take the suit off.”
Bracing his thighs, you lowered yourself to your knees before he could argue, the movement making your earrings sway and tinkle softly just as you'd imagine.
The position put you at eye level with the scorched gash in his suit. You reached up, fingers hovering over the blakened edges, and began carefully peeling it away from his skin. The material, though thick and clinging stubborn even in pieces, gave way under your persistent hands.
Beneath it, Clark's abdomen was warm. Whole. Trembling when your knuckles grazed along his hip bone.
Above you, Clark made a sharp, strangled groan and immediately looked away, jaw rigid, the ruined bouquet still clutched in his white-knuckled grip as the last thread of his composure.
Pursing your lips to stifle a giggle, you worked the torn section free, exposing more of him: the ladder of his ribs, the hollow of his pelvis, the dark trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband. You let your gaze follow that trail hungrily, licking your lips.
Sure, the suit was always tight, but now it was impossible to miss the pronounced ridge of his erection, pressing against the red fabric of his briefs, curving and straining upward, the thick head already leaking.
Oh, your poor, guilty, late, soot-streaked Superman, trying so hard to be polite when his body had very clearly remembered what yours had been aching for the last two painstaking hours.
"Hmm, I know you like what you see," you purred, looking up at him through your lashes, pulse fluttering wildly at your throat.
A choked sound tore from his heaving chest.
"I—you—it's the dress," he stammered, his free hand hovering near your cheek, fingers twitching. You spared him the pain and leaned into his touch, letting him cup your face.
"The dress?" you blinked up, wide-eyed, mock-innocent, drawing your shoulders forward so your cleavage spilled forward.
"And the earrings. Plus, your smile. Your voice. That lipstick," he finally admitted, almost desperate. "And you. Mostly you. Entirely you, actually. You're so beautiful. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Even during the fire, I kept picturing you waiting for me, and I was late, and the reservations, and the roses, and—"
He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing, abdomen tensing. “The reservations. Can we still—”
“Dinner’s not happening tonight,” you explained gently, glancing at the wallclock with exaggerated sorrow. “The restaurant stopped seating twenty minutes ago. Hell, even fifteen minutes after our reservation lapsed.”
His shoulders sank once more, thumb stroking your cheek with heartbreaking tenderness when you glanced up at him. "Yeah, I figured."
"But," you continued, curling your fingers into the waistband of his suit, tugging it down. "I am hungry."
The sound Clark made when his thick, flushed, slick-at-the-tip cock sprang free was half groan, half profanity prayer.
You wrapped a hand around the base, fingers barely meeting, pumping him a few times before notching the fat head between your parted lips. The sight of him, so hard and leaking in your palm, made your mouth water with primal anticipation.
Leaning in and parting wider, you licked a slow, wet stripe up the underside, tracing every vein from root to tip. He was proportional to everything else about him. Which meant he was a lot, and received a lot of attention.
Clark’s entire body jerked with every drag of your tongue. The hand grasping the flowers eventually let go. Petals scattered as he gripped the back of your neck with that perfect blend of gentleness and desperate strength you’d fantasized about.
"Oh," he begged. "Hon, please."
Drawing a breath, you took him past your plush lips and into your warm mouth.
For a moment, you stayed still to feel the weight of him on your tongue. To savor the taste of salt and skin. You sighed dreamily, eyes rolling back, hollowed your cheeks, and sank down, down, down, until your nose buried into the thatch of dark hair at the base, until the head nudged the back of your throat and you had to pull back just enough, gasping, gagging, drawing more breath.
Your eyes watered, paying no mind to wipe them away. Saliva pooled messily down your chin, over his balls, dripping onto the valley of your breasts. You went right back, messier, wetting, pushing further until your throat fluttered and squeezed around his thickness. Your earrings tinkled with every enthusiastic bob of your head.
“Baby—you're— incredible,” Clark managed, each word bashful and strained between ragged breaths.
The hand cupping your cheek slid down your shoulder with a grunt, thumb tracing your collarbone before tugging the strap of your dress gently until it fell, then the other. The fabric peeled away onto your waist, baring your breasts to the cool air. His broad, callused palm groped one immediately as he groaned.
"Your mouth, the way you take me—so deep—that lipstick—"
You whimpered around his cock at the praise, the high-pitched vibrations making his hips twitch. Lipstick smeared across his shaft in streaks, marking him exactly the way you’d imagined while waiting. You took him to the root again, throat fluttering around his thickness, swallowing deliberately so the tight muscles milked him. Your pulse raced against his cock with every heartbeat.
"Gosh—" His hips bucked involuntarily harsher that time. He immediately stilled, a flush creeping up his neck. “Sorry, sorry, hon, I didn’t mean to—”
Clark’s hand tightened at the back of your neck, the other gripping your shoulder, holding you steady as his thighs trembled beneath your touch, with the willpower not to fuck your face the way he fucked your cunt.
“No—more—sorry's,” you quickly warned when he tried to apologize for another sharper buck, sucking harder in retaliation despite the radiating ache in your cheeks and jaw.
The wet, rhythmic squelching of your mouth working him filled the room. You pulled off just long enough to lap at his slit, tongue swirling through the leaking fluid, then took him whole again.
His hand on the back of your head, then loosened, then tightened again, like he couldn’t decide whether to pull you closer or push you away. He was babbling praises now, sweet praises spilling from his lips between raspy moans.
"You’re so good to me—so darn good—how are you so good at this—your mouth, your tongue—" A guttural sound broke his sentence in half when you swirled your tongue at the base, curving your head. "You look so beautiful like this. W-with that darn lipstick, I said that — alright r-right? I wanted—I want you all night. All day. Every second I was out there. I couldn't stop—"
Through his ramblings, his generous, callused fingers dragged through the thick strings of saliva dripping down your chin and onto your chest, using the messy spit as slick, warm lube to glide over your skin. He spread it across your stiff nipple in slow, meaningful circles, making them glisten.
His palms traded sides, giving attention to the neglected breast, sending sparks straight to your clenching cunt, the perfect counterpoint to the frantic, greedy rhythm of your mouth. The wet heat of your mouth, the cool air on your skin, the rough pad of his thumb made you moan louder and longer than before.
"Yes," Clark hissed. "Yes, jus'—just like that, hon. I love—when you sound like that. I love—when I can feel it. When you—”
You pulled off just long enough to lap at his slit, tongue darting out and swirling, then sank back down, taking every inch until your nose pressed against his pelvis and you swallowed around him.
Clark’s eyes fluttered shut, chest heaving, jaw clenching so tight the muscle jumped beneath his filthy sweat-slicked skin. "I’m—I can’t—Hon, you’re going to make me—I'm gonna—ohh sh—shoot—"
His words dissolved into breathless moans. Low. Broken. The kind of sounds you'd happily spend eternity coaxing from him. You felt him familiar throb against your tongue, thick and pulsing. His hand fisted tighter in your hair, the other gripping your shoulder hard enough to leave faint bruises that would be soothed under his kisses later.
With a broken cry that rattled through his chest, Clark came.
Hot, thick spurts flooded your throat in heavy waves. You swallowed every drop, throat fluttering and milking him while your lipstick left fresh smears along the shaft.
You kept sucking gently long after, lazily nursing him through the oversensitivity until his legs shook and soft, blissful whimpers slipped from his lips.
Only then did you pull off his massive length with a wet pop, thin gleaming strings of saliva and cum connecting your swollen, glossy lips to his still-twitching cock, dripping meassily onto your breasts.
Clark stared down at you like you’d hung the moon, the stars, and made the sun rise every day just for him, blue eyes dazed, tender, overflowing with love. His hands trembled as they cupped your face, thumbs brushing away tears and spit from your cheeks and lipstick-smeared lips as you caught your breath, all while whispering hushed words of praise and affection that made your cunt clench and squirm to once again chase that heat.
Suddenly, he lifted you by the waist, pressing your bare back against the cool window. The glass fogged beneath your heat as he dropped to his knees, rucking your dress high up onto your waist. Your legs draped instinctively over his wide shoulders, heels digging between his shoulder blades.
"I need—" he started, and then stopped, nuzzling against the soaked crotch of your panties, inhaling deeply, lips nipping at your swollen clit through the fabric with silent, pleading permission.
"I know, baby," you cooed, carding your fingers through his thick, messy curls, tugging just right. Your voice was deliciously raspy from how thoroughly you’d taken him. "You’re hungry. I can help with that, too."
The soot-stained suit still hung off him in tatters.
Scattered rose petals littered the floor around you both like crimson confetti.
typing this with one hand on my mouth and the other down my pants and I actually can’t keep track of my limbs anymore because this is an otherworldly experience thank you for breakfast, lunch, and dinner
After his first experience with your portal pussy, Clark’s become a bit… attached. It rarely sees the inside of your nightstand now; Clark always has it in his briefcase or backpack. And since you’re always wearing the panties, he can always take it out for a little peek at his pretty pussy. Sometimes, he’ll even take it out in the bathroom stalls. Lick a bit, to sate his thirst for it.
It’s a rare time when Clark is at home, and you’re out. You were busy running errands. Clark’s not used to being home alone. Krypto’s not even here.
With a heavy sigh, he plops right back onto the couch, the familiar blue metal disc in his hands. He unscrews the lid.
Your pretty pearl and folds sit inside, perfect. There’s even a bit of wetness from you and Clark’s early morning sex, cum dribbling from your hole.
After that first session, you and Clark had talked more about consent. Any time you were wearing the panties, Clark could do whatever he wanted. So Clark slides the tip of his cock up and down your seam. It’s warm and slippery. Clark notches the head of his cock right into your fluttering hole, and groans as he slides right in.
You immediately feel it in the middle of the grocery store. That perfect stretching sensation, the heft and fullness that came from Clark. You expect him to move, but he just stays there. It appears it’s a cockwarming sesson. So you go about your day as his cock is nestled perfectly inside, a reminder of how much Clark loves his gift.
summary: clark returns home after a two week long mission off planet. what does he bring with him? a new, longer hair style and an undying need to please his girl.
word count: about 3.7k!
CWs: 18+ MDNI! this is literally just porn after the reuniting part at the beginning!, use of pet names, fem!reader x clark kent, oral (f!receiving), hair pulling (clark receiving!), some rough/frantic kisses, a little bit of dry humping, the suit stays ON!, premature ejaculation (bless his heart), two idiots very much in love, established relationship, general fluff and silliness, i think that's about it.
author's note: i saw these new set pics recently and went fucking berserk over the tighter suit and longer hair. god, i can't wait for man of tomorrow. also this is dedicated to @clarkscolumn (surprise!) bc the very first thing we focused on was his longer hair when i sent these pictures to her. i hope you enjoy, i love u forever and ever bestie <3
Everything in your hands clatters to the floor as soon as your eyes land on Clark. In some sort of cosmic joke, you've both just arrived home from work at the same time, just...in very different entrances. He opted for the balcony, while you just closed your front door.
You can't help but internally cringe at the contents of your bag spilling everywhere, but that's something for you to deal with tomorrow morning. When you're seeing Clark for the first time in two weeks, that mess doesn't really make much of an impression in your mind.
"Hey, stranger," Clark excitedly quips. He's already bounding over to you, cape billowing behind him with each quick step he takes in your direction. You match his fastidious pace; how could you not?
"Where have you been?" you breathe while you basically sprint toward him. Your arms extend just the right amount enough for him to crash into you and scoop you up into his hold. Then to spin you around while squeezing you so tightly that you think your spine might snap in half.
You welcome that, though. It's better than being here alone while he's off-planet and you're making yourself sick over whether or not he'll ever come home. You let yourself be engulfed in him, in his crushing hold, in this tight hug, because at least he's here.
