Clark was already on his feet, his super-senses, taking a quick involuntary check over your body. No blood, no injuries. Just the familiar, comforting scent that was uniquely you—and something else. Something faintly floral, almost like a honeysuckle.

That was new.

“What happened?” He asked, his voice a steady, grounding rumble that immediately began to calm your frayed nerves. He crossed the room in two easy strides.

You tried to think of the best way to tell him this without him freaking out immediately.

“Remember the new botanical hybridization project. The one I was really excited about? Well, we were extracting volatile compounds from a new species of orchid LuthorCorp imported. And there was a slight… containment breach. Just a tiny one. My vial shattered and released a compound all over me.”

Worry immediately seeped into Clark’s veins, cold and sharp. LuthorCorp and new, unknown botanicals were a combination that just couldn’t end well.

He already didn’t trust Lex, let alone you working for him. But you were happy with your new job, fulfilled in a way he’d never seen you before you landed the position. Being a scientist was your dream, and he would never try and take that from you, even if it meant biting his tongue every time you mentioned your bald and utterly sinister boss.

“Are you okay? Did you get checked out?” Clark pressed, his brow furrowing. His hands came up, hovering just inches from your arms, as if afraid to touch you before he had a full diagnostic.

“Of course,” you said, placing a soft, reassuring kiss on his cheek to ease him. “I’m fine, physically. Decontaminated thoroughly. The on-site medic gave me a full once-over. It's just… we have no long-term data on this compound. The initial bio-assays were inconclusive. It could be perfectly inert, or it could… I don't know. Make my hair fall out. Turn my skin blue. Any other side effects are still unknown.”

You looked at him directly, your expression turning serious, and a little vulnerable. “Thats why I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything,” he replied with no hesitation, his blue eyes utterly sincere.

“Watch me tonight. Just… be extra observant. If I do anything, say anything, that feels even a little bit off, you tell me. My own perception might be the first thing to go. You’re my baseline, Clark. You’re the one person who would know if I wasn’t… me.”

He moved to you, cupping your face in his large, warm hands. He felt your skin was fever-warm, a few degrees above your normal temperature. "I'll watch you. I promise. Nothing bad is going to happen to you on my watch.” His thumbs stroked gently over your cheekbones.

You leaned into his touch with a relieved sigh, then placed a soft kiss to his palm when you pulled away. “Thank you. Now, I'm going to take a shower and try and wash this day off of me. I still smell like the lab.”

Clark watched you retreat. He focused on the beat of your heart. It was faster than usual, but that could be attributed to the stress of the day. Still, he remained on the couch, his work forgotten, now replaced with a more important task.

Making sure the love of his life was okay.

When you finally emerged, half an hour later, wrapped in soft pajamas with your hair damp and smelling of your favorite body wash, you curled right into his side on the couch.

“Now tell me about your day,” you insisted, hoping for a distraction to take your mind off of the potential side effects that might hit at any time. You nestled into the crook of his arm, breathing in his scent.

Clark smiled softly, the worry in his eyes momentarily replaced with affection. “Well, nowhere near as interesting or potentially dangerous as yours. Just starting a new assignment with Lois. Jimmy and I tried that new sandwich spot by the office. The one I was telling you about. The sandwich was good, but mostly condiments.” He recalled. “Also, I helped a cat out of a tree today. A very stubborn, very ungrateful cat.”

At some point during his rundown of the day, you had started to zone out, not out of disinterest or boredom of course, but because you suddenly felt awfully… warm.

The comfortable weight of his arm around you, which usually felt like a shield, now felt like a furnace. A delicious, distracting furnace. You shifted, trying to create a little space, but the movement only pressed you more firmly against the solid muscle of his thigh.

Why was it so hot all of a sudden? You tugged at the collar of your pajama top.

“—and then Perry—” Clark stopped, his sentence cutting off abruptly. He looked down at you, his head tilted. “Your heart rate just spiked. Are you still feeling alright?”

His voice was laced with that specific brand of Clark Kent concern, the one that made your chest ache with affection. But right now, the ache was different. It was moving, coiling deep in your belly, a hot and heavy thrum that was growing more insistent by the second and pooling right at your core.

“It's… it's nothing. Just a little flushed from the shower, I think. And thinking about the side effects again.” It was a lie. The shower had been over an hour ago now. This was definitely way different.

Clark was unconvinced.

You tried to play it off but you began to feel it much more now. The throbbing ache that had taken control between your thighs. You squirmed restlessly and swallowed, your throat dry.

Oh gosh. Please don’t be what you think it is.

Clark’s eyes, usually so warm and open, were now narrowed in that focused, X-ray vision sort of way, though you knew he would never use it on you without permission. He was just looking, really looking.

“Your temperature has risen two full degrees since you sat down,” he stated, his voice low and clinical. "And your pupils are dilated. And gosh sweetheart, you're squirming a lot."

You tried to laugh it off, but it came out as a breathy, shaky thing. “See? This is why I need you. My own personal bio-scanner. My Superman." You meant it as a joke, but the words hung in the air.

His hand, which had been resting on your shoulder, moved to your forehead, checking for fever the old-fashioned way.

The contact sent a sharp, undeniable throb straight to your cunt, so intense you couldn't suppress a sharp, quiet gasp. You could feel every microscopic ridge of his fingerprints, the small calluses earned from saving the world, and all your brain could supply was a frantic, single-minded thought: How good would those hands feel somewhere else?

Clark froze. “Sweetheart, you’re burning up.”

Your mind, usually a fortress of logic and reason, was being flooded with a primal, animalistic fog. Nothing Clark was saying seemed to matter anymore. The only thing that registered was the scent of him, the solid feel of him, and all the previous memories of his body moving over yours in the dark. 

You needed him. Desperately.

You tried to swallow down the whimper rising in your throat. “It’s fine,” you managed. “I’m fine—” but your voice cracked, breathy and trembling.

The faint, floral scent you'd brought home with you seemed to be emanating from your own pores now, intensified by the heat of your body. It was clear now what the compound was that affected you. Sex pollen, lovely.

As a highly skilled scientist yourself, you knew all about sex pollen, including how rare it was, and most especially how strong the effects could be. You didn’t know the exact strain that you had been exposed to, but in general sex pollen’s effect could last for hours after exposure. Not to mention the seemingly insatiable need it could create. And left unresolved, could be potentially dangerous for your bodies nervous system that was being overwhelmed with foreign chemicals.

Your scientific mind, the part that was still clinging to reason, screamed in frustration. Of all the possible side effects—a rash, temporary paralysis, hallucinations—it had to be this.

Sex pollen. And of all the people to be with… it was Clark. Your sweet, kind, impossibly moral boyfriend Clark.

You didn’t know whether it was a good thing or a bad thing yet.

If you were alone, you could probably stick out the heat on your own with some toys and a locked door. You could ride out the humiliating, frantic need in private.

But here with Clark, he was about to see a completely desperate and horny side that even you hadn’t seen before. And he would want to help—of course he would—but, knowing him, he also wouldn't want to feel like he was taking advantage of you. He would see it as a violation of your consent, or an impairment of your judgment.

Hell, you two have only been dating for like six months, is that even enough time for your significant other to fuck you under the influence of heavy sex drugs?

God, you thought, you really don't want him to see how pathetic you were about to become.

And by your mental estimates of how long the pollen took to kick in after exposure, you likely only had about five minutes before you became full-blown, mindlessly needy. Your panties were already a soaking mess.

“It’s not fine,” Clark said, his voice strained.

He could hear the frantic, rabbit-quick pace of your heart. He could smell the intoxicating, sweet scent that was pouring off your skin, a scent that was now making his own head feel light.

And he could definitely smell the slick, unmistakable scent of your arousal building in between your legs. It was a scent he knew, one he loved, but now it was magnified. A potent, pheromonal broadcast that was scrambling his own higher brain functions.

“Sweetheart… why are you, your body is going into…” He paused, trying to think of a way to tell you that he could smell your arousal and recognized all the familiar signs of you being turned on. “You are very turned on right now.”

You whimpered hearing him vocalize the humiliating, undeniable truth. Your body, betraying you completely, pressed back against him, closer than before, your hips giving an involuntary, tiny roll against his thigh. The friction was a spark on gasoline, instantly satisfying and yet deepening the ache exponentially.

“Clark…” you breathed, your hand coming up to clutch at the soft cotton of his shirt, fisting the material. “I… I think I know what it is. What I got contaminated with earlier..”

Clark’s eyes met yours. He seemed to know too. 

Maybe not know exactly what, but he was smart enough to piece together the clues, especially since you can’t seem to stop trying to grind against him.

“A sex pollen,” you told him, the words feeling absurd and terrifying as they left your lips. “A… a powerful strain it seems, one with a delayed response, likely to have a long lasting effect.” You forced your voice to be clinical, to cling to the last vestiges of your professionalism and sanity. “Left unresolved, the neurological overload can cause… physiological damage.”

Your eyes raked over him as he took in the information, but you found yourself getting distracted.

The pollen’s influence seemed to have you zeroing in on every single detail you loved about Clark. One detail in particular: his size.

Clark Kent was a big man, tall and broad, 6'4, all solid muscle. But now, that awareness has become your current hyper-fixation. The width of his shoulders, the thickness of his thighs. Your gaze dropped to the growing bulge in his jeans, and a fresh wave of desperate lust washed over you, so intense it made you dizzy.

You couldn’t help it anymore. The ache and desire for him was too much and you desperately needed relief.

“God, Clark,” you moaned, the words slipping out. “You’re so… big. Look at you. How are you so… much? I need you… I need to feel all of that. I need you inside of me, right now. Please Clark.”

The plea was raw and stripped of all your pride. Your hand left his shirt and slid down, palming the hard ridge of his erection through his jeans. He jerked at the contact, a sharp intake of breath hissing through his teeth.

“Whoa, easy there sweetheart,” he said, his voice gravelly, catching your wrist gently but firmly. His own control was fraying, the scent of you, the feel of your small hand on him, the sight of your dilated pupils and flushed skin was a test of willpower he’d never imagined. “We can’t. Not like this. You’re not in your right mind.”

The rejection was painful, your eyes welling up with tears immediately and a loud obnoxious whine coming out.

“You’re saying no to me?” Your lower lip trembled, “I’m your girlfriend, we’ve done this before, it’s no different.”

“It is different,” Clark ground out, his jaw so tight it looked like it might crack. The hand around your wrist was trembling. “It-it’s completely different. You're not you. This isn't your choice; it's just the pollen talking. Maybe I can take you to the doctor’s or-”

“It's my body!” you cried out interrupting his useless suggestions, surging forward, pressing your heated skin against his chest. The contact only made the deeper, gnawing emptiness worse. “And it's screaming for you. Clark, please. It hurts.” You ground your hips against his thigh again, a frantic, desperate motion. “You promised nothing bad would happen to me. This… this ache… it feels so bad. You have to make it stop.”

That seemed to strike a chord.

You could see the conflict ravaging him. His superheroic resolve, the very core of his morality, was crumbling under the assault of your desperate pleas and the intoxicating, pheromones you were producing in the air.

“I can't… I can't take advantage of you like this,” he whispered, but it was a weak protest.

“You're not Clark,” you begged, your voice breaking as you framed his face with your hands, forcing him to look at you. “You're saving me. You're my hero, remember? So save me from this. Please, Clark. I need you inside me. I need to feel you, all of you, or I think I'm going to like…die.”

Okay, maybe that was a little dramatic on your end, but truly it's what it felt like.

And Clark’s moral dilemma was being less than helpful at the moment. Why couldn’t he just not be a gentleman for once and fuck you into tomorrow like you needed.

“Sweetheart…”

You ignored him, and started placing kisses on his jaw and neck to try and satisfy your need. It helped, but nowhere near enough. You moved lower but Clark snapped out of it again and pushed you back softly.

There was not a single sane thought in your head anymore, you just needed to be filled, and Clark’s denial was making you angrier by the second.

“Clark!” you huffed at him, “Please don’t make me beg for this.”

“I’m not trying to make you beg… I just,” Clark starts shaking his head.

“You are though!” you whined back, “And I don’t want to, but I will, because that’s how badly I need this. Please Clark, I don't want to ask again, you have to make it stop.”

Clark swallowed heavily, and nodded hesitantly. He hated seeing you in pain like this.

“Okay, um alright, but if we do this, it’s on my terms. I need to know you’re still in there, sweetheart okay?”

You nod embarrassingly fast, “Okay, okay, your terms. Just... hurry, please.”

Clark didn't need to be told twice. He pulled you towards him, his fingers trailing up and down the sides of you and paused when he felt you shudder into him.

“Gosh, you’re… you’re so sensitive,” he breathed, more to himself than to you. His gaze was locked on his own thumb, which now rested motionless against the frantic pulse in your wrist.

Hesitantly, he moved one hand. Clark released your wrist, his fingers trailing up your arm, over the soft skin of your inner elbow. The touch was feather-light but you jolted as if electrocuted, a full-body shudder wracking your frame.

“Oh, god,” you moaned, your head falling back. “Clark, please.”

Clark made a sound deep in his throat, a mix of sympathy and sheer, unadulterated want. He was cataloging your reactions, learning the map of your sensitivity without even meaning to.

His fingertips drifted higher, skating over the slope of your shoulder, and your back arched, pressing your breasts against the solid wall of his chest. The friction of your nipples, already hard and aching, against his shirt was equally satisfying and utterly insufficient.

“Does that…” he swallowed hard, his own breathing becoming labored. “Does it feel like this everywhere?”

You could only nod, desperate tears pricking your eyes again. He was touching you, but it wasn't where you needed it. It was like being given a single drop of water in a desert.

God why did he keep teasing you so much?

“Okay,” he whispered, the word a ragged breath against your temple. His hands, which had been wandering with curiosity, suddenly changed their intent.

The hesitant exploration was gone, replaced by a firm, deliberate purpose. He had to give you what you needed.

One large hand splayed against the small of your back, anchoring you to him, while the other slid down, over the desperate, aching curve of your hip.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured, his voice thick with a restraint that was visibly fraying. He was giving you one last out, a final thread of chivalry to cling to.

“It won’t be enough,” you gasped, your fingers digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders. “It could never be too much.”

