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stuffingbuttsandshit · 11 days ago

Text

dress.

pairing. clark kent x fem!reader

summary. clark kent doesn’t want you like a best friend; you only bought that dress so he could take it off. alternatively, two idiots walk into the daily planet’s annual gala.

contains. so much fluff, best friends to lovers, not-so fake dating!au, roommates!au. mutual pining, idiots to idiots in love. alcohol consumption, profanity, etc. word count. 5.0k a/n. inspired by taylor swift’s dress. i have another clark kent longfic in the works but i wanted to finish this one up first. thanks for reading! xx song rec. dress by taylor swift

It’s a nice dress, you think. Really nice.

Not the sort of thing you’d usually wear, with its silky fabric and neckline that dips a little lower than you’re used to, but there’s something about it—maybe the way the silk clings to your waist before falling in soft waves to your knees, or the way the light catches the tiny gold threading woven through the pattern like ivy curling along the hem. You turn a little in front of the mirror, half self-conscious, half curious.

The dressing room curtain shifts, and Clark clears his throat. “Can I… uh, may I see it? If you’re okay with that?”

You smile to yourself. Always so polite.

“Yeah, hang on,” you say, stepping out into the little hallway lined with mirrors. Clark’s leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed over his chest, the sleeves of his white button-down rolled neatly to his elbows. His glasses sit low on his nose as he glances up.

He blinks.

“Oh,” he says.

You tilt your head. “Too much?”

“No,” he says quickly. “No, not at all. It’s—wow. It’s really nice.”

“You’re just saying that ‘cause I agreed to come shopping with you.”

He huffs a soft laugh, pushing off the wall. “I’m saying that ‘cause it’s true.”

You step back toward the mirror, smoothing your hands over the fabric, your reflection looking back at you like she belongs somewhere fancier than the local mall’s boutique lighting and faint hum of overhead music. Somewhere, like, say, the Daily Planet’s annual holiday party, an event you’d only heard about through Clark’s ramblings at your shared apartment.

“It’s just weird, you know?” You spin slowly in place, letting the fabric sway. “Thinking about going somewhere that requires a dress like this. I’d have to, like, shave my legs and everything.”

Clark coughs, the tips of his ears turning pink. “Well, I mean, that’s entirely up to you. No pressure.”

“Relax,” you laugh. “I’m teasing.”

“Right.” He rubs the back of his neck, glasses slipping a little further down. “I knew that.”

You look at him again and notice something—he’s watching you like he always does when he thinks you’re not paying attention, like you’re the centre of gravity in whatever room he’s standing in. You’ve seen that look before: when you made him laugh so hard he snorted noodles through his nose, when you looked after Krypto for him for three days and he came back home and found the puppy sleeping on your chest, when you won your office’s impromptu trivia night by naming all fifty states in alphabetical order and brought home the giant jar of salsa and nachos they gave you as a prize. But it always disappears as quickly as it comes, tucked away behind the warm smile and careful distance he maintains.

You turn back to the mirror and say, “So, why are we here, really?”

“I told you,” Clark says. “I need a suit.”

“You own four,” you point out.

“This is a fancier party than usual.”

You shoot him a look.

He sighs, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Okay. Maybe I also wanted your opinion. Is that so bad?”

“No. I’m flattered.” You slip back into the dressing room and start unzipping the dress, your voice carrying through the curtain. “Still, feels a little like you’re preparing for a wedding or something.”

“It’s not that formal,” he calls back, but there’s something evasive in the way he says it.

“You’ve been talking about this party all month.”

“I have not.”

“You absolutely have,” you insist. You tug the zipper the rest of the way down and begin carefully stepping out of the dress. “You brought it up when we were at that Thai place downtown. Then again when you were fixing the kitchen light. Oh, and three times last week when I caught you practicing small talk in the bathroom mirror.”

“That wasn’t for the party,” he protests.

“Clark, you were practicing how to introduce me.”

“Yeah, well. It doesn’t hurt to be prepared.”

You straighten up, fabric bunched in your hands. “Prepared for what?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “People ask questions, sometimes.”

You frown, slipping your jeans back on. “What kind of questions?”

“The usual. If I’m seeing someone. If I’m bringing someone. And I guess—sometimes I talk about you a lot. So people assume.”

“Assume what?” You tug the curtain open a crack and peer at him.

Clark’s eyes flick up to meet yours. They’re unfair, honestly, the kind of soft blue that you can’t look at for too long without feeling weak at the knees. He pushes his glasses up again, then lets his hands fall to his sides.

“Just. You know,” he says helplessly. “People are nosy, and Perry White and Jimmy think I don’t have it in me to bring a girl with me to the party.”

You snort, pushing the curtain fully open and stepping out with the dress draped carefully over your arm. “That’s what this is about? You’re trying to prove Perry and Jimmy wrong?”

“I mean… maybe not prove them wrong, exactly. Just—Jimmy was needling me. You know how he gets.”

You’re not dumb. You know what Clark meant when he said people assume things. Does that mean you won’t allow yourself to enjoy what is, arguably, the most hyped up social event you’ve ever attended? Of course not. You’re not dumb.

You’re just… a little hopeful.

Hopeful enough to let him zip up the back of your dress without flinching at the way his fingertips brushed the bare skin between your shoulder blades. Hopeful enough to ditz on the most expensive perfume you own, and to wear the necklace he complimented months ago even though it doesn’t match your clutch. Hopeful enough to feel something flutter in your chest when he smiled at you in the elevator, that small, earnest grin of his that always makes your stomach flip.

Now, you’re standing in the gilded foyer of the Metropolis Grand Hotel, on the kind of carpet that silences heels, surrounded by chandeliers that drip with crystals and laughter that spills like champagne. Everyone looks beautiful. Everyone looks like they belong.

But Clark—Clark looks like he was built for this.

It’s the suit, partly. Dark charcoal, perfectly cut, the kind that makes you realise just how broad his shoulders are and how unfair it is that he ever hides them beneath sweaters. But it’s more than that. It’s the way he stands beside you with the confidence of someone who could command a room, but doesn’t. Someone who could be the centre of attention, but always turns it gently towards someone else. Towards you.

He does, over and over again, with small touches and soft glances and little jokes whispered in your ear. You try not to think too hard about it.

The ballroom is warm with low lights and gold accents, the string quartet tucked into the corner playing something festive and rich. Clark guides you to the bar with a hand on your back, and when he leans in to ask if you want red or white, his breath skims the shell of your ear.

You’re not dumb, but you might be a little dizzy.

He disappears for a minute to find Perry, leaving you with a promise to get you a glass of wine and a view of the skyline through the tall, arched windows. You fold your arms over your chest, trying not to read into how often his hand finds the small of your back or the way he introduces you and just your name, like that’s explanation enough.

You catch your reflection in the mirrored column across the room and don’t recognise yourself for a moment. The girl standing there isn’t the one who steals his socks or leaves Post-Its on the fridge or snorts when she laughs. She’s elegant, someone who could be on Clark Kent’s arm and not look even a little out of place.

He returns, two glasses in hand, his tie a little looser than it was thirty minutes ago. He hands you one and you smile up at him. He smiles back.

“You having a good time?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say, nodding. “Surprisingly.”

He nudges your shoulder with his own. “Told you it wouldn’t be so bad.”

You hum in response, lifting your glass in a silent cheers before taking a sip. The wine is good—crisp, dry, a little sweet on the finish. Definitely not the kind of bottle you and Clark would ever spring for on your own. You glance back at him, watching the way he surveys the room with that same warm attentiveness he gives the world every day.

It’s comforting. Familiar. Easy to lean into, which is exactly what you do, tilting your head just enough to rest briefly on his shoulder. He stiffens for half a second, surprised, but you feel him ease. He shifts just slightly, just enough that you fit a little more comfortably against him.

“You get to tell me that you told me so,” you say. “It’s not bad.”

