this is my post to let the ppls know that i come in peace 🥹 (also i reblog alot of smut on this blog so scroll down with consideration 😭)
Hi my name's nat and i love your content, currently 18+ please let me read your wonderful fics and reblog to go back and reread them till the end of time. Idm if you interact as a minor but i do reblog some hella hardcore pron stuff so just beware.
I actually dont r e a l l y create content but i dabble in nail art, so i kinda do whatever the fuck i want with my nails for me and my friend (singular because i have zero social skills), i dont sell duplicates (unless you request it) however i am open to commissions so check out @/ferd.designs on instagram and shoot me a dm here or there if you're interested!
I read anything about:
- Batfam( kinda everywhere but i mainly look at batman n nightwing, jason todd sometimes?)
- clark kent
- logan howlett
- Hugh jackman
- poolverine x reader (god some of the poly stuff goes so hard)
- Remy leabeau
- hq (like on n off)
Venom (tom hardy in general as well)
Things i fw: con,dubcon, somnophillia, age gap, poly, x reader (typically), voyerism (depending), domestic (fluff of any way shape or form), cockwarming, pwp, period sex, fluff smut
Things i usually avoid: anything religion related (all them priest stuff n nun dressup), angst (anything that gets too much into sewerslide), anything too slow burny, incest, suggestive minor content
I’ve currently got a #nat blabs tag that ive began to build on practicing my smut writing/yappy blorbs, so check out these content warnings first before you even touch those
Honestly ive been out of the fanfic game for quite abit im just tryna come back and find my place in here. I used to write abit but recently my creativity juices have plummeted significantly and alot of stuff has happened and im just not in the right mind to do alot of the stuff things i used to enjoy but i am slowly crawling back. Hope we can be moots :)
Includes: Dick Grayson & Kori, Wally West, Hal Jordan, Diana Prince
cw: suggestive, fluff
Dick Grayson & Kori
Exhaustion clings to you like the sweat cooling on your skin. Kori presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, easily pulling a whine from you as your breath stutters.
“She can take another one, can’t she?” Kori asks as if she already knows you can, as if you aren’t already trembling, your body oversensitive and aching in the best way.
“She most definitely cannot,” you mutter, letting your head fall back against the pillow. Your hair fans out around you, and Dick takes the opportunity to twirl a strand around his finger, giving it a gentle tug.
“Dick,” you hiss.
He chuckles from where he’s leaning against the headboard, muscles glistening and hair tousled, making him look even more devastating.
“I think our girl’s done for the night, sweetheart,” he tells Kori softly. He gazes at both of you with hooded eyes.
“I still think she can take more,” Kori mumbles, but she doesn’t complain further. It had taken her a while to accept that you didn’t have the stamina of an alien princess or a highly trained vigilante.
With a lazy grin, Dick pulls the covers over you. You sigh happily when he turns onto his side so he’s facing you. “Later,” he promises Kori.
“Fine… I guess I can wait until morning,” she mumbles, curling up against you on your other side.
You wiggle between them, trying to get comfortable. Kori throws an arm around you, her cheek pressed against your shoulder. Her hand finds Dick’s on the other side.
“Morning?” you grumble. “I won’t even be able to walk in the morning.”
Kori hums thoughtfully. “I will carry you.”
Dick snorts, burying his face in your chest. You’re trapped between two warm bodies, and it’s getting increasingly harder to pretend to be annoyed.
“Carry me too,” Dick adds, his lips moving against your bare skin as he speaks, his voice muffled.
“I can carry you both!” she beams, not tired at all like the two of you.
Your lips tug upward. Despite all your complaining, you feel safe and warm as you drift off to sleep
Wally West
You shriek when he zooms back into bed, the blankets fluttering around you.
“Can’t you be normal!?” you gasp, clutching the sheets to your chest. The air feels electric, different from the heat and passion from before. He had cuddled you for five minutes after sex before randomly remembering he left the stove on.
The mattress dips, and Wally’s there, grinning like he didn’t almost give you a heart attack. He ignores your question.
“I was gone for eight seconds,” he says, tugging a blanket around you, trying to swaddle you like a child. “And you didn’t even miss me.”
“I miss peace and quiet. I miss—”
“Me, your amazing and strong boyfriend who would do anything for you,” he cuts you off, pressing a messy kiss to your cheek.
You lift the blanket and mumble, “Get in, you idiot.”
He brightens up like a puppy and immediately snuggles into you, showering kisses all over your face, his hands cupping your cheeks.
You try to stay annoyed. You really do.
But you melt into him, softly humming your approval.
“You like that?” he teases, both arms tightening around you like he’s afraid of being away again— even if it was only for ten seconds.
Your eyes flicker to his lips. “Shut up,” you mumble before kissing him gently.
His heart stutters, and he forgets about everything but the feeling of you.
You pull back, but he catches your lips again.
“Lemme make it up to you,” he mumbles against your mouth. “You know… for leaving.”
Hal Jordan
"You still with me?" Hal jokes, but it comes out soft anyway. You're tangled up in the sheets with him, something he thought he'd never get.
You hum, arms snaking around his waist, your nose nuzzling against his bare chest. He wasn't used to being treated so tenderly.
"Words, angel. Use your words," he chides softly, lips brushing your ear.
"I'm good."
He chuckles, the sound vibrating against your shoulder. "Just… good?"
His hand drifts over your back, thumb tracing idle circles along your spine.
You press closer, inhaling the faint scent of him. cologne, sweat, something else you couldn’t name but comforted you anyway. "Just… don’t leave," you whisper.
"Couldn't even if I tried, baby," he hums contentedly, bringing his hands to your hips and tugging you closer.
You reach up, letting your fingers thread through his hair, like it could ease him of all his troubles. A faint smile slides across his lips as he leans his head into your hand.
"I'm always gonna stay for you, angel."
Diana Prince
The room is quiet except for the rustle of sheets as Diana brushes a strand of hair from your face.
“You did great,” she murmurs, her voice carrying that underlying strength you’ve always felt when she speaks. Her thumb brushes your cheek, making you smile.
You snort. "Gonna grade my performance now?"
She sighs, exasperated, but her eyes hold a fondness that makes your heart beat faster. "No. You are perfect, my love. Now sleep. you need your rest."
She guides your head onto her chest, holding you close, fingers threading through your hair.
"Tell me a story," you mumble. "From your home."
Her hand pauses. "You are my home."
A giddy feeling rushes through you, but you push it down. "I meant from Themyscira."
"If that is what you wish, darling," she says softly, and starts to tell you a tale she’d heard as a child.
Main masterlist | jason’s version
a/n: "I'm always gonna stay for you, angel." HE’S A LIAR DO NOT BELIEVE HIM…also i gave up by the time i got to hal </3
"only if you'll be good f'me, clark~" (or, clark kent walks in on bruce wayne and his girlfriend~)
bruce wayne x reader x clark kent
a/n: ...this one is for my pookies out there. @tw1sters and @pinksplace ily pookies.
word count: 1.1k
content: established relationship (bruce x reader), smut ! so much smut. seriously don't like don't read my loves. MDNI! corruption kink clark kent? unsafe workspace i think
dc ♡ "f(uck)'me" masterlist
it's late. like.. really late. bruce wayne (your boss and kinda-secret-boyfriend-fling-thing-it's-complicated) has had you staying a little later than usual today. you know - so much work to sort out... so much... secretary-ing to do... woah... so difficult 💔
so much secretary-ing to do over the desk... under the desk... against the window... on the balcony...
bruce practically forgets that.. well. he's waiting on a certain kryptonian to visit! after all, someone had managed to weasel in an exclusive interview, after hours, with bruce.
so when clark kent walks in on-
"-f-fuck! bruce, oh, fuck that feels so good-!"
"so fuckin' tight f'me, huh? wanna keep ya here all night, pretty girl.."
...part of him thinks he should jump ship, buy bleach and douse his eyes in it. and then do it again. and maybe even a third time - just to be safe.
until you look up at him. the two of you lock eyes, and whilst you should be quickly rearranging your work clothes, buttoning up your shirt and rushing out, you find yourself holding eye contact with him.
one mississippi...
two mississippis...
three mississippis...
clark kent was watching bruce wayne (you know. bruce wayne of wayne enterprises, the guy he was interviewing and his kind of coworker at night?) fuck his girlfriend/secretary/secret third thing into the desk. and making awkward eye contact as he attempted to ignore the tightening bulge in his pants.
a minute passes, and bruce finally notices your quietness. it's.. odd. until he follows your line of sight.
"clark! oh, right - the interview.."
"y-you're obviously preoccupied bruce, i'll just come back another ti-"
"well, i'm sure we can work out another arrangement, no?"
"mhm! erm.. over the pho-"
"bruce. can't he..."
you lean in to his ear - both you and bruce keep eye contact with clark as you whisper quietly. you look back at bruce, his eyes glimmering with that soft, yet mischevious glint that you had learnt to recognise, as he clears his throat,
"...perhaps.. perhaps we can offer you something else, hmm?"