With a groan that seemed to be torn from the very core of him, Clark finally, finally closed the last remaining distance. His hand cupped your pussy through your clothes, a firm, perfect pressure that made you cry out.

“How does it feel here?” he asked, his voice a low rumble against your neck as he applied a slow, circular pressure.

“Yes! Clark, yes,” You almost buckled finally feeling the friction that your body has been begging for so long.

“I know, I know, sweetheart, I got you. Finally going to give you what you need okay?”

He shifted you both, lowering you back onto the soft cushions of the couch without ever breaking the contact. His knees nudged yours apart, settling between them, and the new, intimate proximity sent a fresh, violent shudder through you.

His thumb found the damp, heated center of you again, rubbing a relentless, rhythmic pattern that had you bucking against his hand. The pleasure was so sharp it bordered on pain.

“You’re so responsive like this,” he breathed, his eyes dark, his pupils blown wide with awe and desire. “Every little touch… gosh, I can feel you everywhere.”

His free hand came up to cradle your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek. “Look at me, sweetheart. I need to see you.”

You forced your eyes open, meeting his. He descended, his mouth finally capturing yours in a kiss that was nothing like his usual tender caresses. This was all-consuming, a desperate fusion of lips and tongue that stole the breath from your lungs. It was hot and wet and messy, and everything you needed.

The soft cotton of your pajamas was an intolerable barrier at this point. 

You heard a faint rip as he tore the top apart, buttons pinging against the wall. The sound should have shocked you, but it only sent another violent throb of need through you.

His large, warm hands covered your breasts, his thumbs circling your nipples with a rough, delicious friction that made you cry out against his mouth.

“So beautiful. I can feel your heart beating against my lips.” he murmured, his voice thick with awe and lust as he moved his mouth to your neck, nipping and sucking at the frantic pulse there.

Clark broke the kiss apart to slide your underwear aside and finally dipped his fingers into you, slow and gentle and so, so deep.

“There she is, that pretty pussy,” he cooed. “Gosh, you're so wet. So ready for me, hm?”

You clung even harder to him, nails curling against the back of his neck into his soft curls as you clenched onto his fingers. He groaned, obsessed with how desperate you were for him. You could barely breathe anymore, his slow pace was maddening and utterly torturous.

“Already a dripping mess and I’ve hardly even touched you.” Clark tsks, slipping in another finger and continuing to pump into you.

“Clark, please,” you sobbed, your hips trying to match his rhythm, to force a faster pace. “More. I need more. It’s not enough.”

“Shhh, I know, sweetheart, I know,” he soothed, placing a hand on your hips to keep them where he wanted. “I just need to get you ready to take me. I’m a little bigger, remember?”

Those words seemed to remind you of all the times you were intimate before, and how long he would take prepping you for him because he wasn’t just ‘a little’ bigger than most.

He was fucking huge.

You nod pathetically and let him continue stretching him out. The familiar coil crept in your lower belly and signaled that your release was close. Clark felt it and pushed you to your edge.

The lewd sounds coming from his hand assaulting your wet cunt went straight to your pollen-hazed mind and pushed you right over that tipping point. Your legs were shaking, and you were a moaning mess as you came on his hand.

“That’s right, sweetheart,” Clark encouraged, “I got you.”

You were breathless and still shaking slightly as you finished coming undone on his hand. Clark brushed away your damp front strands of hair and kissed the side of your head tenderly.

His eyes scanned yours, hoping to see if the orgasm was enough to stop the sex pollen haze. But you knew this was far from over. In fact the first orgasm had only cranked up the notch on the pain and worsened the ache. The momentary relief was a cruel trick, and the emptiness that followed was a thousand times more acute.

Clark’s hopeful expression shattered as fresh, frustrated tears spilled from your eyes.

You shook your head, a frantic, desperate motion urging him to continue. “No,” you choked out, your voice raw. “It’s worse. It’s so much worse now. Clark, please, I need you. I need your cock now. Please.”

He nodded and withdrew his fingers, and you whimpered at the loss, but he was already fumbling with his own pants. The sound of his zipper was the most promising thing you’d ever heard.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, but he wasn’t apologizing for what was about to happen. He was apologizing for what had already passed. He brought his glistening fingers to his lips, never breaking eye contact, and sucked them clean with a dark, appreciative hum. “God, you taste perfect.”

He leaned over you, caging you in with his arms, his face inches from yours.

“I’m sorry for teasing you for so long,” he murmured, his voice husky. “That wasn’t really nice of me, was it? Letting you suffer like that.” He nudged your nose with his, a gesture that was somehow both tender and utterly dominant. “Gosh, I’ve been such a jerk to my girl, haven’t I? Making my sweetheart beg when all she needed was for me to take care of her.”

You whine loudly.

“Sh-shh, I’m going to give you everything you need, now. I’m going to make up for it. But you have to be a good girl for me and take it, okay? You have to take all of me.”

The words sent a jolt of pure lightning through your system. You nodded frantically, your eyes wide and pleading. “I will, I promise, I’ll be so good. Just fuck me already.”

In a swift, powerful motion, he freed himself, and your breath hitched. Even in your fevered state, the sight of him, thick and heavy and straining and big, sent a fresh wave of dizzying anticipation through you. He was magnificent and internally you screamed yes, yes, yes.

He settled between your thighs again, which fell open for him willingly and desperately. The broad head of his cock nudged against your soaked, aching entrance. You were slick and ready, your body having prepared itself for him with humiliating, eager efficiency.

He positioned himself at your entrance, the blunt head of his large cock nudging against your slick, heated flesh. He didn’t push in, just rested there, letting you feel the immense pressure, the promise of being filled.

“Look at me, sweetheart,” he commanded softly again, his gaze locking with yours, holding you captive. Then, with a single, devastatingly slow roll of his hips, he began to sink into you.

A choked, guttural cry of pleasure was torn from your throat. The stretch was a perfect, burning fullness that your pollen-addled body had been screaming for.

He was so big, so impossibly much, and he was filling you so completely it stole the air from your lungs.

“Oh, god… Clark… yes, thank you,” You panted, your head thrashing against the cushions. “Feels so good, ‘ngh so big.”

“That’s it,” he murmured, his voice thick with awe. He stilled, buried to the hilt, letting your body adjust to the overwhelming sensation. “There you go. Taking me so perfectly. Look at you, sweetheart. So beautiful, so open for me. Just for me.”

He began to move, a slow, deep, punishing rhythm that he knew would drive you insane. Each stroke dragged against that deep, frantic ache, feeding the fire higher.

“You feel that?” he breathed into your ear, his hips setting a relentless pace. “That’s me. All of me. Filling up that pretty, desperate little pussy of yours. Is this what you needed? Hm? This deep, aching fullness?”

“Yes! Yes, Clark, don’t stop, please don’t stop!” you babbled, your hands scrambling over his back, trying to pull him closer, deeper.

“I’m not going to stop,” he promised, a dark, possessive edge to his voice. “I’m going to get you through this heat, sweetheart. You’re gonna be alright, I got you.”

His words were as potent as his touch, filthy and sweet that pushed you closer and closer to the edge. He shifted his angle slightly, and on the next thrust, he hit a spot that made you see stars.

You screamed, your back arching violently. He only quickened his pace, his hips now snapping into you mercilessly.

You knew he was holding back, a tiny, rational part of his mind ensuring he didn't accidentally break you, but it didn't feel like it. It felt like he was trying to split you apart on his length.

And god did you love it.

This climax seized you with a violence that dwarfed the first. It was a raw, screaming release that left you boneless and gasping, your vision spotting at the edges. Clark followed you over, his own groan a deep, guttural sound as he spilled himself inside you, his hips stuttering against yours in a final thrust.

For a long moment, the only sound was your ragged breathing mingling with his. He was heavy on top of you and he nuzzled into your neck, placing soft, reverent kisses against your damp skin.

“You feelin’ better?” he panted, his voice rough with exertion. “It’s over, sweetheart, you’re alright now.”

He started to pull away, to check your eyes, but a fresh, sharp throb of emptiness made you clutch at him, a broken whimper escaping your lips. The relief had been even more fleeting this time. The ache was back, deeper and more insistent than before, a hollow, gnawing pain that had you squeezing your eyes shut against a new wave of hot, frustrated tears.

Clark froze. He cupped your face, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “No?” he asked, his voice laced with dawning concern. “It’s not?”

You shook your head, the tears spilling over. “It’s… it’s worse,” you sobbed, the words hitching. “It just comes back faster. It hurts, Clark. It really hurts. I need more.”

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, his expression shifting. He withdrew from you gently, and you cried out at the sudden, aching emptiness. In one smooth, powerful motion, he scooped you up into his arms, cradling you against his chest. The world blurred as he carried you from the living room to the bedroom, laying you down on the cool sheets with infinite care.

“It’s okay,” he soothed, brushing the hair from your forehead. “I’m not going anywhere. We’ll do this as many times as it takes. I promise.”

He wiped away the tears that had fallen and you nodded gratefully.

“How long is this supposed to last again?” Clark asked you.

“Really long,” you said.“Hours”

Clark simply nodded. He didn’t dare remind you that so far it had already been longer than any previous times you’ve been intimate before.

You could see the calculation in his eyes, the acceptance of the marathon ahead. He was Superman. He had the stamina. He would see this through.

You cried out again, the pain a sharp, twisting knot in your core. “Please, make it stop. Just for a minute. Please. One more time, Clark.”

Clark’s jaw tightened. He nodded, his gaze darkening with a new kind of determination. “Alright. Let me try something else.”

He moved down the bed, settling between your trembling thighs. His hands were firm on your hips, holding you still. Then he lowered his head.

The first swipe of his tongue was a bolt of pure, undiluted pleasure. You jolted, a sharp cry tearing from your throat. It was different from his fingers, different from his cock. It was an intimate assault on your senses, and he was ruthlessly efficient. He licked and sucked, already having the rhythm that made you shatter the fastest memorized.

Clark was relentless, holding you down as you thrashed, his name a broken mantra on your lips. The orgasm was swifter and brutal, and left you gasping once more.

As the last tremor faded, he was already moving up your body, his lips swollen and glistening with your arousal. He tapped your cheek gently. “Hey, look at me, sweetheart. How you doin’? Are you with me?”

You blinked, trying to focus. The haze was still there, the ache already beginning to coil deep within. “It’s… still there,” you whispered, fresh new tears falling down your face.

He nodded, a grim set to his mouth. “Okay. Okay, that’s okay. I’ve still got you.”

He rolled you over onto your stomach, pulling your hips up until you were on your knees. He entered you from behind in one smooth, deep thrust, and you screamed into the mattress. This position was deeper, more animalistic, and secretly your fave.

Clark gripped your hips, his fingers sure to leave bruises, and set a punishing rhythm. The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, punctuated by your sobbing pleas and his guttural groans.

He was chasing your release with a single-minded focus, driving into you as if he could physically exorcise the pollen from your body himself.

When you came this time, it was a silent, shuddering collapse, your body going limp beneath his.

He pulled out, turning you onto your back once more. He was breathing heavily, a fine sheen of sweat on his brow. He tapped your cheek again. “Talk to me sweetheart.”

You could only manage a weak, negative shake of your head. The desperate, achey feeling was returning. Again.

A low growl rumbled in Clark’s chest. It wasn’t one of frustration with you, but with the situation, with the pollen in your body. His eyes glowed with a faint, red ember of heat vision he quickly suppressed.

“Shh, that’s alright,” Clark reassured you, noticing your panicked expression. He smiled and leaned down to kiss you passionately, “You’re doing perfect, sweetheart.”

“I love you, Clark,” you whispered to him, “You’re too good to me. Fucking me so well.”

“I love you too,” Clark says back softly.

Gosh, he felt so bad for you. As much as tried, he couldn’t imagine how much pain you were in right now, especially because it seemed never-ending. So he did the only thing he could to help you.

He flipped you onto your back again, but this time he hooked your legs over his shoulders, folding you nearly in half. The penetration was so deep it stole your breath. He leaned over you, bracing himself on his arms and stilled, letting your re-adjust to his size.

“Please, move,” you begged, your hips fucking up into his.

“I will, sweetheart, just relax. Let me help you out.”

Clark started to move in a merciless, piston-like rhythm, each thrust jolting through your entire body. He was no longer just making love to you or even just fucking you; he was waging a war against the pollen inside you.

He drove into you again and again, his pace never flagging, his strength infinite. He was pushing you, and himself, to the absolute limit, determined to fuck the pollen out of your system through sheer, relentless will.

Clark eventually lost track of time.

He lost track of how many times he brought you to a screaming, sobbing climax. The bedroom became a blur of tangled sheets and shifting positions.

He took you on your side, one of your legs hooked high over his hip, his mouth on your shoulder. He laid you on your stomach and draped himself over your back, whispering praises into your ear as he moved inside you. He sat back against the headboard and pulled you into his lap, your back to his chest, his hands roaming your body as you rode him, your head lolling against his shoulder.

Through it all, he never stopped talking.

“That’s it, sweetheart, take me. You’re taking all of me so well. God, you feel incredible.”

“Come on, baby, one more for me. I know you can do it. Squeeze that pretty pussy around my cock and let go. I’ve got you.”

“Look at you. Look how beautiful you are falling apart on me. My good girl. My perfect, desperate girl.”

You were beyond words, reduced to a state of pure, sensation-driven need. Your legs felt like water, your entire body trembled with exhaustion. But the deep, gnawing ache, while muted by the constant onslaught of pleasure, never fully disappeared. It was a ghost that was waiting for the briefest respite to return with a vengeance.

During a brief lull, as he held you close, his slick skin pressed against yours, you felt him tense. He was looking down at you, his brow furrowed with a concern that cut through the sexual haze.

“Golly, sweetheart,” he breathed, his hand gently tracing the curve of your hip. “You’re going to be so sore tomorrow. I’m… I’m putting you through so much.” He sounded genuinely pained and remorseful, the protectiveness in him agonizing over the very remedy he was providing.

You managed to shake your head, nuzzling into his neck. “Worth it,” you slurred. “Don’t stop.”

He kissed your forehead, a long, tender press of his lips. “I won’t. I promise I won’t until you feel better. But you…” He pulled back to look at you, his eyes full of a fierce, awed pride. “You’re being so strong. You’re taking me so well, for so long. Even after all that begging, you’re just… enduring. You’re amazing.”

