a/n: will anyone believe me if I say I capped myself at 2k for this???????? no proofreading bc I wrote this in between putting people in casts and splints and I'm tired and I have to do it all again for 12 hours tomorrow.
Pairing: Congressman Barnes x PR Manager!Reader
Warnings: SMUT!!! there's unprotected p in v, cream pie, fingering, fingers in mouth, a ripped Aritzia skirt (RIP), office sex, yearning?
Word count: 6.5k
Summary: You're the newly hired PR manager for Congressman James Buchanan Barnes, and you need to make sure New Yorkers keep voting correctly.
bucky 4 change masterlist
It started as every other day. 4am matcha latte. Yoga right after. A steming hot shower, a good blowdry to your hair, and some makeup, and you were sitting on the grey burgundy couch outside of his office with your legs crossed at the ankle promptly at 7:57am for an 8am meeting.
The office was buzzing with the low hum of early morning caffeine and political dread when you walked in. Some people looking at important documents, others just working through useless bureaucracy to make politicians look busy.
His secretary, sweet 64 year old Lizbeth, called your name and you followed her powdery rose perfume clad self into the open door of his office.
Him and his tall, muscular build got up from where he sat behind the desk, shirt sleeves rolled up just enough to prove you weren't dead inside, and soon he was standing in front of you, arm extended to shake your hand.
"James Barnes." He shook your hand with a smile. “You’re the new PR advisor?”
You smiled back at him with equal measure. "I'm your new PR manager." That earned a small twitch of his mouth. Not quite a smirk, but something close. You could see it already—he thought he could handle you. “We need to talk about your social media presence."
"I don't… have it." He looked at you like it was obvious, and to his credit, it was. He rounded his desk and sat down, "Please." He motioned for you to sit down on the chair across from him.
"I know. You’re a technically forty-something war hero withfacial hair and a jawline that could get teenagers to vote. If you’re not using social media, you’re robbing your base and the internet thirst machine.”
He blinked. “The what?”
You reached into your bag, pulled out your iPad, and slid it across his desk. The screen was already queued up to a compilation video someone made on TikTok titled Congressman Barnes being unintentionally hot for 2 minutes straight.
He stared at it. “This is real?”
“1.2 million views in three days.” You clicked your tongue.
“You’re fucking with me. What the hell is this?”
“Your constituency,” you say, coolly. “They’re starving. And you’re sitting on a goldmine, well, I am. Metaphorically. Also you just said ‘fuck’ in front of your PR strategist. Twice.”
He looked up at you, brow raised. “Are you offended?”
“God, no. But now that we got that out of the way. This campaign’s a fucking mess. And I’m here to fix it.”
This time, he did smirk. Something simmering just beneath the surface, in the way his gaze lingered a second too long. In the way his fingers tapped once, then twice, on the edge of his desk.
"Okay. What do I need to do?"
“Step one,” you say, opening your folder and flashing him a smile that makes his stomach flip in a way it hadn't since 1942, “is that you do exactly what I say.” You pause. Tilt your head. “And step two is that you start wearing tighter suits.”
By 4:30pm on the same day you’ve already reorganized half his calendar, fired one junior staffer, and rewritten three of his talking points by the time he walks back into his office. "Is it weird that I feel like I'm about to be interrogated?"
"No, because I'm about to interogate you."
Lights on. Mic clipped. You took your seat across from him, clipboard in hand. “Alright,” you say, voice crisp. “Hot mic, camera rolling, you’ve got sixty seconds. Voter in Queens asks what your top three priorities are. Go.”
You grilled him about his answers over and over again, until what came out of his mouth on a whim in a moment of pressure was the perfect amount of rehearsed honesty.
He laughed once under his breath. “You always this hard on your clients?”
"Only the elderly ones." You smirked and typed a couple notes, missing the blush that freckled his face.
It took you three days to completely revamp his campaign. All that was left standing from his previous days before his entire campaign was run straight out of your head was Lizbeth and her desk.
At the tailor's later that week, he's trying numerous amounts of colors, fabrics, and fits for the new leg of his campaign. A revamp of wardrobe. You need suits that fit you and don't look like they're from a random clothes chest from 1934. Was what you said to him.
“I don’t want to be another empty suit with a good smile,” and something in your chest lurches. Just a little.
"That's why we're sending all your suits to be taken in a little. So the suits are borderline obscenely filled." You looked up from your — his — color coded planner and sent Lizbeth a text about a meeting that would be difficult to reschedule, so you'd deal with it.
You were met by him pulling the curtain open and showing you the deep navy, single-breasted, peak lapel suit, snug through the shoulders and chest. He buttoned the shirt at the collar—no tie yet—and the way he rolled his wrists as he adjusted the cuffs was unfair.
"That one. That’s the one.”
He looks at you, then the mirror. “Why? What’s different?”
“The fit,” you say. “It’s clean. Intentional." You shift the planner and phone out of your lap and stand up, walking over to stand in front of him close enough he could really take in the fact that you were wearing 5 inch heels and he still towered over you. With plenty of room.
Your hands went up to the collar of the crisp shirt, adjusting it and then undoing the top two buttons. "Brings out your eyes too." It only got you a chuckle in response, his eyes never leaving yours, even though you avoided his gaze.
It was almost too quiet. He raised a brow. “That’s the look we’re going for?”
“You’re running for office, not sainthood.”
The tailor fussed with the hem. Bucky’s eyes were still on you. “And you’re the expert on that?” he asks, low.
“I’m the expert on you,” you murmur without looking up. “It’s literally my job.”
You stand in silence for another beat or two, and you go back to sitting on the couch once the tailor clears his throat. Bucky going back to the dressing room to try a beige-cream colored set.
You walk to his side of the desk and drop a stack of printed talking points beside his hand. “Review those before your segment with CBS tomorrow. They’ll want something polished but personal. I highlighted the lines you can say without sounding like a robot.”
You leaned on the desk, almost sitting on it but not quite,, just enough to make your skirt ride up when you crossed your legs. Not that they were bare, the sheer stockings you had on helped heep the outfit Congress worthy, and also deplorably inappropriate if you ask Bucky's hippocampus.
It had been three months since your first day, and each day he seemed to find something worthy to file away to the back of his mind, only to be retreived in the case of an unbearable hard on.
Which, thanks to you, had been pretty frequent.
You didn’t notice the way his pen froze halfway through a signature—well, not openly. You didn’t acknowledge the way his eyes flicked briefly to your legs and then resolutely back to the paper in front of him, jaw tight.
Or maybe you did. Because you leaned in slightly, perfectly manicured fingers tapping once beside his coffee cup, a gesture that brought your perfume that much closer to his senses. That clean, sweet scent he’d come to associate with damage control, late nights, and the exact moment his professionalism started fraying at the edges.
He cleared his throat. “These all got your approval?”
Your smile was all innocent. “Of course. Unless you want to go rogue and talk about your love for standardized testing and tax loopholes again.”
“Mm,” he hummed, not looking at you. “That went well.”
“I still have emails about it.”
He looked up at that, and for a second—just a second—his expression flickered into something wicked.
“Anything interesting?” he asked, tone smooth. “Fan mail? Death threats? Thirst comments?”
You gave him a teasing smile. "Look at you, catching up on the slang." You met his gaze without flinching. “Mostly people saying your PR manager should get a raise.”
“Oh?” he said, sitting back in his chair a little too casually, thighs spreading just a fraction wider beneath the desk. “Well, you’ll have to take that up with the Congressman. Heard he's a real hard ass with that sort of stuff.”
“I am,” you replied coolly, with a tilt of your head. “And I’d like to argue that your rise in approval ratings coincides directly with your improved tailoring and your willingness to be bossed around by a woman a foot and some change shorter than you.”
He let out a low chuckle, fingers curling slightly around the pen still resting on his papers. “If I recall correctly, you said I liked being told what to do.”
You smiled. “And?”
He leaned forward, elbows braced on the desk now, voice dropping just enough to make your spine straighten. “And maybe I do.”
There it was again—that thing in his tone that made your skin prickle with heat and your brain scatter like the click of your heels on Capitol marble.
You swallowed. Straightened your planner. “Good. Then you’ll review the talking points, wear the Tom Ford, and not flirt with the CBS anchor.”
“She flirts with me.”
“And you let her.” You pointed.
He smirked. “Jealous?”
You stood then, slowly, making sure your skirt didn’t slip too low again just to annoy him. "Just don't make my hard work be in vain."
You had four alarms set. Your color-coded planner was blocked in ten-minute increments. You were on track for a flawless CBS segment at 9:45 AM. And he was still in bed at 7:58, like some trust fund Golden Retriever who had never been yelled at by a producer with an earpiece.
You set the coffees down on the kitchen island with a loud clack and stormed down the hall.
You creaked the door open, and there he was. Shirtless.Hair a disaster. Sheets tangled around one leg. Eyes barely cracked open as the morning sun filtered in behind you.
“Mm,” he groaned, voice all gravel and velvet. “Why are you in my apartment?”
You held up the suit like it was a weapon. “Because you’re scheduled to be on national television in less than two hours and you overslept.”
His brow furrowed like the concept of time was still theoretical. You flipped on the bedroom lights. “Up. Now. You need to shower. Move.”
He groaned again but swung his legs over the side of the bed, body stretching in a way that should be illegal. Broad chest, scarred shoulder, boxers hanging dangerously low. A flex of abs as he stood and scratched the back of his neck, stumbling toward the bathroom like an exhausted soldier crawling into the trenches.
"Of course the one day you oversleep is one of the biggest ones for your campaign, TV-wise." You mumbled under your breath.
You tried not to look. You really did.
But Jesus. He was built like a 1940s fever dream and you’d be a liar if you said you didn’t take a brief moment to admire the curve of his back as he disappeared into the steam.
You cleared your throat. Focused.
You set the suit on the hook outside the bathroom and paced through his apartment while he showered, texting Lizbeth and CBS’s segment producer and checking his pre-approved talking points one more time.
By the time he walked out, new boxers hugging low around his hips, hair dripping, and looking every bit like a Greek tragedy with a congressional badge, you nearly dropped your phone. He started dressing like you don’t happen to be standing ten feet away actively fighting for your composure. You glance—once—and then turn so fast you nearly drop his damn planner.
He notices, of course. “You okay over there?” he asks, smug.
“Perfectly fine,” you manage, thrusting the tie toward him without making eye contact. “Power red was too aggressive. Navy’s better.”
He’s buttoning the shirt now, collar still undone, watching you through the mirror like he knows. You step forward, close the distance between you and tug the tie into place yourself. Your fingers brush his throat. His breath catches—and yours does too, just for a beat too long.