Clark chuckles. “You sound shocked.”

“I just thought it’d be stuffy,” you say, looking up at him through your lashes, teasing. “Or boring. Or full of people I wouldn’t know how to talk to.”

“And is it?”

“Still deciding,” you say, smiling.

“Do you want to dance?”

“What?”

Clark offers a hand. “Dance with me.”

And because it’s Clark, and because you’re not dumb, and because you’re maybe just hopeful enough to believe in moments like this, you take it.

He doesn’t lead you to the centre of the floor. He guides you instead to the edge, where the music is quieter and the chandeliers spill soft gold across the polished parquet. The band has moved on to something slower now, less jazzy, more swoon than swing. It wraps around you like velvet as Clark tucks your hand gently into his and rests the other at the curve of your waist. Your fingers settle against the smooth line of his lapel. He’s warm beneath the fabric. The rest of the room seems to fade in your periphery—just the blurred glitter of gowns and the murmur of conversation, the music, the breath between you.

You look up at him, trying not to read too much into the way his thumb traces idle, absent circles along your waist. “You looked like you were deep in conversation with Perry,” you say softly.

“Perry was just asking about the article I filed last week,” he replies. His eyes flick down to meet yours. “And Lois. And you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, I, uh, won the bet, I guess.”

“…Oh. Right.” You swallow hard and look away. “Was Perry proven sufficiently wrong?”

“Let’s just say he didn’t see it coming.”

Your gaze dips to where your hand rests in his. The warmth of his palm bleeds into your skin like something you’ll still feel hours from now. It makes you ache a little, in that soft, impossible way you’ve been trying not to name for months. He looks at you like there’s no one else here—like all the champagne laughter and shifting gowns and symphonic music is just background to this moment, to you.

He shifts, subtle, drawing you a little closer as the music swells. You let him. You let your body follow his like it knows the steps already. You want him. You want him so badly you think it might be stitched into your DNA at this point, threaded through your bones.

“Well, that’s good then,” you say, trying and failing to suppress the tiny, needle-like prick of disappointment that pokes your heart. “Were Lois and Jimmy convinced, too?”

“Lois thinks you’re too good for me,” he says, voice low, breath brushing against the shell of your ear. “Jimmy started taking bets again.”

You laugh, surprised. “Bets on what?”

“Nothing scandalous.”

You lean a little closer, playful now, emboldened by the press of his hand at your waist. “Clark Kent. Are you withholding journalistic information?”

“I’m practicing discretion,” he murmurs.

You don’t ask what the bets are. You don’t want to know, really, not when your pulse is already a warm thrum under your skin, not when his gaze keeps flicking down to your lips like he’s not sure he should, but can’t stop himself. You’re dangerously aware of how little space there is between you. How easy it would be to close it.

But the song ends.

It fades into the hum of another, and Clark lets out the smallest breath, as though the moment—whatever it was—is retreating, swallowed by the crowd again. His hand slips from your waist, and yours from his hand.

“Come on. Jimmy and Cat and the rest want to meet you.”

Clark doesn’t give you much time to think about it. About the dance, about the way your pulse is still doing this uneven, skittery thing like you’ve just stepped off a roller coaster. He offers you his hand again, not to dance this time but to lead you through the throng of glittering dresses and dark suits towards a cluster of people near the far side of the ballroom.

“They’re going to love you,” he says over his shoulder, warm and certain in that way he always is when it comes to you.

You don’t say anything because you’re too busy smoothing your hair with one hand and trying not to trip over your own heels. You feel like you’ve stumbled out of one dream—Clark’s hand on your waist, the music wrapped around you—and straight into another. You’re aware of everything: the swish of your dress against your legs, the faint citrus scent of his cologne when he moves close enough to open a path for you both.

Lois Lane is exactly what you expected, and somehow more. She’s stunning, with cheekbones that could cut glass and lipstick perfectly in place even after what must be hours of cocktails and conversation. She’s in the middle of telling Jimmy something when she sees you, and her eyes sharpen immediately with interest.

Jimmy’s grinning, camera hanging around his neck, and beside him, Cat Grant leans elegantly against the table, champagne flute in hand.

“Hey, guys,” Clark says.

Three pairs of eyes turn towards you. You resist the urge to fidget.

“This is—” Clark says your name, glancing at you briefly, and for some reason the sound of it in his voice feels… different here. “She writes for Metropolis Monthly.”

Lois’ mouth curves into a knowing little smile as she shakes your hand. “Ah. The famous one.”

“Famous?” you repeat, startled.

“Clark talks about you. A lot,” Jimmy chimes in.

You shoot a look at Clark, who suddenly finds the floor very interesting.

“Don’t let him fool you,” Lois says, delighted. “He doesn’t talk about anyone. Half the time we have to drag words out of him about himself, but you? We’ve heard about the coffee you make, the movie nights, the way you write circles around half the bloggers in this city—”

“Lois,” Clark says, almost warning, a faint colour rising in his cheeks.

Cat takes a slow sip of her champagne. “She’s even prettier than you said, Kent.”

Your face warms. Clark clears his throat. “Okay, and on that note—”

“No, no,” Jimmy cuts in. “Don’t stop on our account.”

Lois leans in, conspiratorial. “For what it’s worth,” she says to you, “we’ve been taking bets on when the two of you would finally show up to something together. Perry owes me twenty bucks.”

You laugh, startled and flustered all at once. “I’m not sure what to say to that.”

“Say,” Lois says, “that I was right.”

Clark sighs. “We came here to have a good time, remember?”

“We are having a good time,” Cat says, setting her glass down. Her gaze sweeps over you once, thoughtful, before she offers a small, sincere smile. “It’s nice to finally meet you. He’s picky about who he lets into his life.”

Clark isn’t looking at anyone now but you.

The group falls into easy conversation after that, talk of work and the ridiculous gala food (tiny crab cakes that vanish in two bites, champagne that tastes expensive enough to make up for it). Lois tells you about chasing a lead last week through half the city; Jimmy complains about his camera lens fogging in the winter; Cat rolls her eyes at both of them with long-suffering grace.

Clark stays close. When someone brushes by too near the table, his hand finds your elbow, steadying you. When Lois cracks a joke, he leans in slightly, like he wants to hear you laugh before anyone else. When he looks at you, you feel it like a warm current under your skin.

Jimmy drags Lois to the dance floor. Cat follows with a bemused shake of her head, and suddenly it’s just you and Clark again, standing at the edge of the room with half-empty glasses.

“What do you think of them?” he asks softly, watching your face.

“They’re… not what I expected.”

“Better or worse?”

“Better,” you say. “They like you a lot.”

His mouth tilts in a small, self-deprecating smile. “They like you, too.”

You think about Lois’ teasing, about Cat’s sharp little smile, about the way Jimmy had grinned like he knew something you didn’t. You think about Clark’s hand, steady and warm, guiding you here in the first place.

You think you might be in trouble.

“Cat was right, though, you know,” he says, ducking his head bashfully. “You do look—I mean, pretty isn’t the right word. You’re gorgeous.”

For a second, you forget how to breathe.

The noise of the gala doesn’t quite go away—it can’t, not with the quartet playing in the corner and the laughter bubbling from the dance floor—but it feels like someone’s turned the volume down just enough for the words to settle between you, soft and weighty all at once.

You glance up at him. He doesn’t quite meet your eyes when he says it; he’s looking somewhere past your shoulder, as though he can’t quite bring himself to watch your reaction.

“Clark,” you say, and your voice doesn’t come out the way you mean it to. It’s quieter.

He rubs the back of his neck with his free hand, gaze finally dropping to meet yours. “Sorry. I just—” He exhales, as though the sentence got away from him before he could catch it. “You do. That’s all.”

Your stomach swoops. You’ve known him long enough to tell when he’s teasing, when his voice takes on that light, joking cadence he uses with friends and coworkers and anyone trying to get a rise out of him. This isn’t that.