"something else?"
"it's a little out there, but i'm sure it's well within your capabilities."
"huh???"
"you came all this way, clark. we should really reimburse you, no?"
"reimbu- the daily planet pays enough, bruce-"
"ah, monetary reimbursement. we weren't really thinking of that.."
"then what..?"
it's only then that clark realises you've.. gone missing? you're no longer pressed against the desk, your breasts pushed up against the dark oak wood (dear heavens above - how could he ever forget the sight?). where had you gone?
you clear your throat, stood behind him as two fingers run down his spine,
"a proposition, mr kent... if you wouldn't mind..."
"..."
bruce flashes his teeth, and for a moment - clark feels as though maybe.. just maybe he should have called in sick,
"my sweet girl and i seem to have an issue here, kent."
"issue? of what kind?"
"...well. whenever one of us is satisfied, the other feels.. less so."
"..."
"take it or leave it kent~"
he's trying desperately hard to ignore how you feel, as you wrap your arms around him - tugging him towards the desk. he could run out now, quit his job, fly across the world. no one would know.
but both you and bruce stand there, wolfish grins across your faces as you beckon him in.
and like a naive little lamb, clark follows.
your hands roam over clark's chest as bruce works quick to relieve him of his stress - his own hands teasing around his threateningly tight bulge. trousers and belts and shirts come undone - strewn across the office space. bruce moves behind clark as you cross the space onto the front of the desk, straddling his lap.
back and forth, back and forth. you roll your hips up and down - just over his length, revelling in how he whines and moans under you. all as bruce whispers sweet nothings into his ears.
goodness gracious me, mr kent! what a predicament you've gotten yourself into, hmm?
his brain's practically mush already, with just how overwhelmingly good everything feels - and he's not even inside you! (yet) no, no, you continue to tease - moving back and forth until he whispers so softly into the humid air that wraps around the three of you,
"p-please.. just once..?"
"only if you'll be good f'me, clark~"
"i'll be so good, so very good, ple-"
the remainder of his sentence (though it can be guessed what he was to say) is cut off as you cruelly sink your hips on him. letting him finally enter you. his mouth drops open, hanging as bruce's hands gently caress the sides of his face. you let him have a moment to himself - getting used to you - and pull bruce closer. lips meet lips as clark knows not what to do.
sure, his mind tells him to thrust his hips up and down. to chase that high he's oh, so very close to.
but then you and bruce part from one another, looking down at him with That Look that has him simultaneously worried and excited, and a thrill rushes through his veins as you slowly raise and lower your hips. up and down. up and down.
it's slow.
agonizingly slow.
hell, it's torturous, as he tries not to thrust up in you. but it's worth it when you start picking up pace, and bruce finally moves around the desk to wrap his arms around you, holding you close as his hands roam your body.
you're using him, he realises, but he practically relishes in that. lying there as bruce and you use him for all he is. until a hand of yours reaches down to grasp his, pulling it close to your clit.
you show him - rolling circles with his fingers until he gets it - and suddenly the three of you are chasing your highs together. it's an insanely unholy sight, and if any godforsaken soul somehow lost their way in gotham and found themselves at the very top of wayne enterprises' building and walked in on the tw- THREE of them...
one can only imagine the scandal...
# PLAYBOY BILLIONAIRE BRUCE WAYNE CAUGHT IN SEX SCANDAL WITH SECRETARY AND... NEWS REPORTER??? read more - page 6
the thrill of it all only has clark edging closer and closer, needier and needier as he feels himself rising up the climb. his stomach tightens and he can feel it, he knows he's oh so close, and-
any other time, he'd be careful. condoms, safe sex practices - the lot. clark kent endorses safe sex!
yet this time, he has not the mind to think, brain mushy as his cum fills your walls. you clench around him, your own release dribbling out over your thighs, and the way bruce has positioned himself - stroking faster and faster has him cumming over both your thighs and his.
the three of you pant heavily, with you slumping back into bruce's arms as you softly stroke clark's skin.
this... definitely changed things.
after a while, bruce finally speaks up, and for a minute clark fears he may have made a mistake,
"the desk's a mess - but it needed changing anyway, right?"
summary | Bruce Wayne has a baker girlfriend and just wants her to be happy
note | I came back because I'm frustrated by my writer's block on my Bale Batman fanfic, maybe I'm writing here for now
Bruce m.list
🍰. . . . For Bruce, having a baker girlfriend was a double edged sword; it's always nice to have something sweet to eat at some point, but it's not at all an advantage when he's a person with such heavy and dangerous nighttime activities that require him to be in good physical condition.
🍰. . . . Even so, along with Alfred and the batboys, they are the main tasters of every recipe you could think of; everyone is grateful to have delicious things for breakfast, and Alfred is happy to have one less task, controlling Bruce Wayne is more than hard.
🍰. . . . Alfred has noticed that Bruce is spending much more time training in the cave than usual. He used to behave this way at certain times of the year, but it wasn't because Gotham's criminals were becoming more agile and faster; it's because you decided to experiment with new recipes. So, if you're a villain, December is your month to win.
🍰. . . . But Bruce prefers to run ten more kilometers on the treadmill in the early hours of the morning rather than say no to you, with your eyes full of excitement and anticipation for his opinion, as if he knew something about cooking. But he does it gladly, knowing he'll see your beautiful smile, making every drop of sweat and every extra kilometer run worthwhile.
🍰. . . . You've gotten into the habit of leaving him a little something to eat, like cookies or some freshly prepared food, at the bend to make sure he leaves with something in his stomach. He's usually analyzing the cases on the Batcomputer, and his hand instinctively reaches for the nearest dish.
🍰. . . . Even if Bruce tries to be "responsible" and only eat a tiny piece, when you see him cut off a microscopic portion, without saying a word, you add another piece to his plate. He looks at you, sighs resignedly as if it bothers him, but you both know he won't leave a single crumb.
🍰. . . . Bruce proudly carries a box from your pastry shop everywhere and tells everyone who tries it that his wife made it; he's really proud that this is part of the family legacy. Alfred keeps your recipes in an elegant, handwritten folder. He says they are “part of the Wayne family legacy.”
🍰. . . . Bruce never asks you to cook anything specific, but he might casually mention that a family member really liked something you prepared; guess what, nobody said anything.
🍰. . . . The whole family really looks forward to special occasions to try recipes you only make at those times; they love birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, celebrations for good grades at school, and if there aren't any special occasions, they can invent them, right?
🍰. . . . Family arguments never last long if there's something freshly baked on the table, but they start quickly when they see there are only a few portions left and want more.
🍰 . . . . Over the years, your recipes cease to be just yours and become family traditions that all family members prepare, but they always eagerly await what you want to cook because they can never achieve that delicious flavor it has when you make it with your own hands.
˚₊۶ৎ˙⋆ Gambit/Remy LeBeau x mean girlfriend!reader (mostly Christmas fluff!!)
Playing a card game got you fired up and Gambit feeling bad, he makes it up to you, no matter what.
CW: OOC I think, mean reader but also gambit is into it?, hurt and comfort if you squint I think?, I'm still learning how to write good, suggestive jokes, I didn't know how to integrate the Louisiana French and I tried to do my research to make it as natural as possible 😭 NOT PROOFREAD
Please give reading recs for X-men :p
Requests are always open and I'm currently working on previous requests!!
With the Christmas season in the air—meaning freezing balls temperature outside and using some cheap battery powered candles, you and Gambit, or Remy, decided to have game night.
“C’mon now chère, one game of uno and I swear I won’t cheat. I swear on our future marriage!”
You stare at him sceptically, wearing the off the shoulder sweater he had bought—or stolen—for you. You didn’t even respond, just set up the table with games.
Remy loved that mean look on you. Unamused and exasperated, enough to make him saunter over and press himself against you so his chest is flush against your back. To tease a reaction out of you—which he knew wouldn’t work— he plants kisses against your neck.
“Ma belle if I were to cheat I’d make you play strip poker. That’d get your pants off in record time, non?”
“So I’m bad at poker?”
“T’inquiète pas (Don't worry), I just know how to cheat on poker better. After a few more games of UNO, I’ll suggest we play a strip version of that.”
“And after that I’ll make you play another game that you don’t get. Take your pick, Remy. I’ll make you learn some shitty board game from the 70s that’ll take you hours to beat.”
“Or, now hear me out chère, 48 hours of beautiful love making over a weekend.”
“No, hours of a boring board game.”
"You can't just put down three +4's Remy!" You slam your hand onto the table as the other holds a whopping 2 cards, which are about to become 14 cards because of Remy's play.
The content smirk on the Cajun's face simply goaded you with a shrug of his shoulders, "I dunno, chère, we didn't establish the rules. I say I'm allowed to."
