its like 1 in the morning but I just love them
seen from Türkiye
seen from China
seen from China
seen from Sweden
seen from Romania
seen from Germany
seen from South Korea
seen from China
seen from United Arab Emirates
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Iraq
seen from China
seen from China

seen from United States

seen from Vietnam
seen from Pakistan

seen from Türkiye
seen from China
seen from China
seen from Japan
its like 1 in the morning but I just love them

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
I get wet at the thought of you (being a responsible guy)
Clark Kent x Fem!Reader
Synopsis: Clark Kent, starring as the lamb. He has more than one pillow, calls his mom (but not too much), isn’t afraid to buy you tampons, and thinks about your needs like it’s second nature. You, starring as the lioness. In your opinion, his thoughtfulness is more effective than any other foreplay. Inspiration from Tears by Sabrina Carpenter
Word Count: 4.0k
Authors Note:stared at this for so long I don’t even know if it’s good anymore but here it is!!! If it’s bad don’t tell me!
Warnings: MDNI 18+ p in v, reader is a freak, Clark Kent fucks, established relationship, sub!Clark if you squint idk maybe even more like switch Clark? they’re horny! that’s all I know, brief prey/predator dynamic, ikea, gratuitous use of italics, please let me know if I missed anything <3 also keep this visual 🖖 in mind for later okay thanks.
It was sick really.
Clark wasn’t even doing anything, and yet here you are, legs twisted together while your heart beats between your thighs.
You watch him now, walking back to your table from the bar, your drink held above the crowd to avoid spilling. His other hand raised too, as if to say I am big but friendly! Don’t be afraid! He’s turning side ways, pivoting with every step to avoid jostling anyone he passes.
You watch his presence ripple, jealous eyes latching onto him as he passes and Clark doesn’t even seem to notice. You don’t mean to, but you relish in it. In the women who bat their eyelashes and reapply their lipstick, praying he’ll notice. You’d been dealing with it ever since you got together, even from your single friends, politely smiling when they make jokes like ‘Does he have a brother?’ Or ‘Do they sell him on Amazon?’ You lie tell them that there’s hope. Other tall, dark, handsome and hung fish in the sea.
Batman vs. Superdog
sweet, gentle, yours.
summary: clark kent doesn’t do well with jealousy- never has, probably never will. mentioning the gross regular at the upscale bar where you work seemed harmless. but when clark shows up with a sheepish smile and tense jaw, you realise it probably meant more to him than you thought.
clark kent x girlfriend ! reader
themes: jealousy, jealousy, jealousy! domestic fluff, established relationship, very subtle nods to smut, with some scott miller thrown in!
You shouldn’t have told him.
Well, okay- that’s slightly dramatic. Of course you should have. You did the right thing; if it was the other way around, and a girl at the Daily Planet made it her personal vendetta to be on your sweet, bumbling boyfriend’s radar for three weeks in a row, you’d want him to tell you.
It was the right thing to do.
The only thing to do.
Right?
“Right.” Clark echoes mindlessly, his eyes drifting far away from you in a way that makes your heart ache and your eyes narrow.
He’s always too sweet, your Clark. Always too polite, too hesitant to tell you how he really feels.
On this occasion, you let him off. Figure it’s better to let him sit in it, cool off, before continuing the inevitable conversation of So, what are we going to do about it? a lot later.
There’s nothing you can do, unfortunately. It makes you feel helpless and stuck and very, very angry at the world- but at the end of the day, Scott is a customer. A paying customer. One that smacks his gum a little too loud and looks you up and down every chance he gets, but a customer all the same.
You wonder what business he has plaguing your hotel bar three (nearing four) weeks in a row now. You’ve never seen him before. Nobody comes to the Regis for a casual drink unless they’re there on business; a key to one of the overtly expensive rooms tucked in the back pocket of a slack trouser.
Scott isn’t a guest. Nor is he a bar regular. He is just a very annoying man, with a very smug grin, and a very disgusting entitlement to your sweet, uncomfortable attention.
