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MINI NOTE: okay, so… I'm back? After MONTHS of not writing a single word, I randomly got inspired tonight. I was bored, this idea hit me, and I just had to get it out. I'm a little rusty, so I hope you enjoy it! Sorry for disappearing..

CW: 18+ SMUT MDNI, fem!reader, explicit sexual content, cheating/infidelity, emotional conflict, substance use (alcohol), and toxic relationships.

I accept requests!!

Tannyhill isn't just packed tonight.. it's a living, breathing entity of chaos. The bass from the speakers is a physical presence, a relentless thrum that vibrates up from the floorboards through the soles of your shoes and into your bones. The air is a thick, intoxicating cocktail of spilled tequila, cloying perfume, and the damp heat of too many bodies pressed together. And everywhere, the soundtrack to it all is a cacophony of shouting laughter, slurred conversations, and the clinking of glass, a symphony of terrible decisions being made in real time.

Everyone seems to be thriving in it.

Everyone except you.

You're stationed next to Topper by the kitchen counter, a hostage to his good time. The drink in your hand is beaded with condensation, a prop you've barely touched. Topper is holding court, his voice booming as he talks to two guys from the country club about golf scores or stock portfolios or something equally meaningless. You've perfected the art of the vacant nod, your smile a mask you hope holds up under the kitchen's recessed lighting.

Topper is radiant. His arm is a constant, heavy weight around your waist, pulling you flush against his side every few minutes in a gesture that feels less like affection and more like brandishing a prize. His hand rests proprietorially on the curve of your back, then drifts lower to squeeze your hip. He leans down, his breath hot and smelling of beer, to press a wet kiss into your hairline while his conversation never skips a beat.

He looks triumphant. Like he's won a lottery he doesn't even appreciate.

Like you're a trophy he gets to polish in public.

But your gaze, a traitor to your body, keeps snagging on a fixed point across the room.

It started as a prickle on the back of your neck, an instinctual awareness that cut through the noise. Then you looked up, and there he was.

Rafe Cameron.

He's holding court of his own, sprawled on one of the massive living room couches with an unnerving stillness, like a predator at rest. One arm is draped along the back of the couch, a casual display of ownership. A girl, Sofia, you think with a dull pang of recognition, is all but melted into his lap, her dress a scrap of fabric high on her thighs as she whispers something into his neck that makes her giggle.

His hand is on her leg, his thumb stroking a slow, idle pattern against her skin. But the performance is for an audience of one, and she doesn't seem to know it.

Because his eyes, dark and unnervingly focused, are locked on you.

And once you have his attention, you realize he’s been watching you for a while.

Sofia presses a clumsy kiss to his jaw, a gesture he acknowledges with a barely perceptible shift of his head. His hand doesn't move. His gaze doesn't waver. He looks more intrigued than embarrassed, a faint, knowing smirk playing at the corners of his mouth as he watches you watch him.

Topper's voice fades into a dull, monotonous drone. The party, the noise, the people, it all recedes, leaving just the charged space between you and Rafe. It's a silent, dangerous game, and he’s enjoying it immensely.

The tide of the party shifts. Kelce materializes across the room, a tray of shots held aloft like a sacred offering as he bellows Topper’s name. Topper's attention is instantly diverted. The promise of cheap liquor and louder laughter is a siren song he can't resist.

He detaches from you, leaning in to press a sloppy, perfunctory kiss to your cheek. "Be right back, babe," he shouts over the music. "Kelce's got shots!"

And then he’s gone, swallowed by the crowd.

You're an island.

You turn back to the counter, setting your untouched drink down and grabbing another, the cold glass a flimsy anchor in the sea of strangers. You wipe the condensation away with your thumb, a pointless, repetitive motion, anything to avoid looking at him.

But you feel him before you hear him.

A shift in the air pressure, a change in the light.

"I was wondering when he'd get bored and leave you stranded."

Rafe's voice is low, a rough murmur meant only for you, and it sends a jolt of electricity straight through your system.

You turn slowly, and he's right there, invading your personal space. The top button of his shirt is undone, his hair is artfully messy, and there's the faint, glittery smear of lip gloss on his cheek, a brand that isn't yours.

Your eyes flick to it.

He catches the look, a humorless smile touching his lips. "Don't start."

You raise an eyebrow, feigning a composure you don't feel. "She looks cozy."

"She's a fan," he replies with a dismissive shrug.

The casual dismissal twists in your gut. "And you?"

His gaze drops from your eyes to your mouth, a deliberate, heated journey. "And I," he says, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "am not."

He closes the remaining distance, a subtle movement that no one else would notice but that feels like a seismic shift to you. He places a hand on the counter on the other side of you, caging you in. It's a classic move, a power play, and your body responds with a traitorous flush of heat.

"Miss me?" he asks, the question a direct hit to the carefully constructed walls around your heart.

You force a swallow, trying to keep your voice even. "I wasn't sure you'd be speaking to me tonight."

"I wasn't planning on it," he admits, his eyes glancing past you toward the spot where Topper disappeared. "Not with him pawing at you. Not with her hanging off me." He lets out a slow breath, and you can feel the warmth of it on your cheek. "But then I saw you standing here. Looking like you'd rather be anywhere else."

His voice softens, roughens. "And apparently, my self-control is still shot to hell."

Your pulse is a frantic drumbeat against your ribs. "Rafe…"

"You know what I can't stand?" he murmurs, his fingers ghosting over the sensitive skin of your wrist. "The way he looks at you."

Your breath hitches.

"Like he won the lottery," he continues, his tone laced with a quiet venom. "Like he has some kind of right to put his hands on you."

He shakes his head, a short, sharp movement. "Like he has no fucking idea he's just keeping your seat warm."

You look up, meeting the storm in his eyes. "And whose seat is it?"

His gaze darkens, the amusement gone, replaced by something raw and possessive. "You already know the answer to that."

The silence stretches, thick and heavy with everything you're not saying. The party rages on, oblivious.

Then he leans in closer, his voice a conspiratorial whisper against your ear. "Remember the first time?"

Your stomach clenches at the memory.

"You tried so hard to be quiet," he says, his thumb now tracing the line of your jaw. "Thought if you didn't make a sound, it didn't count."

You give a faint, almost imperceptible nod.

"And the second time," he adds, his lips brushing your skin. "Upstairs. You kept saying it was the last time."

His eyes search yours. "But you didn't want me to stop, did you?"

Your breathing is shallow, uneven.

He studies your face for a beat longer, his expression unreadable. "Come on," he murmurs. "Let's go upstairs."

For a moment, you're frozen. The music pounds, people laugh, but all you can hear is the roar of blood in your ears.

"Rafe…" It's a weak protest, and you both know it.

His jaw tightens. "Don't say it like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you're about to give me the 'I have a boyfriend' speech."

Your eyes dart past him, instinctively scanning the crowd for Topper. You find him instantly by the kitchen island, a shot glass in hand, his head thrown back as he laughs with Kelce. He hasn't looked for you once.

When you look back at Rafe, he’s already watching you, his expression knowing.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "Exactly."

You let out a shaky breath. "You're the one who came over here."

"And you're the one who stayed," he counters, his voice soft but unyielding. "So, what's it going to be?"

He pushes off the counter, running a restless hand through his hair. The sudden loss of his proximity makes you feel cold. "You should go back to him," he says, the words tasting like ash. "That's what good girlfriends do, right?"

There's a bitter edge to his tone that you can't ignore. "You don't mean that."

"Sure I do," he says, though it sounds hollow. "He's your boyfriend. I'm just the guy you pretend didn't happen."

"That's not fair."

