𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕲𝖗𝖆𝖛𝖊𝖞𝖆𝖗𝖉

he can hear the disappointment in your voice as you tug his hand out of your panties. willing away the tears that threaten to spill past your lash line.

you swear something’s wrong with you.

he’s been at this for well over an hour, having to take multiple breaks from when his fingers started to cramp up. your clit feels almost raw, yet numb to the touch. the constant circles he was rubbing against it left you with nothing but discomfort.

“sweetheart—” he whispers, brushing your hair back from your face.

but you quickly bury your face into the pillow, the sheer humiliation makes you wish the ground would open up and swallow you whole. you already know what he’s going to say, he’s said it more times than you can count.

“save it, please. i don’t want your pity,” your words are slightly muffled, but he hears them loud and clear.

so he stays silent, keeping his chest pressed into your back. he rubs soothing circles over the curve of your hip while you soak his pillow with your tears. each silent shake of your shoulders twists the knife deeper into his gut.

why he hasn’t left is beyond you— anyone else would have.

not only is he stuck with a girlfriend who can’t take her clothes off in front of him, he’s stuck with one who can’t finish either. you can’t imagine how frustrating that must be.

“why are you even still here?” you sniffle, feeling his body stiffen behind you. “this can’t be fun for you.”

he doesn’t answer you, instead moving from his position behind you to roll you onto your back before he slots himself between your thick thighs. and even in the dark of his room you can see how your words have upset him.

“— i’m here because i love you.” he asserts, calloused fingers catching your chin to keep your gaze level with his. “i stay despite how much you continually try to push me away, because you’re everything to me.”

and he catches some more tears that trickle down your cheeks with his thumb. he unintentionally swipes them over your lips and they taste almost bitter on your tongue when you take a shuddering breath in.

“i just.. i feel like this is too good to be true— that you’re too good to be true.” you voice is barely above a whisper now, “that once you see everything… you’ll change your mind.”

his eyes slip shut and an almost painful look crosses over his features.

“baby,” he sighs, carefully taking your hand to guide it up his bare torso. you can feel the uneven flesh beneath your fingertips, a reminder that you almost lost him not so long ago. “you could grow a third head and sprout a tail and i would love you just the same.”

that image has you giggling softly, the sound causing his eyes to flutter back open. eddie grins down at you, bringing your hand up to press a gentle kiss to the back of it.

“there’s my girl,” he hums.

and despite the worry that still lingers in the back of your head, your body automatically reacts to his gentle words. you shift your hips beneath his own, now acutely aware of how uncomfortable the damp cotton feels against your skin.

eddie can see that spark of need return to your eyes, his head tilting down to nudge your nose with his own. he inhales your soft gasp when he carefully presses his hips down into yours.

“can i try something? if you don’t like it, i promise we can stop.”

he waits before making another move, lips hovering over yours until he hears your soft confirmation. then he starts to descend lower.

his lips press against the cotton of your sleep shirt, across the soft pudge of your belly. and you hold you breath when his fingers graze over the hem of it, slowly beginning to push it up your plush thighs.

“eddie i—”

he must hear the alarm in your voice as he stops, warm eyes gazing up at you from where he’s positioned between your legs.

“do you want me to stop?” he asks.

the small shake of your head encourages him to continue, pushing the shirt up only until he can see the outline of your panties.

“we’ll keep this on, okay?” he motions to your shirt.

“okay,” you breathe.

you feel your body is on fire, every nerve ending like a live wire. and you practically jolt when you feel his lips press against your damp underwear, his tongue licking a slow stripe between your clothed folds.

“oh,” you sigh and you can feel his deep chuckle rumble against your core.

so he does it again, enjoying the breathy whine that tumbles past your lips. eddie’s fingers slide up your thighs, sneaking underneath the elastic of your underwear as he continues his actions. going slow enough to get you used to the feeling, but firm enough so you feel each drag of his tongue.

after your first failed attempt from earlier you feel ravenous, now bucking your hips up against his mouth. and your boyfriend seems to get the hint.

“you want them off, sweetheart?”

and you nod almost frantically, any feelings of insecurity pushed to the wayside as your desire slams back into you at full force.

not needing to be told again, eddie carefully guides the fabric down your thighs. tossing them next to you on the bed before he coaxes your legs to rest on his shoulders. even in the dark he can see the curly hairs that cover your mound and the sticky strings of desire when he guides your folds apart with his fingers.

you hear a soft curse leave his mouth, his hair tickling your inner thighs when he leans down further to guide his tongue through your slick.

“so fuckin’ pretty, baby.” he coos.

you gasp aloud at the sensation when the muscle delves deeper, dipping inside your entrance before dragging more slick up to your sensitive nub.

everything feels more heightened like this— more intimate. and you swear you’re more in love with him now than you ever been.

so you let your body sink further into the mattress while he tastes you properly for the first time. his own hips rutting against the bed in tandem with each glide of his tongue. the noises he’s making are downright filthy, the vibrations only aiding in bringing you closer to that release.

it’s right within your grasp, all you have to do is reach out and take it.

the edges of your vision start to blur while your fingers card themselves through his curls to hold him in place. and that wave that’s been building up inside you finally crashes over the surface.

your shaky cry of his name has him moaning into you, his hips twitching as he spills into the fabric of his boxers. and he doesn’t mind when your trembling thighs tighten around his head, keeping him locked into place between your hips.

not that eddie would ever complain.

you finally release him when the feeling becomes too much, thighs settling onto the bed when you tug at his curls. he lifts his head then, eyes mirroring your half lidded gaze. his slick-smeared lips shine in the moonlight that streams through his bedroom window and you feel another rush of emotion flow through you.

“thank you,” you whisper, voice cracking.

he brings your knuckles back to his lips, pressing a wet kiss onto each one. satisfied with his work, eddie crawls back up your body, pressing tender kisses until he reaches your lips. you wrap your arms around his neck, tugging him even closer when your mouth do meet.

but that’s when you feel it. the warm, sticky mess that has soaked into his boxers and smeared across his hairy thighs.

“did you just— ?” you ask in almost disbelief, wide eyes meeting his own when he pulls back to give you a cheeky grin.

another gentle roll of his hips has you gasping aloud, the action pressing his mess further into your own as he chuckles deeply.

“damn right, i did.”

You knew the pressure points by now. You’d studied them—committed them to muscle memory. Knew exactly which seams to tug, which smiles to flash, which casual poses made his breath catch just behind his ribs. Knew how to bait a man who could bench press a building, but who still lost every last ounce of composure when you spread your thighs and looked at him like he was the only man in the world.

.

It started small. Always did. You were so generous offering the strongest metahuman the illusion of a fair fight, giving him a few soft warnings before you pulled the pin.

A message waited for him on the bathroom mirror, scrawled in your red lipstick right across the glass, the curve of each letter playful and practiced. Beside it: a perfect kiss-mark, glossy and shameless.

Have a good day at work, babe. I love you!