"I'm so sorry," he whispers. He presses a kiss onto your temple, gentle and reverent, and you melt into him. Wrap your legs around his waist just to pull him closer to you, to feel the press of his hard, familiar body against yours.
"The mission wasn't supposed to last that long. Everything that could have gone wrong ended up going wrong."
The sigh he pushes out against your temple is full of solace. Maybe a little guilt, as well, judging by the way he tightens his grip on your waist. He buries his face in your hair right after that.
Definitely a not-so-subtle way of inhaling your scent after he'd lost it for two weeks.
You pull back and shake your head.
"Doesn't matter. I'm so happy you're home," you confess through a breathy, relieved laugh.
Your hands, still tingling from the excitement of seeing him after so long, somehow manage to find their way up to his face. You brush your thumbs over the apples of his cheeks while your eyes reorient themselves with his beautiful features. Although he'd been gone for what felt like an eternity, you never forgot what he looked like.
Which proves a problem, because he doesn't look the same as when he left.
Clark leans in to kiss you, but you don't let him. You ignore your body when it screams at you to let him do it. You quickly press your hand over his mouth to hold him back, earning a confused little hum from your boyfriend. When his brow knits together, you bite back a laugh that very desperately wants to burst from your chest.
There's no doubt in your mind that he wants to kiss you even more than you want to kiss him, but that's not happening until you figure out what's new.
"What on Earth are you doing?" he mumbles against your palm.
"Shh. Hang on," you command, eyes still combing over his features. Your hands follow, fingers gently tracing over his soft, warm skin. He's got a little bit of stubble, which was to be expected. Apparently he had access to a mirror to shave with off-planet, though, because it's more of a five o'clock shadow than actual stubble.
You blink a few times. Your fingers trace over the sharp line of his jaw, and the straight, prominent bridge of his nose, and his high-set cheekbones, and his brow, and...anything on him that you can get your hands on.
"M'starting to feel like a lab experiment. Are you high?" he teases, words a little slurred because you're too busy poking and prodding at his cheeks. Laughs at you, too, giving you a glimpse at that beautiful smile you've missed so much. That smile that's the same as it was when he left.
So...his face is the same. What the hell?
"You're different."
His hold on you gets a little more firm. The easygoing, relaxed features you know so well tighten and morph into concern. A furrowed brow instead of a relaxed one. Widened, slightly scared eyes. Tensed shoulders, an even more tense jaw, and his lips quirking downward into a frown.
"Okay, now you're scaring me."
He sets you down in front of him to get a good look at the top of your head, to crane over you like he always does since he's so fucking big.
"Are you sure you're alright, honey? Did you hit your head or something while I was gone?"
He cradles the back of your head with one hand, clearly feeling for a bump or indent or anything that could explain your odd behavior. Then he leans in a little further to get an even closer look.
And that's when it hits you.
When he tilts to the left to look at where his fingers are basically mapping out and exploring your skull, your eyes fall on his hair, and everything starts to fall into place.
On the way that the curls atop of his head are longer. More defined. Water falling over his head and ever-so-slightly adding to that signature curl that always rests on his forehead.
Then your eyes travel down to the back of his head, at the way his hair is longer there, too. Long enough now that it curls at the nape of his neck, or to stick out and curl upward in the case of some of the thicker ones; a subtle difference, but enough to throw you off.
Enough to turn you on, too, because his hair has never been this long. How he managed to grow it this much over two weeks is beyond you; blame it on Kryptonian biology, maybe.
All you know is that you love it.
"It's your hair!" you squeal. "It's longer!"
"Oh, yeah," he says, face melting back into that general, lovey-dovey, gooey ease he usually has when he looks at you. He chuckles and releases your head, opting for reaching down and grabbing your hands instead.
"It's a little overgrown. I was gonna cut it when I got home."
You scoff. Why do men always cut their hair when it finally looks perfect?
"No, don't you dare! I'll break up with you if you do that!"
You get an eye roll from him for that one, but the way he's smiling down at you makes you think he's not all that upset.
"You think it looks good, huh?"
"It's so pretty, Clark," you purr. You must have laid that soft compliment on him much thicker than you thought you did. His cheeks turn pink, and he grins, and he looks down at your intertwined fingers to avoid turning any redder.
You break free of his hold to touch some of those longer curls, but your fingers stall at his suit's collar. It's different. A little shorter, maybe? The gap in the middle at his throat just a little wider? You aren't sure. Either way, you can see more skin. More of that beautiful, golden skin you dream about being pressed against yours at all hours of the day.
You lean back far enough to look at the rest of his suit, which is also slightly different. Still the same bright blue. Still the same gorgeous, flowing cape. But that symbol, the beacon of hope on the front of his chest is a little bigger. And the stretch of the fabric is a little tighter around his biceps. And those ridiculous trunks - the part that genuinely makes you salivate the most despite being so ridiculous - are a little higher up.
Fuck. He looks incredible.
"This...is this a new suit?"
He beams down at you. Steps back to do a quick little spin. You've never had a problem with a show-and-tell moment. Especially when he's showing himself off.
"You like it? It's not technically new, just...upgraded. Had to get Ma to fix the old one 'cause it was super beat up. She made a couple changes along the way."
He braces his hands on his hips and puffs out his chest. Something that should make you laugh, but now that you can see just how well his not-so-new but definitely-new-at-the-same-time suit's clinging to his thighs, you can't speak.
So you swallow when you're done ogling him and your eyes meet again. It was much harder than you wanted it to be. He definitely heard it, and the way he visibly softens and drops his mouth open tells you he's about to ask if you're okay again.
You don't give him the chance to do it, though, because you're too busy pouncing on him. Jumping into his arms and smashing your lips against his. Clark groans at your suddenness, but he doesn't skip a fucking beat. He'd been waiting to kiss you, after all; makes sense that he'd reciprocate it so quickly.
The kiss is immediately hot. It's heavy and obscenely needy on both ends. Your teeth click together in the most deliciously painful way. Your tongues fight for purchase in each others' mouths. Your hands tangle in his thick, longer hair while his hands slide down to your ass, groping it about as roughly as he knows you can handle while he stumbles out of your living room and toward your bedroom instead.
Your dorky giant trips over his own feet a couple times. His cape doesn't really help, either. Gets caught up and tangled in his boots, makes his steps all wobbly before he kicks your bedroom door open and bounds for your bed. And yet, through all that stumbling and near-falling, he manages to keep you steady in his grasp.
The best part about being with Superman? You never have to worry about him dropping you.
Clark doesn't even break the kiss as he kneels on the edge of your bed and bends over to lay you down on it. You're the first one to break it, and it's only so that you can suck in a breath to prevent passing out.
Damn him and his ability to hold his breath for an hour.
"I've thought about this," Clark mutters, leaning down to kiss your jaw and neck about as frantically as possible, "every single second that I was gone."
You laugh and tilt your head back to give him more access to your skin.
"Ditto," is all you can muster as a response. Your head is swimming with lust and a tiny bit of oxygen deprivation, and he doesn't make it any better when he nips at the sensitive spot at the junction where your neck meets your shoulder. His tongue laves over the new sore spot and pulls a moan out of you that you had no idea was nestled in your lungs.
When you unravel your legs from his waist, he settles between them. You have to hold back a whimper as soon as you feel the thick, warm hardness of his cock against your inner left thigh.
You whine, tugging on his hair to get him out of your neck while you tell him, "Kiss me. I haven't seen you in two weeks."
He obliges, but he does it in his own way. A smirk against your hammering pulse at the side of your neck. A few kisses in a trail toward your collarbones. A thin, hot line that he licks up the column of your throat.
"Anything for you, baby," he mumbles just before connecting your lips again. This kiss is slower than the last one, but so much messier. So much deeper. His tongue doesn't even need to slide over your bottom lip and beg for purchase in your mouth - you both went into it open mouthed and burning with need for each other.
You raise your hips to meet the stiff length of his cock. Even through all of your combined layers of clothing, the feeling of his hardness just hardly bumping against your clit is enough to make your walls flutter and clench.
Clark gently rolls his hips against yours, eliciting a moan from both of you. That was some very much-needed friction. It only exacerbates your need. Makes you burn. Makes you tighten your hold on his curls and pull on them again.
He groans and breaks the kiss, but his hips instinctively buck against yours. It takes all of your strength to not come from seeing the thin string of saliva keeping you connected.
Clark lets out a nervous little chuckle.
"This reunion celebration won't last long if you keep pulling my hair like that, honey."
In a playful act of defiance, you twirl some of his thick curls around your fingers and give them another tug. You smirk up at him when his hips buck again.
"You like having your hair pulled that bad, Clark?"
"I like it a normal amount, thank you very much," he sarcastically counters, but his eyes shift away from yours and he buries his face in your neck to attack it with kisses again. He's always been a bad liar.
"So if I do this," you pause to pull on his hair again - a little harder, a little quicker.
"You won't come in your cute trunks?"
Clark literally shudders. His hand falls to your left hip so he can pin you down on the mattress; it was just to get you off of him, to keep you from brushing against his cock again. Prevents him from blowing his load before you even get your hands on him.
"No, I won't." His voice went up about 10 octaves. You laugh at him and kiss his temple just before he can start moving down your chest.
With a flick of his wrist, the buttons on your work blouse are done for. They pop off of you and fling around your room, hitting the walls and clinking down onto the floor all over the place.
"I liked that shirt!" you squeak out. Your feeble little attempt at scolding him bounces right off of him, though.
"I'll buy you another one, honey. Don't worry about it."
Clark spreads your now destroyed shirt open and kneels between your legs so he can get a good look at you. All you can do is push yourself up on your elbows and watch his gaze slowly travel over your bare, heaving chest, your kiss-swollen lips, the soft, pinkish-red marks he'd left on your neck to claim you as his.
But he doesn't speak until he meets your eyes. When his lust for you gets swept aside, and he smiles so big that his dimples pop out. He reaches down to grab your hands. As your fingers intertwine with his, he lowers his voice to a whisper and confesses, "I missed you so much."
Clark's sweet, tender-hearted nature isn't something you're unfamiliar with. He's always got that big heart of his on his sleeve. Always displaying sincerity, and compassion, and kindness because he was raised that way. That's just the way he operates.
And yet there's something so special about when he's directing it at you. Something more genuine, something sweeter and kinder and more compassionate.
Because he loves you. Sure, he loves the people in Metropolis. He cares about them and their well-being.
But at the end of the day, he really, really loves you.
"I love you," he coos while his massive hands give your much smaller ones a tight squeeze.
See?
"I love you," you return without hesitation. You get a flash of that pretty grin from your dorky giant.
Then he leans down to kiss a trail down between your breasts, down your stomach, and toward your waist. He stops there. His hands, big and warm and gentle as ever despite the frantic need threatening to explode out of him, graze over the bottom of the skirt you wore to work. Thankfully, it isn't too tight.
Not like that'd be a problem. He'd just tear it off of you. But, seeing as he already tattered one piece of your clothing today...well, at least you get to salvage the skirt.
Clark pushes your skirt up until it's bunched around your hips. As soon as he gets a glimpse of what he's been missing for 14 long, long days, he lets out a shaky little sigh. His thumb gently glides over the wet patch in the middle of your panties, slow and exploratory and so fucking intoxicating that you're worried you might actually be drunk on him.
"Clark, don't," you cut yourself off with a pathetic whine as he presses down on your clit through your panties. One of your legs jolts and falls over his shoulder, the other still pressed down on the mattress because his big hand's claimed its spot on your thigh.