He lets out a short, sharp laugh. "Come on. You see the way he parades you around. Like he's the king of the world and you're his crown. He has no idea."

"No," you agree, your voice barely a whisper. "He doesn't."

The space between you feels charged, a silent battlefield. Rafe is still too close, his scent a heady mix of expensive cologne and rebellion. His eyes scan your face, not with softness, but with a sharp, analytical intensity, as if he’s mapping every flicker of hesitation and desire.

Then, he gives a short, decisive nod toward the front of the house. "My truck."

Your stomach lurches, a dizzying combination of fear and anticipation. He sees the reaction instantly, a flicker of triumph in his gaze.

"Relax," he says, his voice a low, calming murmur that does anything but. "Ten minutes. That's all I need."

He leans in just a fraction more, his lips nearly brushing your ear. "Then you can go right back to your boyfriend and play the part. Pretend this never happened."

The way he says boyfriend is a deliberate insult, a reminder of the lie you're living. It makes your chest ache with a guilt that's quickly being incinerated by a much hotter, more dangerous emotion.

"You're unbelievable," you breathe, the words devoid of any real conviction.

Rafe just shrugs, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. "You could've walked away at any point," he says quietly, his gaze unwavering. "You didn't."

He doesn't wait for a response. He turns and starts walking, a confident, easy stride through the throng of bodies. He doesn't look back to see if you're following. He already knows.

You hesitate for a heartbeat, your eyes scanning the room one last time. Topper is still by the kitchen, now slinging his arm around some other girl's shoulders as he tells a story, his laughter booming over the music. A cold, sharp clarity cuts through you.

Then you turn and follow Rafe.

The journey through the house feels surreal. You move through the loud, bright chaos like a ghost, no one paying you any mind as you slip past couples tangled on the stairs and groups huddled in doorways. The front door opens, and the cool, damp night air is a shock to your system, clearing your head for a split second before the sight of him brings the haze right back.

He's standing by his truck, parked under the sprawling branches of an old oak tree, away from the glare of the porch lights. The engine is off, and the vehicle sits in the darkness like a silent, waiting beast.

He turns as you approach, his face shadowed but his eyes catching the faint light. For a moment, you just stand there, the distant thud of the party the only sound between you.

"You can still go back," he says, his voice quiet, giving you one last out.

Your gaze flicks toward the house, a glowing box of noise and people. Then you look back at the boy in front of you, the one who feels more like home than any place ever has.

Rafe watches the decision play out across your face, and when you don't move, he reaches for the back door. He pulls it open, the interior light casting a warm, golden glow on the worn leather seats. He holds it open, an unspoken invitation.

"Ten minutes," he reminds you, his voice a low rumble.

You don’t hesitate. You slide into the back seat of his truck, the worn leather cool against your bare legs. The space is cramped, smelling faintly of him, that familiar mix of his cologne, the mint from the gum he’s always chewing, and something that’s just undeniably Rafe. He follows you in, pulling the heavy door shut behind him with a solid thud that seals you both in a sudden, profound silence. The muffled bass from the party is a distant heartbeat, a world away.

The interior light clicks off, plunging you into near darkness, save for the soft glow of the porch lights filtering through the tinted windows. It’s enough to see the sharp, predatory lines of his face as he turns to you. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. The air is so thick with unspoken history and raw want that it feels like you could choke on it.

He moves first, crowding into your space. One hand braces against the window beside your head, the other grips the back of the seat, caging you in. You can feel the heat radiating from his body, see the dark intensity in his eyes as they sweep over your face, down to the neckline of your dress.

“You’re still here” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through you. It’s not a question.

You answer by closing the small distance between you, crashing your lips against his. It’s not a gentle kiss; it’s a desperate, punishing thing. All the frustration, the longing, the jealousy from watching him with Sofia, from feeling Topper’s possessive hands on you, pours into it. He meets your intensity with his own, his mouth slanting over yours, his tongue delving deep to stake a claim that feels both brand new and as familiar as your own name.

His hand leaves the back of the seat and finds your waist, fingers digging into the soft fabric of your dress and the skin beneath. He pulls you flush against him, and you can feel how hard he already is, the rigid line of his cock pressing against your hip through his jeans. A soft, needy sound escapes your throat, and he swallows it, kissing you harder, deeper, like he’s trying to devour you whole.

“Rafe” you gasp, breaking away for air as his lips trail down your jaw, his teeth scraping over the sensitive skin of your neck.

“I know, baby” he growls against your throat. “I know.” His hand slides from your waist down to your thigh, pushing the hem of your dress up, up, up until his fingers are brushing against the edge of your panties. “You’re so fucking wet for me already, aren’t you?”

You can only whimper in response, your head falling back against the cool leather of the seat as his thumb presses against the damp fabric, right over your clit. He circles it slowly, torturously, a smug, knowing grin playing on his lips as he watches you fall apart under his touch.

“Tell me you want this,” he demands, his voice low and commanding. “Say it.”

“God, Rafe, I want this,” you breathe out, the words torn from you. “I want you.”

That’s all the permission he needs. With a deft, practiced motion, he hooks his fingers in the side of your panties and pulls them down. You lift your hips to help him, and he tosses the scrap of lace onto the floorboard without a second thought. His hand is back on you in an instant, his fingers sliding through your slick folds, gathering your wetness before one, then two, push inside you.

You arch off the seat, a sharp cry tearing from your lips as he curls his fingers, finding that spot inside you that only he’s ever been able to reach. He sets a relentless rhythm, his thumb working your clit in time with the thrust of his fingers. The windows are starting to fog up, blurring the outside world into nothing but streaks of light and shadow. It’s just you and him in this small, heated space, the sounds of your ragged breathing and the wet, slick sounds of his fingers working you filling the air.

“You look so good like this,” he murmurs, his voice thick with arousal. “All spread out for me. So fucking beautiful.”

His words are your undoing. The tension that’s been coiling in your belly all night finally snaps, and you come with a choked cry, your body shaking as waves of pleasure crash over you. He works you through it, his movements slowing as you come down, his fingers still buried deep inside you.

Before you can fully catch your breath, he’s pulling his hand away and fumbling with the button on his jeans. The sound of his zipper lowering is impossibly loud in the quiet car. He shoves his jeans and boxers down just enough, and his cock springs free, hard and thick and already beading with precum.

He shifts over you, settling between your thighs. The blunt head of his cock nudges against your entrance, and you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, needing him inside you now.

He pushes into you in one slow, deep thrust that steals the air from your lungs. He stills for a moment, letting you adjust to the overwhelming stretch, his forehead resting against yours. You can feel his heart hammering against your chest, feel his ragged breath fan across your face.

“Fuck,” he groans, his voice strained. “You feel… so perfect.”

Then he starts to move. He sets a punishing pace from the start, his hips snapping against yours, each thrust driving him deeper, harder. The truck rocks with the force of it, the springs creaking in protest. It’s frantic and messy and desperate, exactly like the two of you. His hands are everywhere, tangling in your hair, gripping your hips, squeezing your ass, pulling you impossibly closer to meet his every thrust.

“Tell me,” he pants against your ear, his voice ragged. “Tell me he doesn’t fuck you like this.”

You can’t form words, can only shake your head and cling to his shoulders, your nails digging into the fabric of his shirt.

“Say it,” he demands, his thrusts becoming even more erratic. “Say my name.”

“Rafe,” you sob, the name a prayer and a curse on your lips. “Rafe, god, yes…”

He groans, a raw, guttural sound, and captures your mouth in a searing kiss as he drives into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt as he comes, his cock pulsing inside you. The feeling of him filling you sends you over the edge again, and you shudder around him, a second, smaller orgasm rippling through your exhausted body.