Your shift tonight starts at 8pm.
Usually, Clark gets home just after six, and he brings you a bagel and a smoothie and doesn’t let you have them until you reach up on your tiptoes and press glossed lips against his. He doesn’t usually let you plate it up yourself, either; he perches you carefully on a bar stool and does it for you. Everything bagel (extra cream cheese, light on the salmon) on your favourite plate, the paper straw in your drink swiftly replaced by a glass one with a heart.
“You’re one bagel away from turning into one.” is a teasing joke he likes to say often, eliciting a sweet little eye roll from you and a light laugh.
You’re treasure, Clark says. He makes it known to you too, through kisses and cuddles and pecks on the cheek that you have to fight against to eat your bagel. And when you’ve finally finished your food and slurped up the drink, that’s when he can have your full attention, every bit of it, before you have to get ready and he happily drives you to work.
You don’t typically work this late. It’s a one-off, some big business event on the top floor that’s lasted a week longer than expected, meaning a whole week more of missed dinners and missed plans and overall, missing your boyfriend.
So when Clark texts you at 5:30pm, a sweet rambling of apologies that end in a very flustered So sorry, baby. I’ll make it up to you when I pick you up at 1. Love you. You can’t find it in your heart to be upset with him. You just hail a cab and slot inside, fingers drumming mindlessly on your exposed lap.
The uniform could be a lot worse, especially for a bartender. The Regis is a five-star utopia of crystal chandeliers, polished silverware and bellboys that are addressed only by their surnames- you’re almost glad to have only the responsibility of popping open a four-hundred dollar bottle of wine every now and then.
Even so, you keep a firm grip on the bottom of your pencil skirt, sleek black pumps clacking against the linoleum floor.
It’s busy. Much busier than a usual Thursday evening, but you convince yourself you don’t mind. More room to be busy. More things to do in the time you have to kill. Bartending isn’t your dream job by any means, but at the moment it pays for all the good things in life- you could have it a lot worse.
You think of Clark. Sweet, handsome, beautiful Clark, who is probably working so hard at his desk right now that it makes your chest ache. Brows furrowed, pen gnawed at and forgotten between his beautiful plush lips. You imagine the way he types; thick fingers soft and precise, the backspace bare because he always seems to know exactly what to say. He doesn’t make mistakes- you’ve seen him write in person. He just makes whatever’s lacking… better.
Naturally, your stomach flutters at the thought.
Sam greets you with bright eyes and an even more radiant smile, blonde hair falling in waves past her sharp shoulders as you walk towards her and reach for a glass to polish.
She’s beautiful, Samara; with her big blue eyes and pointed chin and great knack for conversation. She’s also the only one you can call a true friend here, so you like to keep her very close.
“You’re late,” she jokes, sharp elbow digging softly into your own. “How big was that bagel?”
Faux offense floods your features, “I’m right on time!”
“Late for you,” she nudges you playfully, head nodding towards a part of the bar you can’t quite see from where you are. “Your man beat you here.”
“Ha-ha,” you deadpan immediately, eyes beginning a roll, “Very funny. You’re on Scott duty tonight.”
“Wha- no!” the realisation is quick to dawn, “No. Absolutely not. I was on Scott duty last night.”
“Mhm. That’s the price you pay for making that joke,” you’re dramatic about it, a heavy sigh you don’t mean falling from your lips.
“What joke?”
“The he’s my man joke,” you fold your arms, half-polished pint glass forgotten on the counter. “It’s dumb and not funny.”
A smirk falls on her lips then, eyes falling away from, “Wasn’t a joke, dummy. Your man is here. Your real one.”
You’re about to bombard her with even more confusion- lest you actually check yourself and come eye-to-eye with the irritatingly vainglorious Scott Miller- but she’s called away by the ding of a kitchen bell quicker than you can stop her.
