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burnforyou · 5 days ago

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LIKE THE REAL THING

You send the guy you were dating pictures of you in lingerie by accident.

cw: 18+, smut, accidental 'nudes', colleague!reader, clark jerks off to your pictures, m!masturbation, soft dom!clark, rimming, f!receiving oral, clark uses his arctic breath on you, temperature play, p-in-v, overstimulation,clark's all freaked out in this fic, he eats you from the back, doggy, belly bulge, possessive!clark (4.4k wc)

You were halfway through tugging your jeans back on when you realised something was terribly off.

Cat should've been blowing up your phone in all caps by now — a 'GODDAMN BABE YOU LOOK HOTTT', or at the very least, 'buy both, coward'. But your screen remained stubbornly silent. Save for one text you didn't get a good look at.

Weird.

You yanked the curtains open, lingerie draped over your forearms as you shuffled out of the fitting rooms. Swiping your lock screen to open the most recent message. Your thumb hovers over the opened chat and you choke on your breath. No. Oh no. No no no no.

It's staring right back at you. In unforgiving grey & white. Clark Kent. Packaged with two little blue check marks sitting all innocent underneath what you'd consider the most unsexy tit and rump pics of what you'd tried on earlier.

"H-Holy shit," you croak, all too dramatically slumping into the mannequin beside you. You tossed your phone into the clearance panties basket as if that would've reversed the crime scene.

Your heart's slamming out of your ribs when you shakily grab for your phone, hoping it was a hallucination that you hadn't sent racy pics to a man you'd barely been on two dates with. Mr Small-town-farm-boy. The same man who would pull away burned the second your tongue met his lips.

This was it. You were drafting your obituaries in your head — local woman perishes after sending unsolicited boob pics to the most pure adult male alive.

A buzz from your phone nearly has you whipping it, you shakily look down at the thread.

[6:05PM] You: Blue or purple?? You: [4 Attached Images] [6:18PM] Clark Kent: I think the blue one looks lovely on you. 🙂

You're staring at your phone like he'd send you a response in a different language. Lovely. He said you looked lovely, with a freaking millennial smiley face. Your insides do a somersault. Did he like it? Or was this a pity 'lovely' like he was trying to be nice?

You dial Cat's number before you spiral any further.

"Kill me," you breathe out all at once. Clutching the mannequin next to you, staring face-first at the green crotchless underwear in your eyeline.

"Hello to you too," there's an amusement to her voice, replying coolly like this was a regular occurrence, "what did you do this time?"

"I messed up. Big time."

"Easy, babe. What'd you do? Need me to bail you out of jail or something?"

"Worse. I sent Clark Kent boob pics."

There's a beat of silence across the line, and you yank your phone away from your ears when a loud cackling rings out. "No, you didn't."

"I so did!" You whine loudly, resting your forehead on the mannequin. "And it wasn't even hot. I look like….like I'm posing for an overtly-sexualised pudding commercial — CAT. STOP. LAUGHING. Tell me what to do!"

"Okay, okay. Breathe," she's still wheezing between syllables, "what did he say?"

You pull your phone back to squint at the text, and then hold it to your ears. Biting on your thumb. "He said I looked…lovely."

Another round of shrill laughter explodes through the speaker, "girl, GIRL. DO NOT tell him you sent them by accident. Don't you break his cotton candy heart."

"He's gonna think I'm some stupid over-eager slut, Cat!" You're pacing back and forth like a crazy person, gripped around the mannequin for emotional support.

"Oh please! He's still a man. Just roll with it. Let him think you sent them purposely."

"That's insane." You mumble, thumbs already hovering over the keyboard.

"That's how you're gonna get laid."

You're about to argue, but you type out a draft message, thinking more through your pussy than your mind. And then…you click the send button.

"Did you do it?"

"Yeah. I'm just gonna wai—"

Your phone buzzes damn near in seconds.

[6:38PM] You: You really think so? [6:38PM] Clark Kent: ues you look perfecft Clark Kent: perfect.

You're frowning at your phone at the uncharacteristic typo, and then you screenshot the thread to forward it to Cat.

"Oh hon he's one hundred percent typing with his dick in his hand."

"Shut up," you manage through a grin, "okay, bye bitch, I'm gonna go pay for the blue one."

"Over-eager-slut."

You roll your eyes, hanging up while you're smiling your way to check out.

Clark had been palming himself for the past five minutes. Or at least, he was, until it got way too painful to just rub at his hard-on. He fully had his cock in his palm now, pumping himself slow, with the picture of you on full screen, splayed on his device.

It wasn't a sexy picture — not really, you thought. But the half smile on your lips? The soft curves of your chest he'd been fantasizing seeing, in a lacy blue fabric?

You devastated him.

He tried to type something sweet back, something that wouldn't expose the fact that he was stroking his cock silly like some easily excitable hormonal teenager. He settles for something safe, because that's what you looked like to him always, lovely. Oh..so lovely.

Clark's thumbs rub at the leaking tip of the slit on his cock head. Eyes unfocused, he zooms in on your tits, noticing a glimpse of your areolas. "…!"

He could feel you on his tongue, rolling the shy nubs until they hardened. He wanted to suck around the fat and….And…it's too much. It was too much.

"Oh…mygosh —" He clicks the side button of the phone. Nothing but the black screen reflecting his still throbbing cock, now bubbling over with thick spurts of pent-up cum. It dribbles over his thumbs, landing onto the device. Clark's panting roughly, rubbing it clean clumsily with the waistband of his pants.

And because Clark Kent was the way he was? With restraint barely carved into his DNA? He does the only thing that's sensible. Especially after violating your likeness.

[7:10PM] Clark Kent: I'm sorry. Clark Kent: I can't make it to dinner tonight.

His pulse was hammering in his throat. Leaning back in his armchair to set his phone down. He couldn't face you like this, not when just the sight of you now was enough for him to want to pounce on you and fuck you senseless.

Clark's phone began to ring the tune of one of The Mighty Crabjoys songs. He froze at the incoming call that flashed a picture he took of you, smiling while holding one of your very first articles making headlines on the paper.

He hesitated for a second, but picks up after the second ring.

"Hello?" His voice was terse.

"Clark? Why'd you cancel? Did I do something wrong?" Clark's groaning internally at the worry in your voice. "I — It's not that, It's not you, I just —" His voice is faltering, hesitating.

Your brows knit into a furrow. Something was wrong. With the way he was stuttering at every word, "Clark." You repeat, softer. Heart racing with Cat's teasing words from earlier.

He grits his teeth, head rested on the edge of his chair, your voice settling in his ears like honey. His hand moves downward to idly rub at his still half-hard cock. "Y..Yeah?" He grunts softer and his tip twitches beneath his palm.

Your breath hitches, "…am I interrupting something?"

Clark goes radio silent for far too long and you hear it — his breathing, slow and strained. Inhaling, then exhaling like he was pained.

Finally, he speaks, low, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Ever since you sent me those pictures — I-I'm such a sleaze. It's not anything you did wrong, I swear."

Your lips part with a stuttered breath. Cheeks warming instantaneously at his admission. You're setting your keys down by the doors.

The silence stretches uncomfortably, and he's calling your name, hesitant.

You swallow thickly, the words spilling out before you could consider them.

"You jerked off looking at me?"

There's a sharp inhale at the other end of the line, and then he cuts the call.

You stood there for a solid minute and a half. Staring at your phone.

He hung up.

He hung up in your face.

Offence prickled potent in your chest, but it doesn't last all that long. Your thighs squeeze tighter at the ringing revelation that he'd jerked off to you. Looking at pictures of you. It feels far too hot and heavy in your entryway suddenly.

Your screen lights up with another text.

[7:15PM] Clark Kent: I know an apology won't cut it. Clark Kent: I violated your trust. Clark Kent: I understand if you no longer wish to see me. [7:20PM] Clark Kent: I'm sorry.

You hadn't replied, of course you hadn't. Why would he have thought that pathetic apology would've cut it? Nearly thirty minutes had passed since then. Clark lay face down in his sheets, mumbling to himself, mostly things about how he'd let down his ma by treating a girl he really fancied like this.

Idiot. He was such an idiot. You probably thought he was disgusting, and probably regretted ever even giving him a chance.

Bzzztt.

Clark shot up right like the vibration from his phone had shocked him. He sat up on his thighs, palms flat down on his bed with his phone between.

A message notification, from you.

He's clicking on it with shaky hands. Ready to see you sending a text to end things with him officially.

But it wasn't.

[8:02PM] You: [1 Attached Video]

It was blurry at first, shaky. The frame tilted like you were fumbling trying to prop it against something. But the moment it eased? Clark was zeroing in on you. You, in that blue set, perched on your bed.

You were looking into the camera, biting down on your lips with a shy smile. Head tilted to look down as you smoothed the lace on your thighs. Then, you hook your fingers at the thin band of the thong to adjust it higher onto your hips.

Clark's hand snapped to his mouth. Muffling a curse he'd never say out loud. All blood rushing down south when you pick up the camera, angling it down to run your fingers over the thin lace covering your tits, shy areolas peeking through from the near translucent fabric.

He thought the picture alone was enough to wreck him. But this? This was you saying, it's okay, use me.

Your phone rings even before Clark can finish the video you'd sent him.

The first thing you hear isn't even a hello, it's the muffled click of his door, followed by a slow exhale.

"I don't deserve you."

Your lips twitch, fighting back a slow smile at the way his voice trembles. You drag your fingertips down your belly. Toying with the heart-shaped charm attached to the seams of your underwear.

"Did you like it?" You finally say, featherlight. Clark audibly groans at your voice. There's a pause, and then a laugh tumbles out, breathless at its edges. "I — I did. — Yeah. Gosh, I did. You're unreal. So…so insanely stunning."

He hears a rustle on your end. You shuffle up your bed, wetting your lips, "…are you hard?

Clark hums a stuttered mhm. You hear him adjust, and he's rubbing at himself again, sighing, "I feel like some teenager. It's so…embarrassing."

There's a slow boyishness to his tone, and you're giggling, tracing your fingers over your nipples. "I really…liked how you sounded earlier." You admit.

"Yeah?" He laughs, palming his bulge a little harder, "you liked hearing me sound all pathetic, stroking myself for you?

You let out a stuttered breath, fingers rubbing down and beneath the lace covering your pussy, the sound of his voice teetering you over the edge to slip your fingers into you. Clark's listening to the dull schlick's of you touching yourself. He shuts his eyes, timing his idle rubs to your soft moans.

"I wish…you were here."

There's a sudden silence after your honest whisper. "…Clark?" You frown, looking at the line that wasn't hung up yet.

And then, there's a pounding at your door, like whoever behind was about to rip it off its hinges.

You jolt. Fumbling to grab the silk robe abandoned over your chair. The knocking all but grew more impatient, knocks reminiscent of someone trying not to break the door down. You barely make a proper knot at your hips as you open the door — eyes widening.

Clark Kent stands there, hunched over in your hallway. Panting like he'd just run a goddamn marathon. His hair was messy, glasses sitting crooked on his nose. His white shirt clung to him, sweaty particularly at the chest, wearing what seemed to be printed plaid pyjamas.

"Clark," you breathe out, hands stunted at your door frame. "I was just on the…phone with you. How did you get here so qui —"

"I was already in the area." He blurts out all too quickly. Chest still heaving with effort.

You look at him suspiciously, obviously still in what seemed to be sleep clothes, and sounding far too much like he was lying. But then you see how he's boring holes into you, at your robe. Gaze turning feral by the second as if he could see what was underneath the maroon silk.

Before you're able to press a little further, Clark's figure hunkers in. Forcing you to stumble backwards as he shuts the door behind him with a resounding click.

It's quiet, other than the sounds of his still-heavy breathing.

"You said…you wished I was here." He says, voice cracked and barely restrained.

"…I did."

The air whizzes at the speed of him closing the distance before he's on you — mouth crashing into yours, desperate and messy. His glasses bump into your nose, but he readjusts quickly. Kissing you like a man starved, hands trembling as they cup your jaw. His thumb steadied, feeling the way your cheeks hollow to keep up with him. When your tongue grazes over his lips, he doesn't pull away this time.

Instead, he groans into your mouth. His tongue licking into yours, and then over the softness of your lips. Clark walks you backwards and then lifts you up, like your weight didn't even matter. You squeak into his mouth, arms clambering to hook over his broad shoulders. You knees lock around his hips and he's walking ahead, not knowing his destination while he kisses at your neck.

"Where's — where's your bedroom?" He mutters low, the need in his voice sinking deep into your skin.

Your nose bumps into his glasses, chasing his lips. "D-Down the hall. Second door."

His hair feels wild beneath your fingers. Within barely a second, the walls blur, and he slams your room door open. Your breath catches in your throat at what seemed to be a crackling noise when the door hits your closet. You aren't able to see how the wood splintered beneath, and the hinges now creaked raw.

Thankfully, you're far too hazy to question it.

Clark tumbles into your bed, kissing down your collarbone and down to your sternum. "Mmh—…" He sighs into your chest at the sweetness in your satisfied hums. Your robe snaps open, and you jolt. Staring down at your exposed body and up at Clark, who was pulling back, looking down at you with a slow shake of his head.

"The real…thing…far..far better." He mutters more so to himself. Clark pulls his shirt over his head in one fluid movement, letting you marvel at his body. He smiles shyly, lifting your hand up. Looking at you now, he finds enough control in him to savour the sight.

He kisses at your knuckles, soft pecks travelling up your palms as he twists your wrist slightly. Trailing kisses up to your elbows. "I've been wanting to do this with you…for far too long." He admits, breath ghosting your cheeks when he leans over.

You're squirming at the sensation, curling your head into your neck. "I-It didn't seem like it.."

Clark's shaking his head, burying his face into your pulse. Your fingers card through his curly locks. "That's not it. I've been going insane." You raise your brow at his exaggerated hand gesture, "I want to touch you, all the time, every time."

He pulls away, gazing at you. "But then you send me something like that…how could I not?"

Your eyes are wavering, looking at the scrunch of his features. You drag your fingers down his dimples, and he tilts his head to kiss at your fingers once more.

"Mmm. It wasn't meant for you." You say softly, with a teasing edge. Clark's expression twists, grabbing your wrists.

"Don't even joke about that. I'm barely holding back as is."

"I still don't get why you're trying to be gentle, Clark. I-I want you. Can't you see that?" You finally huff out, a slight resentment building in you at how long it took for you to get to this point.

"I don't want to hurt you." He finally admits after a beat.

"Hurt me how? I want this."

Clark exhales slow, and his hold on your wrists loosen, to guide you to rub at the length of his cock. Your breath stills, and you squeeze at the girth.

"Ngh—that's…that's why." He grits, seeing the way you were rendered silent just by feeling how big he was.

"O-Oh.." You murmur. Clark lets your wrists go, but you don't release him. Watching his lips press taut as you curiously venture, squeezing and rubbing at his more than impressive length in your softer hands. It wasn't a reaction he'd anticipated.

"You're okay? With this?" He manages through a strained pant. Hips bucking to your steady strokes of his clothed cock.

"Are you kidding? Why the hell would I not be? My boyfriend is hung, I'd be an idiot to complain."

Clark groans and lets out an embarrassed laughter, covering your mouth with the expanse of his palm. "G-Geez... Don't…say stuff like that." He mutters, head falling flush onto the sheets. You smile into his hand, and your hand wanders beneath his waistband.

He lets you touch him, rubbing his thick, throbbing length. Clark groans the second your fingers roll beneath his balls, "…o-ohmy— g-gosh." His head goes dizzy, and he's blinking at you. "Where did you learn how to do that? Wait — no. Do not tell me." He warns, tugging his pants off quickly.

You grin, pecking at his jaw, ghosting a whisper, "college boyfriend."

Clark pulls back slowly, expression turning all serious. He didn't utter a single word.

Your bed frame groans when he flips you to your tummy all of a sudden. You gasp, perking up to look back at him, not seeing much but the intense look on his face. Clark's palm lay flat at your lower back, dragging his fingers over the pretty lace that curved around your hips and thighs.

You let out a shudder, trying to peek a glance at him. "Clark?" You try, growing worried that you might've upset him for real.

He doesn't answer you, and you soon understand why.

Your hips jump when he presses a kiss on the inside of your thighs. Then, he licks a stripe dangerously close to your puckered hole. "Mmn?!" You all but let out a stuttered gasp when he probes his tongue into your ass. Lips curved around it entirely, sucking and licking. The grunt that leaves you isn't something you recognise.

He holds you in place, tongue flicking over the ring. You don't fully process it, still breathing heavy at the aftermath of a pleasure you were not familiar with.

It's simple in Clark's mind though. He wanted to have the remainder of all your firsts.

He feels your hips tremble, and he soothes around the fat, head dipping lower to tug at your thong. You whimper at the string rubbing at your clit. He nudges his nose up your slick pussy, already wet from the stimulation so far. Your hips lift when he licks up your folds, his tongue poking into your pussy nice and slow.

"D-Didn't think….you had that in you."

Clark laughs, the vibrations sending an electric sensation of desire in you. "Yeah…" And he sucks at the softness, tongue grazing your clit. Your eyes roll back. You're close.

"Clark…" you whine, he hums in response, already aware —diving back in. "Give it to me." He mutters, continuing to tongue fuck your pussy with a blinding pleasure. Your hips are writhing, but he keeps up, knowing you were so goddamn close with just how your pussy was trying to clamp down on his tongue and nose.

He must've been there forever, but he doesn't rise up, not even once, not even to take a breath. It was insane. It's like he didn't even need to. That man was giving your vibrator a run for its money, and you were feeling the full force of his apparent expertise in pussy eating. Something you didn't even anticipate him to be this frighteningly good at.

It takes you a second to register the strange shift in sensation, more importantly, the temperature. His mouth felt so hot — and suddenly, there's an icy chill. Grazing your pussy in a way that has your cunt clench. A startled shiver takes you, and you look over your shoulder.

"W-What the hell was that?"

Clark flinches for a second. Lifting his head. "I — uh…" he begins, brushing his messy curls away from his face, "…I was chewing mints earlier. Do you feel uncomfortable?" he manages, voice strained.

You blink at him, not sure what to actually say. But it felt….good. "No…d..do it again."

His lips quirk into a smile, seeing the curiosity on your features. Clark leans back down.

"O-Oh my—..fucking…god, Clark!" You scream out, muffled into the sheets.

He takes his time, and like clockwork, you feel the familiar build. Your hips are nudging backwards, rubbing, grinding back into his face. And you cum. Hard.

Clark doesn't relent, licking you even as your thighs spasm through your release. He's suckling at your folds, kissing, flicking at your clit until you've pulled all stops, palm slapping onto the sheets.

He pulls away then. Licking his lips, watching you shake beneath him. Clark hooks his arm around your hips to turn you on your back. He leans down to kiss you, sucking your tongue with a gentle ease until you taste yourself. A heavy palm steadies on your head, soothing your hair down. "Easy, easy, baby. You're okay."

You're muttering incoherently into his neck, thighs shaking still from your come down. "I c-can't..s'too..much. It's—…can't.."

Clark rubs at your hips, humming. "Mmhm. I know. I know." He peppers kisses down your cheeks, picking you up in his arms, rubbing you nice and slow. For a second, you actually think he would give you a break. But instead, his own legs pushes yours impossibly apart. His cock rests idly on your pussy.

You blink at him confused, and Clark guides your hand to rest at your belly. "I promise you." He murmurs, interlocking his fingers where it lay on you.

"You won't ever need to think about your college boyfriend when you're with me."

The possessiveness in his tone catches you off guard. "H-Hrrk!" Clark notches his cock into you, and then pushes in, slow, inch by inch. You grab at his forearm that rests beside your face, the other, glued to your belly. He's watching you, watching as your expression turns to utter shock when his cock presses, pokes where he held your palm steady.

Clark looks at you, panting heavily. The suction of your cunt, squeezing at his cock with a pleasure unmatched. "You're so…incredible.." He mutters, burying himself into you to the hilt. You groan loudly, fingertips tracing over the bulge on your belly. Clark presses down on it further, and your eyes roll back.

He leans down, breathing against the column on your throat. His hips pick up the pace, starting off with slow, yet hard rocks into you. "Mm—..myg-gosh…so…tight." Your thighs squeeze around his hips, rocking to his movements. "N-No other…no other guy will ever…have you like this. You..hear me?"

You're nodding, through the tears prickling at the side of your cheeks. He was fucking you so full, so deep, you aren't sure if you'll ever be able to recover from this man. Your grip around his arm turns into a claw. You're about to cum again, you feel it.

But Clark tuts, his hand moving off your belly to hold your jaw in place. "Don't…cum." He mutters with a punishing edge, licking up your jaw slow. Your expression twists, and you clench instinctively around him.

"W…What?"

He groans when you somehow get even tighter around him, and he slumps over you. Grinding slow and deep into you. The wind is knocked out of you by the weight on your chest. But the sheer suffocation of his heavy body only served to drive you even more dumb.

You bite at his shoulder, arm slung loose around his back. "Claaark…" You whine his name out, muffled. Tasting the saltiness of your own tears at his relentless thrusts. He's nosing at your jaw, thumbs tracing over the lace on your neglected tits.

"Gosh..even wore this..all…for me.." His thumb rubs over the band, snapping it apart, earning a shocked gasp from you. You'd be angry at him for that later, but now? Now you were far too fucked out with how your pussy was throbbing, begging for release that he didn't allow you.

Clark leans down, massaging the softness he'd been fantasizing ever since you'd sent the pictures to him. His nose drags over the already hardened nubs, groaning into it, groping them with both his palms. His balls tighten when you mewl as he suckles around the fat.

He breathes your name out, reverent, panting until he tenses. Clark pulls out at the very last second. You blink hazily to see his thighs at the other side of your chest. He pumps himself once, then twice. Hot cum sputtering over your tits in jolts.

You're transfixed at the pearlescent white land on your chest. Wincing when some lands on your cheeks. Clark's eyes are fluttered shut, stroking and squeezing at the head, resting his cock on your sternum until the rest of his spend dribbles onto your collarbone.

He looks at you, with his head tilted. A lazy smile creeping on his lips when he spots you gathering some of his cum off your cheeks to lick your fingertips.

"We should've done this sooner."