"Shit, don't tease!"
"I'm not teasing," he mutters. Starts rubbing soft circles on the sensitive little bundle of nerves, making you twitch and claw at the sheets beneath you just to keep it together.
"Just admiring you, sweetheart. Wish you could see how pretty you are when you're making a mess for me like this," he purrs, leaning forward to press a few soft kisses on your thigh. That five o'clock shadow burns your thighs. God, you missed that burn.
As he's marking up your thigh with soft bites that he suckles on to soothe your pain, that thumb slips away from your clit to push your panties to the side.
It all happens so fast. One second, he's torturing you through your panties, the next, he's dipping his head down to suck your clit into his mouth. You gasp and instinctively reach for him, one hand tangling in his hair while the other meets his where it rests on your thigh.
His longer hair is incredible, to say the least. It looks good. Fits him very well. Makes him look more mature even though he's already in his 30s.
Also, though? Fantastic to pull on while he's seated between your thighs and taking you to heaven. It keeps you grounded while he's moving down and dipping his tongue into your cunt. Plus, every time you yank on it, you get rewarded with a moan or grunt from him that shoots deep, gravelly vibrations straight up your core.
A particular gentle shake of his head while he's attempting to get his tongue deeper into you has you seeing stars. His nose gives your clit some much needed attention; enough attention, in fact, for you to whimper his name so loudly that it echoes within your room.
Also enough attention to get you to finish almost immediately.
You come so hard that your eyes might permanently be stuck rolled back in your head. While your body falls apart beneath him, the only thing keeping your soul from leaving it is that tight hold you've still got on his hair. You pull it a little harder as you're cresting over that wave that brings you to paradise, and while you're convulsing and trembling, he's letting out a rather loud moan of his own to match yours.
You come down a few moments later thanks to Clark's muttered sweet nothings and his gentle touches.
"Atta girl," he purrs through a few kisses he's pressing on your inner thighs. You keen. Then you blurt out a command to him, something telling him to get up off the floor so you can really get this party started.
"Um," he murmurs through an awkward laugh, "I think...maybe I'll just stay down here a little longer. If that's alright with you, of course."
That piques your interest. He does love to go down on you, but he's never turned down your begging for him to fuck you. You push yourself up on your elbows and take a good look at him.
At his widened eyes that keep darting away from you. At his bright red cheeks. At the way his chest is heaving much more than you'd expect it to be right now when he hasn't even really done anything.
You let out a weak giggle.
"What the hell are you talking about? You okay, Kent?"
"Yeah," he lies. A literal lie through his teeth. He pushed that little word out at you through a grin.
"Then come up here, weirdo," you tell him. "Sit against the headboard and let me repay you."
He presses his lips into a thin line. Swallows so thickly that you can see his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. But, he's never been anything less than obedient, so he very reluctantly starts the process of doing as you say.
As soon as he pushes himself up from the floor where he was kneeling in front of you, you see what the problem is and why he wanted to stay down there a little longer. It's in the form of a relatively large wet patch on the front of his trunks.
No wonder he moaned so loudly when you yanked on his hair while you came.
It riddles you with guilt when you feel the giggle bubbling up and out of your mouth at his expense, but you couldn't hold it back if you tried.
"Clark, did you-"
"I don't wanna talk about it," he grumbles, cutting you off relatively effectively. You cover your mouth with one hand and gnaw on your bottom lip. That helps you hold in your laugh.
It passes a few seconds later.
You shake your head.
"We don't have to."
As he reaches up to release the latches that secure his cape to his shoulders, you clear your throat.
"So...you definitely like it more than a normal amount when I pull on your hair, huh?"
Clark tosses his head back to let out a loud groan. You fall into a fit of giggles, but he's not having any of it. He huffs and crosses his arms over his chest.
"Enjoy it now, because I'm cutting it in the morning just to spite you."
⊱ ۫ ׅ ♱ soldier boy likes you loud and fucked stupid. mdni, 18+
soldier boy who likes having a hand around your neck while you fuck so he can notice when your pulse quickens. he never holds back however, cock buried deep in your cunt while his thick fingers wrap around your neck even tighter. he just smirks—that shit eating grin of his, all self-assurance and quiet arrogance—and when your pulse eventually spikes under him, that’s just a sign for him to go faster, deeper into your needy hole. his hands are quick to lift your legs off the counter on onto his shoulders, cock still buried inside of you, making the angle get better with each thrust, “like that pretty girl? like being fucked stupid like this?”
“fuckkingg hell, what a sight” he grumbled as his cock nudged that sweet spot deep inside of you, pace never wavering, enjoying your frantic gasps as you choked for air. “like when i choke you like this huh? fucking filthy”
soldier boy who, when you’re close to passing out, air barely entering your lungs anymore, he brings a hand to your cheek—not caressing nor gently, and definitely not in a comforting manner. he taps it twice, forcing you to turn to look at him. “a-ah, don’t even think about passing out on me doll”, he hums mockingly against your ear, voice deep and rough like gravel, “i’ll have you choking on something else after this”
soldier boy who pushes you against the wall when you’re being loud. he bathes in that shit—likes you loud and needy, whimpering about how it’s too much, drooling on his fingers as he takes you from behind. it’s no surprise honestly, he just loves when he can hear how good he makes you feel, and he sure as hell enjoys knowing that the entire vought building knows the same.
“you wanna be fucking loud huh? want everyone to know how much of a mess you are taking this cock?” he grunts, lips curled into a smirk as he comes closer, “it’s no use to act so shy now, let them hear how good i make this pussy feel”
soldier boy who doesn’t give two shits about fucking in a public display. he’ll dismiss it gruffly, tone suddenly a pitch lower than usual “you think i care about an audience?” with his hand loosely travelling down your thigh, playing with the hem of that skimpy skirt you were wearing that made him wanna grab you and take you right then and there. a dark chuckle slips past him as his other hand traces the curve of your jawline. “if i wanna fuck my girl? I'll do it right fucking here.”
soldier boy who loves it when you start whining, asking him to slow down, whimpering and begging him to stop—cause he gets too rough sometimes. when he does eventually slow down and lean closer to you, your body relaxes instantly, and you´re dumb enough to think that he actually heard you. but the moment your lips part to speak up, he immediately speeds up, smile so smug and proud of himself when he sees your teary eyes widen. yeah he’s a menace like that.
soldier boy who believes that using a condom is a waste of plastic. why use it when he can feel your overstimulated walls spasm around his length, making you feel every inch? it’s not like he didn´t look forward to having any children either, so why not better than to breed you instead? watch thick ropes of cum leave your insides, it’s just a sight that undoes him completely.
cybella’s thoughts⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡ lawd save me. i’m back and as needy as ever. i haven´t even finished s5, yikes.
A/N: Day six of June Jukebox Scribbles. First time writing Scott! I needed this man the moment I laid eyes on him, can’t believe it’s already been two years since Twisters.
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The motel room is humid. It's the kind that sticks to you and makes everything feel dirty despite the disinfectant wipes you keep on hand during tornado season. The weak circulation from the air conditioner blowing by the window doesn't help, merely pushing it around unhelpfully.
Scott's sprawled on the mattress, bare chest heaving beneath your palms while his grip the sheets like they'll save him from the sweet torture you're putting him through. Your name falls from his lips, surprisingly whiny and pleading despite his normally cocky exterior.
"Get my pretty name out of your mouth," you taunt sweetly, your hips rolling slowly over his, making him buck beneath you. "Just admit we know what we're doing."
Scott bites the inside of his cheek, pupils blown wide and nearly swallowing the blue hue whole as he looks up at you. His cock twitches, buried deep inside your aching cunt, desperate for the relief you refuse to give him. He could take over at any time and end his own torment easily, but something tells you he's actually enjoying this.
"You Wranglers don't know shit, you're just fucking lucky—ah!" He hisses when your fingers card through his sweat-damp hair and give a tug on the short curls, eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment.
"Lucky is you getting to fuck me every night, Miller. You don't need a fancy degree to chase storms."
Scott sucks in a breath and swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing. His hands finally release the sheets to caress the soft skin of your thighs instead, his large hands warm as he kneads the flesh.
"Fine, I will concede that you—and only you—might know what you're doing."
You smirk, leaning over him until your lips graze his before murmuring, "Good enough."
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pants? dropped. panties? wet. pussy? open. i need him so viscerally. him and his mean ass mouth. her putting him through this kind of torture to make him admit it ughhhhh i'm gonna kiss him
Pairing - WC: David!Clark Kent x bsf/theater actress!Reader | 700 (sorry It was meant to be 300 per the challenge!)
Summary: The familiar comfort of scripts, dinner, and Clark's apartment starts feeling a little too close to call friendship. Day 5 of June Jukebox Scribbles
Tags: flirty and fluffy, Clark yearning hours, mutual pining, close proximity (dancing, singing), almost kiss mwah mwah mwah💋
rewatched Spider-Man 3...do the twist
event masterlist
Practice stretched well into the evening, the way it usually did when you showed up with a new script and that hopeful sparkle in your eyes.
Clark listened to your audition monologue until the words lived in his bones, pausing only to offer soft notes slower on the turn, breathe before the last line, don’t rush the heartbreak.
Every time you launched into it again, you shined brighter. Pride and this deep and aching warmth swelled in his chest each.
Dinner followed like always: garlic, basil, flour dust on the counter this time.
You at his stove. Him passing the salt before you asked. Flour on his shirt from when you’d accused him of hovering and flicked it at him. Tomato sauce smudged across your cheek after you leaned in to taste from the spoon he held to your lips.
Clark knew his gaze lingered lately.
Maybe because his apartment started keeping you even after reluctant good-bye's and good-nights: your mug beside his coffee maker, his blanket you stole when you were cold, your stack of books claiming his nightstand with a bossy little, “Trust me, Kent. These are good.”
Somewhere along the way, his favorite part of every day had become waiting for your knock at his door.
And now, his neighbor's record player crackled through the paper-thin walls. A familiar opening harmonica kicked in as a bright and bold croon followed.
Hey, hey, baby!
You perked up, turning to him with hands clasped to your chest. “Oh, I love this song, Clark!”
He grinned. Of course he knew that! He knew everything you loved with your whole heart.
Before he could answer, you traded the wooden spoon in his grasp for yours and tugged him closer.
“C'mon! Dance with me! I need the practice!”
Clark didn't hesitate. One broad palm settled low on your waist, fingers splayed as he drew you in. The other laced tighter through yours. Your bodies pressed flush from the start, and he couldn't help but tease you.
"'Kay, but careful," he spun you toward the dining table. "Can’t risk burning Metropolis’s star actress before her big audition tomorrow."
Your laugh warmed him clear through as you slid over the hardwood in imperfect sync, singing under your breath while the kitchen gathered around you in all its mess: flour streaked across his shirt, sauce bubbling too hot on the stove, a dusting of parmesan on the counter, your script abandoned dangerously close to a smear of olive oil.
I said, "That’s the kind of gal I’d like to meet."
Your hip brushed against his thigh on the turn, then again, cheekily. Clark’s hand dared to slide lower. Flour dusted from his shirt onto yours as your breasts pressed against him after each twirl and twist.
"She’s so pretty," Clark sang again, eyes holding yours as the words no longer felt borrowed. "Lord, she’s fine."
Your lips pressed together, and you ducked your face into his chest bashfully before he could see too much of what all of this did to you.
But Clark felt it.
Your fingers curled tighter around his bicep.
Your breath caught against the cotton of his shirt.
Clark’s thumb traced a slow circle over your spine as he dipped his head close enough to catch the scent of your shampoo beneath garlic and basil.