You should say something back. Something witty, or graceful, or at least coherent. But your brain seems to have been replaced by static, so all you manage is a soft, “Oh.”

Clark laughs, shaking his head at himself like he’s the one being ridiculous here. He takes a sip from his glass, giving you a moment to gather the parts of yourself scattered like confetti across the floor. You fail spectacularly.

Across the room, Lois spins under Jimmy’s arm, her laugh ringing out above the music. Cat leans against the bar now, phone in one hand, champagne in the other. Perry White’s surrounded by boisterous councilmen, all laughing at some joke you can’t begin to make out. The chandeliers catch the movement on the dance floor in fractured golden light, everything sparkling like it’s been dipped in stars.

And you’re here, at the edge of it all, pulse rabbiting in your throat because Clark Kent just called you gorgeous like it was the simplest, truest thing in the world.

You clear your throat, finally finding your voice. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”

“Thanks,” he says. His mouth tilts in that small half-smile he gets when he’s trying not to look too pleased.

“You don’t wear suits often.”

“Not unless I have to.” He looks down at his tie, loosening it a little more with one hand. The motion tugs his collar open just slightly, enough to show the faintest triangle of skin at his throat. “Do you like it?”

You blink. “The suit?”

“Yeah. On me, I mean.”

The words make heat creep up the back of your neck. “I… yeah. It looks good.”

Understatement of the century, you think.

Clark’s eyes crinkle a little at the corners, amusement threading through them, but he doesn’t press. He nods once, like he’ll tuck the answer away somewhere secret.

A waiter passes by with another tray of champagne, the glasses catching light as they go. Clark shifts slightly, resting his forearm on the high table beside you so he can lean just a fraction closer, voice dipping low enough that it barely carries over the music.

“You want to people-watch with me?”

“People-watch?”

Clark nods towards the dance floor, where Perry’s somehow gotten roped into dancing with someone from the city council. It looks… painful.

You can’t help laughing. “Oh, absolutely.”

Clark flashes you a grin, before he tilts his head towards the crowd. “Okay. See the guy by the bar in the blue suit? Third glass of wine, hasn’t stopped checking his phone all night. His wife is mad at him, I’m calling it now.”

“Ouch.”

“Couple by the window,” Clark says next. “Third dance in a row. Either married for twenty years or they just met tonight. No in between.”

“What’s your vote?” you say, grinning.

He considers, eyes following the couple as they turn lazily under the chandelier light. “Just met. He’s been smiling the whole time, like he can’t believe his luck.”

It’s impossible not to notice the warmth in Clark’s voice when he says it. Like he likes seeing people happy. Like he collects these little moments the way other people collect photographs.

Your chest does that annoying fluttery thing again.

“Okay,” you say, scanning the room for yourself this time. “The woman in the green dress. She’s here for business. Networking. She’s pretending to enjoy herself, but she hasn’t danced once.”

Clark follows your gaze, eyebrows lifting. “You’re good at this.”

“Observational skills,” you say, shrugging and trying not to look too pleased with yourself.

The music swells again, a slow, easy rhythm. Someone laughs nearby; someone else calls for more champagne. The whole room glitters, alive and bright, but somehow it feels like you and Clark are set just outside its orbit, in your own quieter little corner.

“You having a good time?” he asks again.

“Yeah,” you say. “The best.”

Clark smiles, small and pleased, like maybe that was the whole point of tonight.

You don’t mean to overhear the two girls by the bar.

It’s not like they said anything malicious, anyway. Something about Clark being “a total golden retriever” and how “guys like him don’t stay single for long.” It’s said with a fond little laigh, the kind reserved for someone universally adored, like the quarterback of a small-town football team or the boy who volunteers at soup kitchens on the weekends. Someone who’s good in a way that’s rare.

It shouldn’t sting, but it does.

Maybe it’s because they don’t know him like you do—the small, ridiculous details of Clark Kent: how he hums when he’s pouring coffee; how his ties are always a little crooked until you fix them; how he somehow believes he’s unremarkable, despite literally glowing with the kind of goodness people write novels about.

Or maybe it’s because part of you is terrified they’re right—that someone else will see all of that, see him, and you’ll be left watching from the sidelines like a fool.

Either way, the words burrow into your skin, and suddenly the gala feels too warm, too loud, too bright.

You murmur something to Lois about needing air and slip through the crowd before Clark can notice. The balcony doors are open, the night cool and velvet-soft against your skin when you step outside.

The city stretches out before you, glittering and endless. Wind whips gently at your hair as you grip the railing, trying to shake off the strange ache building in your chest. You’re not sure how long you stand there, staring out at Metropolis like it might give you answers.

“There you are!” His voice comes from behind you, warm and familiar.

You turn, just enough to see Clark step out onto the balcony, the light spilling over his shoulders before the door closes behind him. Out here, he looks different. Softer, maybe, without the warm glow of the chandeliers gilding every edge. The wind tugs at his hair, and he pushes his glasses up his nose the way he always does when he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

“You disappeared,” he says, moving to stand beside you. His presence fills the space easily, the way it always does. “Everything okay?”

You nod, too quickly. “Yeah. Just needed some air.”

Maybe it’s the champagne, or the music drifting faintly through the glass doors behind you, or the fact that he looks devastatingly good tonight and doesn’t seem to know it—but suddenly, the words tumble out before you can stop them.

“Do you ever think about… hypotheticals?”

“Hypotheticals?” Clark turns his head, brow furrowing.

“Like,” you say, fiddling with the end of your clutch, “what if you liked someone. Just—hypothetically.”

“Okay…”

“And maybe everyone else saw it before you did. Like it was obvious or something.” You keep your eyes fixed on the skyline because looking at him feels impossible right now. “But you weren’t sure if saying anything would ruin everything.”

Clark goes very still beside you.

You rush to fill the silence, words tangling. “Hypothetically, maybe you live with this person. Maybe they’re your best friend. And if you said something and they didn’t feel the same way, it would… I don’t know. Break something you can’t put back together.”

The wind catches your hair, sweeping it across your cheek. You tuck it behind our ear.

“So instead,” you continue, softer now, “you just keep it to yourself. And you wonder if they’ll ever figure it out, or if you’re supposed to—I don’t know. Still hypothetical, obviously.”

“Right,” Clark says slowly.

“Hypothetically,” you add quickly, “what would you do? If it were you.”

“I’d tell you.”

Your heart stutters. “What?”

Clark swallows hard. His eyes stay on the city, not you. “I’d tell you, because—hypothetically—I wouldn’t be able to keep it in anymore.”

“Clark…”

“Y’know, funny thing is,” he says, tilting his head just so, “I brought you here with me to have a good time. I don’t like stuff like this, you know that, and I—I really, really want to go home now, just so I can have you all to myself.”

Clark’s gaze stays fixed on the glittering sprawl of Metropolis below. The wind ruffles his hair again, pulls at the edges of his jacket, but he stands steady beside you like the whole world couldn’t move him if it tried.

You open your mouth. Close it. Try again.

“Hypothetically,” you say, “what would you do if we went him?”

His eyes catch the city lights when he turns to you, reflecting something warm, something that makes your stomach flip in a way that no amount of champagne could explain. His voice is low when he speaks; each word has to be chosen carefully before it leaves his mouth.

“First?” he says. “First, I think I’d finally get you out of those heels your hate.”

You almost laugh, because of course he noticed the way you’d shifted your weight a dozen times tonight, the faint wince every time someone made you cross half the ballroom.

“And then?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady.

He exhales slowly, the sound mingling with the wind. “I’m trying really hard not to scare you off,” he admits.

“You’re not,” you manage.

“Good,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “Because all I’ve been thinking about, all night, is how badly I want to get you out of here.”

His hand finds the railing beside yours, close enough that your fingers twitch with the urge to reach for him.

“And then what?” you ask again, the words threading out like smoke.

