alexandritte

You’d been trying to suppress it all week. Truly, you had. It wasn’t your fault that Clark looked stupidly attractive in flannel, with sweat beading at his hairline and slipping beneath the collar of his t-shirt. It wasn’t your fault that his Ma and Pa had raised him right, that he helped with dinner and folded everyone’s laundry when it was finished drying on the clothesline. You couldn’t be held responsible for what happened between your thighs whenever you watched him complete miscellaneous tasks around the house, fixing whatever appliance or squeaky hinge that had been nagging Ma for the past several weeks like the perfect fucking son he was. 

So, really, you weren’t at fault for the way your kisses began lingering a bit longer than what was appropriate for his childhood home. The way your hand regularly found his thigh every night beneath the dinner table, daring to get progressively higher with each passing day. 

It was inevitable. A means to an end. A festering desideratum that was growing increasingly difficult to ignore. 

It was affecting Clark too, you could feel it. His hugs were longer. He hovered around you more than usual. Clark’s touches were always meaningful, so when he began squeezing your hips or shoulders as he slipped by you in the kitchen or living room, you knew there was intent behind it. 

It didn’t help that this was your first time visiting the Kents as his fiance. The knowledge that you were about to be married certainly didn’t help matters. Clark, along with his sweet, endearing, oh-so-oblivious parents had already been teasingly referring to you as “Mrs. Kent”, and it was more than enough to make you insane. 

For his parents’ sake, you sincerely hoped your joint desperation wasn’t as glaringly obvious to them as it was to you. Though, if the sly smiles on Ma’s face whenever she noticed the pathetically longing stares you two exchanged was any indication, you weren’t being as subtle as you thought.

Growing up, Ma had very strict rules about Clark’s girlfriends, as he’d informed you previously. She was the sweetest woman you’d ever met, if not a little old-fashioned by way of social standards (Clark’s gentlemanly charm had to come from somewhere). Which of course meant that every partner of Clark’s who spent the night at the Kent household was required to sleep in a separate bedroom. 

“As long as you’re stayin’ under my roof,” she had teased, waving a wooden spoon in mock threat. “Those are the rules. No bed sharin’ till you’re married.” 

When Clark was in high school and college, that usually meant he took the sofa while his girlfriend took his room. Back then, the spare bedroom in the Kent household had been used predominantly for extra storage, mostly for seasonal decorations and other delicate items Ma and Pa didn’t want stored in the barn. 

Recently, though, the Kents had cleaned out the space. Its “restoration” had become a bit of a passion project for Pa, who was always happiest when he had something to keep his hands busy.

Clark had inquired about it once when you were both in town visiting. He’d spotted the cans of paint in the hallway, to which Ma replied with the coolness of a cucumber and the subtlety of an elephant. 

“Just preparin’ for when we have kiddos in the house again.”

You choked on your sweet tea, and looked over at Clark to find that his blush had climbed all the way to his ears. 

“Ma,” he bemoaned. She only winked. 

One of Ma’s friends owned a ranch on the other side of town, and had introduced her to the wonders of Facebook Marketplace. Such began the spending spree that would result in brand spankin’ new (secondhand) furniture for the newly redone bedroom once Pa had finished spackling and painting. 

Clark fretted endlessly over the fact that his parents were lugging around heavy furniture on their own, and would regularly speed back to Smallville to help them if he had the spare time. When you came to visit this time around, the guest bedroom was the first place Ma had dragged you both off to, eager to show off her finds. 

“Ain’t it beautiful? Couldn’tve cost me more than a hundred-and-fifty some bucks. John’s good friends with Frank down at the hardware store in town, so we got a good deal on the paint, too. What was the shade, hon? Manchester tan, somethin’ or other? Anyway, I think it turned out pretty darn good.” 

“It looks great, Ma,” Clark complimented with a genuine smile. 

“Don’t it? Figured it would be nice not havin’ to make your poor fiance sleep on that rickety ol’ twin bed.”

There it was—the subtle confirmation that you were still expected to sleep in separate rooms. Which you would, because you respected your soon-to-be in-laws, and it wouldn’t be for much longer anyways. 

“It really does look incredible,” you agreed, filling the silence. “The wonders of Marketplace.” 

“Trouble now is gettin’ her to stop,” Pa called from the living room. “We got a crap ton of new patio furniture and nowhere to put it all!” 

“Oh, hush,” Ma scolded, and you both laughed. 

It was on day five that things became borderline unbearable. The Kents had invited some old friends over for a cookout and a bonfire. Some of the older couples’ kids had grown up alongside Clark, many of whom already had spouses and families of their own. Meaning, there were several young children in attendance, which thrilled Clark, who had been honest with you from the start about wanting a family of his own someday. 

It made perfect sense—he was incredible with kids of all ages, something you’d known for a while, having seen it secondhand on TV whenever he donned the cape to visit children’s hospitals or homeless shelters. 

Experiencing it firsthand, though? Your fucking ovaries were about to explode. 

Pa had bought some marshmallows for the kids to make s’mores, and Clark had somehow been designated the role of official stick-gatherer. You watched the kids—ranging from kindergarten to late elementary school age—follow him around like ducklings, giggling and laughing when Clark made a show of climbing all the way up an oak tree to fetch the ‘perfect stick’ for roasting marshmallows. 

One of the children, an adorable brown-haired little boy, shyly offered his first marshmallow—which was burnt to a crisp—to Clark, who accepted it with a broad smile. 

“Thanks, buddy. Is this for me?” 

His head bobbed. “Sorry. It burnt a little.” 

“Oh, that’s alright. It’s still gooey underneath. Here, watch.” 

You watched as Clark slid the charred, ashy part of the marshmallow off to reveal its perfectly melted, warm center. He sucked the mallow into his mouth, having to double down on his sticky digits as the residual bits clung to his fingers. You politely forced yourself to look away. 

The rest of the night, Clark had been seated right next to you as the adults exchanged work stories and life updates while the kids ran around chasing fireflies. Inevitably, there were more than a few prying questions shot in Clark’s direction about his interviews with Superman, which always made you grin, even if only himself and his parents knew the reason behind it. 

At some point, Clark’s arm draped around your shoulder as you rested your legs in his lap. With company around, he’d been forced to put on his hypnoglasses, but you certainly weren’t complaining. The firelight danced across his face and in the lens of his glasses, which you took every opportunity to push up his nose with a soft smile, leaning forward to peck his lips every so often. 

Mercifully, having both older couples and young children in attendance meant the night was called off relatively early, around 8pm. You both assisted with cleanup before settling in the living room to catch up on the news. Ma and Pa turned in shortly thereafter, pressing kisses to both of your foreheads before vanishing down the hallway. 

Feeling particularly greedy, you stole the chance to break the “appropriate distance” the two of you had been sitting on the sofa and cuddled up to Clark’s side with a long sigh. 

“Good day?” you ask casually. 

“Mhm,” he answers, fingertips brushing up and down your shoulder. You idly watch the TV for a few more minutes, toying with Clark’s fingers in your hand, already imagining the ring that would soon match yours. 

The quiet sounds lulled you into a state of blissful exhaustion; his parents doing their nighttime routine, the crickets chirping through the open window, the low conversation from the television, playing a gameshow of some sort. 

After a few moments of silence, you snuck a glance over the sofa, peeking to see if his parents’ door had shut yet. Clark followed your gaze curiously, about to ask what you were looking at, when you pinched his chin between your fingers and brought your mouth to his. 

A pleasant hum rumbled from the back of his throat as he immediately returned the kiss. His hand cradled the side of your neck, fingers brushing against your thumping pulse as you kissed, deep and slow. 

You part for air, and Clark’s mouth trails along your jaw, unhurried and without much finesse, seemingly content just to be touching you. Your eyes once again land on the closed door of his parents’ bedroom, weighing the risk before making your decision and swinging a leg over his lap. 

Clark, clearly a little surprised, laughs nervously as his hands find your hips. “Honey,” he warns. “What are you—” 

“Shh,” you hush him with a smirk and a finger to his lips, before kissing him again and carding your fingers through his soft curls. 

He hums in bliss, grip tightening on your hips before his hands travel up and down your sides. “It feels so good to kiss you,” he whispers into your mouth. 

Your breathing hitches, desire roaring to life deep in your belly, demanding attention. 

“Yeah,” you agree softly. 