"I’m gonna make her mine, all mine," he sang against your hair.
He heard your heartbeat jump instantly, and so did his.
Finally, you looked up at him, face illuminated in the golden kitchen light.
"All mine," you mouthed back, squeezing his hand.
Traces of city noise, music, the sauce, your script all faded beneath the rush of blood in his ears.
All he saw was his best friend. His favorite person.
The one who had been with him through every bad day, every small victory, every lonely stretch of life he'd never quite knew how to fill.
The woman he wanted beside him for every tomorrow he could imagine.
One flour-dusted hand rose to your cheek, thumb swiping gently at the tomato sauce there, but neither pulled away after it was gone.
Gosh, you were so close.
Close enough to notice the way your head tipped just so with a half-lidded gaze fixed on his lips.
Close enough that if he ducked his head just a tad lower—
I wanna know if you’ll be my—
A violent hiss erupted behind him, and you both startled apart gasping.
“Shit, Clark! Our dinner!” you yelped, slipping from his embrace to point.
Clark groaned, lunging to cut off the stove while you scrambled for a dish towel, wiping at the spill with shaky hands and laughing like you hadn’t just almost kissed him in the middle of his ruined kitchen.
The pasta was spared, the kitchen still stood, the actress unscathed. And whatever almost happened between you was merely...delayed.
Because when Clark looked back at you, still smiling at him like he hung the moon and eyes lingering on his lips.
—my girl. Hey, hey, baby!
Only one thought remained.
Soon.
He was going to ask you to choose him differently.
jaeeee please i always adore the way you write descriptions. always feels so effortless and stunning all the same. it's like i'm in the room with them (ok voyeur). i adore this so so much <3
Characters: 40’s!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader, ft. Steve Rogers
Word Count: 300
Now Playing: Hey! Baby by Bruce Channel
Content Warnings: Fluff, implied player turned loverboy!Bucky, love at first sight
A/N: Day five of Juke Jukebox Scribbles. I have a feeling 40’s Bucky is going to be recurring often in this event… Divider by me.
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Love at first sight is not something Bucky believes in. Attraction, desire, absolutely. But love, flowers, going steady, the whole nine yards?
That all changes the very second you walk into the diner.
Steve is in the middle of recounting the story of how he ended up in an alley getting his ass handed to him for the third time that week when the bell above the door tinkles lightly.
Bucky glances up from the basket of french fries that occupies most of his attention. A single fry dangles between two fingers but quickly falls to the basket below when his gaze lands on you.
A carefree smile. A laugh that sounds like an angel decided to grace the greasy Brooklyn diner with her presence. So pretty, Lord, she's fine, he thought. Something in his chest leaps.
"Buck?" Steve's voice calls through the sudden haze and turns to see what captured his best friend's attention. "You gonna talk to her or just gawk?"
Bucky waves his hand dismissively, already halfway to his feet when you reach the counter.
"Hey, baby," he tries smoothly, but the wobble in his voice threatens to expose the nerves making his fingers tingle. Your eyes to meet his, bright and full of wonder. His breath catches.
"Yes?"
His mouth goes dry, lips parting with words that refuse to come out. You smile softly—knowingly. Your friend giggles.
"What's your name, handsome?"
"James—Bucky—Bucky, you can call me Bucky," he quickly answers before mentally kicking himself.
You offer your name in kind, something perfect and beautiful just like you, and he commits it to memory like it had the potential to save his life someday.
"Can I buy you a milkshake?" He feels dumb even asking, but you nod and pat the seat beside you.
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am I a whore for wanting to let bucky do everything for me? maybe
a/n i'm sorry i'm just horny and wrote this in five seconds
call it selfish, but Bucky loves the way your head is always so far up in the clouds. the way you pull doors that say push, your brow furrowing in mild confusion as you keep pulling so gently until he steps up and helps you. your face softening and your beautiful smile returning to your face instantly, saying, "thank you, baby!" so brightly.
he loves the way you ask him for help with everything. "baby, my laptop won't turn on!" you whine, turning to him and tilting your head like a puppy dog as your signature frown crosses your face, waiting for him to assist you. him, a man not from this time, who still sometimes knows more about technology than you do.
he doesn't hesitate to pop up from his seat, walking over and reaching for the cord behind your desk, plugging the laptop in and watching your face as you see the screen light up again.
"thank you, baby!" you say, same as you always do. you're so appreciative and so grateful for even the smallest things he does for you because your little head just can't figure it out.
"you're welcome, princess," he tells you with a kiss on top of your head. "do you remember your password?"
when he takes you shopping, it's like you forget he's taken you to the mall solely to make you happy. you walk around looking at handbags and clothes and shoes that you absolutely adore, that wistful look in your eyes showing how hopeful you are and how much you love the item it is you're looking at. that is, until you look at the price tag, and your face falls into that little frown.
you let the hopefulness go and begin to walk away, but how could he let you walk away so sad?
"where are you going? don't you like it?" he calls to you, picking up whatever it is you were admiring. when you turn back to him, you try to wipe the frown from your face, but it's blatantly obvious how upset you are.
"I can't afford it," you whisper to him, embarrassed, and he just reaches for you with one free hand. you lean into him, and he wraps his arm around your shoulder, holding the item up in front of you.
"you think I'm going to let my pretty girl walk away so sad? never. I'll buy it for you, princess."
your face lights up in elation as it always does, always so surprised and ecstatic to hear that he's going to do something so sweet for you. "really, baby? are you sure?"
"of course I'm sure. anything for you."
especially when the item you've picked out is something you can wear, he's more than happy to tap his card for you. because he knows how pretty you'll look in it, and how you'll jump his bones without another thought. how he can make you keep it on as he parts your legs for him.
"look at that beautiful dress on my beautiful girl," he murmurs as he kisses up the insides of your thighs, his firm hands holding your hips in place as you squirm underneath him thanks to the ticklish sensation of his lips against your sensitive skin.
"thank you, daddy," you whisper as his nose brushes over the thin lace of your panties covering your slit. "you're so good to me."
"I would do anything for you, princess. now lay back and let daddy take care of you."
pairing ۶ৎ lighthouse keeper!bucky barnes x ghost!reader.
prompt ۶ৎ right place wrong time / dr john — june 4th entry for june jukebox scribbles, hosted by @societynsoelsscribbles !
summary ۶ৎ in which, two ghost stories overlap and become a salt-air, liberating haunting.
a/n ۶ৎ i was rewatching ‘the light between oceans’ when this idea swam to the surface of my mind, and i’m hoping one day i’ll explore more of this!!
word count ۶ৎ 299 | divider creds ۶ৎ @/angeliicide
Ocean waves briskly sweep across each other, celebrating the vastness of the heavens parting and gifting the water a glimpse of sunlight.
The lighthouse skims the wisps of heaven’s entrance—a place Bucky is forbidden from entering. Yet, being far away from the ground that’s tried burying him on numerous occasions is serenity itself.
His company consists of a salt aroma warding off past gunpowder residue, seagulls discovering refuge after soaring past the window he longingly gazes out of, and a reminiscent tale citizens on the mainland whispered about when the waves clamoured loudly.
You’re supposably a myth birthed from Poseidon’s wrath, summoned to ensure collisions of tidal waves wreak havoc against soul-filled boats.
They warned him of you, but they must have used the wrong line, for your presence settles the rampant ache in his chest.
You’re an eidolic, mimicking his once hollow self. You drift where the world allows you, and as his dog tags, lying lazily on the desk, jingle peacefully against the faint, whirring rhythm of the lighthouse’s ticker, your otherworldly nature gracefully appears.
“You can keep them, if you’d like,” The corner of Bucky’s lips curl upwards as he watches your fingers delicately brush against the metal, “Saves you creepin’ up on me.”
“You’re used to me creeping up on you.”
“I am,” he muses, “But a calling would be nice. It’d at least let me fix myself up first.”
A ghostly smile flickers on your mouth. His charming spirit is unbreakable. Not even the ocean could drown it, no matter how many times he’s been knocked down.
Your souls may be barricaded from heaven, but not from this lighthouse. Here, when storms arise and the beacon shines, creatures both above and below the surface yearn for the contentment shared between a lighthouse keeper and a ghost.
Can we please get more possessive Scott? I love the way you write him!
omg thank u!!! this is for u anon🩷
possessive!scott who always keeps spare painkillers in his truck because you once complained about a headache. carries a charger because your phone is always dying.
possessive!scott who introduces you to people as “his girl” before you can even get your name out.
possessive!scott who’s very good at making things sound reasonable. you’ll call him out for being controlling.
he’ll immediately just say “i’m worried about you.”
and suddenly you’re questioning yourself.
possessive!scott who’s terrible at taking breaks. he’ll be sitting at the little motel desk at 1:37am, baseball cap backwards, staring at weather models like his life depends on it. you’ll wake up and find the bed empty.
eventually you stop asking him to come to bed. instead you just drag your blanket off the mattress and wrap yourself around him from behind. arms around his shoulders, face pressed against his back.
he sighs dramatically, “baby.”
five minutes later he’s still working one-handed because he refuses to make you let go.
think we can all agree possessive!scot just equals bf!scott because it’s just his personality
Content Warnings: Angst, implied threat of violence, gender neutral reader.
A/N: Swapped day three of June Jukebox Scribbles. This might be the most angsty piece I’ve ever actually written, and it’s just the start for what I have coming in terms of angst later this year 😈 I think I see the appeal?
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The room is deafeningly quiet. The floorboards beneath your knees are cold and unforgiving, but not more than the glare currently beating down on you.
Bucky looms over you, hands clenched in fists of flesh and metal, and jaw locked so tight it's a wonder his teeth haven't cracked.
"You almost had me fooled."
You silently avoid his gaze, heart pounding against your ribs and focusing on trying to breathe. There's nothing you can say that would fix what you've done.
"How far were you planning for this to go?" he growls. "Have you had enough yet?"
When you don't answer, his vibranium hand reaches out and grabs your face, forcing you to look up at him.
"Answer me."
There's a hint of hurt in his tone, something you know he's fighting not to show, and it makes your heart ache.
"James," you start, voice trembling. "Please, I love you—"
"Love?" he spits. "You're really throwing that in my face right now? After everything I've done for you—given you—this is how you repay me? Working for Rumlow…I can't believe you'd stoop so low."
Your heart stops when he releases you and lowers himself to your level.
"How did you know?"
"You're too sweet. Too pure. Too…goddamn perfect. Something was off. Did you really think I wouldn't find out?"
You shake your head, uncertain, looking through increasingly blurry eyes at the man that rules the city with a vibranium fist. There's no good excuse. Caught red-handed in a web of lies that's now threatening to destroy everything you've quickly learned to care about.
He stares at you, eyes cold and calculating, but when you don't answer, he stands back up and turns away.
"Get out," he grits, voice dangerously low. "Before I do something I'll regret."
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frothing at the mouth over this. mob bucky???? angst???? BETRAYAL???? all my favorite things in one place. im terrified for the rest of the year but i know im gonna be eating good
Characters: 40’s!Bucky Barnes x Jazz Singer!Reader
Word Count: 300
Now Playing: Don’t Stop Believin’ by Journey
Content Warnings: Fluff, love entranced at first sight, fem!reader.
A/N: Swapped out day two of June Jukebox Scribbles. There’s not much I love more than loverboy Buck, especially if it’s 40’s loverboy Buck! Divider by me.
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The jazz club is dim, smoke filling the room in a lazy haze. A smell of wine and cheap perfume fill Bucky's nose as he steps inside, the air almost suffocating beneath the tight collar and tie of his uniform.