He was praising you for your stamina, for your ability to withstand the very storm he was unleashing upon you. It was absurd and utterly intoxicating.

He pulled you into his lap facing him. “Go on, I know you’re not done with me yet. Take what you need,” he commanded.

And you did.

You smiled, then sunk onto his length and rode him. 

You ignored the pain in your legs and chased the high that seemed to never be fulfilled. As you did, you kissed Clark. You kissed his lips, and his jaw, and his neck, each time whispering a soft thank you for letting you use him like this.

Clark’s eyes rolled back, pushing through his own overstimulation to help you satisfy yourself and the pain you were feeling. His hands flew to your hips and guided you as your body moved against his.

He didn’t stop, not even when his come filled you up for the seemingly millionth time and not even when you came on top of him and still begged for more.

He simply kissed you on the forehead and obliged, putting you in more positions. On his face, against the wall, even flying!

Finally, after what felt like an eternity—ten long, brutal hours—a shift occurred.

You were back laying on the bed, Clark moving in you with a rhythm that had now become as familiar as your own heartbeat. Another orgasm was building (you were unsure how you could even manage any more), the familiar tension coiling low in your belly. You braced for it, your fingers digging into his biceps and sheets underneath you, a silent moan building in your throat.

The climax that hit you was different. It wasn't the frantic, desperate, needy release that had characterized the last several hours. It was much slower and softer. As the last tremors faded, you didn't immediately feel the familiar, creeping return of the ache. There was only a deep, heavy, and thoroughly sated exhaustion.

Clark stilled inside you, his body rigid with attention. He searched your face, his eyes wide, hopeful that this time might be it. “Sweetheart?”

You blinked slowly, the frantic, glazed-over look finally gone from your eyes. The feverish heat had receded from your skin. You took a deep, shuddering breath, and it was the first full, clear breath you’d taken in half a day. The oppressive, maddening need was simply… gone.

“I think… I think it’s over,” you whispered, your voice hoarse from overuse.

A massive, relieved sigh escaped Clark. He collapsed as he pulled out of you. He buried his face in your neck, his arms wrapping around you.

“Thank goodness,” he mumbled against your skin, his voice thick with emotion. “Oh, thank gosh.”

You lay in silence for what felt like an eternity, simply breathing him in, feeling the aftershocks of pleasure twitch through your exhausted muscles.

Finally, he spoke, his voice a husky, wrecked version of its usual self. “Are you… are you okay? Did I hurt you… was I too rough…”

You tilted your head back to look at him. You reached up, cupping his cheek. “I'm perfect,” you whispered, and you meant it. “And you were... incredible. Thank you, and I’m sorry for putting you through that for so long."

A shudder ran through him, and he turned his head to press a soft, grateful kiss to your palm.

“I was so scared,” he admitted. “I hated seeing you like that. Out of your mind. I felt like I was... taking advantage, even when you were literally begging for it.”

“You weren't,” you insisted, stroking his hair. His dark curls were damp with sweat. You snuggled deeper into his embrace, the events of the evening replaying in your mind. A slow blush crept up your neck.

“Clark?” you said, your voice small.

“Yeah?”

“Did I, um, I don’t know… was I like too….”

“...needy? Desperate?” he finished for you, his tone joking.

He shook his head, a small, tired smile gracing his lips. “No, no, no. You were perfect. You were in pain, and you trusted me with your body to make it stop. That's... that's the highest compliment I think I've ever been given.”

He brushed a thumb over your cheek, his touch infinitely gentle. “And for the record,” he added, a hint of that earlier, possessive darkness flickering in his eyes, “seeing you like that... completely lost in what I was making you feel... It was the most beautifull thing I've ever seen. A little terrifying, but... incredible.”

You let out a shaky breath, the last of your insecurities melting away under his sincere gaze. “Even the flying part?” you mumbled, burying your burning face in his chest.

Clark's chest vibrated with a low, genuine laugh. “Especially the flying part.” He shifted, pulling the rumpled sheets over your cooling bodies. “Now, you need to rest. Your heart rate is finally normal, your temperature is stable... but you're exhausted and your muscles will definitely feel sore in the morning.” 

As if on cue, a massive, bone-deep weariness settled over you. Your limbs felt like lead, every muscle protesting the hours of relentless strain and god were you sore down there. “Clark?” you whispered again, already half-asleep.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“Thank you,” you breathed, the words slurring with exhaustion. “For... everything. For keeping me safe. I love you so much.”

He held you tighter, “Always," he whispered into your hair and placed a soft kiss. "Now sleep. I'll be right here when you wake up.”

━━━━━━━

author's note:

KINKTOBER RAHHH!!!

lowk headcanon that reader takes notes of everything experienced under sex pollen to bring back as a report for the lab.

anyways, i tried my best y'all lmao, smut is not my strong suit (we all know i much prefer angst)

Earlier today Matt, Foggy, and Karen had finally won their case in court, a case that you knew they'd been endlessly toiling away on for over a month. You'd barely just gotten back to your apartment after work when Matt had called and told you the good news, urging you to meet them down at Josie’s. Having been excited to celebrate with everyone–especially since you'd barely seen Matt in weeks–you'd hurried straight there. You hadn't even bothered to change out of your work clothes before you’d left because you’d been so eager to finally have a chance to see Matt again, which left you still wearing one of the dresses you occasionally wore to work on incredibly hot summer days like today. 

You knew Matt loved your dresses, he'd told you that plenty of times by now. And while you were very aware of the fact that the pair of you had barely spent time together since their firm had initially taken this case many weeks ago, you hadn't anticipated the reaction he'd be having to you tonight. 

At first you hadn't noticed much out of the ordinary when you’d arrived at the bar. Matt had wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you in close to the side of him as he ordered your drink. Though you had noticed how he held onto you tighter tonight than he usually did whenever the pair of you were out together, as if he needed to have part of you constantly touching him this evening. Not long after you'd gotten your beer, Matt's hand had begun to dip lower and lower on your waist, the tips of his fingers teasingly grazing the top of your ass. You had almost choked on the sip of your drink you'd just taken when his fingers began toying with the waistband of your panties through the thin fabric of your dress. Struggling to remain focused on the conversation at the time, all you could think about was Matt's damn hands peeling them off of you later. Every slight snap of the material from his teasing fingers had your breath catching in your throat and your cheeks beginning to flush.

But if his wandering hands hadn't already been enough, he'd also been taking moments to lean over and whisper things into your ear whenever Karen and Foggy were talking. You'd slowly lost the ability to pay attention at all to what those two were saying as the things Matt's deep voice kept purring into your ear gradually became filthier and filthier.

At first the comments had been sweet; mainly Matt telling you that he'd missed you and how he was looking forward to finally having time to spend with you now that he wouldn't be working on that case anymore. But then he'd begun to tell you how good you smelled this evening. Which eventually led to him telling you how much he had missed you in his bed over the past few weeks and what he was looking forward to doing once the pair of you left Josie’s tonight–in explicit detail. 

That's when he began to tell you that he knew how aroused you were becoming; that he couldn't just smell the dampness forming between your legs, but that he could hear the slickness with every shift of your body beside him. It wasn't as if you could help it though because his voice alone always had an undeniable effect on you–which he damn well knew. And him catching the scent of your growing arousal only seemed to amplify the obscene things he kept whispering into your ear while he still wore that innocent smile on his face for Karen and Foggy. But there was one comment in particular that had been rolling around in your head over and over for the past hour now. You couldn't stop hearing it repeat in your mind in that same sultry growl in which he'd first said it in.

Before we even leave this bar tonight, sweetheart, I’m going to soak that dress and those panties more than they already are. I can promise you that.

You remembered the fresh bit of wet heat that formed between your thighs the moment those words had left his mouth, his hot breath dancing along your neck. You'd shuddered, becoming incredibly aware of every inch of your side he had pressed up against his. With the way he kept whispering in your ear all night, you figured that was his plan for the evening. To turn you on solely with his voice and the dirty things he was saying before leaving the bar tonight. But the moment everyone had sat down at the booth Karen had pointed out, you'd realized he might've had something else in mind.

Which is when you knew that you were in far more trouble tonight than you could have ever realized. 

For the past twenty minutes Matt's left hand kept touching you underneath the table, oscillating between one exhilarating touch after another. A firm squeeze to your knee, his palm just beneath the hem of your dress. His hand resting on your thigh, the warmth of it seeping through your dress and growing the heat already building inside of you. And, a few times, he'd actually slipped his hand up beneath the fabric itself, languidly sliding it deliciously slow until you felt a gentle graze of fingertips along the inside of your thigh, just below your already wet underwear.

You were without a doubt already a flustered mess in the booth. Yet Matt didn't seem remotely satisfied, his hand still relentlessly teasing you under the table while he continued on conversering with his friends like nothing more was occurring. He was drinking back his beer and actively participating in the conversation while occasionally flashing you knowing, devilish smiles. Meanwhile, you could still barely focus on the conversation long enough to add much to it. 

It was the sound of Foggy’s phone a little later alerting him to a text that finally caught your attention, tearing it away from the way Matt's index finger was currently drawing circles over your right knee. Both of your hands were fidgeting with your beer bottle above the table, your face feeling hot as you watched him pull the phone out of his pocket.

“It's Marci,” Foggy announced, still reading the text. “She's back from work and wondering when I'll be home.” He glanced up from his phone screen, a slight frown on his lips. “I should probably get going, I don't want to make her wait up for me.”

Beside him, Karen glanced down at her own phone on the table, unlocking the screen and checking the time. “Maybe I should head out too,” she said. “It is starting to get kind of late.”

A flood of relief instantly washed over you as you perked up across the table. If both of them were calling it a night, that meant you and Matt could leave, too. Which also meant you could head back to either of your apartments and do something about all the growing sexual tension and Matt's incessant teasing, because by now you were becoming desperate for some sort of relief. But just as you shifted in your seat, about to open your mouth and eagerly agree with the idea of leaving, Matt's hand tightened around your knee. Your brief hesitation gave him a chance to respond first.

“You both head on out,” he began, tone far too casual as he spoke. “I think we might actually stay a bit. It's been awhile since we've really gotten to spend time together with everything going on these past few weeks.”

“Just don't stay up too late tonight, kids,” Foggy joked, already sliding out of the seat across from you and Matt. “We've got a meeting bright and early tomorrow morning!”

Matt chuckled good-naturedly, his hand inching up under the hem of your dress as he did. You straightened in your seat at the touch, spine pressing against the back of the booth as you wondered why in the hell he wanted to stay.

“You don't have to worry about me, buddy,” he assured him. “I'll be ready for tomorrow morning.”

Karen slid out of the booth behind Foggy, one hand brushing some loose blonde hair out of her face as she sent you and Matt a warm smile. You returned the smile as best as you could, hoping neither of them had noticed how unusually quiet you'd been tonight. 

“I know how much we've been hogging Matt the past few weeks,” Karen told you, readjusting her purse strap as she rose to her feet beside the booth. “So I hope you two enjoy the rest of your night.”

“Thanks, I'm–I'm sure we will,” you replied, trying to fight back the quiver in your voice as Matt's thumb slid across the inside of your thigh. 

“Oh, we most certainly will,” he told her with a smile, his hand giving your thigh a slight squeeze.

Hips shifting along the booth's bench, you tried to ignore the growing ache between your legs, finding it hard to remain casual with how Matt was making you feel. You weren't sure what his reasoning was for not getting up and leaving right now with them, but you sure hoped you could convince him to get out of here fast once they'd left.

“It was good seeing you both again tonight,” you told the pair of them. “And congratulations again on winning that case.”

“We'll see you at the next big celebratory win!” Foggy said, shooting you a wave.

You sent them both a wave in return before they turned and headed towards the exit to Josie’s, the pair of them walking side by side. Matt's hand remained on your thigh as you watched them go, his other hand picking up his half-finished beer from the table. Your attention shifted to him beside you, watching as he drew the bottle up to his lips, taking a deep pull before he set the beer back down. Your gaze remained on his mouth, watching as the tip of his tongue slipped out and ran along his lips. The thought of that skilled tongue being put to use had your cunt pathetically clenching around nothing.

“You're so damn wet I can barely taste my own beer,” Matt said, voice just loud enough for you to hear. “All I have been able to taste for the past hour is you and your dripping cunt.”

Fighting a shudder threatening to roll down your spine, your own hands tightened around the neck of your beer bottle on the table. “That's your own doing, Matt,” you pointed out, sounding more breathless than you'd have liked. “You're the one who won't stop teasing me tonight.”

“And you're the one showing up in a dress,” he countered, his covered gaze finally landing on you. “You know I can't resist when you wear them.”

“I didn't feel like changing before I left,” you replied, heart pounding a little faster as you felt his hand begin to glide further up beneath your dress. “I was excited to see you and I hadn't thought–” you paused, eyelids fluttering momentarily when one of his fingers finally swiped ever so gently just over your soaked underwear.

“Hadn't thought what, sweetheart?” he asked cheekily. 

You could feel your pulse pounding in your own aching cunt by now, your body tense as it desperately begged for more stimulation than that light touch. Breath coming in a bit sharper, you tried to focus your thoughts to answer him.

“Hadn't thought you'd react like this,” you whispered. 

“Mmm,” Matt hummed out, turning more towards you in the booth, his hand still lingering on the inside of your thigh, fingers dangerously close to where you wanted them. “Well it has been awhile since I've had the opportunity to properly take care of my girl because of that damn case. I suppose I just couldn't resist you tonight.”

“So then let's get out of here,” you urged. “My place or yours tonight, I don't care, Matt. Just stop teasing me because I can't take it any longer. I miss you.”

You heard the sharp intake of breath that came from him at the sound of your plea. Behind his dark lenses you saw the way his eyes had closed, his jaw tightening.

“Please, Matt,” you begged, hoping the distress in your voice would help convince him. “Let's just go.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose, his nostrils flaring sharply as his eyes opened once more behind the red lenses. “I do love how you sound when you get like this,” he murmured. “But if you're that needy for a release already, why wait, sweetheart?”

Brows drawing together on your forehead, you eyed him in confusion. “What?” you asked.

The corner of his lip tugged up into a sinful smirk. “Why not let me get you off right here, right now? Right in this booth,” he suggested, tone darkening. 