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burnforyou · 10 days ago

Note

more "bouncing like a bunny" on clarks big fat cock please ✋🏻🤤🙏🏻 i like the visual so much

Bunny's Turn

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ blurb - clark kent x bunny!reader

summary - kneel, squeeze, bounce—Clark's stress relief has never been filthier

tw - 18+, MDNI, smut, dom/sub dynamics, petnames, breast play/titjob, unprotected sex, cowgirl position, praise kink/begging, mild degradation, creampie

notes - I switched it up a little, hope you guys will still enjoy it. ily all. Not proofread !

—Reblog & comments are greatly appreciated ᥫ᭡

Clark was already loose-tied and slouched when you found him on the couch, one hand braced over his eyes like the world had chewed him up and spit him out. He looked every bit like Superman stripped down to Clark Kent—tired, frustrated, stretched thin.

He didn't even hear you pad into the living room until you were kneeling between his knees, smoothing your hands up his thighs. "Poor thing," you whispered, pressing your cheek against the firm line of his leg. "All that weight on your shoulders, hm? Why don't I take care of you?"

He opened his mouth to protest, but you were already unbuckling his belt. His cock sprang free, flushed and heavy, and his whole body jolted like he had been shocked. "Sweetheart—" he rasped, but his breath broke when you spat into your cleavage, squeezing your breasts together before wrapping them around him.

His breath hitched. You rocked forward, sliding him between the plush heat of your tits, "Bun," he threw his head back, "Oh, fuck." His big hands twitching like he didn't know whether to grab your hair or the couch.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" you teased, spit slicking your cleavage so every bounce dragged wet heat over his girth. "You just sit there and be my good boy." You worked him slow at first, rocking your chest so the fat head of his cock kept slipping free, brushing your lips. You kissed it with a filthy smile.

His breath stuttered, hips bucking just slightly, "God—honey, don't talk like that—" Clark groaned, deep and desperate, "Look at you—fuck, let me come, baby. You're too good—"

"Mhm," you hummed, sliding faster, smothering him in softness. "My good boy's losing it already? Can't even last through a titjob?"

"Yeah," he gasped, and the sheer need in his voice made your cunt ache with dripping need. "Please, baby, lemme come—I can't"

You pulled off with a cruel little smile and crawled into his lap, lining his throbbing cocktip against your soaked sex. "Shh. You can. You're gonna be such a good boy for me."

You sank down on him at all once, burying all his length into your soppy folds, Clark's cry was raw, almost broken, his hands pulling you tight to his chest as though he'd fall apart without the anchor.

And then you started to bounce.

Little, quick hops at first, your cunt sucking him in on every descent, making his hips jerk up to pound you balls deep from below. His eyes locked on the in and out of his girth stretching your cunt, wide and sloppy. "Jesus Christ—bunny—fuck, you feel so warm inside—love watchin' you hop on my cock...don't stop—"

Hopping on him in short, hungry bounces that had the couch creaking. He sounded ragged and filthy. You cupped his jaw, riding him harder, pressing your forehead to his. "That's it, Clarkie. Let go. My good boy, let your bunny fuck the stress out of you."

And he did—shuddering beneath you, undone and helpless, nesting in his favorite bunny hole.

—requests are open for any character ! Clark Kent Masterlist<3

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burnforyou · 10 days ago

Text

limits | clark kent

cw. boxer! clark x physical therapist reader, massages, handjob, somewhat submissive clark, smut

synopsis. clark needs to relax his body and de-stress before his upcoming fight.

masterlist | navigation | kinktober '25 masterlist

the facility smells surprisingly pleasant as clark walks in. the lady at the front desk greets him with a coy smile and asks for a picture before redirecting him to the physical therapist who's supposed to be attending to him in room 6B.

clark feels tense, rolling his shoulders like a coiled spring. his body's fucking tight, stiff from neglecting stretches and rest days for so long. he's been training ten hours a day minimum to prepare for his next fight, and so he's wound up as hell. he figures, to make him even more annoyed than he already is, that he'll be paired with some stodgy, balding man who has no time for anything and just wants his day to be over.

instead, he's met with you. absurdly beautiful, wide eyed with creamy soft skin. your hair is pulled back to show off all your delicate facial features, and there's a faint sheen of oil on your hands before you even touch him.

clark is frozen.

"clark kent?" you ask, voice clinical and calm but oh so sultry. his pulse spikes. aware of the space between you shrinking as you take a few steps forward, the weight of your gaze lands on him intensely.

"uh… yeah," he manages. he wants to sound confident, but the minute you cock your head towards the massage table, he's like a nervous puppy. he flops down unceremoniously after tugging off his shirt. he's about to tell you where he's tense and what he needs help with, but you're already grabbing onto his shoulders, massaging with firm, deliberate pressure, aaaand he forgets every word he knows.

your hands glide down his back and rub in slow circles, and in response, every muscle tightens and melts at the same time under your touch. he can't stop the hitch in his breath, the tremor in his hands as they grip the edge of the table. "i need to loosen your traps before your match," you murmur, pressing your palms into the tension along his shoulder blades. you watch him shiver and arch his back instinctively, pressing into you needily.

"shit... yeah, gotta relax." he mutters under his breath. clark swears he's never been this aware of someone touching him before. probably it's because you're so fucking hot, but your magical touch does help too. your hands knead deeper, teasing the tension out of his shoulders. clark is trying to focus on breathing, but his body reacts faster than his brain; he can't help it.

he's hard. his cock has begun to stiffen in his thin shorts.

you pause and tip your head, pushing your fingers up the curve of his spine, then back to his shoulders. he wants to lean back, and get more so badly. he's in heaven. every inch of him is lit up, every nerve ending alive to your touch. you lean down slightly, pressing into the small of his back with deliberate pressure, and he groans; half surprise, half out of pleasure. "fuck," he mutters, head dropping forward, letting your hands take over completely.

"alright," you say calmly, tapping his shoulder. he's so worked up that he doesn't catch how your eyes scan his face and body with interest. "turn over for me, please." clark freezes mid-breath, and his chest rises and falls rapidly. "uh… turn over?" he asks, pulse hammering. the simple act of obeying makes him feel exposed in ways he's not used to.

"yes," you say smoothly, not waiting for him to protest as you've already begun to tug him onto his back. "on your back. relax." he hesitates a fraction too long, hips tilting, hands gripping the edge of the table as he slowly pivots. the second he's facing you, he realizes just how vulnerable he is.

your fingers ghost lightly over the top of his hips first. clark jerks slightly, while his cock, pressed snugly against his broad, short clad thighs, is straining visibly. he knows you can tell he's aroused, but you don't seem to be affected. you've seen it before; a lot of guys react this way during your massages, and you treat it like it's nothing.

"oh," he sighs, trembling. he tries to push back, but your hands are faster, coating the tense muscles of his inner thighs in oil. your thumbs press in, kneading and gliding along sensitive flesh, and his eyes squeeze shut, because the more he looks at you, the more he's inclined to make a mess in his boxers. clark can't sit still. his hips arch involuntarily, little whimpers escaping him.

"you okay?" you ask softly, but your voice carries an undertone that makes it clear you already know the answer.

"i… y-yeah, uh. no," he stammers, chest rising and falling unevenly. his cock pulses with every glide of your fingers. you lean down slightly, pressing just a little more into his inner thigh, thumbs circling tantalizingly.

you let your fingers trace the contours, teasing the sensitive dips where thigh meets cock, ignoring the obvious leaking and the slick sheen that's forming. you rub up his thighs, thumbs hooking under his balls to rub the sensitive spot underneath. the soft area right above his asshole. clark whole body shudders, small gasps, whimpers, and shaky groans spilling past his lips.

he keeps trying to pull away slightly, only to squirm back against your hands. clark's cock throbs with every movement of your fingers, leaking heavier, drooling down his thighs. you glance down, casually noting the mess but not commenting.

every time you glide your fingers along his inner thigh, every accidental brush against his cock, he shivers and gasps like his body is on fire. "clark…" you chastise softly, leting your fingers linger on the slick skin at the base of his cock. "you're not going to calm down like this." he opens his eyes, looking to see what you mean by that, and his heart races like mad when he sees you tug down the waistband of his shorts, then his boxers, to free his swollen cock.

with one hand, you slowly wrap your fingers around the slick length, thumb pressing down on the sensitive tip. he begins groaning so loud that you have to shove your hand over his mouth with your free hand, also using it to keep him down so he doesn't lift too much. "shh... calm down. i'm just helping you, see? i'm doing my job." you begin milking his cock with your fist, and with each slick slide of your palm up and down, his body gives a slight shudder, hips bucking against your grip. your oil slick hand mixed in with his precum is making a gooey messy of his cock.

"ohhh fuck…" he groans into your palm, "stop…don't stop…pl-please."

you keep your pace, fingers gliding up and down, thumb circling the tip, ignoring the way he's absolutely dripping. when he keeps fucking his hips up into you to get you to stroke him harder, you adjust slightly, letting your hand slide along his cock harder and twisting occasionally, to increase the stimulation tenfold. "so responsive…can't help yourself, can you?"

"no…fuck…can't…" he moans as his hips press up into your hand, cock pulsing in your grip. every stroke of your fingers sends him spiraling closer to the edge and leaking heavier.

the first tremor runs through him like lightning, hips bucking hard, chest heaving, and a long, shuddering groan escapes him. thick, hot, dripping streams cover your hand, running down his thighs, slicking the table beneath him. his thighs quiver violently and his messy cock pulses in your hand. cum dribbles out of him in masses.

you just keep your hand moving. "there. that's better." you remove your hand from his mouth and join it to wrap around his fat cock as well, jerking him off firmly.

you slide both hands around his cock, twisting and stroking. his body bucks helplessly under you. his chest arches, head thrown back against the padded table as sweat drips along his temple. "oh fuck me-" his voice cracks, breaking into little gasps that sound far too desperate for a big boxer like him.

your thumbs smear his leaking tip, dragging the slick down his shaft as you stroke him faster, both hands working in tandem to palm his cock.

clark tries to grab your wrist to slow you down, but his fingers barely latch on before his own strength betrays him and he just holds your hands on his dick. you squeeze just under his swollen head and twist up in a slow drag, and the sound that rips out of his throat in response is obscene.

his thighs are spread wide now, knees trembling, and his hips keep canting upward no matter how much he tries to hold them down. you don't even need to encourage him; his body is chasing your hands on their own.

you stroke harder, both fists twisting, pumping him until he's cumming yet again, shooting in thick ropes that splash his stomach, your hands. "mm. see?" you murmur, finally slowing the strokes but not letting go. "all that tension, gone. you just needed someone to work it out of you."

397 notes · View notes

burnforyou · 11 days ago

Text

six months

clark kent x editor!reader

Summary: Sequel to Yes, Ma'am. You and Clark have been dating for six months, and he's been acting... weird.

Word Count: 14.9k

Content: 18+, smut, jealous!clark, reader is still mean and clark is still a disaster and a yearner, drinking, piv sex (unprotected, wrap it before you tap it friends), oral (m!receiving & f!receiving), edging, clark whimpers some more, bitches need to communicate, no use of y/n, douchebag coworker

Link to Yes, Ma'am

To Read on AO3

Daily Planet, Metropolis – 10:42 AM

The day is already well underway at the Daily Planet, the newsroom moving like it is alive—a body constantly in motion, inhaling and exhaling within every moment. Employees pace the floors like writhing organs; the ebb and flow of chatter is a steady heartbeat that thrums throughout. Everyone moves with purpose, like a well-oiled machine.

You, however, feel like a squeaky wheel in the complicated mechanism that is the Daily Planet.

“Hey, do you have that draft for me yet?” Lois asks as she sidles next to your desk, coffee cup firmly in hand, no doubt filled with a noxious concoction of the break room coffee and an inordinate amount of pure granulated sugar. Her mouth, which had been tilted up into a smile, falls as she glances down at your desk.

It’s like a twister tore through the editor block and specifically targeted your workspace. Paper drafts are strewn across the surface in various stages of the editing process, several of which are stained with coffee or some other food matter and crinkled as though you had been trying to edit on the go. Both of your computer monitors are covered in Post-it notes that barely leave a fraction of the screen visible, with little reminders for yourself (a few of which Lois can see are already past the deadline). She notices that the light on your desk phone is blinking steadily red, and the number next to the voicemail count makes her physically ill.

You’re currently in the middle of scrounging around in the mess, lifting heaps of folders and papers, clearly looking for something, when she makes her way over. “I can come back later…” Lois offers as she starts to inch away.

“I’m looking for my pen,” you grumble, leaning over to scan underneath your desk in case it fell onto the floor.

Lois immediately zeroes in on your signature blue gel pen tucked into your haphazard bun (along with several others). “Uh,” she starts gaining your attention, and when you glance up at her, she points to the top of her head.

You reach up, patting your head once, then twice, before you feel the pens sticking out of your hair. You let out a long, exasperated sigh as you pluck one from your hair. “I’m so sorry, I meant to get this to you yesterday,” you apologize as you grab a draft, one thankfully with no coffee stains on it, and hold it out to Lois.

As Lois grabs the packet from you, she finally takes in your appearance. You hadn’t bothered with much makeup today, just a bit of concealer that barely covered the bags under your eyes and blush, so you didn’t look as dead as you felt. Normally, your outfits were well put together, but the button-up you were wearing was wrinkled, and your slacks had remnants of today’s breakfast on them from when you spilled it all over your lap. You didn’t have time to go home and change, so you were left to walk around with stains on your pants.

In short, you look like a hot mess.

“Do you know when they’re going to hire a new editor?” Lois asks, leaning up against your desk as she takes a sip of her coffee, grimacing a bit as she swallows it down. “They can’t just expect you to take on the workload of two people forever.”

Your lips twist into a sneer. “It feels like that’s exactly what they expect,” you mutter. Tom, the sports editor, had quit on the spot nearly three weeks ago after another one of his blowouts with Steve. “Apparently, they’ve interviewed several people, but none of them ‘felt like the right fit.” You made a face as you threw up quotation marks, sinking back into your seat in what you and Lois would agree was definitely not a pout.

Lois groans. “Ugh, that sucks.”

“Tell me about it, I’m drowning,” you lament as you gesture to your desk. “And I hate sports writing.”

“Yeah, well, I imagine dealing with Steve so much now, you realize why Tom quit,” Lois snorts.

“He is a nightmare of a human being,” you deadpan and hold up one of the drafts Steve had given you late last evening. There is not a millimeter more room in the margins for any more notes, so you had to start writing on the back. “Look at this. This man has been working here since I was in high school. What the fuck is this?”

Lois’s nose scrunches up as she cringes. “Any big plans for the weekend to look forward to at least? Isn’t yours and Clark’s six-month anniversary coming up?”

You blanch a bit, your mouth pursing as if you had tasted something sour. “Lois, we’re adults, who celebrates month anniversaries besides teenagers?”

She rolls her eyes despite the smile on her face. “Please, as if Boy Wonder wouldn’t be celebrating the days if given the chance.” You give a half-hearted shrug, biting the inside of your lip to keep yourself from saying anything else as you grab another of the endless drafts that have accumulated on your desk. Lois, ever the astute reporter, picks up on the fact that you're signaling this is the end of the conversation. “I’ll let you get back to it. Let me know if I can help you with anything, okay?” She gives a small smile and taps the folder on your desk before walking away.

“Thanks, Lois,” you call out, eyes already focusing on reading the article you picked up, though your brain can’t seem to process any of the words on the page as you think about your boyfriend, Clark Kent, who is once again mysteriously absent from the bullpen.

Clark Kent, for all intents and purposes, is the perfect boyfriend. He is attentive, always knowing exactly when you need an extra coffee for an afternoon pick-me-up or showing up at your doorstep with a bag of your favorite takeout after a particularly crappy day of work. He is kind, showering you with compliments and lending you a listening ear for when you need to vent. He is respectful, holding doors open and making sure you always walk on the inside of the sidewalk when you’re together.

Your sex life is also nothing to sneeze at, but that’s just a bonus.

The problem is that Clark has been acting weird in the last couple of weeks. He has been so dodgy about his whereabouts, getting up and leaving even in the middle of dates with no explanation other than a hasty ‘UhIgottago’. When you question him about it, he gives a noncommittal shrug or tries to change the subject. So far, you’ve been unwilling to break the bliss of the honeymoon phase by pushing and possibly initiating your first fight as a couple, because, besides his sudden dodginess, things have been really good.

If he were any other person, you would think he was cheating on you, but this is Clark Kent, the man who could barely say a coherent sentence to you until nearly six months ago and still gets tongue-tied when you wear a particularly short skirt or low-cut top.

And really, you already knew he was Superman, so what could he possibly be hiding that is a bigger secret than that?

You sigh, looking up at the clock on the wall, realizing it has been ten minutes since Lois left you to your devices, and you haven’t edited a single line of this article. Clark Kent better get it together because you can’t spend all your time ruminating on him and his oddities when you have a mountain of work to catch up on.

Said boyfriend wouldn’t show up for another hour, looking as frantic and frazzled as usual, though when his eyes meet yours from across the room, a broad, dimpled smile spreads across his face. You curse the way your heartbeat speeds up at the sight of him, how instinctively you feel yourself perk up. It makes you crinkle your nose up and frown; however, one look at your sour face, and Clark is making a beeline for your desk.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he greets lowly as he presses a kiss to the top of your head, careful to avoid the spiked crown of pens you have going on, before placing the cup of coffee he was holding down onto your desk, your name and a lopsided heart written on the side in his chicken scratch handwriting. When you mutter out your own lackluster greeting, he drops to perch on the edge of your desk, careful not to disturb the precariously placed files. “What’s wrong?”

The internal debate of whether you want to get into it with your boyfriend at work is a quick one, so instead, you gesture to the pile of articles. “If they don’t hire another editor soon, I’m going to quit, and then all of this will be Connie’s problem.”

(Across the way, Connie gives you a startled look that you don’t acknowledge.)

Clark laughs. “You love it too much here to quit.” He states it as if it were a fact. You don’t know why, but that makes you stew a bit. Maybe because he obviously knows you so well, and you only know him well enough to know he’s being strange. “Besides, you know I’d be lost without you to yell at me about deadlines.” His hand reaches out to play with a tendril of hair that has fallen loose from your bun, tucking it behind your ear.

You melt a bit as his thumb traces your jawline. Damn him. “Yeah, you’re right,” you grumble, fighting the urge to cross your arms like you’re a petulant toddler throwing a fit, though you very much wanted to.

“Wanna do takeout and a movie tonight?” he proposes.

“Only if we get to watch a horror movie,” you counter, and you watch as his face puckers at your suggestion. You reach up, tugging at the lapels of his suit jacket hard enough to feel yourself rolling closer to him in your chair. You tilt your chin up at him, pouting your lips and batting your lashes in a way that has the heat spreading up Clark’s neck; you can see the red rise to his ears. Your hand settles under his suit jacket, resting just above the waistband of his slacks, your thumb rubbing circles against his wrinkled shirt, feeling the warmth of him beneath. “Don’t worry, I’ll hold you if you get scared,” you tease as you lean up.

He stoops lower, eyes flickering down to your mouth, looking like he wants to do nothing more than kiss you right now, and when he starts to bow his head, you settle back in your chair, retracting your hand from him, a shit-eating grin on your face when you hear him let out a little whine. “C’mon.”

“Shoo,” you urge with a wave of your hand. “I have work to do, and you’re distracting.”

That has him smiling smugly. “Oh, I’m distracting?”

You give him a deadpan look. “Immensely,” you admit as you turn away from him, though out of the corner of your eye, you watch him leave with a bit more pep in his step, a little smirk settling on your face.

And that’s how you find yourself that night cozied up on your couch with Clark Kent, cuddled against you like he isn’t a 6’4” behemoth of a man, his hands covering his face. Empty takeout boxes line the coffee table, and your glass of wine is long forgotten as you watch Clark peeking out from behind his fingers whenever he thinks the scary parts of the movie are over. You’re desperately trying not to laugh at the man.

“It’s scary, okay!”

“Clark, you fight monsters the size of skyscrapers,” you try to reason, but he isn’t having it, shrinking even more into the couch.

“Yeah, and creepy possessed dolls are scarier,” he mutters, voice muffled by his hands as he quickly covers his face again when the doll’s face pops up on screen.

You decide to take pity on the poor man, reaching for the remote to turn the movie off before resting against the back of the couch, grinning at Clark like the Cheshire Cat. “Do you wanna watch something more your speed?” you ask, voice going up an octave like you’re talking to a child. “Maybe The Little Mermaid or Cinderella?” You reach up and pinch his cheek.

“Oh, you are so not funny,” he grumbles as he grabs you, his hands firm on your waist, before tossing you back onto the couch so you’re lying down against the pillows. You don’t even have the opportunity to act scandalized because his mouth is on yours, pressing kisses to your lips. “You’re so mean, you know that?” He states in between the short pecks.

You smirk up at him. “You love it,” you tease, causing Clark to stop and pull back.

His face softens as he stares down at you, mouth opening like he’s going to say something, but the loud trill of his ringtone cuts him off. He immediately grabs his phone, looking down at the screen and frowning.

“I gotta go,” he declares as he dislodges himself from you, hopping over the back of the couch.

You hastily sit up, staring at him incredulously. “Clark, seriously?”

He presses a chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth as he grabs his suit jacket and bag from the other side of your couch. “I’m so sorry, I’ll make it up to you.”

You want to say something. To yell at him and make a big fuss, but instead, you swallow down your feelings and nod. “Okay.”

And then he’s off. You hear your apartment door shut behind him, and you’re left alone. You let out a frustrated sigh before getting up, shutting off the TV, and starting to clean up all the takeout containers. The silence of your apartment seems suffocating now.

For a brief second, you wonder if it will always feel like this.

Daily Planet, Metropolis – 7:47 AM

A week later, after receiving half a dozen apology coffees, two bouquets of all your favorite flowers, and being bent over your kitchen counter, suffice to say, Clark had made up for ditching you on your movie night.

It is still early in the morning, and you’re once again chained to your desk by the sheer number of articles you need to edit when Perry walks over to you with a man you have never seen before. Tall, blond, with a friendly enough face.

As Perry tells the man your name, you peer back and forth between the two of them. “If you aren’t going to tell me this is the new editor, consider this my two weeks.” Even you don’t know if you’re joking or not at this point.

The man gives a polite laugh while Perry looks at you sharply, pointing at you with his unlit cigar as if it’s a warning. “I’m Ian, and yes, I’m the new sports editor,” the man—Ian—introduces himself as he holds out his hand for you to shake.

Your entire body seems to deflate, most of the tension of the last few weeks leaving your body in an instant as you reach out to shake his hand. “Oh, thank God,” you mutter in relief.