A pair of your panties, red mesh, tiny silk hearts stitched along the waistband, was "accidentally" left half‑folded in the sock drawer he opened every morning without fail. You knew that he knew you better than that. You didn’t leave things out by accident. 

None of these breadcrumbs were enough for him to fully wake you as he leaned in to say goodbye before work, but it was enough to make him kiss your lips longer than usual. Slow. Lingering. Like a man already bracing himself for war.

You had an inkling that he barely made it out the door.

.

The first photo went out at 9:14 a.m.

Nothing obscene, just enough. You stood in front of the bedroom mirror, Clark’s flannel unbuttoned and hanging loose from your shoulders, sleeves falling just past your wrists, the red straps of your lingerie cutting neat, precise lines across your skin like you were gift-wrapped: bare legs, bare throat, morning light slipping in through the window, and the corner of your smile just visible in the reflection.

You could picture it perfectly: him at his desk like the perfect employee he always was, blissfully typing away on his keyboard, coffee halfway to his mouth. You could see the exact second his phone lit up. The pause. The way his fingers stilled. His eyes flicking downward. The quiet inhale. The shift in posture. His glasses sliding slightly down the bridge of his nose.

You knew the timing. Knew his tells.

The reply came two minutes later.

Clark: Good morning, my love You're being unfair right now. Beautiful, but unfair. Have a good day!

You smiled. He was always so damn sweet.

At 10:36 a.m., the second photo followed.

Same set. Different angle. The flannel was gone now, leaving nothing between you and the mirror but skin and red lace, cut high on the hips and dipping low between your breasts, the sheer mesh hugging your ribs in a way you knew made his mouth go dry. The satin bow sat tidy at the center of your sternum, a little too innocent for what you intended, tied just tight enough to make him wonder if he’d get it undone with his hands or his teeth.

Your thighs were parted, just a little. This time, you added a caption that gave him no room to breathe:

You: Thinking about how long it’s gonna take you to get this off me. I knotted this pretty tight.

His response came faster than you anticipated.

Clark: Sweetheart, you look incredible, but I’m at work?!

You sent back a heart, and nothing more. Let him sit with it.

At 11:12 a.m., you sent a brief a video this time. Switched it up, because why not?

Silent, unfiltered, back turned to the mirror. Your ass in motion, hips swaying slow. The straps were so thin they might as well have been floss, cutting over your ass as you shifted your weight from one foot to the other. One leg bent. Head cropped. Nothing but ass and lace and implication.

He left you on read this time.

Which was telling. Because Clark always responded. Even if just with a heart emoji or a flustered "you’re trouble." If he didn’t? It meant he couldn’t. It meant his hand was clenched so tight around his phone he couldn’t trust himself to type. Meant he’d flushed from throat to cheekbone and ducked into the Planet stairwell to cool off. Or he’d taken a lap around the roof. Around the city. Maybe around the atmosphere.

By 12:17 p.m., his reply finally came, and it was obvious he was unraveling.

The texts were shorter. Less punctuation. The fact that he stopped trying to scold you, and started asking questions instead? Ha!

Clark: did you buy that just for today how long have you been wearing that

You answered with audio.

"Since you left," you murmured, soft, breathy, and barely above a whisper. "Been thinking about you all morning Clark. Been missing you."

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Then nothing.

The next few hours were a study in escalation.

A photo of you kneeling on the mattress, back arched, ass up, cleavage spilling down beneath the delicate straps of the set.

A close-up of your fingers grazing your inner thigh, dragging slow, gliding higher, just high enough to hint without showing.

Another voice note, this one needier. A soft, whispered "Clark" said with just enough air, just enough ache, that you could practically feel him falling apart in real time.

By 4:07 p.m., the damn broke. Your poor Clark was done pretending he was okay.

Clark: tryn to focus ur making so difficlit DIFFICULT Please tell me you're waiting for me, honey. Just one more hour.

It wasn't often he truly begged, but that last message was so damn close.

And you, his sweetheart, menace, wife, North Star, had the nerve to read it and not reply.

You waited until 5:02 p.m., letting that last message sit and ache, let Clark stew in it as you took your time setting up what you already knew would end his entire day.

The Kill Shot took longer to record than the others.

You were reclined against the headboard, pillows shoved behind your back, thighs spread wide and unapologetic, red lace pushed damp and dark between them from hours of teasing that had left you tender and buzzing. The phone was propped at the end of the bed, poetically against a careless stack of Clark’s unironed dress shirts.

"See what you do to me, Clark," you sighed softly when you hit record, your hand drifting down your stomach, fingers slipping beneath the red lace. You hissed quietly when you touched your already swollen, already too sensitive clit, hips rocking without permission. "I’m so wet, baby. Soaked. All day. Just from teasing you."

Your ring finger circled your clit slowly, deliberately, letting the slick and sound gather. A raspy moan slipped out of you as your back pressed harder into the pillows.

"Hope you’re not mad," you added, breath hitching, almost laughing through it.

You slid one finger inside yourself, then another, the stretch making you gasp as your thighs trembled. Your head tipped back, chest lifting as you tried to make it feel right.

"It’s not the same," you whined, frustration threading your voice honestly now. "It never is without you."

You lifted your free hand into frame then, holding up the bright blue, ridged Superman vibrator. Absurd. Thrilling. Purchased originally as a joke, now deployed with intent.

"I even tried this," you lamented.

When you turned it on, the low buzz filled the room, vibrating straight up your spine. You pressed it to your clit and jolted hard, a broken sound tearing out of you as your hips jerked helplessly.

"Oh—oh God—" You sucked in a breath, fingers curling inside yourself. "It doesn’t—fuck—it still doesn’t touch me like you do."

You dragged it away almost immediately, breath ragged, shaking your head like you were offended by it.

Your fingers thrusted as deep as you could, scissoring, stretching, searching. Ultimately failing.

"They’re not big enough," you babbled, voice going soft and needy now, slick sounds growing louder as you rocked against your hand. "They don’t reach like yours. They don’t—God, Clark, they don’t feel like you."

You brought the vibrator back, pressing it against your clit again while your fingers worked inside you, the buzz climbing as your body arched and your knees drew up, lace biting into your hips. A shaky laugh fell from your mouth, half‑wrecked, half‑desperate.

"This isn’t fair," you whined as you lifted your head, eyes flicking to the camera now, unfocused but locked on him all the same. "You always make it feel so good. Your hands… your mouth…"

You writhed openly, unashamed, thighs trembling, red lace soaked through as you chased something you knew you wouldn’t quite reach.

"It’s not your thickness," you breathed. "Not your heat."

Your fingers slipped out, then back in, curling deeper this time, trying to find that spot he always hit so effortlessly, like your body had been built for his hands alone.

"I need you, Clark," you panted, eyes fluttering. "Need your fingers and your mouth between my legs. Need you telling me to relax—telling me how pretty I look when I fall apart for you."

The vibrator buzzed louder, dragged teasingly once, twice—and then you pulled it away again, breath shuddering.