Your eyes darted around the bar, the thought of Matt’s fingers on you right here raising goosebumps along your arms. While there were a handful of patrons scattered around Josie’s tonight, some were playing pool while others were at the bar, drinking down their drinks. There was no one even remotely near your booth. A nervous laugh slipped out of you as you focused back on Matt.

“You're not actually serious, are you?” you asked. “We're in the middle of a bar , Matt. And we aren't exactly here alone.”

He shrugged a single shoulder in response. “So?” he asked. “I can be discreet if you can be quiet.”

Lips parting in surprise, you sat there in stunned silence. The devilish smirk only grew on his lips as his right hand once again lifted his beer bottle from the table, bringing it slowly up to his mouth for another drink that he took so irritatingly calm and casual.

“Though it's entirely up to you, of course,” he continued after he'd swallowed, lowering the bottle back to the table. “You know I'd certainly never want to make you uncomfortable. So if you'd rather us wait until we've walked all the way back to my place–the closest option–then we most certainly can. Or,” he purred, his finger once again lightly gliding along your cunt over your wet underwear, your eyes nearly rolling back at the touch, “I can take care of you here. With my fingers. And then fuck you far more thoroughly back at my place after.” 

He shot you a charming smile that had you feeling weak already. He damn well knew what he had been doing to you all night, especially with those senses of his. Had this been his goal all along? To work you up so much that you'd actually want to do this? Because truthfully, it had worked. You were considering it.

“The choice is yours, sweetheart,” he told you. 

Once again your eyes darted around the bar, unable to believe that you were actually contemplating his offer. But this was Matt and you'd often found he had a way of making you comfortable and willing to try new things–like letting him get you off in the middle of a dive bar that the pair of you often frequented. But no one here was even remotely paying the pair of you any attention where you were sitting in the corner of the bar. If you kept quiet, no one would be able to see anything that was happening beneath the table. And did you really want to wait the ten minute walk back to Matt's apartment building? And then another few minutes on top of that while you both made it up to his apartment before getting any sort of release? 

No, no you really didn't. 

“Okay, you win,” you whispered.

Matt rested his right elbow up on the tabletop, his stubbled chin coming to land in his palm as he focused on you. That damn smile was still on his mouth.

“You're going to have to tell me what you want,” he replied. “I'm not a mind reader.”

You rolled your eyes at him and the way he was purposely drawing this out. He could be such a goddamn tease when he wanted to be.

“I want you to touch me,” you said. “Get me off here and then take me home after, Matthew. I can’t wait any longer.”

His head tilted to the side in his palm, his dark brows rising playfully up above his glasses. “You sure you can manage to keep quiet enough?” he asked.

With an irritated huff, you rolled your eyes at him again. “Yes, now can you stop toying with me and– fuck .”

A satisfied smile spread across his mouth as one of his fingers landed directly on your swollen clit over the fabric of your damp underwear. He'd only applied a faint bit of pressure with the pad of his finger, but already it had felt so damn good in comparison to the burning ache you'd been dealing with most of the night. 

“I told you we'd have to save that for when we got back to my place,” he teased, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Don't think we'd quite manage to get away unnoticed in the booth doing that .”

“You're such an asshole, Matthew,” you breathed out. 

He chuckled in response, his finger making a circle along the sensitive bud beneath it. “You sure now is the time for insults, sweetheart?” he asked. “Because I can stop.”

Your eyelids closed as you weakly shook your head, every part of you focused on the delicious pressure of his finger. “No,” you nearly whimpered. “Please don't stop, Matt.”

He hummed out a pleased noise in response, his finger continuing to circle your clit over the top of your underwear. Your breath was coming in sharp, short gasps as you fought to reopen your eyes and keep them open, remembering that you were both still in public and that you needed to keep your composure. Though keeping your expression neutral was difficult with Matt's smirking face directly in your line of sight. He looked so smug as his finger continued to gently rub against you. 

But he wasn’t doing nearly enough to ease the growing desire between your legs and get you off. And it was becoming obvious that it was purposeful.

“Come on, Matt,” you whined. “Haven't you teased me enough tonight? Can you please stop already?”

“Alright, sweetheart,” he replied. “If you insist.”

His fingers hooked around your underwear, pulling it to the side and out of his way. Two of his thick digits soon slid between your soaked folds, running back and forth along the length of them as he gathered your slick. A rumbling growl vibrated in Matt's chest as the expression on his face abruptly darkened, that teasing smirk quickly vanishing.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he snarled between gritted teeth.

Your mouth went dry instantly at the sound of the Devil’s voice. You hadn’t expected that.

“Need me that bad, do you?” he growled low. “Already soaked your panties because you're so eager? And all it took was my voice?” 

The tip of one of his fingers lightly brushed over your clit in a series of quick, gentle strokes. Your body gave a jolt in the booth, your breath hitching in your throat at the feather-light assault. 

“Maybe I should make you soak my fingers along with that dress, hmm?” he purred. “Right here in this bar. You'd like that, wouldn't you, sweetheart?”

Hands releasing the bottle of your beer, they immediately clamped down onto the edge of the table. You had a feeling you were going to need to hold on to something if the Devil was about to play with you in the middle of Josie’s.

“Mhmm,” you hummed out, spreading your legs a little wider beneath the table in open invitation. “Please.”

The corner of Matt’s lip pulled up into something feral as you felt his finger leave the little swollen nub, instead lining it up with your dripping entrance. You’d barely had a chance to mentally prepare yourself for what was to come before he plunged that lone digit straight inside of you. Teeth clamping down on your bottom lip, you fought back the noise that nearly flew out of your mouth, managing to trap it in the back of your throat instead as your hands gripped the table.

“That's right, keep quiet, sweetheart,” the Devil rumbled out. “Don't want anyone here to know that I'm touching you, do we?”

“No,” you breathed out, shaking your head.

His finger began to pump into your cunt painfully slow as he slid even closer next to you in the booth. His thigh pressed up right against yours and a whine managed to faintly slip out of your lips. The moment you felt his lips brush along the shell of your ear though, a lightheadedness washed over you.

“You're doing so good being quiet for me, sweetheart,” he whispered, lips grazing your ear with each word as his finger continued its unhurried rhythm. “Should we see just how quiet you can be?”

Your eyes clamped shut, your body feeling like it was burning up beside Matt's. A shuddering exhale left you as your hands clung tighter to the table as if that would somehow help you keep from making a single sound. 

Before you knew what was happening, Matt plunged a second finger inside of you. A surprised gasp flew out of your mouth, your eyes flying back open. His fingers increased their pace, the soft, obscene squelch of your wet cunt meeting your ears over the faint chatter of the bar and the quiet classic rock that was playing. Matt moaned quietly beside your ear, his hot breath cascading down the side of your neck only making you feel even more dizzy. 

“Good girl,” the Devil praised beside your ear. “Keeping so quiet for me while I fuck you with my fingers.”

A moan once again started in the back of your throat at his words, one you were desperately trying to hold back. But it was becoming difficult to stay aware of your surroundings and the need to not make a noise when his fingers started to curl inside of you, hitting that sweet spot that had white beginning to dance at the corner of your eyes. Matt's own ragged breaths in your ear wasn't helping your situation. You could tell he was becoming increasingly worked up beside you, too, at the sound of each of his own sharp growls.

“Should I let you cum already?” he whispered into your ear. “Would you like that?”

You nodded frantically in response, eager for the promise of a release from all the tension that had been building up inside of you tonight. 

“Yes,” you begged. “Please, Matt, please.”

Another rumbling growl from him met your ears and your cunt clenched around Matt's fingers. He groaned low beside you in response, the sound deep within his throat. 

“I love it when you beg, sweetheart,” he whispered. “And you have been so good for me tonight. So I want you to cum. I want you to drench my fingers here in the middle of Josie’s. But,” he continued, the Devil’s tone turning to that of a warning as you felt the pad of his thumb land on your clit, “you better not make a fucking sound when you do.”

Swallowing hard, you nodded obediently as you attempted to mutter out an affirmative response. Though it was hard to form much of a thought with the way his two fingers kept diligently fucking you now combined with the tantalizing movements of his thumb on your throbbing clit. His voice in your ear and the feel of his hard body against the side of yours was already pushing you over the edge now. 

Your climax was within reach, you could feel that familiar pressure building to its peak deep inside of you, begging to be let loose with each thrust of his fingers and brush of his thumb pad. Your hands had grown clammy as you fought to hold onto the table, your back arching in the booth as you struggled to keep your eyes from rolling back in ecstasy. 

But the closer and closer you inched to your release, the harder and harder it was becoming to keep silent. Whimpers and whines were falling out between your quivering lips, the sounds mingling with each wet thrust of his fingers inside of you and his own labored breaths in your ear.

“I know, I know,” he cooed. “You're so close, sweetheart. I can feel it. Just let go for me.”

Your body was beginning to shake under the strain of remaining composed in the booth. The pleased, encouraging noises coming from Matt weren't helping your efforts either, especially as that moan inside of you began to build just as your climax unexpectedly slammed into you like a brick wall. 

You'd barely opened your mouth before Matt lunged at you, his own lips practically crashing onto you and smothering yours. The moan you'd been about to loose throughout the bar was quickly muffled by his own mouth as he swallowed the sound of it down his throat. With his mouth feverishly attacking yours in a mix of tongue and teeth, his hand continued to work you through your climax beneath the table, dragging it out and drawing you through it. One of your hands released the death grip you had on the table, landing on Matt's thick thigh just beside yours. You dug your nails into his muscle through his dress pants as your body trembled along the bench, a low moan once more barreling out of you and straight into his mouth one last time as you came hard on his fingers. 

Gradually Matt's fingers slowed to a stop, your body sinking back into the booth as if it suddenly weighed far too much. His mouth broke away from yours, his own chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. You looked up at him through half-lidded eyes, still trying to recover from the body-shaking orgasm he’d just given you in public. His face was flushed, his cheeks slightly reddened. It almost looked like there was even the slightest sheen of sweat above his brow.

“That was not exactly quiet, sweetheart,” he lightly chastised, carefully withdrawing his fingers from inside of you. “You’re lucky I noticed before everyone else here did.”

You shot him a blissful, tired smile, your head resting against the back of the booth as you gazed back at him. “Thank God for your senses, then,” you joked, still a little breathless.

The corner of Matt’s mouth quirked up into a smirk as he continued to focus on you, the lenses of his glasses glinting under the red neon sign on the wall beside your booth. His left hand appeared from underneath the table moments later, coated and obviously glistening with your slick under the red light. He raised both fingers up to his lips before slipping them inside his mouth, sucking your arousal off of them with a satisfied moan that sounded low in the back of his throat. A shiver ran up your spine as you watched him slowly slide his two fingers back out from between his plush lips, his focus never leaving you.

“I don’t think it’s God that you should be thanking right now,” he murmured, the Devil once more grinning back at you. 

Your cunt immediately twitched back awake at that voice, bottom lip rolling between your teeth. Matt's tongue slid out between his lips, sensually running along the length of them before an impatient growl rumbled out of him.

“Now what’s going to happen next,” the Devil began, his voice raising the hair on the back of your neck, “is you’re going to get out of this booth like nothing happened,” he told you. “And then I’m going to take you and that deliciously drenched pussy back to my place where I’m going to have my fill of you. And this time, sweetheart?” he continued, the red of the neon light washing over his face as he leaned in towards you. “I want to hear every goddamn sound you make. You got that?”

He smiles. That shy, lopsided thing that doesn't belong on Bobby's face because Bobby never smiled like that; Bobby's smiles were teasing and self-aware and loaded, and this one is open and unguarded and a little bit terrified that you won't like it.

“You do? You like it?”

You lift your eyes toward him, and smile. “I love it.”

The yellow warms toward gold around you. Just slightly. Just enough to notice.

You hold out for months.

That's the part that's going to eat you alive later, the part you'll turn over and over in your head. The part where you knew. 

You knew what kissing him did to you from the first time, that clumsy mortifying moment in the blankets when he'd come in his shorts and watched himself discover his new body. The look on BB’s face had carved itself into you like a brand.

You knew because kissing BB isn't kissing. Kissing BB is a substance. It enters your bloodstream through the point of contact, and within thirty seconds, you can feel it spreading. Warm and heavy and stupid, a fog that settles behind your eyes and at the base of your spine. 

The longer his mouth is on yours, the worse it gets. Or better. You can't tell anymore which of those words applies. The two collapse into the same sensation when BB is touching you because his version of pleasure isn't built on the human axis where good and too-much are different categories.

His skin is cool when he isn't touching you. That's one of the things that took getting used to. The temperature of him. His hands when they find your wrist in the dark, his chest when you lean against him in the nest. Cool like marble or water from a deep well. 

There's warmth underneath the surface, banked and dormant, waiting, but it only comes alive when he touches you. The warmth bleeds through contact, drawn out by your body heat, rising to meet you and then surpassing you. And once the warmth is going, it does things. It sinks. It reads. It feeds information back to him through his palms, fingertips, and mouth, a living scan of your nervous system in real time through his skin.

So you hold out. You let BB kiss you sometimes. Short, careful, your hand on his chest when it threatens to become more. His immediate compliance every single time, pulling back to press his forehead to yours. Just breathing even though he doesn’t need oxygen the way you do, hands shaking on your waist, always mortifyingly patient.

For months after the first kiss. Just that.

“Do you dream?” BB asks one evening, his fingers working over your hair. 

You're lying with your head in his lap. The yellow hum is low tonight, and the ghost-flowers on the wallpaper have settled into stillness for once.

“Sometimes,” you tell him honestly.

“What about?”

You almost say Bobby. You catch it in your teeth. “Home, mostly. The apartment. My side of the bed.”

BB's fingers pause over your hair for half a second. Then they resume, slower.

“Do you miss it?”

You think about that. Really think about it, while his cool fingers stroke over your hair and the hum fills the silence with its tuneless drone. Do you miss it? Do you miss the apartment where Bobby's camera equipment colonised every surface? Do you miss the kitchen where he stopped looking at you? Do you miss your side of the bed, which was your side because Bobby took the other side and the middle and left you the edge.

“I miss what it used to be,” you say quietly. “Before it went bad.”