“You’re mic’d in thirty,” you murmur, focusing on the knot. “Don’t forget the lines I highlighted. Say them like you mean them.”
He’s quiet. Watching you. “I always mean it when you write it.”
You ignore the flip in your stomach. Step back. Compose yourself. "Car's waiting."
The black SUV is quiet. Just the soft shuffle of notes in your lap and the occasional rustle of his suit as he adjusts in the seat beside you.
It’s rare—this quiet. No buzzing phones, no barking campaign aides, no back-to-back meetings or Capitol chaos. Just the two of you, the city sliding past the tinted windows, and the low pulse of pre-interview nerves that you feel more from him than yourself.
You glance up and catch it—his left hand fidgeting slightly with the hem of his cuff. His knee bouncing once. His jaw set tighter than usual.
“You’re nervous,” you say quietly, almost amused. “You’ve given floor speeches about gun control with less tension.”
He huffs a breath, eyes still on the window. “Yeah, well… CBS has a bigger audience than C-SPAN. And you’re not glaring at me from the floor during this one.”
You smile, despite yourself. “I glare because it makes you focus.”
“I know,” he says, softer now. “That’s the problem.”
You shift toward him. “You’ll be fine,” you murmur, reaching over before you even think twice. Your fingers smooth along his lapel, adjusting the line of the fabric near his shoulder. Then you glance at his hair—of course it’s stubborn. You reach again, gently smoothing down a stray wave at his temple, brushing your knuckles against his cheekbone in the process.
He just watches you like he’s trying to memorize you. Like the whole city could vanish outside the car and he wouldn’t notice. There’s a quiet awe in it. Something unspoken and molten beneath the surface, something so raw it catches you off guard.
“You take such good care of me.”
Your throat tightens. “It’s my job.” And god if you don't want to take it back and say that it's more than that. It's that spending your Thursday nights barefoot in his office running points with nothing but dumplings in your stomach isn't your favorite part of the week. It's that when you don't have a text from him with a stupid question on a Saturday morning before your kickboxing class, you're a little disappointed.
He smiles—soft, a little crooked. “I know."
You sit back before you can say anything you shouldn’t. Before you can reach for his hand or smooth the collar again just to touch him. The planner is back in your lap. Your eyes are back on the city.
By 9:43 AM, he’s camera-ready—flawless in the navy suit, sharp jaw clean-shaven, talking points memorized. His voice is smooth, his smile just sincere enough to go viral, and you’re standing off-camera with your arms crossed, pretending your pulse isn’t still racing.
You try not to react. You’re the PR manager. You’re here to observe, manage optics, control spin. Not melt like a popsicle in July because your client looks like a Calvin Klein wet dream in a navy suit you personally picked, with a voice like the best old fashioned in the five boroughs and eyes that only ever seem to look at you.
The anchor asks a question about community reinvestment.
Bucky answers it flawlessly.
You didn’t write that exact phrasing—he’s improvising—but his tone is warm and real, and his shoulders stay relaxed. He even cracks a smile when the anchor jokes about how rare it is to have a Congressman “under forty, with charm, a military record, and a jawline that could cut glass.”
Bucky just chuckles. Then looks at you. Dead-on. Like you’re his anchor point.
And says, smoothly, “I have a great team. Especially my PR manager. She keeps me in line.”
The anchor raises a brow. “Sounds like she’s got her hands full.”
“Oh, you have no idea.” he replied, low and smiling in that way only you know means something else entirely.
The day goes by like a flash. A string of meetings, press calls, policy reviews, and constituent damage control that started at dawn and hadn’t let up since.
You blinked and it was 3:45pm, and you were standing by Bucky in a cabinet meeting. Staring at your iPad, jotting down notes from the meeting, good talking points you'd thought of so you wouldn't forget later, trying to pay attention to the twelve people in the room blabbing about clean water and rent control policies.
Not knowing the entire time, Bucky's head wasn't in the meeting. In fact, if it wasn’t physically attached to his body by that thick, sin-worthy neck, it would’ve rolled right off his shoulders, under the table, and right between your legs.
And frankly? That’s exactly where he wanted it.
It was almost mean, really. You had the same black skirt from a couple of days prior, the one that gave him all sorts of nasty, depraved thoughts about what was kept between your thighs. Oasis. Ecstasy, if you ask him.
The one that had haunted him two nights ago when he’d jerked off in the shower, cursing your name because he came embarrassingly fast just thinking about the way the back of it hugged your ass when you bent slightly over his desk to grab your bag before leaving, wishing you were bent over the dark mahogany for other purposes.
He had one hand in his pocket, not because it was casual, but because he was hard. Embarrassingly so. Right there in a room with twelve other people. Twelve people talking about housing vouchers and public utilities, and all he could think about was how your mouth looked this morning while sipping that iced matcha latte.
You glanced over once, briefly, to ask if he wanted to weigh in on the zoning clause. He managed a grunt and a nod. You didn’t even seem to notice his pupils were blown.
And maybe it was for the best—because if you did, he’d have to admit he’d been mentally tongue-deep in the idea of you squeezing your thighs shut while you scolded him about platform messaging. Again.
“…as long as the funds are reallocated under the clause in section three—” In one ear, out the other.
Absolutely nothing was sticking in Bucky’s head. The room might as well have been filled with static. Numbers. Acronyms. Someone saying the word "pilot program" for the fourth time. He blinked, jaw tight, nodding absently at a graph someone passed around.
Sitting in the middle of this boring-ass cabinet meeting, trying to focus on someone explaining municipal wastewater infrastructure, all he could think about was bending you over the desk in front of him. Right there.
Of hiking that cruel little black skirt up over your ass, tugging your pantyhose down just enough, and putting his mouth exactly where he knew you’d taste like power and honey and something ruinous.
In his mind, you were breathless—trying to stay composed, gripping the edge of the table, your notes forgotten, your toes curling inside those pointed heels. He knew you wouldn't be patient, and he wouldn't have the heart to deny you anything, let alone his mouth.
“—so we’d just need your signature by end of day,” someone said at the front of the room, and he was brought back to reality by the same pointed shoes nidging his calf to elicit a response from him.
The limo ride back is dimly lit, city lights slinking past the tinted windows in gold and blue streaks as the day winds down into something warmer, lazier.
You’re curled slightly toward him on the plush leather seat, legs tucked under you as you scroll through the comments on his Instagram—specifically, the snippet you posted of the CBS moment that has social media in a chokehold.
You snort. “Oh my god,” you mumble through a grin. “Someone said they want to be arrested by you in that suit.”
Bucky hums lowly beside you, tie loosened, top button undone, one arm thrown across the back of the seat like he’s not fully aware how casual and hot he looks doing it. Or maybe he is. Maybe that’s the problem.
“Arrested, huh?” He raises an eyebrow, voice a little hoarse from the hours of talking. “Should I be concerned? Is that how low public trust has dropped?”
You glance up at him. “No, trust me—these comments are not about policy. Unless ‘publicly rearranging my insides’ is part of your campaign platform now.” Your eyes perk up, and you turn to scribble something down on your planner. "Oh! Idea!"
He laughs—really laughs—and lets his head fall back against the seat. “Jesus.”
You scroll a bit more, still grinning. “I mean, not to inflate your ego further, but someone just called you ‘Congress Zaddy.’ With three fire emojis.”
He glances sideways at you, lips curled. “You okay over there?”
“Huh?”
“You’re glowing. Laughing. I didn’t know getting thirst comments on my behalf was your love language.”
You roll your eyes, cheeks warm. “Relax.”
But he doesn’t let it go. He watches you a beat longer, eyes a little softer now, a little slower. Then, with a smirk that makes your stomach flip, he adds “You know, next time, you can just tell me you like the way the suit fits. Don’t need to crowdsource it.”
You blink. "Since when do you know what crowdsourcing even is?"
He’s teasing. You know he’s teasing.
But the way he says it—low, almost indulgent, like he already knows exactly what that suit does to you and he’s been waiting for you to admit it—makes it hit lower than your spine and higher than your heart.
You recover fast, eyes narrowing as you sit up and slip keys out of your bag.
“Goodnight, Congressman,” you say, with a wry smile, just as the car pulls to a stop in front of your building.
He lifts his brows like he’s not done, not even close, but just nods. “Sleep tight, boss.”
It was well past midnight when the call came in.
You were half-asleep on the couch in his office, legs folded under you, Bucky’s jacket around your shoulders because the central heating in the building shut off hours ago. He was pacing behind his desk, still in that damn navy suit that fit too well, tie long discarded and top buttons undone. You blinked blearily at him when his phone rang—watched his eyes flicker, voice go quiet. And then:
“…You’re kidding.” A beat of silence. A grin. And a breathless, “Holy shit.” And then he was looking at you like you were the reason the world kept turning. “They folded,” he said, voice breaking on a laugh. “They’re backing the amendment. We’ve got the votes.”
You jolted upright, barely processing what he said before you were on your feet, grinning, eyes wide. “Wait—wait, really?!”
He crossed the room and grabbed you. Lifted you off your feet in a single motion, arms around your waist as you squealed and threw yours around his neck. He spun you once before setting you down gently, palms warm on your sides, that big, disbelieving grin still on his face.
You were breathless. “Do you know what this means?”
“Yeah,” he murmured, not moving, eyes fixed on your mouth. “Means you’re a fucking genius.”
His mouth crashes into yours, desperate and unrestrained, lips parting yours instantly. His nose bumps yours, his breath mixes with yours, and the taste—God, the taste of him—is whiskey and heat and every pent-up moment you’ve shared in dim hallways and elevators and late-night strategy sessions.
His hands are on both sides of your face, making it impossible to move away even if you wanted to.
Your hands grip his shirt, bunching the fabric at his collar as you gasp softly into his mouth.
He groans—quiet, low, involuntary—and it goes straight through you. His thumbs stroke your jaw, tilting your face just enough that he can kiss you deeper, harder, like he’s trying to solidify you into memory by tact alone.
It's messy and it's perfect and he kisses you like he's ready for it to be the last time he sees you, right before you slap him across the face, march out of his office and have a courier deliver a sexual assault lawsuit straight onto the desk he dreamed of bending you over.
And when he finally rips himself away with a strangled inhale, his forehead stays pressed against yours. “Oh my God—” he whispered. “I’m—shit, I’m so sorry. I didn’t— I shouldn’t have—fuck, I didn’t mean to just—”
You didn’t let him finish. You grabbed his face with both hands and yanked him back in. Open-mouthed. Hungry. Your teeth catch his bottom lip, his hands fly straight to your waist, dragging you against him like he’s been starving for this—for you—and can finally eat.