For a long moment, you just lie there, a tangled, sweaty heap in the back seat of his truck. The only sounds are your combined, ragged breaths slowly returning to normal. The music from the party is just a faint thud now, a reminder of the world you have to go back to.

Eventually, he pushes himself up, pulling out of you gently. He doesn’t say anything as he adjusts his clothes, his movements slow and deliberate. You sit up, pulling your dress back down over your thighs, feeling the ache between your legs, the stickiness on your skin.

He reaches for the door handle, then pauses, looking back at you. In the dim light, his expression is unreadable.

“Your ten minutes are up,” he says, his voice flat, devoid of the passion from moments before.

MINI NOTE: this was not supposed to be that long LMAO. but here we are. hope everyone who asked for 2 is fully fed and satisfied 🫡

CW: 18+ SMUT MDNI, fem!reader, soft dom clark kent, fingering, first time sex, size kink, emotional edging, very slow stretch, praise kink, cock worship, soft aftercare, deep intimacy, no use of y/n

i accept requests!!

The rain is steady outside, soft against the windows, and the bedroom is warm — quiet in that way that makes everything feel like it’s holding its breath.

You’re straddled across his lap, sitting over Clark’s thighs, your hands resting on his shoulders. Your sleep shirt is still on, barely covering anything. His sweats are loose, and you can feel the heat of him pressed against the thin fabric of your panties. Neither of you is fully undressed yet, but the tension between your bodies is unmistakable.

He’s watching you closely — eyes low, fingers running lightly up and down your bare thighs. He hasn’t kissed you in a while. Not since you whispered it.

“I think I’m ready.”

And you meant it.

But Clark doesn’t move on words alone.

He tilts his head slightly, gaze steady. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” He brushes his thumb just under the hem of your panties. “We’ll take our time.”

There’s no performance in his voice. No teasing. Just steady patience — quiet and warm and deliberate.

He shifts on the bed, gently guiding you onto your back. You lie down slowly, heart thudding as he stretches over you, holding himself up on his elbows. You reach for him instinctively, and he kisses you — not deep, not possessive. Just soft. Grounding.

Then he speaks against your lips. “Let me feel you first.”

Your breath catches. “Okay.”

His hand slides down your side, tracing over your hip, then gliding between your legs. He doesn’t go for your clit right away. He cups you over your panties first, palm warm and firm, applying just enough pressure to make you twitch.

“You’re already soaked,” he murmurs, voice a little lower now.

You shift beneath him, embarrassed. “I’ve been thinking about this for days.”

He huffs softly. “I can tell.”

He tugs the fabric to the side. His fingers slip between your folds, spreading the wetness slowly, coating his fingertips.

Then one presses in.

You gasp — even now, after weeks of preparation, the stretch is immediate. His finger is thicker than anything you’ve used on yourself. Bigger. He doesn’t thrust. He just slides in, slow, steady, all the way to the knuckle.

Your body tightens around him.

He watches your face.

“Still tight,” he says, quiet but certain.

You nod, breathing hard. “Yeah.”

He starts to move it — not fast. Not even rhythmically. Just in and out, slow and careful, watching how your body takes it.

You squirm slightly. “More. I want more.”

“Hold still.”

His other hand comes to your waist, pinning you gently.

You freeze.

“You’re not ready for more until your body stops fighting it.”

You bite your lip, trying to stay still.

He fucks you with that one finger for a while — slow, deep strokes — and you can’t stop whimpering. Your hips twitch, but he holds you firm.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, eyes locked on your face. “That stretch? That’s one finger, baby. One.”

You nod, biting back a moan.

He pulls out slowly, then pushes in again. Your breath stutters.

“I could make you come just like this,” he says.

“I want more,” you whisper again. “I want you.”

“Not yet.”

He kisses you softly, then adds a second finger.

You gasp, thighs jerking, your walls fluttering hard around him.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “Still tight. But your body’s opening.”

He stretches you slowly, fingers scissoring just enough to coax more space. His mouth drops to your chest, kissing softly while his fingers move deeper, pushing against something that makes your breath catch.

You moan aloud, and he stills.

“Right there?” he asks.

You nod quickly. “Yes—please—”

But instead of speeding up, he slows down. His hand on your waist holds you still, and the thrust of his fingers turns smooth again — deep and patient.

“You need to take your time,” he murmurs. “Let your body get used to it.”

“I want you inside,” you breathe, arching.

“I know you do.” He presses a kiss to your collarbone. “But I’m not going inside until you’re soft around two.”

You try to lift your hips again, but he doesn’t let you. His fingers keep working you open, coaxing you, filling you. You feel every slow drag, every curl, every careful press.

It’s not until a few minutes later — when your thighs stop shaking, when your walls stop fluttering tight around his fingers and start welcoming them — that he finally shifts.

He pulls out slowly.

Your body clenches at the loss.

Then he leans up over you again, looking down, and says softly, “Now I’m going to show you what you’ve been preparing for.”

And when he slides his sweats down and you see him. You don’t know what you expected to feel in this moment — this exact moment, with him kneeling between your legs, his hands warm on your thighs, his gaze low and deliberate as he strokes himself slowly in the glow of the bedroom light.

But you hadn’t expected this.

You hadn’t expected the silence.

The unbearable hush in the air as he parts your thighs further with just the weight of his palms, easing you open like a secret. Your heart stammers inside your chest. Your breath feels thin. Every part of your body is humming — with heat, with nerves, with some kind of raw, open vulnerability that feels too big for your skin.

And then you see him.

Not just glimpses — not just the outline through his sweats like all the nights before — but all of him.

Thick. Heavy. Veined. His cock is flushed dark at the tip, the size of it terrifying and beautiful all at once, and your stomach clenches so hard you nearly forget to breathe.

“Oh,” you whisper.

Clark doesn’t move at first. He watches you watching him, his hand wrapped loosely around the base of his cock, fingers slow, almost lazy in how he strokes himself.

The contrast of it — your wide eyes and his impossible calm — sends a hot flush crawling up your neck.

His voice is low. “Too much?”

You shake your head, but your mouth is dry. “It’s just… I didn’t know you were…”

“Big?” he finishes, a little amused. His thumb swipes lazily across the head of his cock, catching the slick there. “You knew.”

“Not like this.”

He doesn’t respond. Just shifts forward slightly between your legs, guiding himself toward your center. You tense instinctively, and his eyes flick up.

“We don’t have to rush.”

“I don’t want to wait anymore,” you breathe. “I want to feel it.”

“Then let me show you what it feels like,” he murmurs, leaning over you, bracing himself with one arm above your head as the other reaches down between your bodies.

The head of his cock brushes against your entrance, and your entire body jerks.

The heat of it is unreal. He hasn’t even pressed inside, and already your walls flutter open, slick with anticipation, nerves drawn tight.

You whimper, breath catching.

Clark watches your face closely, his body still. “Easy,” he says softly. “Let me feel you first.”

He nudges forward, no more than an inch — and still, you gasp.

It’s not even the stretch yet. It’s the threat of it. The promise.

Your body reacts like it knows what’s coming, like it’s preparing itself to be overwhelmed.

“Relax,” he whispers. “Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

You try.

You try to breathe, to stay still as the head of his cock starts to press in — slow, devastating pressure that makes your thighs tremble. Your mouth falls open, but no sound comes out. It’s not pain. Not quite. Just the impossible fullness of being opened wider than you thought your body could manage.

Clark stills immediately.

“Too much?”

You shake your head frantically. “No—no, I just… you’re really… there.”

He gives a quiet, breathless laugh, but it’s strained.