You kiss for as long as you dare, tongues slipping into hot mouths and hands staying mostly PG; Clark wisely keeps you planted a safe distance away from his pelvis. 

When you finally part, panting for air, you sit there for several long moments. The chorus of sounds has changed, slightly. Clark’s heavy breathing intermingled with your own; the subtle-soft rustle of his palms against your blouse as he caresses you. The crickets still chirp, reminding you of the hour, and you reluctantly open your eyes. 

“We should probably go to bed,” you say, though you don’t mistake the sadness in your voice for anything other than it is—a thorn in your side for not being able to do anything other than kiss. “Ma said something about the Farmer’s Market tomorrow.” 

Clark’s head tips back against the couch, his blue eyes drowning in a sea of black as he catalogues the look on your face. He licks his lips in consideration, and your traitorous core flips in arousal at the sight. 

“Yeah,” he eventually—reluctantly—agrees. 

You drag yourselves down the hallway, taking turns in the bathroom as you prepare to weather the storm of spending another dreadful night apart. 

The Kent family home is small; a three bedroom, one bathroom ranch that had little room for much more than its Midwestern charm. It was an older house too, built by Pa’s grandfather in the 1920s; it had been refurbished, just enough to keep up with the times, but the bones of the house were old. Creaky floorboards and chipped paint. An extremely temperamental HVAC system. And, of utmost concern to you and Clark, thin walls.

All the bedrooms lined one hallway near the back of the house; the bathroom and his parents’ room on the left, the guest room on the right, and Clark’s bedroom tucked at the end of the hall. Everyone was snug as a bug in a rug, as the saying went.

Lucky you.

The air between you tonight feels inexplicably more charged than usual, and you have a sinking suspicion the make-out session you’d initiated had something to do with it. 

“Goodnight,” you say softly, turning to face Clark from the doorway to the guest bedroom.

Clark blinks at you in consideration, before leaning down to give you one final kiss. It’s soft and almost unbearably slow. His hand cradles your jaw, thumb brushing your skin. Your lips hover, brushing one another before either of you can bring yourselves to pull away. The pad of his thumb tugs gently at your lower lip. 

“Goodnight,” he whispers. 

And then he’s gone, floorboards creaking beneath his feet as he retreats into his bedroom at the end of the hallway. You take a deep breath, needing a moment to collect yourself before shutting your own door and pressing your forehead against it. Get a grip. 

You try to distract yourself by doing some light reading before bed, just enough to make your eyes heavy. Of course, it doesn’t work, and an hour after you’ve put your book down and turned off all the lights, you can’t sleep. 

Your mind is consumed by the memory of Clark twisting open a jar of strawberry jam for Ma earlier today, and the how he’d sucked some of the jam off of his thumb. Then it flashes to the effortless way he’d carried several 400-pound hay bales over his head, across acres of farmland, all so his Pa could save some diesel on the tractor as you watched from the kitchen window. Then you remember how he’d immediately gulped down two full glasses of his Ma’s homemade lemonade, watching the condensation wet his fingers and the way his throat muscles moved as he swallowed. 

It’s too much. Too much temptation packed into a 1,300 square foot ranch, in the shape of 240 pounds of farm-bred Kryptonian muscle. Five unbearable days with only fleeting touches and lingering kisses, until tonight, when you got a taste of something more. You two had gone far longer without sex—you know this logically—but being in such close proximity and watching him around his parents and interacting with children has done irreparable damage. 

Your hand is slipping beneath your pajama shorts without you even making the conscious decision. 

Fuck, the way he’d smelled tonight, like burning wood and smoke, his skin warm and almost glowing as a result of spending all day in the sun. Around the campfire, you couldn’t help but caress his five o’clock shadow at any chance you got, imagining the scruff of his stubble chafing your inner thighs. 

Clark loved to eat pussy. 

Your fingers easily find your aching clit, but the touches are all wrong. Your fingers aren’t rough enough, aren’t large enough, can’t get the right angle. 

After tonight, it was impossible not to imagine him with your own children in a very near future. The thought of him cradling an infant in his massive arms; a toddler climbing all over his back, sitting on his equally massive shoulders. You weren’t even sure it would be possible to conceive with him yet, but fuck were you content to imagine it. 

You’re dripping already; it was second nature. A Pavlovian response. Your fingers are a poor substitution for the real thing, but it would have to do. He’s so close and so fucking far, and it makes your blood hot. 

“Clark,” you fail to bite back the weak moan, your hips shifting around on the bed as you curl your fingers. God, a part of you hopes he’s awake, knowing he could probably hear the way you’re touching yourself, moaning his name, nearly in tears from how much you need him. 

It’s when you’re finally on the precipice of a very underwhelming orgasm that you hear the same creaking floorboards and freeze. Your ears hone in on the sound, trying to brush it off as being Ma or Pa getting up to use the bathroom, which wasn’t uncommon. But the gait is undeniably heavier, and far too careful to be either of his parents. 

Then you hear the doorknob turn. 

You twist in the sheets, hastily pulling your hand out of your pajama shorts. You blink blearily at the door, watching as it creaks open slowly to reveal none other than your 6’4” fiance. 

“Clark? E-everything okay?” you call out in a whisper as he carefully shuts the door, wincing at the way it squeaks. You hear a click, and your stomach swoops with the realization that it’s the lock. 

He turns to you, a looming, impressive shadow in the darkness of the guest room. He’s at the foot of the bed in two large steps, clambering onto the double-size mattress. The sudden shift of weight makes the mattress groan, a deafening sound in the stillness of night, and your eyes widen in surprise. 

“Baby, what are you doing?” 

“I think I should be asking you that,” is all the explanation you get before Clark’s lips are back over yours. The kiss is slow, but it’s filthy. Nothing like the ones you shared earlier on the sofa. All tongue and lips and teeth as he hovers over you. Your legs kick out of the sheets, instinctively locking around his lower back, and you barely bite back a moan as he settles some of his weight onto you. 

“Gosh, you’re unbelievable,” he breathes into you. “Touchin’ yourself like that when I’m barely a wall away. Could’ve just asked me, baby.” 

You shudder, and the arousal is a burn that rips through your body. “Oh god, Clark. We- we really shouldn’t- your parents—” 

“I know, baby. I know, I’m sorry. But I couldn’t take it anymore. You’ve been drivin’ me insane all week, sweetheart.” He slid his hands up your chest, groping your tits over your pajama top. “I…I heard you. Jolted me right awake; thought I was dreamin’ at first. But then I heard your sweet little moan, the little wet sounds of your pussy. Your heartbeat, honey. Like a little jackrabbit.”

You tip your head back against the pillow, breathing hard. “C-Clark, god, you can’t say things like that—” 

“I know how much you want it,” he breathes, hips bearing down between yours, and shit, he’s fully hard. You haven’t felt him like this in over a week, and it’s overwhelming. “I want it too.” 

Dark and quiet as it is, everything feels amplified; despite the very real threat of his parents overhearing, it’s like the two of you are in a vacuum, cut off from the rest of the world. You feel Clark everywhere, and yet it’s not enough to satisfy the insatiable beast that is frothing from between the cage of your thighs, desperate for reprieve. 

Of course, wanting what you realistically can’t—or shouldn’t—have has only made matters worse. 

“Baby,” Clark pants as you run your hands down his back, slipping beneath his soft t-shirt. “I can- oh gosh, I can s-smell how wet you are.” 

“Fucking hell,” you curse, and kiss him again. “I want you so bad, Clark. But this…this fucking bed is probably older than both of us combined, and it’s so loud, I—” 

“I know,” he responds between kisses. “I know, honey.” 

“I- maybe we could- you could just use your fingers? And I could do the same?” you suggest, though it’s weak, even to your own ears. You know Clark won’t object to anything you offer, but it was crystal clear what he really wanted. What you both wanted.

Clark lets out a whine, low in the back of his throat, concealing it in the crook of your neck. “Mmm. If- I mean, that’s- that’s probably the smart thing to do…”

“But not what we really want,” you finish, brushing your nose against his cheek. 

“No,” he agrees, before licking into your mouth. The soft, wet sound of your mouths causes your head to spin, heavy with desire. You can feel the blood rush in your ears, down the length of your neck, flushing the surface of your skin. 