He stumbles forward, or maybe you pull him back, and the edge of his desk catches the back of your thighs. You barely notice. You’re too busy swallowing the sound he makes when your tongue slides against his.
"This is so unprofessional." You murmured against his lips, without any real intention of stopping. He exhales something helpless—almost a curse—and then he’s kissing you again, deeper than before, hands dipping low to grip your thighs and perch you up to sit on the desk — dark cool mahogany under your skin — standing flush against you between your knees.
His tongue sweeps into your mouth, slow at first, then needier when you sigh into him. His hand splays against your back, dragging your body up into his, and you feel how much he wants you—all of you—pressed against your hip.
You break the kiss just long enough to gasp a breath, but he follows, mouth tracing your jaw, your cheek, your neck where your carotid is pulsing his name in a morse code only he understood.
Your hands dropped from where they were tugging his tie loose to his belt, clinking the leather and gold hardware away from where you wanted to be sitting pretty on. As you unzipped his pants and let your hand find him under the confines of his boxers, Bucky groaned into your neck and nipped — hard — as you stroke the heavy, hot length of him.
His hips jolted forward with a strangled sound, something low and deep that escapes against your neck like he's ashamed of being so available at your mercy. His forehead pressed into your shoulder as you stroke him—slow, twisting just enough at the tip to make him groan quietly into your skin.
He was panting against your neck, every breath warmer than the last, and your hand hasn’t stopped moving. His cock is heavy in your palm, thick and pulsing with each stroke, and the way he ruts forward—controlled, precise—makes your knees tighten around his hips.
"Fuck," he mutters into your skin, hand sliding up your inner thigh beneath your skirt, bunching the fabric at your waist until the cool air hits your panties, as do his fingers, feeling the wet spot on the soft lace. “You’re soaked.”
You nodded, breathless. "Been soaked since you almost missed CBS."
He looked dazed for a moment, pulling away to look at your face for any signs you were fucking with him before actually fucking him. "That was months ago."
"Mmmhmm." While biting your lip was all you let out as your free hand pulled him to kiss you again — rougher now, teeth and tongue and months of unsaid things—and you barely register the shuffle of paper and pens falling to the floor as he sweeps your planner and notes off the desk behind you.
He makes quick work of your blouse, the silk falling behind you and turning to nothing around your wrists, sheer skill undoing the clasp of your white lace balconette bra. You brushed both fabrics away from you arms, finding yourself completely topless and helpless to the assault of his beard on your supple skin.
He hooked a finger on the sopping wet center of your panties while he kissed down your chest, and pulled the sticky lace away from you like it was offending him, and once it was just hanging off of the tip of your black heels, his calloused flesh fingers found the wetness he spent months thinking about.
Your leg wrapped around his hip while he teased your slit, spreading your wetness until you whined against him, and gave him a gentle squeeze just in case he didn't hear you.
“I think about this every fucking time I walk into this office,” he muttered against your skin, nipping at it, breath ragged. “Every time you argue with me in front of staff. Every time you call me ‘Congressman’ like you don’t know how close I am to bending you over this goddamn desk.”
His fingers dipped into you like he was curling them to scoop cake batter like a mischevious kid who caught the mixing bowl unattended. Your cunt clenched around his digits like you never wanted to let him go — and to be honest, you didn't.
You gasped into his mouth, letting yourself bite his chin and nip at his jaw. "Please, Bucky."
"Mmmm, is that my name, sweetheart?" Some other time you'd scold him for being so smug. Maybe during a time where he misused a slang, or dressed up too out of time.
Not when he stuck another finger inside of you to the hilt, and rubbed the rough surface of his palm against your clit. "Please, Congressman Barnes — fuck— I—"
The amount of noise coming from your mouth was humiliating enough without the obscenely loud squelch of his fingers pumping in and out of your pussy, fast enough to get you to the edge but slow enough to just keep you there.
“What do you need, sweetheart?”
You bite down on his chin again, try to grind down against his hand, unable to think straight, unable to pretend anymore. “You. I need— just— please—”
He curses softly under his breath, the kind of sound you’ve only ever heard when he’s frustrated at budget cuts or broken bills—but this isn’t frustration. This is hunger. This is agony. This was months of tension snapping like overstretched wire.
“You say please like that,” he whispers, “and I’ll give you anything.” He pushed your legs further apart, to the degree the crepe fabric of your skirt couldn't stretch to, so it gave away and ripped down the side seam about an inch.
He kissed you quiet, laying you down on the dark wood, cool against the hot skin of your back, and left a trail of kisses and nips down your neck and chest, the closer he got to where it would be covered, the harder the bit and sucked.
Bucky stood up again and took his cock out of his pants — finally — and it was everything you imagined it would be. Beautifully thick, long enough to hit every spot possible inside of you, leaking, and needy.
He fists himself a couple of times, dragging the blunt head of him over your slit and coating himself in your wetness before leaning over you. He didn't kiss you when he pushed in, instead he held himself just above you, hovering, swallowing the moan you let out right into his mouth.
Your foot urged him closer, even though he was trying with all his might to savor it. He could savor all the other times, you thought. Right now you needed him so deep inside of you, you thought you were gonna break in half.
And by the grace of everything that is holy, he did.
Bucky held both of your legs apart, straightening his spine to pump his cock in and out of your begging cunt. He didn't know where to look, his eyes danced between the pure esctasy on your face and the depraved image of your pussy swallowing him over and over again.
“All those nights we stayed late…” he murmured, eyes dropping to where you were spread open for him, voice raw and low. “All those times you bent over this desk and had no fucking clue I was two seconds away from bending you over it for real.”
You whined and he swore he'd make you let out that sound a thousand more times before the year was done. The drag of him, the pressure, the stretch—it was too much and still not enough.
Another broken sound spills from you, louder this time, and his jaw tightens, something primal and possessive flaring across his face.
“Okay,” he murmurs, “okay, I got you.”
He takes his hand from your hip and brings two fingers to your mouth — the same fingers he’d had inside you earlier, the ones that had you gasping and begging and shaking for him. They hover just over your lips, glistening, and your breath stutters.
He leans close, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “Open.”
The second your lips part, he slides them past your tongue, giving you something to cling to, something to bite down on, something to muffle the sounds he knows you can’t hold back. His fingers rest heavy on your tongue, and his eyes flutter for a moment — ruined by the sight of you sucking them in without hesitation.
“That’s it…” he groans, hips stuttering once. “That’s my girl.”
You suck harder, desperate, and he swears under his breath, the sound half‑praise, half‑plea. Your hand slips up his chest and bunches in his shirt again as he drops his forehead to yours, breath shaking.
“Good,” he whispers, voice barely holding together. “Be good for me — stay quiet — just like that.”
Your moan vibrates around his fingers, and his eyes roll shut, breath leaving him in one long, broken exhale.
“Look at you,” he whispered, almost reverent now. “Fucking heaven. So tight. So wet. You’re everything I ever wanted and so much filthier than I deserve.”
You clenched around him, and he groaned.
“Next time,” he mutters against your lips, “I’ll take my time. I’ll get on my knees for you. I’ll eat that perfect little pussy until you’re crying and thanking me.” Another thrust.
You’re clenching around him now, back arching up to meet each thrust, and he feels it — he feels it — your whole body begging to let go.
“Gonna come for me?” he whispers, dragging his fingers down your body to find your clit, slick with need. He circles it expertly, groaning when you twitch beneath him. “You’re so close. I can feel it.”
His voice drops even lower, wrecked and filthy.
“Come on, sweetheart. Be good. Let me feel you. Let me feel this tight little cunt strangle my cock.”
Your hands are in his hair before you even realize it, yanking him down into a kiss so filthy, so unrestrained, that he nearly loses it right there.
“You gonna soak my cock like the good fucking girl you are?”
And when you do — when your whole body tenses and he feels you squeeze around him like a vice — he groans so loud it echoes, fucking you through it with deep, desperate strokes. You don’t even register the words that leave your mouth, some combination of yes and Bucky and please, but he does. He hears every single one and kisses them off your lips like a treasures only he gets to keep.
“Come inside me, Bucky.” His breath hitches. You smile, slow and wicked, voice thick with heat. “I want it. Want to feel you filling me up. Want to walk out of here knowing I’m leaking you all the way down my thighs.”
“Fuck,” he hisses, forehead pressing against yours, eyes squeezing shut. He growls low in his chest, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he thrusts once, twice, and then buries himself as deep as you’ll let him, spilling into you with a long, hoarse moan against your neck. “Fuck—fuck, fuck,” he gasps, every muscle in his body trembling as he pulses inside you, rutting into your wet heat like he never wants to stop.
You hold him there, both hands tangled in his hair, whispering praise into his skin. You stay wrapped around him, skin still slick, breaths still uneven, your skirt torn up your thigh, and his shirt clinging to his back where your nails raked him raw.
“You okay?” he murmured.
“Yeah. I just… forgot what day it was. Year. Name. That sort of thing.” You chuckled, sending vibrations to where he was softening inside of you.
“I, uh…” He clears his throat, suddenly sheepish, like he didn’t just rail you into his desk and promise to give you anything when you begged. “I was gonna wait, but…” He scratches the back of his neck, still flushed, hair askew. “There’s the Speaker’s Gala next Friday. Press’ll be there. Colleagues. Donors.”
"I'm aware. I make your calendar." You raise a brow. “Bucky Barnes trying to impress the suits?”
He grins. “I don’t give a shit about the suits. I want you there.” Your breath catches. He continues, softer this time. “Not as my staffer. Not as the person who saved my campaign’s ass. Just… as you. With me. If you want.”
You blink at him, your heart lurching in the way it has a thousand times these past few months— only now, there's nothing keeping it from showing on your face.
“Are you asking me on a date, Congressman?”
He tilts his head, that crooked smile back on his face. “I just had sex with you on government property. I think we’re past subtext.”
You snort, smacking his chest lightly. “Fine. I’ll go.”
“And?”
a/n: dribbles are open for this! and social media posts????????
✦Clark Masterlist - Read on aO3! - Main Masterlist✦
✦summary: all week, clark's been acting strange. he won't go near you, won't look at you, and by friday he's vanished all together. everyone seems to know why but you. but nothing's going to keep you away from him. not for that long.✦
✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, secret identity shenanigans, emotional angst, fluff, sex pollen, sex pollen level smut, a little plot for the porn (male masturbation, manhandling, clark's feral, emotional sex, dry humping, blowjobs and facefucking, dumbification, dirty talk, sensitive reader, finger sucking, clark gets nasty, body worship, crazy overstimulation, sex pollen stamnia, fingering, oral f!recieving, begging, praise kink, monster dick clark, he fucks like a machine, breeding kink), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦
✦wc: 10.5k✦
✦author's note: request and voted fic! i got. real horny with it✦
Clark has been acting strange all week.