"And your cock," you added, voice breaking into a whine. "I need you to show me how it’s supposed to feel. Need you to stretch me the way you always do. Need my husband to fill me up because this—"

You gestured helplessly between your thighs, fingers slick and shining, breath uneven. "This isn’t enough. It’s never enough without you."

You lifted your gaze to the camera one last time—wrecked, honest, ruined by want.

"Come home soon, Clark," you whispered, biting your lip.

And then you stopped. Didn’t finish. Wouldn’t dare.

You ended the recording with your chest still heaving and thighs still shaking. You redressed slowly, washed your hands and the toy with care, and hit 'send' as you went to start dinner.

As if nothing at all was about to explode.

.

Twenty minutes later, the apartment was drenched in the scent of garlic and thyme, steam curling from the pot like a love letter in vapor.

Clark's favorite, beef bourguignon, simmered low and rich on the stove, sweet and buttery and slow. You made it only on special occasions: birthdays, anniversaries, nights you wore lingerie beneath an apron and didn’t pretend otherwise.

You stood barefoot, thighs still trembling faintly from earlier, the red lace set damp beneath one of his softest, most lived-in aprons with Kansas Corn Festival logo faded on the front and the fraying strings you always tied in a neat bow at your lower back.

Your lip gloss was fresh. Your hair was a little too tousled, a little too knowingly mussed. You looked like you’d been fucked senseless and then pulled halfway back from the edge. Which was, of course, exactly the truth. Just not by him. Yet.

You stirred the pot once more, slow and thoughtful, then licked the spoon just as a sonic boom tore across the skyline.

The windows rattled.

You didn’t even flinch.

The burner clicked off, and you turned just in time to hear the familiar thud on the balcony. Something weighty and male and exasperated had landed with purpose.

Clark Kent, god among men, paragon of restraint, and utterly fucking done with you, stood just outside, flushed from throat to hairline, chest rising and falling like he was seconds from combusting.

He opened the balcony door too hard. Shut it harder.

You didn’t flinch. You smiled instead.

"Hi, baby!" you greeted sweetly, licking the last of the spoon and setting it down like nothing was melting between your legs. "How was work?"

Clark mouth opened. A strangled sound came out. Nothing formed. He looked like a man who had rehearsed a speech the entire flight over, one with bullet points and moral high ground, and lost all of it the second he saw your bare thighs and dazzling smile.

"You—" he tried, pointing one finger squarely at your chest, not moving.

You tilted your head. "Moi?"

"Honey," he began, dragging a hand down his face, voice pitched somewhere between desperation and disbelief. "One: hi. Work was fine. Two: dinner smells delicious. Three: what you pulled today? That was beyond cruel."

You leaned back slowly, bumping your side against the edge of the kitchen island with a little bounce. He followed without thinking. Close enough to trap. Close enough to breathe you in.

"You liked it," you sang, tugging at one of his belt loops.

"No, I loved it," he ground out, hands already on your waist, gripping just tight enough to send a shiver up your spine. "That’s not the point."

"Oh?" you asked, lashes low, lips pouty. "What’s the point then?"

He huffed. Actually huffed. Then, defeated, he pulled off his glasses and set them carefully on the counter beside you. Pinched the bridge of his nose like he could still slow this trainwreck down with rational thought.

"The point is—" he tried again, swallowing, visibly recalibrating. "I have been trying to be good all day."

"So have I. Guess we both failed."

Clark exhaled, running a hand through his already-ruined hair. Pushed it back only for it to fall limply forward again.

"Sweetheart," he hissed, blue eyes sharp now. "I had to sit in a meeting with Perry after I listened to you moan my name. You—" He pointed again, but his hand dropped halfway, like touching you would end this too fast. "You sent me audio. While I was on lunch with Jimmy. I could barely look him in the eye."

"That sounds like a you problem," you murmured, one leg brushing between his.

His hands tightened on your hips. You gasped.

"And then," he said, lower now, voice going dangerous, "you sent me a video of you—Gosh—spread out across our bed, touching yourself with that silly little toy—"

You shrugged, too pleased with yourself to be sorry.

"Superman didn’t save me this time."

His laugh was broken. Unhinged, like he couldn’t believe you’d just said that. He stepped until the kitchen counter pressed cold against your spine as he crowded into your space, chest brushing yours, arms braced on either side of you like a cage made of heat and muscle and something wild beneath the surface.

There was nowhere to go—not that you’d ever want to—his presence wrapping around you like steam, wrapping around your waist, sliding down your thighs.His breath kissed the curve of your cheek, then your jaw, then lower, his mouth dragging down your throat like he needed to taste how hard your pulse was pounding for him.

"You have any idea what you did to me?" he rasped. 

"You say that like it’s not your favorite thing about me."

A strangled moan escaped him as he leaned closer, forehead touching yours. His cock was already stiff and twitching, the thick press of it unmistakable against your stomach  even though layers of slacks and lace. You gasped, fingers tightening in the soft cotton at his elbows just to stay upright.

"Every second of your video," he growled. "Saying your fingers not being enough—" A long breath. "How empty you still felt. Using the toy."

You shivered. The air between you went heavy.

"Clark—" you warned, already trembling.

"I haven’t even said hello properly," he muttered darkly.

Without warning, he kissed you like a man who’d just run halfway around the world and needed you to catch him. No restraint. No finesse. Just tongue and heat and need, his mouth slanting over yours in wild, open-mouthed hunger, one hand sinking into your toussled hair, the other pressing low on your spine until your bodies aligned, hips flush, your thighs parting on instinct.

You whimpered into it, clawing at his shoulders, overwhelmed by the rush of him finally, finally being here. Being on you.

"Been waiting for this," he whispered, mouth trailing along your jaw, your neck, nipping at the places he knew would make you gasp. Losing my mind since the first photo."

His hand spread low on your ass, tugging you harder against the thick ridge in his slacks. It ground into your clit with every breath, every shift of his hips, and made your knees buckle, a cry caught in your throat as your body begged for more friction, more weight, more.

That heady, perfect mix of power and affection and worship and want coursed through you.

"You’re unreal," he panted between kisses. "You were made to drive me insane, huh?"

A quiet laugh caught in your throat, lips brushing his jaw.

"What’s unreal is this bow," you hummed, tapping your chest, where the ribbon peeked just above the apron’s neckline. "Knotted it way too tight. Think you can get it off, baby?"

His eyes darkened, gaze zeroing in on the apron tied at your back. That innocent cotton thing cinched tight around your waist like some symbol of sweet domesticity. A disguise. A mockery.

He wouldn't take the bait. Not this time.

"No," he said firmly. "Not yet. You’re gonna stay in that pretty little set, sweetheart. The one you spent all day tormenting me in."

You blinked, caught off guard by the edge in his voice.

Clark’s gaze dropped to the apron. That innocent cotton thing, cinched around your waist like a mockery of domesticity, as if it hadn’t been hiding the filthiest tease he’d ever seen in his life.