“I haven’t even given you more than the tip.”

You blink. “That’s not possible.”

“It is.”

You look down between your bodies and see it — just the head inside you. Barely that. And still, your body is clenching around him, trying to hold him in, trying to adjust, even as he hasn’t moved.

Clark’s eyes flick up again. This time, they’re darker.

“Still think you’re ready?” he asks softly.

You reach up, hand brushing his jaw. “I’ve never been more sure.”

He kisses you then — slow, grounding — and when he pulls back, his hips shift.

A little deeper.

You gasp.

Your eyes squeeze shut, head tipping back into the pillow, and he freezes again, waiting, letting you breathe through it.

Your legs twitch around his hips.

“Oh my god,” you whisper. “You weren’t kidding. This is going to take time.”

His voice is rough when he answers, but patient.

“We’ve got time.”

He kisses your cheek, the side of your neck, whispers how proud he is of you, how beautiful you are like this — stretched around the thick head of his cock, trembling, trying to take more.

And slowly — achingly slowly — he starts to push deeper.

The second inch is worse than the first.

You can feel every vein, every deliberate grind of him easing deeper. Your walls resist him — fluttering, squeezing, fluttering again — as if your body can’t quite decide whether to cling to him or push him out. But Clark doesn’t stop. He moves so slowly you can feel every second stretch into forever.

He’s breathing hard above you, chest heaving with restraint, his biceps trembling where they’re braced on either side of your head. He doesn’t look at your body. He watches your face. Like he’s reading you for every twitch, every wince, every spark of pleasure that flickers behind your lashes.

“Still good?” he whispers, voice rough.

You nod, then shake your head, then nod again — completely overwhelmed. “It’s so much…”

“I know, baby,” he murmurs, dropping his head to kiss the skin just below your ear. “I know.”

It’s not pain. Not even close. But it hurts in that way that’s almost pleasurable — an ache, a burn, a tightness that coils low in your belly as your body learns to make space for him. You’ve never felt so full in your life. And you know — terrifyingly, wonderfully — he’s not even halfway in.

Your thighs quiver. You can feel yourself dripping around him, and he groans when your hips shift, the movement making your body clench again. His teeth grit. His jaw locks. The hand beneath your thigh flexes, tightening its grip.

“Don’t move,” he warns, even as his voice softens. “You do that again, and I won’t last long enough to give you everything.”

You swallow hard, but obey. He’s right. Your body is already threatening to spiral. The pressure is building with nothing but the stretch of him, no thrusting, no friction — just the sheer act of taking him. Slowly. Inescapably.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers.

“I’m trying,” you breathe. “I want to take you.”

“You are taking me,” he says, the heat in his voice barely contained. “God, look at you. You’re fucking incredible.”

His lips graze your jaw, then your cheekbone, then down to your throat. He doesn’t push deeper until your breath steadies — and even then, it’s barely more than a measured inch at a time. Every movement feels calculated, studied, almost reverent.

When he bottoms out — when his hips finally press flush against yours and he’s buried so deeply inside you that it feels like he’s touched something no one ever has — your breath catches so violently you see stars.

You don’t speak. You can’t. All you can do is gasp and hold onto him, nails digging into his back, your legs shaking around his waist.

Clark doesn’t move. Not a single inch. He stays completely still, letting you take it, letting your body adjust to the impossible weight and heat of him fully inside you.

His mouth hovers over your cheek as he whispers, “That’s it. All the way. You’ve got me.”

A tear slips from the corner of your eye — not from pain, but from the overwhelm. From the feeling of being filled. Of being chosen. There’s nothing between you now. No teasing, no holding back. Just Clark, deep inside you, his body molded to yours, his presence so all-consuming it feels like gravity.

“You okay?” he asks again, quieter now. His thumb brushes the tear from your cheek.

You nod, blinking up at him. “I just… I’ve never felt anything like this.”

He smiles then — not cocky, not smug — just soft, full of something deeper. Something quiet and possessive.

“I told you I’d make it worth the wait.”

You laugh, breathless, and your hips twitch instinctively. That’s all it takes — just that little movement — for his body to twitch in response, the drag of him inside you sudden and sharp.

You gasp.

And then you moan.

“Clark—”

“I know.”

He pulls out just slightly — an inch, maybe two — and pushes back in. The movement is slow, deep, maddening. You arch off the bed, every nerve ending lighting up. The stretch is still there, but your body isn’t fighting anymore. You’re welcoming it. Gripping him, begging for more.

He thrusts again, just once, and you make a sound he’s never heard from you before. Half-shocked, half-desperate.

“Fuck,” he groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “You feel like velvet. Jesus Christ.”

You cling to him, nails scraping down his spine. “You’re huge. You’re so deep—”

“I know. I know, baby.”

Another thrust. This one slower. He grinds into you at the end of it, and your head falls back with a gasp.

“Too much?”

You shake your head wildly. “No. It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

Clark kisses you then — full and deep, like he’s sealing the moment between your bodies, like he’s giving you a part of himself that no one else will ever touch. When he moves again, he doesn’t ask for permission.

Your body already knows the answer.

He starts to thrust with purpose — not fast, not rough — just deep and controlled, every roll of his hips deliberate and angled. He watches your face the whole time. He wants to see it when you break.

You don’t last long.

Your body’s been spiraling toward this for days. Weeks. Months of wanting him, waiting for him, dreaming of this exact stretch, this exact press of his hips, this exact weight of his body filling you up.

You come so hard, so fast, it doesn’t feel real.

The orgasm tears through you like a shockwave. Your thighs lock around his waist, your nails dig into his shoulders, your breath catches in a half-scream that doesn’t even sound like your voice. You cry out his name, half a sob, as your body trembles beneath him.

Clark holds you through it. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t thrust. He just stays deep, whispering praise into your skin — good girl, I’ve got you, let it happen, let me feel it— and your walls spasm around him, again and again, pulling him even deeper than before.

You’re crying when it ends. Just a little. Not sadness. Just… everything.

He brushes the hair from your face. His voice is quieter now. Raw.

“You okay?”

You nod, dazed. “I didn’t know it could feel like that.”

He doesn’t say anything. He just presses his lips to your forehead.

And then, as your body softens around him — tender and wet and open — he starts to move again.

The way your body is trembling beneath him should be enough to make him stop. But it’s not the kind of trembling that means pain — it’s the kind that comes from being cracked open, reshaped. The kind that means your body’s never known this kind of fullness before.

Clark’s voice is unsteady when he speaks — not from loss of control, but from the depth of what he’s feeling. You’ve come already. Your body’s slick and shaking and pulsing around him, and he’s still holding himself back because even now — buried this deep, this far gone — you still come first.

His mouth is pressed to your jaw, murmuring softly. “I’m gonna let go, baby… but I need to know you’re okay. Still okay?”

You nod, breath hitching. “I’m okay. I want you to.”

Your words make something in him break.

He groans into your skin, hips grinding once, twice, until he finds that final, perfect depth — and when he comes, it’s with a low, shuddering breath against your neck. You feel him pulse inside you, thick and hot and deep, and even though you’re still so sensitive, the warmth of it makes you gasp again, thighs twitching around his hips.

Clark doesn’t collapse.

He doesn’t go heavy with satisfaction or smugness.

He stays completely still for a beat — one arm trembling beside your head, the other sliding to cradle your jaw, his forehead pressed to yours as his breath shakes in and out of him.

Then he kisses you.

Soft. Not because he’s satisfied — but because he needs to make sure you’re still there with him.

“I didn’t hurt you?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

You shake your head, blinking up at him. “No. Just… stretched. But in a good way.”