“Baby,” you whisper when you part for breath, voice shaking with a mix of longing and crumbling restraint. Your legs tighten around his waist, pulling his hips flush against yours. Your fingers pull through his hair as your pelvises build a steady grind, slow enough so as not to cause the bed to squeak but enough to drive you insane as his stiff cock ruts against your clothed pussy. “I- I can’t fucking take it anymore. I need you.” 

Clark shudders, mouthing beneath your jaw. “I need you too, honey.” His lips hover over yours, words an urgent, needy whisper. “Wanna give you my cock so much, sweetheart. So, so much.” 

“Oh god, Clark,” your voice shatters around his name. Your pussy flutters at the mere idea of having his cock inside you. You need him so bad you could cry. “Seeing you w-with those kids today…” 

Clark groans instantly, understanding the implication. “Yeah? Imagining they were ours?” 

“Mmm. Yes.” 

“I know, I was too,” he admits, sucking a bruise into your skin that you will definitely regret in the morning. “You’d like that, huh? Makin’ a family with me?” 

“Fuck, I- you know I would, Clark.” 

“Gosh, yes. I’d give it to you in a heartbeat, my love.” 

“Please,” you whine, and you truly can’t remember a time where you’ve been this desperate for sex. “I’ll book the fucking appointment tomorrow. Get my—mm, fuck—get my IUD taken out.” 

The sound that escapes Clark’s throat is a mixture of pity and pain. “Oh gosh. honey, I- you’re not being fair.” 

“I know, I’m sorry,” you whimper. 

“We- maybe we can just go slow?” he suggests. “So slow, I promise. Won’t even put it all the way in. It won’t be loud that way, if we go slow. We can be quiet, if we…if we’re careful.” 

“I don’t want it slow,” you breathe, and that’s the entire problem, isn’t it? Clark lets out another low-pitched whine, and says your name like a curse. 

“You’ve been driving me crazy, too,” you continue, pausing to give him a slow, deep kiss. “I just…I just wanna fuck, Clark.”

Your hand snakes between your flush bodies, slipping beneath the waistband of his sweatpants and bypassing his boxers completely. Clark jerks, burying his face in your shoulder with a sharp exhale. The heat and weight of him makes the burgeoning desire in your gut increase tenfold; he’s hot and thick and fully hard. Your goddamn mouth starts salivating like it’s competing with your sopping pussy for his attention. 

“W-we…we have to be c-careful, honey,” Clark repeats as he pumps slowly into your hands. That simple movement alone makes the mattress groan with the sound of shifting fabric. “I can…fu- baby, gosh- I can listen to make sure they don’t wake up, but I’ll have to focus. And this bed—” 

“Please,” you beg, heart pounding as you listen to his breathing increase the longer you stroke him. Your own restraint is falling apart at the seams; you’re about one Clark-moan away from throwing all caution to the wind. “Forget what I said earlier, I don’t care. I- please, Clark. I need you so bad.” 

“Honey, I- oh—” He’s cut off when your fist focuses furiously on the weeping head of his cock. 

“Do you want to come on my fist, or in my pussy?” you ask. You know you’re playing dirty, but you need him in you. Now. 

“Holy- th-that’s so mean,” he whines. 

You mouth at his jaw. “Clark Joseph Kent, if you don’t put your cock in me right fucking now—” 

“Good gosh, I- okay, okay.” He plants desperate kisses on your lips, firmly yanking your wrist away from his cock, desperate for a break. “Just- are you-” 

“I’m fine, Clark. More than ready. Please just…just fuck me,” you demand, nipping at his earlobe. 

“Okay. I- okay, gosh, hold on-” 

It’s a frantic tangle of limbs and swatting hands as you both try and wiggle free of as minimal clothing as necessary without jolting the bed too much. The comforter is thrown off the bed. You blindly yank Clark’s sweats and boxers down enough to fully free his cock, while he fumbles for the waistband of your sleep shorts, cursing sweetly as he struggles with the tie. It probably doesn’t help that you’ve started jerking him off again, smearing the resulting bead of pre-cum over his sensitive tip. 

“Stupid freaking-” 

“Oh, Jesus fucking Christ,” you mutter, growing impatient. “Just rip it off, Clark.” 

“But you hate when I-” 

“Rip it.” 

He doesn’t need to be told a third time. The fabric snaps the second his fists close around the tiny strings, and even that small display of his strength makes your clit fucking throb. 

His fingers are on you the instant your shorts and panties are gone, rubbing messily over your folds. It’s likely for his own peace of mind, despite your insistence that you were adequately prepared for him. It feels good nonetheless, so you aren’t about to complain. 

“Oh, gosh,” he marvels, thick fingers circling your clit as he glances between you. “You’re soaked, honey. Even wetter than I thought.” 

“I told you,” you shudder. “Now fuck me.” Your hand, still on his cock, guides him to your waiting pussy, slipping the head through your labia and making you both moan softly. 

“Fuck,” Clark curses. 

“Clark Joseph,” you gasp, the profanity deliciously foreign coming from his tongue. “Did you just—”

“This is a serious matter,” Clark insists as he thrusts his hips torturously slowly. The head of his cock catches on your clit and another moan slips out of you. “See? That right there.” Your eyes widen when Clark’s palm moves to cover your mouth. “Gotta focus if we wanna be quiet.” 

His words only make you whimper, the sound mostly smothered against his hand. 

“Quiet,” he scolds again, but then he’s pushing in. The initial stretch burns, as it normally does (you definitely could’ve benefited from some extra lubrication, but desperate times call for desperate measures). However, the flicker of pain is quickly doused with sheer relief, like your body is sighing at the solace of finally getting him inside you. 

Clark’s hand abandons your mouth in favor of supporting his weight as he half-collapses onto his forearm. The first thrust of his hips tests the waters; a little overzealous on Clark’s side, succeeding in making the rickety old bed frame squeal once, loudly. You both hold stock-still, allowing you to acclimate to his size and him to listen intently for any signs of life in his parents’ room.

Clark looks down at you in silence. Nothing. 

You release your bated breath and drag him into a kiss. “Move,” you hiss, sounding like a total brat, but neither of you seem to care. 

Clark obliges, pumping his hips slower this time, the motion more fluid as he disperses his weight across his whole body rather than planting his knees on the mattress. 

It seems to be working, the sound of your joint heavy breathing being the loudest sound in the room. That is of course until you shift positions just slightly, and the fucking Marketplace-monstrosity of a bed frame groans loudly in protest. 

A huff of agitation escapes you. “Oh fuck that’s— it’s loud, Clark. Why is it so fucking loud?” 

“Shit,” he curses desperately. “Maybe- here, pull the sheets up—” 

“That’s not going to do anything!” 

“Well, I don’t know!” Clark exclaims in a whisper-yell. “I’m trying to help! I- oh gosh, honey, I can’t pull out of you now—” 

You lock your legs around him in warning. “Don’t you dare.” 

“I’m not, I’m not.” 

Your head flops back against the pillows in frustration. “Just…they’re still asleep, right?” 

Clark pauses to listen. “For now, yeah.” 

“So…” you can’t believe you’re about to suggest this. Morning-you is going to be so fucking embarrassed. “…just…just keep going, and stop if you hear them wake up.” 

Clark lets out a pained groan. “That’s easier said than done when I’m balls deep inside you, honey. I can’t focus on making you come and listening for the slightest rustle of awareness across the hallway.” 

You wiggle your hips, pulling another wounded sound from Clark’s chest. “Please,” you resort to begging, yet again. “Clark, I- I’m so sexually frustrated and I finally have your dick inside me and you’re just fucking- we’re not even- I can’t—” 

Clark must take pity on you, because he’s soothing you with quick pecks across your face and neck. “Honey, I know, I know. I’m sorry. Oh, my sweet girl. I’m sorry.” He starts moving again, the same slow, fluid movements as before. The bed squeaks beneath you, but it’s not too loud, you think. 

Clark continues, “I wish I could fuck you how you need, baby. But we gotta be quiet. Shhh, shhh. I know. Just try and take what I’m giving you. Want me to rub your little clit? Will that help?” 

You nod, only slightly horrified as you feel tears well in your eyes from the sheer frustration of it all. Clark coos praises and apologies into your ear as his fingers gently circle your swollen clit, but it’s not enough. 

Sure, it feels good, amazing even, but it’s not what you’d been craving. Not the itch you needed scratched. 

“Jus’ a little harder?” you beg, your voice a wet, sultry whisper against his ear as you bury your fingers in his hair. “Please? Please Clark?” 