“You’ll be teaching Ian the ropes,” Perry informs before turning to look at Ian. “You’re in good hands. She’s one of the best in the business.” He wraps his knuckles on the edge of your desk before heading back to his office. You almost roll your eyes at the very typical Perry move of dropping the newbie off to be someone else’s problem.

(He’d done the same thing to Cat on your first day.)

You quickly grab an empty seat from one of the nearby desks and roll it over so Ian can sit next to you at yours. “Okay, so, jumping right into it because I’ve been drowning in work since our previous sports editor quit.” You grab a few of the articles Steve has submitted to you, some of which are partially edited and some that you haven’t started yet. “I make all the writers submit a hard copy of their drafts; you don’t have to do that, it’s just what I prefer.”

You flip open one of the edited pieces to show all the markups. “I am sure I don’t need to tell you how to edit, but you will have your hands full working with Steve, who is the sportswriter. The man loves a run-on sentence,” you warn, earning an exceedingly apparent forced laugh from him. It’s sharp and loud, startling you a bit.

“What do you usually edit for?” he asks.

“Features,” you inform. “And I will be happy to be back in my lane as will the poor journalists whose articles I’ve been keeping hostage.” You hand over the stack of manila folders to him. “I’ll let you read through some of these, feel free to write on the drafts and edit them how you want. I can have Steve send over the shareable links for you, if you’d prefer to do your editing on the computer.”

He grabs the folders, smiling with too many teeth. “Nah, I think I’ll try it your way, I’m kind of into the old school style.” He winks, and you school your face into a neutral expression, biting the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from grimacing.

“Let me know if you have any questions. I’m going to finally work on these features that have been sitting on my desk for the better part of the week,” you say as you very politely push his chair in the direction of the empty desk.

When Clark enters the Daily Planet, barely on time, his heart flutters seeing you sitting at your desk, as pretty as you always are, and looking far less harried than you have in previous weeks. It’s when an unfamiliar man leans over from the desk next to yours that Clark stops short. He watches the interaction briefly, not caring that others must walk around him.

You read the papers the man had handed you, pointing something out and saying, “I wouldn’t let him keep this in personally,” and the man seems to nod, a smile on his face that Clark doesn’t quite like as he stares at you and not at the paragraph you’re clearly pointing to.

“Who is that?” Clark questions before he even sits down at his desk. Jimmy pops up from behind his monitor, glancing in the direction Clark had tilted his head to.

“New sports editor,” Jimmy informed. “Just started this morning.” It was unfortunate for Clark that Jimmy is as keen as he is because he catches Clark’s lingering stare. “Uh oh, what’s that look for?”

Clark shakes his head as he sinks into his seat. “Nothing,” he says quickly.

Jimmy’s eyebrows rise on his forehead, but his mouth remains sealed, obviously choosing not to press the issue. That doesn’t stop him from making a mental note about his friend’s strange behavior.

The morning meeting that concludes an hour later confirms that the man who seems to be now attached to your hip is indeed the new sports editor, Ian Chandler. By lunchtime, you stroll over to the writer block, a stack of folders in your hands that you’re giving out like presents on Christmas morning while profusely apologizing for the delay. However, most of the other writers wave you off, knowing the amount of work you’d been saddled with. You save Clark’s for last.

You slide onto his desk, holding the folder out to him. “Here’s that Luthor article,” you announce. “I’m sorry it took so long.”

“Thoughts?” Clark asks as he accepts the folder, placing it down in front of him before he gazes back up at you. Even after six months of dating, he can still feel the thrill of adrenaline coursing through him just being this close to you. His ears heating up as your ankle brushes against his knee.

“You can read my edits,” your mouth curves into a teasing smile.

He rolls his eyes as he settles back into his chair. “Your non-editor thoughts,” he clarifies, because even as scathing and blunt as you can be in your edits, he knew there were comments you withheld for the sake of professionalism.

You cross your legs and tap at your chin as though you’re thinking. “Personally, I don’t think I could’ve refrained from calling him a bald-headed bitch, so I admire your restraint.”

You hear a choking noise and glance back to see Jimmy desperately covering his mouth and pushing back away from his desk to avoid sputtering coffee all over his freshly printed photos. Clark is doing his best to hide the grin that’s working its way onto his face, an odd mixture of amusement and pride glinting in his eyes. “I think Perry would have a few words with both you and me if that made it into the article.”

You wink at him, and Clark feels his face flush from the simple gesture. “I’d protect you from Perry, don’t worry.” And then you lower your voice, pretending to clean some lint off his suit jacket as you lean forward. “So, what are the odds I can have you to myself tonight?”

Clark loses focus, gaze flickering down to your glossy lips and the fact that he could smell the strawberry flavoring. His eyes flutter closed, and he can feel you bend down closer, your lips almost touching, until your name is yelled from across the bullpen.

You perk up and you’re on your feet in an instant, though your hand is still lingering on Clark’s shoulder. Ian is making his way over to you, a grin on his face. “Sorry to interrupt,” he apologizes, and Clark’s eyes narrow a bit; the man’s jovial tone does nothing to indicate he’s sorry at all. “I had a few questions I want to go over with you about this draft, if you have the time.”

You give a small imperceivable sigh, your grip tightening just a bit on Clark, before your eyes slide back over to him, hopeful. “I’ll see you tonight?” you ask, softly so no one else can hear.

He reaches up to grab the hand on his shoulder, rubbing his thumb over the top, admiring the softness for a moment before letting go. “Yeah, tonight.”

You smile before turning back to Ian, grabbing the draft that was in his hands without another word. Clark doesn’t miss the glance that Ian sends back to him, not smug, but curious, maybe, and he tries to swallow the ugly feeling that settles in his throat when he sees how close Ian walks next to you.

Your Apartment, Metropolis – 1:13 AM

You’re disappointed, but not wholly surprised, when Clark ends up cancelling because of an extradimensional monster emerging through a rift with a gaggle of buddies later that evening. You, maybe, spend the night unhealthily coping with a bottle of your favorite wine and end up crying over Moulin Rouge before planting yourself in bed and falling asleep.

It’s the dead of night when Superman flies to a nondescript apartment building, easily letting himself into the sliding doors of a balcony that has been left unlocked a few floors up.

(Clark will have a conversation with you another day about the importance of always making sure your doors and windows are locked at night; you never know what kind of prowler could be hiding in the darkness.)

He finds you curled up on your bed asleep, not even under the covers, and he doesn’t pretend not to notice the tear stains on your cheeks, his thumb tracing down them before he flops down on the bed behind you after sliding his boots off. He drags your form to him, and you give a little whine in your sleep at being disturbed, before covering you both with his cape.

As he holds you, guilt weighs down on him.

You wake up in the early hours of the morning before the sun has risen, the weight of an arm is heavy around your waist, and your heart simmers; the affection you feel for the man attached to the arm is overwhelming. The soft snores you’ve grown used to over the last few months are comforting, and you sink back into Clark’s embrace, wrapping his arm further around you, letting yourself drift off back to sleep.

You stir again with the light peeking through the curtains of your bedroom, a warm body still next to you, though you’ve wiggled out of his grip in your sleep and are curled up facing him. The room is silent. “If I open my eyes and you’re staring at me, I’m going to smack you,” you mumble into your drool-stained pillow.

Clark’s laugh envelops you like the feeling of being home; it is a sense of belonging, a safety that feels like permanence, aching deep within your bones, and love felt even in the stillness. “How did you know I was awake?”

“You snore when you sleep,” you inform as you peek an eye open and see the bright blue eyes of your boyfriend staring back at you. In the haziness of the morning light, he’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. There’s an ache deep in your ribcage.

He dares to look scandalized by your accusations. “I do not,” he asserts and burrows deeper into his pillow, inching closer to you.

You raise an eyebrow. “You do too.” And then you press a light smack to his chest, not with any real force, not like you could hurt him anyway, not physically. “What time did you get in last night?” You give a little stretch, feeling a few joints crack and pop, before propping yourself up on one elbow.

“A little after one,” he says as he does the same, practically nose to nose with you.

“Didn’t want to take the suit off?” You ask, tracing a finger down the seams of the fabric. You’ll get on him another day about wearing the suit to bed; you just want to live in this peace for a while.

“Just wanted to hold you,” Clark admits earnestly, and there’s a comfortable silence that spreads between the two of you for a moment before you’re moving, capturing his lips with yours, past the point of caring about morning breath or messy hair.

You push him back down against the crumpled pillows, straddling his waist, not breaking your kiss. His hands feel hot against your skin as they bunch up the oversized T-shirt you wore to bed, grabbing at your breasts. His touch is almost as desperate as you as you lean into it, moaning into his mouth as he tweaks your nipple in a way he knows you like. You reward him with a brush of your core against him. He can feel your heat, and he debates ripping away your flimsy underwear so he can plunge his fingers into your pussy.

Before he can act on those impulses, though, you pull back slightly to catch your breath, and an odd thought strikes you as you see Clark with mussed hair dressed in his Superman suit. There are so many sides of Clark Kent you’re not sure you’ve seen yet, but you desperately want to.

You hope you get to.

With eyes half-lidded, he reaches up and grabs the side of your face to mash your mouths together once more, tilting his hips up into your core. The familiar feeling of him, hard and hot beneath you, has you growing wet as you grind down onto him wantonly, breath catching in your throat when your clit drags against him.

He starts to sit up, briefly letting go of you, and you scramble off him as he begins to take off his suit, starting with his cape and then his trunks, but as he pulls them down, you begin to laugh at the sudden realization that you’ve never seen him putting on or taking off his suit before.

He looks distraught, or even embarrassed, as he pauses. “What?”

“I’m so sorry,” you apologize in between giggles, covering your mouth with your hand. “I just—I don’t know how I expected your suit to function, but—” More laughter that has Clark rolling his eyes even as a grin works its way onto his face and he pries your hand from your face to replace it with his mouth, trying to kiss away your giggling.

Then your phone alarm starts to go off, causing you both to stop. Well, at least you do. Clark is now kissing his way down your neck when you pull away, ignoring the whine that escapes him.

You press a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth that he tries to chase, but you’re out of reach before he can. “I’m going to get ready for work,” you declare as you shimmy off the bed.

“But—”

You send him a grin over your shoulder as you make your way towards your bathroom, the door closing behind you with finality.

Clark lies there for a few minutes as he hears your shower turn on, trying to will away his hard-on before he also gets up. Though the thought of you, wet and naked, just fifteen feet away, doesn’t make it easy, especially when the imprint of your body hot against his is so fresh on his mind.

Forty minutes later, Clark is dressed in some extra clothes he had left at your place during the second month of dating.

(The fact that you have cleared out a drawer in your dresser for his stuff causes a dopey grin to spread on his face whenever he thinks about it.)

He is clanging around in your kitchen, making you a proper breakfast since he knows you’re often too busy in the morning to grab anything other than a granola bar or a little parfait from the coffee shop on your way to work, otherwise you’d often claim that the three cups of coffee you down before noon were suitable enough nutrition.

You emerge from your room, dressed in a short, fluffy robe, your hair in rollers, and the red of your lipstick looking once more far too mesmerizing for Clark as you browse around for the pair of shoes you know you kicked off in the living room the other night. His eyes wander up the length of your legs, still shimmering with lotion, as you bend over to grab one of the offending shoes, catching the briefest glance of your pussy that makes all the breathing exercises he spent twenty minutes doing for naught.

The smell of something burning has you turning to glance at Clark, who is staring intently at you, his hand gripping your spatula so tightly that you think he might break it, what with his superhuman strength and all. “Clark?” you call. “Are you charring the pancakes?”

He blinks as though he regains sentience. “Oh gosh!” Clark exclaims as he turns back to the stove to turn off the burner, removing the offending pancake and placing it on his plate, whispering a quiet ‘darn it’ to himself. He then takes one of your oven mitts and waves it through the smoke to disperse it before the smoke alarm starts going off and it becomes a problem for the entire building. You just watch as he turns back to you, holding up the plate of unburnt pancakes with a sheepish smile. “I made breakfast.”

You smirk at him as you spot your other shoe and pluck it off the floor. “I could tell.” He gives you a sheepish look as he sets both your plates down on the table. “Let me go get dressed, I’ll be right back.” At least this time, as you strut away, Clark can admire the view without fear of burning your apartment down, glad to be sitting down at the table so you won’t know he’s been ogling you.

When you re-emerge, you’re in a tight skirt with a silky blouse, heels clicking against the linoleum of your kitchen as you join Clark at the table, your hair now settled into fluffy curls.

“You look really pretty,” Clark compliments, a boyish smile on his face, and it has your body buzzing with the warmth of affection, your lips tilting up in an uncharacteristic bashful manner as you cut into the pancakes Clark had made.

“Are you buttering me up for something?” You’re half joking, half serious as you take a bite.

“Well, our six-month anniversary is next week…” Clark trails off, letting the unsaid suggestion hang in the air.

You groan, leaning back in your chair as your fork clatters on your plate. “Clark, seriously? We’re in our thirties; we’re not high schoolers.”

“C’mon,” he pleads. “Humor me?”

You pick up your fork and stab into the stack of pancakes, pursing your lips as you stare at Clark’s pouting face from across the table. Looking every bit the vision of a kicked puppy, he pulls at the heartstrings you’ve tried to keep tightly wound. “Fine, but after this, we’re switching to yearly anniversaries. I don’t want to see your puppy dog eyes next month begging for a seven-month anniversary date.”

He grins as he picks up his own fork. “Deal.”

You almost say something, something that’s been on the tip of your tongue for a while now, but instead you take a bite of your pancakes and swallow them down with a mix of syrup and butter.

An hour later, you and Clark are strolling into the Daily Planet after having dealt with the rush of the morning commute. “Hey lovebirds,” the doorman greets you two, peering up briefly from his newspaper.

“Hey, Nino,” Clark and you respond at the same time, causing you to glance at each other out of the corners of your eyes, small smiles working their way onto your faces.

You’re lucky enough to get an elevator all to yourselves. As it climbs to the top just before it settles on your floor, you pull Clark into a kiss, shoving him away in time for the door to open, leaving him standing there with a lovestruck smile on his red lipstick-laden lips. “Be good,” you call out as you flitter away.

When Clark sits at his desk, Lois rolls over with a sly grin. “Got a little something right there, Loverboy,” she teases as she points to her own mouth.

Clark’s eyes widen, the flush spreading up his cheeks as he rubs at his lips, coming away to see red lipstick smeared on his fingertips. “Oh, geez,” he mutters to himself as he gets up and makes a beeline for the bathrooms, covering his face a bit. It’s not as though he’s embarrassed to have your lipstick on his mouth; if he weren’t at work, he would probably walk around with it all day without any shame.

No, it wasn’t embarrassment, it was protectiveness. He was protective of his and your relationship. He didn’t care if people knew you were dating, but he certainly didn’t want himself, or more specifically you, to be the topic of any office gossip.

Clark wasn’t naïve enough to think that people wouldn’t talk, already hearing whispers from people whenever you stayed too long at his desk, going over a draft, or when he showed up late with a coffee for you. Still, he didn’t want your professionalism to ever come into question. You worked hard, and your actions and work at the Daily Planet shouldn’t be brushed aside in favor of rumors.

After a little bit of elbow grease, because you insist on the long-lasting lipstick formula, Clark emerges from the bathroom, unintentionally honing in on you at your desk. Unsurprisingly, Ian has moved his chair over to your desk, chattering to you as you nod along, clearly more occupied by whatever is on your computer screen than what he’s saying.

That doesn’t stop Clark from eavesdropping, though. He stops by the mail cart, pretending to look through the letters as he listens. Something ugly and green gnawing at his insides as he watches you from behind his thick-rimmed glasses.

“So, I heard from Cat that a lot of people in the office get together at O’Malley’s on Friday nights,” Ian recalls casually, rocking from side to side in his chair as he sips on his coffee. His legs are spread wide and invading your space, practically brushing against yours under your desk.

You adjust in your seat, sliding a few inches away, before giving a slight hum of confirmation as you start to write something down on your notepad, no doubt creating a schedule for the day ahead of you, complete with a detailed checklist.

“Do you normally go to those?” Ian asks.

You pause whatever you’re writing, glancing up at him with a scrutinizing stare, noting he’s looking at you expectantly, eyes straying from your face, lower down on your body, and not even subtly.

Clark can feel a wave of hot anger flood over him. He knew you were not stupid. Whenever you two went out, one, if not both of you, would get flirted with or hit on, and it was usually you who pointed it out to Clark, who was hilariously oblivious to any flirtation unless it came from you.

So, for Clark to recognize when someone was coming onto you meant that you also knew what was happening. In other instances, when someone was being too pushy with either of you, you were always quick to shut them down, aggressively.

But this was your workplace and a coworker, as opposed to a stranger in a restaurant.

“I go to them occasionally, usually when Clark is able to,” you inform with a flat tone, eyes still watching him with a measured look.

You catch it easily, as does Clark, the slight tick of his eyebrow at the mention of your boyfriend. “Ah, Clark Kent?” You give a nod in confirmation. “And he’s your—”

“—boyfriend,” you clarify before he can draw it out. “Clark is my boyfriend.”

“Oh, that’s cool,” he replies, trying to maintain the air of nonchalance around him. “You guys been dating for a long time?” It feels like he’s testing the waters.

“A couple of months.”

“So, it’s cool with HR to have… intermingling amongst employees?” The way he says it makes you tighten your grip on your pen, your lips pressing together in a thin line. You have to take a deep breath in to remind yourself that you’re at work.

“Nothing in the handbook,” you grit out with a tight smile.

And there wasn’t. Both you and Clark (along with Lois) had gone through the employee handbook of the Daily Planet several times to make sure there was nothing in there that could get either of you in trouble.

“That’s pretty cool, I know a lot of companies used to discourage that type of stuff,” he notes. “Pretty progressive.”

“Yup.” The ‘p’ pops as you say it, and it hangs in the air for a moment. “Do you mind?” You ask as you point to the work on your desk. “I have a ton to get through today.”

Eyebrows shoot up on his forehead as though he wasn’t expecting you to shoo him away after all the invasive questions. “Oh yeah, of course!”

He rolls back over to his desk, not before ‘accidentally’ brushing against you, and Clark lingers at the mail cart for a few seconds longer to watch you, noting the way your jaw is set and how tense your shoulders are. He can feel the tension in his own.

The rest of the week is filled with your polite, strained smiles, and you always ensure there’s a respectable distance between you and Ian, despite his attempts to get as close to you as possible. You had thought that confirming your relationship would deter the man from his attempted flirtations, but it’s almost as though he’s doubled down in his efforts.

He asks you for help with every little issue, so that he can wheel over next to you and invade your personal space, not even paying attention half the time to your answer to whatever asinine question he asked. Every time you’ve stayed late this week, he would make some excuse to do so as well, suggesting you two pick up some dinner, which you politely declined. And you’re definitely not imagining the way that he interrupts you anytime you’re over in the writer block, talking to Clark and the others.

It’s grating on you.

“Do you want me to say something?” Clark had finally asked around mid-week. It was apparent he was also getting sick of your coworker’s behavior, but you hadn’t asked him to interfere, and he didn’t want to undermine you in any way by doing so. You were someone who liked to fight her own battles, which is something Clark loved liked about you.

But this was different than your spats with Steve, or you dealing with catty women at the bar.

“No,” you replied without even looking up from your work that was lying across your coffee table. “I’ll handle it.”

And that was that.

By Friday, you were looking forward to a night in with a book and a glass of wine to keep you company, and maybe, if you were lucky, a surprise visit from your boyfriend.

That was until Lois Lane got hold of you.

“C’mooooon,” she urges. “You and Clark are such homebodies.”

You raise your eyebrow at her because you and she both know that while you may be a homebody, Clark is most definitely not, for obvious reasons. “Lois, I have finally dug myself out of the trenches of these last few weeks. I don’t want to even think about work when I go home tonight.”

“So, we won’t think about work, we’ll just drink,” Lois offers with a cheeky grin. “I promise you won’t even hear a peep about work from me.”

She knows she’s lying, and you know she’s lying, and she knows that you know she is lying, but Lois Lane has this uncanny ability where you’re unable to say no to her, especially when it comes to a night of drinking.

“I hate you,” you finally say as you turn away from her, but she’s already doing a little dance, tapping the back of your seat in her little victory before taking her leave.

“Love you, too!” she calls out. “I’ll see you tonight!”

You sigh, picking up your phone to tap out a quick message to Clark.

‘Your friend is a menace’

You don’t even have a chance to lock your phone and put it down before it’s vibrating with an incoming message. You turn a bit in your chair and see him gazing back over at you from across the way.

‘Which one?’

You snort before replying as though he didn’t see Lois walking smugly back to the writer block. ‘The busybody reporter’

A smile spreads across his face, and within seconds, your screen is filled with far too many laughing face emojis in response. Without your permission, the corners of your lips tilt up at your boyfriend’s texting quirks.

You stare down at your phone for a moment before tapping out a response, rewriting it once, then again, before clicking send. ‘Going to O’Malleys tonight, feel free to come with’

You hope he reads that message as it is intended, with a ‘Please, dear god, come with me’

You can see him frown and hesitate before replying. ‘I would if I could but I have some errands to run later’

You give a slight huff, deflating a little, knowing that “errands” meant he had Superman business going on.

‘Okay, be safe’

He sends a blue heart back, you send a heart of your own, still unspoken, but perhaps known.

O’Malley’s Irish Pub, Metropolis – 8:52 PM

You were, admittedly, having a good time. You and the illustrious duo of Lois Lane and Jimmy Olsen had gotten to the bar far earlier than any of your other coworkers, and you were quick to get to work on slurping down a few drinks to catch up with the other regulars in the bar that was growing increasingly louder as the night pressed on.

Jimmy is currently regaling you and Lois with tales of his latest string of hookups, telling you about this one girl he only refers to as ‘Mutant Toes’. A fact that has both you and Lois gaping at the redhead.

“Jimmy, you cannot call a girl Mutant Toes,” you scold as you take a sip from your drink.

“Okay, but you haven’t seen her toes,” he counters with a scoff. “They are freaky.”

You roll your eyes, leaning over across Lois to get closer to Jimmy. “Have you ever thought that maybe you’re the one with the issues?”

He looks scandalized while Lois is trying not to laugh between you as she takes a sip of her beer. “What do you mean? I do not have issues,” he argues.