"'Didn't establish the rules'?! Well come over here then, maybe I should knock some sense into your thick skull about rules—"
Your continued threats were met with a content smile from Remy. He loved when you were mean to him, when you would yell and berade him. Of course not to the point of frustrating you to tears but just enough to maybe prompt angry sex.
"I'm ready, ange (angel), come and slap me silly, I'm ready for it. It's what I want for Christmas." he opened his arms, closing his eyes like he's sacrificing himself to your fury.
Frustration just hardly melted from you as you stood up, "I'm gonna go make more hot coco, stupid," fighting back a smile as you moved to the kitchen, attempting to storm off despite the warmth his charm fills you with, even though it still annoyed you.
As you stirred the chocolate powder with the hot milk, the spoon clinking against the cup with your aggression when Remy comes up to you from behind.
His touch upon your hips are incredibly gentle like he's running his hand over porcelain, despite the smile you had allowed to adorn your face previously, you couldn't fight the vexation that remained, and your boyfriend could tell.
"I'm sorry, (Name), I know you wanted a peaceful night. I didn't mean to piss you off that bad," he starts, "I was trying to have some fun, even though I knew you got amped up easy when I do stupid shit like that." He places gentle kisses on your neck, hugging your waist.
"Don't gotta forgive me right now, chère, but I just want you to sit and relax now, we can play a game that you want or we don't have to play one at all. Ça te va (sound good)?" his tone was more caring, rubbing your hip, his eyes lidded as he looks down at you.
When you turn to him and take in his black pupils and red iris', you huff slightly and place a hand on his chest, "Always so apologetic even though you got a damn degradation kink."
"Hey It's not that bad—"
"I forgive you Remy, don't worry, honey. But I like it when you apologise for annoying me, just keep that in mind."
With that you place the spoon down and walk off with your cup in your hands. Remy decided to take matters into his own hands, and what was the one thing he knew? People love pastries as an apology, his girlfriend being a prime example.
While you're sat on the leather couch, watching your favourite show, a beautiful aroma hits your nose as Remy calls out to you, "Chère!" he then comes out and appears in the doorway, holding a pan of brownies. He's confidently adorned in his christmas pyjama's with a pink apron and matching oven mitts.
"Your brownies are finished, your royal highness." Remy playfully bowed lowly, one arm under his stomach and the other holding out the plate of brownies, eliciting a chuckle from your lips.
"Wow, a guy from Louisiana didn't even make beignets. I should be ashamed at myself for even being your girlfriend," you start teasingly all while Remy places the pan on the coffee table and takes your hand, his own was heavily cushioned by the oven mit, and places a chaste kiss to your knuckles.
How would you deny the butterflies in your stomach or the warmth in your face?
It would definitely get even worse when your boyfriend leans down to kiss your lips, a long, long kiss. Why did he know just the right way to kiss you at the right time? You hate that he's able to do that.
Pulling away, the Cajun tucks some hair behind your ear, before you hear a slight flick of card, so Remy reveals an ace of hearts card.
"You like when Remy does card tricks and woos you?"
"I can accept your talking in the third person, I draw the line at shitty magic tricks." you cross your arms over your stomach with a grin and an eyebrow raise.
This prompted you and Gambit laughing, catching the attention of his cats in the other room who meowed out desperately.
"Cat's are hungry, gonna feed them then it's just me and you, chère." he kisses your cheek before starting to the other room.
"You sound like moms when they know whether a cry means their babies are hungry or shat their diaper."
"It's gonna be real useful when I get you full of my babies, chère." he shoots back, thankfully you recognised the tone of his voice as being joking; if he did this in the start of your relationship, you would have thrown a vase at him.
Regardless, you shoo him away "Ugh—get out of my face and feed your damn cats." smirking at him as he's already walking off with an obedient "Aye aye, captain!", rushing away into a determined job, relishing in the same chuckle you let out.
Holy shit, he loves you and how mean you are to him.
I really liked Gambits character while playing marvel rivals and watching the old x-men series, so I couldn't help but write this.
Warnings: THIS IS NSFW! OPEN AT YOUR OWN RISK.
A/N: Since the fans liked the last one, mama bird is here to feed you all again. Happy holidays everyone. I love you freaks so dearly, you've made your mother proud.
Disclaimer: To open these links, you must be signed into Twitter/X. Additionally, some may be unavailable due to getting deleted or accounts being suspended.
Read part one here!
Links under the cut.
Like I said last time, those heavy loads are in his DNA.
He won't stop until you cum, it's the "least" he could do!
Warning: Fingering
Letting him fuck your tits.
Warning: tit-fucking // breast play
He's too shy to actually put his cock in...but he can hardly contain himself.
Warning: PIV // anal // spanking
Date night with Lois and Clark...she decides to film you two.
Warning: PIV // Lois being the perfect cameraman
Clark's always eating your pussy!
Warning: Face sitting // oral (F!receiving)
He likes to keep a good grip on you.
Warning: PIV // headlock
I'm thinking about making these for a few more characters. Possibly Johnny Storm? Or Ilya Rozanov. Let me know who you want ! // dividers by @enchanthings !
if there’s one thing you’ve learned from being BRUCE WAYNE’S girlfriend— it’s that older men do it right.
bruce worships you like you’re his religion. lips dancing across your skin with the reverence of a thousand suns, bruce’s affections are never of grandiose stature (because if bruce’s specialty is anything when it comes to things he truly cares about, it’s subtlety); but his love is never to be doubted.
he makes a point to wake you up every morning with his lips pressed to yours; goes out of his way to help you dress for a gala, and never turns down the opportunity to just talk— because loving you, for all its glory, should best be demonstrated through mundanity.
his hands find your waist easily in public events; clinging, holding, consoling.
sturdy fingers thread through your hair or down your spine, tracing veins and beauty marks like a painfully tender game of connect the dots.
and god— the way he makes love to you? it’s as if the stars have aligned and everything has allowed for your souls to intertwine so tightly, bruce would have to traverse the seven seas should he find someone that could even begin to rival the love he feels for you. every thrust, every gasp, every furrow of his brows as he drives in and out and in again of you— done with purpose, done with such devotion, it almost scares him. because bruce has never loved someone this tenderly before— his entire world has shifted on its head because of you—! and that is something so impossibly foreign to gotham’s most important, it is horrifying.
but bruce welcomes the scare, so long as he gets to hold you in his arms as his cock plunges further into your soaked cunt; so long as he gets to spill into you, burying himself and his cum into your womb; so long as you’re rendered speechless by time he’s finished with you, peppering kisses along your hairline and jaw as if to seal the deal.
bruce wayne has taught you that, while older men do it right— only one older man will complete you; through his mind, body, and soul.
if there’s one thing you’ve learned from being BRUCE WAYNE’S girlfriend— it’s that older men do it right.
bruce worships you like you’re his religion. lips dancing across your skin with the reverence of a thousand suns, bruce’s affections are never of grandiose stature (because if bruce’s specialty is anything when it comes to things he truly cares about, it’s subtlety); but his love is never to be doubted.
he makes a point to wake you up every morning with his lips pressed to yours; goes out of his way to help you dress for a gala, and never turns down the opportunity to just talk— because loving you, for all its glory, should best be demonstrated through mundanity.
his hands find your waist easily in public events; clinging, holding, consoling.
sturdy fingers thread through your hair or down your spine, tracing veins and beauty marks like a painfully tender game of connect the dots.
and god— the way he makes love to you? it’s as if the stars have aligned and everything has allowed for your souls to intertwine so tightly, bruce would have to traverse the seven seas should he find someone that could even begin to rival the love he feels for you. every thrust, every gasp, every furrow of his brows as he drives in and out and in again of you— done with purpose, done with such devotion, it almost scares him. because bruce has never loved someone this tenderly before— his entire world has shifted on its head because of you—! and that is something so impossibly foreign to gotham’s most important, it is horrifying.
but bruce welcomes the scare, so long as he gets to hold you in his arms as his cock plunges further into your soaked cunt; so long as he gets to spill into you, burying himself and his cum into your womb; so long as you’re rendered speechless by time he’s finished with you, peppering kisses along your hairline and jaw as if to seal the deal.
bruce wayne has taught you that, while older men do it right— only one older man will complete you; through his mind, body, and soul.
ᨳ includes ⋮ domestic fluff, established relationship, non-sexual nudity, you paint him, dick being a lil shi, wally west mention
“Stop laughing—”
The protest dissolves before it ever finds its footing, cut cleanly in half by another burst of Dick’s giggles. They’re bright and unrepentant, the kind that bubble up from his chest and spill everywhere, leaving you defenseless in their wake.
“Babe,” he hums, words lazy and amused as he tips his head back against the arm of the loveseat, feet kicking once in the air like he can’t quite contain himself. “Is this blanket supposed to be, like, one of those fancy fur coats models wear?”