He buries his groan against your chest, mumbling a slew of frustrated, mostly incoherent words that sound something like “gonna be the death of me” and “can’t handle when you beg me for it”. But then, abruptly, the pace changes yet again. The movement ceases, just for a moment. He shifts his weight above you. His hips snap—once, twice, thrice. Still slow, but firmer. Sharper. Deeper.

“Oh—” 

Anticipating your moan, his free hand flies back to your mouth, effectively cutting off the incriminating sound. He hushes you gently as his eyes bore down into yours. 

The bed is…well, it’s definitely making noise now. The box springs make their presence known, creaking with every forward motion. Unfortunately, you’re too cock-drunk to pay it much attention. 

At the very least, it’s not like the headboard is obnoxiously slamming against the wall. Just…if someone happened to pass by the door, it would probably be fairly obvious what was happening on the other side. Which, horrifically, turns you on even more. 

Of course, you know Clark would never let something like that actually happen—nor would you want it to—but the thought of it, the risk of it, makes your stomach twist around itself in arousal. The notion that he’s fucking you in his childhood home with his sleeping parents a stone’s throw away has you hornier than you thought humanly possible. 

The fingers on your throbbing clit speed up, and your eyes nearly roll back into your skull. 

“C’mon, baby,” he pants. “Gotta come on this cock. Know you want to. Wanting me to make you a wife and a mommy in the same calender year, my greedy girl. All with my parents right down the hall, sound asleep. Gonna look them in the eyes tomorrow morning, honey? Knowin’ I snuck into your room just hours prior? That my cum was dripping down your thighs?” 

From behind his sweaty palm, a muted chorus of “yeah, yeah, yeah” punches out of you on the crest of every sharp thrust.

Clark smothers you; with his body and his words and his kisses, his tongue just beneath your ear, his forearms caging you beneath his broad frame. Your nails dig into his back for dear life, thighs tense around his hips as every ounce of your focus narrows in on the pleasure.

“Shhh, baby,” he whispers, breath hot and voice shaking. “I know it- I know it feels good, but you gotta be quiet. Can’t let you come if you can’t be quiet.” 

You need to come more than you need air to breathe, so you force your shaking body to obey, swallowing your own sounds and digging your nails further into his impenetrable skin.

“Yes, baby,” he praises. “There we go. Nice and quiet. Can I have my hand back, now?” 

You nod shakily, breathing fast and hard, as Clark leans in to kiss you. The fingers swirling over your clit make a ‘v’ as they slip down to stimulate your outer lips of your vulva. Your thighs twitch around his hips, signaling your rapidly-approaching release. 

“F-fuck, Clark,” you whine into his open mouth. “I- I can’t, I—” 

“Yes, baby. Right there. Let it happen. Come on my cock, baby. It’s yours.” 

You shatter with a high-pitched whine, one that Clark suffocates against his still-clothed chest as he quickly presses your face into his breast bone. Your pussy constricts around him, spasming uncontrollably as he works to prolong your high. 

“I know, baby. I know, I- oh, that- that…I c-can feel you around me, so tight…it’s g-gonna make me come, honey—” 

The hand not cradling your head fists into the pillow beside you. His sharp, jagged thrusts—the ones originally intended for your pleasure—change a final time, turning frantic in a way that signals his own impending orgasm. Beneath your writhing bodies, the bed groans and shifts. Surely the headboard rams against the wall at least once, maybe twice. You don’t keep track, solely focused on your hypersensitive cunt as it throbs and clenches around Clark, egging him on. 

“C-come inside me, baby,” you plead into his ear, like that’s even a question.

“Did you m-mean it?” he asks suddenly, catching you a bit off-guard. His voice shakes as his hips falter. 

“Mean what?” you barely get out. 

“What you said about…about starting a family?” 

The tenderness of the question hits you square in the chest, and suddenly the emotion in your eyes has an entirely different meaning. 

“Yes,” you breathe, kissing the side of his face. “I love you so much, Clark. I wanna make a baby with you, m-make a family together.”

He whimpers, shortly before biting down on your shoulder in a desperate attempt to keep quiet. His hips stutter and still, cock pressed as deeply inside your pussy as he can get at this angle. He comes hard, the deliciously bizarre sensation of his cum filling your pussy pulling a final, blissed moan from you. He finally stills above you, struggling to steady his breathing. 

“Golly. Sweetheart,” he exhales, and you both let out disbelieving chuckles. He pulls back to look at you, still catching his breath as you feel his cock soften inside of you. “Did we really just…” 

“Have sex under your parents’ roof with them sleeping just across the hall? Yes we did,” you say, trying not to let the post-orgasm regret pull you under. 

Clark laughs again, kissing you on the nose before nuzzling into your neck. You love it when he tries to tuck his massive frame into your body; it’s adorable. 

“Mm. Worth it.” 

You can’t help but agree. 

You spend a few quiet minutes catching your breath and coming down from your highs. You run your fingers through Clark’s hair, something you know he loves after sex. 

“Need’ta pee,” you protest tiredly when you feel him start to go slack above you. 

“Mmm. Yeah. Yeah, m’kay,” Clark says slowly, like his brain is still catching up. He rolls off of you and you search blindly for your underwear, settling instead on Clark’s boxers which are the first thing you stumble upon. You carefully slip to the bathroom, cringing a little at the feel of his cum sliding down your inner thighs. You clean yourself up and use the toilet, trying not to think too hard about his Ma and Pa, sleeping soundly in the room next door. 

When you return to the guest room, Clark holds up a finger, then presses it swiftly to his lips, eyes closing in focus. 

“What? What’s wrong?” you whisper, feeling more awake all of the sudden. You lock the door—just in case—and tiptoe back to the bed. 

“I think Ma woke up,” he whispers back as you climb into his waiting arms. “Probably heard you in the bathroom.” 

Despite yourself, you feel your cheeks heat. “Well…they get up all the time, right? It’s not uncommon to get up and pee in the middle of the night.” 

“No, it’s not,” he agrees with a yawn. “Just…I should head back to my room soon. Don’t wanna fall asleep and have’ta sneak out in the morning.” 

You giggle, “god, it’s like we’re in high school or something.” 

Clark smiles back. “Yeah.” 

You snuggle into his chest, pleased to find that he’d taken off his t-shirt, finally. You always appreciated the skin-to-skin contact when you slept. So does Clark, so you’re not surprised when his own hands reach for the hem of your pajama top and lift it over your head. 

He makes a satisfied sound and presses a single kiss to your sternum before you settle back on his chest. Clark lifts the sheets back over you both, fingers gliding down your back in soft lines. 

“Love you,” he whispers into your hair. 

“Love you too,” you respond. 

For now, you’re beyond content to lay in his arms, listening to his soft breathing and the strong thump-thump of his heart. 

~

You wake to the sound of the Kent’s rooster, announcing the wee hours of the morning. As you groggily emerge from slumber, a few more things begin to cloud your senses. Chiefly among them, the smell of bacon, wafting in from the kitchen. Mm. Delicious. And the weight of Clark’s arm, comfortably slung across your—

Wait. 

You shoot up in bed, waking Clark up in the process, who startles with a sleepy-eyed huff.

“Clark, oh my god,” you gasp. 

“Wha- what is it?” he asks groggily, rubbing at his eyes. 

“You fell asleep in bed!” you hiss, eyes wide with panic. And from the smell of it, his parents were already awake. Just perfect. 

“Oh my god, this is so embarrassing. Do you think they noticed?!” you ask urgently, rooting around for your clothes on the floor. 

Clark relinquishes a deep sigh, leaning on his elbows as his head thunks back against the headboard in defeat. “Knowing my Ma, definitely.” 

“Oh my god,” you repeat, standing now. “She’s going to know that we- that you—” 

“Sweetheart, we’re engaged,” Clark reassures you. “And…adults, before that. She’s not that ignorant. And she won’t hate you if that’s what you’re worried about. It’s just…a little, well. I guess it is a little, uh, mortifying.” 

Your head falls into your hands, and Clark has the audacity to chuckle. “Maybe she didn’t notice,” you say. “Maybe she hasn’t checked your room yet, and you can still—”

As if by divine intervention, a swift knock sounds at the door. 

“Breakfast’s ready, honey. Taters and eggs, and bacon fresh from the butcher.” 

