li'l sugar soaker

Your relationship started as a simple hookup, so you’re well aware of his high libido long before you start seeing him seriously.

However, the moment he takes you to bed after that blessed first real date, he’s… different.

He takes you on your hands and knees, panting hotly against the nape of your neck, left hand gripping your waist, keeping you steady.

None of this is unfamiliar to you, of course, except for the lack of dirty talk. Instead of his usual dialogue, he’s murmuring praises against your overheated skin.

“So good for me,” he says between thrusts, his voice barely above a whisper.

And, gods, you’re weak for it.

“That’s it,” he sighs, feeling the way your body responds to the praise. “Just like that, baby… take it just like that.”

Your thighs start to tremble, and, mercifully, Ash releases your waist to help push you over the edge.

You swear you see stars.

“Come for me.” He mutters, working you through every last spasm until you’re spent.

He follows soon after, rolling his hips, groaning as he fills you as deeply as he possibly can. He peppers kisses along your shoulder blades as you go limp beneath him, pleasantly exhausted.

“You liked that, huh?” He says, teasing you softly.

You hide your face in the pillows for a beat, flustered.

Suddenly, Ash catches you off guard by pulling out unusually quickly. You can feel his come dripping out of you the moment you’re left empty, clenching around nothing.

You narrow your eyes at him over your shoulder in confusion, but he’s already tossing a pillow onto the floor by the bed and kneeling on it.

“Considering how often you pleasure me,” he begins, quickly adding, “as you should,” before he continues, “I figure I’d better start rewarding you for it.”

Before you can even form a coherent thought, his tongue works its way inside you, cleaning your gaping hole of his own come.

It’s disgusting. It’s not something you’ve ever even thought about. It is addictive.

He wrings another orgasm from you like this, your head buried in the pillows with his buried between your thighs.

you attempt to reach down and take them off for him, but his hand that was previously gripping your thigh grabs your wrist before his fingers snake their way up your hand and interwine with yours. you don't even have the time to comment on that action because he's already pressing his shoulder into the back of your thigh, folding you and digging into your cunt.

the day everything changed, however, was when you wanted to spice things up a bit, and go for doggystyle.

and, gosh, did clark love your ass. the rippling, the bouncing, the shape– everything was effing perfect.

"f-f... gah- baby, s'good.. so damn good.." he gasps, his palm pressing into your back to aid its arch. you have never felt him fuck you like this—sloppy, quick, unforgiving. he was finally letting loose, finally succumbing.

his head was spinning, he felt like everything around him had melted away apart from your ass. smack, smack, smack, smack—the only sound that echoed in his oversensitive ears, overcoming the music of your moans.

"c-clark— hm, so- g-good—!" you could barely even speak, the sloppy sloshing of his dick going back and fourth inside you taking part of the overstimulation the entire situation was giving you. his whimpers, his dick, the position... fuck, could it ever get better than this?

you would soon find out that, in fact, it could, when clark leaned over suddenly with a loud hiss, holding himself back from cumming too soon. you felt his glasses fall from his face and hit your back, before rolling off of you and onto the bed with a thud.

his pace faltered, and you figured it was because your poor clark kent couldn't see you anymore. so you, in all of your kindness, reached to grab his glasses, turned around to give them to him...

and came.

with a small, "s-superman?" slipping out of between your lips, your orgasm hit you like never before.

your walls came slamming down onto his cock, eyes rolling back into your skull as if reaching for salvation, silently begging for mercy as your own pleasure attacked you.

you shook while gripping the sheets, gasping for air before a loud "oh, fuck!" echoed throughout the room, your lungs clenching desperately.

meanwhile, clark could not believe his eyes.

you were cumming like you've never came before, all because you saw him without his glasses.

all because you saw him.

him.

kal-el.

how could he not have come too?

his orgasm was just as, if not more, powerful than yours. buckets of cum spilling into you with his entire body locking on top of you, his voice hoarse when he screams your name.

he gripped your hips, glasses long forgotten, and started thrusting into you again, craving more.

when you both came down from your highs, heavy pants could be heard from outside the room. neither of you could believe what had just happened.