You don’t answer right away. You’re too busy fumbling with the paper in your hands — thick, expensive stock Dick insisted on because presentation matters, even if the only audience is the two of you. You try to pin it straight against the board, but your focus keeps slipping, dragged inexorably back to him.
Because there he is.
Dick, stretched out on your old loveseat, utterly unbothered by the fact that it creaks faintly beneath him, or that the fire crackling nearby has left a sheen of warmth on his skin. He’s flushed — maybe from the heat, maybe from the way your attention keeps snagging on him when he notices — and the effect is devastatingly human. Too real. Too close.
The white, impossibly soft blanket is draped over him with careless intention, pooled across his middle and tucked between his legs, rising just enough to brush beneath his cheek where his arms are folded. It looks less like modesty and more like a promise of comfort, a domestic afterthought meant for someone who belongs here.
The firelight paints him in soft golds and shadows, turning the room into something smaller, quieter—a place where laughter lingers and time forgets to move. And you think, distantly, that you are never going to get any work done tonight.
Not with him teasing you like that.
“Pick a pose and stay still,” you huff, the words meant to sound firm but slipping out far too gentle, far too shy. Whatever authority you intended evaporates on contact, and Dick’s smile only grows, slow and knowing.
He tilts his head, cheek pressing deeper into the white fur of the blanket as if testing just how comfortable he can get away with being. Firelight dances in his eyes, all mischief and warmth, a quiet challenge wrapped in affection.
“How about you come over here,” he murmurs, voice low and coaxing, lashes fluttering as he looks up at you–completely on purpose you're sure, “and pick one for me?”
You nearly stick your thumb on one of the pins.
It happens so fast it’s almost comical—your hand jerking back, fingers flailing as you attempt to catch it midair like some kind of overanimated cartoon character. The pin clatters to the floor anyway, skidding just out of reach.
Dick loses it.
He laughs in that unguarded, boyish way you haven’t heard in a while—loud, bright, completely helpless. It pours out of him as he watches you crouch down a second later, fumbling for the pin with an indignant little huff. His shoulders shake, head tipping back as if the sight alone has undone him.
It truly isn’t that funny.
And yet he’s still cackling like a madman by the time you finally get the paper pinned straight, turning away from you to bury his face into the cushions as if that might spare you the embarrassment. As if hiding his laughter somehow makes it kinder.
You don’t say a word when you walk over to him.
Not a sound. Not a sigh. Just quiet footsteps across the floor — close enough, eventually, that he can smell you. That’s when it seems to register. The laughter dies off mid-breath, replaced by a soft, startled stillness as he turns and looks up at you.
Shy again.
It suits him too much.
Up close, the evidence of patrol is impossible to ignore. The careful bandages you’d wrapped around his thighs and abdomen peek out from beneath the blanket, clean but still new. There’s a small cut on his cheek, already starting to scab, and bruising blooming dark and violet along his ribs and wrists—marks you catalogued earlier with quiet frustration and practiced care.
You’d been insistent. No arguments. He was resting for the rest of the night.
A warm bath where you washed him gently, steam curling around the two of you. Clean clothes. Bed. Sleep.
And that was exactly what you did.
Except—Dick has always had this need to give something back. To prove he’s okay. To prove he’s still himself. And for once, reluctantly, you’d agreed.
Because when he looks at you like this—soft, flushed, wrapped in warmth and trust—how could you possibly resist?
He looks up at you with those wide blue eyes—the kind of blue you’ve never been able to name. It’s like the color shifts on him, reshaping itself to fit the moment. Years ago, they were lighter, softer. Now they’re deeper, richer—a shade so complex you know you’d never be able to mix it right on a palette, no matter how long you tried.
You force yourself to look away before you get lost in them.
Two fingers catch the edge of the blanket, tugging at it gently, almost hesitant. “We…” You clear your throat, steadying yourself. “We can get rid of this, yeah?”
Dick glances down at the blanket, then back up at you. The flush on his cheeks deepens, red blooming warmer and more vivid like it’s been invited. He feels a little ridiculous—you’ve seen him bare more times than either of you could count. There’s nothing unfamiliar about this, nothing new about intimacy between you. And it’s not that he thinks himself unattractive.
It’s just—
Everything you touch, everything you make space for, feels beautiful.
And standing there under your gaze, wrapped in quiet and firelight and trust, he suddenly feels like something fragile you’re choosing to keep.
“I thought the fancy ladies you paint usually have fabric on them,” Dick mumbles, voice deliberately casual—an attempt at absentmindedness that doesn’t quite land. You can hear the nerves tucked beneath it, the way he’s trying to sound unaffected and failing beautifully.
“They do,” you hum in response, the answer easy, unguarded. Your mind flickers briefly through memories of past portraits—soft curves, veiled faces, fabric that emphasizes rather than hides. “But that fabric was mostly for anonymity. For the auction. For the sale.”
You glance back at him then, letting the words settle before adding, quieter but certain, “I’m not selling you. You’re mine.”
The difference is everywhere, really.
It’s why you’re using thick stock paper instead of canvas. Why you reached for a simple paint set instead of the carefully curated tubes you usually line up with near-reverence. Dick has watched you work before—watched the way you disappear into it, how precise and serious you become. Those are the moments when even he goes quiet, limiting himself to soft questions and half-formed jokes, like he doesn’t want to disturb something sacred.
But that isn’t what you want tonight.
Tonight, you want him relaxed. Warm. Talking. Laughing. You want his voice filling the room, not hushed by awe or caution. So you make this different— ighter, looser—stripping the ritual away until it’s just you, him, firelight, and the simple act of looking at someone you love and choosing to see them fully.
Dick nods after a moment, small and deliberate, giving permission without needing to say it out loud. He lets the blanket slip from his body as you take it from him, your movements careful, unhurried. You fold the fabric neatly in your hands, but your eyes never leave him—tracing familiar lines as if you’re memorizing them all over again.
He’s revealed the same way he always is with you: gently. Without spectacle. Without fear.
Firelight skims over his skin, catching on every curve and bruise and quiet strength he carries so effortlessly. The marks of patrol don’t detract from him—they only make him more real, more him. Someone lived-in. Someone loved.
The thought hits you all at once, sharp and tender.
You could paint him a thousand times and still not get it right. Still feel the ache to try again. To beg the world—or whatever higher gods that listen—to let him be made by your hands once more, just so you could relearn him from the beginning.
You set the blanket aside and step back just enough to give yourself room to breathe—to look—even though every instinct pulls you closer instead. You move back to where you set up your supplies, a mere five feet away from his spot on the love seat.
You take your time, a red watercolor pencil poised between your fingers. You let yourself feel its familiar weight, the way it anchors you, steadies the swell of feeling threatening to crest too high, too fast.
Dick stays still.
Not rigid—just there. Shoulders loose, chin angled ever so slightly, like he’s waiting for guidance he already trusts you to give. There’s something reverent in that kind of stillness. Something sacred in the way he offers it so freely. Dick watches you from beneath his lashes, expression open and soft, like the act of being seen by you is something he’s already accepted without fear.
“Whatever I want?” he murmurs, testing the edges of the moment.
“However you want,” you reply, voice just as quiet, just as sure.
That’s when he moves.
Dick adjusts his legs from the crossed pose he’s seen in so many paintings to something looser — one resting over the other, knees bent gently, a posture that feels less posed and like how he looks when he lazes around the apartment. Comfortable. Thoughtless.
Dick reaches for the blanket where you left it, bunching it lazily before tucking it beneath his head. One arm curls above it, cheek pressed into the fabric just enough that Dick can still look at you without lifting himself too much. The other hand stretches out in front of him, fingers brushing the seam of the loveseat like he’s grounding himself there.
The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s appreciative. The kind that settles only when someone feels safe enough to truly relax.
Dick coughs anyway, like he can’t help himself.
A cocky grin pulls at his mouth — undercut immediately by the warmth still blooming across his cheeks. “So,” he says lightly, “can you make my cock look a little bigger? You know. For when I show Wally.”
Your brows knit together as you glance up at him. “You are not showing Wally.”
He laughs, unbothered. “Why? He’s seen me change a million times. Probably seen me naked more than anyone besides you.”
You huff softly, rebalancing the pencil in your grip, grounding yourself again. “That’s how Wally sees you,” you say, calm but firm. “This is how I see you. He doesn’t get to see that.”
There’s a beat.
Then, barely under his breath — low, amused, unmistakably pleased — Dick murmurs, “Possessive.”
You don’t look up.
But you don’t deny it either.
The first brushstroke is tentative.
Not because you don’t know what you’re doing — you do — but because the act of beginning feels intimate in a way that has nothing to do with skin. You map him gently, translating warmth and life into a shape you can understand, letting the firelight guide your hand. Every line feels like a conversation you’ve had before, one you never get tired of repeating.
Dick exhales slowly, a quiet sound, barely there. His mouth quirks when he realizes you’ve started, that your blushing and a smile tugs at the corner of his lips like he can’t quite help it.