A soft exhale leaves him. His eyes close for a second like he’s silently thanking whatever power let this moment happen — without hurting you, without pushing too far.

And then — carefully — he starts to pull out.

The motion is slow. Gentle. His hand comes to your hip like a warning, grounding you while he withdraws. And even though you whimper slightly at the loss, he watches you closely the whole time, making sure you’re not in pain. He pulls out completely, breath catching at the sight of himself, slick and flushed, glistening with your release. His cock twitches once, but he doesn’t look away from your face for long.

“God,” he says softly. “You took all of me.”

There’s no pride in his tone. No arrogance. Just awe. Something raw and reverent.

You’re blinking up at him, dazed, still breathless from everything. “I didn’t think I could.”

He gives you the smallest smile, brushing his knuckles against your cheek.

“You were perfect.”

You shiver — not from cold, but from the after. From the wide, open feeling left in your body now that he’s no longer inside you. Clark notices it instantly.

“Wait here,” he says gently. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

He’s off the bed for barely twenty seconds — just enough to grab a warm cloth, one of your softest throws, and help clean between your thighs with the kind of care that makes your throat tighten. He’s not clinical or distant. He’s quiet. Focused. Like this is sacred too.

Once you’re clean, he slides back into bed beside you, tucking the blanket over your legs and pulling your body carefully against his chest.

His arm wraps low around your waist.

His other hand finds your face.

And when he kisses you again — slow and close and just your lips this time — it feels different.

Grounded. Calm. Real.

“Tell me what you need,” he murmurs against your mouth.

“I just want to be close to you.”

“You are,” he says, resting his forehead against yours. “You always are.”

His fingers trace your spine, slow and steady. You’re still sore, still warm inside, but your heart feels full. Not from the sex. From him. The way he watched you. The way he held you. The way he pulled out the second you were done, just to make sure you were okay.

“I’ve never felt so safe,” you whisper.

Clark’s voice is thick when he answers. “You are safe. With me? Always.”

people who asked for part 2 : @horrorbloodhound @onrsie @23sOfia @kisses4rafey @take-it-on-the-run @serendippindots @okayiamkassandra @tvdelrey @otakusimp1 @gra-hamcrackers @mavuika-kisser @zenoxl @lizzylynch1 @froggypoggy222 @boom-boombang @heavenme31 @bluestuesday @jellybelly898 @honeyvelvtt @iloveyourmom17 @promiscvus @luvmarissaaa @bangtanskz @reprehensible-ghost @gothamnighthawk @dhvnigvil

You’ve noticed it in different moments—sometimes when he’s just casually adjusting his belt after a long day, other times when he’s changing in front of you, the subtle outline pressing against his jeans impossible to ignore. Maybe it’s the way his hand brushes over himself during a quiet night in, or the way he slips under the sheets beside you, warm and steady, promising more than words ever could.

Clark’s cock isn’t just about size—it’s about presence. Thick, confident, and natural, it fits him like everything else he carries: strong but unassuming, solid but patient. Not showy, but impossible to forget once you’ve felt it. Its shape is broad and heavy at the base, with a gentle curve that hints at the kind of deep, slow pleasure he knows how to give.

It’s substantial in every way. Thick enough that your fingers would have to spread just to wrap fully around it. Not just wide, but solid—dense, with a weight that surprises you the first time you hold it in your hand. The skin is smooth but not slick, soft to the touch yet taut and firm beneath, like a finely polished muscle. The veins aren’t just visible, they’re pronounced, tracing intricate patterns that pulse faintly with his heartbeat, making it impossible to look away.

The head is broad and bulbous, flushed a deep rose against the paler shaft. It’s a perfect shape, rounded but with just enough definition at the rim to catch your tongue when you trail over it. You can tell it’s sensitive—already slick with pre-cum sometimes, a quiet promise of the heat and urgency just beneath the surface.

Lengthwise, he’s generous but not overwhelming—long enough to hit deep, to fill and stretch you in that delicious, aching way you never want to end. The shaft has a subtle upward curve that follows the natural shape of his body, designed to find all the right spots inside you with every slow, deliberate thrust.

When he’s soft, it’s almost teasing—heavy but pliable, a quiet invitation. When he’s hard, it’s an undeniable force of nature: firm, unyielding, every inch alive with controlled power. His cock fits perfectly in one large hand, the way he holds it like he owns it without needing to prove anything.

No matter the moment—whether he’s pulling you close for a lazy morning, teasing you with slow touches in the dark, or taking his time after a long day—there’s a confidence in how he moves, how he uses every inch with patience and care. He knows exactly how much pressure to apply, how slow to go to make sure it’s pleasure without pain, how deep he can go without ever rushing.

MINI NOTE: idk what to tell you. i sat down to write smut and accidentally gave clark kent a whole emotional dominance arc. like why is he so calm. why is he edging her with morals. i didn’t mean to make this sweet AND unhinged but here we are. anyway. enjoy the finger olympics.

CW: 18+ SMUT MDNI, fem!reader, soft dom clark kent, emotional edging, size kink, intense finger training, no p in v, lowkey aftercare, no use of y/n

part 2 is posted!!! + i accept requests!

Your hips roll without meaning to a slow, helpless movement, desperate to take more. Clark’s hand is between your thighs, thick fingers teasing your slick folds, and the muscles in his forearm tense under your grip as he presses just the tip of one inside you.

And immediately —

He stops.

Freezes.

Your body tightens around him like a vice and he’s not even halfway in.

His breath catches, and his eyebrows draw together. You hear it, the slight hitch in his throat. The change in his breathing. He pulls back, just slightly, then tries again, easing in slow, slow, slower, as if going gentler might change something.

But it doesn’t.

You’re still clenching around him, tight, small, unbelievably narrow.

His jaw locks.

He’s still now. Perfectly still.

“…Shit,” he mutters under his breath.

You blink up at him, dazed. “What?”

His eyes lift to yours. And they’re different now.

Focused.

Sharp.

Stern.

His voice is low, gravelly, and completely calm. Too calm.

“You can barely take my finger.”

You shift your hips, trying to adjust, trying to make space but he holds you down by the waist with one firm hand.

“Don’t move,” he murmurs, eyes locked on where you’re joined. His voice is too steady, too controlled, like he’s barely holding something back. “Just stay still.”

“But I—”

“I said still.”

You obey instantly. His tone leaves no room for argument.

He sinks the finger in a little deeper, barely more than a knuckle. Watches your face.

You wince, but not from pain from the stretch. The pressure. The impossible tension inside you trying to accommodate even a fraction of him.

“Goddamn…” he breathes, more to himself than to you.

His voice is deeper now. Tighter. Measured.

“You’re so tight, baby. So fuckin’ small. I’ve never—”

He trails off. Shakes his head slightly.

You bite your lip, eyes wide, trying to read his face.

“Is that… bad?”

“No,” he says. Instantly. Confident. Sure. “Not bad.”

He looks up again, and this time, it’s different.

It’s decision.

“But it means we’re not doing what you think we are tonight.”

Your breath catches. “What do you mean?”

His thumb grazes the inside of your thigh, slow and firm.

“I’m not going inside you.”

You blink. “Clark—”

“No.” His tone doesn’t change. Doesn’t soften. He’s calm, but commanding. Like it’s not up for discussion.

“But I want—”

“You want a lot of things,” he says quietly. “But that doesn’t mean your body’s ready.”

You open your mouth, but he’s already shaking his head, leaning in to brush his lips against your cheek, your jaw, your throat.

“You think I’m gonna watch you struggle to take a single finger and still try to fuck you? Is that what you thought this was?”