He got into work on Monday with a red face, and you didn’t question it. He runs everywhere. It’s a little ridiculous he doesn’t have a red face more.
“Want some water?” You’d tapped on his desk, and he’d let out a sharp breath.
“Yeah.” His voice had been strangely rough, his glasses almost slipping off his nose. “Water- Water would be nice. Thank you.
He hadn’t looked you in the eyes.
Not when you brought the water to his desk, or for the rest of the day. When you got in the next morning, he was already at his desk, but didn’t do more than mumble a good morning. His shoulders had squared and rippled, when you’d walked past.
You’d gone to the bathroom, and made sure you didn’t reek of something rancid. Maybe there was a sulfur leak in your apartment and you’d just gotten used to it. Maybe you’d stepped in dog poop on the train and no one’s told you.
“Do I smell bad?” You’d asked Jimmy, and he’d looked at you like your were crazy.
“I don’t know? I don’t go around smelling people like a- A serial killer-“
“I’m not asking you to smell me like a serial killer.” You’d hissed, leaning down to block him in his chair. “I’m asking you to smell me like a friend, Lois smells me all the time-“
Jimmy had eyed you suspiciously. “If this is some weird mating dance, I’m not interested-‘
“It’s not a mating dance!”
“It seems like a mating dance-“
“It’s not-“ You’d shaken your head. “Just stop being a fucking pussy and smell me!”
Someone had cleared their throat behind you. Jimmy’s eyes had widened, fixed right over your shoulder, and you’d known who it was before you turned.
You know that low, controlled sound. You know the rush that his attention brings, and the shiver up your spine whenever he’s close. You close your eyes tight, breathing through your nose, and turn to Clark with a plastered smile.
“Hi, Clark! No one was trying to smell anyone-“
You cut yourself off when you see him. You almost forget how to speak.
He’s a wreck. Curly hair is plastered to his brow, his white button up is more sweat stains than dry spots, and there’s a vein pushing out of his neck that seems painful. His glasses keep trying to slip off his nose, and he’s shifting like even just standing is uncomfortable. He’s pale and red all at once, ruddy in his face and paper white in his fists. The flush deepens near his neck, and returns to his arms right before the cut off of his rolled up sleeves. He’s breathing through his mouth.
His eyes are black, and gleaming.
You scramble away from Jimmy, yanking yourself back from going to press a hand to Clark’s brow.
Clark takes a jagged, stumbling step back.
You look back to Jimmy, and he gives you a tight shake of his head. He doesn’t know what to do either. You’ve never seen Clark with so much as a paper cut, and now it looks like he needs a hospital.
“Hey, buddy.” Jimmy tries, voice soft. Like he’s speaking to a feral animal. “You feeling alright?”
Clark jerks his head to Jimmy, and his nostrils flare. Like he’d almost forgotten Jimmy was there.
Jimmy leans back. And you know he doesn’t mean to. It’s Clark. The softest, sweetest heart you know, shoved into a giant’s body.
But like this, Clark doesn’t look like a man. He looks like something that’s crawled out of your darkest wet dream. Like something that should be in the sky, fighting Superman. With the black eyes and sudden, jagged movements, he looks like an animal.
He looks dangerous.
And he doesn’t respond right away. Clark stares at Jimmy, breathing heavily, then squeezes his eyes shut. You and Jimmy exchange another worried look. If he’s been corrupted by something—in this world, you can’t rule anything out—and he attacks, you’re not sure you can fight him off. Emotionally or physically. Clark’s huge, he’d crush Jimmy with one fist and you’d be nothing but an annoying fly to be swatted across the room.
But whatever’s going on with Clark, he seems to drag it under control. He opens his eyes, and a thin ring of blue is back.
“I’m fine.” He rasps, staring at Jimmy. “Just- Didn’t sleep well. You know.”
Jimmy blinks. “No, uh- I don’t-“
Clark looks at you.
And you could swear the blue flickers, when your eyes meet.
“You smell good.” He mutters.
He turns like something’s dragging him, and walks away. You and Jimmy stand there for about three more minutes—in total baffled silence—before Jimmy’s mouth falls open.
“What the fuck is up with him?”
Nobody seems to be sure.
On Tuesday, he seems a little better. He eats lunch with you. Wheels his chair next to yours like usual while he’s editing, because you always catch typos he misses, and he’s a good reporter but not the best writer.
“You can’t use that word here.” You tap his laptop screen. He frowns.
“There are no other words I could use, though-“
“Corrupt?”
“But- Oh.” He sighs, hitting backspace. “See? That’s why you’re the expert.”
You laugh softly, and Clark gives you his usual small, almost shy smile.
“How’s your piece coming?” He asks kindly—always kindly—and you groan.
“Dogshit.”
“I’m sure it’s not that bad-“
“My main source backed out.” You grumble. “Like a little baby bitch. I can’t make this level of accusations again LuthorCorp without a source, it’s asking for a defamation lawsuit, and after the last one Perry would kill me-“
“But you won the last one.” Clark frowns, and you give him a pointed look.
“Yeah. Because I had a source.”
“Ah. Right.” He pauses, pushing his glasses slowly up his nose.
You watch the movement as subtly as possible. You love it when he does that. It’s a tiny, adorable quirk that makes you want to rip his hand away and push them up yourself.
“What if I said I have a source for you?” He asks softly, and you perk up.
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.” He grins. “You know, I’d think you’d have faith in me, I wouldn’t lie about that-“
“Shut up, I’m excited-“
“I can tell.” He boops your nose, and you stick your tongue out at him.
He does that all the time. He says you get a bunny nose when you’re excited about something, and then you hit him because nothing about you is bunny like.
Sometimes you say that, and he chuckles.
You have no idea. He mutters under his breath.
And sometimes he hits your nose, and your breath hitches because he touched you.
Today you keep it under control.
It’s Clark that freezes. Coughs and goes red, wheeling his chair an inch back. You frown at him, ready to ask what’s wrong, but he shakes his head like he’s already denying you an answer.
“It’s- Uh- Superman.”
You blink. “What?”
“Superman can be your source.” He grunts, shifting in his chair. “I can ask him to. For you.”
“I- You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
“I can find someone else-“
“No, I- I’ve got it.”
He stares at you. You stare back, heart swelling with something sweeter than you usually allow it to feel.
You’re used to your feelings for Clark. You try not to think about them, especially not in his presence. There’s no amount of love you’d risk your friendship for.
But he makes that rule hard to follow sometimes. When he starts being stupidly perfect.
You smile at him, wide and unrestrained. “Thank you.”
He nods—tight and jerked—stares for a long, long moment. He shoots to his feet.
“I have to go to the bathroom!” He announces to the whole bullpen.
Clark sprints away. Jimmy gives you a questioning look, and you shake your head.
He doesn’t come back for an hour. When he does, his face is wholly red again.
He’s back to not looking you in the eyes. Back to looking so sick you’re worried he might be going feral.
And you have no idea what to do.
Lois gets back on Wednesday, and the first thing she says to you is What’s up with Smallville? Perry corners you at your desk to ask if you’ve got any idea what’s Clark’s been up to that might be doing this to him. Steve loudly jokes that everyone should be placing bets on when Clark passes out. Cat keeps trying to bring him tea—a thin guise so she can suggest home remedies to whatever super hangover he has—and Clark always drinks it with shaking hands.
He listens to all her suggestions without interrupting, but whenever Jimmy suggests Urgent Care—you’ve given up on trying to get him to the ER—Clark grunts a sound like no and won’t hear another word.
You’re getting really worried. Everyone gets sick, but Clark’s always talking about his very good immune system.
And nobody gets sick like this. Legally, Perry should be making him go home, but no one can get close enough to confirm a fever, and it’s somehow not effecting his work performance.
“Clark.” You sit on the edge of his desk, keeping your voice soft. “You need to go to a doctor.”
His whole body locks up. His fingers freeze on his keyboard, and he bows his head like he’s in prayer.
“Clark-“
“Please.” He says, so quiet you almost miss it. “Back up.”
You blink. “Back up?”
He nods, and there’s a sting in your heart.
He hasn’t asked anyone else to back up.
But you slide off his desk, and take a single step back. Another, when he doesn’t relax from the first.
You clear your throat, tucking your hands behind your back. Clark lets out a heavy, ragged exhale, and looks up.
He still won’t fully meet your gaze. His darkened eyes are fixed right over your head, and you try not to let it hurt more than it already does.
“Clark.” You’ve lost a little bit of nerve. You try not to let him hear it. “The doctor-“
“I don’t need a doctor.” He tells the ceiling, and you sigh.
“You’re sick-“
“No. I’m not.”
“Dude, I- I can feel your fever from here.” The heat, rolling off his body like he’s an active star. “At least just go so they can say you’re not sick.”
He doesn’t answer. You almost take a step forward, before reeling yourself back. He doesn’t want you too close.
“Please?” You say. “It would make all of us feel better.”
That makes him look at you. For just a split second, barely a heartbeat, but long enough.
His eyes go wholly back. He wheels his chair backwards, like there’s something toxic coming off of you that he’s trying to avoid.
And it hurts. It hurts so much your face burns with shame, and your stomach does a sick clench of pain.
It’s never fun, for the man you’ve quietly been in love with for years, to look at you like you’re proximity might kill him.
The only thing that stops you from crying is worry for him.
But that’s not enough to hold back the crack in your voice.
“Clark- Please-“
He shakes his head, jaw clenching. You swallow, and take another step back.
“Oh- Okay. Sorry.”
You turn on your heels. Behind you, Clark rasps your name.
And you look back. You can’t help it.
But all he does is stare at you.
So you walk away.
Clark doesn’t come in on Thursday. Jimmy goes to check on him, but won’t report back on what he finds. When he gets back to the office, his face is bloodless and eyes wider than an owl.
“Is he-“
“He’s not sick.” Jimmy stares at you like you’re a ghost. “He’s- Um- We should- Give him space.”
You frown. “But-“
“Lots of space.” Jimmy mutters under his breath, already walking away. “And maybe me some bleach. Freakin’- Gross-“
Lois comes up next to you, watching Jimmy head into the bathroom. You’re wringing your hands, lips pressed in a painfully tight line, and Lois grabs your wrists.
“Don’t go visit him.”
You shoot her a glare. “I wasn’t going to-“
“Yes, you were.” She raises her brows. “Don’t.”
“But-“
“Don’t.”