BB's hand settles on your temple. Warm now, from the contact with your skin. His thumb traces the curve of your eyebrow.

“Tell me about before,” he says softly.

Before was good. That's the thing, the thing that makes the after so unbearable. Before was so good.

Bobby in the early months was a revelation. Bobby with his camera aimed at you across a crowded room, lowering it to grin at you with his whole crooked face, saying the light's doing something crazy on you, babe and meaning it with every fibre of his skinny sun-browned body. 

Bobby who kissed you in parking lots and edited footage with his head in your lap and rolled joints on the kitchen counter while telling you about his day in that low lazy drawl that made your stomach flip even when he was talking about lens caps.

Bobby who touched you like you mattered. Hands on the small of your back in a crowd, arm around your shoulder or waist, always. Fingers laced through yours during movies. His mouth on the back of your neck while you were doing dishes, warm and idle, a press of lips that said I'm here and I like being here. Bobby in bed in the early days, Bobby with his chain tangled between your bodies, looking at you with those pale eyes and saying come here, baby, let me feel you with a softness that undid you every single time.

The good was so good it spoiled you for everything that came after. 

The good taught you what Bobby was capable of, what he contained, and that knowledge made the withdrawal so much worse. Because you knew. You knew he could be tender. You'd seen the inside of him, the soft unguarded core he showed you, and then he'd locked the door.

You'd tried to get back in. That's the part that hurts the most now. 

You'd asked him what was wrong. You'd asked him if he was okay, if he wanted to talk, if he needed space, if you'd done something. You'd tried every key you could think of, and the door stayed shut. And the worst part, the very worst part, was that you could hear him on the other side. You could hear him breathing. He was right there, your Bobby, the real one, the one who filmed you sleeping because the light was good, and he wouldn't open the door for a reason you didn’t know.

That hurt more than the silence. More than the grunting. More than the nights he turned his back. Because the silence you could have explained away. You could have told yourself he'd changed, that the tenderness was a phase, that you'd imagined the depth of it. But you hadn't imagined it. You'd been inside. You'd touched the walls. And knowing what was in there and being locked out of it was a cruelty so singular it felt designed.

You tell BB some of this. Not all. You tell him about the parking lot kisses and the kitchen touches and the way Bobby used to look at you through the viewfinder. The way he hugged you with his whole body every time he saw you, nuzzling into your shoulder with a muffled sigh. You tell him about the door closing. BB listens with his head tilted, his fingers still in your hair, his pale eyes fixed on your face with that total, unwavering attention.

“He had all of that,” BB says quietly when you finish. “And he put it behind a locked door and won’t even tell you why.”

“Yeah.”

“And you kept knocking.”

You force a breath over the lump in your throat. “Yeah.”

BB is quiet for a long time after that. His thumb traces your temple. The yellow walls warm around you, trying to bleed toward gold again.

“I don't have a door,” he says softly, quietly. “I don't know how to build one. Everything I have is right here. You can see all of it.”

You close your eyes, and the purr starts low in his chest.

You don't say anything. But you reach up and press his hand against your cheek, keeping him there, close. BB's breath catches, and he holds perfectly still, and the yellow turns gold.

You hold out for months, and the guilt sits inside you like a stone. 

Guilt for wanting it. Guilt for not wanting it enough. Guilt for thinking about real Bobby while BB's mouth is on you, and guilt for not thinking about real Bobby enough. Guilt for the fact that some traitor part of you has stopped flinching at BB's touch and started anticipating it, leaning into it. 

You go to bed with your back to him and wake up curled into his chest, because your body made a decision before your conscious mind could.

And you didn't leave. 

That's the thing you can't explain to yourself, the thing that damns you. 

You didn't leave because after what happened with Bobby, after months of being invisible in your own space, being wanted felt so good. Being needed felt so good. BB looked at you every single day like the sun rose and set in the shape of your body, and that kind of attention was a drug more potent than anything his kiss could do to your bloodstream. 

You were terrified of how much you liked it. You were more terrified of losing it. 

The nest also changed. You don't remember when. You'd been asleep, and BB had been out, doing whatever BB does when he leaves the territory, and you'd woken to find your apartment.

Not exactly. A yellow-tinged approximation of it, laid overtop the warm patch of carpet. The blankets rearranged into a bed with your bedspread from Santa Clara, the one with the faded blue flowers. The pillows you'd left in the apartment when the wall took you. The little side table with the lamp from the yard sale in Sunnyvale. Even the pattern of the wallpaper had shifted, not away from yellow but around it, a suggestion of the flowered paper you'd hung in the bedroom, ghosted through the buttercup background.

BB had been sitting cross-legged beside the nest when you woke, watching your face for the reaction, hands twisted together in his lap. He'd looked at you with such raw nervous hope that you'd started crying before you understood what he'd built.

“I heard you,” he'd said, voice unsure, small. “You said you missed home. So I—” He gestured at the room, his hands shaking. “I don't know if I got the pattern right. I only saw vague glimpses in your mind. I could change it, if it's wrong.”

You'd crawled into his lap. Buried your face in his neck. His cool skin had warmed slowly under your cheek.

That was weeks ago. Months ago. Time is soft here. It's before you started noticing the flowers on the wallpaper moving when you weren't looking directly at them. Before you noticed the lamp doesn't have a cord. Before you noticed that when BB is happy, the yellow warms toward gold, and when he's worried it cools toward green, and the whole territory has become an extension of his mood.

None of it scares you the way it should. That's the part that actually scares you.

“Baby?”

BB is sitting on the edge of the bed. He's holding a blanket he found somewhere, a thick, dark green wool one, and he's folding it with careful absorption. His long fingers crease the edges. He’s already gazing at you when you glance his way. His eyes are Bobby's blue today, human-shaped, the entity safely tucked away behind the mask.

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you something?” he asks carefully. 

You nod. “Of course.”

He visibly hesitates, his head lowered. “Do you want to go home?”

Your chest tightens. “BB—”

“You don't have to answer.” He folds the blanket smaller. His voice is steady, and his hands are also steady, but neither of those things is true underneath. “I just… I've been thinking about it. About whether you're staying because you want to or because you don't know how to leave. And I want, baby, I want you to know that if you—” He swallows. “If you need to go... I won't…”

He stops, staring at the blanket in his hands. 

“I won't stop you,” he finishes, practically choking the words out. 

You gaze at him. At the green blanket folded in his lap. At his hands, which are familiar and gripping the wool hard enough to dimple the fabric. At his face, which is Bobby's face and isn't, which is the face of a thing that heard you crying through a wall and built itself a body to hold you and is now offering to let you go because it loves you more than it loves having you.

“I don't know,” you say honestly. “I don't know, BB.”

He nods, keeps folding. You sit together in the quiet, and the yellow is the palest green you've ever seen it, almost grey, and BB's hands are shaking slightly around the blanket, and he's pretending they're not.

That night you lie awake in the nest that looks like your old apartment with BB's arm across your waist, and you think about going home. Really think about it. You think about the apartment in Santa Clara and the kitchen and your mug on the drying rack and your shoes by the mat. You think about Bobby. You think about whether Bobby is sitting in that apartment right now, or if he moved on without you there to nag him.

You think about going back to him, walking through the wall and climbing the stairs. Finding him. And you try to feel what that would be like, the reunion, the homecoming, and what you feel is—

Grief. You feel grief. 

Because going home means going back to Bobby, and going back to Bobby means going back to a man who locked the door. Who might open it now, might fling it wide, might weep and hold you and swear he'll be different. But you've spent months on the other side of that door. Months knocking. Months making yourself smaller and smaller to fit through the crack underneath. And even if Bobby opens the door now, you know what it's like when it's closed. You know the sound of his back turning. You know the weight of his indifference. You carry it in your bones.

The relationship was over months before you left. You know that now. The wall in Clark's basement didn't end your relationship with Bobby. Bobby ended it. Quietly, one day at a time, one turned back at a time, and you'd stood in the wreckage pretending it was still standing because the alternative was admitting you'd been alone for months in a room with someone who used to love you.

You're only here because you're finally letting the ghost of going home go.

Because letting BB in means choosing the yellow. Choosing the hum. Choosing a place with no sky and no weather. No yard sales on El Camino with golden retrievers named Mango. Letting BB in means letting the real world go, and admitting that the girl who fell through the wall in Clark's basement is not the girl sitting in this nest. 

That girl was going home. That girl was holding on. 

This girl has let go of everything except the creature beside her, and she doesn't want to pick any of it back up. 

It means letting Bobby's ghost go, too. 

The real one, the Bobby who exists in Santa Clara, the one who grunts at your goodbyes, that Bobby has been a ghost to you for longer than BB has been real. And the Bobby you've been holding onto, the candle in the draft, the one who filmed you sleeping and called you my girl, that Bobby is a memory. 

A beautiful, aching, preserved memory of a man who doesn't exist anymore. 

Loving a memory is not the same as loving a person. A memory can't change. A memory can't hurt you, can't grow, can't learn. A memory just sits in your chest, glows, and keeps you warm, and slowly, slowly starves you because you're using it to feed a hunger it was never designed to fill.

BB is not a memory. BB is real. He’s flawed in his own inhuman ways, learning in real time, and holding you right now, his cool arm across your waist, his purr a low vibration you can feel through the mattress. BB is the one who brought you a red button because your mom had a red mug years ago. BB is the one who offered to let you leave even though it would destroy him.

You love him. Not as a replacement. Not because he wears the right face. You love the thing behind the face. The thing that has no door, that never had it.

You turn over. Press your face into BB's chest. His arms tighten around you at once, his skin warming under your cheek.

“I'm staying,” you tell him in a tender whisper.

BB goes still.

“You—”

“I'm staying, BB,” you tell him again, pressing closer, tucking yourself close. “I'm choosing this. I'm choosing you.”

The purr cracks. Breaks apart. Reassembles into something so deep and so full it vibrates in your skull. BB's arms crush you against him and his face buries in your hair, and he's shaking, shaking, his cool body warming everywhere you touch him, and the yellow floods gold. 

The whole room, the whole level, gold as sunlight, gold as the thing inside his chest that has waited longer than time itself for someone to say those exact words.

You kiss him the next day.

He's beside you in the nest, cross-legged, telling you about a level he found that loops back on itself, and you're half-listening, more focused on the shape of his mouth than the words coming out of it. You lean over and press your lips to the hinge of his jaw. Just there. A small, warm press between his ear and his chin. 

BB falters mid-sentence. A stutter, a swallow, his eyes flicking to you and away.

“—and the walls change texture right where it loops, which is, um. Interesting because—”

You kiss the corner of his mouth. Lightly. Barely there. And your hand finds the back of his nape.

BB stops talking.

His neck is cool under your palm. Smooth, the tendons shifting as he swallows. Your fingers curl into the short hair at his nape. The change is immediate: his skin warming under your touch, temperature rising from mild to warm in three heartbeats. 

“Baby,” he says carefully, his voice dropping half an octave. “What are you—”

You kiss him again. On the mouth. Full. Your lips part against his, and you make it different. You don't hold back. You don't keep your hand on his chest as a brake. You kiss him with your whole body leaning into it, and your hand on his nape tightens, pulling him closer.

BB makes a sound against your lips. Small. Startled. His hands come up to your waist on instinct, and you can feel them warm against your skin in real time, heat blooming where you're connected. He's bracing himself for the pull-back. He's already preparing to be patient about it.

You press forward instead. Your weight shifts, your knee coming up onto the blankets, your body tipping into his. BB's hands tighten on your waist. You can feel the exact moment he realises you're not stopping, his fingers digging in, his breath hitching, his mouth opening wider for you. And you push him.

Gentle but firm, both hands on his chest now, and BB goes where you push him. 

His back hits the wall. The ghost-flowered wallpaper presses against his shoulder blades, and you're in his lap, knees on either side of his hips, chest against his chest. You kiss him fully. Mouth open. Tongue sliding against his. Your fingers in his hair and your hips pressing down against him and every last ounce of restraint you've been maintaining for months dissolving into the heat flooding through you.

The heat. The fog. It hits you the second you stop fighting it. Months of buildup pouring through. Your head swims. Your skin goes electric. BB's warmth blazes against you, drawn out by your body, his cool skin going hot wherever you touch him.

BB moans. Deep, ragged, pulled from somewhere below his chest, vibrating through his ribs into yours. Hungry and wanting. The sound of a creature starved, weak with wanting you so much. 

His hands move. They stop being still on your waist, and they move. Both of them, everywhere at once, kneading. His fingers grip the fat of your hips. His palms slide up your ribs. His hands cup your breasts through your shirt, fingers pressing and kneading with a desperate, tactile hunger. He needs to touch all of you at once, and two hands aren't enough.

His tongue slides along your lower lip, longer than it should be, and you open your mouth wider and let him in. BB groans desperately, his hips rolling up against you.

The sound is wet. BB’s tongue slides against yours in a coil that tightens and releases in eager pulses, saliva building between your joint mouths. The kiss is messy and open, drool collecting at the corner of your lips because you can't swallow around the thickness of his tongue filling your mouth.

You roll your hips against him again, harder. BB makes a broken sound, and his head drops back against the wall, his throat baring. You kiss it. The spot his pulse should be, his Adam's apple, the hollow at the base. His skin is warm now, fully warm, almost hot.

You pull back, your face inches from his. Your hands settle on his chest, feeling his heartbeat slamming against your palms. BB’s eyes are half-black. His mouth is swollen and wet, gaping open. His hands grip your hips hard enough to leave marks, his whole body trembling.

“I want you,” you gasp against his lips.

BB goes still. Every muscle in his body locks, his hands freezing on your hips. His breathing stops. His eyes search your face with an intensity that has nothing to do with Bobby and everything to do with the ancient thing behind the mask.

“You—” His voice trembles, going thin. “You want—”

You press your forehead against his. “I want you, BB.”

“Do… do you mean—”

“I mean all of it,” you rasp, your hand slipping into his hair. “I mean you."

BB’s face cracks open. His expression unravels completely, and what's underneath is raw and enormous and terrified and so, so joyful. His eyes go fully black, the entity surging to the surface, and he looks at you like you've just handed him the universe.

“You want me,” he whispers desperately, testing the words, faint with disbelief.