"Though this?" he muttered, fingers curling into the bow behind you, "Is a problem."

Before you could answer, he tugged sharp and hard, and the apron came loose, slipping off your shoulders and crumpling to the floor.

The sight of you underneath?

His breath left him in one long, shattered exhale.

The red fabric shimmered under the kitchen light, clinging damp to your chest, your hips, your thighs, every inch of you hot and glowing and desperate for him. He stared for a long moment, jaw tense, hands twitching at his sides like he was debating whether to worship you or simply scream and combust.

In one fluid, impossible motion, he spun you around to face the counter. Your hands flew out, bracing against the cool granite with a yelp. His body pressed against your back, the hard, unmistakable ridge of his erection straining against his trousers, digging into the cleft of your ass through the lace.

"This," he hissed in your ear, one large hand splaying across your stomach, holding you firm against him. "This red lace. It’s been haunting me all day. A glimpse here. A shadow there." His other hand came up, his fingers tracing the intricate pattern over your breast, teasingly tugging on your bow, then sliding down your ribs. "It’s all I could see."

"Clark," you moaned, voice cracking with lust.

"Payback," he whispered, his hands now on your hips, yanking the damp panties down your thighs in one rough pull. The cool air hit your exposed skin, followed immediately by the blistering heat of his palm as he cupped you from behind.

"Still wet?" he leaned over you, mouth to your ear as he buried his fingers in your soaking, messy cunt slowly. "Still aching for me, hon?"

"Y-yeah, been a-all day," you choked out, thighs knocking against the kitchen cabinets with each twitch. "Since the first photo. Since I woke up and ruined my lipstick for you. It's all for you."

A rough sound tore from his throat. Unfastening his belt with a desperate frantic flick, he pushed his slacks and briefs low enough to free himself. The hot weight of his cock pressed against your bare ass, solid and heavy and so real

"See what you do to me, sweetheart?" he growled, echoing the opening line you’d whispered into your last video as he teased the swollen, pre-cum slick head between your puffy folds.

You whimpered, barely able to breathe as the head caught on your clit the same time his teeth nipped the edge of your earlobe.

"F-fuck! That—oh god, that feels—Clark—please, I need it—need you—"

"I know," he whispered, kissing behind your ear. "I’ve got you."

With one powerful, driving thrust that silenced you, he buried himself inside inch by glorious inch.

Your eyes rolled back, feeling every ridge, every vein, every pulsing heat and maddening pressure.

The air left your lungs in a punched-out cry. He filled you, stretched you, exactly as you’d whined about. The difference was profound, overwhelming. It was his heat, his thickness, the perfect, devastating fit of him being enveloped by your quivering, gummy walls.

You felt impossibly full, stretched to a sweet, burning limit, and any remaining coherent thought was knocked clean out of your head.

"G-gosh," he groaned, feeling a new wave of slick coat his length. "You’re so–so tight like this, beautiful. Still fluttering around me—"

You answered by clenching tight, rocking into him slowly. "S-stay right there—just—stay."

He kissed your shoulder, the top of your spine, the back of your neck, mouth open and reverent.

Clark set an increasingly deep, relentless rhythm, pounding you hard up against the kitchen counter. Each drive of his hips slammed you into the cool granite edge, a counterpoint of pleasure and slight pain that made your vision blur. 

His hands gripped your hips, surely leaving faint bruises, holding you in place for his taking. The sounds were filthy—the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin, your ragged cries, his guttural groans near your ear.

"You like that?" he gritted out, pressing hot kisses on your neck, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. "You like making me lose it? Making me fly home like a madman?"

"Y-yes! Yes!" you cried, words slurred, hips bucking back into his as your fingers scrambled uselessly over the cool countertop, dinner long forgotten. "Wanted this—wanted you—"

He grunted, one hand slipping down to rub your clit as his thrusts turned punishing, precise. Your body jolted with every snap of his hips, legs shaking, pleasure rising so fast it blurred everything else.

All the while, Clark kissed you, really kissed you, with one hand on your throat as he pulled your face back to his, tongue sliding into your mouth, your moans swallowed between breathless gasps and cracked, whispered I love you's and You drive me crazy's.

Okay, so you ragebaited Clark: masterfully, deliberately, without shame and without mercy.

And now?

Now you were going to spend the rest of the night helping him cool off, one deep, punishing thrust at a time, your body bent beneath his as he finally gave in to everything you’d spent the day dragging out of him.

There are only a few things in the world that could make Clark Kent come undone.

Only a few things that could burn through all that patience and kindness and quiet self-control.

And you in red-laced lingerie had always done it best.

.

Thank you for reading! Any reblogs, comments, likes are forever appreciated, and keeps me motivated!

.

You were minding your own business. Relaxing. Existing. Apparently, that alone was enough to ruin whatever focus he had left.

Clark stood at the sink, adjusting his tie in the mirror, fingers working at the knot with practiced precision. He fixed it once, then again, and again, like something about it still wasn’t sitting right, even though it had been perfect the first time.

Behind him, the tub sat visible in the reflection, and you were there, sunk low in the water, completely at ease. Steam filled the room in slow curls, softening the edges of everything, including you.

Clark’s eyes kept flicking toward you in the mirror, quick at first, then slower. Then longer. And longer. Long enough that he’d forget what he was doing entirely before dragging his gaze back up to his own reflection like that might somehow fix it.

He swallowed hard and forced his attention back to his tie.

Focus.

Clark straightened, running a hand through his hair before adjusting his glasses, eyes fixed on his reflection to anchor him there, to keep him moving, to keep him from—

His gaze slipped again.

Slower this time. Heavier in a way where he couldn’t even pretend it was accidental.

The water moved when you shifted your legs, the surface breaking just enough to catch and follow, offering brief, shifting glimpses before settling again. Droplets clung to your shoulders and throat, slipping slowly over your skin each time you moved, tracing small paths he couldn’t stop noticing. The whole room felt warm with it, thick with quiet and water and the faint scent of whatever you’d poured into the tub.

You weren’t even doing anything, not really, which only made it worse. Clark couldn’t seem to look anywhere else, or think of anything else for that matter.

That didn’t stop him from trying, though.

And God, did he try. 

Clark let out a slow, steady breath, deeper than it needed to be, like it might push whatever this was back down where it belonged.

“Alright, baby,” he said, voice quieter than usual. “I have to go.”

He turned and stepped closer as he said it, already leaning down before the sentence had fully settled between you. It was supposed to be quick. Normal. Just one last soft kiss before work.

Clark’s hand braced on the edge of the tub as his lips met yours, gentle and familiar, something that should’ve ended there but didn’t. You were warm, your mouth slightly parted, soft where you gave under him without resistance.

He lingered a second too long, catching the faint drag of your lower lip before pulling back just barely, his breath brushing yours.

His gaze dropped to your mouth again—and stayed there.

Something tightened in his chest, heavier now, pushing up from where he’d tried to bury it. 

He kissed you again. 

Longer this time. 