“What if he needs something-“
“I texted his cousin. She knows what to do.”
“To…” You narrow your eyes, pulling your hands from Lois’ grip. “You know what’s going on with him, don’t you.”
Lois shrugs. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“Lois-“
“He’s going to be fine.” She says, giving you a firm look. “Don’t check on him.”
She walks away without another word.
On Friday, you go to Clark’s apartment.
You don’t go inside. Lois’ voice keeps ringing in your head, and while you’re more than willing to disobey her, it’s the way she’d said it.
Don’t.
His door is right there.
Lois’ voice fills the gaps in city noise. Pointed and direct. Almost hopeless. Like she knew you wouldn’t listen.
Don’t.
You made him soup, because you’re pathetic. He’d left his jacket at work on Wednesday, and you’d brought it home to clean up before returning it. You’d had a whole painted daydream made of pastels and watercolor, where you’d give Clark his jacket, he’d swoon with how romantic that is, and then kiss you.
But like real watercolor, the colors bleed and run. Blur together. It’s too fuzzy a picture to be reality.
You stand at his door. You don’t remember walking inside the building.
Don’t.
But you want to.
Don’t.
He could need someone, what if his cousin was busy, what if he’s been waiting for you to check on him-
Don’t.
Lois’ voice isn’t louder than your heartbeat. But it’s level. And your pulse is erratic in your throat and fingers.
And you keep seeing Clark’s face. Keep thinking of how he’d been stiffer than concrete, until you’d moved away.
He wouldn’t want to see you right now. He’d made that clear.
You put the soup and jacket on the doorstep, and ring the doorbell.
Before Clark can open it, you walk away.
On Saturday, you hole up in your apartment and work.
It’s a distraction. Anything not to think of Clark. To think of how sick he is, how he might be in pain, how he might need help but not from you. How lately he can’t stand to be in the same room as you, and apparently everyone gets to know what’s going on with him except you-
You groan, tipping your head back against the couch.
This is exactly what you’re trying not to think about.
It’s hard, though. Impossibly hard. If only because you open your email, and see a bunch of messages from Clark. You open Teams, and his messages are pinned at the top. You send Jimmy something, and have to include Clark as a contributor. Lois sends you something, and Clark is CC’d.
He’s everywhere. You can’t stop checking your phone for a message, even if Jimmy says he’s basically out of commission. Can’t really do anything right now, he’d grumbled, making a sour face. Too… Sick.
He’d said it weird, but everything about this is weird.
Usually you’d talk to Clark about that.
You miss him.
Goddamnit.
Apparently, you’re very bad at not thinking about Clark.
You busy yourself. Clean the apartment, do the laundry, waste the day, don’t think about Clark.
He gave you this pencil. Let you borrow this sweater, that you’ve been hoarding like a dragon with gold since. Sent you the cheesecake in the back of your fridge as a birthday present, and it had been horrible but you’d kept it anyway.
You lie flat on the floor, and fail not to think about Clark a little more. Maybe you should text him. Just so he knows you’re thinking of him. Or text Lois and ask for his cousin’s number, so you can ask her if he’s okay. Or let the anxiety fully overpower Lois’ voice in your head, and go visit him.
You’re about to go with that last option, when there’s a bang on your window. You shoot up with wide eyes, expecting a massive bird.
Instead you find Superman, standing in your fire escape. It’s hard to see him, in the shadows of dusk. His head is strangely bowed, his shoulders slumped in a way you’ve never seen on TV. Maybe he’s just more casual, when he’s doing home visits.
But why is he home visiting you.
Usually that would freak you out. This week, it’s just another fucking thing.
You open the window slowly, poking your head outside.
“Hello?”
Superman looks up at you, and your mouth goes dry.
He doesn’t look well.
Red and pale face, messed up hair, heaving chest. Clenched fists, sweat-slicken face, blown out eyes with barely a ring of blue-
Like Clark.
Just like Clark.
And it’s not just the ragged appearance. It’s something deeper. It’s the way he’s staring at you like he’s worried you’re going to attack him. Like he’s restraining himself from moving, like you’re a repellant and he wants to fly away.
Or something else.
Without the glasses, there’s something else.
He looks desperate. The shadows on his face look longer. Maybe it’s just the sickness overtaking him, but he looks hungry. Desperate and starved. There’s an openness on his face that wasn’t there before. And he’s not looking at you like he’s afraid or skittish.
He’s looking at you like he’s a predator. Like you’re prey.
“Clark?”
“I’m here for your interview-“
You speak at the same time. Your voice is a breath. Superman—Clark? —pushes out his words like they hurt, and falters in a second.
He stumbles back like he’s been hit. You scramble forward to catch him, your body not worried about anything but Clark is going to fall.
Your hand wraps around his wrist. He makes a deep, rumbling sound from his chest. Almost a growl.
His eyes flutter. He moans out your name, trying to tug weakly away.
“Clark- Wait-“
Superman’s body goes slack, and he collapses in your arms.
At one in the morning on Sunday, too much is happening.
You put Clark—Superman? —in your bed. Took his temperature and dropped the thermometer in shock.
He’s burning at 150 degrees.
He should be dead. You’re not even sure how you touched him without burning up.
The thermometer clatters to the ground, and Clark shifts in his sleep. Groans out a garbled, pained noise that sounds like your name.
You swallow, hugging yourself tight. It’s hard not to reach out to him, but you don’t feel like you should. He hadn’t wanted you near him, and you’ve already crossed a few lines by putting him in your bed.
Then he moans, ripping the thin sheets off his body.
That time it was definitely your name.
Superman moaned your name.
You back out of the room slowly, with an embarrassing amount of effort. You can’t rip your eyes away from him.
Clark in your bed, calling for you and rolling around like a rutting beast. Whatever’s tormenting him isn’t enough to wake him up, but it’s enough to drive you out of your mind. You bite the inside of your cheek, and force yourself to close the door. It solves the looking at him problem.
It does nothing for hearing him.
And he’s loud. You’re lucky the apartments have thick walls between units, or you’d get a noise complaint. Clark is almost howling from his room, and whenever you give into temptation and go to check on him, he’s somehow managed to rip another item of clothing off in his sleep.
It starts with his top. The symbol on his chest gets torn to shreds, revealing a broad, flushed chest. He’s got a small happy trail. Muscles that you want to trace, and boobs that might be bigger than yours.
Your eyes wander to his abdomen. There’s a happy trail that leads down, down, down, and-
Oh.
That’s… Big.
You slam the door closed, and run back to the kitchen. Cold water does nothing against the heat building in your core. You splash it on your face and drink two glasses, but you might as well be downing sea salt. You’re thirstier than when you started.
The image seems to be burned behind your eyes. Clark’s bulge. Superman’s bulge.
You still haven’t really dealt with that.
Clark is Superman. Superman is Clark. You’re sure. You’ve spent the last hour on the couch, sketching out timelines and checking your work. The random disappearances in the middle of the day. How you’ve never seen him get drunk. The fact that he’s built like a Greek god but never works out, and whenever Jimmy asks him for a routine he just says grow up on a farm.
And be a Kryptonian. That would probably also help.
To be sure—you have to be positive, before Superman wakes up and you start throwing around accusations—you cut out a pair of paper glasses and build up all your courage.
When you step into your room, it hits you like a tidal wave. The smell of sex, sweat and cum and something deeper. Clark’s ripped off his tights, and apparently the outside boxers are the only thing he’d been using for cover.
You don’t let yourself look. Your traitorous eyes try to, but you refuse to glance past his thick thighs. You won’t violate him like that. You’re here for confirmation, and nothing else.
Carefully, you wipe the sticky hair from Clark’s brow. His whole body shudders under your light touch, and he bucks up to chase your fingers when you pull away. A deep whine escapes from his lips, and you swallow.
Dear lord.
Very, very slowly, you put the paper glasses on his nose. He wrinkles it, trying to buck them off, but you plant a hand on his chest.
You don’t mean to. You move before you can think.
Clark relaxes. His body goes slack like putty, save for a single hand flying to your wrist, holding tight.
He could break you. He’s Superman. You’ve watched—albeit from afar—him pick up whole buildings. But his touch on you is light, as if you’re glass. His jaw relaxes. A purr rumbles under your hand, and his thumb starts to trace small circles.
You stare at him, every logical thought in your head evaporating in the heat of the room. The glasses confirmed exactly what you wanted them to.
Clark is Superman,
And somehow, that’s the least important thing that’s happening right now.
His brow is unfurrowed, his mouth hanging open as he pants out your name.
“Clark?” You breathe, and he moans.
This time, he calls your name. His eyes flutter in his sleep, and his hand starts to move. Dragging yours down his chest. Over his pecs, his ribs, to his abdomen and-
You yank away with a squeak, when you realize. Clark whines, immediately seizing up the second you pull away.
He looks like he’s in pain. Your touch helped, and he’d liked it, and-
No. You can’t. You won’t. You’re stronger than that, and he’s not in his right mind. Whatever’s effecting him—whatever’s strong enough to effect Superman—can’t be letting him think clearly. It would be one thing if he asked. Another to touch him in his sleep, just because he’d moved your hand there. He probably doesn’t even know it’s you.
But he’d been calling your name. He’s calling your name right now.
The steam of the room is getting to your head. You stumble away, squeezing your eyes shut when Clark keens in pain.
If you weren’t such a masochist, you’d put in earbuds to avoid hearing him. But he keeps calling your name.
And you’re not that strong at all.
Clark wakes up at four in the morning. You haven’t even managed to close your eyes.
You’re so dazed from the everything that you don’t hear him coming. You just realize the moans have stopped, and hear a quiet mumble of your name.
When you turn, Clark’s standing in the door of the living room.
He’s naked.
Fully naked.
And this time, you’re too tired stop your eyes from wandering.
He’s glorious. It’s not just the muscle and size of him, it’s all Clark. How his flexing arms are the ones that catch up when you stumble over yourself, and his legs are the ones that bring you coffee in the morning. Those fisted hands hold your hair back when you’re sick and boop your nose. His tense knees bump against yours under almost every table, and his chest keeps you tucked safely away from the world whenever you have a meltdown.
But it’s also the muscle and size of him. He looks wound up, so tight you’re worried he may snap. The coat of sweat on his skin is begging to be licked off, and his thick arms could wrap around your neck and you wouldn’t complain.
And his cock.
You don’t know how he manages to walk around with that thing. It’s bigger than the toys you’ve seen in shops, bigger than the ones in porn that have to be fake, bigger than the lewdest drawings on the internet. Thick and veiny, hard and standing proud. His balls are heavy, and you kind of want to put them in your mouth. Every inch of him is slicked with cum, and you realize you just licked your lips far too late.