Red velvet curtains drape across the back of the instrument-filled stage, centered perfectly in the room. Men are scattered around at different tables; some in small groups murmuring quiet conversations while others fidget with the white tablecloths, their eyes darting around the room.
Bucky takes a seat near center stage, one of the only spots available, and removes his hat, carefully placing it on the table. The stage lights flip on, the chatter hushing reverently, illuminating the pine floorboards as the musicians step into the light.
But that's not what gets his attention.
You move gracefully onto the stage, each step careful—almost floating—until you reach the microphone. Lips painted a soft shade of red that perfectly compliments your skin tone, dress draped elegantly over every curve.
He's never seen anyone so beautiful.
Then the music starts and your lips part as you begin your song. If he didn't know any better, Bucky would think you're a siren, luring all these men in front of you to their doom.
Your eyes trail across the room, meeting everyone's gaze, but when your eyes meet his, Bucky's heart stops. For just a moment, the whole world fades away—war, stress, the other patrons—and it's just the two of you.
Your eyes sparkle in the spotlight. Then with a wink, you turn, the hem of your dress brushing against the floor as you continue your song.
It ends far too soon. Bucky's on his feet before the curtain even sways closed behind you, hoping to find a way to meet you.
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warnings: 18+ only, explicit smut, power imbalance (superhuman strength), morally gray reader, obsession/possession themes, manipulation, guilt kink vibes, furniture destruction (workout bench), rough sex (consensual), overstimulation, praise + control dynamics
summary: clark hires you off the books to help him control his strength in bed—because every partner before you has gotten hurt. you agree for the wrong reasons, pushing his limits on the workout bench until reinforced steel buckles and clark loses control. he thinks you’re saving him. you’re really making yourself the one thing he can’t walk away from.
a/n: biggest shoutout to @tw1sters for allowing me, a virgin chud of a clark girlie, into her stellar event. further shoutout to the wonderful @sparklingsin for this sexy ass banner. i'm still salivating. if this fic sucks it was not my fault (yes it was tf?) i wrote this in a fever dream for bucky and made it into a clark fic during a time of weakness. enjoy my frens
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The first time Clark Kent says it out loud, it’s in a voice so careful it barely disturbs the air between you.
“I need help.”
You pretend you don’t notice the way his hands are clenched behind his back—like he’s holding himself in place by sheer will alone. You pretend you don’t notice the way he keeps his weight distributed, controlled, as if he’s afraid the wrong shift might crack the concrete under his boots. You pretend you don’t notice the faint tremor under all that restraint.
Because if you look too closely, you’ll give yourself away.
And you can’t afford that.
Not when you’re already picturing the headline in your mind like a private little prayer.
Superman learns to be gentle.And you’re the only one he trusts enough to teach him.
The offer comes to you off the books, like a confession slid across a table instead of money.
A place. An hour. A promise that no one will know your name.
And then, after a pause that tastes like shame, the real truth:
“Every time I’ve tried,” he says, eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder, “someone gets hurt.”
It’s not an admission that makes him smaller. It makes him terrifying in a new way—because he isn’t talking about bruises the way ordinary men do. He’s talking about physics. He’s talking about the reality that a good night can become a hospital visit if he forgets himself for half a second.
He swallows, and you watch his throat bob like he’s forcing down something sharp.
“I can’t—” He stops. Starts again. “I want to be… normal. With someone. I want to be able to let go without… without being afraid of what I’ll do.”
You nod like you’re a professional. Like your pulse isn’t kicking against your ribs.
“What exactly are you asking me to do?” you say.
He looks at you then, properly—blue eyes too honest, too bright. The kind of eyes that make people trust him with their lives.
“I want you to help me practice,” he says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Control. Feedback. Limits.”
Practice.
Like this is a skill he can learn the way he learned flight. Like you can run drills until his body understands what his mind has been doing alone for too long.
You should say no.
You should tell him there are therapists for this, doctors, specialists who won’t get tangled up in the way your stomach drops at the idea of him losing control on top of you. You should tell him this is a terrible idea, morally and practically and in ways that will haunt him if it goes wrong.
Instead you ask, “Why me?”
His mouth opens. Closes.
Then, softly, “You didn’t flinch.”
A beat.
“You didn’t look at me like I’m a weapon.”
Another beat, the air humming with the effort it takes him to say it.
“You looked at me like I’m a person.”
You let your expression stay smooth, careful. You let him believe it.
Because the truth is uglier than that.
You didn’t flinch because you’re not afraid of him.
You’re hungry for him.
And you’ve always been the kind of person who learns best by touching the fire.
He takes you to the place he trains when he needs the world to stop looking at him.
It’s underground, somewhere beneath Metropolis, a hidden room carved out of bedrock and reinforced like a bunker. No windows. No cameras. Just fluorescent lights that cast everything in stark honesty.
There’s a heavy-duty workout bench bolted into the floor like an altar.
Steel frame. Thick padding. The kind of equipment built for gods who don’t want to accidentally kill anyone.
Clark stands in the center of the room with his hands at his sides, posture rigid, like he’s bracing for impact.
“I’ve never brought anyone here,” he says.
You circle the bench slowly, letting your fingertips ghost the worn edge of the padding. It’s been used. Punished. Tested.
“You’re trusting me with a lot,” you murmur.
He nods once, sharp. “I have to.”
There’s something about that—about his need, his honesty, his desperation to be safe—that makes you want to bite.
Not him. Not yet.
Just… the idea of it. The control. The power in being the one person he can’t do without.
You set your bag down on the floor and pull out what you brought: a small bottle of lube, a simple set of cuffs with soft lining, a piece of fabric that could be a blindfold or a gag depending on how you fold it.
His gaze flicks to each item like he’s cataloguing weapons.
“You came prepared,” he says quietly.
You shrug, like you’re casual. Like you didn’t spend last night imagining the exact shade of red his cheeks would turn when you put him on his knees.
“This is training,” you say. “Training needs structure.”
His nostrils flare. He looks away, then back, as if forcing himself to stay.
“What do you need from me?” he asks.
It’s the question that matters.
Consent isn’t just a checkbox with someone like him; it’s the only thing that makes this anything but catastrophic.
You step closer, closing the distance until you can feel the heat of him—sun-warm, steady, impossible.
“I need you to be honest,” you say. “If anything feels wrong, you tell me. Immediately.”
His jaw tightens. “I will.”
“I need you to listen,” you continue, voice even. “To my words. To my body. To what I say and what I don’t.”
His eyes track your mouth like it’s the most important thing in the room.
“And I need you to understand something,” you add, and let your gaze hold his until he can’t look away.
“This only works if you let me lead.”
His breath catches—just a little, but you see it.
“I can do that,” he says, like it’s a vow.
You smile faintly.
“Good,” you murmur. “Then we start slow.”
Slow is a lie you tell him so he’ll agree.
Slow is the way you get your hands on him.
You have him sit on the bench first, feet planted, posture too perfect. He looks like someone preparing for an interview, not someone about to be touched.
You stand between his knees and place your palms on his thighs through his sweats.
He stills like a statue.
“Breathe,” you remind him.
He inhales. Exhales.
You lean in, close enough that your voice can stay quiet and still reach him.
“Tell me what you’re afraid of,” you say.
His throat works. “Hurting you.”
“That’s the big picture,” you say gently. “I mean right now. In this moment.”
He hesitates.
Then, barely audible: “That if I start… I won’t be able to stop.”
Something inside you thrills, sharp and bright.
You tilt your head. “Is that what’s happened before?”
His eyes close for half a second, like he’s bracing against memory.
“Yes,” he admits. “Not… like this.” He gestures vaguely, to the room, to you, to the setup. “But I lose track. I forget. Everything feels too—too good and then—”
He cuts himself off, shame rolling off him in waves.
You slide your hands up his torso slowly, feeling the solid heat of muscle under fabric, the way his body reacts even when his mind is trying to be polite.
“Then we build a system,” you say. “We make it so you don’t have to rely on fear to stop you. You rely on me.”
His eyes open, blue and raw.
“You’ll tell me to stop,” he says.
“Yes.”
“And if I can’t—”
“Then we use tools.” You lift the cuffs slightly, letting them glint under the lights. “We use limits that aren’t negotiable in the moment.”
His gaze drops to them. He swallows.
“Do you want that?” you ask.
It matters that he chooses it.
He nods once.
“Yes.”
You step back, and his shoulders visibly loosen with the permission.
“Good,” you say. “Stand up.”
He does immediately.
You move behind him, fingers brushing his wrists as you guide his hands back.
He tenses for a second—instinct, not refusal—and you feel the war inside him: power vs surrender.
“Clark,” you say softly.
He stills.
“I’m going to cuff you,” you tell him. “Not because I don’t trust you. Because you don’t trust yourself.”
His breath shudders.
“Okay,” he whispers.
You loop the cuffs around his wrists and secure them to the bench’s anchor points. He tests them automatically—gentle pressure. The bench doesn’t budge.
His eyes flick to you, uncertain.
“You’re stuck,” you say, voice calm. “And that’s the point.”
Something like relief crosses his face, quickly buried.
You step around him to face him again.
“Say your safe word,” you instruct.
He frowns. “We need one?”
“Yes,” you say, and don’t let him argue. “Pick something you won’t say by accident.”
His lips part. He thinks.
“Starling,” he says finally.
A strange choice. A soft one.
You nod. “Starling means everything stops immediately. No questions.”
He nods too, solemn.
Then you touch him.
Just a fingertip along his jaw, the edge of his mouth, the curve of his throat.
He inhales like he’s been starving.
“Tell me where you hold the most tension,” you murmur.
“My shoulders,” he says, voice strained.
You slide your hands up, kneading the thick muscle there, feeling how hard he is even while he tries to relax.
“Good,” you say. “We start by making you feel good without making you lose control.”
He lets out a shaky laugh.
“That seems… unlikely,” he admits.
You smile, slow.
“That’s why you hired me.”
You take your time undressing him, not because you’re kind, but because every second he has to wait is a lesson.
Patience. Control. Listening.
His shirt comes off first, folded neatly like he still thinks he’s in danger of wrinkling it. His skin is warm, gold under the lights, covered in faint marks that look like they came from things trying and failing to hurt him.
You trail your fingers along one of them, and his chest rises sharply.
“Sensitive?” you ask.
“Everywhere,” he admits. “I… I feel things strongly.”
You hum, pleased.
His pants come next. His boxer briefs after that.
When he’s bare, he looks almost embarrassed by how perfect he is—like it’s an accident he keeps apologizing for.
His cock is already hard, thick and heavy against his abdomen, and the sight of it makes your mouth go dry.
You don’t touch it yet.
Instead you undress yourself slowly, letting him watch. Letting his eyes take you in like he’s afraid if he blinks, you’ll vanish.
You climb onto the bench carefully, straddling his lap. The cuffs pull his arms back just enough to keep him open, vulnerable.
His breath catches when your bare skin meets his.
“Okay,” you say softly, hands on his shoulders. “Rule one: you don’t move unless I tell you.”
His eyes widen. “I—”
“Do you understand?” you press.
He swallows hard. “Yes.”
“Good,” you whisper, and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
He trembles.
You reach down, wrap your hand around him once, just enough to make him jerk.
He sucks in air like he’s drowning.
“Still,” you remind.
He goes rigid, fighting himself.
You slick him with your palm and then lift slightly, guiding him to your entrance.
He looks at you like you’re about to save him.
“Tell me if you’re okay,” you say.
“I’m okay,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “Are you?”
You smile.
“I’m better than okay.”
And then you sink down onto him.
He makes a sound that doesn’t belong to someone who is also supposed to be Superman.