“Oh, alright! Be out in a few, Ma. Thank you!” you call out, hoping you sound less shaky then you feel. Even if she hadn’t noticed yet, she definitely heard you talking to each other, and there’s no way you could explain that. 

Then, with an air of mischief lining her Midwestern twang, Ma adds, “tell Clark there’s plenty for him, too!"

The evident throb in his balls, however, was the final nail in the coffin. His head whips around to check for intruders to his predicament, palms slapping flush against his eyes in pure and utter horror.

"Oh gosh. No. Okay. Okay. Okay, Clark, don't look at it. It'll go. It'll go."

In a meek little gaze, Clark finally peeks through from the crevice of his fingers, horrified to confirm his suspicions. An inevitable truth made itself known, tented stiffly on the crotch of his suit.

He was hard as fucking rock.

"…What the…this…this can't be right."

—

"N-No, I'm serious, Bruce! It just, I don't know…how to…phrase this."

The older Wayne remained hugely unimpressed by the unplanned video call, his sharp gaze fixed on a panicked Clark who was circling the kitchen like an agitated dog with their tail between their legs.

Or in Clark's case, with the tail sticking right up.

"I could help you better if you showed me what I was working with."

Clark merely groans exaggeratedly; even with Bruce's deadpan amusement, he knew that he was being ridiculed in what was possibly every man's worst nightmare. He stops by the camera ridiculously close until his face morphs into a skewed, fisheye proportion.

"L-Listen to me. I need to…set the record straight first. This doesn't just happen out of nowhere. I get to control it."

In a lower, rougher baritone, Bruce speaks up. "…'It' being…?"

Clark pulls back with a strained huff. Looking completely serious as he brings his hand into frame — his index finger bent at the knuckles as a demonstration.

"It being. My… 'thing.'" He jerks his hand to the camera, and then the finger shoots right up, holding out a number one, "doing that. Unprompted. Unprovoked."

The silence that followed felt like its own humiliation ritual.

"Kansas. Are you trying to tell me that this is your first time dealing with a…"

"No!" he squeaks, "of course not. I-I'm saying ever since the labs. I felt 'stuff' vaguely, but I was able to tamp it…down. This…it's gotten far more potent somehow."

A pensive look crosses Bruce's features. "Hm. I'll relook at the substance retrieved. In the meantime, you should keep yourself quarantined."

"OK. Okay..." Clark exhales to himself, weary. "Just…reach out when you have something; I'll probably have to tell Lois I'll need to — … click! — oh okay. He hung up."

Clark's hands remained in a white-knuckled grip on the edge of the granite countertop, his eyes fluttering shut at the evident loss of his strength.

It was an all-over assault on his very senses, the hungry, primal need to just relieve himself. If anything, his defiant stance to repress it had been making it that much more unbearable. Beside him, his phone lit up the dark spot on his kitchen countertop. The screen revealed chains of text messages from you that had gone unanswered.

"…Great," he murmurs, with a self-deprecating edge to his words. "She thinks I ditched her."

His thumbs deftly slide past the lock screen image of Ma & Pa with toothy grins on the Kent farm, to your contact. Dozens of missed calls and text messages you'd sent (which were mainly not so nice words detailing his super-suit); the last one, dating just twenty minutes ago, glowing mockingly at him.

It took a great deal of effort for him to hold back from clicking on your profile image. This time around, he didn't have the willpower to brace through it.

So he indulges.

The spiral from that was a landslide. It'd gone from looking at your face, appreciating just how beautiful he's always thought you were — thoughts that he normally had the strength to internalise had now entirely faltered.

Before Clark could even let his morals stop him, his rigid erection hovered over your picture. Bobbing ominously, shadowing over the glimpse of your smile.

It was utterly humiliating and a betrayal of his character. To you mostly. But the second his palm wraps around his length, selfishly stroking over the tensed veins, all hesitation leaves him.

Clark's mumbling to himself like a madman, apologising for defiling you like this. But it was the very idea of just…you that seemed to satiate him, that coaxed glistening pre-cum past the slit. "Hrk…fu…c —"

"You've gotta be kidding me. Were you just home the entire time?"

" — Whoa!"

You watch the taller man twirl around to face you so quickly that his cape nearly cocoons him. To his benefit, the motion helped to hide the state of his undress.

"Save me the theatrics. You probably heard me coming." Your fingers twist around the belt on your hips, unhooking the carabiner you used to rappel yourself onto his balcony.

Thankfully, you didn't seem to suspect anything amiss, crossing the span of his barren living area in decisive steps, observing him from afar.

"What gives? You didn't even —"

"Y-You need to leave. Now." He interrupts.

"Uh…" You blink, confusedly, your heeled boots clicking loudly over the polished mezzanine. "S'cuse me?"

"Get out," he croaks, louder.

Your gaze flicks to the granite counter, where it's visibly cracking under his grip. He couldn't possibly be this upset about the breaking-into-his-home part. "Are you for real? You were a no-show, Supe. And now you're kicking me out?"

"You don't understand." Clark's words drop to a small growl, but you've fully realised the darker, dilated pupils he was sizing you with. "I-I'm trying to…— please. Go. Before I —"

"Before you what?" You cross your arms in a defiant stance, tracking the manner in which his body twitches,"…did you get into a pile of Green-K again? Red? Blue? I don't know what colours there are. But what the hell, sure." "I've got no interest in being a practice dummy for chokeholds if you're doped up on the scary red rock again." You've steered past your destination toward the kitchenette where he was — clearly having lost interest and walking over to his front door to head home in a much more societally acceptable way, all while muttering a bunch of indulgent complaints.

"This guy. Thinkin' he can waste everyone’s precious time just cuz' he can float an' — AH!"

Clark's beside you in a whirr, his bigger palms clutching onto your shoulders to stop you in your tracks. Subsequently, he pins you in his doorway with a rather misplaced show of strength, his heaving chest blocking your view of his living area.

"Told you to go," he manages. You don't notice the dust fluttering past your shoulders, where his palm curls into concrete like putty. "Why didn't you go?"

Your frown deepens at the 'S' on the suit, inching closer to your face. Clark was being strangely intense. Not in pain like Green-K, or broody like Red-K. This was something else. You take a quick, raking gaze over him to look for any injuries.

Nothing obvious other than his dick being out, you note to yourself. So what was the big deal —

"What the fuck." You rasp, head snapping down comically quickly to the region you conveniently skimmed over. And sure enough, your eyes weren't playing tricks on you.

His suit bottoms were tugged down, revealing a sculpted, strong V-line and an erection — an erection that'd been so stiff and swollen, bobbing by his softer belly. Any sort of mocking comment you may have had normally dies in your throat when you're met with his tortured gaze. A look he'd only ever given you in moments of utter torture or desperation.

"I-I don't know what's happening to me. I…can't…" Clark's voice drops to a much softer, meeker tone.

You tilt your head pensively, finding nothing but the truth in his strained confession, "okay… okay. What — what am I even supposed to…do here?" "Nothing. Just..." Clark's forehead slumps onto your shoulders, then he tilts his head toward your neck. Bated, warm puffs of his breath turn into needy nudges of his nose against your pulse as he takes shameless inhales of your skin now that the cat was out of the bag. "Mmh—…shit. Jus'…need you to be here."

He doesn't try to touch himself. Seemingly content with breathing you in. Curiously, you glance down at his lower half. His dick, which looked painfully taut earlier, began to leak pearlescent fluid.

"…Is this doing it for you?"

Clark isn't offended by your probing query, sensing the genuine curiosity in the statement rather than mockery. "A helluva lot better," he admits, looking up at you with dizzying reverence. "It's enough. Bruce…promised to figure something out. I think I might've been…exposed to something weird."

"So you're planning on toughing it out like this? Wouldn't it help if I —"

"There's no need," he dismisses your offer off the bat, "don't want you to feel like some…squeeze-toy I need to feel better."

You pause. "Isn't really about need, is it?" Your fingers experimentally graze over the neglected muscle that twitches right as your digits inch close. "You want it. I can give it."

He physically stiffens, shoulders squared and unmoving. Clark's gaze snaps down to you, renewed with a fresh wave of arousal he'd barely kept in check.

"Don't fuck with me. Not right now."

Your breath catches in your throat as the bigger set of hands circles your wrist in an almost-painful intensity. His fingers wrap around your knuckles, flattening your softer palms around his girth.