And then again, deeper, his mouth pressing into yours with intent, the kiss opening, getting away from him, losing whatever restraint had been left in it. His hand on the tub clenched tighter, grounding himself in the strain while the other came up to your face, thumb pressing along your jaw as he pulled you into him.

He should have stopped. He knew that. Knew that this was the last thing he should be doing right now.

The thought flickered, thin and useless, drowned out by the way you felt, by the way your lips moved with his, by the immediate reaction in his body. Heat hit him low and sharp, his cock caught tight beneath his slacks, the pressure there before he could even pretend otherwise.

Still, he didn’t pull away.

His mouth stayed on yours, each kiss deepening with every second he didn’t stop. His breathing shifted, uneven, heavier now, pulling through his nose in quiet bursts that brushed hot against your skin. Every inhale came tighter than the last, tension winding through his chest instead of easing down.

You laughed softly against his mouth, a quiet, breathy sound that brushed his lips when you spoke. “You’re gonna get all wet,” you murmured, the words light, amused, as if this was still something easy. Still playful.

His response came in the way his mouth pressed harder to yours, more insistent, the kiss turning urgent without pause. His hand flexed against the edge of the tub again, grip tightening, fingers pressing into the porcelain for resistance, for something solid to hold while everything else slipped further out of his control.

A faint sound gave under his palm.

Small. Thin. Barely there.

A hairline crack split through the porcelain, too quiet for anyone but him to hear, but he caught it all the same. That faint give beneath his hand, the smallest surrender under pressure, something yielding when it shouldn’t have.

It echoed too closely. Too much like the way his restraint had been going, not all at once, but splitting, fracturing, giving in pieces he wasn’t getting back.

He didn’t notice himself leaning closer at first. It just happened gradually, his weight shifting forward, his body following where his mouth already was, where his focus had narrowed completely. 

The edge of the tub pressed into his body, then more and more. He kept going. Closer. Further. Until there wasn’t really a line left to cross.

His weight tipped past the edge before either of you could slow it, one knee dropping into the water, then the other, his mouth still fixed to yours. The bath surged around him, spilling hard over the sides as his clothes soaked through all at once. His shirt and pants stuck to him in seconds, ruined and heavy, water streaming from the fabric and pooling across the floor.

It didn’t matter. None of it did. The mess, the sound, the fact that he had been halfway out the door minutes ago. All of it dropped away under one singular focus.

You.

His hands were already on you, firm, urgent, pulling you up and into him with a kind of need that made it clear he was past the point of caring how it looked. Water sloshed violently with the movement, spilling over again, your body shifting against his as he maneuvered you onto his lap.

It wasn’t neat or careful. It was messy, rushed, a little clumsy in the way urgency always was with him when he got like this. Clark moved fast, driven by how badly he needed you there, by how little patience he had left to get you there any other way.

You startled, breath catching sharply, the surprise obvious in the way your hands braced against him, the way your body reacted to the suddenness of it. He didn’t ease up, didn’t even think about slowing down. His mouth found yours again, rougher, open, all urgency now. He sank lower into the tub beneath you, water shifting hard around his body, soaking him through completely, but it didn’t register. Not with you on him.

His hands moved like he couldn’t pick a place, like he needed all of you at once. One slid up your back, broad and hot, pressing you down into him, fingers spreading between your shoulder blades before sweeping lower. The other traced down your side, slow for half a second before taking hold of your hip, then shifting again.

Higher.

His hand closed over your breast, fingers curling around the weight of it as he squeezed. His thumb moved slowly over your nipple, pressing, rolling, pulling a breathy reaction from you. The sound you made hit his mouth, and he swallowed it instantly, tongue pushing in to taste it, to take more of you anywhere he could.

His hips worked beneath you with no real attempt to hide it anymore, rolling up against you with purpose. His cock pressed against you through the soaked fabric of his slacks, the friction pulling a low, strained sound from him as it jumped against you, needy and insistent. His hands settled harder at your hips, keeping you right where he needed you.

Steam hung thick around you both, heat wrapping tight, softening everything around the edges until even his glasses began to fog.

It registered for half a second—

That was all it got.

Clark’s hand shot up, ripping the glasses from his face before they could fog over completely. He tossed them aside without looking, the frames skidding across the bathroom tile with a sharp crack that failed to pull his attention.

His mouth crashed into yours again, deeper, sloppier, breath hot and wrecked as his hands went right back to you, gripping, sliding, squeezing like any space between his hands and your body was too much.

Clark wasted no time. One hand dropped from you just long enough to fumble at his belt, fingers clumsy with urgency as he yanked it loose. The buckle knocked dully against itself before he shoved his pants down, fabric resisting under the water, soaked and clinging as he forced it out of the way beneath you. The movement jostled you both, water splashing up and over the edge again, but he didn’t pause, didn’t dare break the rhythm of his mouth against yours.

He didn’t give you the usual slow slide, didn’t ease you into it like he normally would. The second he freed himself, he was already pulling you closer, lining himself up more by need than patience, his breath catching the moment he found you before pushing in all at once. 

The stretch hit immediately, sudden and full, pulling a cry from you as your body clenched around him. Clark groaned at the feel of it, low and broken, his head dipping forward like the sensation had knocked the rest of him loose.

“Shi—”

The word broke apart in his throat, cut off into something rougher.

There was no time to adjust, no chance for your body to catch up before his hands found your hips and started moving you again. His hands locked onto you, fingers sinking in as he guided you into motion, pulling you down onto him, lifting you back up, setting a pace that hit hard and fast right from the start.

Water sloshed violently with every movement, spilling over the edge in steady waves, the sound of it mixing with breath and skin and the wet slide of your bodies coming together again and again.

It didn’t take long before you caught it, matched it—

Then took it.

Your hands twisted into his soaked button-up, fingers curling tight in the fabric as you shifted your weight and rode him properly, not just following anymore. You bounced on him, harder now, faster, the angle changing as you ground down between each lift, dragging him deeper every time you came back down. The friction got to him immediately.

A ragged sound slipped out of him, as you took over, his hands braced at your hips while your pace started pulling him apart. Each movement worked more out of him, left him less steady, less able to hide how badly you had him.

You felt too good.

Too tight, too warm, too perfect around him, every bounce pulling another rough sound from him, every grind making his grip tighten.

He was already gone. 

Fucked out in a way that stripped him down to instinct, to reaction, to nothing but the feel of you working him over. He could feel it bleeding into everything else too, that lack of control, the way heat built behind his eyes each time you sank down, the way his strength kept threatening to slip into his hands where they held you. Even the air leaving him came out wrong now, too hot, too wrecked.

He tried to keep it all in check, tried to rein it in before it got away from him.

Clark’s jaw tightened, breath snagging as his hands clung to you with a care the rest of him had no room for. Everything in him wanted to push harder, take more, fuck up into you with all the strength he kept buried under skin and restraint. He held it back by inches, barely, muscles locked beneath you while his touch stayed careful through sheer force alone. 

It worked.