Clark clears his throat. You look up with burning cheeks and wide eyes.
“Clark, I- I’m so sorry-“
“Don’t.” He mutters, shifting on his feet. You can see his arms jerking wildly. Like he’s actively stopping them from moving. “I’m the one that should be sorry, I- I shouldn’t have come here.”
He winces at his own word choice, rubbing a stain of release on his thigh. He’d been humping the sheets all night. You’d heard the squeak of the mattress, and-
“I broke your bed.” He mumbles, not meeting your gaze. “I’ll fix it when- This passes.”
“Clark-“
“Stop saying it like that.”
You blink. Clark takes a deep breath, and looks up at you.
His eyes are shining. You can’t tell if it’s with frustration, or sadness, or that something else.
“Please don’t say my name. Like that, or- At all.” His throat bobs. “It makes everything very hard.”
Your lips twitch, and you glance back to his dick. He sighs.
“Yeah. I know. There are only so many words I can use, you know.”
You laugh softly, despite everything.
Clark grabs the doorframe with a groan. It cracks under his hands, and he won’t stop staring at you,.
“Don’t laugh either.”
“I- I’m sorry-“
“And don’t apologize, or- Or look at me-“
He cuts himself off with a long moan, and you fix your gaze very pointedly on the ceiling.
“Cla-“ You cut yourself off. “Should I call you Superman?”
“No- That- That’s weird-“
“Kal-El?”
“Worse.” He grunts, and you sigh.
“I need to be able to call you something.”
“It would be better if you didn’t talk, actually.”
That makes you glare at him. He winces, face scrunching in apology.
“No, not- Not like that-“
“Not like what-“
“It’s just, when you talk-“
“It’s hard?” You snap, and you don’t know why you’re so mad all of a sudden. Maybe it’s how you haven’t slept in almost two days.
It’s probably that. But also, something needs to break. If Clark just Supermans away after everything, you’re going to kill him.
“Please don’t sat that word.” Clark mumbles, and you shake your head.
“No. I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen and give me answers.”
“I- I don’t think that’s a good idea-“
“You don’t get to decide what’s a good idea right now, boner-boy.”
He wrinkles his nose. “That… Doesn’t seem fair.”
“Maybe, but you know what’s also not fair?” You cross your arms over your chest, raising your chin. “Ignoring your best friend for a week, then showing up with a fever and- And magic boner then telling her to shut up!”
“I didn’t tell you to shut up-“
“You said I shouldn’t talk.”
“I said it would be better if you didn’t talk.” He mumbles, staring at the floor. “That’s not the same-“
“Shut up.”
“Sorry.”
The wall cracks further. You wrinkle your nose.
“You better fix the wall, Kent.”
“I will. ‘M sorry-“
“Stop apologizing to me, and just- Just tell me what’s wrong!”
You take a step forward. Clark shrinks back, but doesn’t move away.
“You’re not allowed to- To be mad.” He glances up under his lashes, and lets out another labored sigh. “Be more mad.”
That’s not promising, but your worry outweighs your anger. You nod, watching him expectantly. He closes his eyes, like he can’t bear to see your reaction.
“You know kryptonite?”
You blink. “Of course I know kryptonite, I don’t live under a rock.”
“Right. Well,” he coughs. “There’s, uh- This thing. Called red kryptonite. And it does… Weird things. To me. And other Kryptonians. Which is just Kara- My cousin- I think you’d like her-“
“Clark.”
“Sorry- Sorry.” He groans. You can trace a bead of sweat down his brow.
“Red kryptonite?” You prompt, softer than before.
His cock twitches. You try not think about it.
“I got exposed to some.” He mumbles. “Last weekend. And it never does the same thing twice, but usually it’s something like… Shrinking me. Flipping my personality, or giving me an extra power or curse or- Once it turned me into a fish-“
“It what-“
“I got better.” He says quickly. “But it’s usually immediate. This wasn’t. I- I even hoped I got lucky. That it wasn’t going to effect me at all. Then I got into the office on Monday, and saw you, and…”
He trails off, words hanging in the air.
Saw you.
You activated the red kryptonite in him.
There’s a very reasonable guess to what it’s doing. You still need to hear him say it, before you do something about it.
“What happened when you saw me?” You breathe, and he gives you a pleading look.
Makes a loose gesture to his erection. You bite back a smile. He’s going to need talking into this.
“Clark.” You say gently, and he groans.
“Please don’t make me say it.”
You give him a look, and he turns even redder than before. Stares down at his feet like a scolded child. It’s almost adorable, while also remaining impossibly hot.
“It’s very… Demanding.” He mumbles. “About certain things that I would like to do. And it is very particular about who I need to do it with. But- I can’t ask that of you-“
“Can’t you?”
Your question is quiet. You know he’ll hear you.
And Clark’s head snaps up, his jaw hanging open. He shakes his head.
“You- You can’t mean that-“
“Why not?”
You take a small step forward. Clark grabs the other side of the door way, tracking your every movement with that predatory focus.
“I’d like to.” You murmur. He grunts.
“You don’t have to pity me-“
“It’s not pity.”
He chuckles dryly. “Feels like it. I know you don’t- That’s not how you feel-“
“Who says it’s not how I feel?”
You fix him with a challenging glare, and Clark swallows.
“Uhh… Steve?”
You scoff. “Steve’s been trying to ask me out for three years, of course he’d tell you that.”
Clark shakes his head, his whole body trembling.
You’ve stopped a foot away. More than close enough for him to grab you. But he has to make that final step himself.
“I- I could hurt you.” He says, giving you that puppy look.
You shrug. “I like being hurt a little.”
His cock jumps. He doubles over, and you’re a little worried he’s going to break your whole apartment if he doesn’t move soon.
“Clark.” You whisper, taking a small step forward. “I trust you. And I- I want this. I want you.”
“No, you-“
“Don’t tell me what I feel.”
He shuts his mouth, still giving you that desperate look. You want to soothe him, but you just hold your ground.
“Will it hurt you?” You ask. “If you ignore it?”
He nods, tight and controlled.
You steel yourself, even as your nerves start to buzz.
Not with fear.
With excitement.
“Then use me.” You whisper, holding his darkened gaze. “Please.”
And Clark snaps.
He kisses you so hard you stumble. Knees buckle as Clark’s fevered lips overtake yours, and your startled squeal only lets him kiss you deeper. Your fingers fly out for something to hold onto, and find only the air.
Clark picks you up like you’re made of feathers, and there’s something steady about there being no ground at all.
If you were in your right mind, you’d think something about free fall and having no worry if there’s nowhere for impact. If you can only be caught.
But you’re not in your right mind. Because Clark isn’t kissing you like a kiss.
He’s inhaling you, and it’s already lighting you on fire.
There’s a thick arm wrapped around your waist, the other holding your back. A hand wrapped around your neck, angling him to kiss as deeply as he wants. His tongue presses over yours as he walks himself backwards.
You push back, and he moans. It’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.
Clark’s back hits the wall, his legs sinking slightly as you make out. Nothing in his hold on you falters. If anything, it tightens. Like even with your open mouth moving against each other, there’s no way he can get close enough.
You respond to everything he gives you. Clark squeezes the back of your neck lightly, and you hum happily, smiling into the kiss. He grunts, when you thread your fingers through his hair.
He sinks further down, kisses turning short and desperate. He sucks on your lower lip, nipping softly and hauling you further up his body. Your nails dig into his scalp, and he drops his arm on your waist to grab your ass.
“Clark-“
“So- Sorry-“ He groans, and you can feel him rolling beneath you, trying to get himself back under control. “You’re just- So pretty, and- And soft, and-“
He drops fully to the floor, and you start slightly when he rips his mouth from yours, before burying his face in your neck.
“Smell so good.” He almost whines. “So good.”
You take a deep breath, trying to collect yourself. You’re the sane one right now. The Clark beneath you is still your Clark, but he’s also a man who’s in a fugue state of lust. Not the mild, usually level headed, noble little dork you love.
Clark whines, when you run your nails gently against the back of his neck. He’s almost shaking, kissing and sucking on your neck like he can’t even help himself. You don’t think he can.
It makes sense why he was avoiding you. This would’ve been quite the HR violation in the copy room.
“It’s okay.” You coo, kissing the side of his head. “You can take what you need, Clark, I told you I want it-“
“You- You can’t-“
“Don’t tell me what I get to want-“
“No, you can’t.” He detaches himself from your neck, going completely still. His grip on your hips is bruising.
You don’t mind at all.
“I’ll hurt you.” He mutters, and you sigh.
“We talked about this-“
“I’ll hurt you.” He squeezes his eyes shut, over pouncing each word, and you stare at him for a moment.
You shift in his lap, trying to peer closer, and he hisses. His fingers dig into your sides, and his head slowly bows against your chest. Licking and kissing softly, as if he can’t physically stand to be that far from you.
And you feel it.
The literal alien cock pressing against your ass. You’d think was a stick if you didn’t know better.
Oh.
Right.
Clark must hear the way your heartbeat picks up, and put it together. He sighs, warm breath tickling over your breasts.
“I need to get you ready.”
You swallow. “I- I’m pretty-“ You can feel your heartbeat in your cunt, and there’s the familiar tingling ache that’s always a good sign. “I feel pretty ready-“
Clark grunts. “Not ready enough.”
“How do you know-“
“Nose.”
“Nose- Oh.” You flush. He can smell your arousal. “But that’s a good thing, right-“
“Not enough.”
He seems reduced to short worded grunts. You’re not faring much better, but there’s also a massive man below you that can’t stop sucking around your tits.
“Can you… Always smell me?” You manage to ask, and he hums.
That’s his agreement hum.
Your jaw drops.
“Are you serious-“
“I can’t help it.”
“You- You could wear nose plugs-“
“No. Like it too much.”
Your thighs squeeze, those deep words shooting straight to your cunt, and Clark groans.
“You- Can’t move-“
“You should move-“
“Won’t hurt you.” He grunts, like he’s making a vow. “Just- Need a second.”
You let out a slow breath, looking up to the ceiling. The idea comes faster than you want to admit, but you’re desperate.
“You were better when you woke up.” You say causally, stroking your fingers through his hair. “Lucid.”
Clark grunts. You smile at the air.
“You came in bed last night.”
He stiffens slightly. “Wet dream.”
“About who?”
You feel the ghost of a smile, against your chest. “You’re very… Mouthy. Like this.”
And you’ve been told that before. But something about the way Clark says it—like something he’s measuring, a note he’s jotting down for a piece—makes you feel all glowy and stupid inside.