“Going good?” he asks, voice low, careful not to break whatever this is.
You hum in response, eyes never leaving the page. “Perfect,” you murmur, and you mean more than just the pose.
The room settles into a comfortable rhythm—the soft scratch of brush on paper, the crackle of the fire, Dick’s breathing evening out as the minutes pass. He shifts once, barely perceptible, then stills again when you glance up at him, his expression sheepish and apologetic.
“Sorry,” Dick whispers.
You smile without looking. “You’re doing great.”
And he is. Not because he’s still, or beautiful, or patient — but because he’s here. Because he lets himself be seen.
“It must be weird,” he murmurs, filling the quiet again like he always does. His legs have started to cool where they’re furthest from the fireplace, skin tightening just a little — and yet, every time you so much as glance his way, he feels warm again. Like attention alone is enough to carry heat.
“What must be weird?” you ask without looking up.
“You usually draw women,” Dick says, casual on the surface, conversational in the way people get when they’re trying not to sound like something matters.
“No,” you shrug, absentminded, pencil moving with quiet confidence. “I’m comfortable drawing men too.”
The change in him is immediate.
His body goes rigid—not with tension exactly, but alertness—a stiffness even the steady warmth of the fire can’t quite reach.
It took you five weeks to say you were comfortable drawing cars.
Three weeks to say the same about dogs—even after Damian pointed out, as nice as he could sound, that your anatomy for them was always flawless.
So if you’re comfortable drawing men…
Dick’s thoughts spiral despite himself. Who were they? Were they models? Were they unclothed? Not that he’d get bitchy about it—he’s not like that—but he’d at least prefer to be there if you were alone in a studio with another man's naked body. And why wouldn’t you show him the paintings? You always show him the paintings. That’s suspicious, right? Not that he’s accusing you of anything. He’s just—
“I drew you all the time when you were Robin,” you say softly.
The shyness in your voice gives you away before the words do. You lift the board just enough to hide behind it, pretending very hard to adjust your grip, to check a line that doesn’t need checking.
Dick stills.
Oh.
The tension drains out of him all at once, replaced by something warmer—heavier like a blanket instead of a ache—something that settles in his chest and makes it ache just a little. He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t tease. He never even knew you drew him before. He just lies there, quiet, letting the meaning of it sit with him.
You weren’t learning with every stroke.
You were remembering him.
“…Can I see them later?” Dick whispers after a moment.
The question is careful. Earnest. Like he already knows the answer but hopes tone alone might sway you.
“Absolutely not.”
The word lands clean and final.
“But babe—”
Dick pouts immediately, shifting as if to sit up — only to yelp softly when an eraser bounces off his shoulder and lands uselessly beside him.
“Don’t babe me,” you snap, though it lacks any real bite. Your voice wobbles just enough to betray you, and he catches it instantly.
He collapses back onto the loveseat with a grin, defeated but pleased, eyes bright and affectionate. There’s something smug in the way he settles again, like he’s already filed this away as a victory for later—not because he’ll ever see the drawings, but because the refusal itself feels intimate.
ᨳ dick grayson tag-list (check pinned post for info on how to be added .ᐟ ): @justamarsbar
At least he did, until you sent him the first one. It was kind of an accident, fueled by two double cocktails from girl’s night and a little fluttery satin romper with a low neckline and high leg cuts. It wasn’t the most revealing thing, but sexy nonetheless.
The photo wasn’t any more so, just a little mirror selfie, cropped just below your nose to reveal a shy smile and the swell of your breasts. You sent it with no warning, just the photo with missing you underneath.
Then you waited, music humming softly from your record player as nerves fluttering in your stomach and barely two minutes later, your phone vibrated from its perch on your dresser. Like your skin was aflame, you burst up, taking a deep breath before answering.
“Hello?”
A deep, breathy laugh sounded from the other end. “Sweetheart, what- what was that for?”
“The picture?” You pick at a loose thread on your quilt, kicking your feet. “I just thought you might like it..”
“Like it? I love it. You look- you are- incredible. It’s taking everything in me not to do something stupid like a teenager.”
Pride swells in your chest, your face flushing hot. You press your thighs together, willing the pulsing of your core to cease at the thought of Clark palming his hard length at the sight of you.
“Well, I’ve got more where that came from.” You joke lightly, feeling suddenly shy. “I wish you were here.” You sigh, trailing a nail up your thigh, goosebumps rising across your skin. “I missed you tonight.”
A shuffling from the other end of the phone, and a whistling of wind. You frown, wondering if Clark had dropped his phone or if he truly had taken to jerking off like a teenager. You weren’t above phone sex by any means-
A hard knocking at your front door. You sigh, “Hold on one second, baby.”
You throw your robe on. Something thick and soft, not at all sexy like the romper underneath. You open the door to see Clark standing there, hand against the frame and breathing heavily. His hair is touseled, like he just rolled out of bed or was running his hands through it. Clark looks you up and down, studying you as if you’re a Renaissance painting. You might feel self-conscious under anyone else’s gaze, but it’s Clark. Appreciative Clark, who looks at you as though you’re the definition of beauty itself. “What are you doing here-”
“I was in the neighborhood.” Clark blurts, hand twitching forward to touch your robe. He stops himself midway, hand frozen in restraint.
Your face splits into a smile as you yank him down to you, smashing your lips to his and kissing him hard. You kick the door shut as he fumbles with the ties, pushing the robe off of your shoulders as though it offends him and scooping you into his arms.
After that night, the pictures become a fixture. It takes a while for him to have any of himself in them, or even full nudity.
You, in the kitchen, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as you make two cups of tea in the golden morning light, the globes of your ass just barely visible from underneath the hem of his shirt you wore.
A mirror selfie you sent him when you bought a new bra, nipples just barely visible through the lace.
He has pictures of you held to his chest, hand and forearm covering your breasts protectively. The swell of your tits prominent in the low lighting.
Your naked back, tilted just so as you take his cock on your knees. His hand pressed protectively to the dip of your spine.
That sweet blue and red set you wore for his birthday in a variety of poses. On your knees, in a straddle on the bed, eyes closed as you run your hands over the cups of your bra. You on top of him, shamelessly riding him with your panties pulled to the side.
That one is a favorite of his, your eyes scrunched shut in pleasure and mouth open in a little moan. The sound you make when you finally take all of him in your sweet little cunt.
Clark isn’t one for pictures during the act of sex- he would much rather be in the moment, worship your body as its in front of him. He hasn’t been one for sexy pictures at all. But damn, does he love being able to open his phone when you or him are away from each other, being able to admire you.
Having dated you for two years and known you since childhood, Dick was already used to you being somewhat obsessed with biting him.
You lived in the mansion next door to Wayne Manor, so when Bruce adopted Dick, he asked your parents if you could spend time with him, since he was nonverbal and needed to interact.
You developed a friendship; you were much more energetic than Dick, but he never found you annoying. Now, older, it was still the same, except that you were no longer just friends, you were dating. He still vividly remembers when he asked you out and your response was to bite his cheek. He had never smiled so broadly as he did at that moment.
To this day, it was the same thing. Dick can't remember a day when he didn't have some teeth marks somewhere on his body, whether on his biceps, neck, or even his abdomen. Honestly, it seemed like you were marking him, and he would never complain.
You were sitting on the couch in your apartment, you were on Dick's lap, with your head on his neck, in silence. Dick was watching a random police series on TV, quiet moments like this were rare, and Dick made sure to enjoy them fully.
Suddenly, he feels you bite his neck and smiles.
"Are you awake, love?" He runs his hand down your spine and you grunt against his neck, nodding slightly and pressing a kiss against the spot you bit.
"Sorry, it's just that you smell so good."
Dick laughed again, the sound muffled against your hair. He knew you did it without thinking—it was almost instinctive, a way of communicating without words. Even so, he pretended to complain.
"You know you're going to leave me covered in bruises, right?"
"Oh, but it suits you," you replied, your voice sleepy, your smile evident. "Blue and purple are your colors."
He shook his head, amused.
"I'm Nightwing, not a bruise chart."
You lifted your face just enough to stare at him, your eyes shining with the kind of challenge he knew well.
"So you mean I'm getting in the hero's way now?"
Dick raised an eyebrow.
"You? Never." He gently pulled your chin, pressing his lips to yours.
The kiss began lightly, lazily, as if in no hurry to end. He held you as if afraid of letting you escape, his thumb caressing the corner of your jaw, his fingers drawing slow circles on the back of your neck. You smiled against his mouth, because it was impossible not to smile when Dick kissed you like that, calmly, as if the world outside didn't exist.
When he pulled away, his eyes still half-filled with affection, he murmured:
"You know, sometimes I think you like biting me more than kissing me."
You rested your forehead on his, smiling.
"And who says I don't like both equally?"
He let out a low laugh, pulling you back to his chest. You stayed there, nestled together, the sound of the TV mixed with your calm breathing.