Your heart pounds. You swallow. “I thought you’d… try.”

“Oh, I will,” he breathes, dragging his mouth down your chest. “I’ll train this sweet little body to take everything I give it. Inch by inch.”

Then his eyes flick up.

“But not tonight.”

You whimper, shifting again, but his grip tightens instantly hard enough to make you freeze.

“I said no.”

His words send a throb straight through you. There’s nothing uncertain about him now. He’s made his decision and you’ll take it.

He presses the single finger back in, deeper this time, and your walls flutter around him. Your breath stutters.

“You feel that?” he murmurs. “That stretch? That pressure? That’s one finger, baby. One.”

He kisses your cheek, soft and slow and then his voice turns to steel again.

“You’d split on my cock right now. Cry. Maybe bleed. I’m not gonna do that to you.”

“But I want to—”

“You’ll get it when you’re ready,” he says simply. “When I decide you’re ready.”

You whimper again, frustrated, breathless, needy.

And that just makes him smile.

“There she is,” he says, a little rougher now. “Getting squirmy. Already begging, and I haven’t even given you two yet.”

He adds a second finger slowly and your whole body tenses.

“Jesus,” he groans. “Still so tight. This is gonna take a while.”

His tone softens, just a little, brushing a kiss against your temple.

“But that’s alright. We’ve got time.”

You try to kiss him, try to distract him.. but he knows what you’re doing. He pulls back just enough to keep control.

“Tonight,” he whispers, “you learn how to take my fingers. That’s it. No cock. No begging. No arguments.”

You shiver.

“Understand?”

“…Yes.”

He kisses you again, slow and warm, as his fingers start to move, stretching you open with aching, deliberate care.

(yes, that one. the countertop one.)

MINI NOTE: i haven’t been normal since i saw that damn kitchen scene in theaters. the way clark looked in that white shirt?? the sleeves rolled up??? the fact that he cooked like it was his apartment?? it rewired something in me permanently. i haven’t stopped thinking about this scenario since. anyway. here u go. i am unwell <3

CW: 18+, smut! minors DNI. p in v, unprotected sex secret relationship, fake interview gone very unprofessional, kissing during the questions, no y/n.

It was nearly ten-thirty when your key turned in the lock.

You didn’t expect anything except silence, maybe the hum of the fridge, maybe your own reflection in the darkened kitchen window. But instead, you were hit with something entirely different: warmth, music, and the scent of garlic and tomato wafting from your kitchen like a love letter you hadn’t realized you’d needed.

Your heels clicked softly as you stepped inside, kicking them off by the door.

Your bag hit the floor next. Your coat followed, draped lazily on the back of a chair. Every part of you ached, your feet, your head, your shoulders…but then you turned the corner into the kitchen and saw him.

Clark.

Barefoot. Sleeves rolled up. Glasses slipping a little on the bridge of his nose. He was stirring something on the stove, and humming, actually humming, like some sort of domestic dream. His hair was slightly mussed, his expression relaxed, like this was his place too.

Because secretly, it was.

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, and said nothing.

He felt you before he saw you, like he always did. He turned slightly and looked at you with the kind of expression that pulled something deep and warm straight through your chest.

“There you are,” he said softly, like he hadn’t been checking for your heartbeat in the hallway two minutes earlier. “Long day?”

You gave a tired laugh. “You have no idea.”

He set the spoon down, turned off the burner, and crossed the kitchen in three steps. His arms wrapped around you instantly, warm and sure, and your forehead fell against his chest like you were exhaling for the first time all day.

“You cooked,” you murmured, muffled against him.

“I missed you.”

You looked up at him, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt.

“I saw you on TV, you know. Saving a monorail full of kids in Berlin.”

He smiled. “Still missed you.”

God, that smile.

He leaned down and kissed you, soft and slow at first, like his lips were tasting the stress on yours and trying to replace it with something better. But there was something deeper beneath it, something familiar and lingering and dangerous, and the longer it lasted, the more you forgot the world outside your apartment even existed.

When he pulled back, his voice had dropped a little. “Come sit. Food’s almost ready.”

But you didn’t let go.

You leaned in, grinning against his throat. “Or you could lift me onto the counter like you always do.”

He laughed under his breath, that low, easy sound that made your stomach twist in the best way, and in the next second, you were in the air.

Strong hands under your thighs, your back settling against cool stone. His body slid between your knees, warm and solid, and the kiss that followed was hungrier, deeper.

You groaned, resting your head against the cabinet behind you.

“I had to spend two hours sitting across from Stern today while he chewed with his mouth open. Two hours, Clark.”

He chuckled, brushing his lips over your jaw. “Tragic.”

“And then my editor cut three paragraphs from my piece without telling me. I swear I’m going to—”

His mouth landed on your throat.

You gasped, words dissolving.

“Clark.”

“Mhm?”

“That’s not helping.”

“Yes it is,” he said, kissing lower. “It’s helping me.”

You let him distract you for a few more seconds before pulling back, reluctantly.

“Okay, but seriously?” you said, dragging your fingers lightly up the back of his neck. “You’re going to get caught.”

He blinked. “Caught doing what?”

“You’re always the one interviewing Superman,” you pointed out. “And it’s not subtle anymore. People are starting to talk.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re people?”

“I’m just saying,” you teased. “If I were Lois, I’d be suspicious.”

“Well,” he said, smile twitching at the corner of his mouth, “maybe it’s time you interviewed him instead.”

You laughed. “What, now?”

“Why not?”

“You want me to interview Superman in my kitchen?”

He stepped back slightly, and you saw the shift happen right before your eyes, the slight straightening of his shoulders, the confidence that came into his stance, the subtle intensity in his eyes as he slowly took off his glasses.

And just like that — there he was.

Superman.

You sat straighter on the counter, eyebrows raised.

“Okay then,” you said, grabbing your phone and opening the voice recorder. “Superman, thank you for joining me on such short notice.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “Always happy to speak with the press.”

You tried to keep a straight face as you cleared your throat. “First question. How do you manage to maintain your secret identity when you’re photographed almost every day?”

He gave a small smile. “People don’t see what they’re not looking for.”

“Mhm. And how do you explain your ongoing exclusive relationship with reporter Clark Kent?”

He stepped closer. “Let’s just say… I trust him.”

You bit your lip. “Seems awfully convenient.”

He tilted his head. “Are you accusing me of favoritism?”

“I’m just saying,” you murmured, as he stepped even closer, “if I didn’t know better…”

You were going to say more. You had your next question ready, something about accountability and transparency.

But he leaned in, lips brushing your cheek, and said, “Ask me question four.”

You opened your mouth, then paused as his hands came to rest on your thighs again slow, warm, certain.

“Question four,” you managed, “what—”

His mouth touched your neck.

You blinked. “What are your—Clark—”

“Not Clark right now,” he murmured, breath hot against your skin.

“Superman,” you corrected, trying to stay in character even as he kissed that sensitive spot just beneath your jaw. “What are your core values when it comes to—oh my god—international diplomacy…”

He grinned against your throat.

“You’re not playing fair,” you whispered.

He kissed your collarbone. “Neither are you.”

And then suddenly, he dropped to his knees.

Your breath caught.

His hands slid up your thighs, slow and reverent, pushing your skirt up as his eyes flicked to yours.

“Still recording?” he asked.

You reached behind you blindly, slamming your phone onto the counter and shutting it off.

“Good,” he said, and pulled you forward.

You gasped as his mouth pressed between your thighs hot, steady, unrelenting.

Your hands scrambled for balance, grasping the edge of the counter, then his hair.

“Clark—”

When he stood suddenly, your breathing was ragged, your thighs still twitching.