“Wow. Mouthy.” You tease. “Not very polite, Clark.”
“There are other words I could’ve used for it.” He mumbles, and you giggle.
“Yeah? Like what?”
Clark draws slowly back, staring at you with those drunken, dark eyes.
“A brat.”
A lot of the fight leaves you, very fast. No ones ever looked at you like that. Like you’re something they want to chew on, carefully and deeply. To leave a mark while keeping every part of you both ruined and intact.
And his voice. Lower than you’ve ever heard, and hoarse with desire. You were already a lot woman. This just seals your fate.
“I should jerk you off.” You blurt.
Clark makes a sound like a wounded animal, and drops his brow against yours.
“You- You can’t just say that-“
“But it will help.” You give him your best, pouty and pleading expression. “You’ll feel better enough to- To get me ready.” You try to keep your voice level, as if you’re not thrilled just to say the words. “And then… More.”
Clark doesn’t answer. He just closes his eyes again, breathing heavily through his mouth. You wait, but you start to get a little worried he didn’t hear.
“Can you please look at me-“
“No.” He grinds out, and you frown. Reach up to cup his face.
“Clark-“
“Don’t ask me to move.” His words are tight. Pushed through his teeth.
You feel his cocks twitch, near your ass.
“Clark.” You make your voice soft. Traced the tensed line of his jaw, the bridge of his nose. He whimpers at the touch, and you smile. “It’s okay.”
“I- I need to get you-“
“I’m going to touch you, okay?”
His throat bobs, but he nods. Short and tight.
Enough.
You scoot back, and Clark lowers his legs at a painfully slow pace you accommodate you. Your ass drags over his dick, and he hisses, rutting up.
“Sorry-“
“It’s okay.” You say quickly, smiling slightly. “Good preview.”
He looks at you in befuddled exasperation. Opens his mouth like he’s going to snap something else out about you being a brat.
You settle against his knees, and don’t give him a chance.
The sound Clark makes when you wrap your hand around his cock is holy. Deep and guttural, like a man already wrecked. You let him sit in your loose grip for a second, watching his chest heave and eyes flutter.
He’s throbbing under your touch. You can barely hold him with the single hand.
You add a second, and squeeze at the base.
Clark makes another one of those beautiful noises, and grabs your wrist.
“Be- Be careful.”
You pause. “Does it not feel-“
“Feels good.” He grunts. “Too good. Gonna- Oh, fuck-“
Your mouth falls open. Clark swore.
You started to stroke his cock, and he swore.
And more. You need more. More of his swears, his sounds, his sweat running down his bare chest and the way he’s moaning your name. You need to see him fall apart, because once he’s back in control—once this massive dildo of a dick is inside you—you’re not going to be able to focus on such things.
You set a quick pace. Skin slapping and hot, unraveling him quickly.
Clark calls your name, his hands slamming back to grab at the walls. You watch in awe as his fingers sink into the wood, creating a slot for him to hold onto.
“Like- Like that- Shit.” He tosses his head back, moaning loud and lewd. “Yeah, baby, oh- Right there-“
He cuts himself off, rolling his hips up into your touch. You squeeze him again, switching your hands so one can thumb at the weeping slit on his head. Pre-cum leaks all over your fingers, and your lean further down.
You want to taste him.
When you slide off his legs—keeping your hands working—Clark says your name in a rough, garbled warning.
“What- What are you-“
You wrap your lips around the tip of him, flicking your tongue where your thumb had been. Clark makes a sound you’ve never heard from anyone before, his free hand flying to grab your neck.
The grip is tight, but painless. You’re in no danger of pain.
There’s something thrilling about how he’s gripping you so possessively. Like a life line.
You drop your hand to play with his balls. Clark bucks up into your mouth, bumping against the back of your throat.
“Sorry- Fucking Christ-“
You moan happily around him, drooling lips pushing down further. Your tongue swirls around him, and you suck, bobbing your head up and down. Trying to make him lose control again.
It doesn’t take long. Not when you reach up to his hand on your neck, and push it down.
“Are you-“
You moan, and Clark gives in.
He fucks your face like it’s a toy. Cock slipping in and out from between your lips, your spit staining with his pre-cum. Tears prick at your eyes, but you dig your nails into his thighs, refusing to be pulled off.
“Look- Look at you- Holy- Holy shit-“
Clark moans your name, and you let your hand drift back his balls. He slams up at the featherlight touch, and the tears start to flow.
“You’re so good at this sweetheart, so- So good-“ Clark moans, hips thrusting to meet every bob of your head. “Your mouth is so warm, and- And soft-“
You suckle lightly, the praise going right to your core. Your ass is sticking in the air, grinding up into nothing as he uses you.
And you can feel how close he is. His balls are tightening under your fingers, his cock twitching and pulsing, and-
Clark yanks you off suddenly, with one last cry of your name. Before you can protest or try to go back down, you see why.
He’s cumming.
And he’s not stopping.
Thick white ropes spurt from his dick, and you stare, transfixed. Every time you think he must be done, more comes. When the geyser finally stops, there’s not a place it hasn’t hit.
Clark lets out a shaky breath. You look up to him with wide eyes. He stares back, licking his lips.
“If you-“
“Do that inside me.”
You speak at the same time again. Clark blinks, leaning back slightly, and you flush.
“I- I mean- Clark-“
He starts to drag you forward, and your words turn into a squeak. Your being manhandled right into his lap, your ass still sticking up in the air and your hands just barely bracing you on the ground.
“I heard you.” He drawls, running a hand over the curve of your ass. “Pretty well, actually.”
His hand drags over your exposed core, and you whimper.
“Don’t- Don’t tease-“
“Trust me.” He mutters darkly. “I won’t.”
Two thick fingers toy at your clit, and you push yourself higher into the air. He knows exactly how to flick that little button, to drive you insane.
“Oh- Oh god-“
“If I had time.” Clark murmurs, almost to himself. “I’d keep you here for the rest of the day. Watch the sweetness drip down your legs,” his fingers trace over your sensitive inner thighs. “Let you make a mess in my lap. Wait ‘till you’re begging for it, then touch you,” one, broad finger rubs around your fluttering hole. “Nice and slow, until you feel what I’m dealin’ with right now.”
You moan, gaping at the floor. Clark gets a southern, Kanas drawl when he’s horny. It makes you clench around nothing, and he chuckles.
“Oh, you like that.” He presses the tip of his finger in, and you whine. “Yeah, I know. Know better than anyone, sweetheart.”
He pushes his hips slightly, forcing your ass higher into the air. There’s a rip, and cold air hits your core, making you shiver. His cock, still so hard, bumps against your tummy right as his finger slips into your cunt.
“Claaaark.” You moan, squeezing tight around him.
You’re rubbing backwards, trying to take him deeper. He splays one hand on your lower back, keeping you from getting what you want while still letting you chase the false hope.
He crooks his finger slightly, twisting it in a circle. You go limp, wrapping your arms around his thigh and pressing your cheek down for support.
“That’s it.” He mutters. “Just seeing what you need, it’s alright. Shit,” he lets out a sharp breath, cock twitching against you. “You’re so wet. I- I gotta-“
You hear it start to possess him, and you can’t be surprised when he pulls the finger out. Still, you twist to whine at him, maybe try to drag his hand back. He’s strong, but you’re horny, and that’s sure to help you somehow.
Instead, you trip on your own hands and collapse back down at the sight before you.
Clark cleaning your arousal off his fingers, eyes closed and face slack like he’s having a fine meal.
You can’t look away from it. It’s the hottest, most lewd thing you’ve ever seen. You whimper when he goes back into for more, dragging two fingers between your pussy lips before returning them to his mouth. He does it over, and over, and over again. Sometimes giving a little attention to your clit, like he’s milking you for more.
You’re a flushed, wiggling mess when he finally pulls his fingers away with a pop. His eyes are wholly black, gleaming with lust and fixed on yours.
There’s nothing left of you but putty, when Clark slowly starts to rub your pussy again. You’re a smeared, wrecked mess that can’t stop grinding back onto his hand, and he smiles down at you.
It’s predatory, but still soft. Exactly what you expect from him now. Pulling out the hair that got stuck in your mouth, all while slowly fingering your cunt.
“Wanted to do that for so long.” He coos, pushing two fingers deep inside of you. “You’d come into the office and start gettin’ wet right next me, I was slobbering like a dog. Thought I’d lose my mind, every single day.”
His fingers go deeper, bumping against your g-spot. You keen, making an almost unearthly sound from your chest. Clark notices it. Of course he does.
“There she is.” He mutters, starting to pump his fingers fast. Pushing against the gummy point over and over, until you’re drooling.
Your head has never been this empty during sex before. But you’ve also never been put over Clark’s lap like this. Fingered into oblivion while his dick pushes into your stomach. You start to push up—he needs attention—but Clark pushes you back down with a grunt.
“Need to be inside you.” He grunts. “Need you ready.”
Well. If he needs it.
It’s easy to relax into the feeling. Clark starting to thumb at your clit, rubbing it back and forth like a bop-it toy. Between that and his fingers, Clark is almost pulling pleasure out of you like a machine. It doesn’t take long for you to feel like you’re close. Your face his presses into his bare leg, your pussy fully pried open and well touched. You can feel the familiar tension inside you, about to burst.
“Clark- Clark-“ You don’t have the strength to twist, so you scratch at his leg. “I- I’m gonna-“
“I know.” He mutters, and fuck, you don’t doubt him. “Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart. Cum on my hand, let me feel it.”
It only takes a few more moments. Release hits you quickly, and lasts long. Thighs shaking and loud moans escaping your lips as Clark keeps playing with you.
You’re dazed from the orgasm. It’s the strongest you’ve ever felt, and your cunt is still pulsing when Clark’s fingers pull away.
“You’re ready.” He mutters, and you agree with a garbled sound.
He laughs, leaning down to kiss the back of your head as you quiver. He pulls you up into his lap, and you can feel his cock sliding between your folds. Both of your are so slick with everything there’s no friction. The tension in Clark tells you he’s close to going feral again, but his voice is still sweet.
“Just- Stay like that, beautiful.” He kisses the side of your head. “And if it- If anything starts to feel bad, tell me. I’ll stop.”
And you believe him. You know just how much this is affecting him, but you also know he’s Clark. And there isn’t a force on earth that could make him hurt you like that.
“Can you- Can you please say you’ll tell me-“
“I’ll tell you.” It’s barely more than an exhale.
Clark hears it.
“Good. Good girl.” He kisses your neck this time, and you whimper. “Let me- Can’t do it here. Not right.”