For a few minutes, everything seemed too perfect — the kind of silence Dick never thought he would find when he was a child, scared and alone, until you showed up.
"Hey, Dick?" you whispered after a while.
"Hm?"
"If I ever stop biting you..."
"Stop right there," he interrupted, opening his eyes. "It's not going to happen."
You laughed, hugging him tighter.
"Okay, but if it does... it's because I love you so much that I'm trying to be a decent person."
He tilted his face and kissed the top of your head, laughing softly.
"Then please, never be a decent person."
And you didn’t, because a second later, you bit his shoulder again.
⤷ warnings: f!reader, oral (f! receiving), sub!clark kent, a little face sitting, clark cums in his boxers
⤷ word count:~300
clark def humps the bed when he’s eating you out.
it’s unintentional, at first. he was too busy thinking about you and whether or not your heartbeat raised when he changed his rhythm.
he’s licking at your clit with two fingers slotting in and out of you and his other hand rests on the outside of your thigh prying you open. your whimpers bounce off the wall straight to clark’s ear which was probably what sent his hips bucking in the first place.
he’s moaning into your folds, words incoherent as he laps at your clit curling his fingers to match the rhythm of his tongue. when you grab as his hair his mouth falls open to a whimper, his voice vibrates against you and your back starts to lift of the mattress with an arch.
“taste so good baby” he hums. you realize then the bed is rocking more than it should considering you’re not moving. when you lock down to see you notice how his hips rock lazily at the edge of the bed, head still blissfully smushed between your thighs.
“clark are you humping the bed?” you manage, pushing at his forehead. fingers still rested inside you, he looks up at you and back down at his own hips like he wasn’t aware of his own movements.
“m’sorry baby you just taste so good” his hips halt and his face glistened with slick. he looked so pathetic, pretty, but pathetically needy, “come’er baby” you motioned your hand with your words, and he pulls his fingers out and wipes his face with the back of his hand before crawling up to meet you.
“i wasn’t done down there” his face worried, eyes wet and his pupils blown. clark was nothing if not a man who finished what he started “i have something better” smiling you reach to pump at his cock a few times before slipping his tip between your folds.
he groans at the crook of your neck finally moaning when you lead his tip to your entrance pushing him in.
another night you're sitting on his face, rutting your folds relentlessly against his tongue.
hands tangled in his hair as his nose bumps your clit, his mouth lapping at your entrance. you’re too busy moaning to use any of your senses.
that is until you hear him whimper against your pussy a bit more then he usually does. at first you just look down looking at the way his eyes are shut from the bliss he's experiencing, before he opens his eyes, then again whimpers at the eye contact.
you smile down at him as his grip on your thighs grow stronger. when the bed creaks to a movement you didn't make you turn to look behind you, eyes trailing down his torso, to his hips which are bucking up into nothing.
he says something, not that you can hear with his voice muffled by your cunt. he loves eating you out so much he can’t help searching for pleasing friction, only to find cool air brushing against the precum soaked spot on his boxers.
his desperation is what draws you closer to your orgasm, and when you cum he's moaning against your folds, his hips shuttering as he cums in his boxers.
simply from getting you off, he finds himself extremely lucky he even gets to watch.
clark kent x gn!reader ( cw: smut, slightly pervy!clark )
Clark gets flustered easily.
When you get him coffee (He drinks his coffee light compared to you. It is practically ninety percent milk.) to thank him for his help on your latest article, he blushes and says "Thank you." in his deep, warm tone. "You didn't have to bother." Seeing him get pink and jittery because of you always puts a wicked smile on your face. Clark always feels himself get more pink when he sees you smile at him. Your smile puts him on the edge, everytime.
He thinks of your smile at night when he touches himself in his bed, alone as he whimpers into the still air. You, smiling down at him sweetly.
When you compliment him on how he is a gentleman, how he is always good to everyone, good to you, he gets sweaty. "You are kindly exagerrating," he says, "I am just doing my job." His hands on the keyboard are shaking when he sees you walking closer to him as he types out nonsense.
You lean into his desk, as he is sitting in his chair, practically leaning over him to look at his computer. You squint to read as he watches your face behind his glasses, focused, inhaling the scent of your body spray on you, your hair nearly touching the side of his face. Your presence near him makes all of his senses go overdrive. "Good job, Clark." you say, and turn to smile at him, really close, your breath practically fanning over his face. "This is really good. "
It becomes a regular habit to imagine your voice telling him good job when he touches himself again as he thinks of you. You are doing good for me Clark, keep going. Would your voice be encouraging or slightly mocking as you laugh at his pathetic whines? He cums all over his hand, thinking of how your voice would sound for him.
When you tease him, putting your hand on his shoulder, feeling up his bicep or give him a pat on his back, he tenses up. His jaw clenches so hard that if he wasn't invincible, his teeth would shatter. You don't know the hell you put him through. Or maybe, you know and you are doing it on purpose to make his life miserable, he can't decide. "You are a big guy, Clark." you say, hand still on his shoulder, squeezing, "I don't get why everyone is not all over you."
He dreams of you, holding onto his shoulders while you are on his lap, going torturously slow as you ride him. You are a big boy, Clark, you can be good and don't cum until I say so, yeah? When he wakes up, feeling the maddeding flush on his body, his boxers are ruined.
When you finally kiss him in the storage closet of the office, his knees buckle. Every fantasy, every dream he had of you is nothing compared to feeling your warm body in his arms and your hot mouth on his lips. You kiss him playfully, biting his lip and smiling into the kiss as you play with his hair, petting him like a dog.
He finds out that night while being surrounded by your tantalizing warmth around his cock, that you love teasing him, and you sound mellowingly mocking when you tell him to be good. He can be good for you, he realizes. He will be good for you. He will do anything you want.
He'd probably so shy about it at first too, almost embarrassed at how much bigger than you he is. Slouching in on himself when he's next to you so that he didn't seem so intimidating, apology on the tip of his tongue when he sees the way you have to crane your neck when you talk to him. He tries his best to make himself seem small, but it hardly ever works. He's even worse when the two of you are fucking.
He's not even trying to seem cocky about it, but he knows he's big everywhere, so he's taking extra time getting you ready for him, eating your pussy until your legs are shaking and then stretching you open on two of his thick fingers (then three, just for good measure)
You're floating on cloud nine by the time he actually takes his dick out, and even then, he's concerned about potentially hurting you, mind reeling as he works his briefs down at a snail's pace, trying to buy time. When you see him in all his glory though, it's like your eyes light up, mouth dropping open in a small gasp as your legs instinctively widen to make room for his broad form.
God, he's so fucking big it makes your head spin, and when he finally positions himself above you, forearm balancing himself next to your head, you have to stop yourself from squealing with excitement. You take a hold of him, giving a few firm strokes and gawking the way he looks even bigger in your hand. He groans at the feeling of your soft hand, faintly thrusting along with your strokes until he reluctantly stops himself.
"I should be getting you ready," he huffs, hoping it comes off jokingly, but he just sounds breathy and desperate. "I'm more than ready, Clark," you say with a soft smile as you bring him closer to your eager cunt, and he feels how absolutely wet you are as he continues his shallow thrusts against your folds, not daring to push in yet.
"I don't wanna hurt you," he says again, eyes transfixed on how he nudges your swollen clit with every upward drag. "You won't, baby," you whisper and you almost want to add that you want it to hurt, you want to feel him for days, but you're worried he might run for the hills if you did. Instead, you gently manoeuvring him until he's pushing inside you and you both groan at the feeling.
It's an instant stretch as soon as the tip catches your entrance and every slight push inside feels like it's stealing more and more air from your lungs. He's moving painfully slow, eyes only leaving your pussy too see if he's hurting you. All he finds is your blissed out face, eyes glassy and unfocused as your chest rises with deep breaths.
"S'so big, Clark fuck," you murmur, eyes drifting down between your legs so you could see the damage yourself and audibly whining at the sight, clenching so hard Clark has to bite down on his bottom lip.
He's about halfway in when he stops, giving you the chance to adjust to him, but when you whine pitifully his heart skips a few beats, scared that he may have hurt you anyway. It's only when your heels are pushing into his butt and the words leave your mouth in a breathy moan, that he finally understands what you want.
"C'mon Clark," the words are spoken against his mouth as he attempts to kiss your whines away, "I can take it, want it all."
He can't stop the moan that escapes him at that even if he wanted, a full body shudder travelling through him. He gives you exactly what you want, still as slow and steadily as before, but this time he doesn't stop until he's fully bottomed out. And when he does? He swears he could cum at the sight of you taking all of him like a champ alone.
"Gosh sweetheart, you're really taking it all huh?" he huffs as he tries his best to not fuck into you like a maniac, even if your pussy is practically cutting the circulation to his dick as you clench around him. You only nod dumbly, a proud smile pulling at you lips as you watch the way he's already unravelling.