"You wanna do this?" He whispers to the side of your head. Flexing his digits over yours, coaxing you to relax beneath his grip. You're fixated on the sight below, cramped between your touching bodies, to where his hand dwarfed yours.

He felt thick and hard, pulsing with a low tremor. "I…" You barely manage to tilt your head up, the curve of your nose bumping his jawline. "Yeah. I want to."

Your admission unravels him. The lax hold turning instructional as he shows you exactly how he needed you to rid his ache. The tinny space between the two of you grew heavier with the combined insistent shliiicks of your strokes, paired with his pained grunts of pleasure.

"Mmmh. Shit. Little…bit tighter." He pleads with a whimper, groaning low as his pre makes it that much more gratifying.

You don't dare to speak, uncharacteristically relinquishing his requests. His loud encouragements made you feel that much more aware, your senses attuned to his wants. It'd started to feel good for you, too. Eventually, your strokes turn heavy-handed as per his demands. Loud, obscene sounds of your coupling resounding in the entryway.

There's no warning when he comes in your hold. The only giveaway is the stuttered, breathy intakes and the warm, thick liquid coating your palms. You don't pull away, searching for his gaze, "…better now?"

Clark's face drops to the bruised wall beside your head, a mirthless laugh rumbling back into his chest.

"When you say it like that. Makes me feel like a chore." He mutters, a petulant edge to his words.

"I'm not the one with the sex bug." You correct, sharply.

"S'not a sex bug. Gosh." Clark looks down anyway, as though looking for assurance it was all over, but alas. "Ugh…"

You blink inquisitively. "Huh."

"Guess not…" He murmurs, then he lifts his head slowly, looking at you with unspoken intent.

"I suppose we could find out how many times is enough?" You offer, with a glint in your eye.

Clark looks at you with a strained smile, "…I'd like that very much."

.

.

.

[10:57pm]

"Tell me to stop if it gets too much, okay?"

For someone who'd allegedly been overcome with lust, Clark hadn't been acting like it. Even as his thumb skirts the undersides of your breasts, he just kept asking, checking —

"Oh my god, Clark. Just fuck me already!"

He looks at you like you'd hurled an insult at him. And then — a resolved, competitive expression takes over his features.

"Fine."

His hands curled around the back of your head, holding you still as his other hand worked at the button on your bottoms. In a rougher, efficient move, Clark yanked them down along with your panties, the fabric pooling around your ankles.

You don't get to protest at the speed of him ripping both of your clothes, your whines muffled by his hasty, deep kisses. There wasn't a brief moment where you'd felt exposed, either. Clark's hand slides over the cups of your bra, tugging them down just enough for him to take a nipple into his hot, waiting mouth. His other hand slides down your front, fingers tracing the dampness growing between your thighs.

He groans against your skin, voice thick with want. "So wet f'me already. Knew…you would be."

"Clark…" you mutter, self-conscious.

His head briefly lifts, deeper blue eyes, glazed over with lust but equally perceptive. Slowly, his thumb finds your clit, soothing it in circles.

He takes your name, low, shaking his head. "Nothing to be embarrassed about. Not with me."

Your hips, having a mind of their own, jerked forcefully into his palm at a particularly hard press. He barely manages to catch the weak nod you offer.

"H-hard to when…you're touching me like that."

A self-assured smile curls at the corner of his mouth, deep indents peeking out on both his cheeks. He liked that he was making you react like this, all for him. His thumbs continued their ministration, pace quickening just enough for you to ache for more.

Your words are met to his relish, and he rewards you with just that. Clark's index and middle fingers shift, dipping just into your entrance, eliciting a sharp gasp from you.

"Wan'it to be hard to think about anyone else when you're with me." He mutters with a tinge of possessiveness.

His words, now punctuated with a decisive curl of his fingers, grind deep into your velvety hot walls with a pressure that has you back against the wall.

"When it's me touching you."

[11:14pm]

"Mmmhn! Nnh, shit. Shiiiiiiiit."

"Close aren't you? I can feel it. C'mon. Give it t'me."

"I…h-haven't. Have never — not like this. Without…a…mmph-fuck. T-Toy."

Your words tumble out of you, unabashed. It only seems to please Clark, filling him with an unnecessary man-centric pride. He didn't slow down. If anything, his touches turned deliberate — fingers curling deep into the tight walls of your pussy, thumb circling your clit in an almost overwhelming combination.

"…Good. All your firsts…should be with me."

Your first climax of the evening had your entire body seizing with sheer pleasure. Hips bucking into his hand pathetically. Clark could only watch you in awe as your head falls back against his wall as your orgasm takes you.

"G-Gosh…you're so…beautiful." He manages, sounding absolutely wrecked.

[11:40pm]

Clark's moved the two of you to his kitchnette, plopping you onto the granite surface with clumsy, open-mouthed kisses down your pulse. You're making an eager rub to his front, palms casing his thick, veiny erection, already slick from earlier.

"E-Easy. Gonna make me…loose it before I even get inside you."

He guides your hand away, replacing it with his own as he steps between your parted thighs. His girth forces your legs apart impossibly wide, leaving you completely at his mercy. Clark positions himself, the head of his cock pressing against your sensitive, waiting entrance.

"M'not gonna be gentle." He affirms.

"Don't want you to be."

[12:14am]

The pace that Clark had been setting relentlessly pulled needy croaks out of you. Ones that you weren't even sure you could make. His hand, tangled at the back of your head, tugs at your hair, forcing you to expose your throat. Sweat glistens on your skin, heat building from the exertion he's put you through.

Moans begin tumbling out of your lips, all taking his name.

His body reacts viscerally to your calls, thrusts turning harder, meaner — rocking you against the countertop, with his fingers digging into your flesh.

"Right…here. M'right here," he whispers, with his parted lips pressed into your jawline, panting in bated breaths. The cabinets behind you continue to thud jarringly at his inhuman pace, and you could do nothing but surrender to it.

[2:40am]

He was everywhere.

The scent of his windswept, woody natural scent, the press of his hard body against yours, the persistent, needy little breaths of filth telling you just how good your pussy took him, filling your ears.

He's shifted his angle, every now and then, with a precision that made you see stars. Every thrust finds a new spot that his thick cock rediscovers, forcing tremors in your body, too fucking good.

"G-Gonna come. Just…one more after this. I-I promise."

[6:40am]

You weren't sure just what time it was anymore. Just that it sure as hell wasn't one more after when he said it was.

Sunlight had begun seeping in through the crevices of the sheer curtains. You'd been on the precipice of passing out. His thrusts consistently pulling you in and out of consciousness, rocking you back awake at the sting of a dull stretch.

He'd been going at it for fucking hours, relentlessly, like a machine. At some point, you'd told him to just go at it, but he, being ever so sweet, insisted it be better with your whines in his ears. So somehow, you managed to stay awake. Teetering, whining, biting him as a suitable payback.

Finally. Finally, his erection had calmed. Plopping out of you like a wrung-out sponge.

Everything felt sore. And warm, but the loss of his cock in your pussy had you whining in annoyance.

"Clark…hurts when you aren't inside…" You complain with a sleepy grumble. He hoists you against his chest despite your protests.

"Shh." He murmurs against the side of your head. You feel weightless against him, catching fleeting visions of him carrying your limp, pliable body to the adjoining bathroom.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Something isn't right. This isn't right — none of this is normal, none of it makes sense. He was so careful, so intentional with where he stepped and what he touched…

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

He should have stayed at The Fortress of Solitude, he realizes that now, now that you're driving back from work and he can smell you despite the fact that you're still ten minutes away.

Clark grips the bathroom counter lightly — well, lightly for him. If he were to hold it the way he wants to, it would be crushed between his fingers. His eyes are closed, and sweat forms at his hairline as he tries to get his heart to stop beating so rapidly. It's to no avail.

The Superman Robots have already told him what he needs to do, but he's sure that he doesn't have enough time to do it before you get home. And besides, he doesn't know what will happen when he does do it — how the heck does 'Sex Pollen' even work, for crying out loud!?

Clark pinches the bridge of his nose. This is so awful. What are you going to say when you come in here and see him like this? What is he going to do when he sees you?

Clark shudders at the thought and tries to cast it away. He has enough self-control to give you a brief, non-frightening explanation before he will leave for the…night? For the weekend? For the week? Oh, gosh, how long will it be? How many times will he have to climax before it's out of his system? The Superman Robots were extremely unhelpful — "It could be once, or it could be one-hundred times. It is impossible to tell," they had said.