You’re not sure what he’s talking about until you’re airborne. Clark tosses you over his shoulder, holding you steady with one arm around your knees, and you blink at the cum and sweat stained floor. You might have to move, after this.
Maybe Clark could let you live with him.
Too fast. And not the thing to worry about right now.
Get fucked stupid, then think about your living situation and relationship status.
That’s a good plan. The best plan.
There really couldn’t be a better one, you decide. Not when Clark starts to rub your clit again, using the full pressure of his palm.
“Keeping her ready.” He rumbles, and you hum. You’re certainly not complaining.
You’re already close to another orgasm, when he lowers you down onto the bed. Your back hits the mattress, and you immediately reach between your thighs, fondling at your pussy hopelessly. Nothing feels as good as Clark’s hands. He might’ve already ruined you forever.
“Don’t do that.”
Those very hands catch your wrists. You stumble over your breath, when you look up at Clark.
He’s back into feral caveman mode. Stroking his cock with one hand, the other squeezing yours gently before setting it down at your side.
“I touch you.” He grunts, and you can’t argue with that.
You lay down, spreading your legs slowly. In offering. Clark makes that guttural sound, his dick somehow looking like it’s gotten harder. You swallow. It’s very hard not to touch yourself with a massive, hulking god standing over you and jerking himself off. For Clark, you’re going to try.
He’s been reduced back to deep noises from his chest and moans of your name, but he’s not making any attempt to move on you. He’s just… Staring.
Stroking his cock, and watching you. Looking between your wet, gaping pussy and flushed face, beating himself into his fist.
He moans, and doubles over. Pumps so fast his hand becomes a blur, and god you’d like him to do that to you later.
His face lands on your inner thigh. Soft stubble grazing the oversensitive area, cold breath pushing against your clit. You grab his hair, back arching off the bed at the taunting pleasure. Clark moans, watching you clench around nothing.
You cry, as his face fully presses into your cunt. It’s right as he finishes himself off, his cum painting the mattress and covering your ankles.
Clark rises back up, and for a second you just stare at each other.
“Didn’t mean to do that.” He rasps, and your lips twitch.
“I liked it.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Of course you did.”
Clark falls back over you, kissing you deep and slow. You call tell that the clear-headed affect of the orgasm is lasting for a shorter and shorter time.
And Clark choses to use it, just to kiss you.
He tests the head of his cock up and down your pussy, making sure to push it against your clit before going back down, and starting to slide slowly in. There’s almost no resistance, and he hums against your lips.
“Goin’ slow.” He mumbles. “While I can.”
You nod. It’s all you can manage.
He feels just as big—if not bigger—than he looked. Never has a cock stretched you so greatly, and so well. The fullness is incomparable, and you’d be worried you couldn’t take it if your pussy wasn’t greedily swallowing him whole.
“That’s it.” Clark groans, pushing in every inch so torturously and amazingly slow. Forcing you to feel every single inch. “There’s you go, just- Just take it- Fuuuck-“
He moans your name, and you kiss him. You want to feel everything he has, vibrating through your chest. Straight into your cunt.
Clark bottoms out, hiding his face in your neck. You blink up at the ceiling, trying to push off more tears. It’s good, unbelievably good, and your body doesn’t know what to do with it.
“Tight.” Clark mumbles against you, and you laugh breathily.
“Big.”
He looks up at you, and for a second, you only see Clark. Your best friend, looking out of you, always kinder than he needs to be.
“’m serious.” He says, low and rough. Like a secret. “When I call you pretty. When I- When I say I want you-“
You kiss him, and Clark melts into you in a second. You can’t stop your smile.
“I know.” You breathe, and he nods.
“Love you.” He pushes in almost an inch deeper, like the words spur him on. “So much.”
You blink, and his eyes widen.
“That’s- Um- I don’t think I meant to- You feel really good and my brain is soupy-“
Kissing to shut him up will only work so many times. You cover his mouth with your hand, every inch of you feeling alive. From his words, his body, every single inch of this glorious man that’s somehow, all yours.
“My brain is soupy too.” You whisper, clenching purposefully around his cock.
Clark grunts, rutting forward. You giggle, and he gives you a dangerous look.
“Very soupy. But,” You beam. “I love you too. And I’m very serious.”
Clark pauses. Smiles into your hand, eyes shining in the dark. You feel a little like your floating. You’d like to be rocketed right up to heaven.
“Make me dumb.” You breathe, and Clark’s shoulders square.
Your hand is knocked away in a second. His mouth attacks yours, and the moment he starts to move, an orgasm is ripped from your very core.
You scream, locking up and clenching around him. Clark moans against your lips, grabbing your knees and pushing them up to your chest. It’s a deep angle, and you can feel every inch of him, sliding in and out of your cunt. His balls slap near your ass, and his mouth hangs open as he stares down at him.
He’s fully gone to the red kryptonites effects. There’s no question, as he bends you in half and starts to fuck you like a doll. But he still doesn’t let his strength slip. You feel completely safe in his hands.
Safe and attended to.
You’ve never fucked a man who makes sure to hit your g-spot so much, and Clark’s barely even lucid right now. But he drills down into it, moaning your name and making those sinful, beautiful sounds.
It’s too much for your poor pussy. Two is a lot of orgasms. Three is your—usual—max, and that’s usually with time between. But Clark isn’t letting up. And you’re getting close again.
“Cla- Clark-“ You whine out, and he fucking growls. “Clark, I’m gonna-“
He makes a deep noise of understanding, and starts to fuck you harder. You cry out, grabbing uselessly at the sheets as the next release gushes from your pussy, flying up your spine like ecstasy.
Clark finds his own release there. With you clenching tight around him, writhing with overwhelmed pleasure and moaning his name like a hymn as you come. He throws his head back and starts to fuck like an animal, roaring your name.
He grabs your jaw, demanding your eyes on his. His thumb presses on your lower lip.
Cockdrunk and empty headed, you open your mouth and start to suck.
It feels even better than you’d thought. At first it’s nothing, just painting your walls and sticking so deep inside you, you think it knocks you into another, tiny orgasm. Then it’s more, spurting out of your pussy as he keeps fucking into you. An obscene fountain, staining your ass and thighs.
Then it’s too much. You’re not sure you can breathe, but the lights dancing on the edge of your vision only add to the euphoria.
Now, it’s everything. You’re full. So full. You never want to be empty again.
And you don’t think Clark would allow that anyway.
Because he’s still fully hard inside of you. And with how he’s staring at you, you don’t think there’s a space of sound mind anymore.
Clark just stares at you, still mindlessly sucking on his thumb and growls.
You giggle as he grabs your hips and flips you onto your stomach. Drags your ass back up into the air and pushes himself back in with a thick moan.
There’s a chance that his cum is transferring some of the sexual stamina onto you. It’s the only possible way you can last this long. Clark fucks into you from behind, kissing up and down your spine as his balls slap against your clit. Your fourth orgasm hits you, and you think you see he stars.
Clark cums again. You don’t know how there’s still possibly space for it, but nature finds a way.
You giggle into the sheets. Clark kisses your shoulder, rutting deeper and deeper into your abused pussy.
He might take your laughter as a challenge. Suddenly you’re being flipped over, and Clark’s impaling you on his dick once more, forcing you to slide down and feel every inch.
It’s a good thing you get giggly when you have good sex.
If he sees it as a challenge, you’re ready to lose, over and over and over again.
On Sunday, Clark fucks you through the afternoon and into the night.
There isn’t a spot in the apartment that doesn’t feel the aftermath. After making you ride him, he clambered over you and held you to his chest, fucking you with just your knees on the bed. After that you ended up on your back, then riding him again, then somehow on the floor. Against the wall. In the doorway, your face pressed against the window, Clark flying and holding you in his lap. By the time the sun was over your head, you were a wordless, dumb mess. Clark had you in a headlock and you were smiling like an idiot, taking his cock over and over again until you think you reshaped each other.
Now, standing in the shower to wash off the everything, you think if you reached down and touched yourself, you’d find Clark completely rearranged your guts to his shape. When you’d looked at him during the soft, quiet cleanup, his cock had certainly looked like you’d molded him to only fit in you.
It’s an oddly romantic thought.
There are lots of those to go around.
Clark’s waiting for you in the living room. He’s been trying to clean, but you don’t think there’s a point.
“I told you I’m going to have to move,” you joke, and he sighs.
“Well, I- I really tried, but-“ He wrinkles his nose. “I think it got in things. When I- Yeah.” He groans. “I can see it.”
“See it-“
“X-ray vision.”
“Oh.” That fun revelation had gotten lost in everything else. It’s going to take some getting used to.
Clark bows his head, almost in shame.
“Sorry I didn’t tell you,” he mutters.
You shake your head. “It fine-“
“I wanted to-“
“Clark.” You place a hand on his chest, smiling softly. “It’s okay. Really.”
He blinks at you, then relaxes.
“Really?” He asks anyway, and you nod.
“Really.” You nod to the floor. “I can even start apartment hunting right now.”
Clark laughs at that, and you beam.
It’s the same. Even after I love yous and the sex marathon, it’s still just Clark. And you’re more lucky to have that, than anything else.
“You could move in with me.” He suggests quiet and nervous, and your eyes widen.
“I-“
“If it’s too fast, you don’t have to, I- Geez, I haven’t even taken you out on a date yet, never mind-“
“Clark.” You raise your voice, forcing him to quiet down. “I was thinking the same thing earlier.”
He starts slightly. His lips twitch. “You were?”
You nod, and he grins like you handed him the sun.
“It’s not- Maybe too fast-“
“Maybe.” You shrug. “But I- I’ve loved you for years.” You look down to your fingers. “And we kind of lived together before. For work. And you’re my friend, first, so if you think it’s fine-“
Clark pulls your own trick. He grabs your face, and shuts you up with a deep, long kiss. You smile, rising up to meet him, and it’s barely been a day, but it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“I’m gonna do it right, though.” Clark says against your lips. “Take you out. Woo you.”
You laugh. “Bring it on.”
✦End note: sex pollen fics are so fun i feel like im getting a secondary high✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
How does one hate a country, or love one? […] I know people, I know towns, farms, hills and rivers and rocks, I know how the sun at sunset in autumn falls on the side of a certain plowland in the hills; but what is the sense of giving a boundary to all that, of giving it a name and ceasing to love where the name ceases to apply?
— Ursula K. Le Guin; The Left Hand of Darkness; 1969
thinking about how my history teacher was talking about the french revolution one time and he wrote "bourgeoisie" on the board and said raise your hand if you think you can pronounce this and i raised my hand and he looked at the hammer and sickle pin on my backpack and said "ill come back to you"
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