Mostly.

Until you leaned forward.

Your arms slid around him, pulling him close, pressing your body flush against his as his breath broke hard in his chest. The sound of his name left you in a low, wrecked moan, dragged straight out of you with the roll of your hips, each one locking tighter around him.

“Baby—” he tried, the word breaking halfway through, strained, like the start of a warning he already knew wouldn’t survive the next second.

You didn’t slow down, didn’t give him the space to finish it, and he didn’t fight for it either. The warning lost shape in the way you kept moving, in the fact that he didn’t want you to stop at all. 

Your hips drove down again and again, relentless, the pressure building with every movement, taking him deeper each time, too much and not enough all at once. It stacked on him fast, sensation piling as his hands dug into your waist.

And then your hips sank lower. 

One deep, filthy grind.

It pressed him all the way in and held him there, your weight settling fully, the drag of it hitting something sharp and exact that tore straight through whatever control he had left.

Clark’s entire body seized before a loud, guttural groan ripped out of him as he came hard, hips jerking up into you on instinct. 

His hand slammed down with it, the force splintering through the side of the tub hard enough to break a chunk loose. Porcelain gave way beneath his palm, the side splitting open as water flooded through the gap and rushed across the floor.

At the same time, his eyes flashed.

Just for a split second.

A flare of heat vision shot wide, too sudden for him to catch, striking the metal faucet behind you with enough force to shatter it clean. The pipe split with a harsh snap, water bursting out hot and pressurized, hissing into the room and adding to the chaos.

“Shit—”

His eyes squeezed shut instantly, jaw clenching hard as he tried to rein it back in, like he could force himself under control if he just held tight enough. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you in, locking you against him as another rough groan tore out of his chest, muffled against your skin.

Water poured around you now, from the split-open side of the tub, from the broken pipe, soaking everything, flooding the tile, but he didn’t stop.

He couldn’t.

Your reaction caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat, a choked inhale, a sound that never fully formed as the pace hit too fast, too hard. Your body tried to respond, hands tightening on him, fingers gripping into soaked fabric, but every attempt got swallowed by the next thrust, the next snap of his hips that stole whatever you were about to say.

The break in the tub shifted everything, the side giving way enough to let his legs spread wider beneath you, changing the angle completely. He felt it and used it without hesitation, hips bucking up into you even as he was still coming.

He kept you pressed to him, hands locked at your hips as he fucked up into you through the broken rush of water, through the soaked mess around you, through the wreckage of everything he’d already let go too far.

“I’m sorry—” he gritted out, the words catching as his hips snapped again. “I’ll fix it—I promise—just—” His hands pressed harder into your hips, breath shuddering hot between you. 

That was the only thing left in his head.

Need.

His pace changed, not easing, only deepening, his body rising to meet yours as he dragged you down against him in heavy rolls that kept him buried inside you while he chased the feeling again and again. His hands moved with it, guiding the motion, making you feel every inch of him as he ground up hard, breath breaking with each grind.

Clark forced his eyes open, pulling himself back into it, into the moment, into you. His brows pulled tight immediately, mouth parting on a ragged breath as his gaze dropped between you, locking onto where your bodies met. He watched the way you took him, the way he disappeared inside you with every movement, and the sight tore another wrecked sound from his chest.

The reaction chased up his spine just as fast, too much, too immediate, and his head tipped back on instinct, eyes squeezing shut again before it could go any further. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding as he tried to contain it, tried to fight that heat building fast and dangerous behind his eyes again. It came back stronger, hotter, threatening to spill if he lost even a fraction more control.

But that didn’t stop him. 

“Keep—” his voice faltered, breath catching, “keep going—don’t—”

You could see how badly he was fighting it. It was there in the hard set of his jaw, in the faint tremor running through his hands, in the way his breathing refused to settle even after everything. The pressure hadn’t eased. If anything, it had gotten worse.

Your mouth parted, instinct kicking in, ready to ask if he was sure—but he caught it.

Maybe it was the way your hips stilled for half a second. Maybe it was the breath you pulled in, that slight pause before you spoke. Whatever it was, he felt it instantly, his hands locking at your hips hard enough to keep you there.

“Don’t—fuck—don’t stop,” he groaned.

His hips ground up as he pulled you down harder, the motion breaking his words into something rougher, something he barely seemed to realize had left him.

The edge of it cracked just as fast as it came.

His voice dropped in sync with your hips, the tone softer but no less strained—

“Please.”

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You were on top, and he was gone.

Clark had his hands on your hips, but he wasn’t guiding you anymore—he was holding on. Fingertips pressing deep into your skin like he needed the anchor, like without it, he might float up and out of himself. You were soaked, your thighs slick and trembling as you rode him, dragging his cock deep and tight with every roll of your hips.

His head was tipped back into the pillow, jaw slack, breath catching every time you sank down.

He groaned, voice wrecked. “You feel so good—baby, I…”

The rest got lost somewhere between a moan and a breathless sound, the kind he only made when he was too far gone to think straight. You could feel the way he throbbed inside you, thick and desperate, every pulse of him tightening as you moved just enough to keep him there, not enough to let him go.

And he looked ruined.

Hair damp, curls sticking to his forehead. Lips parted. Chest rising fast as he tried to breathe through it. You’d seen Clark focused. Seen him furious, calm, sweet, in control.

But this—this was something else entirely.

You moved slower just to feel the way he twitched beneath you, his cock so hard inside you it ached. He tried to lift his hips, tried to chase your rhythm, but the sound that left him was rough and shaky.

“Please,” he managed, voice breaking. “I—just… please.”

Please what?

He didn’t even know. Didn’t care. 

He was drunk on you, overwhelmed, his whole body shaking with how badly he wanted to come and how hard he was trying not to. You leaned forward just enough for your chest to brush his, and he whimpered, hips bucking without meaning to. It made you both gasp.

Just as you were both getting lost in it—

The world reminded you it still existed.

A sudden flash lit up the room. Bright and blue, sharp as static, cutting in through the gap in the curtains. It caught the curve of your back first, then spilled across the sheets in a stuttering burst of light.

You barely registered it at first.

Just a flicker. Just noise.

Then came the sound. Distant, but deep—an explosion, low and heavy, like thunder breaking over the skyline. 

You blinked once, then twice, chest tightening as your body tried to stay focused, stay with him, stay inside the heat still rolling between your hips.

But your mind followed the chaos. 

You looked toward the window.

Another flash came. Brighter this time.

You caught movement. Then more light. More sound. Something was happening—out there, past the glass, the city flashing with too many colors. You didn’t know what it was. Didn’t have to. You just knew the look of it. The weight of it.

Trouble.

The kind that called for him.

But that wasn’t the problem.

The problem was that Clark wasn’t moving.

He wasn’t listening, wasn’t turning toward the noise. Wasn’t tensing to go, to suit up, to fly.

He was still beneath you. Still buried deep. Still trembling as he held you tighter, chest rising fast, jaw clenched like he was trying to block it out. The light kept flashing. The sounds kept building. But he didn’t stop.