“Jimmy,” you start, your glazed eyes suddenly becoming so serious. “You always find some weird thing that seems to be a dealbreaker. Mutant toes, crooked lower teeth, bony shoulders—”

“—it was like hugging a tree—” he interrupts.

You smack the bar top and gesture to Jimmy. “See!” You exclaim, turning to look to Lois for some backup, and she is ready with another example.

“What about the girl you broke up with because she only texted in lowercase?” Lois chimes in.

“I find capitalization and proper grammar incredibly important!”

“Oh! Or the girl who put ketchup on her rice,” you recall with a snap of your fingers.

Jimmy sputters. “That is psychopath behavior!”

You raise an eyebrow as you settle back into your seat. “I’m just saying, Jimmy, I think you’re afraid of commitment, and instead of just admitting that to yourself, you just break up with them for these ridiculous reasons.”

He narrows his eyes at you, but there’s a smirk playing on his lips that lets you know he’s joking. “You better buy me another drink if you’re gonna start psychoanalyzing me like that.”

You snort back laughter before waving the bartender over, ordering yourself another vodka cran, Lois a beer, and Jimmy a Mai Tai. As you’re leaning over the bar, you don’t even notice a couple of other people walking up to your small group.

“Well, if it isn’t the hard ass herself.” The scowl on your face is instant the second you hear Steve’s voice. “Finally letting your hair down, huh?”

You turn around to see him and Ian standing there, along with a couple of other Daily Planet employees, who begin to disperse towards the other end of the bar, where some seats have opened up. “Steve,” you greet and nod to Ian and the others as well before handing Lois and Jimmy their drinks.

“Aw, no drinks for us?” Steve asks with an exaggerated pout on his face, which is unbecoming of a man of his age.

You turn in your seat sharply with a forced smile that itched at your face. This was supposed to be a relaxing night out, and having to deal with Steve’s petty little remarks was going to do nothing but ruin your night. “Steve,” you begin in a low tone. “If you don’t walk away from me right now, I am going to shove my foot so far up your ass they’re going to need to surgically remove my size eight pumps from that fat mouth of yours.”

Steve’s eyes widen, and he gives a quick nod. “Of course.”

As Lois and Jimmy laugh at Steve, cowering away, Ian leans on the bar next to you, wedging himself in between you and Lois, who gives him a disgusted look behind his back. “Didn’t know you were so feisty,” Ian comments, and the way he says it has your skin crawling.

You lean away slightly as he crowds your personal space. “Steve knows better,” you inform the unspoken ‘and you should, too’ apparent in your tone.

“He certainly does now,” he says before looking around. “Where’s your boyfriend at?”

“He’s busy tonight.” Your tone is clipped, and you hope that he will take the hint as you return to your drink.

“You know, I can’t really figure something out,” he starts without missing a beat.

“Oh boy,” you mutter to yourself as you take a long sip of your drink.

“Kent is kind of—”

Jimmy chokes a bit on his drink, and Lois is letting out a noise similar to a drone, mouth agape, unbelieving where this conversation is going.

“—a loser.”

Your smile tightens so much you’re sure you’re sneering now as you set your cup down rather harshly onto the bar top. “I’m sorry, what did you just say?” You know you heard him correctly, but for the sake of a professional working relationship, you’re giving him an out, silently praying that he’ll take it.

“I mean, you have to admit the dude is kind of lame,” he doubles down instead, and any hope of professionalism flies out of the window. “I’ve seen him run into the mail cart like three times this week, he says dumb shit like ‘golly’ and ‘gosh’, and does he even own a hairbrush?” Ian continues, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he’s digging his own grave. “And you’re like, ridiculously hot.” He finishes and stares at you like he’s waiting for you to throw yourself at him.

“Wow,” you breathe out as you nod your head. The pleasant buzz you had from your drinks has now been replaced with a righteous rage that flows over you like a wave of ice. “You know, I should report you to HR—" The smug look on his face dissipates in an instant.

Behind him, you can hear Lois going, “Oh, this’ll be good.”

“—Instead, I’m going to humiliate you.” You turn in your seat to face him, giving him the attention he has been desperately vying for this entire time. “First off, I don’t know who the fuck you think you are, trying to pry into my relationship. You don’t know me, and you sure as hell don’t know Clark.” You barely even take a breath. “Second of all, even if I wasn’t in a relationship, why would you think I’d want to be with you of all people?”

You hold your hand up when he goes to open his fat mouth. “That was rhetorical, I don’t give a fuck what you think.” You can feel the vodka going into overdrive, any impulse control going out the window as you continue. “You don’t understand personal space, you wear too much cheap cologne, your clothes look like your mommy still dresses you and I suppose she just might because she’s the only reason you even have this job to begin with—and yes I know all about your parents paying the shareholders so their precious baby can finally have a big boy job—and to top it all off, you’re a mediocre editor who needs far too much handholding so I anticipate you’ll last maybe a month or two before your ego gets bruised and you decide to call it quits.”

He looks like he’s about to cry, but you’re past the point of caring about his feelings.

“Good lord,” Lois mutters, and Jimmy lets out a low whistle.

Ian, for once, since the moment you’ve had the misfortune of meeting him, has nothing to say. You realize at some point during your rant that you had stood from your seat, perching yourself on the barstool so that you were eye to eye with him, refusing to allow him to look down on you during this.

“So yeah, you know what, I am ridiculously hot and so far out of your league it’s actually embarrassing for me that you think you even have a chance, and you know why I’m with Clark? Because he is kind, and good, and respectful, and he looks me in the eye when he speaks to me.”

Ian stands there, stunned, only moving to the side as you brush past him, Lois and Jimmy quickly following behind you after Lois leaves a few bills at the bar. The outside air is frigid against your skin as you shrug on your coat.

“Holy hell,” Jimmy breaths out as the door closes behind him, the music and chatter of the bar muffling.

You pause to peer over your shoulder at him, mouth opening and closing as you glance between him and Lois before you all burst out laughing, doubling over as you gasp for breath.

“I can’t believe he tried to trash-talk Clark to you of all people,” Lois wheezes as she brushes away a stray tear from the corner of her eye. You start to walk in a direction, away from the bar, with Jimmy and Lois following behind you, still falling into fits of giggling.

“Seriously, what an idiot.” After walking a few blocks, Jimmy and Lois are doing their best recreation of the scene, with Jimmy giving his best impression of a fish out of water, and you stop at the intersection where you know you’ll have to split from them, a realization dawning on you. “Ugh, I’m sorry if I ruined our night out.”

Lois snorts, waving her hand as if to disperse your concerns. “No, that was great. I honestly can’t believe it took you that long to ream into him about his inappropriate behavior.”

“Well, I was trying to remain professional,” you state as you shove your hands into your coat pockets, the cold of the night finally catching up with you as your anger has simmered.

“Until he brought up Clark,” Jimmy chimes in with a slight, knowing grin.

Your eyes meet his, and you can feel your posture relax. You nod, a barely there smile flitting on your face. “Until he brought up Clark,” you confirm softly.

As the three of you part from one another, Lois demanding you text her when you get home, you begin your trek back to your apartment, shivering a bit as the winter wind starts to pick up. You’re only a few blocks from your apartment when you feel an unnatural rush of air at your back, your hair blowing all around you.

“Awfully late for you to be out, ma’am,” a familiar voice calls out from behind you.

You turn and see Superman standing there, cape billowing behind him, a wisp of hair curled perfectly against his forehead with a dimpled smile, gazing at you as if you are the only thing that exists to him, and it has your heart sputtering in your chest. “Well, aren’t I so lucky that Superman is watching over these streets?” You don’t move towards him, letting him saunter up to you, assuming a casual posture, and when he falls into step with you, you start to walk again.

He’s quiet for a moment before saying, “I got an interesting text from Jimmy before.”

This takes you by surprise, and you stop short, glancing up at him with a quirked brow, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Did you?”

A wide grin appears on his face as he holds up his phone, a video already playing. Your own face stares back at you with such a look of indignation as you lay into Ian, whose eyes continue to grow wider and wider as you go on and on. Even in the crowd of the bar, your voice carries over, and you can see that other people in the background have begun to listen to your tirade.

“—he is kind, and good, and respectful, and he looks me in the eye when he speaks to me.”

“Kind and good are sort of the same word,” Clark teases, and you give a huff with a roll of your eyes, your feet moving once more. “I’m just sad I wasn’t there to witness it firsthand.”

You chuckle. “Oh, I’m sure you are.” Before long, you reach the door to your apartment building, turning to Clark, who has his arms tucked behind him, something he does to deter him from instinctively reaching out for you, never knowing who might be watching. “Thanks for escorting me to my door, Superman.”

“My pleasure, ma’am.”

As you walk through the door, you send one last glance over your shoulder to Clark, biting the inside of your lip as you resist the urge to double back to kiss him goodbye. Instead, you raise your hand in an uncharacteristically shy wave that he returns, an earnest smile on his face.

He waits until the door closes to leave, disappearing into the night as silently as he had appeared. When you arrive at your apartment and are safely tucked inside, you send Lois a text letting her know you've arrived home safely.

Daily Planet, Metropolis – 9:41 PM

The following week passed in a blur. When you finally roused Saturday morning with a pounding headache and the entirety of the previous night hit you like a round of brick after brick to the face, you spent the morning on the phone with Lois worrying over whether you’d still have a job Monday morning. To Lois’s credit, she did an excellent job of calming your concerns, positing that the Daily Planet would have quite a lawsuit on their hands if they tried to fire you after you were the one being harassed.

So, when Monday finally rolled around and you entered the bullpen of the Planet, you were pleased, if not a little smug, that Ian refused to even look in your direction and had moved all his things to a desk further away in the editor block.

If anyone noticed the sudden change in his demeanor, they didn’t comment on it, and while word of your scathing rebuke of him certainly was making its way around the office, everyone was very tight-lipped about it around you. Even Cat hadn’t uttered a whisper about it, all smiles and honeyed words towards you.

With you no longer having to worry about being constantly harassed day in and day out, the week rolled by, inching closer to your and Clark’s six-month anniversary on Saturday, which he had apparently planned out already.

(He had planned the entire thing three months ago, but he wasn’t going to tell you that.)

The most infuriating thing was that he refused to tell you the plans, and it was driving you crazy. Every time you would bat your lashes at him and ask in a sugary sweet tone for him to tell you what you were doing on Saturday, he just smiled cheekily and tapped you on the nose, giving you a firm, but playful “Nope!” in response.

You’d even caved and asked Lois and Jimmy, but those traitors had apparently been sworn to secrecy and wouldn’t even give you a hint as to what Clark had planned.

It was by Wednesday that you decided to employ dirty tactics to try to get the information out of Clark or at least torture him a bit.

So, here you are, late Wednesday night, and luckily, it’s just you and Clark left in the office; the overhead lights were turned off hours ago, leaving you in the glow of computer monitors and the city lights.

You had pulled a chair up next to Clark’s desk while he was frantically rearranging the mess of his space so that you could work next to him, and you had been doing so in a companionable silence for a few hours now. Occasionally, he’d lean over to ask you how a particular sentence sounded or to sneak a peek at the article you were editing. Still, he had a deadline to make, so to his credit, he was diligently tapping away.

“Hey, Clark?”

“Yeah, sweetheart?” He replies in a low tone reserved just for you, not looking away from his monitor as he chicken-pecked at the keyboard.

“I have to go into the archives to look for some records. Do you think you could come help me get the boxes down?” you ask, a careful look of innocence spread across your face in an attempt not to reveal your true intentions. Not that your poor, sweet boyfriend would ever think you were up to something nefarious.

Once he finishes the sentence he’s typing, he turns to face you, a smile on his face as he nods. “Of course.” Completely unaware of the plans that have been put into motion with his agreement.

He follows you back to the archives, and as you meander the stacks, he’s close at your heels. You play the part, finger on your chin as you inspect the boxes, all the while leading him deeper into the room.

When you finally reach a spot you find suitable—a dark corner with a clear wall for him to lean against—you turn to Clark, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and shoving him against the wall. Your mouth is on his before he can even question what you’re doing, and he instantly melts into you, stooping down as you get on your tiptoes.

His hands grip your waist, pulling you into him as your hands trace up the back of his neck into his hair, grabbing onto it as you lick and nip at his bottom lip before your tongue brushes against his.

When you finally wrench your lips from his, it’s to trail down his neck; the feel of your mouth on him has him gasping, fingertips biting into your waist. “Not that I’m complaining, but did you lure me back here to have your way with me?” he questions breathlessly.

You pull back slightly with a grin. “Yes,” you confirm, and then he feels your hands working to undo his belt, and his brain short-circuits.

“I-I…” he stutters, eyes wide as he watches you drop to your knees in front of him. His belt hangs down as you unbutton his slacks, and he realizes how painfully hard he is seeing you kneeling in front of him in your tight pencil skirt, gazing up at him through your lashes, licking your lips like you want to devour him. “Here?” His voice cracks.

Despite his hesitation, he doesn’t stop you as you pull his cock from his briefs. It’s heavy and thick in your hands, and when you grab him, he’s already moaning, head leaning against the wall as he bucks up into your touch. “I can stop, if you want,” you offer, tone innocent as you stroke your hand up and down.

“No, no,” he whimpers. “Please don’t stop.”

Your hand barely manages to wrap around his cock, and the sheer thought of how big your boyfriend is has you wet, seeping into your underwear. Visions of his cock stuffing you full, filling your mind, though unfortunately, that will have to wait for a later date.

You glance up at him and see him fixated on you, mouth hanging open as you stroke him, and when your eyes meet his, you don’t break eye contact as you lean up, licking the fat tip of his cock.

“Oh gosh,” he moans, hands hesitating, hovering just above your head as though he’s unsure of whether he’s allowed to grab you there. You grab one of his hands with your other and firmly plant it into your hair, and that’s all the permission he needs, fingers entwining with your loose locks to anchor himself.

All he can focus on is the heat of your mouth as you sink onto him until he can feel the back of your throat. Your hands start to swipe up and down the rest of his cock that doesn’t fit, a steady rhythm starting that has Clark gasping. The way your tongue slides on the underside as you suck the tip has his toes curling, his breath ragged as he moans with each bob of your head. This is for sure not where he thought the night was going to lead, but when you’re on your knees in front of him, giving him some of the best head he’s ever gotten, he’s glad it did.

“That’s so good, you’re so good for me,” he babbles, and you can feel his fingers tighten around your hair. He doesn’t force your head down, just keeps them there, moving with the pace you’ve set, but you can feel him holding back so he doesn’t hurt you.

You pull back just slightly, feeling the saliva dripping from your swollen lips as you look up at him. You’re the very vision of debauchery, and he commits the display in front of him to memory. “You can fuck my mouth, Clark,” you say, voice hoarse.

He inhales sharply. “A-are you sure?” You take him back in your mouth, but don’t move, staring up at him expectantly, and the sight has his thighs trembling. “Tap my leg if you need to stop, okay?” His voice is gentle despite his panting.

You give a hum of confirmation around his cock, and he lets out a shaky breath as he starts to thrust shallowly into your mouth. He’s uncertain at first, you can tell by how carefully he moves your head to match the thrusts of his hips, like he’s afraid of choking you, even though that’s precisely what you want him to do.

Your hands reach up, grabbing at his plush ass and dragging him closer, the head of his cock smashing into the back of your throat, making you gag and drool leaks from your mouth, coating his cock even more. Still, the noise you make has Clark moaning, ramming himself into your mouth with more force, fingernails biting into your scalp, stinging in a way that has you dripping.

“Please, please,” Clark begs, movement becoming more frantic, sloppy. Tears are gathering in the corners of your eyes as you breathe in through your nose. “I’m so close.”

At that, you tap his leg, and he instantly retracts his hands from your hair, and you draw back from him, wiping the corners of your mouth, completely aware you probably look like a wreck with mascara running down your cheeks.

He whimpers as you sit back onto your heels. “Did I hurt you?” With how pathetic he sounds, you almost feel bad.

“No,” you reply as you get back on your feet, a little wobbly from having been on your knees for so long. “I just figured you cumming can be part of the surprise for Saturday.”

His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again, and a whining noise escapes him as he realizes what you’re doing. “That is so mean,” he whispers.

You grin up at him, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth that he leans into despite you being so mean. “Come on, you have a deadline to make.”

He pouts and tucks himself away, still agonizingly hard as he watches you fluff your hair and wipe the streaks of mascara that trail down from the corners of your eyes. Your lips are puffy and swollen, and for the rest of the night, all Clark can think about is how good they felt wrapped around his cock.

Needless to say, he doesn’t think he’s going to make the deadline.

Your Apartment, Metropolis – 6:12 PM

Clark is late.

And you are pissed.

As you were leaving the Daily Planet on Friday night, Clark had given you the barest hint of what your plans for Saturday night would be, telling you to dress warmly and that he would be round to your apartment to pick you up for your anniversary date at six o’clock, sharp.

Well, six o’clock sharp has come and gone, and you are pacing your apartment, phone in hand, with your finger hovering over Clark’s contact. You wanted to give him some grace, but that was almost ten minutes ago, when he was only five minutes late, and now, as you near the fifteen-minute mark, any leniency you had went straight out the window.

Just as you were finally going to bite the bullet and call him, your phone begins to vibrate in your hand, a picture of Clark pressing a kiss to your cheek as you were smiling, lighting up the screen.

‘Incoming Call from Clark Kent’

It barely gets through the first ring before you pick it up. “Where are you?” you demand.

“I’m so sorry, something came u—”

“Are you at your apartment?” you cut him off, and he stutters out a ‘yes’ in confirmation. “Don’t leave, I’ll be right there.” You end the call before he can protest and head out the door, making your way to Clark’s apartment, which is a twenty-minute walk from your place—ignoring all of Clark’s calls the entire way there.

You make it to his place in thirteen minutes, knuckles angrily wrapping against his apartment door. You can hear a bit of commotion before the door opens to reveal a frazzled-looking Clark, who is certainly dressed for a date in a knit sweater and a pair of his nice jeans. His glasses sit a bit crooked on his face, and when he sees you standing there, a distinct look of fear flashes in his eyes at how furious you look, brow furrowed and jaw clenched.

You don’t even give him a chance to speak or even try to push your way into his apartment to take care of this argument privately. No, you’re going to do this in the hall of his apartment building for all the nosy neighbors to witness and eavesdrop on. “You know, I didn’t even want to do this stupid six-month anniversary date. You’re the one who kept insisting on it, and you call me twelve minutes after you were supposed to pick me up to cancel.”

You’re so busy ranting, you don’t even hear something falling in his apartment, but Clark does, and he inches out into the hall, closing the door just slightly behind him. He opens his mouth to say something, to apologize, but as per usual, you won’t let him get a word in edgewise.

“I knew a relationship would be hard, especially given the circumstances, but I thought if we could communicate openly and honestly, nothing else would matter.” You swallow down the lump in your throat, angry tears filling your vision. “I know something is going on with you, and you won’t tell me. Sometimes, I feel like I don’t know you as well as you know me, and that hurts.” Your admission has Clark’s face crumpling. This is the first time you’ve ever voiced those feelings aloud.

You peer up at him, and just as he’s about to respond, you hear a thunderous crash come from inside his apartment. You stare past him through the crack of his door that is still slightly ajar, and you see something whizz past, followed by another bang and some glass breaking. Your gaze returns to him, and he looks like he doesn’t quite know what to say.

“Clark, what the hell is that?”

“I—”

You brush past him without another word despite his protestations, and you’re dumbfounded at what you find inside his apartment.

“When the hell did you get a dog?” you question incredulously as you watch the fluffy white dog with a cape in a familiar red color tear into Clark’s couch cushion, stuffing littering the floor all around him. At the sound of your voice, the dog stops, right ear perking up as he stares at you with his head tilted, the couch cushion still firmly clenched in his jaws.

Clark closes the door behind him as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “He’s not mine—Krypto put that down—he’s my cousin’s,” he clarifies.

You whirl around, dumbfounded. “Cousin?”

“Yeah, she’s off-world right now and just dropped him off with me—”

“—off-world—”

“—and he keeps escaping the Fortress of Solitude—”

“—the what?!”

Clark groans, scrubbing his face with his hands, which sends his glasses all off kilter, so he takes them off, flinging them onto the kitchen counter. “I’m so sorry, I thought I could handle a dog, and it wouldn’t disrupt anything, but he’s not exactly normal,” he explains, and that’s when you look back at the dog and see him floating in the air.

“Oh my god, he’s a super dog.”

He sighs and motions for Krypto to get down, which the dog pointedly ignores. “Yeah, and he has behavioral issues.”

“So, you have a cousin who is also…”

“—Kryptonian.”

“Right, Kryptonian, and she dropped her super dog off with you to go…”

“—bar hopping on planets with a red sun.”

“…Right, yeah, okay.” You take a deep breath as you process the information. “And you have a… Fortress of Solitude?”

“Yeah, it’s in Antarctica, the Superman Robots look after it.”

You’re silent for a moment too long, blinking like you thought you hadn’t heard him correctly, and then you burst out laughing, snorting and everything. “You call your robots ‘Superman Robots’?”

“I-I,” he stutters. “What else am I supposed to call them?!”

You’re leaning against the wall now, holding your stomach, which aches with every peel of laughter that escapes your body. “Oh my god, you’re such a dork.” There are tears in your eyes.

“H-hey!”

At this point, Krypto has lost interest in Clark’s couch cushion, which is definitely in need of replacement, along with his lamp, coffee table, and bookcase. The dog pads over to you, giving you a sniff before he sinks down on his front paws, butt up in the air, tail wiggling like he wants to play.

“Krypto, no—” Clark reprimands. “You cannot play with her.” The dog regards him with a blank stare and gives him a little whine, settling into a sitting position as he tilts his head, looking between the two of you curiously.

As you finally start to recover from your laughing fit, you reach to pet the dog, only for Clark to grab your hand, eyes darting between you and Krypto. “I just don’t want him to bite you,” Clark says when you give him a confused look.

With your hand in his, he guides you to the couch, seating you on one of the two remaining couch cushions before sinking next to you, Krypto following close to your heels. Clark looks unsure, mouth tight in a thin line as though he doesn’t quite know what to say or how to start. He holds your hands in his, smoothing his thumb over your knuckles, something he does to soothe himself more so than you.

“I’m sorry,” he finally settles on. “I know that I haven’t been the greatest boyfriend lately, and I keep making promises I can’t keep. You have every right to be mad and upset with me.”