You cup his face with both hands. Your palms on his jaw, your thumbs on his cheekbones. His skin is burning under your hands.

“I want you,” you repeat, and you kiss him. Deeper. Slower. His tongue coils around yours, gentle, trembling, the grip shaky because BB is shaking, his whole body is.

He pulls back a centimetre, forehead nudging against yours. Eyes black and wet as they drink you in.

“I waited so long,” he whispers, his voice pained. “I waited so long for you. You don't know how long I was alone. And there was nothing. Just the hum, and the yellow. And then there was you. I heard your voice and I—”

His breath hitches, a wounded sound vibrating at the back of his throat.

“I'd rarely heard anything except the hum and the things in the dark, but then you were on the other side of the wall, and you were talking. Your voice… it was the first beautiful thing I ever heard. I built this—” He touches his own face. Bobby's face. His hand trembling. “I built all of this for you. Because I heard you crying and needed hands because you were sad. And I… I wanted to hold you, and I didn't have anything to hold you with.”

Tears burn your eyes. BB's thumbs trace your cheekbones lightly, wiping the tears as they threaten to escape.

“You were born for me,” he breathes, fierce and tender all at once. “I know that now. I was in the walls for—I don't have a number. But then you came along, and I knew. I was waiting for you this whole time. You were always going to be mine. I just had to learn how to deserve you.”

“I love you,” you choke out. “BB. I love you.”

He makes a broken, needy sound, pressing kisses to your face, your cheek, your jaw, your eyelids, the corner of your mouth. “I love you. Let me touch you. Please. Baby, please. I've waited so long.”

“Yes,” you whisper. “Take me to bed.”

He carries you. Two steps, three, his inhuman strength on casual display, and he lays you down on the bedspread with the faded blue flowers. 

His hands are shaking. The purr starts in his chest, a deep warm vibration you can feel through the mattress. He kneels between your legs and looks at you, just looks. His mouth swollen and wet. His chest heaving.

“I don't know how to. I've never—”

“I know.” You reach up and cup his face. His cool skin warms immediately under your palm. “I know, baby. I'll show you. I've got you.”

He drops down against you, his weight settling along your body, his face burying in your neck. His mouth opens against your pulse, and you feel his tongue, just the tip, tracing the vein under your skin. His lips close over your pulse point, and he sucks gently, the purr vibrating through his mouth into your neck.

“You're so warm,” he breathes against your skin. “Baby. You're so warm. I've been cold forever. And you're like a fire. I can feel your heartbeat through your skin. You're so alive. You're the most alive thing I've ever touched.”

His hands slide up your sides, pushing your shirt. His palms drag over your ribs, warming as they travel, and you can feel each finger pressing independently, the cool-to-warm transition happening in streaks along your skin. He pushes your shirt up and off, and his breath catches.

“Oh,” he exhales. Awed. “Oh.”

His hands hover an inch above your body, fingers spread, trembling. He looks at you like touching might break him entirely.

“It's okay,” you whisper. “BB. Touch me.”

Both hands settle on your breasts. Cool palms cupping you, and his temperature spikes, warming fast from the centre of his palms. His thumbs drag across your nipples, and you arch into the sensation, shivering.

“There,” he breathes. “Look at you. You're so soft. I've been touching concrete and monsters forever, and you're, you're so—”

He ducks his head and presses his mouth to the swell of your breast. Open-mouthed. Hot. His tongue slides out, the tip tracing the curve of you in a wet drag, and you gasp. BB makes a hungry sound against your skin, half moan, half purr.

“You taste alive,” he murmurs between greedy, slick licks. “I don't have a word, baby. You taste like everything I was missing.”

His mouth finds your nipple. His tongue coils around it, wrapping and squeezing gently, and he sucks. The purr intensifies, vibrating through his lips and his tongue into you. You cry out, sharp and broken, cupping his head to keep him there.

BB's hand kneads your other breast, fingers gripping, the wrong-textured pads of his thumbs dragging across your nipple. Between the attention to both at once, your head swims, your hips lifting off the bed. He murmurs praise into your skin, pulling off with a wet pop to press his open mouth to the underside of your breast, licking the crease there, nosing into the soft skin desperately.

“So beautiful. You have no idea what you look like. I didn't even know what this body was for until I saw you.”

He sucks a mark into the inner curve of your breast, suckling greedily. Then his mouth moves lower. BB’s tongue draws a long, unbroken line from between your breasts to your navel. He presses his mouth flat against your stomach and breathes in, eyes fluttering shut.

“I could stay here forever,” he mumbles against your belly. “Just breathing you in. You smell warm. I didn't know warm had a smell until you.”

BB’s fingers hook into your underwear and pull them down gradually. His breath catches as he bares you. His eyes go wide and fully black, fixed between your thighs. He's looking at you with such naked reverence it steals your breath.

“You're wet,” he says, hushed. His thumbs trace the crease where your thighs meet your hips, slow even as you sense the shaking still quaking his fingertips. “So wet, baby. Is that for me?”

You shiver at the touch, squirming. “Yes. All for you, BB.”

BB’s whole, borrowed body shudders at the confirmation. His tongue slides out, long and sinuous, and he licks his lips with it. The hunger on his face is staggering.

“Let me taste you,” he begs quietly. “Baby, please. I've never… please.”

Heat floods through your veins, molten and thick, at the pleading note in his voice. “Yes. God, yes.”

BB drops down immediately. His mouth presses to the inside of your knee. Cool lips warming as they drag up your inner thigh, pressing open-mouthed kisses into the soft skin there. His tongue traces the path, licking long wet stripes up your thigh. He pauses an inch away. Breathes. His breath is hot and damp, and your hips jerk toward him.

“You smell so good,” he murmurs. “And you're hot. I can feel it on my face.”

His tongue makes contact. Long and wet, dragging flat from the base of you all the way up. You sob, and your hands fly to his hair. BB makes a deep, guttural moan that vibrates through his tongue and into you, the purr kicking up so hard it vibrates the bed frame. His fingers dig into your thighs, and his mouth opens wide, and he licks you again. Slower. Longer. The tongue lingering at the top, the tip curling and pressing between your folds curiously.

“Baby. Baby. You taste… you’re dripping for me and so alive. I can't stop, I can't—”

He buries his face in you. His mouth open and his tongue extended to its full impossible length, lapping and stroking and coiling with the desperate, artless hunger. The sounds are obscene. Wet, squelching, sloppy. Saliva and your own arousal mix and drips down his chin. BB’s moaning into you with a continuous low vibration, his fingers gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise, pulling you closer, pressing his face deeper, taking more.

“More,” you gasp through a breathy moan. “BB, more. Please.”

His tongue extends further. Longer. Longer. You feel it pressing inside you, and your hips buck, and BB growls against your clit then keeps pushing. The muscular length of it curls and coils inside you, filling you, reaching deeper than fingers could reach. Deeper than anything human could, and you feel it pressing against the back of you, the very deepest place, and your whole body seizes.

“BB, that's, oh God, that's—”

His tongue presses against the mouth of your womb. The tip of it, delicate and hot, nudging that innermost barrier, and the sensation is so deep and so foreign that your entire body goes rigid and your hands yank at his hair and you make a gasping, yelping sound. High and ragged, pitching toward half a scream.

BB moans into you. The vibration travels through the full length of his tongue, from your clit where his lips are sealed to the deepest place where the tip is pressing. Stimulation at both ends simultaneously and all through the middle, his tongue moving, coiling and uncoiling, massaging places that have never been touched. His lips close over your clit and suck, hard, and the tongue is so deep you can feel it in your stomach.

You're thrusting into his face. Your hips rolling, grinding against his mouth, and BB makes a pleased sound and holds you tighter to him, delighted. Then his hands clamp on your thighs, and he pins you. Presses your hips flat to the mattress with an inhuman grip you couldn't break if you tried, and the sudden loss of control makes you writhe.

Your sounds don't belong to you anymore. You're gripping his hair with both fists. BB is purring so hard the vibration sits at the back of your throat, and his tongue is touching places that have never been bordered. His chin is soaked, and you can hear the wet, filthy sounds, and you're sobbing, thrashing against his grip.

“You're gonna come for me,” he mumbles against you, his mouth never fully leaving. “I can feel it. So close, baby. Give it to me. I want to taste you when you come.”

You come. Hard. 

Your whole body arches against BB’s grip, thighs clamping around his head, hands pulling his hair. BB moans into you and holds you down and licks you through it, his long tongue working inside you as you clench and spasm around him. 

He's swallowing, sucking, drawing every last drop into his mouth and gulping it down hungrily. His lips close over your swollen folds and he laps at them, slow and thorough, licking you clean with long flat drags. Each pass over your over-sensitive skin makes you twitch and whimper, and he keeps going. Collecting every trace of wetness, every last drop, his tongue dragging through the mess of you with a patience that borders on worship.

“Every drop,” he's murmuring, practically slurring. “I want every drop. My perfect girl.”

His tongue retracts gradually, inch by inch, and you can feel every inch leaving you. The emptiness when it's gone is aching.

BB presses a kiss to your cunt. Right there. Soft. His swollen lips against your swollen folds, gentle and lingering. He pulls back just enough to breathe against you.

“I'll be inside here soon, baby,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your throbbing core as he speaks. “Right here. Right where my tongue was. I'll be so deep. I'll fill you up.” Another kiss. Softer, absent. Like he has no idea what his words and actions are doing to you. “I'll take good care of you. I promise.”

He crawls up your body. Wet open-mouthed kisses up your stomach, between your breasts, on your throat. He tastes like you. You can taste yourself on his tongue when he kisses your mouth, wet and deep, and the intimacy of it, tasting yourself inside his kiss, makes your whole body clench.

“I need you,” he pants against your lips. “I need to be inside you. Please. I need—”

You peck his lips, breathing against them, “Go on. Need you, too. But I want you to show me. Show me what you really are.”

He goes still. The fear rises behind Bobby's eyes. His whole body goes rigid, and his hands tighten on your hips.

“It’s fine.” His voice quivers. “I can keep the shape. You don't have to—”

You trace his cheek, outlining the ridge of his cheek. “I want to.”

“I don't—” He swallows hard. “I don't want you to see me and—” His jaw pulses from how hard he’s clenching his teeth. “What if you can't look at me after? What if I'm—”

“BB.” You cup his jaw, the constructed bones trembling under your palms. “Whatever you're comfortable with. Whatever you want to show me. I'm not going anywhere.”

He gazes down at you. Black-eyed and trembling, searching your face for the lie, for the flinch, for the moment you take it back. He doesn't find it.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay. Just, just a little. Let me just…”

His jaw sharpens under your hands. Just slightly. The line of it going harder, more angular, the bone shifting beneath his skin. He watches your face the whole time, ready to snap back at the first sign of revulsion.

You stroke your thumb over his newly sharp cheekbone. “Beautiful,” you exhale.

BB makes a low, choked sound. His eyes go wider, blacker. The pupils elongate slightly, going vertical. He's shivering. Genuinely shivering, full-body tremors, and you can feel his skin gaining a faint iridescent sheen under your palms, cool and smooth.

“More?” he asks, barely audible.

You take him in, all of him. “More, baby.”

His shoulders lengthen. His neck gains an inch. The proportions of his face slide further from Bobby, the mouth too wide, the cheekbones too high, and you trace the new angles with your fingertips and press your mouth to his jaw and lick the iridescent skin and BB whines. High and desperate and pleased.

“You're… you're not—” He's stammering, trembling in your hold. “You're not scared?”

“I'm not scared, BB. Keep going.”

He gives you more. His spine gains extra vertebrae you can feel through his skin, his torso gaining a sinuous quality. The ghost of a diamond pattern moves beneath his skin, the suggestion of scales. His fingers lengthen slightly, extra articulation appearing in the joints.

You run your palms down his chest, trace the diamond pattern. You press your mouth to his collarbone, where the iridescent sheen is strongest, and kiss the skin there, open-mouthed, tasting the chilly smoothness of him.

BB drops his face into your neck. Hiding. He's hiding, his too-sharp jaw pressed against your shoulder, his shivering intensifying, and you can feel his features still shifting against your skin. He's giving you more, but he can't watch you see it.

“Hey,” you coax, putting your hand under his chin. Tip his face up. “Hey. Look at me.”

He resists for a second. Then he lets you lift his face.

He looks alien. His eyes are polished obsidian, no whites. His jaw is too defined. His mouth is too wide. The iridescent skin catches the yellow light in shimmering refractions. He looks terrified. He looks beautiful.

“There you are, baby,” you whisper, and lean up and kiss him.

BB produces a broken, grateful sound against your mouth, and the purr comes back so hard the walls vibrate.

He adjusts his position, still kissing you as he settles between your thighs, and you understand, immediately, that he’s not a copy.

The mimicry that he's maintained for months falls away the second BB pushes inside you. He's BB. A creature in a body he built to love you, figuring out what it can do in real time.

The shape of him inside you is not human. It's close enough that the entry works. But once he's seated, the texture is wrong, and the temperature is wrong, cool at first then warming fast, and he fills you in ways men don't. His anatomy is adjusting, learning you, reshaping moment by moment. Ridges where there were none. Swells of pressure in places human anatomy couldn't produce. The length of him moving with a sinuous quality. And it's still changing, adjusting his shape to hit exactly what makes you cry out.

“Oh baby,” he breathes, his voice cracking, ragged. “I can feel everything. I can feel your heartbeat through your—” He shudders, his back arching like it’s too overwhelming. “How do humans survive this?”

“BB, you feel so good, right there, don’t stop, baby—”

You press your hips up against him, taking him deeper, squeezing him with your inner muscles, and BB makes a choked, groaning sound, his whole body going taut above you. 

You can feel the fullness of him shifting inside you, the ridges dragging, his cock reshaping in response to the pressure of your squeeze. Where you tighten, he swells. Where you release, he fills. It's a feedback loop made flesh, his anatomy learning yours in real time, and the sensation is so foreign and so full that your eyes water.

“Yeah? Is that good?” His voice breaks. His hips roll again, deeper this time, and the ridges snag and drag on the withdrawal, a slow slick pull that makes an obscene dripping sound. You both gasp at it. You both hear it. The slick, filthy evidence of how wet you are, how aroused, and BB's eyes go glassy, his mouth falling open. “Tell me. Tell me I’m good.”