“Then,” he says slowly, “I’d make you tea because you’ll complain about your hangover tomorrow morning otherwise. I’d listen to you tell me what you thought of tonight while you tried to pretend you weren’t exhausted. And then, I’d tell you all the things I should’ve told you before this gala, before the dance, before tonight ever even started.”

“Like what?”

“Like how many times I almost kissed you in the kitchen,” he says. “Or how hard it is to see you in my shirts on Sunday mornings and not tell you how beautiful you look. Or how every time you laugh at one of my stupid jokes, I—”

“Clark,” you whisper, because it’s the only thing you can think to say.

“Still hypothetical, of course,” he mumbles.

“Right,” you say, though your heart is doing somersaults.

“But,” he adds, “I really hope it’s not.”

You think you might finally understand what the girls at the bar meant. Only, they were wrong about one thing.

Clark Kent might be the kind of man everyone adores, but right now, his whole attention, his whole quiet, steady world, feels like it belongs to you.

“It’s not,” you breathe out, “but hypothetically, I really do want to kiss you right now.”

So Clark does.

“Tell me a secret,” Clark says, once he closes the door to your shared apartment behind him.

“Easy. I only bought this dress so you could take it off, Kent.”

Clark smiles against your mouth, fingers trailing up your spine and hooking into the zipper at the back of your dress.

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stuffingbuttsandshit · 14 days ago

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OMG MY NEW SHOES CAME :3 ignore my ugly house arrest ankle bracelet. haha

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stuffingbuttsandshit · 15 days ago

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Sometimes Clark goes a little feral in the middle of blowing your back out

Sometimes — so rare you almost think you've imagined in memory — when Clark gets really into it in the middle of fucking you; with his balls pressed up against your sopping folds and his weight smothering you into the bed, the plush of your ass pressed into his hips and his chest to your back, he slinks a hand up to hold your jaw.

And its not at all aggressive but its not soft either. An element of gentle retrieve noticeable in the understanding that he could be much rougher if he wanted to.

Its still enough to make you sob and your cunt to suck him in to the point that he's pulsing against your flexing walls and grunting into your hair.

Him claiming ownership over you as he turns your head to make you watch him behind you — black curls stuck to his forehead and corded veins trailing up his vanilla biceps like pretty baby blue and red lace.

And he looks fucking feral as he pounds into you. Brows furrowed and eyes dark with lust and love and the heat of it.

You could cum just looking at him — just at the idea that he's holding back for you. That he's allowing you to have a semblance of control in the way you reach back and wrap a shaky hand around his wrist; clammy fingers thumbing the "friendship" bracelet you made him how many years ago that he still wears.

Patience weaning thin, practically unraveling in front of you as he moves his wrist from your hand only to press your hand into the dip of your back, holding you still as he pounds into you.

Your moans are broken and shattered, deep and filled watery cries.

Clark whispers a restrained "yeah," behind you, his large hand squeezing and pulling at the globe of your asscheek. Like you're something to played with. You love it. Love the dynamic when he gets like this — throwing all resolve and restraint through the windows. Ironically, hes never been reminded you more of Superman in your whole life when he gets feral while balls deep inside of you.

There's something so inherently primitive and alien to his nature. It sends chills up your spine, reminding you how he's all that more powerful, strong, and bigger than you are.

You try to bait him, attempting to wiggle somewhat out of his grasp but he only tightens his grip on your wrist and spreads your asscheek wider.

"No," he grunts, pushing your hand harder against the hot skin of your back, "m'keepin' the hand." But he slows a bit. Pumping long and torturous thrusts that have your walls begging to hold onto him and your hands flexing to for him to steady you.

You watch him with lidded eyes as he drops a glob of spit right onto your asshole, inhaling sharply when you shiver and try to buck back against him.

Clark holds you there and circles the pad of this thumb over your tight ringed hole before slipping it past the muscle and hooking it into you.

Its so vulgar as he thrusts into you. So obscene to know he's watching the way your tight hole pulses around his digit and the way your walls grip and flutter around his girthy length.

You keen and he fucking chuckles.

Leaning over you, he drops your wrist from his hand rather roughly, reminding you to hold yourself there. You obey.

What he does next you hadn't expected in a million years.

Clark takes ahold of your jaw in one hand, so sultry you moan, his hand squeezing your cheeks so that your plush lips pout.

"Just need someone to fuck some sense into you, huh?" He coos, cock still pumping into your heat deliciously slow, "S'that it, y'just need someone to pay attention t'you?"

You sob tearfully, tear-strewn lashes fluttering against your hot cheeks.

Clark licks a fat and wet stripe up the side of your cheek and you gasp, pulling your hand around from behind your back to hold his bicep.

You appreciate that he lets you off the hook for that one.

When he pulls back to look at your fucked-out and shocked expression he just fucking laughs at you, hand still squeezing your cheeks and puckering your lips for him.

"Didn't expect that, huh?"

You cant even think when he drops his hand from your face and presses kisses down the spine of your back before pumping into you again.

"Silly girl," he coos, thumb still hooked past your tight ring of muscle, "just needed to ask if she wanted to get fucked. Isn't that right, sweetie?"

You're nodding and moaning and incomprehensible, mumbling his name brokenly into his pillow.

The smell, stretch, touch, heat, sound of him is overwhelming in the best possible way. You let yourself cry.

"Thaaaats it," Clark wraps a hand around your hair, pressing your face a little rougher into the bed only so that you stay still, "juussst like that, huh?"

Neither of you last long. With you cumming around his girth and his hips sputtering and his voice hitching as he spills into you.

Clark's hand is soft on your hair, stroking the back of your head and pulling strands back from your clammy face.

He lets a moment of quiet pass where its just the two of you panting in the warm air of his room before he coos: "hi there, pretty thing."

Youre wiggling beneath him and he rises a bit so that you can slip out from under him. You try to coddle yourself, but he catches you before you can reach the headboard.

He pulls you against his chest, wrapping your legs around his waist and moving to rest against the headboard.

"Was that scary?" He asks softly, a hand massaging the base of your neck.

You shake your head, hiding yourself under his chin.

"No? Then can you look at me?"

Another head shake.

"Y'okay?"

You nod, "m'okay." Your voice is slurred and heavy.

"Y'just a little shy?"

Another nod.

Clark chuckles a bit and presses a kiss to the top of your head with a hum, "hmm, okay. I'll wait here until you're not shy then." He tries to dip down to catch a glimpse of you but you hide away deeper into his chest "How's that sound?"

You dont say anything for a moment. Fiddling with your fingers.

"D,'okay."

"Okay." Clark hums, stroking his hand over your hair.

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stuffingbuttsandshit · 15 days ago

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The fuck you mean men have waists?? What are they doing with it? They letting the bros grab them by the waist? Who are you? A diva?

Pathetic.

#men #with #slutty #waists

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stuffingbuttsandshit · 16 days ago

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Clark Kent who’s so enamoured with the idea of making you squirt that he fills you up with water throughout the day, making sure your water bottle is always filled to the brim and reminding you to hydrate as he focuses his laser vision on your quickly filling bladder. He makes sure your bladder is nice and full before carrying your giggling form to your shared bed where he makes a quick work of your clothes and gently sinks two fingers into your already dripping cunt, the soft squelching of his fingers pushing through your slick filling the room alongside your needy pants and moans. The rough pad of his thumb circles your swollen clit and he debates making you squirt right then and there, but he decides he wants you to drench his cock. So when he figures he’s worked you open enough on his fingers, he gently bullies his thick cock into your clenching cunt, flushed red tip already painting your walls with precum at what he knows he’s gonna make you feel. He uses his laser vision to make sure his cock is drilling against the right spot—that spot has your back arching off the bed, eyes crossing as your mouth hangs open in pure ecstasy. He pushes down on your tummy right over your bladder and—fuck Clark has given you many, many, orgasms but you’ve never felt like this before. It’s all too much and you feel like you’re gonna—

“S-stop! Fuck—Clark, stop! You’re gonna make me-ah-gonna make me pee-”

But he doesn’t stop. In fact, he picks up the pace, his eyes focused on where he can see his fat tip abusing that spongey spot inside of you, his hand pushing down harder. “It’s okay, baby. Let it all out f’me. C’mon, be a good girl and soak my cock…” he pants between thrusts. Your muscles contract at the soft purr in his voice, your cunt clenching around as you feel your rapidly approaching orgasm and with just a few more thrusts your poor abused pussy is spasming and squirting, drenching his lower abdomen as he continues drilling into you at an unfathomable pace, his thrusts becoming frantic and sloppier as he bottoms out at the sight of your squirt coating him.