"y-you're... you're super..man!?" you labored through your breath to express your shock, looking back at him to really confirm that what you saw was real. "you're superman!"

his right hand came to scratch his head, a cute smile plastered on his face. "surprise..?"

"how haven't I noticed before!?"

"can we have this conversation when I'm not... inside you... in this position..? you're clenching.."

you smirked mischievously, arching your back and wiggling your hips. "well, now that I know... wanna fuck me as superman for the first time?"

"language, sweets..." but his hand was already smoothing its way up your back, and onto your neck.

"Can't believe this was what you wanted..."

Dinner was beautiful and so was the cake—he cooked and picked your favorite flavor. But then he asked you what sort of gift you'd like for your birthday (aside from the pendant necklace he already got for you anyway), and you murmured admissions you never thought would see the light of day.

But who is Clark Kent if not a dutiful boyfriend?

"Feels like it's my birthday instead," he adds, voice hoarse.

Because you're naked on his lap, watching as the blue in his eyes slowly gets swallowed by pupils. He's in his suit, sitting on the couch, strong hand groping an exposed tit, the other guiding your hips into his—specifically towards the bulge underneath fabric. You feel his eyes travel, studying the slow circles you make, inching up past your stomach and onto your chest, where he lingers before finally witnessing your face.

He looks lost.

In all fairness, you do too. And it's only been, what, minutes since you told him you wanted to grind on him with his suit on?

Yet there's already a smear of something sinful across the tent of him.

You. Wet, ready, deliberately restraining desire. Your boyfriend also does the same—you can tell by the flex in his jaw, how his chest heaves. Eyes bore heat onto your body, helpless to the thing that's making it so hard for him to be good.

Friction catches at your clit just right, and it sends your head lolling forwards.

"Clark," you whimper, and he's on you like you need saving, lips moving against yours to devour your sounds.

"I'm here," his reply is strained, "what do you need, sweetheart?"

You shake your head, not because you don't need anything, but out of reflex for how perfect he is even in times as depraved as these.

"You, more—" is all you can muster. Enough for him to move.

The hand that guides your hip now grips your waist, slipping easily from a suggestion to a command. His other hand joins, the both of them caging your sides, and then you feel your body move.

Not out of your own volition.

He's moving you, directing your pussy over the rigid line of him just right, like he knows you better, and maybe he does, because the drag lights up your nerve endings like an electric shock. Clark lets out a long groan, eyes leaving your face only to snap down to watch the way you're leaking all over him.

"So pretty," he murmurs against your ear, hands maneuvering your body up and down his length. It's dizzying, how he crowds your senses. "You're gonna finish like this, aren't you, sweetheart?"

The knot tensing low in your stomach makes it known to you and you nod into the crook of his neck. One hand shifts to the hinge of your jaw, directing your line of sight to collide with his.

"Wanna see your face when you do," he has the audacity to smile. "Let go for me."

It's his fault. Those words, the curl of his lips, kind and cruel, and the pressure he adds with every slide of you against him that sends you toppling over the edge. You moan something that vaguely sounds like his name littered with oh, god, f-fuck. He allows himself one of that last expletive, quiet and gritted through teeth at the sight of you undone.

Your spasming body is one thing. Your dazed face is another. Clark burns it into memory: the shape of your parted lips, the look in your eyes, the hitch in your voice as you call out for him through the waves taking over you.

Then you limp on top of him and suddenly he's overcome with thirst.

The world spins. You feel the texture of the couch fabric on your naked back in between your vision returning from dark edges. Hands part your legs.

Two blinks later and his face is between your thighs.

You almost scream his name when his tongue licks a broad stripe up your folds, sob when he sucks on your clit.