You frown. “I’m not mad, Clark,” you say before stopping yourself and then snorting. “Well, no, I was mad. I was really mad.” You’re quiet for a moment as you gather your thoughts. Trying to put your feelings into words is never easy. “I knew there would be struggles with being in a relationship with Superman—”

“—I know being with me can be a lot.” He looks dejected, and your stomach turns.

You shake your head, drawing his hands closer to you, holding them to your chest. “You’re not a lot,” you assure. “I’m not going to lie to you and say that I don’t get upset when you cancel or have to leave to go save the world, but I understand. It’s what I signed up for, knowing that you’re Superman. I can handle the disappointment of a missed date; it’s being in the dark that I can’t stand.” You take a deep breath, the weeks of pushing down your feelings finally bubbling to the surface as you feel hot tears fill your eyes. You blink, looking up at the ceiling to try and will them away, but it only makes it worse.

Clark reaches up to swipe the stray tear that rolls down your cheek. His insides are in knots especially after realizing just how hurt you had been by him keeping… well, everything, a secret. “I’m sorry, I hate knowing that I made you cry with all of this.”

Your gaze fixes on him, brow lightly furrowed. “We’re going to make each other cry, Clark, just like we’re going to make each other so angry we just want to scream at some point. There’s going to be ups and downs, but I want to share in those moments with you.” You bite your lower lip as you feel it tremble. “I told you I could help you carry the weight of the world, but you have to let me.”

He nods, eyes trailing up your face to meet your eyes. “Okay,” he says softly. “Okay, I will.”

You stare at him, tracing the contours of his features, committing them to memory. Just looking at him makes all the feelings swirling around in your chest cavity overwhelming. There’s a brief moment where you think that if you don’t let them out, you’ll explode. “Clark, I love you.” You don’t even have time to second-guess saying those words out loud.

The smile that lights up his features is instant, and it only solidifies your feelings for him. How earnest he is. He reaches up, grabbing the sides of your face as he pulls you in. Eyes scanning over every single detail on your face. “I love you, too.” He draws you into a kiss. It’s sweet, and soft, and so Clark that your insides are filled with butterflies just thinking about how much you love this man. “I’ve wanted to say that for so long, but I just didn’t know if it was too soon.”

You grin, cheeks smushed by his hands that are still holding your face. “I’m surprised you could contain yourself.”

He gives you a few pecks on the lips. “You make it incredibly difficult,” he teases. A low whine from Clark’s side draws your attention away from each other, and you see Krypto, head planted on the arm of the chair, looking at you both with wide eyes. “Alright, buddy, how about we get you back now?”

Krypto wags his tail, and Clark turns to you. “You’ll stay until I get back?”

“Well, I was promised a six-month anniversary date,” you remind him as you shoo him off.

(You manage to sneak a little scratch on Krypto’s head that has his tail wagging.)

When Clark returns, dead set on taking you out for your planned six-month anniversary date, he’s confused to not find you on the couch where he had left you. When he wanders into his bedroom looking for you, any thoughts of leaving his apartment tonight go flying out the window at a breakneck pace.

“Oh golly,” he breathes out as he takes you in. You’re splayed out on his bed, looking right at home in a lingerie set that he thinks is new in a familiar shade of blue. His gaze trails along your body, unable to focus for too long on one thing when everything about you is so irresistible to him.

His mouth opens and then closes several times, and you fear you’ve short-circuited the man.

“Do I need to start fucking myself, or are you going to get over here and do it for me?” you question with a quirked eyebrow and knowing smirk on your lips.

He’s pulling his clothes off in an instant until he’s down to just his briefs, giving a high-pitched and desperate ‘mhm!’ as his thoughts are suddenly flooded with images of you pleasuring yourself in front of him, maybe a proposition for another day.

He clamors onto the bed, slotting himself easily into your spread legs, and you pull him down into a kiss. There’s no buildup of soft and tender, just deep and passionate, tongue gliding over his bottom lip before you bite into it, tugging none too gently with your teeth. Clark’s eyes are rolling in the back of his head as he moans at the roughness, gripping your waist as he leans into you.

One hand trails down between your legs, and he can feel how wet you are even through your panties. You’re whining a bit, tilting your hips up in hopes he’ll touch you more. “Clark.” The breathless way you say his name makes his head dizzy, and that’s all it takes for him to brush aside your underwear, fingers burying themselves into your folds.

“You’re so wet,” Clark murmurs against your mouth, and you spread your legs even more, gasping when he circles your clit. “What were you thinking about while waiting for me?” It’s a genuine question; he wants to know what thoughts got you practically dripping before he even touched you.

“You,” comes your reply, voice hitching when he plunges two fingers into your wet heat. Everything about him is so big.

He smiles, pulling away slightly to prop himself up on one elbow so he can watch your face as he finger fucks you. “Yeah?” he asks, doubling his efforts as he curls his fingers in a way that he knows you like. The effects are immediate: you’re grasping at his shoulders, fingernails digging into his skin, hips jerking upward. “Just thinking about me and nothing else?”

He’s getting smug now, but with the way his thumb is rubbing against your clit as he crooks his fingers into your pussy, you can’t find it in yourself to be mad. “Thought about your cock, how good it feels when you stuff me full,” you breathe out. That has Clark twitching against your leg, and he leans down to nip at your neck, sucking just below your ear. It’s overwhelming, his hot tongue against your skin as he adds a third finger, the noises are obscene as your slick runs down his wrist.

“Can I eat you out?” he murmurs against your throat, adding in a quick but desperate, “Please?”

You nod a little too quickly, biting your lip as Clark presses a kiss to your cheek before slowly pulling his fingers out of your pussy, causing you to whine a bit at the loss. He trails down your form, pressing a brief kiss to the top of your breasts, wasting no time in pulling off your underwear, tossing them to the side.

He settles between your thighs, grabbing at the plush flesh as he parts your legs further, which you give no resistance to. A shaky breath escapes him as he stares at you like you’re the prettiest thing he's ever laid his eyes on.

(You are.)

“Clark, please,” you whisper, and Clark doesn’t have it in him to tease you, so he dives in, tongue flat against your core, the hot heat of him sending a trill of pleasure up your spine as you moan, hips jutting up.

He eats like a man starved, nose brushing against your clit as he pushes his tongue into you, swallowing down everything that you give him with enthusiasm. He’s groaning just at the taste of you, like it’s the tang of some divine nectar on his tongue and not just your juices.

One hand tangles into his curly locks while you use the other to prop yourself up a bit to watch as he goes down on you. As he gazes up at you, half-lidded blue eyes locking with yours, he plunges three fingers back into your cunt while he sucks on your clit, and it has your eyes rolling as your head lolls back, a long moan escaping you.

You fist his hair more roughly as you feel yourself getting closer, and Clark moans, dragging his cock along the bed underneath him to get some friction as you grind your pussy onto his face. He lets you use him as you chase your high, panting his name with every thrust of your hips. The entire lower half of his face is soaked with you, and he can feel your walls shudder against his fingers as you begin to teeter over the edge.

“Oh god, Clark,” you whimper as your hips stutter, and he works you through your orgasm as your thighs tighten around his head. Another thought of you sitting on his face floods his mind, wondering how long he’d be able to hold his breath with your pussy in his mouth, and he files it away for another night. You’re breathing heavily as you collapse against the pillows, white spotting your vision as your thighs spasm with the aftershocks.

He doesn’t give you time to recover as he kicks his briefs off before manhandling you onto your stomach, a surprised, but weak ‘oh!’ escaping your mouth as though you’re still astonished by how easily he can toss you around. His rough hands grasp at your hips, propping you up on your knees so your ass is in the air on display for him. He grips you, admiring the jiggle of your backside before he takes hold of his cock, pressing the tip against your sopping hole. “Golly,” he mutters as he feels your wet heat.

You instinctively hold your breath as he begins to slide into you. Even with the foreplay, it’s a tight stretch that has you keening, burying your face into the pillow as you grasp at the bedsheets. Even with the twinge of pain, you’re still arching your back, so he hits the right angle.

Clark is behind you, blathering words of praise with every inch of him you take, solely focused on watching how his cock disappears into your cunt, a sight he could never get sick of. “So good,” he groans. “Gosh, it’s like you were made for me.”

The last thrust as he bottoms out in you has you drooling into the pillow, and then he starts to move his hips slowly at first. Long and drawn-out movements that have your pussy quivering around him and you mewling into the pillow.

Just as you are beginning to recover from your first orgasm, you can feel the telltale tingle low in your belly of the second one building. As boneless as you feel, you find purchase on your elbows and start to rock back onto his cock. Clark’s hips stutter as you start your own rhythm, and he finds he’s unable to look away from the globes of your ass as they sway back and forth, grabbing them with fervor as he begins to meet your thrusts halfway.

“Harder, Clark,” you manage to whimper out, rutting your ass up against him, chasing more friction.

It’s like something snaps in him. He readjusts so he’s half kneeling, grabbing onto one of your shoulders with one hand and securing your hip with another as he starts to piston his hips up against yours. The first knocks the air out of you, and you’re gasping as the room is filled with a cacophony of the headboard hitting the wall and Clark’s balls slapping against you as your pussy gushes around him.

“You close?” Clark grits out, and you nod pathetically against the pillow, fearing that your voice would fail you in this moment as your boyfriend fucks the soul out of you. The hand on your hip reaches around and rubs your clit just right. Your vision goes black as you clamp down on Clark’s cock, and you can faintly hear him huff out a moan as he pumps once, then twice, into you before stilling, the hot heat of his cum filling you.

When he pulls out, you both give a small whimper, and you can feel the drip of your combined juices trailing down your inner thigh. You carefully flip onto your back as Clark pads into his bathroom, coming out moments later with a wet washcloth to clean you up, so gentle in his ministrations that you think you might cry.

A few minutes later, you’re both buried under the comforter of his bed, cuddled together, enjoying the afterglow. “I love you,” Clark murmurs into your hair as you lie on his chest. The steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your head is soothing.

“I love you, too,” you reply as familiar butterflies swirl around in your stomach, and then a thought pops into your head, and when you prop yourself up to stare at him, he looks confused. “So, what was the date you planned, anyway?”

“Ice skating,” he replies, exceptionally nonchalantly.

Your brows furrow together as images of your tall, hulking boyfriend ice skating begin to flood your mind. “Can you even ice skate?” you ask skeptically.

He gives a sheepish grin. “Nope.”

3K notes · View notes

burnforyou · 11 days ago

Text

˒ pervert!clark nsfw alphabet ˓ sexual + dark content ahead ݄ 18+ minors dni .

ෆ a ≽ addiction ; perv!clark . . . doesn’t just want you—he needs you. he craves your everything; smell, touch, sounds, it all consumes him. each time you’re near him, it’s like he’s hit a high, never wanting to come down, and when you’re away? it’s like a painful withdrawal. he’ll do whatever to feed his need for you, constantly needing to be close, keeping you right under him. he’s hooked—desperate and dependent on your affection, and if he doesn’t get it, he’ll spiral, even if it means crossing the boundaries of what’s normal.

ෆ b ≽ begging ; perv!clark . . . is so used to being in control, but when it comes to you, something inside him just breaks. when you beg, when you finally let go of that pride and just need him—its like a switch goes off and he’s completely hooked. one little whimper of ‘please’ or his name, its a powerful thing for him, dragging it out, becoming addicted to the sound of your desperation. the way your voice cracks, how your words come out in gasps, or even a breathless whisper, it makes him harder than he’s ever been.

ෆ c ≽ cum ; perv!clark . . . is possessive about his cum. he wants it inside you, wants to fill you up so much that you feel it for hours. but if you won’t let him? he’ll settle for painting your stomach, your thighs, anywhere that marks you as his. pulling out just to smear it over your chest, your stomach, your thighs. he wants to see you coated in him. painted. ruined. and then take pictures—mental snapshots, because he doesn’t need a camera. his memory is perfect. he’ll jerk off to the image of you dripping hours later, thinking about how you looked ruined, eyes hazy, lips parted. but if he’s desperate enough, he might even cum in your clothes before you wear them, knowing that his scent is all over you and you don’t even realize it.

ෆ d ≽ dirty secret ; perv!clark . . . has stolen things from you. not just small things—intimate things. panties (clean or dirty), shirts, used towels, anything that holds your scent. he keeps them hidden in his room, in a place even his mother wouldn’t find. and when he’s alone? he presses his face into them, fisting his cock while groaning your name, desperate, frantic, whispering how much he needs you. he’s also definitely jacked off while watching you sleep—standing over your bed, panting, his hand moving slow as he imagines how easy it would be to climb in beside you and take what he wants. or even in it, next to you while you’re sleeping, he tells himself he’ll just watch, just breathe you in. but then his hand is down his sweats, stroking himself to the soft rise and fall of your chest, biting his lip to keep quiet as he spills into his palm, onto your linen, leaving his mark.

ෆ e ≽ experience ; perv!clark . . . is inexperienced, such a weirdo and such a nerd, but his obsession with you makes up for it. he’s been watching, listening, learning—waiting. he knows what makes you shiver, what parts of your body you touch more when you’re turned on, what makes you squirm. the first time he gets his hands on you, it’s overwhelming—he’s desperate, greedy, and he won’t stop until you’re completely wrecked under him. he’s like an animal barely holding himself back, overwhelmed, obsessed. and after he’s had you? he’s insatiable. he’s learning you in real-time, finding out exactly how to break you apart just so he can put you back together again.

ෆ f ≽ fantasies ; perv!clark . . . has so many twisted thoughts about you. when he’s alone or even with you, just desperate, needy, aching for you, his mind spirals into the darkest places. he imagines taking you while you sleep. slowly, carefully, whispering filthy things in your ear as he fucks you so gently you barely stir. he fantasizes about breaking you in. being your first, your only, your forever. he’d train you to take him, to be the perfect little thing for him. he wants to fuck you until you can’t even speak, until you’re just a whimpering, ruined mess beneath him.

ෆ g ≽ greedy ; perv!clark . . . is so greedy. one orgasm? not enough. three? still not enough. he wants more—needs more—until you’re sobbing, shaking, begging for mercy. and even then, he’s still hungry for you. clark doesn’t just doesn’t make love. he fucks. hard. deep. like he’s trying to ruin you for anyone else, bury himself into you, marking your body and soul. and if you ever so much as talk to another guy? he’ll fuck you so thoroughly that you won’t even remember their name. (or yours)

ෆ h ≽ heat vision ; perv!clark . . . with his heat vision. it isn’t just a power. it’s a tell. a dead giveaway that he’s turned on—and he hates that he can’t control it when it comes to you. the second you walk in the room wearing something short, sheer, or just… looking at him like that, his eyes start glowing faintly red. he tries to keep it subtle, biting the inside of his cheek, shifting in place, clenching his fists—but the burn at the back of his eyes always betrays him. he’ll angle his head down, hiding his face, pretending to rub his eyes like he’s tired. but really, he’s trying not to melt the wall behind you because his gaze keeps slipping to the way your thighs peek out when you cross your legs.

ෆ i ≽ intensity ; perv!clark . . . will be close, so close—his super hearing picking up every little change in your breathing. he can feel your heartbeat quickening, the tension building in your body, the way your muscles tighten and relax. when you’re around him, it’s like he can feel everything you’re feeling, every rush of heat, every flutter of excitement. he knows your body. the way you squirm when you’re close to a climax but can’t reach it. how your breath hitches when you’re just about to beg for more. he thrives on that. the longer he holds you in that space, the more intense it gets for you—and for him.

ෆ j ≽ jerk off ; perv!clark . . . jacks off constantly, and it’s always because of you. he’s got super-speed, which means he can sneak off and get himself off in seconds if he hears you giggling, sees the strap of your bra peeking out, or watches you lick something off your fingers. he can’t help but be consumed by the overwhelming desire to touch himself, to feel the heat of his own body as he imagines you—how you look, how you feel, the sound of your voice when you’re desperate for him. he’s completely wrapped up in you—your scent, the taste of your lips, the idea of your body beneath his. it’s something he’s constantly fighting, but he can’t help but give in. he needs to see you, touch you, own every part of you, and when he finally releases, it’s always with the thought of you in his mind.

ෆ k ≽ kinks ; perv!clark . . . with all of his powers and self-control, finds his desires to be as complex and layered as his persona. when it comes to kinks, his fascination with you goes beyond just physical attraction—it’s about control, exploration, and pushing boundaries that are both thrilling and dangerous. power play ; clark’s obsession with dominance and submission plays out in every interaction. he has the ability to read every tiny shift in your body language, every hesitation, every reaction. he revels in it, taking full control of the situation. but it’s not about being cruel—rather, it’s about owning you in the most intense, raw, and consuming ways. he might give you orders, commanding you to kneel or to do something that has you nervous, but there’s a part of him that gets off on seeing you willingly comply, knowing you trust him completely. tease and denial ; another kink clark indulges in is teasing you. with super speed, he can move so quickly that he’s often just a blur to your eyes, allowing him to touch you, kiss you, and then vanish in a second, leaving you aching and wanting more. he takes his time, drawing things out, pushing you to the edge of desperation and frustration. he’ll deny you pleasure, knowing that the anticipation is just as hot as the release. It’s all about making you crave him, knowing full well that every time he pulls away, it only makes you need him more.

ෆ l ≽ lurk ; perv!clark . . . lurking isn’t about malicious intent; it’s about desire, obsession, and the need to feel connected to you. it’s about being close to you in ways that no one else can. clark can appear and disappear without anyone ever noticing. he often finds himself lurking in the shadows when you’re unaware, observing you from a distance. whether you’re getting dressed, going about your day, or even relaxing at home, clark loves to watch the way you move, the little things you do, and how you react to your environment. he lurks in your bathroom. super speed makes it effortless. when you’re showering—eyes closed, lips parted, hands gliding over your wet skin—he’s leaning against the other side of the wall. jerking himself off to the sound of water trickling down your curves, to the way your breath hitches when your fingers slip just a little too low. he lurks in your room when you’re not home. not just touching things. sniffing them. licking the inside of your favorite shirt, the part that clings to your chest. rubbing his face against your pillow like a fucking animal, grinding into the mattress where you sleep because it still smells like you—sweet, soft, addictive. sometimes, when he can’t take it anymore, he lies right there in your bed and moans your name into the sheets.

ෆ m ≽ marked ; perv!clark . . . it starts subtle. almost innocent. you’ll wake up with sore thighs, faint bruises where his fingertips held you too tight. crescent moon marks on your hips from his teeth. the ghost of his grip around your neck, where he held you still while he moaned into your mouth, lost in how good you felt. then it gets bolder. he’ll smear his cum on your skin—low on your stomach, high on your chest—tracing little shapes with it before he finally lets you clean up. he’ll mutter, “don’t wipe it yet,” voice low, grainy and fucked-out, obsessed, as he watches it drip down your thighs. sometimes he won’t even fuck you. he’ll just jerk off on you. over your tits, your stomach, your ass. and then he’ll smell it on you for hours. he’ll feel it when you walk by, can sense that you’re wearing his release like a secret under your clothes. it drives him insane. he’s left his handprint on your ass more times than you can count. red and raw, the shape of his palm burned into your skin like you’re property.

ෆ n ≽ numb ; perv!clark . . . your thighs? trembling, overstimulated, slick and twitching with every touch. your brain? gone. melted. thoughts scattered into nothing but soft whimpers and clark’s name. your fingers clutching the sheets, your mouth open but no sound coming out—not because you don’t want to moan, but because you can’t. he makes it his mission to get you there. to fuck you dumb, slow or rough, until you’re all hiccuping breaths and glassy eyes. until you’re not even answering him anymore, just nodding and gasping and taking it like a good girl. until your legs are done, shaking and useless—so he picks you up, fucks you standing, on the wall, bent over the sink, again— he uses everything he has: his speed, to drag it out over hours or to fuck into you so fast your body can’t keep up. his strength, to hold you down when you squirm away from overstimulation, when your body tries to run but your mind wants more. his hearing, locked on every sound you make, every change in your breathing so he knows the second you’re close. and his vision, just to watch your body tense, spasm, fall apart beneath him in real-time, no detail missed. and when you’re whimpering, shaking, mumbling ‘please’ or ‘slow down’ or ‘i can’t’—he doesn’t stop.

ෆ o ≽ obsession ; perv!clark . . . doesn’t just want you—he’s consumed by you. you’re not just the girl next door. you’re not just the pretty thing in lace he x-rays when he’s bored. you’re the center of his goddamn universe. his everything. he doesn’t eat unless he knows you’ve eaten first. he won’t sleep unless he’s sure your bedroom light’s off and you’re curled up safe in bed. he gets antsy when you’re gone too long—checking your location, listening for your voice, tracking your heartbeat just to make sure you’re okay. he’s obsessed in ways that aren’t healthy. ways that aren’t normal. he memorizes every outfit, every shade of lipstick, every time you change your sheets. he’ll sniff your laundry before it finishes drying, just to feel close to you. he’ll touch himself to the sound of your footsteps, the memory of your perfume.

ෆ p ≽ pda ; perv!clark . . . lives for showing you off—just not in the way people expect. he doesn’t just want your hand in his. he wants your lipstick smeared and your breath caught in your throat, right outside the diner’s back exit. wants you pinned to the alley wall, dress rucked up, your thighs locked around his waist as he grinds against you like he can’t wait to get you home. and maybe he can’t. not when you’re so soft and needy and whispering his name like that. he’ll fuck you in public without anyone knowing. move so fast no one can catch more than a blur. he’ll have you bent over the hood of his truck, in a dark corner of the parking lot, hand over your mouth as he mutters, “keep quiet, baby, unless you want everyone knowing who makes you this messy.” he likes when there’s a risk. likes knowing someone might catch the way your head tips back when you come. likes when you have to walk back inside all flustered and flushed and pretending nothing happened while your panties stay tucked in his back pocket.

ෆ q ≽ quickie ; perv!clark . . . doesn’t need a lot of time—he just needs you. one minute you’re brushing your teeth or changing outfits or walking past him in those soft little pajama shorts, and the next thing you know? he’s already got you pressed against the counter, panties pushed to the side, muttering “just real quick, baby. can’t help it. you do this to me.” he’s always hard for you. literally—always. x-ray vision burned into every lace set you own, super-hearing tuned to every sigh, every tiny gasp, every sleepy moan you make at night when you’re tossing in bed, restless from the heat building between your thighs. he knows when you need him. and he never makes you wait. in the back of the truck. up against your bedroom door before it even clicks shut. in the fitting room. in the hallway at a party with people just feet away.