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stuffingbuttsandshit · 19 days ago

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pronebone with clark kent.

his weight is all over you. chest heavy on your back, arm coiled tight around your throat like he’s anchoring you down, like you’d dare try to run from the way his dick splits you open. every stroke drags a moan out your lungs, pathetic and wet, muffled in the pillow until clark yanks your head back, curls his thick bicep over your face, and suddenly you’re gasping out the dirtiest sounds you didn’t know you could make.

he’s so fucking big.

you feel it every time—his dick stretching you to the brim, fat tip kissing your cervix like it was made for it, length filling your stomach until you swear you can’t breathe.

you reach down with shaky fingers, press against your belly, and it’s there—his thickness bulging under your palm.

“mmfh—see t-that, sweetheart?” his voice cracks, breath hot in your ear, messy, desperate. “aallll mine—deep in you. can’t stop. mfh—c-can’t stop.”

your thighs shake with every thrust.

your ass ripples and claps back against his hips, loud and obscene in the room, each slap mixing with the squelch of slick and cum spilling out of you. there’s already a thick ring at the base of his dick, pearly white and creamy, sliding up and down with every stroke. you’ve lost track of how many times you’ve cum—your whole body trembling, sappy pussy squeezing and gushing around him, but he just keeps going, keeps rutting into you like a man starved.

“cl-clark!” your voice breaks on his name, eyes rolling back, a fucked-out smile curling your lips even as tears blur your vision. “ohhh—too much, s-soo full—can’t—hahhh—!”

“y-yeaah?” he tightens the headlock just enough, not enough to hurt, just enough to send sparks down your spine, your pussy clenching so hard around him he nearly loses it. “y’like that, baby? like bein’ my good girl, takin’ it all?”

you nod—fast, frantic, babbling nonsense. “mmnhhh—y-yesyesyes—fuck, i love it, love you, d-don’t stop—”

he groans into your hair, hips snapping rougher, harder, the bedframe rattling under his strength. “gosh, you feel so good. so perfect. swear you were—f-mm—made f’me.”

your ass bounces like a dream under him, thick and soft, every jiggle driving him crazier. he grips your hip with his free hand, fingers digging into the plush flesh, spreading you wider so he can bury himself even deeper. his strokes are merciless now, pounding you flat into the sheets, your voice breaking on every thrust.

“auhhhnn—fuuuck! clarkkk—i-i can’t—cumming!”

your toes curl, body shaking, another orgasm ripping through you until your whole body seizes, pussy milking him greedy, desperate. you’re so far gone you’re smiling, giggling between your sobs, fucked-out and cute as hell, drool slipping from your lips onto the pillow.

clark loses it right there.

with a pathetic moan, he slams in to the hilt, cock pulsing thick and heavy, pouring hot floods of cum into you until you’re stuffed, leaking, overflowing. he doesn’t even stop—just grinds into you, keeps rocking his hips, moaning low and broken. “m’gonna give you everything, sweetheart. fill you till you c-can’t take it—haah! you’re takin’ it so good—”

another load, and another. your belly feels heavy, clark’s cum dripping down your thighs, wet smears staining the sheets, but you’re still clenching, still whining his name like you can’t survive without him.

he presses his forehead to the back of your neck, arm still snug around your throat, breathing you in. “look at you. . . so cute like this, all ruined and smilin’ for me.”

and you are—cheeks sticky with tears, lips swollen, eyes half-shut but glowing, smiling through your haze, babbling soft nonsense: “mmm, s’good. . . so good, clark, so deep, d-don’t stop—need more,”

he chuckles breathlessly, kisses the sweat at your hairline, then drives back into you with a groan. “oh, i’m not stoppin’, sweetheart. not when you’re this perfect under me.”

and the bed starts creaking all over again.

uhm. . . yeah 🙂

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stuffingbuttsandshit · 19 days ago

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dean winchester, sexy antifa

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stuffingbuttsandshit · 21 days ago

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stuffingbuttsandshit · 21 days ago

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stuffingbuttsandshit · 21 days ago

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What if oxygen is poisonous and it just takes 75-100 years to kill us?

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stuffingbuttsandshit · 21 days ago

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can we all agree that this was unnecessary (and hot)?

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stuffingbuttsandshit · 23 days ago

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Hey There Sunshine

hey everybodyyyy! i'm back and this time with frank mf castle. he has me in a chokehold rn

synopsis: frank never expected to fall in love again after maria, didn't think he was capable of it until matt murdock's baby sister took over every inch of his brain. he was down bad and utterly obsessed. after months of not seeing her, she showed up at his apartment.

word count: 4114

content warnings, mdni 18+

f!reader, curvy!reader, reader wears glasses, ddba!frank, mutual pining, idiots in love, frank is absolutely down bad for bambi, protective!frank, possessive!frank, pussy worship (it's been a while and he's feral), oral (f. receiving), p in v, unprotected sex, use of good girl, use of little girl (once), frank has a competence kink maybe??, let me know if i forgot anything x

my masterlist

Frank never expected to fall in love again after Maria. Didn’t think he deserved it, didn’t think he was capable of being soft for anyone anymore. He certainly never planned on falling for Matt fucking Murdock’s little sister of all people. He fell for her quickly, he had a soft spot for people like her. Shy, sweet, kindhearted, who couldn’t protect themselves. He had that same kind of instinct with his wife before she died, that flare up whenever she was in danger. It was like this primal, animal side took over him. He was utterly brutal when it came to anyone trying to hurt her, even if it was something small like a comment that her shirt looked weird.

No woman had even caught his eye until Bambi, hell his sex drive had practically been nonexistent after 5 years without sex, he’d shut off that part of himself. But now? Frank was damn near feral when it came to Bambi. She was a drug to him, he was so in love with her and possessive it made him feel crazy sometimes, not to mention the treasure between her thighs he had been dying to get a glimpse of. The two met up once a week for breakfast at a diner near her apartment and he’d bring her a new bouquet of flowers to put in the cute bay window of her apartment she always decorated nice.

But the past couple months while the mess with Amy and the people after her went down Frank was MIA. He hadn’t planned on it, hadn’t meant to be, but he didn’t want to risk Bambi getting pulled into his bullshit. He already had enough people he cared about involved in his mess. And if he was honest he had been depressed after sending Amy off for that marine life crap she wanted to do, but they talked on the phone at least every other week to catch up. He felt like he was getting parts of himself back, that part of his heart that had been vacant since the death of his kids was now occupied by Amy, and the part of his heart that had been reserved for Maria had now been taken over by Bambi.

Frank and Bambi had tried to keep their… friendship… if that was the right word for it, a secret from Matt. Bambi figured Matt would freak out on both of them then there would be some big fight between the two men which was the last thing Bambi wanted. But, when Matt found a shell casing at the scene of Hector Ayala’s murder he knew he had to get Frank’s help, so he brought Bambi to soften Frank’s resolve.

The two were already fighting by the time Bambi got there. She was waiting around the corner from Frank’s apartment door to see if the two could have a mature conversation like adults, but they were already shouting and Frank was throwing a cup across the floor, so Bambi stepped into his apartment which was more like a bomb shelter. She’d been here a couples times, even had a movie night with Frank once and fell asleep leaned against his side on his shitty couch. She knew if she had Frank over to her apartment Matt had a better chance of smelling him on her, so they spent more time at Frank’s place.