You opened your mouth.

“Cla—”

He shook his head once, sharp and fast, like he couldn’t stand to hear what you were about to say.

“Don’t,” he rasped, the word rough and splintered as he dragged you back down onto him, hard.

The sudden depth tore a gasp from your throat, swallowed almost instantly by the sound he made—low and guttural, like it had been ripped straight from his chest. His head pressed harder into the pillow, neck taut, the muscles there straining as his throat worked around the noise that rumbled through him.

He tried to speak again—something broken and half-formed about the Justice Gang, about how they could handle it—but the words fell apart the second your body clenched around him.

Whatever point he was trying to make instantly unraveled into a groan.

Another explosion ripped through the night, rattling the walls. Clark didn’t even flinch. He only held you tighter, his thrusts turning ragged, hungrier.

“Please,” he breathed, the word cracked and frayed. “Don’t stop. You don’t know how—how good you feel.”

The words tumbled out between moans, each one softer, more ruined than the last. He couldn’t stop. He didn’t try. His breath came hard and uneven, every exhale a mix of whimpers and praise as your hips rolled over his.

He kept begging you to keep going, and you tried—God, you tried—but he wouldn’t let up. His hands stayed anchored to your hips, dragging you down harder, faster, forcing you to match the rhythm only he seemed to know. Each movement pulled a sound from him that sounded too raw, too human for someone the world saw as a god. 

Your body trembled, thighs shaking from the effort, from the slick heat between you, from the way he wouldn’t stop. The room filled with it—his groans, your gasps, the sound of your bodies colliding again and again until it drowned out everything else.

Outside, the city flashed. The sirens screamed. The night roared.

But inside, under you, Clark was gone. Nothing more than a pussy-drunk mess, stammering through moans about how perfect you felt, how he couldn’t get enough, how he needed more. 

Every breath was a plea, every word a surrender. His eyes stayed on you like he couldn’t look away, pupils blown, mouth parted, wrecked beyond reason.

Whatever battle raged beyond those walls would have to burn without him.

Because right now—

Superman was fighting a battle of his own. 

One he had no intention of winning.

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And yet—

The second the front door closes behind you, his hand is on your lower back, that ever present smile goes (somehow) softer around the edges.

“Been thinking about you all day,” he murmurs, and it’s not even what he says—it’s how he says it. Like the thought’s been an ache.

And then he kisses you.

Deep. Sure. His hand spans the middle of your back, pulling you in close like he can’t get enough. The coat slips from your shoulders, your purse thuds to the floor, and his mouth moves like he’s been starved for it—like it’s the only thing that kept him sane all day.

Then he whispers—

“You were so wet for me last night. I could still taste you this morning.”

You go still.

And then your knees nearly give out.

“Clark,” you whisper.

He falters—like he hadn’t meant to say any of that. He pulls back slightly, breath fanning your cheek.

“I probably shouldn’t have said that out loud,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry.”

You grab his shirt, already breathless when you shake your head. “Keep going.”

He stares at you like he’s never heard anything so devastatingly good in his life.

“You want me to?”

You nod, lips parting.

His mouth brushes yours, barely there. His hands are warm against your waist.

“I woke up hard this morning thinking about how soft and wet you were last night… just from my fingers. Gosh, honey—”

You gasp—because he says it like that. Not dirty, not cocky. Just so honest.

Just so Clark.

Your head hits the wall with a soft thud and you try to find words, but then his hand is sliding up your shirt, dragging his palm over your ribs, over the swell of your breast like he’s been waiting to do this.

You whimper. A high pitched, desperate little sound.

Clark hums like he’s delighted. And also embarrassed by how delighted he is.

One hand lifts your thigh around his waist, and his other drags the hem of your shirt higher, until his knuckles are brushing your bare hips.

“I had to jerk off in the shower just to calm down enough to look you in the eye at breakfast without taking you on the counter.”

You moan into his mouth, clutching his arms for balance.

“God, Clark—”

“You looked so pretty pouring your coffee. You always look pretty. But jeez—wearing my shirt, all soft-eyed and sleepy, and all I could think about was how good you sounded last night when I had you coming on my face.”

And just like that, you’re gone.

Helpless. Heart pounding. Writhing against him.

His hand drops between your legs, finds your core under your panties, and groans when he feels how soaked you are.

“Golly, sweetheart,” he breathes. “You’re gonna make me lose my mind.”

You reach for his belt like it’s the only thing you can do to keep upright.

It’s not fast, but it’s not slow either. It’s the kind of desperate need that’s been simmering all day. He kisses you through the first thrust like it’s an apology for making you wait this long—like he can’t believe he gets to have you again.

And even when he’s inside you, he still sounds so fucking sweet.

“You feel so good. I don’t ever wanna be anywhere but inside you.”

“Been thinking about this since I left this morning. Couldn’t stop.”

“I don’t just wanna have you, sweetheart—I wanna keep you forever.”

You come undone beneath him, hand fisting in the back of his shirt, and he cradles your head like you’re breakable even as you tremble around him.

And then he gasps, stutters, loses rhythm. He whimpers, honest to God whimpers, and buries himself deep with a whispered “oh gosh, baby, I—”

When your breathing finally settles and your back slides down the wall just a little, legs still shaky, Clark kisses the top of your head.

Then, almost shyly:

”…Sorry if I was talking too much.”

You look up at him—lips swollen, clothes askew, skin flushed—and grin.

His cheeks are flushed, curls a mess, and he looks genuinely concerned that maybe he’d said something he shouldn’t.

“Clark,” you whisper, pulling him back in for another kiss, “if that was too much, I hope you never learn moderation.”

He laughs—soft, bashful, and bright.

Then he glances toward the window, where a pigeon’s landed on the fire escape.

“Oh hey there, little guy,” he says with a grin, before turning back to you with what you think has got to be the sweetest smile on earth.

And that’s the thing—he is Superman. But he’s also the man who talks to pigeons and makes you come apart every night like it’s his life’s mission.

That’s the man you fell in love with—every good, impossible, perfect inch of him.

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you wiggle your toes as they dangle, sock-clad feet airborne as clark keeps you off the floor. his breaths are felt beneath your palms–long inhale, short exhale–ribs expanding. “you’re quiet.” the remark brushes past his ear, a gentle observation. he sighs.

“missed you.”

you press a kiss to wherever skin is near, as a reciprocation, just below where his curls taper off. the sweat has dried there, its salt to your lips. something in him clicks then, why he's really quiet, that underlying effect of him not seeing you and missing you. the need that builds the longer he holds you. he knows you feel it too, by the slight jump in your heart rate, the way you keep kissing him. you wait for him, though. you always do.

despite dating clark for a while, you’re still not used to his super abilities. sure, his strength never phases you, it's part of his farm boy charm. but everything else, you marvel at. the way he brings you coffee in the morning, barely leaving your side. the warmth of him still lingering on your skin when he disappears for that split second in a whoosh of air. how a purple mark sucked into his skin the night before disappears in the morning light, sunshine hitting the sheets and ridding him of the evidence of your debauchery.