ෆ r ≽ reckless ; perv!clark . . . stops thinking the second your lips are on his—like he forgets his strength, his powers, the danger of it all, because fuck, you make him lose control. he slams you into walls with too much force. the drywall cracks, shelves rattle, picture frames tilt, and all he can do is groan, “sorry, sorry—can’t help it” as he kisses you harder, pounds into you rougher, like he’s chasing the edge of sanity with your name on his tongue. he grabs at you like you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. teeth on your neck, hands pushing your thighs open too fast, too wide, the couch skidding, the table rocking, the headboard snapping in half but he doesn’t care—he just keeps going. he leaves bruises on your hips that last for days. not on purpose, but because he can’t always hold back. he tries, he really does—but you always taste too good. feel too soft. look too pretty when you cry out for him. and the worst part? he loves that you let him. that you trust him enough to take you like that. to lose control with you and still be everything you need. you make him feel human—and that terrifies him.

ෆ s ≽ scent ; perv!clark . . . is addicted to your scent in a way he can’t explain, almost as if it’s branded into his dna, as if it’s the most essential thing in his life. the moment you walk into a room, it hits him—sweet, floral, warm, intoxicating. he can tell exactly what you’re wearing, which lotion you’ve used, the lingering trace of perfume that reminds him of soft nights tangled in your sheets. he’ll hold you close, your body pressed against his, and all he wants to do is bury himself in your scent. he’ll kiss your neck, your shoulders, the curve of your jaw, letting your skin cling to his lips—then, just to feel more of you, he’ll press his nose to the sensitive spot behind your ear and inhale deep, like he can never get enough.

ෆ t ≽ tangled ; perv!clark . . . loves when things get messy, when everything gets intertwined—your limbs, your thoughts, your desires. fingers laced together in a tight grip, he can’t help but wonder—how far will you both go? how many knots will you tie between each other, before you can’t tell where you end, and he begins? there’s something about the way your bodies move together that drives him wild. the feeling of your legs locking around him, the friction of your skin sliding against his in the heat of the moment. how every touch, every kiss, every movement feels like you’re both losing control. he wants to lose himself in you completely. and when you try to pull away—when you think you might need space, clark just pulls you closer, tangles his hands in your hair, presses his lips to yours in a deep, possessive kiss that says, “you’re mine. and i’ll never let you go.” you can’t breathe without him. you can’t think without him. you can’t escape him.

ෆ u ≽ urges ; perv!clark . . . doesn’t know how to suppress it anymore—how to ignore how your presence makes him feel. it’s the way he looks at you, the way his eyes follow every curve of your body, lingering just a second too long. his hands ache to feel your skin, his mouth to taste you, his body to claim you. a need to touch you—a need to press you against him, feel you, taste you, hear you gasp for him. it doesn’t matter where you are—he’ll find a way to give in to those urges, to take what he wants, even if it means a risky move, even if it means breaking the rules. he might even apologize afterward, though it’s a little empty. deep down, clark doesn’t feel bad for what he did. he needed you. he needed you in every way possible. and the urges only grow stronger with time.

ෆ v ≽ violent ; perv!clark . . . loves seeing you crumble in his arms, knowing he owns every piece of you—inside and out. he’s a little too rough, a little too wild, pushing you past your limits, but you know you secretly love it. It comes out in the way he grabs your wrists, presses you into the nearest surface, his body hard and demanding against yours. it’s in the way he makes you gasp for air, his grip tightening until you feel him, his presence overwhelming, pushing you to the edge of your tolerance. there’s something thrilling about it—the way his hands leave marks on your skin, the way his roughness makes you feel owned, claimed. the way he dominates you, forces you to surrender to him, makes you crave him more. sometimes, it’s not even about physical violence, but the way he dominates your mind, crushing any resistance you might try to hold onto.

ෆ w ≽ worship ; perv!clark . . . treats every moment with you as sacred, even as it burns with desire. his hands and eyes are on you constantly, adoring and hungry all at once. his voice, low and hushed, is full of reverence as he whispers your name. he tells you over and over again how beautiful you are, how perfect, he’ll go on for hours, exploring you, tasting you, as if he’s desperate to know every inch of you inside and out. and it’s not just about sex—it’s about devotion, about surrender, about him showing you that you are everything to him. that you are the only thing that matters.

ෆ x ≽ x-ray (vision) ; perv!clark . . . can see through the walls that separate him from you, through the clothes that cover you, with just a glance. it’s the little details that get him and it’s almost impossible for him to resist. he’s memorized every inch of you—the shape of your chest, the curve of your hips, the way your body reacts to even the slightest touch. the way your hands linger on the fabric of your panties, your fingers tracing the edges of lace and satin. he’s seen you in ways no one else has, and it’s become an obsession.

ෆ y ≽ yearning ; perv!clark . . . has got this constant, unrelenting pull toward you, it’s not just attraction—it’s something deeper, a yearning for connection, for possession, for you. more than physical desire; it’s about the way you make him feel, the way your presence invades his every waking thought. in the way his fists tighten when you wear that skirt he loves a little too high. in the way his breath catches when you lean too close, too sweet, too soft—and don’t even know what you’re doing to him. it builds inside him. gnaws. scratches. claws. he’s at your front door. at your bedroom window. behind walls you don’t know he’s hiding behind. he gets hard the second you walk into a room, pulse thundering, skin hot, jaw clenched from the effort it takes to keep his hands to himself. his need for you isn’t sweet or romantic—it’s overwhelming, irrational, feral.

ෆ z ≽ zoned out ; perv!clark . . . doesn’t just fantasize—he drifts so deep into it, it becomes real. you’ll catch him staring. silent. still. eyes glazed over like he’s somewhere else entirely. zoned out at work? it’s because he’s imagining what you’d look like bent over his desk. zoned out at the kitchen table? he’s picturing you on your knees between his legs, pretty little mouth drooling around his cock. zoned out in line at the store? yeah, he’s thinking about your panties. the ones you wore yesterday. the ones he stole. the ones he’s gonna jerk off with as soon as he gets home. and when he zones out around you? it’s dangerous. because that faraway look in his eye means his thoughts are filthy. he’s imagining all the things he’s not supposed to do. what your skin would taste like. how you’d sound begging. if he could hold your wrists down with just one hand—just how rough he could get before you cried. sometimes he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. caught so deep in his hunger, his breath shallow, thighs tense, jaw tight… he’s rock hard, leaking through his pants, biting his lip so hard it splits. because his fantasies aren’t soft. they’re intense, overpowering, and wrong in all the ways that make him dizzy.

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burnforyou · 12 days ago

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good boy

summary: you and your boyfriend, clark kent, get stuck in an elevator. you make very good use of the situation.

tags: 18+, smut, porn some plot, established relationship, f!reader, clark is crashing out, sub!clark, oral (f!receiving,) perv!clark, pantyhose fetish, scent fetish, praise kink, coming in pants (m!), clark is a little rough but it's out of desperation, clark lifts reader up

written for: an anon!! anon asked for something super spicy with clark kent and mentioned that they wanted something with sub!clark during work hours. they also said it's their birthday on the 25th, so happy birthday anon!!! i hope this scratches your sub!clark itch.

a/n: this fic was not supposed to even be a Fic fic but here it is and it's yummy

wc: 2.1k (written in one sitting sorry if there are mistakes)

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Clark has been… struggling lately. Perry recently asked him to try writing about something not Superman related. Apparently the people of Metropolis are leaning toward more grounded pieces right now, like firemen saving a cat. Or something. Clark was only half-listening.

It’s another day of sitting at his computer and just staring at the screen. It’s halfway through the week, he needs to get something written by Friday morning at the latest, and he has nothing. He can feel Perry’s eyes burning holes in the back of his head, making his shoulders hunch up as if they could protect him from the scrutiny of his boss. He barely remembers what writing about not Superman related things are. It makes him feel guilty and selfish when he really thinks about it. Nobody knows that he’s actually been writing about himself this whole time, but he knows. He knows his writing integrity is somewhat shot if he can’t come up with anything.

So he wallows. And wallows, and wallows, and huffs, and chews the end of his pen, and clenches his jaw.

Stubborn. Ma always said he was stubborn, never wanted to do things differently than he thought they should be done, and when he would do something someone else’s way it’d never be done happily. He guesses maybe he hasn’t improved on that. It isn’t like he doesn’t want to write the piece though, he does, he just feels like he’s floundering.

Clark flounders until finally the clock says it’s one, and Jimmy taps him on the shoulder to tell him to go have his lunch. Thank God.

He grabs his bag, slinging it over his shoulder with embarrassed haste as his other hand reaches out to sleep his monitor. He’d really hate for anyone to see his blank Word document for the third day in a row. Ugh.

His eyes stay trained down as he walks to the elevator, but his heart rate picks up. The door dings, and Clark feels his heart jump.

“Hi,” you say, smiling up at him. “Lunch?” Yes. Duh. Of course.

You’ve been going out with Clark for maybe two months now, but you’re keeping it under wraps. Apparently Clark doesn’t want to get a reputation for sleeping with his co-workers, which you think is dumb because you aren’t his co-worker. You work upstairs, you’ve never worked with Clark, and you only met him because you guys take lunch at the same time.

The doors close after Clark steps into the elevator. He presses the button for the main lobby, and it starts to move down.

“How are you?” You test. Obviously you know about his current writer’s block problem, and from the look on his face it isn’t getting any better.

“Fine, I’m fine,” he nods, his right hand fidgeting with itself. He sucks in a breath, then blows it out. It feels like the elevator is slowing down as you look up at him with a sympathetic gaze. “How’s it feel to be dating the worst writer at the Daily Planet?” He asks jokingly. Maybe half jokingly.

“Clark,” you scowl, reaching over to pinch his arm. “You are not the worst writer at the Daily Planet. You’re just having a tough week.”

Clark’s face morphs into a frustrated pout, looking more upset over this than ever. His hands flex out, then in, and he sighs. It really feels like the elevator is slowing down now. Is the elevator slowing–

KA-THUNK.

“Oh great,” Clark mumbles.

The Daily Planet building is old. Really, really, old. And the elevator is a total piece of shit, or at least it is now. Last year the elevator was so problematic that it got shut down for a full month while they “renovated” it. Evidently those renovations didn’t work, probably because the “renovations” didn’t improve the elevator itself, but rather replaced the buttons on the panel and added doors that didn’t squeal so loud.

You look up at the lights displaying what floor the elevator is on, only to see that it’s stopped between the second and first level. Your body deflates at the sight of this, knowing that you’ll probably be stuck for all of your lunch and then some.

“Great,” Clark says, getting a little worked up now. He dumps his satchel on the floor and starts to walk around the small space. “No, this is awesome. I–I mean really, this day couldn’t get better!”

This is not the first time you’ve seen Clark crash out a little bit. He’s never crashed out on you, but anything to do with work or world events? Yeah he’s pacing and talking to himself.

“Nothing works here! I sit at my desk and I don’t work, and my brain doesn’t work, and now this dumb elevator won’t work either!!” Clark says. He’s pacing faster than usual, pushing his hands through his hair and then freaking out more when his fingers get caught in his curls and pull at his scalp.

You stay quiet, sagged against the wall of the elevator as you watch him stop walking. He stands still, and then very quietly, you hear him whimper. Clark’s hand comes up, covering his eyes, and then his arm reaches up toward the ceiling corner and he knocks small security camera to face upwards.

He’s crying.

“Hey, Clark,” you say his name again, trying to be soothing but not knowing how. He towers over you in this small space, his form looking so pathetically sad yet still so enormous. “Clark it’s okay, you’ll be alright? Maybe the elevator getting stuck is a good thing, maybe you’ll come up with an idea while we wait.” You offer.

It’s no use though. Clark lets go of his face and then steps toward you, curling himself down so he can cry onto your shoulder, his glasses pushed up the instant his face meets the fabric of your dress shirt.

“Oh,” you say softly, your hands rubbing over his back, “I know, I know. My poor boy.” He nods into your shoulder, sniffling.

“I’m not good at writing anymore,” he says quietly.

That makes you roll your eyes. He’s being overdramatic, and he knows it too, but he’s upset so you’ll let it slide for now.

“No?” You ask. He nods into your shoulder. “Then what are you good at?”

Clark is very quiet.

“Being your boyfriend,” he responds, “I’m good at that. Right?”

This big baby. It’ll kill you if he keeps acting so sad.

“Yeah, you’re a real good boyfriend,” you agree. You turn your head so you can press your nose into his hair and nuzzle there. “You’re good at taking me out, and holding my hand… giving me kisses and being so very gentlemanly, right?”

These words seem to work better than consoling him about his job. His whimpers soon slowly fade into nothing but snuffles, though he still clings onto you.

“You’re a good boy, Clark. I don’t want you being so hard on yourself.” You continue. That praise seems to have a somewhat unintended effect, Clark going a little stiff in your embrace. A mischievous smile grows on your face. He’s clearly worked up… he could probably spare some of that energy.

“You wanna be a good boy?” You ask him gently, more teasingly this time.

If Clark had a tail, it would be wagging right now.

He turns his head to the side, kissing at your neck as he nods, murmuring “yes” into your skin between kisses. You laugh, a little impressed by how quickly his mood changed, but try to compose yourself.

“I think we have maybe thirty minutes before the elevator technician shows up,” you tell him. Clark nods, starting to kiss down the neckline of your shirt with hot breath.

“I can be good for you, that’s enough time,” he says before dropping to his knees with a heavy thud.

He’s so eager, looking up at you through his dorky glasses and smiling when your legs part slightly for him. You’re still leaning against the elevator wall, the flat railing digging into your lower back, and Clark seems to notice that might be uncomfortable for you.

“Here,” he mumbles, shrugging off his suitjacket before reaching behind you and shoving the jacket between you and the wall. It cushions the impact of the railing somewhat, but you lose focus on the pain in your back as soon as he starts shoving up the material of your skirt.

“This is too tight,” Clark complains as he forces the skirt up your legs. He gives the fabric an especially hard tug and you swear you hear a stitch rip right before the skirt finally piles on your hips.

“There,” he basically moans, leaning forward to press his nose into the crease where your thigh and crotch meet. You’re wearing pantyhose today, plain sheer ones that match your skintone, and you know it’s driving him nuts. Clark is a little bit of a pervert when he wants to be and over the past two months you’ve had to buy many new boxes of pantyhose since he keeps tearing them off you.

Clark drags his nose, and some kisses, down that crease until he’s nosing at your slit through your undies and pantyhose. “Smell so good,” he mumbles, inhaling your scent. His tongue slides out of his mouth, licking you over the layers of fabric, and you moan at the sensation.

“Good boy,” you say again. Clark’s eyes shut at the praise and he reaches up, squeezing your ass. “You’re doing so well, baby, but you gotta hurry up. You don’t want us to get caught, right?”

You’re being mean to him. You know that he definitely doesn’t want to get caught in this position, huffing his secret girlfriend’s pussy through her clothes, hard as a rock in his slacks, but the thought of it is probably driving him wild. Also you don’t want to get caught. As lovely as he is when he takes his time, you need him to hurry up.

He seems to get the memo.

Clark’s hands slide from your ass to the fronts of your thighs, pulling them apart. Then, one hand slides back, cupping your bum again, only to lift you up. With one hand.

You don’t know where he finds time for the gym, but god you’re grateful for his strength.

His free hand searches the center seam of your pantyhose, finding a weak spot while he noses at that crease again. He’s still sniffing you like a degenerate when his big fingers burst through the flimsy material and he’s tearing a hole in the crotch of your tights. Clark’s too excited now, not even using his hand to pull your undies to one side, but instead using his face. It heightens every sensation, having your body lifted and exposed while he buries his nose into you, tongue sliding out to finally taste your tang.

“O-oh fuck, good boy, Clark, good fucking–” you cut yourself off with a shaky breath as he starts lapping up and down your slit messily, his glasses sliding up and down his face as he does so.

“Am I,” Clark pants, his tongue lashing out against you needily, “am I good at this?”

You’d roll your eyes at him if they weren’t rolled back in your head. Clark needs reassurance right now, you know this, but seriously? How could he not know he’s good at this? “Yes, Clark, yes,” you confirm shakily, “you’re so good at eating my pussy. So talented with that pretty mouth, using your tongue and nose too like a good, dirty, boy.”

He tries to catch his breath as he makes out with your cunt, but he just can’t seem to keep up with his own excitement. Pitifully, he humps at the air. You feel bad as you watch him completely come apart as he eats you out, wishing you could touch him too, but then… then you don’t have to.

The hand holding you up grips tightly suddenly, and you look down in concern. Your head leans forward just enough to see the pained expression Clark makes as he ruts erratically into the empty space in front of his crotch, essentially just rubbing his dick on the inside of his boxers and pants. He’s whimpering wildly into your cunt, tongue lazily flicking across your clit as his nose puffs out breath on the top of your mound. He’s coming.

A damp spot is stained lightly on the grey fabric of his trousers by the time he’s finished. You are exceptionally wetter than before, a mix of his drool and your wet soaking the surrounding fabric of the hole in your tights and your pushed to the side undies.

“Mmh,” Clark moans weakly. His hips have stopped moving, but he’s yet to put you down or move his face away from you. “D-do we have more time? Can I keep going?”

>///<

thank you for reading ! please leave your thoughts in the replies or tags of your reblog, or leave them anonymously in my askbox !! i love to read your thoughts! also don't forget to follow my updates blog and turn on notifs so you know when i post a fic!

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burnforyou · 16 days ago

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can we talk about his fucking abs for a second

#luigi mangione x reader #tag for luigi pictures

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burnforyou · 17 days ago

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earth boys are so serious.

pairing: clark kent x fem alien!reader

summary: out of all the planets you've ever visited, you have to admit – earth is your favorite. and it's not because of the scenery, or the food, or anything else... it's because of your best friend's ridiculously attractive, impossibly charming cousin who lives there.

wc: 10.6k (wow! this was supposed to be a silly little smut...)

genre/tags: fluff/smut, acquaintances(?) to lovers, flirty!reader (she wants that cock so bad), reader comes from a planet other than krypton, p w plot (i accidentally got attached to reader oops), unprotected sex (rubber up y'all), dry humping/grinding, fingering, p in v sex, clark has a huge dick ofc, slight praise kink, dom! clark, ft. kara (platonic).

notes from auddie: sorry for the long wait! tumblr deleted like 20% of this draft before i put it in google docs for safekeeping so i had to rewrite a whole bunch. genuinely loved writing this fic and i def want to explore more w alien!readers LOL. pls enjoy! <3

earth is... loud. and sticky. and kind of ugly in the daylight. at least compared to the other planets you've ventured out. but gods, is it fun.

humans truly have no idea how fragile they are. they have no idea who short their lives are compared to other species you've met among various cosmic civilizations. but maybe that's why they dance like they've got fire in their veins and fuck like the world might end tomorrow.

hell, apparently there's countless songs about fucking without the knowledge of tomorrow.

it's charming. almost addicting.

you're supposed to be here for a little while, crashing on a makeshift couch inside the fortress of solitude while she figures things out (aka where your next destination will be.)

in its own fascinating way, earth reels you in. it's the music, the night lights, the cocktails, the rawness of human emotion.

and then there's her cousin.

clark.

tall, buttoned-up, frustratingly noble clark kent. had kara never told you he was her blood relative, you'd round him up with the other earthlings. he's truly nothing like your best friend.

the morning light in metropolis is softer than on most planets you've been to. everything here feels muted, slower in a way.

you're not used to that. you're not used to staying still, or staying anywhere for more than a night or two. but kara asked. she said she missed you, said you could come crash at her place and promised krypto wouldn't launch into you head first as soon as you flew in. liar.

but honestly? it never takes much convincing for you to visit the planet for weeks at a time. not as long as the six-foot four, broad shouldered, sweet-as-pie cousin of hers makes an appearance during your visit.

you pad into the familiar kitchen, yawning as the oversized shirt you wear slides off one of your shoulders. you scratch at your head, attempting to flatten down any flyaways.

it's quiet, the kind of quiet you never get in the fortress. there isn't the humming of kryptonian technology and no wind against the icy crystal walls. there's only the distant sounds of the city starting its day.

clark's back is to you, tall and solid where he stands at the stove. his hair is tousled from sleep, plain gray t-shirt stretched across his shoulders, plaid pajama pants hanging low on his hips.

he looks delectable.

he glances over his shoulder when he hears your footsteps, and his eyes catch for a mere second on your bare thigh.

"morning," he says gruffly, turning back to the pan. you notice the faint flush on the back of his neck. "you like eggs?" he asks.

"i don't mind 'em," you answer back, leaning your hip against the counter, watching him work.

"how do you like your eggs?" he asks.

"fertilized." you beam.

he freezes.

it's just for a second, but you catch the way his hand stalls with the spatula mid-scramble, the subtle twitch in his jaw like he's trying very hard not to react. then he turns slowly, peering over his shoulder at you.

"seriously?" he deadpans.

you shrug playfully, crossing your arms over your chest. "what? earth humor. i'm assimilating."

"i'm sure," he mutters, shaking his head as he turns back to the stove. but you don't miss the way his ears turn pink.

you grin, unabashed.

it's too easy to fluster him.

you learned that about him the first day of the first time you visited the planet. the first time he saw you float in the midair to grab a glass from the top shelf, his eyes nearly bugged out of his head. you'd just looked at him and asked if he wanted one, too, like the angle of you wasn't giving an obscene view of your too short skirt and the contents beneath it. he'd sputtered something about "gravity not just being an option" and bumped into a doorframe on his way out of the kitchen.

you'd been hooked ever since.

"you didn't have to make me breakfast," you purr softly, voice slightly thick with sleep.

clark doesn't look at you this time. "you got in at three in the morning. figured you'd be hungry."

you smirk. "you keeping tabs on me now, kent?"

you hear him exhale through his nose, steady as ever. unbothered. (liar.)

"i just heard you come in, that's all."

"uh-huh," you hum, amused, plucking a grape from the fruit bowl atop the counter and popping it into your mouth. "right. super hearing."

he plates the eggs with precision, the way he does everything, you've learned. he turns to set them down on the counter in front of you with deliberate care.

"you always listen that closely when i stumble in drunk?" you press, teasing interweaved in between your words.

"i listen closely because you stumble in drunk. someone's gotta maker sure you don't try to fly through the wrong apartment's balcony again."

you'd learned the hard way that earth alcohol severely impairs your flight control. on your third night, you attempted to fly back to the fortress after a few too many tequila shots, only to end up crash-landing in a cornfield somewhere in nebraska, mumbling about ice crystals and asking a very startled farmer if he'd seen your "best friend's smoking hot cousin."

you blink, a scowl appearing on your face. "...that happened once."