Bambi had stepped in right as Frank was shouting ‘I do not have time for your candy ass hero shit’ while smacking his hands together. Right as she stepped into the room Frank’s back straightened from his crouched position, sitting up straighter in his seat. He hadn’t expected Matt to bring Bambi, hell he thought he’d keep her as far away from him as possible. Yet here she was. Soft, curvy, cute little body tucked in a cozy sweater with her glasses and short skirt that showed a little too much of his legs for his liking. He didn’t like the idea of other shit heads out there gawking at her.

If he’d known she was gonna be here he would’ve shaved, fixed his hair, tidied up the place a bit. Frank never cared much about his appearance normally, but he felt like a dumbass teenager half the time when it came to her, bending over backwards to please her. He felt ridiculous sometimes but couldn’t shake it.

“Hey there, sunshine,” Frank mutters, his voice still low and gravelly as if trying to keep his tough guy persona since Matt was here. Matt’s jaw clenched, scoffing slightly with a shake of his head. He’d likely heard the way Frank’s heart starting pounding in his chest like a drum. He hadn’t seen Bambi in months, he felt like some tweaker going through withdrawal without her.

“Hi,” she says softly, shifting on her feet awkwardly, her Mary Jane shoes clicking against the cement floor, “Matt just wants to know if you know anything about these guys that can help. Please.”

Frank shifted restlessly in his chair, his trigger finger tapping against his thigh as he looked over at Matt, “That your new technique? Bring her here just so I’ll play nice?” Frank scoffs, glancing down at his lap, “Losin’ your touch, Red. The old you woulda just beat it outta me on a rooftop. You didn’t come here for my help,” Frank says flatly, leaning back in his chair. Bambi couldn’t help the way her eyes drifted over him. He looked good. Really, really good. That shirt he wore clung to his muscles like a second skin and she oddly liked the scruffy look he had going on, “See, I think you want my permission.”

Matt chuckled under his breath with another shake of his head before straightening up, “Bambi, why don’t you wait outside.”

“She ain’t gotta go nowhere,” Frank grumbles with a shake of his head, getting up from his seat to stalk over to Matt, “You wanna get your hands on somebody, wanna hurt ‘em, and it scares you. Worried it’ll scare your baby sister from how much it’s eatin’ at you. That guilt, that rage. I see it in you.”

“You’re way off, Frank. I’m gonna come back another day, catch you at a better time,” Matt says with a strained smile, barely holding himself back from throwing a punch or crying. Possibly both. Matt turned on his heel, nodding his head towards Bambi, “C’mon, lets go.”

“I’m gonna stay a minute then head home,” Bambi stays rooted in place a few steps from Frank who was fiddling absentmindedly with the belt loops of his pants. Matt clenched his jaw with a long exhale, not loving the idea of Bambi being alone with Frank, but he muttered an ‘okay’ and left the apartment. Once Matt was gone she turned toward Frank with a sour expression, “Why do you always have to rub salt in the wound with him? Why can’t you just help?”

Frank scoffed, walking over to where he’d thrown his mug across the room to pick it back up, “Your brother’s a big boy, he don’t need my help,” Frank says simply as he walked over to the kitchen area of his bunker-like apartment, “Not my problem.”

“Then what is your problem?” Bambi asks with a tilt of her head as she crossed her arms, “Going after random guys you’ve never met?”

Frank tossed his cup into the sink with a sharp exhale through his nose, leaning against the counter and tucking his thumbs in the front pockets of his pants as he turned to stare her down, “If I don’t do what I do good people like you will be the ones with a bullet in the head. That’s my problem, that’s what I take care of. I take care of the scum bags that would look at a girl like you and see an object, somethin’ easy to use however they feel like it. Your brother should be happy I’m out there on the streets, least I’m helpin’ keep you safe.”

“You should try to start over, start building a good life for yourself,” she sighs exasperatedly, and Frank only looks down at his feet with a clenched jaw, “I’m not your problem to keep safe, Frank,” Bambi says softly, which make Frank’s head snap up.

“The hell you ain't,” Frank grumbles, pushing off the counter to stand straighter, “Why do you think I do those movie nights and buy you breakfast and flowers every week? Think I do that shit with everyone I meet?” Frank snaps with a scoff. Bambi shifts on her feet, fiddling with the sleeve of her sweater, unsure of what to say, “I don’t know if you noticed but I don’t kiss your brother’s ass or talk all sweet with him. Just with you.”

“I’m not sure what you want me to say… you’ve barely spoken to me in months I thought you-” she trails off, her hands moving as she spoke.

“Thought I was done with you?” Frank asks with a sharp chuckle, like the idea was absurd, “You’re not something I can just quit, sweetheart. I don’t clock in and clock out with how I feel about you, that shit's permanent, not goin’ anywhere.”

Bambi took a step closer, “Then where were you? I was worried something happened to you.” she asks curiously, hesitantly.

“Met this kid, had all these people comin’ after her and tryin’ to kill her. I got rid of the assholes targeting her, made sure she was safe and sent her on her way. Then I came back home to you,” Frank shrugs, his fingers rubbing the fabric of his pants, a nervous tick of his that seemed to happen when he felt vulnerable, “Came right back here to you.”

“You didn’t call or anything,” Bambi counters with furrowed eyebrows, standing only a couple feet away from him now.

Frank sighs, scratching the back of his neck, “Me and the kid got close. She reminded me of Lisa. Sending her off wasn’t easy, had to lick my wounds.” he mutters with a self deprecating chuckle, “Swear to god sweetheart, the minute you walked into my life you turned me into a goddamn softie.” he laughs, which made a smile tug at Bambi’s lips.

“Is that supposed to be a bad thing? Caring about people?” she asks as she leaned against the meager dining table beside the counter, “I don’t think it is. I think it’s progress, means your healing.”

Frank rolled his shoulders with a sigh, licking his lips, “Me carin’ about someone isn’t simple, makes me ugly. Cause I know if somethin’ ever happened to you I wouldn’t be gentle about it,” Frank says lowly, that familiar hungry, possessive part of him flaring up in his chest, “You think I’m hard on guys I’ve never met? Imagine what I’d do if one of those scum bags tried to hurt you. Wouldn’t be pretty.”

Bambi couldn’t ignore the way her stomach did a flip. Whenever he acted protective over her like that it did something to her, like the time a few frat guys she’d known back in college saw her at the diner and picked on her in front of Frank so he’d broken the ring leaders wrist as a ‘warning’. She had thought about it for weeks. It was hot, she couldn’t deny it. And he knew she thought it was hot. He’d seen it in her eyes when they left there.

“Or… we can care about people and not kill people for hurting their feelings,” Bambi suggests with an awkward chuckle, her cheeks turning red despite her attempts at fighting off the butterflies forming in her tummy.

Frank didn’t blink, “Ain’t how that works with me.” he mutters flatly, staring at Bambi like he was daring her to disagree with him, like if she did he’d track the last person to hurt her feelings down and beat them within an inch of her life just to prove his point, “Don’t give me that goody-goody bullshit, honey. I know it don’t bother you the way you’re pretendin’ it would,” Frank tilted his head, looking her up and down as he stayed leaning against the counter, “C’mere.” Bambi’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion, her fingers toying with the sleeves her sweater as she stepped over to him until he was towering over her, “S’been months since I’ve seen you, ain’t got the willpower anymore to pretend I don’t want you right now.” Frank murmurs, lifting a hand to cradle the back of her neck so she couldn’t look away from him. His hand was so big, so warm against her skin, it made her dizzy, “You want me, baby? Or you gonna keep pretendin’ the thought of me protectin’ you like that doesn’t turn you on?”