With an amused shake of your head, your eyes scan the otherwise empty tables; the polishing cloth almost falling from your grasp when your eyes finally settle on the delicious sight a mere ten steps away from you.
Clark.
He isn’t back at the Planet at all, surrounded by his too-small desk and countless pictures of you in neat little gold frames, sipping sludgy coffee from a chipped work mug.
Clark is here; right in the middle of your workplace, his blazer slung carefully over the back of his chair, the rich wood ever so slightly creaking under his ginormous frame. He practically dwarfs his laptop; all 6’4, 240 pounds of superhuman beef.
His briefcase sits gingerly on the floor next to his feet, polished leather a lovely chocolate brown that matches his sensible loafers. Your body relaxes at the mere vision of him; this Kryptonian God that practically kisses the ground you walk on and would tilt the world on it’s axis just to fit your needs- here, on a work night, undoubtedly for you.
It’s almost an innate reaction, the two steps forward you take. And it’s also very Clark to sense you on a whole other plane, because his head tilts up like a puppy ready to play, blue eyes roaming the bar.
They find you almost immediately as a breath catches in your throat. Together three years, one month before your fourth and still, the way he looks at you makes every moment feel like the first.
He lifts his arm up to wave, no doubt refraining from being a full distraction. He knows his mere presence is enough to knock you off balance completely.
You’re about to do the same, the warmth in your chest threatening to burst, when-
“Usual, sweetheart. Make it neat, no ice, yeah?”
The invisible capsule encompassing you both collapses. There’s a voice; a deep, daunting, degrading voice that has the power to contort your expressions into one of pure disgust in milliseconds.
You smell him before you see him, all seventy-four spritzes of his overpriced Hugo Boss cologne. The scent of that minty clump of rubber he seems to always chew on follows soon after, as he winks at you and adjusts the cap on his head.
StormPAR, it reads. You shudder. It’s scarily fitting for a man capable of turning the sunniest of days into a cyclone.
You freeze, goosebumps rising along your shoulders. Clark is out of sight, but you can picture him perfectly in your mind.
Alert. Tense. Maybe even frowning slightly. Your heartbeat falters- not from fear, but irritation at the man in front of you. Clark doesn’t know that. He’s probably listening anyway, waiting for that moment when your pulse skips a beat just a little too long, so he can rush to your side with a concerned smile and a cold shoulder pointed towards Scott.
Still sweet. Still gentle. Still very much Clark.
Except what happens next is something you never could have predicted.
You give a small nod, lips pursed in a tight line because exactly three weeks ago, you shot him a kind smile that he immediately took as an invitation to try and get more out of you.
It’s dirty. It’s disgusting. It’s StormPAR’s poster boy for disaster- and yet, here he is, your only customer at the bar. Unfortunately, you don’t have much of a choice.
You reach for the whiskey, trying to keep it together for the ten seconds spent pouring and mixing. It’s not the usual Johnnie Walker or Jack Daniels favoured by suited businessmen; this is something expensive, Japanese, its name foreign and sharp. The glass is special, polished long in advance, kept apart from the rest of the dishwasher-bound crockery.
You slide it over to Scott without your eyes ever meeting his. He grins and it’s toothy and wide, and in another lifetime you might visually find him not vile- but in this life, he may as well be a fire-breathing dragon with a venomous bite and even worse gaze.
The knocks the whiskey back in one. The glass staggers alongside the table towards you, so quick that you just about manage to block it with a startled elbow.
“Another, princess.” he winks.
Clark tenses. You don’t even have to look at him to know he’s probably standing stiff, brows furrowed, pupils pointed over his glasses.
“Make it two, actually. Got nowhere to be now that you’re here.”
A grimace fills the lower half of your face. You’re about to turn away to pour the next glass, but the sound of a different voice altogether stops you.
“You always talk to people that way?”
It’s warm. Familiar. It’s a megaphoned version of the one that whispers in your ear late at night, gentle and patient and slow and always accompanied by a baby or a hon; a voice notorious for both talking you through it and providing you gentle comfort right after. In this instance, it’s still a blanket of comfort, but in a very different way; something soft and safe thrown over a very icy situation.