He kissed you, softly now, like an apology and a promise at once and then rested his forehead against yours.

“Still think my exclusives are suspicious?”

You couldn’t even glare. You just laughed breathlessly, pulled him closer, and whispered, “Shut up.”

His mouth crashed into yours. You gasped, and he swallowed the sound, one hand gripping your jaw, the other sliding up under your shirt.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t ask. Didn’t need to.

You wanted this.

You always did.

You tugged at his shirt, yanked it over his head — palms running over the solid heat of his chest.

His eyes flicked toward the bedroom.

You shook your head.

“Right here,” you whispered.

He growled softly. Kissed you again, teeth grazing your lower lip, hands dragging your shirt off, fingers skimming over your skin like he needed to feel every inch of you just to stay sane.

“Been thinking about this all day,” he said, voice low, gravelly.

You moaned.

He pulled your underwear down slowly, eyes never leaving yours.

“I come home to this,” he murmured, dragging his knuckles up your inner thigh. “And you expect me to take it slow?”

“Clark—”

“No,” he whispered, gripping your hips. “No more waiting.”

He didn’t.

He pressed into you with one smooth, deep thrust and your head fell back, a gasp tearing from your throat.

He didn’t move. Not yet.

Just held you there — full, stretched, his.

Then his mouth found your neck, your shoulder, your collarbone.

“Tell me you missed me,” he murmured.

“I missed you.”

“Tell me you need me.”

“I—God, Clark, I need you.”

That broke him.

He began to move.

Hard, slow thrusts. Deep enough to knock the air out of your lungs. His grip tight, your back arching off the counter with every roll of his hips.

Every time he pulled out, it was only to push back in harder — deeper — his breath hot against your ear.

“You’re mine,” he whispered. “You know that, right?”

You could barely nod.

His hand slid to your throat, gentle but firm — just enough to hold you still, to make you feel claimed.

“Say it.”

“I’m yours.”

He kissed you again, messy and hot, tongue sliding against yours, his hips grinding into you with a rhythm that made your whole body shudder.

“God, you feel so good,” he groaned. “I could stay inside you all night.”

You clenched around him, and he growled — thrust harder.

“You like that?” he breathed. “You like when I say shit like that?”

“Yes,” you moaned. “Yes—Clark—”

His name became a chant. A prayer. A scream muffled by his mouth.

He came first — deep inside you, pulsing, gasping against your neck.

But he didn’t stop.

He kept moving — slower now, hips still rolling — his fingers slipping between your legs until you came with a cry, body shaking in his arms.

You collapsed against him.

Both of you breathless. Sweating. Bruised in the best ways.

He didn’t pull out right away.

He stayed inside, kissing your cheek, your neck, your shoulder.

Then, gently — so gently — he lifted you off the counter and carried you to the bathroom.

Ran warm water.

Held you in the tub, his hands massaging your thighs, his lips soft against your temple.

You curled into him.

And for the first time all day — for the first time all week — he let himself relax.

Not Superman.

Not Clark Kent, reporter.

Pairing : Anakin Skywalker x f!Reader

CW: 18+, smut! minors DNI. p in v, unprotected sex, Anakin’s POV.

an: i kinda like this??? idek ive been thinking a lot abt how Anakin would be after sex. so there’s my vision of it hehe

She was limp beneath him.

Sprawled across the mattress, fingers tangled in the sheets, her chest still rising in short, shaky pulls of breath.

Anakin hadn’t moved.

Not even a twitch.

He was still deep inside her, body locked over hers, both hands gripping her wrists above her head like he couldn’t quite let go yet.

His forehead was pressed to the crook of her neck.

And he was breathing like he’d just come back from the edge of the galaxy.

Because he had.

She was still full.

Hot and leaking around him, her thighs shaking from where he’d held them open for so long, where he’d told her, over and over, “Take it. You’ll take all of it.”

And she had.

And now?

Now he was trembling.

Still buried to the hilt, softening slowly inside her, but refusing to pull out.

His arms finally gave a little. He loosened the grip on her wrists. Slid one hand down her side, the other under her head, cradling her like she was glass.

She blinked, barely conscious. “Anakin…”

“Shh.” His voice was rough. “You did so well.”

She whimpered, hips twitching as he shifted slightly.

He stilled instantly.

“I know,” he whispered. “Too much. I know.”

He brushed her hair back, kissed her forehead. But he didn’t move his hips. Didn’t pull out.

Instead, he held her tighter.

“I’m not ready yet.”

“To pull out?”

“To lose this.”

She opened her eyes, just barely.

He looked down at her like he’d just carved her name into his bones.

“I want you to feel me there,” he said softly. “I want you to stay full while I hold you. I want it to last.”

Her breath caught.

His hand slid between them, down her stomach. Not to touch, just to rest. To hold the space where they were still joined.

“You took all of me,” he murmured. “Now let me take care of what’s mine.”

Her body twitched again, overwhelmed, overstretched, open and helpless.

Anakin kissed the side of her face.

Then gently, deliberately, he started to move.

Not to fuck her.

To slip out. To clean her. To care for her in the way only someone obsessed could.

But even that—

Even the moment he slipped out of her, slow and thick and aching. Felt like a goodbye.

She whimpered again as warmth spilled out of her.

He caught it in his hand.

“Messy,” he muttered.

“Your fault,” she breathed.

His eyes snapped up.

“I know.” His tone was dangerously soft. “And I’m going to fix it.”

He got up. Still naked, and returned with a warm cloth and the tunic she always wore after. He climbed back onto the bed between her thighs.

And he cleaned her like he was undoing the sin.

So carefully. So focused. Brushing the cloth between her folds, down the inside of her thighs, wiping away every trace that wasn’t his.

Then he dried her gently. Kissed her knees. Her hips. Her wrists. Her mouth.

He pulled the tunic over her head like a priest dressing a relic.

Then pulled her into his arms and finally said the thing that made her stomach drop harder than anything else:

Pairing : Anakin Skywalker x f!Reader

CW: 18+, smut! minors DNI. p in v, protected sex, riding for the first time.

The second you sink down too fast, Anakin knows.

You wince, not enough to stop, just enough to power through it, and before you can even adjust, his hand shoots out and grabs your waist.

“Get off.”

You freeze. Blink. Breath hitching.

“What—”

“Off,” he says again, more clipped this time. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t raise his voice. But the tone? It makes your whole body lock up.

He lifts you off his cock, holds you there, just hovering, just out of reach, and stares up at you like he’s trying not to lose it.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

You swallow. “I—I was just trying to—”

“No.” His jaw flexes. “You were trying to rush through the stretch again. You were trying to take all of me before your body was ready. Do you even realize how dangerous that is?”

You feel small. Exposed. Still holding onto his shoulders, your thighs shaking in the air.

“I wanted to make you feel good,” you say quietly.

His expression darkens. Not angry. Just wrecked.

“Baby,” he breathes, still holding you there, voice rough. “Do you really think I want to feel good at the cost of you?”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

He exhales sharply through his nose and lowers you back down, not onto him. Onto his thigh. Onto safety.

He cups your face in both hands, his thumb dragging along your jaw with frustrating gentleness, and his voice drops lower. Dead serious.

“You don’t do that for me. Ever. Do you understand?”

You nod, eyes wide.

“No, I want to hear it.”

“I understand.”

“You try to impress me by hurting yourself again,” he whispers, “and we’re done.”

Your chest tightens. “Wait—”

“I’m not saying that to scare you,” he says, cutting you off. “I’m saying that because it would kill me to watch you do that again. I need you to know that I’m not here for some picture perfect performance. I’m here because you’re mine. Because I want you.”