It’s too broken, too needy—like something inside him finally snapped in the right direction.
You set your hands on his chest, feel the thunder of his heart under your palms, and move slowly.
For a few minutes, it almost feels gentle.
Almost.
His restraint is visible, the way he holds himself back like he’s gripping a wild animal by the throat. He stays still when you tell him. He bites down on every instinct to thrust up into you.
You roll your hips, take him deeper, and he shudders so hard the bench creaks.
“Good,” you murmur. “That’s good control.”
His laugh is breathless. “I’m trying.”
“I know,” you say, and lean down to drag your mouth along his throat.
He goes taut.
Your teeth graze his skin—just a hint—and he gasps, eyes squeezing shut.
“Still,” you warn.
He obeys.
You should be proud.
Instead you feel the ache of temptation, the way you want to push—just to see what happens when he breaks.
You pull back, meet his gaze.
“Tell me what you want,” you say.
His eyes are bright, desperate. “You.”
“That’s not specific enough,” you tease.
He swallows.
“I want to move,” he admits. “I want to—fuck, I want to take control.”
You tilt your head. “And what happens when you do?”
His jaw clenches, shame flashing. “I don’t know.”
“That’s why we’re here,” you say softly, and then, like kindness, “We’ll do it in steps.”
But the truth is you’ve already decided.
You don’t want to fix him.
You want to be the line he crosses and can’t uncross.
You shift your hips faster, riding him with more intent, your breath starting to hitch. His eyes track your movement like he’s trying to memorize it—like he’s afraid he’ll never get this again.
“Clark,” you breathe, and his focus snaps to you instantly.
“Yes?”
“You’re doing so well,” you praise, and feel his whole body tense at the words. Praise hits him like a drug.
You smile at that. File it away.
Then you press a hand to his jaw, force him to look at you.
“I’m going to let you move,” you say. “But you have to listen. If I say stop, you stop.”
His breath is ragged. “I will.”
“If I say slow down, you slow down.”
“Yes.”
“If I say ‘Starling,’ everything ends.”
He nods hard.
You hold his gaze another beat, as if you’re making sure he means it.
Then you shift your weight forward, bracing your hands on the bench near his shoulders, and whisper:
“Okay.”
“Move.”
The change is instant.
Clark’s hips drive up like he’s been shot out of a cannon—and then he catches himself, stops mid-thrust with a strangled sound. His muscles are shaking with effort, his face tight with restraint.
He looks at you like he’s waiting for punishment.
You moan instead.
“Good,” you gasp. “Yes—like that, but slower.”
He forces himself down to something controlled, something almost human.
Almost.
The bench groans again under the new rhythm, the metal complaining in stressed little screams.
You wrap your legs tighter around him, taking him deeper, and his breath breaks.
“You feel—” he chokes, eyes wild. “You feel so good.”
“I know,” you pant. “Stay with me.”
He nods, jaw clenched, and keeps moving.
It’s still controlled, still careful—until you tilt your hips just right and a sound tears out of him, raw and helpless.
His thrust stutters.
You feel the edge of him slipping.
And you—god help you—you lean into it.
“Clark,” you moan, and his eyes snap to yours.
“Don’t hold back from me,” you say, soft as a sin. “I can take it.”
He freezes.
“That’s—” he starts, panic flickering. “That’s not—”
“You hired me because everyone else got hurt,” you whisper, lips close to his. “Let me be different.”
It isn’t fair. You know it isn’t.
But you watch the words land like a match in dry tinder.
His control wavers.
He swallows hard. “Are you sure?”
You nod, slow. “Yes.”
You are sure of one thing only:
You want him ruined.
You want him addicted.
You want him looking at you like the only safe place he’s ever had.
You shift again, and he groans like he’s in pain.
His thrusts speed up, heavier now, the force behind them increasing. The bench starts to shudder under you, bolts vibrating.
“Slower,” you tell him, testing.
He slows—barely.
“Good,” you murmur, and then you give him what he really needs: permission dressed up like trust.
“That’s it,” you whisper. “Use me.”
A sound rips out of him—too raw, too broken.
His hips drive up harder.
The bench squeals, metal legs flexing under stress that wasn’t meant to exist.
You brace yourself on his chest, fingers digging in.
He looks at you like he’s drowning and you’re the only thing he can grab.
“I’m going to—” he gasps, panic rising. “I’m going to lose it.”
“Then lose it,” you breathe, and roll your hips to meet him.
He tries to stop. You feel it—the way his body fights, the way he attempts to pull back, to slow down, to do the right thing.
But you keep moving.
You keep coaxing.
You keep whispering the exact kind of praise that makes him unravel.
“Good,” you moan. “So good, Clark—God, you’re perfect—just like that—”
His restraint snaps.
Clark’s thrusts turn brutal, unstoppable. The room fills with the sound of skin meeting skin, the bench crying out under every impact.
The reinforced steel legs buckle with a sharp, violent shriek.
The entire frame dips.
Padding tears with a ripping sound like fabric giving up.
You yelp, startled, but his hands—still cuffed, still restrained—flex helplessly as his body surges upward again, chasing you like he’s lost the ability to think.
“Clark!” you gasp, half warning, half name-saying prayer.
He looks wrecked, eyes blown wide, mouth open in a sound that’s more animal than man.
“I can’t stop,” he chokes.
You should say Starling.
You should end it.
Instead you hook your legs tighter and pull him deeper.
“Then don’t,” you whisper.
The bench gives another sickening groan, steel joints cracking under pressure. One of the anchor bolts shears clean off with a metallic snap, skittering across the floor.
Clark makes a broken sound and slams up into you again, harder, the force rattling your teeth.
The pleasure is too sharp, too intense, turning your limbs weak. It feels like being claimed by something holy and catastrophic.
Your body takes it because you told him it could.
Because you wanted this.
Because you wanted to be the proof that he can lose control and still not destroy the person beneath him.
His breath is a ragged roar in your ear. “Tell me to stop,” he begs, even as he keeps moving. “Please—tell me to stop.”
You bite your lip, eyes stinging with the strange, vicious tenderness of it.
“Look at me,” you demand.
He drags his gaze to yours, frantic, guilty, desperate.
“You’re not hurting me,” you lie—because you can feel bruises blooming already, can feel the way tomorrow will ache, can feel the risk like a thrill under your skin.
“You’re making me come,” you say instead, and watch something shatter in his face.
His thrusts turn feral.
The bench finally gives up completely.
Steel legs fold inward with a violent crunch. Padding splits, foam spilling out like a wound. The entire structure collapses under you, dropping you both a few inches onto the floor with a crash that echoes through the bunker.
Clark freezes instantly—panic flashing so hard it’s almost blinding.
“Oh my God,” he gasps. “Are you—”
You grab his face with both hands.
“Don’t you dare leave me,” you snap, voice shaking.
He stills, eyes wide.
“I’m here,” he whispers, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks. “I’m here.”
You’re still straddling him despite the ruined bench, still full of him, heat pooling between you. The cuffs pull at his wrists awkwardly, but he doesn’t even seem to notice them—he’s too focused on you, on the fact that you’re breathing.
“Move,” you tell him, softer now. “Finish.”
His throat works. “I—”
“Clark,” you murmur, and tilt your hips just enough to make him shudder. “You can. I’m right here.”
He exhales like surrender.
Then he starts again—slower now, careful, shaking with the aftershock of fear and need. His control returns in pieces, as if the crash sobered him.
His eyes never leave your face.
“Tell me if it hurts,” he begs.
“It hurts,” you admit, because honesty matters now, when the danger is real.
His whole body locks. “Starling?”
You swallow, pulse racing.
You could stop.
You should stop.
Instead you shake your head.
“It hurts because you’re real,” you whisper. “Because you’re—because you’re you.”
His face crumples, relief and desire twisting together.
You roll your hips, slower, meeting him halfway. You make it something you can both survive.
When you come, it’s with your forehead pressed to his, your hands cupping his jaw like you’re holding him together. Your whole body clenches, and Clark makes a sound like grief as he tries not to move too hard.
“Good,” you whisper shakily, breathless. “Good—there, just like that—”
He loses himself again, but this time it’s not violent.
It’s desperate.
He comes with a broken sob, hips jerking up, eyes squeezed shut, face twisted like he can’t believe he’s allowed to feel this.
When it’s over, he goes still—shaking, breathing hard, the cuffs still holding his wrists back like a reminder that he can’t take what he wants unless someone gives it.
You stay on him, chest rising and falling, listening to his heart slam against his ribs like it wants out.
Slowly, he opens his eyes.
They’re wet.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers immediately. “The bench—I—”
You touch his cheek, thumb smearing the corner of his mouth.
“It’s just a bench,” you say.
His laugh is a broken thing. “It was reinforced.”
“And you’re Superman,” you reply softly, like it explains everything and nothing.
He looks past you at the wreckage—steel twisted, foam spilling, bolts scattered. His face tightens, shame starting to rise again.
“I shouldn’t have—”
You interrupt him by pressing your mouth to his.
It’s not gentle.
It’s a claim.
He kisses you back like he’s starving.
When you pull away, you keep your forehead against his.
“You didn’t hurt me,” you say again, firmer this time. “You scared yourself. There’s a difference.”
He swallows. “I lost control.”
“You listened when I told you to slow down,” you remind him. “You asked permission. You checked on me. You stopped when the bench broke.”
His breath shudders. “Because I thought I’d killed you.”
You smile faintly, wicked and soft all at once.
“But I’m here,” you say. “And you’re here. And you’re not alone in this.”
Something shifts in him at those words—something that looks suspiciously like hope.
And you hate how much you like being the one to put it there.
He stares at you like you’re a miracle.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
You could tell him the truth right then.
That you didn’t come here to fix him.
That you came here because you wanted to be the one person he couldn’t forget. The one person his body would learn as safe, not because you’re a saint, but because you’re selfish enough to want the weight of him.
Instead you brush your thumb over his lower lip and say, “We can keep training.”
His eyes widen, earnest. “You’ll come back?”
You lean in, mouth close to his ear.
“That depends,” you murmur.
“On what?”
You pull back just enough to look at him, let him see the edge of your smile.
“On whether you can handle the fact that I’m not doing this for free,” you say.
His brow furrows. “You named a price.”
You hum. “Not that kind of payment.”
He blinks—confused, vulnerable.
You kiss him again, slower now, letting it sink in.
“When you start to trust me,” you whisper against his mouth, “you don’t get to decide you’re better off without me.”
His breath catches.
It’s an ugly thing to say. Possessive. Sharpened by intent.
He should flinch.
He doesn’t.
He looks at you like you just handed him permission to stop running.
“I don’t want to be without you,” he admits, voice shaking.
The words land in your chest like a trophy.
Good.
You ease off him carefully, body aching, and reach up to undo the cuffs. Your fingers brush his wrists, already reddening from the strain of holding him back.
His hands come free, and for a second he just stares at them like he doesn’t trust them.
Then he cups your face with both palms—so gentle it’s almost reverent.
“I thought I couldn’t have this,” he whispers. “I thought it would always be—dangerous.”
You swallow, throat tight.
“It is dangerous,” you say honestly.
His eyes flicker. “Then why—why would you—”
Because you want to be wanted by something that could destroy you.
Because you want him tethered to you by guilt and need and the memory of how good it felt to finally let go.
Because you want to be the pretty little casualty he can’t walk away from.
You don’t say any of that.
You just press your hand over his heart and feel it hammering.
“Because you’re worth the risk,” you lie, and watch his face soften like you’ve given him everything.
He kisses your knuckles, careful.
Then he looks over your shoulder at the wrecked bench again, and a hysterical little laugh escapes him.