You adjust your thighs again, opening even wider, hooking your ankles behind his back and pulling him in until he's nestled so deep you can feel the cool-turning-warm base of him flush against you. The fullness is immense, a stretch that borders on too much, and you squeeze him again and BB's arms buckle. His elbows hit the mattress on either side of your head, and his face is inches from yours. 

His mouth opens, and the sound he makes is a raw, ruined whine.

“Y-You're perfect, BB. Don't, ah, stop.”

He rolls his hips again. Slow, sinuous, that serpentine wave he can't suppress anymore, and the motion drags his cock against you, every ridge and swell and shifting contour lighting up nerve endings you didn't know you had. The slick sounds between your bodies are continuous now, a gushing symphony between your joint flesh. You can feel your own arousal dripping down onto the sheets below, and you don't care because the fullness is extraordinary, and every roll of his hips makes the ridges snag against your walls and catch and pull, and each pull sends you closer to the edge.

You push your hips up to meet his next stroke. The impact makes you both groan. You do it again. Finding a tempo together, his wave and your thrust, the wet lewd sounds getting louder, and BB is panting against your mouth, his breath hot and damp, his eyes half-closed.

“You're so tight,” he gasps. “Baby, every time you squeeze me I can feel your whole body, I can feel everything tighten, you're gripping me so hard, and it's, it's—”

You squeeze him harder. On purpose. Clench around the shifting shape of him and hold. BB's eyes fly open, and his mouth stretches wide, and a sound comes out of him that’s pure entity, a harmonic moan that vibrates through his cock and into you and through the walls. His hips stutter out of the wave and slam forward, involuntary, and the ridges catch deep inside you and your back bows off the bed.

“There,” you gasp, your eyes burning from burning pleasure ravaging through your body.

“There,” he echoes, awed. “I can feel what that does to you. I didn't know anything could—”

He shudders, and his features shift with it. His jaw sharpens a degree. The iridescence pulses brighter on his cheekbones. He ducks his face into your neck, hiding.

“No,” you say, breathless, your hand tangling into his sandy hair. “Let me see you.”

He resists. His jaw pressed against your shoulder, his breath ragged against your throat.

“BB. Let me see.”

He lets you lift his face, his features having slipped further. Cheekbones too high. Mouth even wider. The iridescence brighter. His eyes are completely black and wet, and he's so scared, you can see it. You look directly into them and say, “Don't hide from me. You're beautiful.”

BB makes a strangled sound, his hips stuttering. The purr cracks and reforms. His features shift more, right in front of you, and you watch them move, watch his face rearrange itself in real time, and the intimacy of it makes you reel. Because it’s more intimate than the sex. He’s literally coming apart in front of you and letting you watch.

“Good,” you moan, stroking his shifting jaw. “That's it, BB.”

The pleasure isn't building in a line; it's accumulating in layers. 

His hand under your back, lifting you. His mouth on your throat, usually cool lips searing. His thumb at the hinge of your hip, longer now, bending where thumbs don't bend. The appendages emerging one by one, warm and tapered, gripping your thighs, holding your legs open at an obscene angle. Each one a new layer feeding into the one beneath it.

His hips slam deeper, and your breasts ripple with the force. BB is watching, his too-wide mouth lolling open, and his eyes are glazed, his features shifting faster now, responding to pleasure the way a human face flushes. His jaw sharpens then softens then sharpens again. His pupils dilate and contract in pulses seemingly against his control. 

“Look at what I do to you,” he pants, his voice hitting a deeper register that’s decidedly not Bobby. “I can't stop touching you. Your skin is so soft, every part of you is burning for me, and you're—” His voice fails him. He ducks his face into your neck again, his features shifting against your skin, and you feel the rasp of scales that aren't quite scales, there and gone.

You pull him back up again, hold his face. He's whining, high and continuous, his eyes wet.

“Stay with me,” you say. 

He moans loudly. His features ripple again, even further from Bobby, and his mouth is trembling, and BB looks destroyed, open, the ancient thing behind the mask laid bare while he fucks you, and the vulnerability of it makes your chest ache.

“You're incredible,” he breathes. “You're so wet for me, all of this is for me. I can f-feel how close you are. I can feel it building. Baby, please. Come for me."

Your orgasm rips through you, and BB snarls at the sensation, his features sharpening, the entity surging to the surface, and he doesn't stop, doesn't slow. His hips keep working ruthlessly. The shape of him inside you keeps shifting with each thrust. The appendages grip your thighs tighter, and your orgasm rolls into another one immediately, pinned down, taking whatever he gives you.

“That's it,” he purrs against your ear, nuzzling. “My girl. I can feel you fluttering around me. I've never felt anything like you.”

His tongue slides out, longer than it should be. Drags up the side of your neck. His teeth catch your earlobe, too sharp, and the tiny sting makes you gasp. His hand kneads your breast, gripping, his ridged thumb dragging across your nipple.

“You're so perfect,” he mumbles against your ear, his hips still working, the wet squelching symphony filling the room. “Every time I push in, I can feel you opening and closing around me, and it's—baby, it's the best thing I've ever felt, it's better than anything, you're better than anything—”

His length adjusts on every stroke, swelling and contracting, ridges rubbing against your sensitive walls. The sheets are getting damp beneath you. BB is moaning with every thrust now, layered over the purr, and the purr is vibrating through his cock and into you.

You can't control the sounds coming out of you. You're moaning and sobbing continuously, mindless, drool on your chin, tears on your face, your nails clawing at his back and leaving furrows in the iridescent skin.

The third hits. Your whole body seizes with it. BB cock swells inside you, expanding impossibly, and the stretch shoves you over again, a fourth on the heels of the third. 

“That's it,” he gasps. “You're taking me so well. You're the first. The only one. There's never been anyone except you.”

The truth of those words hits you straight in the heart. He made this body for you. It has never known anyone else, and likely never will. 

By the fifth round, you can't produce words anymore. Your mouth is open, and nothing's coming out. BB is murmuring into your skin, his tongue licking the tears off your cheeks, tasting your throat, your sweat, every available inch of skin. Your body is nothing but sensation. He's whispering, awed and dazed: “I've got you, baby. So brave. So warm. You're everything, my everything.”

Around the sixth, your hands go limp. Your whole body goes slack except for the involuntary tremors. You're drooling freely onto the pillow. Your eyes are glazed and half-open. You’re conscious but only just, held in a state of continuous pleasure that has dissolved every boundary between your body and his.

BB feels himself getting close. His breathing changes. His hips lose their fluid wave and become harder, urgent, perfectly ruthless. The purr breaks into a low keening sound, and he pulls back.

He cups your ass. Both hands, those long wrong-jointed fingers gripping the flesh of you. He raises your hips off the mattress, tilts you up toward him. Holds you there, suspended.

And he peers down. At your stomach.

You follow his gaze through the fog. You look down at your own body.

You can see him. The shape of him moving inside you. A subtle bulge beneath the skin of your lower stomach, pressing outward with every thrust, the length of him shifting and adjusting. The bulge presses up and recedes in time with his hips. Your stomach ripples with each motion.

BB is staring, transfixed. His black eyes are nailed to the sight of himself inside you, his mouth parted. 

“Look at that,” he purrs, and this time you see and hear the predator underneath, satisfied with what he’s seeing. “Look at that. I can see myself inside you. You're so full of me.”

He presses deeper, and the bulge pushes higher. You moan, a thin broken sound, and BB makes a soft noise back, almost soothing, and his hips work faster, holding you up, watching himself move inside you.

“You're taking all of me,” he remarks appreciatively, head cocked. “Every inch. Look at what you're holding.”

His tongue extends, slipping to wrap around the spot where his cock keeps sliding into you, and you moan when the tip prods almost playfully at your swollen clit. 

He thrusts into you twice more, hard and deep, finishing inside you with a pleased sigh.

Warm. Impossibly warm. It pulses in time with the harmonic, filling you, filling and filling, overflowing, spilling out around him. The faint gold glow. Pale and luminescent, pooling on your inner thighs, gushing down onto the sheets. Puddles of it. The bed soaked. His release casts a soft light upward onto both your bodies. BB is still inside you, still shaking through it, his mouth on your neck, licking slow grateful stripes up the column of your throat now. 

You’ve never heard the purr going louder. 

“You did so good, baby,” he rasps affectionately, peppering small kisses behind your ear. “Look at what you took. All of me.”

You can't answer. You can barely breathe. Your whole body is a limp pile of limbs beneath him. You’re boneless against the pillows, drool on your chin, tears drying on your face, hair plastered to your forehead.

BB pulls back to examine you. His face is a mess, too, half-slipped, jaw too sharp on one side and human on the other. Black eyes and swollen mouth, chin still dripping with you. He's grinning. That dark pleased grin, all predator, the purr rumbling on in his chest cavity.

His hips roll again. Slow, testing. Still hard inside you.

“Again, baby?” Low, dark, almost mocking. “One more for me?”

You don't have one more in you. You’re empty, wrung out, incapable of forming sentences.

You nod anyway.

BB whines, high and pleased, and drops his mouth back to yours and starts moving all over again.

He fucks you until you black out.

You lose consciousness somewhere in the middle because your body cannot sustain the amount of pleasure being poured into it and your brain, mercifully, shuts down. The last thing you're aware of is BB's purr vibrating through both your bodies and the faint gold glow pooling under you and his mouth against your temple whispering I love you, I love you, I waited so long, I love you.

When you come back, you have no idea how long it's been. You're clean. He's cleaned you. The bed is dry. You're wrapped in the blankets, wearing one of his shirts. BB is curled around you, human-shaped again, mostly, his face buried in your hair, his arm heavy across your waist. He’s purring. Low and pleased and constant. His skin is cool again, warm only where you're pressed together.

You stir. He notices immediately.

“Baby,” he calls out, his mouth finding your temple. “You're awake. Are you okay? Did I… was I too—”

“Perfect,” you slur, your throat aches from the sheer amount of moaning and screaming you’ve done. “You were perfect, BB.”

He goes still. Then he shudders, his arm tightening around you. He presses his mouth to your hairline and holds it there for a long time. The purr deepens into something so full it borders on mournful, loving, perfectly content.

“I love you,” he says, his voice small, shy again. “I love you more than anything.”

Your eyes burn, but for a different reason now. “I love you too, BB.”

He shivers at the words, a full-body reaction. Under the blankets, one of the appendages, not retracted all the way, probably never fully retracting again, curls around your thigh. Possessive. Settling. Warming as it holds.

“Again later,” he murmurs against your temple. That cocky dark satisfaction layered underneath the tenderness. “We're going to do that again.”

You should be terrified.

But you’re not. Because you’re finally home.

You fall asleep to the sound of BB’s purring, and his whispered I love you in the yellow light of a nest that looks like your old apartment, in the arms of an ancient lonely being that has finally, finally been chosen.

The first time it happened, Kara honestly thought it was a fluke.   

Your breath hitched and your heartbeat picked up the second she called you “my girl” but you never said anything about it, so naturally, Kara assumed it was the hand on your waist and her lips on your neck.

She didn’t think much of it; honestly, all she could think of at that point was the way you leaned into her and your voice calling out her name—like it was the only thing you could say. So she went back to kissing along your neck, not really thinking about the specific words at all.

The second time it happened, the two of you were arguing about something stupid. Something along the lines about you getting hurt and Kara dropping her post on the mission to come and rescue you. And it isn’t that you’re not grateful—as you try to tell her in the middle of the screaming match—it’s just that she can’t keep leaving her post during an active mission for you. 

Kara yelled back, “Well I don’t care! If my girl is getting fucking shot at, I’m going to run to her—”

She cut herself off as she narrowed her eyes at you, because Kara is always perceptive, especially when it comes to you, and she heard the spike in your heartbeat again, and the way your eyes widened very slightly—almost unnoticeable to the human eye—and your breathing got shallower. 

But there’s still not a lot Kara could do about it that time because it was only for a second and then you were yelling at her about how you could take care of yourself again and she had to push that out of her mind. 

Really—the third time it happens is when Kara can actually take advantage of it and actually push the limits to see how far your little . . . quirk can go. And of course she does exactly that; why not see her baby get all flustered over her? 

Clark is hosting a stupid barbeque and for once Kara attends because it’s her stupid cousin’s birthday, and she can be nice (sometimes). Of course, she drags you with her, because she doesn’t want to be there, she just wants to be home with you. Of course, you look gorgeous in a long floral dress. Of course, Kara has to physically stop herself from touching you all the time because Clark is right there and she really doesn’t want to deal with his nagging.

Like all events that include Clark, this one includes a lot of socialising. A lot of introductions of herself as Kara Danvers, Clark’s cousin from Smallville. The only thing that makes it tolerable is the fact that you’re there, smiling and nodding along and every time someone asks who you are, Kara can grab your waist and tug you closer and introduce you as “my girl.”

This time, slight hitch in your breath, the pickup of your heartbeat and the way you try to suppress your blush is very evident and there’s very little distracting her from it. And yeah, Kara is having the time of her life watching you try to hide it from her, even though she’s literally got superhearing. Especially as you cough behind your arm as her thumb brushes against your waist, or when you quickly volunteer to help Lois any time you catch her staring at you.

It’s very close to the best thing ever: watching her normally composed and mouthy girl turn into a stumbling mess because of her, because of two words that she mutters like it’s habit—because that’s what it started off as. Of course, she’d call you her girl, that’s what you are (alongside with pretty girl, pretty baby, her gorgeous baby, her sweet girl and so so many more that Kara has not stopped taking advantage of).

It’s a little funny—very funny to Kara—how that’s all it takes (yes, Clark is side-eyeing her with his stupid ‘omg my cousin’s in love’ grin. No, she does not give a shit).

As the night begins to finally wind down, with most of the guests either leaving or choosing to get wine drunk with Lois, it’s very easy for Kara to corner you at the kitchen as you’re putting some of the dishes away so that her cousin has one less task to deal with after everyone’s gone (and she won’t admit it, but seeing you do something for her family? That tugs on her heart strings and makes her smile want to kiss you stupid).