When Clark opens his eyes, he reaches out a shaky hand to open the bathroom door, intending to head to his office in order to write you some kind of note — perhaps he shouldn't even be here when you get home. It's best if he just leaves now, despite the fact that this is cutting it close…you'll be home any minute now. He grabs a pen and immediately crushes it on accident.

"Shoot," he breathes, then reaches for another one, now more aware of his strength in this heightened state of his.

He begins to scribble out a note, something half-hearted and light…something to let you know that he'll be alright, but he absolutely cannot be approached by you in any capacity until this has worn off. He'd rather deal with it by himself than risk hurting you. Gosh, he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he hurt you…

Suddenly, he hears keys at the front door. Clark's heart lurches in his chest, and he rushes to the door of his office and slams it closed just as the front door opens. He locks it in a hurry, then holds his breath and hopes you didn't hear the slamming of the door.

"…Clark?" comes your soft, sweet, concerned voice. Clark's head falls forward. Shoot. Trembling, he runs a hand through his hair. Your scent is so strong, so powerful, so…alluring. Oh, gosh, what perfume is that? Are you even wearing any?

"Y-Yeah?" he calls back, then decides that a pathetic yeah? is incredibly suspicious, so he adds on a, "hi, hon!"

A pause. He smells you getting closer.

"…You okay, baby?" you ask.

"Yeah! I'm good!" he says weakly. He can sense your hesitation, your concern.

"Where are you?"

"U-Uh…" Clark looks around the office, glancing at the note he was writing, then back at the door. He swallows harshly. "The office, but don't—"

"Are you—?"

You get closer to the door.

"Stop!" Clark says, almost frantically. He can hear your breath catch. Gosh, he's so sensitive, so tuned in. He can hear you clearly despite the fact that you're still in the hallway. His cock is hard, throbbing in his underwear. A bead of sweat rolls down the side of his face. "Don't come down here."

"You're scaring me, Clark," you say.

"No," Clark says, guilt roiling in his gut. "I'm— I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm not trying to scare you—"

"What's going on?" you ask firmly.

"I…I caught something while I was off-planet."

He would be able to sense your suspicion a mile away; you don't believe him despite the fact that it's not technically a lie…

"You caught something?" you ask, clearly confused. As you should be, Clark supposes. He's never been sick a day in his life. "Something like what?"

"W-Well…"

"Open the door," you say, storming down the hall. You try the doorknob, but it's still locked, and Clark nearly gets lightheaded with how quickly your scent washes over him.

"Clark Kent," you say firmly. "Open the door."

"I can't."

"You can."

"Honey, I…I came in contact with something—"

"Something like what?" you ask again.

Clark hesitates. He's freaking you out, he knows that. But he's so embarrassed, so ashamed of his carelessness. This isn't like him, he doesn't just come in contact with stuff. How could he have let this happen?

"…Some kind of…I don't know…psychoactive plant?" Clark manages.

Silence.

Clark lets out a soft breath, his body hot with want. He lets his forehead thud against the door.

"Meaning what, Clark?" you ask finally. "What's happening? Are you hurt?"

"No, I—" Clark huffs. "I'm not hurt, I just…I'm not me right now."

"Let me in."

"No."

"Clark, I'll get the key. Let me in—"

"The Superman Robots called it 'Sex Pollen'," Clark blurts out. His cheeks get hot immediately. He pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Sex Pollen," you repeat.

"Yes."

"…So you're…horny?"

"You could say that," Clark says miserably, looking down at the wet spot on his underwear.

"Well, then let me in so I can help," you tell him. Clark shakes his head.

"I could hurt you," he says. "I could black out, it wouldn't be me. I don't want to hurt you."

"Just come out here, baby. Let me talk to you face-to-face," you say. Clark senses you step right up to the door. He presses his hand against the wood. He's so close to you yet so far… "I want to help you, Clark."

"I know you do, and I appreciate that—"

"You do so much for everyone. Let me do this for you," you say. "Please. I'm not scared of you. Just open the door. Let me see you."

Clark hesitates, his hand hovering over the lock. He says your name softly, desperately. Gosh, he's never wanted anyone so badly in his entire life. He's a live wire, a lit sparkler. His body is hot and flushed.

"Clark, please," you say. "It's alright."

Slowly, he turns the lock and opens the door. He doesn't look at you when he reveals himself to you, instead staring down at the floor. He's clad in a pair of black underwear and nothing else. A sheet of sweat coats him, covering his chest and face. You reach for him, and he backs away.

"I really think I should go," he breathes, barely containing himself. You're right here, right in front of him looking as beautiful as ever, and he feels himself getting dizzy as your scent reaches him. "I can stay at The Fortress for the night, I can figure this out—"

"Clark," you say softly, gently. You take another step closer. "I know you won't hurt me. Even if you, y'know…aren't fully in-control, I know that it's still you. It's still my Clark."

Clark lets out a soft, shaky breath.

"I don't know how many it'll take," he admits quietly. You shake your head.

"I don't mind. Believe it or not, I enjoy having sex with you."

Clark's throat bobs as he swallows.

"Are you sure about this?" he asks, looking at you at long last. His pupils are blown wide, leaving just a small ring of blue around them. You've never seen his eyes so dark. You nod.

"I'm sure."

He steps up to you, then, closing the space between you two. He smooths his hands along your hips and presses his face into the crook of your neck. He breathes you in, then lets out a soft hum. You reach up, running your fingers through his curls as he lifts you up into his strong arms.

Right away you can tell that something has shifted. This isn't Clark, not fully, anyway.

You wrap your legs around his hips, and he carries you down the hall into the bedroom. When he lays you down, Clark begins to kiss along your throat, humming and sighing as he does so.

"You smell so good," he breathes. You sigh softly, arousal blooming between your thighs. He's ravenous.

"What do you need, Clark?" you ask, running your hands along his broad shoulders. "Tell me."

"Wanna be in you," Clark grunts, capturing your lips with his. You feel his tongue prod against your bottom lip, and moments later, it makes its way inside your mouth as he kisses you eagerly. "Mm. Wanna fill you up."

"I'll take it all," you breathe, kissing him back as your hands find his cheeks. Before you can process what he's doing, Clark pulls back and rips your blouse open.

Buttons clatter against the floor, and you gasp as he rips your bra in half effortlessly. He's on you in an instant, gripping your breasts and sucking one of your nipples into his mouth. He's salivating, and the wet heat of his mouth is intoxicating.

You gasp once more as he presses one of his large, warm hands between your thighs.

"You're ready for me," Clark breathes. "I can tell…"

You hurry to undo your pants, and Clark follows you as you wiggle out of them and throw them aside. Clark yanks your underwear down and throws them aside. He moans as he kisses you again, and when he moves back and you look down, you realize that he's pulled his cock free from the confines of his underwear.

He's hard, so hard that the tip of his cock is almost purplish. Pre-come dribbles from his slit and runs down along his shaft, and you practically moan at the sight. You spread your legs for him instantly.

"Please," you breathe. "Fuck me, Clark."

"You're gonna take it so well," he breathes. He's babbling, muttering to himself in a way you've never really seen him do. He presses in completely, and you gasp at the fullness. His cock rubs right up against your g-spot, and when he begins to rock his hips, you moan.

"O-Oh, god," you sigh. He quickly picks up the pace. The bed creaks and groans from the sheer speed at which Clark is moving his hips. You moan, clinging to him as you wrap your legs around him. "Oh, fuck!"

"There we go," Clark breathes. He kisses you again, sloppily. "Taking it so well…so good for me…"

You moan. That's all you can do. Moan, and moan, and moan some more. Your head is spinning with desire and pleasure. Your head falls back against the pillows, your body jolting as Clark fucks you. You didn't know he could move like this — you didn't know he could pound you like this.

His hips piston against yours, and when he reaches down between your thighs to rub your clit in quick, tight circles, tears form in your eyes.

"Oh my god," you manage. "Oh, god, yeah, Clark!"

"Such a good girl," Clark breathes. "A-Are you gonna take my come?"

You nod instantly, your climax rising, rising, rising. Clark groans as he watches tears of pleasure run down your cheeks, your eye makeup leaving streaky, dark lines on your skin. He leans down and licks up one of your tears with a hum.