"twice."

"okay, twice."

he lifts a brow. "last time you clipped the fire escape."

"that fire escape had it coming."

his mouth quirks despite himself, eyes glinting as he slides a fork toward you. "sit. eat. try not to give me a heart attack for one morning."

you oblige, hopping up onto the stool and dragging the plate toward you. "you worry about me, clark. kinda sweet."

he gives you a look, one that falls somewhere between fond and exasperated. "i worry about everyone."

"sure you do." you take a bite, chewing thoughtfully. "but I’m the only one who gets eggs and scolded first thing in the morning."

he turns back to the stove, hoping to hide the smirk that pulls up the corner of his lips. you catch it anyway.

"so," you say after a mouthful of eggs, lifting your fork with exaggerated curiosity. "what's on the superman to-do list today? world peace? saving a cat out of a tree?"

the kitchen is lazily golden with early morning sunlight creeping through the blinds as you sit atop one of clark's barstools, legs swinging slightly as you eye him over your plate.

clark wordlessly pours you a glass of orange juice, not needing to ask your preference. he does it in an automatic way as if he's done it every morning. like you're just here, part of his routine. it's infuriatingly domestic.

he sets the glass in front of you with a casual shrug. "not sure. i usually wait for an apparent threat on the news or a call from friends."

"oh, right. justice gang," you say, wrinkling your nose. "still a stupid name, by the way."

a subtle twitch plays at the corner of his mouth, and you watch as he chews the inside of his cheek, like he's biting back a smile.

smile at me, coward.

"right," he says, tone even.

it's exasperating, the way he always manages to keep a straight face when you’re trying to crack him. it's almost as if there’s a silent challenge in it. you wonder sometimes if he even knows he’s doing it – weaponizing that steady calm of his like it’s not the most compelling thing in the world.

you shift in your seat, squinting at him like the mere suggestion of an early morning is physically painful. "so, if theres no superman agenda, why on this planet are you up so early?"

clark doesn't miss a beat. "some of us work. you know, make money to pay for existing." clark deadpans, bringing his mug up to his mouth to sip his coffee. he eyes you over the mug, almost pointed, like it's a fact you can't relate to.

"hey, i work!" you protest, immediately defensive.

clark gives you a pointed look. he lifts his brows in that maddening, amused way, leaning against the counter after putting his coffee mug back down onto the hard surface. he crosses his arms and his biceps flex just enough to make you lose your train of thought for half a second. you shamelessly stare, brows lifted at the taut muscle of his arms.

if he notices (lets, be real, he does), he chooses not to comment on it.

"i don't know if intergalactic trade counts as work," he muses.

"it sure as hell pays the bills."

and it does – handsomely.

you've never claimed to be a hero. not everyone is cut out for truth, justice and the whatever-the-hell clark stands for. but you are resourceful. you always have been. always had to be. whether it was skimming atmospheres above a war-ridden moon or stripping through the wreckage of ships, you've made a living out of surviving. scavenging. taking what others overlooked and turning it into something worthwhile.

over the years, you build a decent trade network. you'd collect useful elements, off-world trinkets, experimental gear, honestly, whatever could be repurposed, repaired or resold, and then pass them along to interested buyers scattered across space.

there's a whole underground network of buyers who'd pay top credit for a whisper of alien innovation. and you? well, you're practically fluent in the art of acquiring what they want, no questions asked.

it's not glamorous, not always legal and it's definitely not safe – but it's yours. and it keeps the lights on in whatever hotel-equivalent you're at on other planets.

clark, of course, has opinions about this. you remember the first time kara revealed to him what it was that you did and the way he looked at you – some strange mixture of disbelief and moral distress, like you'd just confessed to selling baby penguins (those are the cute animals, right? you can't keep track of earth life) on the black market.

"she steals things?" he had asked, incredulous, turning to kara like she was the one who needed to answer on behalf of your choices.

"i don't steal, hot stuff," you had countered, your voice piping in an innocent manner. "i salvage," you drawled for extra emphasis, "there's a difference."

"there's really not," he'd muttered to himself, choosing to ignore what you'd called him.

you'd explained that nothing you took every had an owner. abandoned ships. junk moons littered with obsolete tech and precious minerals. all free game, in your book at least. you just happened to be smart enough to see the value in things other people left to rot.

besides, it wasn't like you were smuggling nuclear war weapons for the highest bidder. you dealt in harmless stuff, the kinds of things that actually helped people, even if they might've come with a morally ambiguous origin.

clark hadn't quite agreed. still doesn't, probably. but he doesn't mention it. not out loud, anyway.

"you're off to the monthly moon then?" you ask, your fork clattering against the empty plate.

clark's brows furrow for a moment before softening in realization. "daily planet. yes," he answers.

"i think monthly moon sounds better," you mumble to yourself.

you swing your legs, chin resting in your hand as you watch him move around the kitchen with the kind of quiet ease you don't think you'll ever be able to replicate. everything about clark is measured. controlled. it's like he's always just a little too aware of his own strength and the space he takes up in a room.

"you're really going to go play reporter after all this?" you asked, gesturing to the breakfast scene between you. "all this domestic flirting?" you pout exaggeratedly.

"that was not flirting," clark deadpans, without missing a beat.

"ouch. words hurt," you place a hand on your chest in feigned offense.

he shakes his head but you catch the hint of a smile this time. "you're exhausting."

"you secretly love it."

he doesn't confirm nor deny. instead, he dries his hand on a towel and tosses it over the back of a chair, gaze flickering to the clock on the wall. "i've got twenty minutes before i need to head out."

you raise a brow, lips quirking. "i know what you can do – or who – within twenty minutes."

clark's hand freezes mid-lift of his coffee, fingers curled tightly around the handle but not yet bringing it to his lips.

you see the exact moment your words land; the subtle shift in his shoulders, the faint tightening of his jaw, the way he suddenly won't look at you. not directly.

you grin.

you stretch your arms your head with a languid hum, knowing full what it does to the already slipping shirt draped over your body. his eyes don't flicker, not even once, but you feel the heat in the room spike just a little.

you wonder if he does, too.

"twenty minutes," you murmur softly, tilting your side in a way that almost seems innocent, but you know – he knows, too – that it's anything but. "that's enough time for a lot of things, clark."

clark exhales slowly though his nose and straightens up, visibly resetting his posture. when he finally turns to look at you, his expression is painfully neutral. almost too neutral.

the silence stretches, thick with something unspoken and buzzing.

and then he breaks it, stepping back just slightly and placing his mug down on the counter with a clink.

"i think," he murmurs finally, with a measured calmness that makes your pulse spike. "i need to get ready for work," he says.

coward.

you grin anyway, watching him retreat in the direction of his room. "i'll be here," you call after him, smug. "still very charming. still barely dressed."

clark disappears into the hallway without answering.

but you catch it. the tiny glimpse over his shoulder. the way his eyes dragged, just barely, down your bare legs before quickly looking back.

you hum to yourself, victorious.

by the time he returns, he's fully in his dorky clark kent get-up, charming in it's own right – white button up, gray suit jacket, matching slacks and maroon tie – but the cherry on top is the glasses he adjusts on his face.

"do those really work?" you ask, now having moved to his sofa, sprawled on one side, like you own it. you continue to eye the thick frames. apparently it's some form of hypno-tech for humans – at least, that's what you've heard from kara. it must be, because there's no way a pair of lenses is enough to make the world to see clark kent instead of superman.

"thought you'd be gone by now," he huffs, slinging his knapsack over his shoulder.

you smile, a mischievous glint in your eye. "wanted to see you off before work, sweetie."

clark rolls his eyes, then crosses the room, grabbing his keys and sliding them into his pocket, clearly trying very hard not to engage.

"i don't need a send-off," he says, walking past where you're sprawled on his couch, mock-innocent with a throw pillow half-slid off your lap.

you lean your head back over the armrest to watch him upside-down, hair spilling over the edge. "so no goodbye kiss?" you ask, pouting your lips.

"absolutely not." he says it without even looking at you. but you can see the way his ears turn red.

"what a shame. i'm off to... what's it called again? place with the sparkly tower and long bread?"

clark stops at the door, turning slowly and brows furrowed. "france?"

you snap your fingers. "that's the one. kara wants to go clubbing. apparently, there's some underground spot that plays synth-wave and it looks like an asteroid belt exploded on the inside. she can't get drunk, but she loves the music. i, however..." you give him a slow grin. "...intend to drink very irresponsibly."

clark exhales through his nose again, like it actually pains him to imagine you going through a parisian nightclub, half-lit and laughing, grinding on who knows who, all powered by a cocktail and zero impulse control.

he hesitates in the doorway, a quiet moment stretching between you. his fingers tighten around the knob like he's weighing something.

"you'll be careful?" he asks, voice gentler now, lower. the question's not really a question. but you've come to find out that it's very clark of him to check in like that.

"you earth boys are so serious," you tease.

"y/n."

your grin softens, just a little. you nod, still-upside down on his couch, and a flicker of sincerity creeps into your voice. "always."

clark watches you for another heartbeat and then he sighs, shaking his head to himself. "try not to get kicked out of france," he murmurs before shutting the door behind him.

the door clicks behind him and you let your head fall sideways, a slow smile curving your lips.

the return to the fortress of solitude is sobering in every sense – figuratively and literally.

you land with a soft crunch onto the icy platform just outside its entrance, breath curling in the cold air like lazy smoke. the crystalline towers that shimmer under the arctic sky, casting reflections off the aurora above.

inside, the chill doesn't bite the same way it used to. the fortress hums faintly, always alive but never loud. kara's already there, of course, perched cross-legged on the edge of one of the raised platforms. krypto's curled up beside her, head resting on her thigh, tail thumping softly in greeting as you approach.

"hey," she called. "you took your time."

she looks irritatingly well-rested, already changed into something appropriate for the club: leather pants, iridescent top, hair in it's natural waves.

"you sober now?" she asks.

"unfortunately."

"good," she claps her hands once, sharp and loud in the stillness. "we leave in thirty. we get to the club, get you a drink – or five – and i people watch while you do something regrettable. sound good?"

you grin despite yourself, stretching your arms over your head. "nothing i do is regrettable."

"right," she rolls her eyes, as if that should've reminded her. her eyes cast down to your attire. she lifts a brow. "you're wearing kal-el's shirt."

you look down. clark's tee hanging loosely on your frame, slightly rumpled, smelling faintly of his detergent and something deeply him. you pull at the hem absently, then glance back up with mock innocence.

"he wasn't using it."

kara just rolls her eyes and makes a face that lands somewhere between amusement and disapproval. "you know he's like... kal-el, right?"

you grin. "exactly."

kara huffs a breath through her nose, mumbling something like, 'of all men, kal-el?' but she doesn't press on it. she never does, not really when it comes to him. you figure she knows better than anyone that you're a little hopeless when it comes to her cousin, even when you're main priority is sleeping with him.

you make your way toward your things – a pile of glittery clothing and scavenged tech currently occupying one corner of the fortress – and start sorting for something club appropriate. something earthlings would find charming. or terrifying, whichever. both.

"so, what'd you do last night?" she asks.

you pull out a glittering silver top that may rival any stardust you've ever seen. "not much. got home late. went to clark's."

she pauses. "wait... you actually spent the night at kal's?"

"i always spend the night at his," you counter with a shrug. "you're the one who said i shouldn't risk flying drunk. your cousin has a couch."

"and boundaries," she says, deadpan.

you give her a mournful look. "anyone with forearms like that shouldn't... he made me breakfast this morning.”

kara pauses in her step. she's not surprised but she asks anyway, “…did he?”

“eggs.” you nod solemnly. “scrambled. perfectly cooked. he even gave me orange juice. and none of that stringy stuff in it.”

“that’s oddly specific.”

“right?” you crack one eye open. “he likes me.”

kara gives you a flat look. “you think everyone likes you.”

you hum thoughtfully. “most people do. but clark…” you trail off, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. “he tries so hard not to.”

kara snorts, shaking her head. she watches you for a moment, like she's debating whether to scold you or laugh. she decides to laugh, running a hand down her face.

"you know he's not like us," she says finally. "kal-el doesn't do casual. he doesn't even understand casual."

you pause, holding the top midair, then glance over your shoulder with a slow smirk. "who said i'm trying to be casual?"

kara groans. "you are so going to break my cousin."

you pull off clark's shirt, tossing it into your pile of clothes and begin to shimmy into the tiny silver top. "he'll be fine. he's indestructible, isn't he?"

kara raises a brow. "emotionally? not so much."

you hum nonchalantly. but the comment sticks.

she's not wrong. clark is steady, earnest in a way you don't often encounter – especially in your line of work. he's the kind of man who believes in doing good, in the power of kindness, in something as absurdly fragile as hope.

and somehow, despite everything you've seen in this galaxy, that's what gets you the most.

not the cape, not the strength. not even his hot face and hotter body.

no, it's the terrifying softness he holds in a world that seems to constantly try to turn people hard.

it's... annoying.

but oh, it make you want to fuck him so bad.

you shake your head, reaching for your boots. "come on, zor-el. it's time to be irresponsible."

kara grins. "finally."

you and kara slip out into the chilly morning air, the fortress fading behind you as you both take to the sky. the wind bites at your skin, sharper here than in metropolis, but the rush of flight never gets old. kara’s laughter echoes beside you, bright and light.

the journey to france is a blur of clouds and sunlight, the city of paris unfolding beneath you like a glittering jewel. the skyline is crowned by the sparkly building – the eiffel tower, kara tells you – the iron piercing the pale blue sky.

you land deftly on the rooftop terrace of the club kara had mentioned – an old warehouse with a basement transformed into something otherworldly. neon lights pulse through the foggy night air, casting shifting colors over the crowd gathering below. the hum of synth-wave music vibrates through the walls, deep bass rolling in like waves.

the club is everything kara promised and more: dark yet shimmering with glittering stars strung across the ceiling, walls adorned with holographic murals, and dancers moving as if weightless under the strobe lights.

kara leads you through the crowd, her eyes bright with anticipation as she scans for the perfect vantage point. you slip into the chaos, letting the music pulse through you, the beat a steady thrum against your ribcage.

the drinks come fast. you laugh louder than usual, carefree and loose, the kind of abandon that only comes when the usual weight on your shoulders has slipped away. it's dizzying and dangerous in its own way because your guard is down.

kara watches you, amused and indulgent. “you’re making quite the impression.”

you smirk, "if only the rest of earth felt this homely."

you can only think of one other place on this planet that feels this homely.

before you can dwell on it, a guy from the crowd slides up to you. he flashes you a crooked smile, eyes gleaming under the neon glow as he leans in just enough to catch your attention over the music.

"hey gorgeous, you here alone?" he asks, voice smooth, practiced.

you turn, flashing him a grin that's equal parts amused and deadpan. "depends on who's asking."

the man chuckles, clearly pleased with himself. "name's jake. and you are?" he reeks of vodka.

you tilt your head, eyes sparkling with mischief. you prop your foot ni front of you, leaning back on the other for support and tap your chin in thought. "can i call you clark?"

the man blinks, caught off guard. "clark? why? he your ex or something?"

you smile, the bluntness catching him off guard. "i wish. if he were my ex, that would mean i've already fucked him."

jake laughs, nervously this time, and steps back, suddenly unsure if he's playing the right game. you pat him on the shoulder with mock sympathy as he steps away from you. "better luck next time, jake."

you turn back to the pulsing crowd, the music swallowing the tension, and somewhere in the back your mind, clark's mind lingers, sharp and impossible to shake.

that must mean you need another drink.

you don't remember how many drinks you have, only that kara struggles to carry you out – one of your shoulders looped around her neck – of the neon lit warehouse.

"there's no way i'll be able to fly both of us home," she grunts beneath your weight, dragging you along the streets of france.

"you're supposed to be the stronger one," you tease, head lolling forward, attempting to look at her expectantly.

"i don't exactly charge under the yellow sun on a daily basis so i'm not exactly at peak strength," she mumbles. "and you're deadweight when you're drunk. you flail and scream the second we get off the ground so i'd much rather not deal with that. i'm now realizing why we tend to go out in cities near metropolis."

"call mister hottie cousin of yours then," you slur, eyes fluttered closed as you smile lazily.

kara grunts again, voice low with effort. "you think he's just gonna drop everything and fly halfway across the world to pick up his cousin's drunk best friend at three in the morning?"

you giggle, face pressed against her shoulder. "he's superman. he can do whatever he wants."

she rolls her eyes but doesn't argue with you. she adjusts her grip to haul you more securely.

you mumble something about him being the kind of person who'd go out of his way for other – even you – which makes kara shake her head, half amused and have exasperated, but you can already tell she's dialing.

a few rings later, clark's voice comes through the speaker – calm, steady, just like always.

"kal, i need some help bringing–"

"clark!" you voice rings out, effectively cutting off kara. "i need a rescue," you drawl, voice thick with the haze of too many drinks. "can you come get to us?"

there's a pause, just long enough for you to wonder if you pushed it too far, then a, "on my way."

you can almost see him getting up from bed, swinging his legs over the side. you wonder if he'll come in civilian attire or as his peace-keeping counterpart.

the thought makes a lazy smile curve your lips upward.

minutes stretch as you wait in the chill night, the hum of distant traffic blending with the pulsing music still ringing in your ears.

finally, a shadow drops from the rooftop. it's a figure unmistakably tall, broad-shouldered and decidedly clark. you're too drunk to wonder how he found your exact location.

he doesn't wast time with words, just scoops you effortlessly into his arms, steady and sure as always, despite your wobbliness. kara straightens her back, sighing an exhale of relief.

"are you good to fly?" you hear clark as kara.

"absolutely," she answers.

you lazily blink through your drunken haze in attempt to get a glance of the man carrying you. a smile lifts your cheeks when his chin dips down, casting his gaze on you.

"hey, hot stuff," you slur in greeting, your tone laced with tequila and mischief.

clark exhales through his nose, the corners of his mouth twitching like he's trying very, very hard not to smile. "hi," he says quietly.

"came all the way to paris for little ol' me?" you ask, your words slurred but your grin unmistakably pleased.

he adjusts his grip on you, cradling you close to his chest like you're weightless (which, to be fair, you are to him). "you said you needed a rescue?"

“let's be real, i always need a rescue,” you mumble, fingers toying with the collar of his shirt. “just usually not from france.”

“you’re lucky kara called,” he says, but his voice is warm, not scolding. “think she was about ten seconds from leaving you on the sidewalk.”

“i’d never,” kara says behind him, deadpan. “i would've at least gotten her to a gas station.”

“and you're supposed to be my best friend,” you call over clark’s shoulder.

“good luck,” kara mutters to him, already lifting off into the air, wind kicking up around her. “i’m going to bed.”

clark watches her go, and when he turns back to you, his brow lifts slightly. “you good?”

you grin into the fabric of his shirt. no superman get-up. "yeah, just missed you."

that gets him.

you feel his arms tighten a fraction, and his stride falters for half a step.

"i saw you this morning," he murmurs, tone quiet now. almost too careful.

you hum in acknowledgment. "still missed you."

he huffs out a soft laugh, shaking his head. then, with a subtle shift in his stance, the world falls away beneath you both. the wind cuts around you as he lifts into the air, the lights of paris falling away beneath you. the world goes quiet up here, just wind and breath brushing against your ears.

the air is cold and biting against your skin, but clark’s warmth cuts through it, a steady comfort in the rush of wind. you press your cheek against his shoulder, lashes fluttering closed.

"can i go to your place?" you ask, voice muffled against the fabric of his clothing.

he looks down at you, the press of your cheek against his chest, as he flies above the cloud. "of course."

his words are simple, but they settle deep. heavy in your chest, warm in a way that has nothing to do with his heat against your skin.

he doesn't say anything after that, just flies.

maybe it's safer that way.

maybe if he speaks, he'll say something he can't take back.

or worse – something he means.

you tilt your head back to lazily look up at him, the wind blowing your hair back. his jaw is tight. his eyes fixed at the cloud ahead.

still, you catch the bob of his throat when he swallows.

your voice breaks the silence among the wind. "you'll always come when i call?"

a pause.

then a low, "yeah."

no hesitation. no joke. just... yeah.

you blink up at him, throat tightening for a reason you can't name. the sky around you is ink-dark, the stars scattered in the sky like salt. you stare at his profile. this ridiculous man with his ridiculous heart.

here's clark kent, the man who showed up at three a.m. not because he had to, but because you asked.

even with all your sharpness, all your teasing, and every inappropriate thing you've said in the last twelve hours... he still came.

gods, you think, your mind still muddled with drunkenness. i'm in so much trouble.

you exhale slowly, nuzzling back into his shoulder with a soft mutter. "you're gonna ruin me."

he doesn't answer, but you feel the way his hand flexes around your thigh, just once.

when you wake up hours later, mouth dry and head pounding, you're back in clark's apartment. but this time, you're not on the coucb.

you're in his bed. his bed.

alone.

but there's a glass of water on the nightstand. and advil. and a folded note.

your name is written across the top in that annoyingly neat script of his – as if you're not the only one who'd be in his apartment, let alone his bed.

you reach for the note with bleary eyes and open it with slow fingers.

i'll be back after work. please don't break anything. – Clark (p.s. you snore in your sleep)

you stare at the note, hungover yet still smug.

"i do not snore," you mutter to yourself.

you actually don't know whether you do or not, but that isn't the point. the point is: clark put you in his bed, left you water, and a painkiller for your inevitable hangover.

you look down at yourself. your brow quirks up in curiosity at the shirt draping your figure. a sly smirk curls up your cheeks before you tug at the collar, peering down into it. your smirk falls when you realize clark had simply put on one of his shirts over your night-out top.

he's too respectful, you huff to yourself.

you pad to the kitchen, his note still in hand, scanning the abode of neatness that is clark's apartment. it's nearly absurd how contradicting he is to you.

you do not belong here.

and yet here you are. clutching a stupid handwritten note like it's the first thing anyone's ever left you that felt like care.

his shirt hangs loose off your frame, just long enough to cover your ass in your tiny shorts, but still short enough to be a problem.

you rifle through his fridge (fully stocked with bread, eggs, greens and poultry), attempt to work his dishwasher, and even poke your head into his closet just to see if he organizes his clothing by color.

you take a shower, using his shampoo and conditioner, but you don't mind the way his scent clings to your skin after. in fact, you embrace it. it's warm and woodsy, with a hint of something clean and familiar. you're unsure if that's the soap or just him.

the water helps clear your head, but you still move slowly, your limbs heavy with leftover fatigue. when you dry off with a towel, you skip putting your silver top back on, opting instead for the oversized shirt he'd thrown over you the night before. it's soft and smells like him, too, and without the layer beneath it, the fabric drapes even more loosely over your frame. your underwear are the only thing you keep on, you decide as you look at the tiny shorts you wore prior.

by the time you settle on the couch, legs tucked under you, the sun has fully crested the skyline and your hangover is a gentle throb as opposed to a wave of nausea.

he gets home around six.

clark stops in the doorway, eyebrows raising like he half-expected you to be gone by now.