You’re near the cabinet when Kara suddenly appears behind you, hands caging you in with her chest pressed into your back. She kisses along your neck, starting at the base and making her way up to your ear. You’re already blushing, breathing gotten shallower, as you lean into her embrace, letting go of the plates so you don’t accidentally drop them. But then her hands move to your waist, gripping them and her mouth moves to your ear, and in that low voice of hers that she knows you love, she whispers:

“How’s my girl doing?”

And Kara can feel the way you freeze. With the way your breathing staggers and your heart rate picks up and she has to hide her absolutely jovial smirk with another kiss against your neck. 

“What?” she asks again, “cat got your tongue?” 

You can’t do anything, really. You’re caged in between the counter top and your way too smug girlfriend right now, with another super with super-hearing literally not that far away. You really don’t want to give anything away more than you already have, because this little secret of yours is out of the bag.

“Kara,” you say, tone a bit bashful as you try to stand up straight. She doesn’t let you, of course, pulling you back into her. 

“Yeah?” she mutters again, kisses on your neck resuming. 

“Clark—” You try to remind her that her cousin also has super hearing and you really don’t want him to catch you two getting frisky in his kitchen, but it seems like your girlfriend doesn’t really care right now.

“Not my name, baby,” she says as she bites your earlobe, slowly dragging her teeth down. “Or is my girl suddenly shy? Hmm?”

There it is again—those two words. Your absolute undoing. Kara isn’t sure if they’ll have an effect on you right now, with the neck kissing and the teasing, but she’s pleasantly surprised when you shudder and close your eyes, like out of everything else it’s those two words that get to you the most.

Clark calls her name out, and she takes a step back, still with the biggest shit eating grin on her face. Doesn’t matter if her cousin’s found you two out, doesn’t matter if she had to stop this show—because now she knows exactly what gets you, and god save you because Kara Zor-El is about to use that weakness. 

If only confirmed by her quick kiss and a promise for taking care of her girl later tonight at home.

Absolutely livid.

"Hey."

You can already envision the dopey smile spread across his face, his eyes twinkling in a way that always seems to send your knees wobbling every time he catches your eye.

Even though the sudden appearance of your lovely boyfriend was a comfort you needed right now, the idea of Clark only spread more guilt throughout your body. Your pace only seemed speed up at the sound of his voice, you can only imagine the look on his face right now as you try to control your breathing with shaky inhales.

All this was supposed to be an amicable relationship, a comfort to when you couldn't seem to stay asleep at ungodly hours of the night —unwilling to wake up Clark from his slumber for something so little— and companionship to the hero of Metropolis when the night was slow and lonely. That's all it was supposed to be. Especially, when the sweet, dorky, and absolutely perfect farm boy was already yours.

God, how did this happen.

How could you do this to Clark?

Something pulls your hand away from your mouth, just before you could rip another piece off. Your brain seems to clear as you feel a hand side onto your waist, stopping you from wearing down a path on the roof even more.

The haze of anger, confusion, and guilt that seemed to surround you almost completely disappears as you feel a warm, stable beat of the heart you've devoted so much time learning and memorizing the song of under the pads of your fingers. Your heart begins to match its rhythm as Clark wraps around you, shielding the rest of the world.

The low timbre of his voice fills the space as he hums a small tune, if only to center your brain on him and not whatever is on your mind.

"What's going on in that beautiful brain of yours?" Clark softly asks as a smile grows across his face with a tilt of his head, "I know it's not nothing."

Anger flares up again, fanning the flames at a particular man of steel as warm, gentle hands move to cradle your head. Blue eyes seem to soften the burn as they crinkle with concern.

"C'mon, you know you can tell me ."

Nevermind, guilt is also back on the table.

"It's genuinely nothing," you muffle as you tuck yourself deeper into his chest. Hands creating wrinkles as you take fistfuls of his crisp shirt, just to avoid those same eyes.

Your jaw starts to clench as more thoughts seems to zoom across your mind. Of fucking course, it's fucking Superman. His name is literally fucking Super. Man. How cliche of you. Is bread the best thing you've ever tasted? Oh, you're attracted to a man with big muscles, a kind smile, and the symbol of all that is good in the world? Call the press because you've got a groundbreaking story right here.

And the cherry on top of all of that, your boyfriend seems to be the only reporter in the city that has a rapport with him, someone that he trusts.

"You really think I believe that?"

"Can you just believe it for now?"

"Nope."

You pull away with a drawn out groan, his laugh lingering in the background as you restart your route around the area.

Ok, it's not like you have to see him everyday, well in person that is. This is what you were training for, you can just avoid Kal. All this will go away if you just stay in your bedroom and not venture out when you can't sleep, simple, succinct. You'll never need to address the familiar feelings that usually only sprout with Clark that are now starting to grow when you're with him as well. Nor will you need to address the confusing feeling that started to grow into another thing when he decided to absentmindedly and softly kiss you when he had to leave last night. Which obviously made you like this now, so now you never need to address it! Great! Then you can just live your wonderful life with your wonderful boyfriend who you love and adore and the two of you'll go off and-

"Honey, I can hear your thoughts from over here," Clark chuckled, now settled next to the bags you carelessly tossed to the floor in a haste to try and stop your racing heart, "I promise you it can't be that-"

You fold under absolutely no pressure.

"I have a stupid crush on Superman, ok?!"

You huff, pretty much throwing yourself to the ground next to Clark, "It's ruining my life."

The silence from the man next to you sends nausea rolling throughout your stomach as you breath through your hands, trying not to freak out.

A silence that lasted way too long for someone like Clark.

You peak through your hands, only to see Clark looking away with puffed cheeks, very obviously trying not to laugh. It's only till he turns back to look at you does a snort escape from him.

"Clark," you whine, "I'm being serious."

"I am too!"

You start to get back on your feet, "That's it, I'm walking off the roof."

"No, come back here," he very easily pulls you back down with a laugh, only for you tuck yourself into his arm, trying to hide your embarrassment.

You can practically hear the smug look on his face, "Now. Superman, you say."

"You're enjoying this way too much."

"Ok. So, let's talk this through, what about him do you like so much," Clark smiles down at you, "From personal experience, I know your head isn't turned so easily."

Your face could burn a hole into Clark's shirt with how hot you feel as Clark just keeps on pestering you about your life changing discovery.

"I'm not telling my boyfriend about a crush I have on another man," you grumble.

"Humor me."

You peak back up to Clark. No anger, disgust, or even jealousy is evident in his face, only the same face you fell in love with greets you, eyes still bright as it was before. Sure, an annoying smirk is splashed across his face —you have no idea why that's there—, but the same old Clark is staring back at you.

"You like his muscles, don't you?"

"I'm actually going to jump off this building," you pull away from him with fake annoyance, sitting up straight yet still pressed into his side.

Clark snickers besides you, "Oh, so that Superman can hold you in his big, muscular arms."

"No," you snort.

Metropolis starts to fade as you zero into Clark, only Clark. What does Superman have over the kind, bumbling dork you call yours. Powers? A Cape? Nothing can truly compare to what you have right now.

You soften, "Not when you're right here next to me."

A breeze starts to pick up as you lean up and press a small kiss into the corner of his smile. A secret kind of quietness fills the space as the two of you look over the city. Pressed into each others side, you're happy that you chose the man beside you.

"Speaking of Superman…"

You groan, "I thought we dropped it."

"I know, I know, it's just," Clark inhales, "I've been thinking about this for a while, now that you bring him up that is."

"What, you have a crush on the man of steel too? I mean, you might spend more time with him the most besides me, interviews and all."

"Honey, are you having an affair with Superman?"

Oh fuck, "NO, NO, I am NOT. Sometimes I just can't fall asleep and he gets lonely and we just end up talking. Oh my god, Clark, Ipromisenothingisgoingon-"

Clark interrupts, "I know, Honey. Don't worry, I would know if you were having an affair with Superman."

"I mean, yeah, he doesn't seem like someone who would do something like that, I mean I saw him save a squirrel before. You talk to him and there's no way that he would hit on a colleague's partner especia- NOT THAT I WOULD CHEAT ON YOU."

"I know you wouldn't," his voice stopping you from spiraling even further.

"Im just telling that I would know," Clark smiles and with a final exhale, "because I'm Superman."

Pulling off his glasses, the rug is pulled under you as you just blink at him. The haze seemed to be lifted as your brain starts to fill in the blanks and finally connects the final pieces needed for you to catch up.

You fell for Clark. Superman.

Twice.

What the fuck.

Silence seemed to build and you can feel the nervous energy rolling off of Clark. Suddenly springing up from your seat, you return to the route burned into the top of the Daily planet and Clark springs up right behind you almost immediately.

"If you need more evidence, I am more than willing to-"

"You have got to be kidding me."

Clark starts to shrink into himself, "I know you're mad I kept this from you, but you've got to understand, I have a lot of people who want to hurt me and I couldn't drag you int-"

"So you're telling…I fell in love with the poster boy for attractiveness? Not once but twice???"

Clark stops, "What."

"Oh my god, is vanilla my favorite flavor of ice cream? Is Avatar my favorite movie? I fell in love with the symbol for all that is good in the world, twice. Oh my god, call Perry because this is a news worthy story-"

"I don't know whether to be flattered or…"

"The definition of easy on the eyes. I'm over here falling in love with Mr. six-foot-four, chiseled-abs, biceps the size of my head-"

"Good to know that I was right about the muscles thing."

"Has everyone in the world drooling over him, twice. God, I can't believe I fell for the fucking trap, multiple times-"

You pause.

Slowly you turn, marching right up to Clark's stupid, dumb, unbelievably charming face.

"This is un-fucking-believable. You hear me, Smallville? You can't just go and kiss someone when they're sleep deprived and don't know that their boyfriend is Superman."

Flashes of realizations rush across his face that soon settle into understanding. A red flush covers his face as he pulls a hand to rub the back of his neck, "Oh, right that."

"You…"

A small shift in his step makes his nervousness more evident to you, "Are you still mad at me?"

A large sigh escapes you, your hands already reaching up to cup his face. With the sun fully set, only the lights of the buildings around you illuminate the roof. Almost automatically, Clark leans lower, chasing your hold as the two of you perfectly fit against each other, his hands already resting on your waist.

Your eyes flicker over his features, now fully revealed to you. Your hand starts trace through the small differences, the ones that set apart the two lives he was living. His nose a bit sharper, his eyes a little brighter. While your brain was catching up, trying to piece together the two pieces to fit, of course your heart recognized him, how could it not.

Superman may forever belong to the world, but Clark Kent, your Clark, belonged to you.

Your hands settle at the nape of his neck, "No, I'm not. Not really."

A soft hum comes out of his lips as he leans down to rest his forehead on yours. You can't help but laugh as he makes it a point to lock his eyes onto yours.

"You know, I didn't know you had a type."

You can't help but groan.

"Am I really that irresistible to you?" God, you're never going to hear the end of this, "what was it about having biceps the size of your head?"

"I don't want to talk to you right now."

Heat started to run across your body as he continued, "Poster boy for attractiveness, was it you said? Or, or was it the definition of easy on the eyes…"

His voice started to fade as he leaned closer, just to close the gap between the two of you. Right as the gap was about to close, your hand pushes against his chest, just enough to stop him in his tracks.

"Wait a second, I told Superman about your birthday present."

"What's that? Oh no! I can hear a cat stuck in a tree, I guess that's my cue!"

"No, Clark get back here-"

taglist: @wichu127 @scissorhvnds @starr-jazz @kryptidfiles @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger

if you enjoyed, remember reblogs and comments are an authors best friend!!!!!

★ You bought Kara a pull-up bar, and now it’s her favorite thing to use for quick workouts. Sometimes, you’ll stand in front of her so she can kiss you on every down rep

★The first time Kara tells you she loves you is on top of one of the highest buildings in Metropolis. You think you told her that you loved her back, but you could barely hear a thing over your rapid heartbeat, the wind roaring in your ears.

★ You do make sure to whisper an “I love you too,” later that night when the two of you are curled up in bed. And she’d respond in kind by smiling against the crown of your head and pulling you closer

★ Kara isn’t a master chef, by any means. She’s barely mastered not burning instant noodles. But she’s never not looking up new recipes, vowing that once she got above skill level 1 in cooking, she’d be making all kinds of neat foods for you

★ Another love language for the two of you was playlists. You were the one to start it, claiming that there were so many songs you wanted to show Kara, and once she got the hang of making playlists, she’d often make you new ones as often as twice a week.

★ She’s always been incredibly in tune with her emotions (and yours). Which is to say that you can never get a bad mood past Kara. All she has to do is take one look at your face to know you’ve had a difficult day. And then she’s cooing, “Hey, talk to me, baby,” and pulling you into her lap

★ And speaking of sitting in her lap, that’s Kara’s absolute favorite place to have you. Typically she prefers to have you positioned so that your back is pressed to her chest while her calloused hands massage miscellaneous shapes into your hips

★ Kara had found it was way too easy to make you blush. All it took to get your blood pumping were a few dirty words whispered in your ear. It was a fun game for Kara. Or it was when you weren’t threatening ‘no sex for a week’ for her teasing

- nsfw -

★ Did I mention Kara likes having you in her lap? She especially loves when that comes with the added stimulus of hickeys. And you’d never hold back from absolutely attacking her neck. She’d often steal your phone and take pictures of herself with those pretty love marks all over her neck. (And you’d roll your eyes and smile when you’d find those same pictures in your camera roll later)

★ Eating you out is something Kara is immediately good at. Miraculously. She’s a fast learner. All it takes is a little instruction, and Kara immediately picks it up: scissoring with her fingers to gather your slick, bringing more wetness to the surface as she absolutely devours you with her tongue and lips. And it doesn’t matter what position you’re in. Every single time Kara makes you come, it’s the hardest you’ve ever come.

★ She’d become something of a sex fiend after the first time. And her stamina is nothing to play with

★ In fact, you quickly realize that Kara’s stamina is the hottest thing about her. The two of you could be going at it like bunnies for hours, only for Kara to barely break a sweat by the end of it. But the telltale signs that she was just as affected were there; namely the hitched breath, the cocky smirk, the blown pupils

★ The roles are always changing. Sometimes, you like having Kara in control. Other times, you like to take the reins, finding out just what it would take to make Kara cry out for you.

★ Between the two of you, you’re definitely the vocal one. But during those rare moments when you have the pleasure (no pun intended) of making Kara cry out for you, it’s like discovering a unicorn in the wild