“I’m going to have to replace that,” he says, voice hoarse.
You glance back at the twisted steel and torn padding, the foam spilling like snow.
“Consider it progress,” you say.
He shakes his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—relief and awe mixed together.
Then his gaze returns to you, and the smile fades into something deeper.
“I can’t—” he starts, then stops, as if he’s afraid to name it.
“Can’t what?” you ask softly.
He steps closer, slow like he’s approaching a wild animal.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he admits. “Even before—before tonight. I—”
He laughs once, bitter at himself.
“I thought I was being selfish. Wanting someone. Wanting this.”
You tilt your head, feigning curiosity while your stomach flips with satisfaction.
“And now?” you ask.
His eyes burn into yours.
“Now I think I’ve been starving,” he says.
You let the words sit there, heavy and hot.
Then you step into him, press your body against his, feel the way he goes still like he’s afraid to break you even with a touch.
You reach up, thread your fingers through his hair, and pull his mouth down to yours.
“Then eat,” you whisper.
His hands slide to your waist, shaking.
“Are you sure?” he asks again, like it’s his religion now.
You smile.
“Yes,” you say, and mean it in the worst way.
Because he thinks this is the beginning of his control.
And maybe it is.
But it’s also the beginning of something else—something messier, darker, more tangled.
A need he’ll start to associate with your voice, your touch, your permission.
A tether that will tighten every time he comes apart in your hands and finds you still there afterward, warm and breathing and refusing to be scared.
You kiss him until his control starts to fray again, and you feel the moment it happens—the instant his body remembers what it did to that bench, the instant guilt rises like a tide.
You pull back and cup his face.
“Look at me,” you say.
He does immediately.
“You’re not a monster,” you tell him.
His eyes shimmer.
“And you’re not alone,” you add, softer. “Not anymore.”
He exhales like a man being forgiven.
Then he pulls you into his arms, careful as a prayer, and holds you like you’re the only thing keeping him anchored to the world.
You close your eyes against his shoulder, smiling to yourself.
Because this is the part he doesn’t understand yet:
You’re not here to save him from himself.
You’re here to make sure he never finds his way back out of you.
cant believe this event is what devirginized you from clark. im so excited. thank you for gracing us with your wonderful fic <33 i love seeing my big boy get so soft
“I want you to help me practice,” he says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Control. Feedback. Limits.”
my tongue is out btw
“Tell me what you’re afraid of,” you say.
His throat works. “Hurting you.”
pls he's so sweet
Then, barely audible: “That if I start… I won’t be able to stop.”
i didnt ask you to???
When he’s bare, he looks almost embarrassed by how perfect he is—like it’s an accident he keeps apologizing for.
His cock is already hard, thick and heavy against his abdomen, and the sight of it makes your mouth go dry.
gonna eat him
“I want to move,” he admits. “I want to—fuck, I want to take control.”
oh she clenched
His laugh is a broken thing. “It was reinforced.”
“And you’re Superman,” you reply softly, like it explains everything and nothing.
my cute bby
You’re here to make sure he never finds his way back out of you.
summary: Clark Kent is the perfect neighbor and the ultimate gentleman. Baking cookies, fixing stuff around your apartment, always there with his reliable smile. So who's he to say no when you ask him to help build your new couch and… break it???
tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, neighbors to friends to lovers, whipped clark kent, he is a gentleman, clark and reader are horny for each other, oral (f receiving). clark has a BIG DICK, unprotected p in v sex, creampie.
wc: 3.4k words.
a/n: first of all... thank you so much to @tw1sters for managing and giving me the chance to take part in this SEXY event! i had so much fine writing it ahhh. second, hugeeeee thanks to @theworstwolvie and @clarknsun for being the first one to read and comment on this one, i am truly grateful. third, @sparklingsin!!!!!!!!! YOU AND YOUR TALENT HELLO i love the header sooo much thank you for making time to make it for me. i love all of you (and you readers too) very dearly <3
KENT masterlist | masterlist
You live in a humble apartment located in the heart of Metropolis. With a good amount of room for one person, every night, the sound of the traffic around you would hum like white noise, the high floor-to-ceiling window showing you the perfect view of the city’s nightlife—you mostly never closed the curtains in your living room—hell, you could even view Superman fighting one of his weekly villain fights through it.
Yet the thing that made you love it even more—to the point where you would rather be inside all day than go out with your friends, declining their offers—was not those.
It was your perfect neighbor: Clark Kent.
You pegged him as the ultimate neighbor since the first day you moved in. As the moment he saw you struggling with your boxes of too much stuff, he immediately offered to help.
Lifting up three heavy objects that were filled with your heavy kitchen appliances and bathroom necessities too easily, you can’t help but stare at those bulging biceps as he moved around. Quickly looking away every time you feel like he’d almost catch you.
And let’s just say your moving-in process was finished in just an hour, rather than the whole afternoon, with his help.
“I’m Clark, by the way,” mentioned the broad and tall man as he brushed his palm against his jeans, with his thick rimmed glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose and his deep dimples and boyish smile that you were sure would make you do a double take if you saw him on the streets.
“I live next door,” he pointed to the unit next to you.
So– you have a good view of the city AND a hot neighbor too? You really felt like you hit the jackpot with this one.
You smiled and offered him your name. “Nice to meet you, neighbor. I hope we could be good friends then.”
He nodded, lips curling up even more. “Just knock if you need anything. I’ll leave you to it?”
Humming, you then lead him out of your boxes-filled apartment, thanking him one last time.
You thought it would stop with him acting like a decent person—just helping a girl out with her things, but it didn’t. Later that night, you heard a knock on the door.
Looking up from your kitchen floor, you fixed up your shirt before padding down the hall. Checking the peephole to see the same new neighbor—Clark—carrying a plate filled with what you presume were freshly baked cookies.
Your eyes widened as you opened the door and saw exactly that. His soft smile, the scent of sweetness and the warmth emanating from the cookies almost made your heartbeat quicken.
“Sorry to bother you,” he fixes up his glasses with his free hand, then offers the plate out.
“Housewarming gift. Freshly made– though please do not mind if it’s not that good.”
You looked down at the plate, taking it, then up at him again. “Clark– wow, you didn’t have to…”
His smile softened immediately. “I wanted to. Hope you enjoy it.”
You breathed out a small thanks before he left you to continue your organizing.
The next day, you knocked on his door. His once-filled plate with cookies was now replaced with chocolate muffins you made all morning.
His surprise was evident, soft red hues creeping up his cheeks to the tips of his ears. “I didn’t make those cookies just so you could bake me something as well,” his brows knitted.
“Well, consider it as a thank you for helping me out yesterday.”
He sighed softly. “Thank you,” with his classic, shy smile.
Then it continued. Always using the “I cooked too much” as a reason.
You’d give him your signature pasta recipe, and he’d return it the next day with a pan of freshly baked pie. He’d give you some homemade chicken dish he told you he learned to make from his Ma, you’d return it with a pint full of ice cream you made (just for him).
Though it went on and didn’t stop with the both of you casually exchanging meals.
Your kitchen pipes weren’t working? He’d be there in seconds with a wrench in his hand after you asked for help. Your eyes zeroed the moment his shirt went damp, making it practically transparent. You gulped as you stared at how his back muscles shifted with every move.
You didn’t know he could hear the way your breath hitched, though. His own body reacting the same as he could feel that you were also being affected by the closeness of the moment.
“Just need it to be tightened up,” he hummed, looking up at you from his knees just before the under-sink cabinet.
“Oh–” you straightened up, his voice breaking the trance you were in. “All fixed then?”
“Yeah…” he murmured as he stood up, his tall figure towering over you.
You felt your neck straining. “Thank you, Clark.”
“No worries. I’m open to help you with whatever, okay?”
Whatever, huh?
You almost choked at your own spit with the thought of him helping you with whatever. Immediately pushing those… thoughts down.
“Okay,” you managed to rasp out.
He smiled again before he continued with his day.
“Fuck…” you muttered to yourself the moment you closed your door, your forehead thudded against the wood.
More happened.
You were cooking, realized you were out of some ingredients, and went to him.
“Hey, sorry to bother you… but I’m cooking something, and I just realized that I’m out of onions. Do you potentially have any spare ones?” you asked him sheepishly.
Clark cursed to himself because he didn’t have any. He wanted to keep being the one you go to with every struggle you have; he wanted to keep being your lifeline and salvation, so what did he do?
“I’m sorry I don’t… though I’m gonna go out,” a lie. “Soap’s running short,” another lie. Clark literally just bought a full bottle yesterday.
“Really? Would you help me get some onions then?” your eyes gleaming with anticipation, but not wanting to burden him.
“Of course,” he smiled. “I’ll go get some for you.”
He returned less than 30 minutes later with a bag of onions and some snacks you mentioned you liked weeks ago.
You flushed, thanked him, and he nodded before leaving.
Week after week, it kept happening. It was like the both of you were trying to make excuses to see each other even more.
Purposefully switching up your mails with each other. When he saw your balcony railing wobbled just below an inch, he’d offer to fix it immediately. He heard you struggling with your shopping bags after a day out? He would take it from your hands, letting you carry nothing in your hands.
The both of you started to get closer. Unprompted movie nights in his unit, baking and cooking together, even doing nothing but enjoying a warm cup of tea as you both sit on the lounge chairs on your balcony, sharing childhood stories and laughing together.
Oh, both of you were falling deep.
The gaze held longer, smile now softer—deeper in a way—nothing like you ever shared with other people. You told him about your day, your stressful work, your family—and he told you about his life.
It was sweet, really. Clark Kent was sweet.
At this point, he knew everything about you. How you take your coffee, how your nose scrunched before you let out his favorite free laugh every time he made one of his stupid jokes, how sweet you smell whenever his touch lingered just on your thighs whenever you whispered a secret to him, how your pulse thrummed so evidently the moment he tucked a stray hair behind your ear.
And you knew everything about him as well. How his eyes would crinkle with amusement when you rolled your eyes and acted all annoyed, how his hand would linger around you as you both worked around the kitchen, how his body would tense, how his breath would hitch every time you told him something about yourself. Every time you draped yourself on his lap while watching one of the romcoms you forced him to see.
You felt it. The palpable tension, so thick you could cut it with a dull knife, through the not-so-innocent touches, the whispered words—He felt it too. The problem was, Clark Kent is too much of a gentleman to break those boundaries first, and there’s no way you’re the one who’d tear the bandaid off.
So the both of you didn’t advance into anything more than his arm around your shoulder as you both relaxed, or your arms around him as you let out your stress through the feeling of his warmth and scent wrapped around you.
Until one day.
You told him you were buying a couch, and even made him help you pick the color and measure your space. So the moment it arrived, he was at his feet instantly. Going down to carry the box filled with the parts.
It should be normal now; he’s helping you make furniture and fixing around your place, though he usually didn’t use this thin, figure-hugging compression shirt that made all of his muscles look swollen.
He made you stay out of it completely, just like always, not wanting you to do the work at all—yet you can’t help but linger.
You can’t help but ogle him—practically sexualizing him inside of your head.
The way his bicep would flex with every twist of the screwdriver, his veins popping under his sleeves through his forearm, making you wonder if those blood vessels would also look this enticing around his cock.
Your thighs clench the moment he lay under the couch as he tightened the bolts there. His shirt was riding up to reveal a patch of his skin, covered with soft hairs leading down to his crotch.
And he knew. He could practically smell the heavy, sweet smell of your arousal. He could hear the soft breaths you didn’t even know you let out every time he shifted, and his shirt went up even more.