Clark slides onto the stool beside Scott like he has every right to be there. Your mouth practically falls open.
His shoulders are relaxed, hands loose against the bar. Whatever article had his full attention not even five minutes ago is completely forgotten now, lost in the shut laptop behind him. Ink lines the grooves of his palm, fresh from attempting to amend print far too soon.
There’s no tension in him at first glance. He doesn’t look angry, though you know better than that.
Scott’s eyebrow raises as he turns toward him.
“What’s it to you?”
Clark can take him. Easily. Beneath that bashful gaze and blinking blue eyes is a man who is so used to protecting you that it comes second nature to him. If it comes to that, you know he wouldn’t hesitate.
Clark hums softly, like he’s considering Scott’s words. Then he glances at you, a silent check-in without uttering a single word, and something in his expression changes. It’s not soft nor does it harden- it doesn’t even twist inside out.
You realise then and there that the outcome of this situation is entirely dependent on you. It relies on what you want him to do, what exactly you want to happen- unfortunately, you’re too tense right now to give him any sort of clear signal.
“It’s not complicated,” he says, turning back, voice still mild. “Just need to watch your tone.”
There’s no bite in his words, but it’s louder than his initial statement. The times you and Clark have argued are very few and far between, but not once has he raised his voice at you or spoken with his tongue dipped in venom.
Hearing it for the very first time is slightly exhilarating.
Scott leans back, sizing him up, “Didn’t realise she had a guard dog.”
Clark smiles at that, lips curving upwards in the kind of smile that should belong on a farm under open skies and humming cicadas, not here under dim bar lights and repetitive jazz music.
“She doesn’t,” he says easily. “That’s not what this is.”
“Then-“
“She’s a lady. You don’t speak to a lady like that.”
It throws Scott, just for a second. Enough for the bravado to falter, for the narrowed eyes under the cap to soften around the edges. You find yourself watching them both, this intense silence growing and filling the air with a thick tension.
Clark doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t even square up; someone built like your boyfriend doesn’t need to.
He just sits there, as calm as the saxophones acting as background noise between you, one hand resting against the bar like he could stay all night if he had to.
“Look, man-“
“You’re gonna stop,” Clark interjects gently, somehow still polite- only now there’s something unshakeable threaded through it. “You’ll ask her right, or you won’t ask at all.”
The air tightens. And Scott scoffs- but it’s weaker this time, eyes flicking between the two of you before he grabs the edge of the bar and pushes himself up. “Whatever, man.”
He doesn’t ask for another drink.
He doesn’t even look back at you as he stalks off- head slightly hung, eyes darting this way and that in quiet anticipation of witnesses.
You both watch him go for a moment. It’s only until Scott turns the corner, gives one last fleeting glance your way and ducks his head out of the double doors that finally, a soft exhale leaves the man beside you.
When Clark turns back to you, it’s like the tension was never there. It’s just him again.
Gentle Clark. Sweet Clark. Yours.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice so low and careful it reaches deep in the pit of your stomach and twists in the best way. A big, warm hand reaches over the counter and rests on top of your own.
You can’t help it; you smile.
“Thank you.”
His eyebrow raises. “You never need to thank me for taking care of you.”
Maybe tomorrow, you'll kiss him a little longer before taking a bite of your bagel.
i owe you all a massive apology - i have had the most insane couple of months, and i cannot wait to share it all with you very soon :')
for now, thank you so much for still being here and for reading💋🖤
you didn't kiss me goodbye. ( clark kent )
after an arguement with your boyfriend, clark kent does the unthinkable. he doesn't come home, doesn't kiss you goodbye and doesn't return until its midnight and you've fallen asleep on your sofa. good job, clark still has the goodnight kiss to redeem himself.