Bambi exhaled shakily through her nose, her eyes flickering over his face like the two years of yearning and longing for him were bubbling over in her heart and she couldn’t fight it anymore, “Not gonna play pretend.” she gives a little shake of her head, absentmindedly standing on her tiptoes to reach his lips easier.

“That’s what I thought,” Frank murmured under his breath as he leaned down to capture her mouth in a kiss. It wasn’t gentle, it was hungry and desperate to where it drew a low groan from the back of his throat as he slipped his tongue into her mouth. Frank’s other hand slid down her side, giving the soft flesh of her hips a squeeze through her skirt which made him groan again, “C’mere baby.” he murmurs against his lips as he slid his hands down beneath her thighs to pick her up and set her on the counter.

Bambi’s glasses knocked against his face as he kissed her again, his hands squeezing her hips to keep her pressed against him. Frank made a little sound of annoyance, reaching up to take them off, setting them on the counter with a gentleness he hardly showed anyone else before pulling her back into a hungry kiss. Bambi whimpered softly, her hands fisting his shirt as his hand slid up to cradle the back of her head.

“Been wantin’ you for two fuckin’ years,” he growls against her lips, rutting subtly against the juncture between her thighs, “And you say you’re not my problem? Ain’t like you to sound so stupid, not my girl. You’re too smart for that shit.” he mutters before kissing her again, her thighs lifting to tangle around his hips which made her skirt bunch up around hers, “My pretty girl’s so fuckin’ smart, best girl in the world, huh?” he pants as he sucked her lower lip between his, drawing out a dazed moan from Bambi. She felt utterly surrounded by him, utterly drunk on him as she let her head fall back against the kitchen cupboard.

“Can I take your clothes off, baby? Been dyin’ to,” Frank pleads, giving her thighs a firm squeeze as Bambi managed a jerky nod and breathy moan. Frank didn’t waste any time, pulling her off the counter to carry her over to his shitty queen bed shoved in the corner, all he could focus on was Bambi. Frank kicked off his boots after he laid her down, leaving her sprawled on his bed with a heaving chest and skirt bunched around her hips so her panties peeked out from beneath them. Frank was breathing heavier too, reaching down to unbuckle his pants to relieve the pressure on the obvious bulge in his pants before dropping to his knees beside the edge of the bed.

He grabbed her calves, tugging her until her bottom hung off the edge of the bed, “Let’s get this shit off you, honey,” he murmurs, almost to himself as he tugged her skirt off with the help of Bambi lifting her hips for him. Once those were off Frank tugged her even closer by the thighs until his nose and lips smooshed against her panty covered core. He groaned obscenely, tossing her legs over his shoulders as he placed open mouthed kisses to the damp fabric. He felt like a wolf in heat or like he’d been injected with some damned aphrodisiac, but no. It was just two years of fantasizing about himself in this very position, right on the bed he used to fuck his fist in at the thought of her.

“Smell so good, baby,” he all but purrs, placing a kiss to the outer edge of her panties where a bit of slick had slipped out. He licked it up with a moan before sucking a hickey onto the inside of her thigh right where it had been. His fingers slipped between the waistband of her panties to tug them down her legs, tossing them onto his pillow once they were off. He wanted them for a later day.

He exhaled roughly through his nose once she was bare in front of him, grasping her thigh to shove them further apart to get a better look at her. “Frank,” Bambi whines with a bashful chuckle, growing a bit embarrassed by him just staring at her pussy.

“What?” Frank asks with feigned innocence as he leaned in to lick her dripping entrance with the tip of his tongue. Bambi’s hips jerked with a sound that was a mix of a gasp in a moan, the action wiping the bashful expression off her face. Frank hummed in satisfaction, licking his lips as he parted her folds more with his thumbs, looking at her cunt like it was his last meal, “That’s what I’ve been wantin’, baby.” Frank murmurs as he closed his mouth over her center, slipping his tongue into her entrance without warning. Bambi’s thighs squeezed around his head with a startled sound, but quickly went slack as he started to pump his tongue in and out slowly as if he was savoring it.

Frank wasn’t sure how long he stayed down there. Could’ve been two minutes or two hours, he didn’t care. He was pussy drunk. Once her legs where shaking and hips jerking with desperate whimpers he finally let up, licking his lips like a starving man while rising to his feet to shove his pants and briefs down, then tug his shirt over his head.

“Wanna keep goin’, sweetheart?” Frank asks as he hovered over her, leaving enough room between them so she wouldn’t feel pressured to say yes. Bambi nodded with an eager ‘yes’, spreading her legs as far as they could go. Frank chuckled lowly from her eagerness, reaching up to tug her sweater up over her tits, and to his delight she wasn’t wearing a bra, “Oh baby.” he moans at the sight, leaning down to place a kiss to each of her nipples, “Shoulda known my girl would have such pretty little tits. Gonna look so fuckin’ good when they’re bouncing for me.” he murmurs, taking a moment to suckle on her nipple with a low moan before pulling back to tug her sweater off the rest of the way.

Once she was completely naked beneath him he sat up to look her over. Noting her blown out pupils, pink lips, heaving breasts, that soft tummy with wide hips, her puffy folds and swollen clit, then down to her luscious thighs. God, she was like his own personal wet dream, “Goddamn little girl…” he sighs in adoration as he leaned back down over her, grasping his cock to guide it inside her. He couldn’t resist glancing down to watch and neither could Bambi, lifting her head off the pillow to watch his tip get swallowed up by her swollen pussy. His jaw clenched with a guttural groan as he eased into her, stopping halfway through to give a few half thrusts to coat himself in her arousal better before easing the rest of the way in.

Bambi whimpered from the stretch of him, he was big. The perfect combination of length and girth that made her eyes want to cross, “That good, huh?” Frank teases with a cocky smirk as he looked down at her, though he couldn’t mask the adoration and reverence in his gaze, “Prettiest pussy in the world baby, knew it’d feel like heaven.” he says breathily as he set a steady rhythm, his hips smacking against the back of her thighs with each thrusts. His eyes stayed glued on her face as her eyebrows scrunched up in pleasure and her mouth dropped open with a shaky moan, “Look at me.” Frank rasps, grasping her jaw to force her to look back up at him, muttering ‘there’s my pretty girl’ once she peeled her eyes back open, “Feels so fuckin’ good, baby.” he says breathlessly with a little shake of his head in disbelief. He’d almost forgotten how good it felt to fuck, and Bambi somehow felt even better than what he remembered.

Frank planted a hand on her lower belly, pressing just enough to make her squeeze around him with a whimper as the other hand wrapped loosely around her throat. He wouldn’t choke her, wouldn’t risk hurting her or scaring her, but he wanted her to feel him there. Bambi could barely keep her eyes on him, eyelids droopy and mouth fallen open with a high pitched mewl that came with each snap of his hips. Frank was devouring the sight of her, that dazed, needy look she was giving him was the best thing he’d ever seen, “So fuckin’ beautiful like this. All sweet for me. Takin’ it like a good girl, huh?” he pants as Bambi gave a little nod in response, “That’s right, takin’ it so good for me, so proud’a you.”

Frank’s words had Bambi keening, her thighs beginning to shake around his hips. Frank practically growled, fucking her harder until the bed's shitty bed frame began to knock against the wall, “Frankie.” she sobs softly, barely able to get his name out between her endless string of moans.

“Right here baby, I got you,” he rasps, leaning back until he was kneeling between her legs. He grasped her hips to lift her slightly as he began to pound back into her. His eyes were glued on her, drifting from her face, to her bouncing tits and tummy, then down to where he was fucking into her. She was soaked, his cock was coated in her and dripping down his balls. It was pure fucking heaven. Bambi’s eyes rolled back, her hands flying to grip onto the sheets as she came undone with a broken cry.