Silence. Just the sound of your breathing. Your hands tighten on his chest.

“Say something,” he murmurs.

“I just didn’t want to disappoint you.”

He groans like the words hit something deep in his chest and then pulls you forward, pressing your forehead to his.

“You think riding me slow, messy, real—that’s disappointing?” he breathes. “No, baby. That’s intimate. That’s what I fucking crave.”

You’re still in his lap. Still bare. Still trembling

And when he finally presses you back down, slow, controlled, it feels different this time. You sink onto him at his pace. With his hands steadying you. His voice in your ear.

“That’s it. That’s better,” he pants. “Feel that? That’s what happens when you trust me.”

You nod, gasping, adjusting your hips. And his grip never leaves your waist.

“Now ride me,” he says, hoarse and low. “The way I need you to.”

And you do.

You grind, rock, move how he showed you and he lets you take it, lets you own it, until you’re crying his name and falling apart in his arms, your body shaking around him.

Pairing : Anakin Skywalker x f!Reader

CW: 18+, smut! minors DNI. p in v, unprotected sex

an: that’s so short IM SORRY.

You’re trembling against him, hips unsure, muscles tight — but ANAKIN SKYWALKER never rushes you. His big hands stay on your waist, warm and firm, like an anchor. You’re halfway seated on him now, and the pressure’s so intense it’s hard to think.

But he’s watching you like you’re the only thing in the galaxy. Eyes half-lidded, lips parted, completely gone for you.

“Sweetheart,” he says softly, breath catching as you shift again. “You’re doin’ so good.”

Your hands are fisted in the front of his tunic, nails digging in like it’s the only way to stay upright. You can’t even look at him — too overwhelmed, too full — and he knows. He can feel it.

“Shh, I got you,” he murmurs, pressing slow kisses into your hairline. “Just keep breathin’ through it, alright?”

You nod, barely. It’s all you can manage.

But that’s not enough for him. He cups your cheek, turns your face to his.

“Can you speak for me?” he asks, voice all soft heat and velvet control. “C’mon, baby. Give me some words.”

“I— I’m okay,” you breathe, lips brushing his. “Just… just need a second.”

“There she is,” he whispers, proud and breathless, brushing his thumb over your lower lip. “That’s my girl.”

You finally ease down the rest of the way, slowly, carefully, until he’s fully inside you. His jaw clenches hard, and his head tips back with a low, wrecked groan.

“Fuck— you feel like a dream,” he mutters. “So warm, so tight… baby, I could stay right here forever.”

You’re clinging to him now, arms around his neck, body still adjusting. And he doesn’t move — not until you do.

When you lift your hips the tiniest bit, he shudders beneath you. His hands grip tighter at your waist, like he’s barely holding back.

“You’re doin’ perfect,” he says, voice a little rougher now, but still sweet. “Take it slow. You don’t have to rush, angel.”

You start to build a rhythm — slow, shaky, but desperate. And every time you move, every tiny thrust, he meets it with soft, filthy praises :

“Just like that.”

“You’re makin’ me lose my mind.”

“Can’t believe how good you feel.”

His hands slide down, thumbs brushing over the soft curve of your ass, helping you move without forcing it — like he’s working with you, guiding you through the burn until it melts into something hotter.

“You still with me?” he asks, breathing heavy. “Need to hear you again.”

“Yeah,” you whisper, voice wrecked. “Feels so good, Ani.”

That look he gives you in return — ruined and full of love — could break you.

“That’s all I need,” he murmurs. “Just your voice. Just you.”

And when he kisses you again, deep and slow, it’s not rushed. It’s not greedy. It’s the kind of kiss that says stay with me.

pairing : anakin skywalker x f!reader

CW : 18+ , smut! basically anakin eating pussy lol

AN : i was sooo just bored and hadnt posted in months since my first post, this is really basic, kinda sorry about that :’)

The dim lighting casts long shadows, creating an intimate atmosphere. Anakin leans casually against the wall, arms crossed, waiting for your to finish your post-mission meditation.

You emerge from the meditation chamber, your expression softening as you catch sight of Anakin. You pause, then approach him, a hint of curiosity in your eyes.

"What are you doing here, Anakin?" Your voice is low, barely above a whisper.

Anakin pushes off from the wall, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. He takes a step closer, invading your personal space.

"Waiting for you." His voice is a low rumble, filled with promise.

You raise an eyebrow "Oh?" You tilt your head slightly, studying him.

Anakin reaches out, gently tracing your jawline with his cybernetic hand. His thumb brushes against your lower lip, making your breath hitch.

"You've been driving me crazy all day." Anakin’s voice is laced with sincerity, a rare glimpse into his genuine feelings.

Before you could even respond, Anakin leans in, capturing your lips in a fierce, passionate kiss. His hands move to your hips, pulling them flush against him. You stiffen initially, surprise coursing through you, but you soon melt into the kiss, responding eagerly.

Anakin walks you backwards until your back hits the cool stone wall. He breaks the kiss, his gaze intense as he looks down at you.

"I want to taste you, Angel." His voice is hoarse with desire.

Your eyes widen, your cheeks flushing pink. You swallow hard, then nod, giving Anakin the permission he needs.

Anakin drops to his knees, his hands moving to your dress. He lifts it slowly, exposing your bare skin inch by inch. His lips trail kisses along your stomach, making you shiver. He looks up at you, his eyes filled with hunger and admiration.

"So fucking beautiful." He murmurs, before leaning in, pressing a soft kiss just above your hip bone. Your body tenses briefly, then relaxes as Anakin's tongue flicks out, tasting your skin.

Anakin's hands slide up your thighs, pushing your dress up further. Tracing your clit with his fingertips in circles, slow and gentle but enough to get you all wet.

He cups your entire cunt with his hand, feeling how wet you are, your poor panties are ruined now. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties, looking up at you for confirmation.

"Can I?" His voice is gentle, respectful. Despite his dominant nature, he wants to ensure your are comfortable and consents to everything.

You nod, your breath coming in short gasps. Anakin smiles, a hint of satisfaction in his eyes. He slides your panties down, revealing your bare flesh to him.

Anakin leans in, inhaling deeply, taking in your scent. He closes his eyes briefly, savouring the moment. Then, he looks up at you, holding your gaze as he leans in, his tongue flicking out to taste you.

Your breath hitches, your body is slightly shaken by the touch. Anakin chuckles softly, the vibrations sending waves of pleasure through your body. He grips your thighs, holding them steady as he begins to explore you with his mouth.

His tongue moves expertly, learning what makes you gasp, what makes you moan. He's relentless, his passion fueling his every movement. He's not just tasting you; he's worshipping you, showing you in the most primal way possible how much he desires you.

Your hands find their way into Anakin's hair, gripping tightly as you struggle to maintain control. Your legs tremble, your breath comes in ragged gasps, and your body arches into Anakin's touch.

Anakin growls in approval, the sound vibrating through your entire body, pushing you closer to the edge. He slips a finger inside you, curling it upwards, hitting that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids.

Your grip on Anakin's hair tightens, your body tensing as you cry out, finding your release. Anakin doesn't stop, continuing to lap at you until you’re boneless, your body spent.

Pairing : Anakin Skywalker x f!Reader

synopsis : anakin reassures you about your forbidden relationship in more ways than one.

CW : 18+, smut! minors DNI. no movement but, p in v penetration, cock warming.

an : ok this is my first fanfic i've ever written, i'm completely petrified tbh, i tried to do my best, if u can give me some advice, it would be super nice. enjoy this ig.. the end is also inspired by @ohcaptains !!