It's all too much for Clark—your fucked out expression along with your sweet voice encouraging him to go deeper and harder, the slight bulge he creates in your tummy with every thrust and the way your greedy pussy sucks him in, crying her praise with the obscenely wet squelching that fills the room along with your moaning and whining—but he's already decided this might just be his favourite thing in the world.
⭒ ❪ ⩇⩇:⩇⩇ ❫ ﹕you and clark are—barely—keeping your relationship quiet at the daily planet… until a new intern decides to test clark’s patience.
𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃 boyfriend!clark x f!reader. clark is down bad for you. heavy makeout. not really smut, but clark ruts his hips against you and sucks your tit. jimmy and lois are menaces. clark breaks things because of jealousy. perry is secretly a fan of the couple ノ 3,464 words
₍^. .^₎⟆ ﹕i swear i try to stay away from pink, but i just can't, that's my colour fr!!! also, suggestions for clark are openn!! request whatever you want!! (as long as is not dark content)
you whimpered into clark’s mouth when his big hands squeezed your ass beneath your skirt, kneading like he’d been waiting all day for this.
“clark—” your palms pressed against his chest in a weak protest, but he only growled low in his throat, pulling you flush against him. his teeth tugged your lip before his tongue swept in, hot and desperate, and you melted right where he wanted you.
who would’ve thought this sweet, stuttering farm boy would be such a filthy freak?
“just a little more—” he rasped, lifting you up and pinning you to the wall like you weighed nothing. his mouth licking down your throat. “no one’s gonna catch us here… i checked.”
your fingers twisted into his hair, pulling, but it only made him hungrier.
“thought you said subtle—” your voice cracked into a whimper as he bit the soft spot at your neck. “clark—”
“i tried, i swear, but you… walk in looking like that—” his hips rutted against yours, the thick bulge in his slacks grinding right where you ached. “i c-can’t—” he silenced himself by crushing his mouth back onto yours, tongue greedy, kiss wet and messy.
and god help you—you let him. because he was clark. so unbearably sweet, so worshipful, so hopelessly obsessed with you.
he’s so sweet, how can you resist?
and he never knew when to stop. the way he stared across the bullpen like a kicked puppy, begging to be the object of your attention instead of those boring articles.
until jimmy smacked him with a “you’re so obvious, man.”
or when he brings your favourite drink, but then he’s forced to set one for jimmy and lois too, or else it’d be suspicious.
the way he begged for “just lunch” when he really meant two hours of being handsy and kissy before superman had to fly.
and now this—sneaking you into the supply room on lunch break because he can’t keep his love to himself—his words, not yours.
your blouse was open, bra tugged down, and his mouth was latched to your breast like a starving man. his tongue flicked your nipple, teeth grazing, sucking until your back arched and you bit down on a gasp. spit and heat smeared your skin where he worshiped you, groaning like the taste of you alone was enough to destroy him.
and it is.
“c-clark, you’re drooling—”
“don’t care.” his voice was wrecked, muffled against your chest as he sucked harder, thumb rolling your other nipple until you whimpered.
so lost in each other neither of you heard the footsteps—until the door banged open.
with a blur of super speed, clark fixed your bra, buttoned you back up, and set you on the ground, standing guiltily just as jimmy walked in with a stack of boxes.
but the damage was done. your hair a mess, lips kiss-bruised, lipstick smeared on clark’s mouth, his jaw, your chest. and worst of all, the straining and very visible outline in his pants, which clark slapped both hands over like that would hide anything.
jimmy just stared, jaw slack. then he sighed like the weight of the world was on him. “see, here’s the thing. i love rooting for my friends getting laid. i do. but we’re supposed to be lying low, not lying on top of each other.”
“it’s not—”
“we’re not lying—” you and clark chorused, equally panicked.
“oh yeah? it’s just ‘not telling the truth,’ huh?”
“exactly!” you squeaked, cheeks blazing.
jimmy handed clark a tissue. “you’ve got lipstick all over your chest, big guy.” then one for you. “and you, miss, lois is gonna kill someone if you’re not back at her desk in…” he checked his watch. “one and a half minutes. tops.”
“thanks, jimmy!” you hugged him quickly before fleeing the room—only stopping for one last stolen kiss on clark’s lips.
when you were gone, clark and jimmy locked eyes.
jimmy pointed blatantly at his crotch. “you’d better sort that out before anyone notices. try thinking about that old lady who tried to kiss you yesterday—the one who stuck her tongue all the way out.”
“darn it…” clark groaned, head thunking back against the shelf. equal parts despair over losing you too soon—and the cursed image jimmy just burned into his brain.
lois was perched on your desk, reviewing an article with you. clark stood farther than he needed to—though you swore he could be closer—but after the supply room incident at lunch (the one jimmy told lois about), both of them decided it was safer to keep you two apart for a while.
“something feels off…” you murmured, arms crossed as you frowned at the words crowding your screen.
“it does,” lois agreed, leaning in. “it feels like it’s missing something… like a chunk of information isn’t there.”
the two of you kept rereading the article, trying to catch what was bugging you so much—until perry’s voice rang through the bullpen.
“and here’s my most competent team!” he declared, wearing a smile so wide you had to blink at it. perry white, smiling? that was… new.
he called out your name, then added, “lois lane.”
two young adults stepped forward, bright and eager.
right. interns.
“this is clark kent, another reporter, and james olsen, photographer.” perry’s tone shifted flat again, far less enthusiastic than when he introduced you and lois. both men exchanged a glance at the difference.
the girl seemed shy, but her eyes lit up as soon as lois sarted talking. she was already scribbling in her notebook, jotting down everything she thought might matter.
the boy, on the other hand, only had eyes for you. he didn’t once glance at lois or ask a single question about what she was saying, instead, his attention stayed pinned to you, sharp enough that even lois and perry caught it.
“and just to make it clear,” perry added, voice firm again, “at the daily planet, especially in your positions—since we don’t take on many interns—dating is not allowed.”
both nodded obediently, though the boy’s gaze didn’t waver. if anything, he looked like the rule had nothing to do with him.
once perry and the interns moved along for the newsroom tour, lois swiveled back toward you, perching even more comfortably on the edge of your desk. there was a spark in her eye that immediately put you on edge.
“seems like my best friend here is a little too hot to handle, huh?” she teased, smirk tugging at her lips.
before you could even open your mouth, jimmy’s head appeared right beside yours—like he had a built-in radar for mockery. “what are we talking about now?” he asked, far too innocently.
“yeah, especially because your best friend is also my girlfriend,” clark interrupted as he stepped in, brows knitting in that awkwardly serious way of his. he planted himself right next to jimmy, tall frame casting a shadow over both of you like he had to stake some sort of claim.
you let out a groan, dragging your hands over your face. subtlety was officially dead.
“i know that, kent.” lois nearly rolled her eyes, leaning back with her arms crossed. “what i’m saying is the little intern boy couldn’t keep his eyes off your girlfriend.”
you didn’t need to lift your head to picture it—the tiny downturn of clark’s mouth, the faint crease in his brow, the beginnings of a pout tugging at his lips.
jimmy, of course, pounced. “charming young boys now?” he teased, elbowing clark’s side. “and here i thought your type was shy, tall, silly farm men.”
“isn’t it?” clark turned toward you instantly, voice a little rushed, like he genuinely needed you to confirm.
“yes!” you blurted, louder than intended, cheeks heating. quickly, you dropped your voice, leaning in. “very specifically, my type is clark kent.”
that was all it took—his whole expression broke into a proud, goofy grin, dimples showing, eyes shining like you’d handed him the world.
“and i’m not charming no young boy,” you added firmly, pointing at both men. “so maybe the peanut gallery should get back to work?”
neither of them moved.
“now,” you tried again, voice firmer.
jimmy groaned dramatically. “booo. no fun at all.” he shuffled back to his desk, still laughing.
clark, on the other hand, lingered, his grin softening into something shy. he leaned in slightly, like he was debating stealing a quick kiss—already glancing around to make sure no one was watching—when jimmy’s voice called out again from across the bullpen.
“kent, quit mooning and move it!”
clark startled, muttering a quick “coming!” before retreating, his ears turning a shade of pink you adored.
you couldn’t help it—the fond smile broke free, watching your big, silly man shuffle back to his desk like a scolded puppy.
“and what about the—” lois started, leaning in again, mischief returning full force.
“lois. you too.”
she gasped, hand over her chest like you’d insulted her honor. “but i am working!” she said, feigning innocence.
you sighed, defeated, while she kept grinning like a cat who’d cornered the canary, clearly not done with her teasing.
the next day, the interns were ready to go. penny, as you’d learned, was a complete sweetheart. sharp, serious, already reminding you of a younger lois with the way she devoured assignments and scribbled notes like her life depended on it.
the boy, though… still nameless to you, was another story entirely. no matter how hard he tried to play it cool, he was an absolute mess. tripping over his own feet, mixing up files, misreading headlines, fumbling with jimmy’s camera during “training.” every single mistake had one root cause: he couldn’t keep his eyes off you.
lois had noticed. you had noticed. everyone had noticed.
but right now—two weeks later—you were nose-deep in polishing an article, fixing formatting with laser focus, when a hesitant voice pulled you out calling your name.
you blinked up. there he was, leaning over your desk, nearly toppling your pen holder in the process. pens clattered, and he fumbled to fix it. “sorry—sorry, my bad.”