"I-I'm so close," you sigh, gripping his shoulders and surely leaving indentations with your nails. "Clark, please…"

Your orgasm washes over you suddenly. Your body tenses and you gasp, your eyes fluttering shut as your core floods with arousal. You let out a long moan, brows furrowed in pleasure.

When Clark feels your pussy clenching and spasming, he falls right over the edge himself. He groans as his seed fills you in hot, thick ropes.

"Oh, fuck," Clark breathes. You shudder, waves of residual arousal pulsing through you when you hear him curse softly. His hips slam against yours, gradually slowing. His come seeps out of you and sticks to your inner thighs.

Clark lets out a shaky, relieved breath as he presses his forehead against your shoulder. You throw your arms around him weakly, your body loose and blissed-out as you hold him.

"Did I hurt you?" Clark manages. You touch his cheeks, making him look at you. His pretty blue eyes stare back at you, full of concern and fear, and you smile.

"No," you breathe, smoothing his curls down. "Not at all."

"Are you crying?" Clark asks, wiping away your tear stain gently. You shake your head.

"It felt really fucking good."

"Gosh, really?" he asks, cracking a small smile. You nod.

"Really," you say. "Do you feel better?"

Clark nods.

"Yes," he says. He kisses you gently, kindly, lovingly. "Thank you. You're sure you're okay?"

You nod.

"More than okay," you tell him. "You should be rough more often."

Clark chuckles, then presses his face into the crook of your neck and kisses along your throat lightly.

"I'll do my best."

"Hey," you say.

"Hey."

"I love you."

Clark smiles widely.

"I love you, too."

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

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Peter’s been trying very hard not to think about how fucking strange this is, though strange probably isn’t the right word when nothing about sitting here feels particularly wrong. If anything, it feels a little too easy having his thigh pressed against Frank’s on the couch, his hand buried between his girlfriend’s legs while Frank calmly teaches him exactly how she likes to be touched.

You’re already soaked around Peter’s fingers, two of them pushed deep enough that every slow pull leaves his knuckles shining with thick, glossy slick, and he can feel every little clench of your pussy whenever Frank adjusts his wrist. Peter keeps telling himself to concentrate on you because you’re the one spread open between them with your shorts somewhere on the floor and your thighs trembling wider whenever he curls his fingers, but Frank’s hand is still wrapped around him, warm and steady and far too close to the aching line of Peter’s cock, and that is becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

“There,” Frank says, pressing Peter’s wrist upward until the pads of his fingers drag over something soft inside you that makes your hips jerk hard against the couch.

His eyes stay fixed on your face when he adds, quieter, “Feel that?” Peter definitely feels it—the sudden flutter of your cunt around him the second he finds that swollen spot—and more importantly, he feels the way you squeeze around him immediately afterward, tight and greedy.

“Yeah,” he breathes, his face already embarrassingly warm as he repeats the motion on his own.

Peter has always been good at learning things quickly, whether it was school, fighting, or figuring out the exact point where somebody’s plan was about to fall apart, and supposedly the same miserable Parker trait applies here because after Frank shows him twice, he manages to find that spot again without help.

Your stomach tightens when he curls his fingers, your breath catching in a way that makes Peter’s mouth go dry, and Frank loosens his grip just enough to let him repeat it. “Keep hittin’ it,” he murmurs, and Peter does, watching your expression change with every careful press upward, feeling the way your cunt swallows the digits.

It’s almost hypnotic, feeling exactly what makes your breathing catch and then doing it again just to hear the sound twice, to feel the clench of you around him. Peter’s cock has been hard in his sweats since somewhere around the first minute of this, aching against his thigh while he pretends that having his fingers buried in you is not affecting him nearly as badly as it is, and then Frank reaches between your legs too.

Peter nearly stops when Frank’s thumb settles against your clit with an ease that makes something hot and hungry twist low in his stomach because there is no hesitation in the touch, no searching or uncertainty when Frank already knows exactly where to put his hand and how much pressure you like. Slow circles have your thighs twitching around both of their wrists, your slick making wet little sounds every time Frank’s thumb glides over the swollen bud, and Peter’s fingers falter despite himself.

“Don’t stop,” Frank tells him, closing his hand around Peter’s wrist again before he can pull away.

“I’m not,” Peter whispers, which would probably sound more convincing if his fingers were actually moving.

Frank shifts closer until their shoulders press together and guides Peter back into the same rhythm, curling his wrist while his thumb continues moving over you in those slow circles.

Their hands keep bumping between your thighs, Peter’s knuckles slipping wetly against Frank’s fingers whenever your hips grind down into them, your cunt so slick now that every push of Peter’s fingers makes a soft noise that seems to crawl straight beneath his skin. His cock throbs when you reach down and grab his forearm, nails digging in just enough to make him want to fuck into you properly, and somewhere between Frank showing him how to angle his fingers and you pulling Peter closer instead of pushing him away, something uncomfortable catches in his chest.

It has been years since touch meant anything other than somebody hitting him, grabbing him, knocking him through a wall or trying to drag Spider-Man out of the air, and now you’re holding onto him because you want his hand exactly where it is—two fingers buried deep in your soaked pussy—while Frank’s palm stays wrapped around his wrist because he wants the same thing.

Peter swallows hard when Frank presses two fingers over the back of his hand. “Curl ’em,” Frank murmurs beside him, making the movement for him again. “Little deeper.”

The words are meant for what Peter is doing to you, and Peter knows that perfectly well, but his body does not seem interested in the distinction when Frank leans closer, his chest brushing Peter’s shoulder as he physically curls Peter’s fingers deeper inside you.

Your cunt squeezes hard around them, and Peter has to clench his jaw to keep himself from making another noise. “Right there,” Frank says near his ear, low enough that Peter’s eyes nearly close, and the quiet “fuck” that slips out of him is impossible to take back.

You’re getting wetter by the second, slick coating his fingers and running toward his knuckles while he starts pumping them with more confidence, following exactly what Frank showed him as he watches your body respond—the way your hips start moving on their own, chasing the pressure from both hands.

Peter’s free palm settles over your thigh when it begins trembling. “You like that?” he asks softly, rubbing his thumb over your skin as your answer breaks apart around his name.

Peter watches Frank’s wrist flex before his gaze travels upward without permission, only to find Frank already looking at him. All Frank does is tighten his grip around Peter’s wrist and push his fingers deeper, earning a sharp clench from you that drags a groan straight from Peter’s throat.

The sound embarrasses him almost immediately, low and helpless in a way he cannot pretend Frank missed, but you only grab his forearm tighter as Frank says, “Keep going,” and Peter nods before he even thinks about it.

Something about being told what to do by Frank makes obedience embarrassingly easy, so Peter does exactly what he was shown, working his fingers faster and curling deliberately every time he presses deep while Frank continues touching you beside him. Whatever caution Peter had at the beginning disappears as your hips begin jerking against their hands, and the wet sounds between your thighs grow louder with every movement.

“Thaaat’s it,” Frank murmurs, and Peter cannot tell whether the praise is meant for you or him anymore, although judging by the way his stomach tightens and his cock throbs against his thigh, maybe it does not matter.

Your thighs squeeze around their wrists as your cunt begins fluttering around Peter’s fingers, and his entire expression changes when he feels it happen from inside you.

“Oh—fuck,” he breathes, staring between your legs. “Frank.”

Frank’s thumb presses more firmly against you and his hand folds over Peter’s wrist again. One final guided curl has your back arching off the couch, and Peter feels every tight pulse around his fingers when you come while he keeps moving just like he was told.

His free hand grips your thigh as a groan catches in his throat, and Frank’s quiet command to keep moving has Peter obeying immediately, his fingers continuing through every clench while Frank keeps touching you until your legs start trying to close around their wrists.

When your body finally begins relaxing into the couch, Peter is breathing as heavily as though he were the one who just got fucked, his face flushed and his cock painfully hard beneath his sweats, the head of it leaking enough that he can feel the damp spot spreading against the fabric. His fingers are still inside you because nobody has actually told him to take them out yet, and he hates how much that fact pleases him.

Frank eventually releases his wrist, giving Peter enough freedom to start withdrawing his hand, but he catches him before he can pull completely away. Frank’s thumb drags once over Peter’s wet knuckles, slow enough that Peter feels every inch of it.

Your slick still coats Peter’s hand half-curled from touching you, and whatever stupid little crush Peter had on Frank Castle’s girlfriend has very clearly stopped being his only problem.

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