"you're still here," he says.

you lift and eyebrow and shrug. "i read your note. i figured that was a stay as long as you want invitation."

he hear him huff as he shrugs out of his blazer. he loosens his tie. rolls up the sleeves of his white button-up. "that's a stretch."

"is it?" you ponder aloud, tapping your chin.

silence stretches between you, though he fills the silence by kicking his shoes off near the door and placing his knapsack on a nearby stool.

you decide not to pry and instead, change the subject. "thank you for carrying me back."

clark nods, approaching the sofa. he doesn't sit. not yet. just stands in front of you, hands on his hips like he's trying to decide something.

"you totally could've," you counter quickly. "but thanks for not," you add with a genuine smile.

he smiles back – soft and almost sheepish – but there's something else behind his eyes. a weight. a choice he hasn't explained yet.

you tilt your head. "figured you'd take me to the fortress."

"i was going to," he admits, nodding. "but then you asked me to bring you back here."

your brows raise at that. "i did?"

he exhales through his nose, as if amused by your lack of memory. "you did. made sense. you've been crashing here every night this week."

"and you did," you say slowly, each word holding an extra emphasis.

"and i did," he confirms with a nod. he stands a ways away from you, unbuttoning the cuffs of his dress shirt to roll them up.

"you let me have your bed, too," you add.

"that, i also did," he nods again but this time you see the bobble his adam's apple does.

"how come?"

he looks away for a beat, then back at you – eyes softer than before.

"because," he says slowly, "you should be sleeping on a bed, not a couch."

you raise an eyebrow, skeptical.

he shrugs, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "you're too restless for the couch. too much of a night owl, too many thoughts racing. the couch doesn't give you room to breathe."

you study him, the way his gaze lingers a little longer than usual. the way he's not just talking about furniture, but about you. you don't know how he so easily sees through you and seems to know you so well, and you can't decide whether you like it or not.

you stretch languidly on the sofa, making sure his shirt rises enough to hint at the bare skin of your thighs. "you could've joined me, you know. bed's big enough."

you see him open his mouth to respond before he shuts it as if remembering to process your words first before choosing to respond. he looks down at the hardwood floors for a moment before lifting his head and not meeting your gaze.

"actually, i can't," he murmurs, shaking his head to himself.

you blink. "can't what?"

"i mean– i shouldn't." he runs a hand through his hair, flustered. "you're... unpredictable. and chaotic. and reckless."

you tilt your head, grinning. "i am."

he stares at you like you've personally ruined his life. maybe you have.

you watch him, the way he fights something internal. his jaw tightens like he's holding back a thousand words, maybe a thousand urges. you can feel the tension rolling off him like heat.

"you really don't remember much from last night, do you?" he asks.

your brows raise. "define much."

"you called me hot stuff again," he says.

you grin. "not new information. and i do that sober."

"you also tried to get me to kiss you once we landed back at the apartment."

that gives you pause. okay, that... that you don't remember.

"...did i?" you ask, lips twitching.

he nods, arms now crossed over his chest. "said the air was romantic. said i'd regret not kissing you under the stars." a beat passes. "also said i looked like safety and sex."

you can't help but snort, well aware it is something you'd say. "gotta love tequila."

he laughs. laughs. it's soft, low, not mocking, but fond.

finally.

"you also said you missed me."

your breath halts for a moment, eyes trained on your lap. you slowly peek up at him through your lashes, wary now. "that part... was probably true."

clark's still standing here, looking at you like he's trying to see through all your layers of bravado. and truthfully, maybe he does.

he runs a hand through his hair again, cheeks a little pink. "do you really?"

you blink. "do i... miss you?"

he shrugs one shoulder, but his voice is quieter now. "like, when you're off-world. have you ever once thought about coming back, not just for kara?"

it's a simple question. not a demand. not a plea. just a quiet hope.

you sit up, legs tucked under you, throw pillow in your lap. you stare up at him. "no, not once," you say.

his brows knit, faintly disappointed.

"i think about it all the time."

clark's jaw flexes. and then he finally moves, sitting down on the couch beside you. not touching. not yet. but he's close. close enough.

"i think about you, too," he admits, and it you feel a rush of victory spread across each of your nerves. his ears are pink again, but for once, he doesn't seem to shy away or hide from it.

"yeah?" you ask, lips quirking upward.

he nods.

another beat of silence.

you look down at the note still crumpled in your fingers. you'd been absentmindedly fiddling with it throughout the day. you smooth it over your thigh absently. "you always do the right thing," you murmur. "it's annoying."

clark huffs a soft laugh. "i try."

"you didn't have to come get me."

"i always will."

you look at him again, and this time, the mischief is one from your eyes.

he's so close now.

"you're the most dangerous thing on this planet," you whisper. realizing the statement is true on its own, you add, "for me."

clark's voice is steady. "why?"

you swallow. "because you make me want to stay, clark."

that does it.

the air changes between you. tenses. warms. still.

the air between you was almost something different, teetering on the edge of something so incredibly catastrophic or so devastatingly beautiful.

you can see the way his gaze drops – first to your mouth, then lower. you see his hand twitch, like he wants to touch you but something is holding him back. or, like he's holding himself back.

so you reach first.

you lift a hand and press your fingers gently against his jaw. "i'm sober now, clark."

"i'm aware."

"and i still want to kiss you."

his throat bobs. he exhales and it's sharp and soft at the same time.

"i've been trying really, really hard to do the right thing," he says, voice low and steady, like it's costing him to admit out loud. "to keep my distance. not let it... get messy."

you blink, barely breathing. "and?"

his lips twitch. you don't dare to move. the air between you is so charged it might crack open.

"i don't know what this is," he says, still not touching you. "but if i kiss you, it's not going to be casual. it's not going to be a joke or some in-the-moment mistake."

your breath hitches.

"i don't want to be one of your stops on the way to the next planet," he says, softer now. "so if you're not serious – if you're really just bored and looking for a thrill – please tell me now."

you stare at him. the blues of his eyes stare back into your own irises as his words register.

it's true that during your first visit, your flirting was just that – flirting. harmless, easy, something to pass the time while you awaited your next adventure on another planet.

you liked the way he got flustered. the way he stumbled over his words in the beginning or avoided your gaze like you were something dangerous.

but now...

now, with the weight of his voice still hanging between you, it doesn't feel like just flirting to you anymore.

your throat works around the knot forming there.

very quietly, you ask, "what if i am serious?"

the muscle in his jaw jumps. his eyes search yours for any sign of sarcasm, any game. but all he finds is honestly.

you rush to fill the silence. "i mean, i know i joke a lot. i know i push buttons and say things just to get a rise out of you, but this isn't that. i'm not bored or restless or trying to see how far i can push you before you finally push back. and maybe it's stupid, because you're you and i'm – well, me – but it doesn't feel like a game to me. not anymore. and i don't want you to think i'm not taking this seriously, because i am. more serious than i've taken anything, probably, but i can't seem to–"

your words cut off with a startled sound when he surges forward, catching your mouth with his before you can keep unraveling.

the kiss is firm, steady, and a silencing press that tells you he heard every word you said and he doesn't need more.

and it's not hesitant. it's hungry.

every ounce of restraint he's held for the last however many visits of yours, every sarcastic jab, every midnight glance he thought you didn't catch – it all collapses into this kiss.

clark exhales sharply when your fingers slip into his hair, tugging at it enough to pull a low sound from his throat. his hands find your waist, hesitant at first, like he's still holding back, then firmer, archoring you to him as he kisses you deeper.

you shift onto your knees, straddling his lap without breaking the kiss. you hear his breath catch as you settle over him and you can feel the heat of him through both your layers of clothing. still, he doesn't rush it. his hands stay steady at your hips, his thumbs brushing circles just under the hem of your shirt – his shirt – on your skin.

he pulls away just long enough to rasp against your lips. "still unpredictable."

you grin breathlessly. "still a coward for waiting this long."

he growls and kisses you again, deeper this time, if that's even possible. "so insufferable."

"you like it."

"i really do."

you lean in, your lips grazing his jaw and then lower. "then let me show you just how unpredictable i can be."

clark's hands slide under the shirt fully now, palms warm against your skin. he groans to himself, as if noting the fact that you're no longer wearing the silver top from the night before. "you're not making it easier for me to be a gentleman."

"you've been a gentleman long enough."

your shirt hits the floor first and his eyes rake over you, hungry but reverent, like he's memorizing every inch of you he can see. when his hands find your thighs, he drags them up slowly, thumbs tracing the edge of your underwear.

you reach down and pull his glasses off, setting them carefully on the side table.

"i've wanted to do that for so long," you whisper, fingers tracing his temple gently.

he swallows hard. "yeah?"

you nod, fingers moving to the buttons lining the center of his shirt. "wanted to know what you looked like up close like this. see how blue your eyes really are."

he closes his eyes like he's trying to keep it together. "christ, y/n."

you hum in acknowledgment, pulling either side of his shirt apart, exposing his midsection.

he's unreal, of course he is. warm skin, hard muscle and a faint trail of hair disappearing under the waistband of his slacks. you run your hand over his chest, just to feel him, and his breath stutters.

when you grind down on him, slow yet with purpose, he groans, head falling forward to rest against your shoulder. "you're not playing fair."

"you know i never do."

he huffs a laugh against your collarbone, equal parts aroused and exasperated, his breath hot and shaky on your skin. "i'm starting to get that." one of his hands splay across your lower back, the other gripping your thigh like he needs something to hold onto.

"you're going to ruin me," he murmurs, low like it's a confession.

you lean back just enough to meet his eyes again, fingers still drifting over the hard planes of his chest. "good," you say, not teasing this time.

that seems to snap something in him. he kisses you again, harder now, like he's decided there's no going back. like he's done pretending there's nothing brewing between you.

the kiss turns messy, urgent. his hands are everywhere now – your hips, your ribs, your back. when his mouth trails down to your neck, sucking gently at the skin just below the line of your jaw, your head falls back with a soft moan.

"tell me," he says between kisses, voice low and hoarse. "tell me you want this." his tone is laced with a sense of urgency. a need. he needs to hear it from you. he needs to know this isn't some fling.

"i want this," you breathe. "clark, i want you."

he exhales a breath you weren't aware he was holding. his mouth finds yours again and it's desperate as you press your body flush against him, fingers curled in the thick curls at the back of his neck, the tension that's been coiling between you since the moment you stepped into his life snaps as your hips roll, grinding down deliberately against the bulge straining beneath his slacks.

clark groans, low and raged, hands tightening on your thighs as you rock over him again, slower this time. testing. teasing.

"i need–" he starts, but cuts himself off with a sharp inhale as you roll your hips just right.

you reach down between your bodies and palm him through the fabric of his pants, a wicked little smile curling at your lips. "yeah?"

clark's jaw clenches. his hands are still on your body, but the heat in his eye shifts into something deeper now. like he's no longer bound by hesitation. his hands drift from your ribs to cup the valleys of your chest, groaning at the feeling of your breasts against his palms.

you rock down against him, still in your underwear, but it's not enough. not for him. not anymore.

clark growls – actually, growls – and grabs your wrist, forcing you to sit up straighter. you can feel the hardened bulge of his cock beneath his slacks pressing between your legs.

"you love playing games," he says, eyes dark and breath hot against your cheek. "but you don't get to be in control tonight."

your brow quirks upward. "no?"

he shakes his head once. "you're gonna stay right here," he says, guiding your hips down and along the bulge in his lap, grinding you exactly how he wants you. "but you take what i give you."

a soft, involuntary moan slips out of you.

his grip on your hip tightens. "that clear?"

you nod, dazed. "yeah. yes."

he grins in a way that's more than a usual clark grin. there's more heat behind it. "good."

then, he lets go over your hips, only to trail his hand down and tug your underwear to the side and slide two thick fingers through your slick folds. you gasp, clenching around nothing and you hear him hiss at the feeling of you.

"so wet already," he mutters. "you like when i take charge," he observed aloud, like the thought hadn't ever occurred to him.

you moan as he presses in, slow and deliberate, finger curling inside your velvet walls just right. "fuck, clark–"

"that's it," he murmurs, watching your expression melt all from his fingers.

as he works you open on his fingers, you grind helplessly in his lap, the control shifting entirely into his hands. and you let it. you've been craving it.

you've been craving him. the weight of him, the strength, the heat. the way he takes over without making you feel small in the slightest. the way he knows exactly what you want without even asking.

his fingers keep working inside you, deliberate and deep, curling just right, just enough the halt your breath and make your thighs shake. his free hand slides up your spine, steadying you when your hips start to stutter against him.

"look at you," he says, voice low and near a rasp. "falling apart just from my fingers."

you whimper, back arching slightly as your hands clutch at his shoulders.

the way his fingers move inside you – patient, precise, devastating – has you unraveling far too quickly. embarrassingly too quickly. each curl of his knuckles brushes against your clit, making you jolt with every slow, intentional thrust.

your head falls forward, forehead pressed to his. "clark–"

"i know," he says, voice thick with restraint. "'ve got you."

he kisses you then – deep and slow, not matching the pace of his fingers inside you. his mouth is gentle. his hands are not.

when he adds a third finger, you choke on a moan, hips twitching forward, despite yourslef. it's much too much and not enough all at once, the stretch making your walls flutter and thighs tremble around his lap.

"you're gonna cum on my fingers," he murmurs, like a promise, like a command. "right here. just like this."

you cling to his shoulders, whimpering now with every thrust. he curls his fingers again, slower this time, dragging them against your sweet spot until your vision whites out at the edges.

this wasn't how it was supposed to be. you expected you'd be in control – riding him at your own pace, drawing out every sound he could make. most of your fantasies started with you in charge, maybe giving him the best head of his life right there on that sofa, smug about how easily you could unravel him.

but no. of course clark kent had to flip the script, catching you off guard with just how much strength, how much intention he had under all that restraint. every deliberate curl of his fingers left no room for you to take back the reins, no space to even pretend you were the one setting the pace. he was relentless but measured, like he'd been holding back for too long and finally decided you were the one person he could let himself break for.

"clark–!" your voice breaks, high and desperate.

"i know, sweetheart. let go."

you do.

it hits like lightening, the heat coiling in your gut before snapping, rushing through your veins like fire as you cry out into his shoulder, thighs shaking, body clenching tight around his fingers. he holds you through it, fucking you slowly through the aftershocks until you're boneless in your lap.

you're still panting when he finally pulls his fingers free, bringing them to his mouth without hesitation. he moans low around them, like he's starving.

"clark," you breath, almost pleading, shifting in his lap. it's as if that's the only word left in your vernacular. his cock is hard and heavy beneath you, straining against his slacks, and you can't stop the way your hips roll down, searching for more friction.

his hands find your waist instantly, steadying you, holding you still even when you try to move again. "slow down," he warms, voice rough. "'ve been so patient with you, think it's only right that i set the pace."

you nod quickly, desperate, but he doesn't move right away. instead, he takes his time, undoing his belt and pushing his pants down just enough to free himself. your breath catches at the sight of him, flushed and thick, resting heavy against his stomach.

"go on," he orders softly, the command striking your spine with a warmth. your hands obey before your mind can even catch up, wrapping around him, guiding him through your folds until he's slick with your arousal.

his grip tightens on your hips as he positions you over him. "that's it. sink down on me."

he's thick – too thick, you think at first, the blunt head nudging against you in a way that makes your breath stutter in your chest. your fingers falter around him, because there's no ignoring just how much of him there is to take.

the sheer girth alone has your thighs quaking before you've even started to lower yourself, the stretch burning deliciously slow as your body yield to him. he's overwhelming, every inch of him demanding, and the thought of fitting all of him inside you leaves your head spinning with a mix of awe and desire.

this is exactly what you've been waiting for.

your thighs tremble as you continue, inch by inch, stretching around him until you're full, seated completely in his lap. you feel full, owned, as if he’s been molded to fit inside you and nowhere else.

the breath he exhales against your throat is ragged, and he lifts his head to press his forehead to yours.

"good girl," he murmurs and before you can even think to move, his hands tighten, dragging you down into his rhythm – rolling his hips up into you, forcing you to ride him just the way he wants.

the praise makes your walls flutter around him, and his answering groan rumbles low in his chest.

his rhythm is merciless, hips surging up into you while his grip keeps you exactly where he watns you, hands gripping the flesh of your waist tightly. every drag of his is deep, filing you so completely it border on unbearable. your fingers scramble to clutch his work button-up – still haphazardly pulled open from your doing earlier – for balance, nails digging into the fabric as broken sounds spill from your lips.

his name shatters in your throat, half-plea, half-worship.

what has he reduced me to?

"ride me," he growls against your ear, and you try, you really do, lifting your hips only to sink back down on his.

you ride him like you’ve got something to prove, your pace increasing, thighs trembling as you bounce against his hips. every thrust drags another whimper from your throat, and every sound you make seems to undo him further. he meets your rhythm easily, hips thrusting up to meet you, so deep you see stars.

he meets your gaze, watching you as you bounce above him. his pupils are blown wide, jaw tight, sweat beading at his temple as he watches every flash of expression cross your features. "atta girl," he rasps, voice breaking on a groan. 'taking all of me. you're perfect."

he dips his head down and his mouth finds your breast, tongue tracing a circle around your nipple before sucking it into his mouth, and the pleasure spikes so hard you cry out. your nails dig into his shoulders, no doubt leaving marks across the skin through his white shirt.

and still, his eyes stay locked on yours through it all. tit in mouth.

who knew he could be so obscene?

but it's like he wants to memorize every expression. every twitch. every sound he pulls from you.

you lean forward, both hands cradling his face now pulling him away so you can press your forehead to his. “you feel so good, clark.”

“so do you,” he groans, low and rough.

your rhythm falters just enough to make him hiss, and suddenly his hands are under your thighs, lifting you, fucking up into you with more force, more power than ever before, if that's even possible.

it’s staggering, this man who could shatter anything that steps in his way yet doesn't because of the golden heart behind his ribcage. the man who's looking at you with such a deep reverence, you wonder how on this planet you earned it.

"you're almost there," he mutters between gritted teeth, his movements never faltering as he picks you up and slams you back down along his thick shaft, throbbing with need. "'can feel it."

you whine, your gummy walls, fluttering and pulsing around his cock, speaking for you.

"let go, sweetheart," he rasps, the undercurrent of his tone so fond.

"you, too," you manage, eyes shutting from the sheer pleasure. "want you to."

"i know, i know," he murmur, voice low and reverent. "after."

you firmly shake your head, getting some semblance of your stubborn senses back to you. "no, now."

"sweetheart–"

"inside."

you hear his breath hitch in his throat and see his his eyes darken, pupils blown wide. for a second, his thrusts falter, like he's debating whether to fight you on it. but then your walls squeeze down around him, and the choice is made for him.

"god," he growls, the sound breaking between restraint and surrender. his grip tightens buisingly on your thighs as he slams you down harder, chasing the edge with reckless abandon now. "you're suer?"

"yes," you cry out, nails digging into his shoulder and your head falling forward until your lips brush his ear. "want it. all of you."

his control finally shatters. he drives up into you with a relentless force, the couch creaking under the weight of his power. all you can feel is him splitting you open, the lewd slap of skin on skin and the guttural sounds from his throat as he buries himself deep inside.

your orgasm hits first, white-hot, overwhelming and tearing through your shaking in his grasp, vision blurring as you clamp down on him.

"shoot–" he grits out, hips jerking in short, desperate thrusts. with a groan that rumbles through his chest and right to yours, he finally gives in, spilling deep inside you, heat flooding your core as he buries himself to the hilt.

he holds you there, panting, forehead pressed to your shoulder as he rides out every last pulse. every last wave of it.

you collapse against him, bodies slick and tangled, chests heaving with the aftershock of what just happened. his arms wrap around you instantly, holding you closely.

for a long moment, neither of you move. you're both wrecked, sweaty, gasping as you catch you breaths.

you don't say anything at first.

you just listen to the sound of his heart. it's still thudding fast beneath your cheek.

then, softly, you murmur, “i like earth. loud. messy. but it’s nice.”

he huffs a quiet laugh, the kind that's more exhale than sound and he presses a kiss to the crown of your head.

"you used to complain nonstop," he murmurs, voice lazy and rough with the afterglow. his hand finds your spine, tracing slow, reverent lines. "said the gravity made you clumsy. that the food is too bland. that humans don't know how to drive."

you grin into his chest. "all still true."

another beat passes.

"but it's different now," you add, softer. "it's warm, too. soft."

he chuckles again, but there’s an edge of disbelief to it, as if he still can’t quite believe you’re here. that this is real.

you tilt your head just enough to look at him. his eyes are already on you.

“i think,” you say, voice barely audible but so careful, “i might want to stay.”

he stills for only for a second, but you notice anyway. there's a breath caught in his lungs. you can practically see the hope swelling inside him, too fragile to speak aloud.

“you don’t have to say that,” he says, gently. “not because of this.”

“i’m not,” you say, quickly. “i’m saying it because of you.”

and there it is. that look from him. like you hung the stars and he’s only just realized it. like you’re not some wild, reckless orbit passing through. like maybe you’ve always been heading toward him.

clark's hand cradles your jaw. he kisses you again, softer this time.

“i want you to stay,” he breathes against your lips. “god, I want you to stay.”

you smile, eyes fluttering closed as you press closer, letting his warmth sink into your bones. you choose to ignore the logistics of being an alien and residing on a planet that isn't yours, unsure how citizenship would even work. then again, you'd been off planet for so long, jumping from moon to planet that the idea of citizenship feels almost laughable.

you're a wanderer. a drifter. no borders. not roots. no ties.

but here, wrapped in clark's arms, breathing in the scent of his skin and listening to the steady rhythm of his heart, something definitely shifts within you.

“then I guess I’m home.”

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