Frank clenched his jaw with a groan, fighting with all his might to hold back his own climax so he could give her another, but after so long without sex he couldn’t hold it back. He shuddered with a choked moan, his grip on her hips nearly slipping as he shoved her firmly against his pelvis so he could reach as deep as possible as he emptied himself in her. The feeling of her warm, gummy walls clenching around him drew out the slightest whimper he tried to suppress but she felt too fucking good, milking him like a pro.

“Fuck baby,” he mutters roughly, pulling back just enough to give another rough slam of his hips into hers as the last of his climax washed over him. He slid out slightly, enjoying the sight of their sticky white cum coating his cock before he carefully pulled out the rest of the way, quickly catching his release with his thumb to push it back into her. Bambi’s thighs jerked from the overstimulation, she was still a breathless puddle on the bed, “Easy, sweetheart. Not lettin’ that go to waste.” Once he was satisfied his cum would stay inside her he reached blindly for his shirt off the floor to gently wipe her swollen folds, “There,” he murmurs once he was done, placing a fleeting kiss to her puffy clit before crawling up the bed to lay beside her.

Bambi instantly snuggled into him, utterly spent with her body turned to jelly as she plopped half on top of him. Frank chuckled under his breath, one hand cradling the back of her head and the other resting on her hip, “Get some sleep, honey. Did so good f’me.” he says softly as he placed a lingering kiss to her temple then nuzzled his nose there as he tried to let himself sleep as well. He hadn’t slept good since the last time he saw her, but tonight he was going to sleep like a rock with his angel in his arms.

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stuffingbuttsandshit · 24 days ago

Text

ᯓ★ “ MICROPHILIA ” — c.kent

“ making a wish on a passing car / waiting for superman to pick her up ” 🪽

MINORS DNI 18+ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ ✉️ | dc comics. WARNINGS: fem reader ノ established relationship ノ explicit sexual content ノ size difference ノ microphilia ノ pussy + clit rubbing ノ objectification ノ clark having an intense size kink ノ manhandling.

“so, you don’t feel any different? well, besides the…” CLARK KENT gestures vaguely to your body now standing at a proud six inches tall. “you know.” he finishes, hoisting his head onto the heel of his propped hand. you take a look at yourself in the mirror of your make-up palette, twirling the makeshift skirt you made yourself. you look like a little barbie doll.

you turn to face him. he’s always been big but now he’s monstrous. after you’ve been shrunk by a mad supervillain, you and clark’s size difference has shifted dramatically, to say the least. you shrug loftily, pouting out your lips, “not really. i’m adjusting, but i’m sure i’ll be back to normal soon.” you twirl in place to see your reflection one more time, and when you bend forward to look at the cute tinkerbell flats you wear, a breeze hits the curve of your backside.

“what’s this?” clark asks, and his voice gets all low and gravelly. that kind of vibration hits you harder with smaller ear canals, a full body reaction of goosebumps break out like you’re a frilling bird. he looms into your atmosphere, a giant fingertip coming to poke at your rump.

“hey!” you cry, jumping in place and hastily smoothing down the ruffle of your skirt to cover yourself. you round on him in time to see him straighten up after craning his neck to peek at you like some perv, his black curls bouncing at the top of his head from the snap of his spine back into place.

“you’re not wearing anything underneath that?” he asks, and you’re not sure how to interpret that question. if you didn’t know any better you’d guess he sounded a little… excited. uneasily, you scan his massive figure sitting in his seat to watch you as you stand on this table.

“well, what’d you expect?” you reply defensively, deflecting his indecipherable reaction. “i made myself these clothes in a hurry i didn’t have time for a pair of panties.” you yap, and your face twisted in annoyance surfaces his dimpled smile, amused by all that attitude fit into a person the size of a paper weight. once again you see that flash in his eyes, and you instinctively step back, crossing your arms to subconsciously cover yourself up more while wearing what’s essentially a tube top. “it’s just that making stuff like that is way harder…” your tone shifts noticeably, less startled now, and a little more apprehensive.

he leans back, and you hear the creak in his chair. mimicking your position by crossing his arms, his thick, veined arms, are shown off by the rolled-up sleeves of his white button-up. you swallow your dry mouth. that smile hasn’t faltered on his handsome features, and his eye contact is frustratingly unwavering, like he’s studying you. “yeah?” he confirms, and it comes off condescending, humoring you through your little outburst that he continues to find entertainment in.

“stop looking at me like that.” you bite back.

“like what?” he taunts you.

“like i’m a meal.”

for once he breaks the meet of your gazes only to let his wander your tiny body, wearing those ridiculous clothes. “ehhh,” he pinches his shoulder in a shrug, pricking up the side of his upper lip as he examines you, mulling it over, until he reintroduces that intense eye contact. “more like a little snack.”

“clark—” your weak protest is met with his surge, inclining in your direction to settle his elbows up on the table, the landing of them making the ground under you shake until you stumble down. you pick yourself up, but once again his finger comes to poke at you, promptly jabbing you in the chest to guide you back down. you open your mouth to object, make your voice sharp and annoying on purpose, but when you see the way his gaze takes you in with such greedy fascination, your bravery wanes. “what are you doing…?” you murmur, and gently he pinches at your arms and legs to rearrange your body. you try to pull them back in, but he’s persistent. “clark.” you reiterate.

“i just wanna see.” he responds, and he ducks his head to be able to get a better look at how small you really are down there.

once again your snatch the meager fabric of your skirt to cover yourself up reflexively. “see what?” you demand, but you know what he wants. it seems he’s already achieved it, yet he’s still manhandling you. “stop- pushing me!” you tell him, but the bullying doesn’t end, spreading your legs further for you with his fragile grip on your ankles. he treats you like a toy, fixing you up and maneuvering you. you feel that familiar heat burn up in your stomach, and you keep trying to close your thighs to protect it.

“alright, alright, you’re right, i’m sorry.” he concedes, his apology sincere for getting ahead of himself. to prove his word’s worth, he raises his hands, and you briefly experience a flare of disappointment. sitting on this table, your clothes in disarray and your posture a mess, you mourn the loss of his body heat and his interested touch. glossy wide eyes peer up at him like a doe’s but he presses his lips together to steel himself. “i got excited, i dunno, you’re just so… so little.” you teeth bite hard into your bottom lip. in this moment you can tell he likes it—that he’s been beside himself about it. it’s most likely a kink he never knew he had until the opportunity presented itself so prettily. you pull your knees to yourself until you can get your feet under you, and before you stand, your hand comes to tap, tap at the surface next to you. it takes him a second to realize what you want, but promptly offers his open palm to you so you can climb on and curl up.

you pout to yourself, a single nail tracing aimless circles into the creases of his palm lines, daring to glance up at him every so often. “clark…” you begin, “we could, you know, keep going—if you wanted.” he pauses, gauging you as you continue to dodge his eyes. “if you’re gentle.” you add, finally granting him your pretty gaze as you test his limits. . . .

“bet you can’t even fit my pinky finger.” he breathes, thinly veiling a groan as he watches you lose yourself on the pad of his thumb. you’re laid out on his hand like an unfurled flower, lifting you hips to scrub your little pussy over the ridges of his thumbprint. outfit long since discarded, you’re a naked barbie doll fucking yourself for him. “we could try—“

“i wanna try something else next.” you interrupt, tone ragged from effort as a thin sheen of sweat percolates on your skin. his thumb twitches, and you inhale sharply from the sudden shift against your clit. any of the smallest movements is viable to have great impact on you now, hissing as your hips sink to drag your sex down the bone of his finger.

“yeah? what’s that?” there’s real eagerness to his voice, shoulders hunching further over to curl his great body around you like a halo, practically resource-guarding you while you give him a private show of what this fairy-size is capable of. your nails dig into his flesh the best you can, leading his thumb to bend so that he can pet your cunt himself, teaching him the right pressure and pace for your new body and its restrictions.

finally you answer him, peeling your eyes open to meet his dark gaze. “wanna see what i look like standing next to your dick.”

@HANASNX 2025 | do not copy, plagiarize, or steal.

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