“no problem,” you said, tidying it again with a flick of your fingers, gently shooing him back to a safer distance. “and yes, that’s me. how can i help you…?”
“tyler.” he grinned, sticking out a hand like he’d been waiting for this moment.
“…tyler.” you shook it politely.
he seemed to gather his courage in one shaky breath. “i just—uh, I didn’t think there’d be such pretty reporters here. not every day you meet… someone like you.” the words tumbled out in a rush, and though he tried to hold himself upright, his ears gave him away, bright red.
you glanced at your watch—almost lunch break. clark had promised to take you out today.
“uh… thank you?” you said, voice distracted, already mentally halfway to clark.
from across the bullpen, a trio of spectators watched.
jimmy leaned forward in his chair like he was ringside at a boxing match. “twenty bucks says he’s about to ask her out.”
lois smirked. “make it forty. and double down—he’s embarrassing himself while he does it.”
“that’s not fair,” clark muttered tightly beside them.
and then, snap. the pen in his hand cracked clean in two, ink bleeding into his palm.
lois whipped her head toward him, eyebrows raised. “clark. really?”
jimmy stifled a laugh. “guess somebody’s not a betting man.”
lois sighed. “that’s the third pen this week, clark.”
jimmy snorted. “remember the stapler? what about the mug?”
“or the chair,” lois added.
clark’s ears went pink. “th-that chair was already broken.”
“mmhmm,” jimmy hummed, grinning wide. “you really oughta work on your poker face, big guy. one more crush-fit like that and perry’s gonna make you pay for office supplies.”
clark tried to hide his ruined pen under a stack of papers, glaring at jimmy. “i don’t know what you’re talking about.”
lois smirked, eyes flicking back to you laughing politely at tyler. “sure you don’t.”
and tyler was practically glued to your side. every time you shifted in your chair, he leaned in closer; every time you moved across the bullpen, he trailed after you like a lost puppy. polite smiles kept slipping onto your face, but inside you were counting the seconds until you could escape for lunch with clark.
the worst part? clark hadn’t gotten even a minute alone with you all morning—or in every other. twice he’d tried to check in, only for tyler to appear with a question about headlines. once he’d hovered by your desk with that little folded note he sometimes left you, but tyler had wedged himself in, asking about fonts of all things.
“wow, you type so fast,” tyler said now, propping an elbow on your desk and leaning much too close while you scrolled through your article. “what’s your secret?”
you kept your smile tight. “practice.”
from across the room, you could feel clark’s stare. the weight of it landed square on tyler’s shoulder blades, as if clark were trying to bore holes straight through him. lois, watching like it was her afternoon entertainment, propped her chin in her hand.
“he’s about to crack,” she murmured to jimmy.
jimmy grinned, stage-whispering, “two bucks says the pen doesn’t survive.”
but instead of breaking something this time, clark pushed back from his desk. his chair squeaked across the floor as he stood, straightened his tie with a decisive tug, and strode across the bullpen with that long, farm-boy determination of his.
“sweeth—” he said your name, clearing his throat. voice polite but firmer than usual, a steady note beneath it. “didn’t we have plans?”
your head whipped up, blinking at him. “oh, right—”
but tyler jumped in, oblivious. “plans? oh, hey, I was just about to invite her to lunch, too—”
clark leaned down, resting a broad hand on the back of your chair. his frame blocked half your desk, his shoulders filling your vision. his smile was polite, but his jaw was tight, and his eyes—those impossible blue eyes—were locked on tyler with barely veiled warning.
“no need,” clark said smoothly. “she already has a lunch date.”
“with who?” tyler blinked, still not getting it.
clark didn’t hesitate. “me.”
the bullpen went dead quiet. you swore you heard jimmy wheeze trying to stifle his laughter. lois pressed her lips together, eyes sparkling with barely hidden glee.
tyler froze, face heating scarlet. “o-oh. right. cool. um. have fun, then.” he shuffled backwards, nearly tripping on the leg of a chair before disappearing in a hurry.
lois clapped once, slow and mocking. “smooth, farm boy. real smooth.”
jimmy leaned back in his chair, grinning like a menace. “hey, at least he didn’t break the coffee pot this time.”
you buried your face in your hand, torn between laughter and embarrassment. clark, meanwhile, looked sheepish as he helped you gather your notes. “couldn’t wait five more minutes, huh?” you teased under your breath.
his ears burned pink, but his smile was soft and unashamed. “five more minutes was too long.”
tyler hadn’t left your side all morning. he hovered over your desk, tossing you half-baked leads, leaning far too close when he talked, and laughing just a little too loud. it was getting impossible. so impossible that even penny was bothered. every time she wanted to ask you something, he was there.
you tried to focus on your notes, tried to give polite answers, but across the bullpen, clark hadn’t touched his papers in twenty minutes, eyes flicking up every time tyler bent too far into your space.
when tyler called you “partner” for the third time, like you were already a team, clark finally pushed back his chair with a scrape.
“actually,” clark said, his voice calm but firm, “she already has a partner.”
tyler froze. “what? i thought—”
clark crossed the floor in a few strides, standing behind your chair. one hand braced gently on the backrest, the other resting on the desk near your notebook, like a quiet shield. his gaze lowered to yours, soft and protective. “we’ve been working together for a while now,” he said, voice just above a murmur. “long enough that… it’s more than work.”
your heart fluttered as his fingers brushed yours—just enough to make it clear that he wasn’t letting anyone else near you.
tyler’s ears burned red. “i… uh… need to—archives!” he muttered, and vanished without another word.
and then—
“kent.” and, in the same stern voice, he called your name.
both of you turned. perry stood in the doorway, arms crossed, scowl in place but eyes twinkling faintly.
clark’s hand slipped from the back of your chair. you followed him into perry’s office, feeling slightly like schoolkids caught passing notes.
“so,” perry said, leaning on his desk, voice gruff but warm, “how long has this been going on?”
you stared at each other. the cogs in your head turning, trying to make up anything before clark. you know he can’t lie to save his life.
“seven months, sir,” clark admitted and you sighed, kicking yourself mentally. “we didn’t want it to—”
“i don’t care if it’s seven months or seven years. if you two are dating, married, or planning a honeymoon on mars.” perry cut in, though a tiny smile tugged at his mouth. “as long as you still bring me stories that sell papers, it’s none of my business. just… don’t start smooching in front of the interns again, you hear me?”
you exhaled in relief. clark blinked, looking half-stunned, half-proud.
perry waved a hand. “now get outta here before i start regretting being soft. but—don’t think i didn’t notice. you two? cute as hell.”
back in the bullpen, clark’s hand brushed yours again—quick, subtle, protective, and warm—and you couldn’t help but grin.
back at your desk, the newsroom buzzed around you, but clark never really left your side. not hovering, exactly—just… there. his chair slid a little closer than necessary whenever you shifted, his elbow brushing yours when he reached for a pen, fingers lingering just a moment too long. small, innocent things—except tyler noticed them all.
the intern tried, bless him, but every time he leaned in with a question, clark was already there. standing, leaning, reaching, smiling at you in that soft, “don’t-you-dare-look-anywhere-else” way. the boy stammered, took a step back, then muttered something about checking the archives and vanished for a solid ten minutes.
lois and jimmy, of course, had front-row seats.
“ohhh, he’s really claiming her now,” lois whispered, eyes gleaming.
jimmy snorted. “look at that hand. the way it just… hovers. classic kent.”
you bit back a laugh, glancing at clark. his cheeks were faintly pink, but the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth was all confidence—protective confidence.
and every time tyler tried to step in, clark would casually adjust something near you, brush your papers back into place, or drop a pen into your hand with that same soft, lingering touch, like a quiet reminder: she’s mine.
even though it was subtle, tyler got the message loud and clear. by the end of the month, he was shuffling around the bullpen, giving you polite nods from a safe distance, occasionally glancing at clark like he’d accidentally walked into a fortress he couldn’t breach.
you leaned over, whispering to clark, “you don’t have to be so obvious.”
he smirked, brushing a stray lock of hair from your shoulder. “i think it’s working.”
“it’s terrifying,” you whispered back, laughing.
“good,” he said softly, eyes warm, gaze never leaving yours. “i like terrifying them a little.” clark teased before tilting your chin up to press your lips together.
and just like that, the days slipped by—clark quietly, unshakably protective, tyler kept in check, and you couldn’t stop smiling at the subtle, constant attention that made even the busiest newsroom feel like your own little bubble.
