YOU GUYS IT’S DECEMBER 10TH YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND THIS HAS BEEN IN MY QUEUE SINCE FEBRUARY
you have the rest of the day to reblog this
the fact that you need to date a girl to prove that you’re bisexual kills me…like bisexual is about liking / being attracted to both genders and it’s ok to date a boy. this doesn’t mean you’re straight ?
oddly intrigued with the idea of Superman with a fashion/supersuit designer!reader like Edna from the incredibles…because why does this dynamic actually make sense?
"Gary! Where's my super-suit? I can't find it anywhere."
Clark often had wardrobe malfunctions. And that was a given, considering the number of things he did on a daily basis. Needless to say, he'd blown through all fifteen of his back-up suits, like pollen in the wind.
"I'm sorry, Superman, it seems that the one that mole-man burned through was your very last one."
Clark wearily lifts up the tattered blue and red, seeing Gary's 'dejected' head tilt at the delivery of bad news through the giant hole.
Oh boy. That only meant one thing.
He had to pay you a visit.
"You're kidding me."
"I…I'm…deeply sorry. I am. But the material seems to be —"
The loud thud of Clark's sad little pile of worn super-suits quickly slips beneath a chamber of your floors, and he's quickly silenced by your glare.
He remains taut-lipped, with his hands politely pressed behind his back, much like a child getting reprimanded.
"Seems to be…what?" You challenge, approaching him in quick strides, every dull thud of your heels making Clark effectively jolt at every one of them.
"….seems to be cheap and tearing far too easily."
"Excuse me?!"
Your anger was immediate, and it's conveyed with incessant bops to Clark's chest with your half crumpled magazine. "How dare you insinuate MY materials are cheap?!"
"I-I just meant —"
He doesn't stop your assault, on account of them barely really hurting.
"You're the issue in the equation! I've never had Bruce come back to me with a worn out suit! It's your ridiculous alien physiology thats destroying my babies! My creations!"
The use of that word has him grabbing your wrist, crushing the paper over your hold.
"I apologise. I'll compensate." He says earnestly.
You huff and pull away, letting the zine thud to the ground.
"Very well."
Clark watches you turn and take two steps away, then, look over your shoulder.
"Pages 128 - 150." You say simply, nudging your head towards the ground. "I want them all."
You don't offer any other information.
Clark picks up the magazine catalogue with a puzzled look, taking in the pages you pointed out. All of them, obscenely expensive designer brands, from accessories to furnitures.
"…Okay.."
⭑𓂃 mean sex + sweet aftercare w dick ⋮ requested
he’s already deep in you when it starts—fingers locked around your wrists, pinning them down to the sheets above your head, his hips grinding slow and unrelenting into yours. you’re panting under him, knees trembling, arms flexing against his grip, but he doesn’t let up. doesn’t even blink.
“what’s the matter, sweetheart?” his voice is low, a little breathless. cocky. mean. “said you could take it. you begged for it.”
you gasp when he thrusts deeper, slow and cruel, dragging it out just to watch your mouth fall open.
“now you wanna cry?”
his mouth curls. he leans down, breath warm over your throat. “you’re taking it so well though. so tight around me. so fucking wet. this pussy’s greedy, baby. got her clenching like she’s tryna keep me forever.”
you moan, but it comes out choked, strangled in your throat.
his hand lets go of your wrists only to wrap around your throat. not squeezing. just holding. grounding. claiming.
“look at me.”
you do. and he snaps his hips into yours, making you cry out, thighs twitching.
“yeah, that’s what i fucking thought.”
he fucks you harder. not reckless—controlled. like he knows exactly where you break and keeps you hovering just above it. groaning when you whimper. tightening his grip when your fingers scrabble at his chest like you don’t know what to do with yourself.
“so cockdrunk,” he mutters, not even trying to be nice about it. “so fuckin’ gone for me. what would people think if they saw you like this, huh? needy little thing, can’t even beg right—”
you cry his name.
and that’s it.
he softens instantly.
his hands are on your face. your hips. your thighs. moving gentle and fast, like he needs to check you, feel you, anchor you back down.
“hey, hey—it’s okay. i’ve got you. breathe. that’s it, baby, you did so good.”
he’s pulling out slow. kissing your temple. running his hand over your belly where you’re still twitching. you feel the shift in his energy like a drop in pressure, like rain after lightning.
he strokes your cheek with the backs of his knuckles, presses a kiss to your collarbone, then murmurs, “too much? did i go too far? tell me, sweetheart, i’m right here.”
you shake your head. your voice breaks: “n-no, it was good. i liked it.”
his mouth curves soft. “you sure?”
you nod and he smiles, leans in, kisses you slow. nothing like before.
“i’m gonna clean you up, alright?”
he brings a warm cloth. wipes between your thighs with one hand while the other strokes your knee, your hip. he’s talking the whole time, so quietly—“you’re perfect, you’re mine, did so good for me, i love you so much.”
he gets you water. a blanket. lays behind you, chest to your back, arms around you tight. and right before you fall asleep, he whispers against your ear:
“i can be mean, baby. but i’ll always be good to you.”
did i eat or whaaa
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