clark kent x fem! reader
themes: accusation of cheating, lack of trust in this relationship (on both ways- also wrong, reader and clark are just miscommunicating idiots) jealous clark, angst, mainly angst, but fluff ending! (inspired by this request)
masterlist.
it starts with a sandwich- well, two of them.
jimmy had caught you standing in line at the cafe, smiled a sweet tune and before you could stop him, his phone had pinged with that familiar apple pay notification that caused you to awkwardly blush, thank him appropriately and then proceed to run away.
you were just on a quick lunch break, heading out to pick up something for you and clark when your co-worker cornered you. jimmy is nice, he's friendly- a little bit weird sometimes but you've never felt afraid of him- this little crush he has on you just seems very sweet and that's all it is. a little crush.

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Imagine surprising Clark by shaving your bush into the shape of a heart.
Like, he gets home after a long day at the Daily Planet; he's exhausted, and all he wants is for you to suffocate him with your thighs and pussy for at least an hour. Multiple hours if he had his way.
Of course, you don't deny him; his puppy eyes are impossible to resist, but when you finally tear off your panties, he's met with…
A heart.
He’s met with a heart.
Yeah, he audibly whimpers. Like full-on whines. He also might've just cummed a little. Ignore the stain, please. If he wasn't so pussywhipped, he'd be embarrassed.
“So, uh—” he gulped. “—watcha got going on there?”
You giggled, more like cackled, at his awestruck demeanor. “Do you like it? I did it just for you.” You pointedly wiggled your hips, and for a moment he swore he saw heaven.
This was unfair. You sprawled out on his bed, completely bare, and with a fucking heart between your legs. How was he supposed to survive?
Superman, Kal-El, the last son of Krypton, defeated by his girlfriend shaving her bush into a heart.
“Thank you, Universe, for blessing me with this gift of a woman.” He bowed his head in silent prayer, muttering the words beneath his breath.
“Are you seriously praying?” you snickered.
“I’m saying grace.”
“Amen.” He gave one final bow of his head, then leaped forward, burying himself between your thighs. Where he was meant to be.
pls pls pls write something for clark kent / superman where reader finds out lois lane knew about clark being superman before she did. except she takes it in the way that clark trust lois more than her despite being in a relationship with him || maybe even thinks he’s cheating on her with lois
a lot of angst PLEASE but with a happy ending
𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀: 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗄𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗑 fem!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋
𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍: 5.8𝗄
𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌/𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗌: 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗍, 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿, 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗇𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗃𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗋𝗌!
𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗋'𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾: 𝗁𝗂 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗇, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍!! 𝗂 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗆𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂 𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗄 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗍 lolll. 𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗒, 𝗂 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗇𝗃𝗈𝗒 :)
Is it better to speak or to die?
In this moment, both felt like the most appropriate option.
You had no idea when or how but a seed of doubt had taken root in the center of your relationship with the love of your life, Clark Kent.
None of it made sense at all, but it was true because seemingly out of nowhere you were no longer on the same wavelength as him.
oh nothing just nerd!clark that stumbles over his feet and pushes up his glasses every 2 seconds. he’s quite a force, really. practically fighting to stay quiet in his seat without raising his hand to answer an oh so easy question, but the professor would shoo him off, tell him to give someone else a chance.
and you, a bit slow in class, unable to catch up as fast as your peers. you have to spend extra time on a certain topic, and once you’ve finally understood, your class has moved on far ahead. your friends tell you about clark, say he’s SUPER smart and is a great tutor.
with a relenting sigh, you decide to contact him. whats the worst that could happen? just a tutoring session.
well, when he invites you to his dorm for tutoring on biology…
you find yourself on his lap, fighting against his hand trapping your arms behind your back as his other palm caresses your face. your mouths are hot and pushing against eachother, tongues swirling together so fast they might just get tangled. he pulls away, a string of saliva connecting you two.
“once you get this chapter done, you can have a bit more, is that alright, sweetheart?”
the little shy, awkward, nerdy act was just a cover up. and you’ve fallen right into his trap.