Lis

The second he comes through the door, it’s practically routine. His suit jacket is gone in record time, hung up by the door already out of his mind. His hand moves with the same speed, straight to his tie, then to his glasses, removing each piece like they were never really supposed to be there in the first place. Then he's moving.

He walks through the apartment differently here. No softened steps. No careful, almost clumsy rhythm. Just something heavier. Something measured in a way that makes it obvious he’s looking for you and nothing else. 

No matter where you are, no matter what you’re doing, he always approaches you the same way. Shoulders no longer folded in, but squared. Full height on display. Head lifted just enough to carry the remnants of the man who might’ve saved the world once or twice before coming home to you.

And the moment your eyes land on him, there it is.

That look.

It’s become familiar enough to feel like a signature by now. Each step he takes toward you only makes it worse, all the things he never bothers to hide with you coming into sharper focus. The way his shirt pulls tight across his arms when he moves. The way his slacks fit too well through his thighs. The way the fabric gives up entirely in certain places and simply clings. Everything about him looks just a little too solid, too broad, too much for the clothes trying to contain him.

Not that he seems to notice.

But you do.

Your eyes linger exactly where wrinkles could never form even if they tried, caught on the tension of fabric pulled too smooth over muscle and size. That, he notices. Never misses it.

And then there's that damn smile. The one that pulled just right at the corners, the one bracketed by dimples he clearly didn’t care to subdue. It always hits the same. Soft enough to look innocent at first, knowing enough to ruin that illusion almost immediately. 

With him, there was never really a pause. No stopping point where one moment ended and the next had to be considered. Just step after step until those strong hands wrapped around you and drew you into him like that had been the plan from the second he walked through the door. His posture always shifted right after, dipping down without hesitation so he could press his lips to yours.

His mouth was just as intentional, lips moving against yours like one kiss was only permission for the next to go deeper. There were murmurs of a greeting, something brief about his day, and, without fail, a question about yours somewhere in the middle. But none of it stopped the way he pressed you into his frame. None of it changed the fact that the rest of his body spoke for him, making sure you felt exactly what kind of conversation it wanted to have.

In between breaths, his voice stayed low, deep, and warm, present in a way that carried its own weight. The same way it did when he finally had you exactly where he wanted you—here, on your back beneath him, your spine arching off the sheets as he lined himself up.

The first push made your breath catch, quick and shallow through your nose, your brows drawing together as your body tried to take him, tried to adjust to just the tip alone.

It was always like this.

No matter how many times you’d been wrapped around him, no matter how many times you’d taken him, it never started easy. Each time, your body had to work around the same thing: his size, his girth, the way his cock got wider from the tip to base, stretching you open instead of letting you settle into it.

Clark pushed in again, no more than an inch, but it hit just as hard as the first. Your hands flew to his shoulders, fingers pressing in as another gasp slipped out of you, your body tightening around him like it couldn’t decide whether to take him or push him out.

He felt it immediately.

His hands settled firmer on you, grounding, steadying, keeping you from pulling away. His head dipped slightly, close enough that his voice didn’t have to travel far when he spoke.

“You’re doing so good for me,” he said, the words rough with praise. “That’s it… you can take it. I know you can.”

Clark’s words were meant to help, you knew that, but it didn’t stop the thoughts from hitting right where the stretch burned the most. Maybe this time he really wouldn’t fit. Maybe he was just too big. Maybe every other time had been luck, some small miracle you’d gotten used to treating like normal.

He kept pushing in, inch by inch, never really stopping, never giving any of it back, just that steady pressure that kept building no matter how tight the stretch got. You bit down on your lip, nails digging into his shoulders while your body worked to take him, to open around something that still felt like too much. 

His mouth found your neck and stayed there, kissing, sucking, working at the same spot like he knew exactly what it took to pull you through this part and was doing it without letting you think too hard about anything else.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he murmured against your skin, the words slipping out even as he kept going. “I’m almost there… you’re taking me just right, just like that…”

Another inch. Then finally—

He sank all the way in.

The stretch peaked, settled, and the sound that came out of you both followed it, yours sharp and breathless, his deeper, rougher, pulled straight from his chest as he filled you completely.

Clark moved slow at first, barely pulling out before pushing back in, like he was letting you feel it, letting your body adjust around him while he stayed deep, heavy, right there. But it didn’t last. His rhythm picked up, each thrust coming a little harder, a little faster, his hips driving into yours with more force, more intent.

He was too big for it to be anything else.

Every push drove all the way in, and every time he pulled back, you felt the loss of it right away, that sudden emptiness too abrupt, too noticeable, your body drawing in like it didn’t want to give any of him up. Then he was in you again, deep enough to make the ache start all over. It never stopped. Just that constant cycle of being stretched full, then left aching from the brief absence, only to have him sink back in before you could recover from the last time.

His body moved over yours with nothing but heat and weight, the motions pressing you deeper into the sheets every time he thrusted into you. The force of it never eased, each movement landing hard enough to keep your breath catching, breaking, while the sharp sound of it filled the room right alongside you.

You were a mess under him.

Always were.

The stretch still burned, the fullness still hit too hard, your body taking every inch of him like it didn’t know how to handle it.

And still—

He felt so fucking good.

The sounds coming out of you didn’t even try to make sense anymore. They came out strangled and uneven, catching somewhere between his name and something rougher, more broken, something that got dragged out of you all over again every time he pushed into you.

Clark heard it.

Felt it.

“That’s it,” he said, voice low and strained, slipping between breaths as he watched you come apart under him. “Feels so good… you feel so good for me.”

He shifted onto one forearm, bringing himself closer, angling just enough to reach for your hand. His fingers closed around it before guiding it down, lower, pressing your palm against your stomach, right where every push of him landed.

In.

Out.

Over and over.

“Feel that?” he asked, the words rougher now, hotter.

You did. Way too much. Far too deep.

Your body tightened around him without warning, the response instant as the pressure kept building and building, your breath catching again when it turned sharper, heavier, too much to ignore.

Clark pressed your hand harder into it, another deep thrust landing as he held you right against it.

“Perfect for me.”

The words sent you over fast, your body giving way around them, loud and unsteady, your voice breaking as it tore out of you. Clark grunted low at the feel of it, his rhythm faltering for half a second before he pushed through, kept moving, kept driving into you as you came apart under him.

Clark’s mouth found yours again as he leaned down into it. He kissed you through every sound and every aftershock that ripped through you, his own breathing rough against your lips while his body chased after it.

Everything about him felt so thick and heavy. 

His cock. His arms. His frame. 

His cum. 

It hit all at once, a deep pulse that forced him further into you, filling you from the inside out, the warmth immediate.

You felt every bit of it.

The heat. The weight of it. The way it stayed, and the way he stayed there with it.

He kept kissing you, his mouth moving against yours while his voice came low and steady again.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured against your lips, brushing another kiss there like he meant it. “Always so good for me…”

His body pressed closer as he said it, his arm tightening around you, pulling you in even more, like there was still space to close, like he wanted you as close as possible while he stayed like this.

“You take me so well, baby,” he added, quieter now, the words settling between you the same way everything else had—heavy and certain, leaving no room to question it. No room to question him.

The rest of the world got variations of Clark Kent. The shy journalist. The confident hero.

But you got the man in between.

The one who pressed his weight into you, who talked you through every stretch, every inch. You got the version of him who knew exactly what he did to you and never wasted time pretending otherwise.

© anon-188 - est. 2025 | please do not repost, copy, translate, or recreate my work in any form.

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