His own body starts to heat up, flushing even though all of his blood was going south. He was thankful that he opted to wear his baggy sweats rather than his tight jeans.
Nevertheless, you saw his bulge start to thicken under the grey fabric. Eyes widening, you immediately looked away.
Clearing your throat. “Do you want some water?”
He looked up, noting the way that you were more fidgety than usual. “Yeah. Sure, thanks.”
You gave him a tight-lipped smile before walking through the kitchen.
Clark couldn’t help but fixate his eyes on your form. Your soft curves swaying with every step, ass peeking out of those short shorts that—the fact that it was always shorter than the last made it obvious that you want him to see. But he can’t. He can’t lose his control–
Gods, you were bending over the freezer now.
He shut his eyes, sucking a deep breath and letting it out shakily. He felt it wavering—his self-control thinning with every quiet hum you let out of your lips.
His fingers tightened around the whatever tool he was holding instantly. His cock throbbing inside his boxers, wanting—needing to be freed from the confinement and the pressure.
You knelt beside him, handing him the cold water. “All good?”
He cleared his throat, hand brushing over the couch’s fresh cushion to distract himself. “All good.”
You then helped him, fingers brushing his palm, lingering on his forearms whenever he asked you for a tool, and you’d give it. You also made it more obvious now that you saw him get hard.
You would blatantly eye him up and down, bare thighs brushing against his hands– you were horny.
Clark Kent made you horny, and he was the only one who could fix it.
His fingers would tighten around the wooden foot, and you imagined it was you instead. He’d let out grunts, and you imagined that it was you pulling it out of him, how he would probably praise you instead of dirty talking just because he was so respectful—too respectful.
He gulped as he watched how your breath starts to quicken, mirroring it unconsciously.
Then– Click.
The last bolt—the last piece of the couch was put in place. Dragging you back into reality.
“You’re done?” you asked.
He nodded, and you immediately sank down onto the new couch. Shifting around to feel the soft padding underneath you.
He joins, and your thighs grazed immediately, making you almost jolt—the neediness heightening back up inside you.
“It feels solid…” he murmured.
You finally glance at him, eyes low and half-lidded with lust. “Wanna test it?”
He eyed you, the way your chest heaved, pupils blown out before rushing forward and kissing the life out of you.
You stumbled with your lips, before wrapping your arms around him and pulling him flush on top of you as you sank against the armrest. Lips parting, swiping your tongue along his lower lip before nipping it, making him groan out your name.
His fingers brushed along the hem of your shirt, lips separating from yours so he could kiss down your jaw and neck.
“Ask me to stop and I will, sweetheart,” he whispered against your skin.
You shook your head profusely.
“I need words…” as he pulled away to study your face, the way your eyes glossed with want.
“Please– I need you, Clark, please…” You whined.
“Of course,” giving a soft kiss on your cheek. “Anything for you, sweet girl,” another on your lips. The nicknames and his gentleness burned you inside out, making you fall deeply towards him more and more.
He finally lifted your shirt off gently, kissing every inch of your skin revealed. Unclasping your bra, groaning at the sight of your breasts bare before him.
You squirmed underneath him the moment he wrapped his soft pink lips around your hardened nipple. Back arching as your hands found his shoulder and squeezed it.
“You’re so beautiful…” he murmured, kissing further down till his lips made contact with the waistband of your shorts. “Can I?”
“Yes– Clark, yes…” his hips lifting instantly as he hooked his fingers around it, pulling it and your panties with such softness and gentleness that no other man could give other than him.
He let out a shuddered breath as he spread your thighs open. The delicious scent of you hits all of his senses immediately.
He hummed as he saw how your folds glistened—borderline dripping. “Don’t wanna make a mess on the new couch, don’t we, sweetheart?” he whispered, before hooking your legs over your shoulder and diving right into it. Collecting all of your wetness—dragging his tongue on your hole up to your clit, making you let out a quiet cry.
“Clark–!” fingers snaking through his curls, tugging them as you held yourself back from grinding your hips against his mouth.
He looped his arms around your thighs, mouth expertly working you out—all the while his gaze stayed on you. Watching every bit of your reactions, the way you threw your head back against the armrest, eyes rolled, lower lip stuck between your teeth as you hold back your sounds.
It was a sight he could never forget now. He was sure to etch it into the deepest crook of his brain.
You whined out his name the moment he pulled back, though. “I know… I’m gonna give you something better, okay?”
You nodded reluctantly, too weak, too drunk with pleasure to deny and fight him over it. You kept your eyes as he stripped out of his clothes. Hole fluttering and tightening around nothing the moment he was bare before you.
His cock—full of girth and length, was straining and slapping against his stomach. His tip red, glistening with his pre. “You’re– huge, holy shit…”
He let out a soft chuckle. “I’ll make it fit. Don’t worry,” as his fingers brushed your hair back, grazing along your cheekbones.
You hummed softly, parting your legs even more to accommodate his broad figure.
Clark lets out a moan as he begins to slowly slide his tip against your folds. “So wet… you’ve been wanting this, hm?”
The silent nod in your response made his heart bloom, because he had wanted this too. He imagined this happening too many times before—whether when he was with you or alone in his bedroom whispering your name as he stroked himself to the thoughts of you—and really, the reality was so much better for him.
The moment he finally pushed himself inside you? He broke. Letting out a deep guttural sound to the feeling of your velvet walls wrapped so perfectly around him—it was as if you were made for him, no– he was made for you.
And you felt the burn, the stretch, splitting you open from your inside. Your hands find his arms immediately. Making imprints of your nails as you dug into his skin from the feeling of the pleasurable pain.
“Clark–”
“Shh… open up for me, sweetheart. I know you can.”
He stayed still the moment he was buried deep inside you, fingers softly brushing along your bare skin as you began to relax.
You nodded, eyes looking up at him with adoration the moment the burn dissipates.
“All ready?” he asked softly.
“Yeah…”
The both of you let out choruses of moans as he began moving, slowly at first. He pulled your arms so you could wrap them around his neck, his own snaking around your back just to keep you close to him.
His forehead pressed against yours. “You feel so good…” he whispered, pulling you into a deep kiss filled with passion. He kept his easy pace, but it was like he was holding back.
“More…” you moaned against his lips.
Who was he to deny you, his sweet, sweet girl, from pleasure?
He picked up his pace. Still deep, reaching to every inch of your walls, but it was more punishing now.
The couch starts to squeak underneath you—but you both didn’t care. Too captivated by the feeling of each other’s bodies to even notice the foot of the couch.
“Fuck–!” you moaned the moment he angled your hips. Your fingers now sprawled on the span of his back, raking it. Your walls began to clench around him tightly, making him fuck you deeper and faster.
“More!” you cried. And he served. His thrusts now punishing, both your chests panting. Your gasps and his moans echo around your apartment.
Clark swore that you were like an angel before him. With your body wrapped around a thin sheet of sweat that made it seem like you're glowing, hair messily draped everywhere yet still beautiful, your breasts bouncing like an invitation, and your face… gods, your face. He could die peacefully thinking about it alone.
So utterly beautiful and broken, and he was the one who did it.
His hips are working like an animal now, brutal, feral.
You finally realized that the couch underneath you was shaking, but you didn’t care. All you could think about was him, him, and him.
He noticed the way the couch was groaning in protest with the amount of pressure it was being given, but the way your cunt was tightening around him meant that he couldn’t stop. “Gonna break this–” before your walls gripped his cock even further.
“Gonna come–!” you cried.
“Give it to me, sweetheart. Come on.”
And you obeyed. Letting out a sharp cry of his name as your body jolts—convulsing as the waves after waves of orgasm hit your senses—burning your body with the amount of pleasure.
“Fuck–” he cursed, fucking you deeper as he chased his own climax. At last, with a final and intense thrust–
Craaack.
The foot snapped completely, making you yelp out and scrambling to hold onto him.
Clark didn’t even realize that he had already came and spilled inside you, too stunned, too focused on making sure you’re not hurt.
“Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere?” his eyes widened, doing a one-overlook look at you to make sure no blood came out of you.
Your arms tightened, before you burst out laughing. “I am–” you wheezed. “The couch though…”
He blinked, then huffing out a small and relieved chuckle. “Guess it’s not strong enough, huh?”
Before pulling you onto his lap, shifting you on the floor carefully—still seethed deep inside you, and tugging you closer into a soft kiss. Fingers cuping your cheeks gently.
ivy my darling my baby thank you so much for joining us in this adventure!!!! you've managed to capture clark as this wonderful, amazing human being slash neighbor but also the sexiest fucking thang <3 i adore him so much in this story, thank you for birthing him
Your eyes zeroed the moment his shirt went damp, making it practically transparent. You gulped as you stared at how his back muscles shifted with every move.
WET AND BACK???? SIGN ME TF UP
He returned less than 30 minutes later with a bag of onions and some snacks you mentioned you liked weeks ago.
i'm in love your honor
And he knew. He could practically smell the heavy, sweet smell of your arousal.
i love when he uses his powers inappropriately
You finally glance at him, eyes low and half-lidded with lust. “Wanna test it?”
OH SHE CLENCHED
“Don’t wanna make a mess on the new couch, don’t we, sweetheart?” he whispered, before hooking your legs over your shoulder and diving right into it.
“I’ll make it fit. Don’t worry,” as his fingers brushed your hair back, grazing along your cheekbones.
FUCKKK IM SUCH A SUCKER FOR LINES LIKE THESE
Clark didn’t even realize that he had already came and spilled inside you, too stunned, too focused on making sure you’re not hurt.
nasty ass mf
“Help me order another one?”
he better that shit is moneyyyy
omg ivy i adoreee this so much!!!!!! you always do clark so well so i can do clark so well heh
Characters: Clark Kent x Reader, ft. Lois Lane and Jimmy Olsen
Word Count: 299
Now Playing: Joy to the World by Three Dog Night
Content Warnings: Fluff, alcohol consumption, drunk!reader, Clark is implied as being taller than reader, gender neutral reader.
A/N: First entry for June Jukebox Scribbles, and first time writing not Sebastian Stan for Clark! It’s so silly, please forgive me lol. Dividers by me.
Main Masterlist || Event Masterlist || Next ->
"Jeremiah was a bullfrog!" The words tumble out—loudly—before you can even think to stop them.
The conversation around the table stops for a moment, three pairs of eyes turning to look at you as though you've lost your head.
"Was a good friend of mine, actually."
"What are you even saying right now?" Clark asks, dark brows furrowing behind his glasses.
Lois's lips quirk up before taking a sip of her drink, trying to stifle a laugh before Jimmy speaks up.
"What species was he?"
"Don't—" Clark sighs and shakes his head. "Don't encourage this."
"I never understood a single word he said, but I helped him,"—hic—"drink his wine."
"Golly, you're drunk," Clark mumbles, immediately sliding out of the booth. His tall frame towers over the table and leaves a shadow across it despite the dim lighting of the bar. "I'm taking you home."
A chorus of disappointed sounds echo around the table, your own included. A small frown touches your lips, glancing at his outstretched hand, but you take it anyway and stand.
Feet unsteady beneath you, he doesn't say a word when you lean heavily against him, clinging onto his hand like a life ring in a storm threatening to pull you out to sea.
The night is cool against your heated skin, a welcome change from the warmth inside and radiating under Clark's suitcoat he insists on wearing hours after work.
By the time you make it home, your eyelids are heavy and he's practically carrying you to your apartment door.
"I'm never letting you drink that much again."
"Sorry," you mumble.
He glances down at you, a soft smile tugging at his lips. And with a short chuckle, he says, "No apology needed. Just promise me not to hate yourself tomorrow."
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