“bed?” his question vibrates against your shoulder, an almost shy murmur. you nod, excitement prickling at the tips of your fingers. 

now, clark flies. hovering a few inches over the–worn, prone to creak–wooden floors, if the ceiling were any shorter, his hair would skim the popcorned wall. he takes you to your bed, crossing the threshold of your room and pausing by the edge.

clark's hands dip lower, curling just beneath your ass to hoist you higher so he can comfortably drop you on the bed. you land with a puff, the duvet beneath you deflates, mirroring the way all the air rushes out of your lungs at the sight of him in front of you, standing broad and big between your legs. you hook an ankle around the back of his knee to prompt him forward. 

“come here.”

one hand holds your calf, propping it by his hip and the other busies itself with unzipping his suit, fingers tucked into where it's concealed. he pulls his arms through the sleeves, exposing the lines of muscles that run down his biceps, you want to bite down on it. he peels the rest of the material down with his cape falling in a flourish to his feet, he kicks it off to the side, leaving him clad in his underwear.white, this time, and tight around certain areas. there's not much left to the imagination when he tents under your gaze, keen and eager. 

you sit up, bringing yourself face to face with his crotch. clark doesn't know what to do with his hands, so he tucks loose strands of hair behind your ears as you lean forward. looking up at him, you press your face to his bulge, kissing the tip through his underwear. a bead of precum saturates the material, making it that much more see through.

“as much as i would like this,” he huffs, carding a hand through his own hair this time, and frustratedly at that. “i don’t think i’m gonna last.”

you smile, wicked but pleased. “then come here,” you repeat, snagging a finger at his waistband and pulling it down as you go. you scoot backwards and clark follows you, almost like a puppy as he watches your shirt come off. no bra! how convenient. before you can, clark drags your shorts down your legs, the panties with him.

he kneels between your thighs, holding them apart with two large palms, dimpling the flesh. you reach down and wrap your fingers around his cock, tip flushed and aching. you stroke him slowly before guiding him to your entrance. his hips push forward, slow as ever, but practiced. you know this routine, the gentle press, so he makes sure you don’t hurt. it's sickeningly caring, but now isn't the time. 

a sense of urgency fills you at the same rate he does, decisions being made as a whine claws at your throat when he stretches you. you're doubly sure he won't last when you give an experimental squeeze at the head of his cock and he tenses, hissing quietly. if he isn’t gonna last he may as well fuck you properly before he does.

legs cross around clark's hips, anchoring him to you and pulling him in faster. he can't help but follow, sinking with a long, shared groan. he stays like that for a second, balls snug against your ass, hips flush to yours, relishing in the way you adjust around him, warm and wet. until you get impatient.

“clark, move. please.”

you hope the plea sweetens the deal and god does it. his hips retreat, till just his tip is left and slams all the way back in with a force that makes your head tip back, neck bared.

“gosh, i'm- you feel so good, sweetheart.” his mouth attaches to your newly exposed jugular, sucking haphazardly over the skin. “squeezing me so tight.”

you hum, or squeal, or suppress a scream. you don't know. all you can manage right now is to hold on as he drives into you again, and again. nails sink into his shoulders, down the planes of his back, and it only pushes him higher, faster. you can hear it in the way his moans grow louder, skimming over your pulse point, twitching inside you, that he's close.

he did warn you.

you bring his face to yours, eyes imploring, “baby, you can come. it's okay, i want you to come.”

clark kent considers himself a gentleman, opening doors before you get to them, walking on the curbside of the pavement, doing literally anything you want. but most importantly, he always makes sure his girl comes first. it's common courtesy, so his face scrunches up in effort when he vehemently shakes his head. no.

he speeds up, desperate to get you to finish before he does, but subconsciously he's working toward his release more than yours. it's embarrassing, he's superman, yet he's about to finish within a minute of sinking into your cunt. he's all over the place, hips bucking wildly to reach his peak but trying with all his might to hold off. so you help, you know exactly which buttons to push, he won't stand a chance. “please, clark. please, cum in me. i need it.”

and who is he to deny you? his entire body shakes when the pleasure crests, involuntary as your words push him over, burying deep inside you as he spills. it's warm and thick and it keeps going. you’re sated and full, melting into the sheets. never doubt in the kryptonian instilled breeding kink of your boyfriends, he’ll never admit it but he doesn't shy away from cumming inside you when he can.

when he’s finally done, slowing his thrusts to a stop as he comes down, clark allows himself a few seconds of respite before he starts fucking you again, earnestly. the overstimulation eats at him, pathetic whines and eyes squeezed shut, but he's still hard. 

he tilts his hips up, making sure that he hits the right spot, eliciting a surprised sound—caught between a gasp and a moan. how is he still going? he’s making a mess of you, his release is smeared all over from where it seeps out, hes fucks it back in anyway. there's nowhere for it to go, you're already so full, he takes up entirely too much space.

calloused fingers snake down, tracing over your breasts, your navel, then over the bundle of nerves situated so fondly above where he's splitting you open. he rubs circles over your clit, slow and precise, exactly the way you like it. where desperation was previously, determination has taken its place. he's still sensitive from his orgasm, so so sensitive but he can take it. he's superman, after all, your superman. 

“oh, fuck. clark-” you cry out, frantically grabbing onto the arm that has planted itself beside your head. you hike your legs higher up his body, allowing him to hit deeper. he doubles down, tip kissing your cervix with every roll forward. you can’t bear it, the persistent slap of skin where his frenzied hips meet yours and the way his mouth has taken to licking over your collarbone.

“c’mon, hun. do it for me, please. need to feel you come on my cock,” he almost grunts, voice bordering on a whimper.

not that you need the encouragement but you take it in tow, anyway. besides, you take some delight in hearing him saying the word cock, the flush that blooms on the nape of his neck. it takes one more thrust to push you over the edge, you gasp for air as the orgasm rolls over you, shuddering under him, his name loosely dancing on your tongue as you ride the aftershocks. it comes to no surprise when you feel clark twitch inside you again, a lighter spurt this time but cum nonetheless and he finally slumps. 

he rolls over in a huff and pulls you with him, softened cock slipping out as you go. your leg gets tossed over his, mixed releases leaking out onto his thigh. you find that you don't care much if it gets on the sheets, his mess.

with a great deal of effort, you raise your head to look at him. blue eyes fixated on some spot on the ceiling, chest heaving under your palm, you press a kiss to his lightly stubbled chin and he looks down at you, eyelashes fluttering.

“you okay, big guy?” you whisper. 

he leans and kisses your forehead, more a warm exhale than anything. “i’m great.” you’d have to install blackout curtains to not see the bright cheesy, dimple adorned grin that his mouth twists into, and even then you think it might glow in the dark. you push his face into the pillow, squishing him just enough to have him shut up. well, not before he manages to muffle the words want to go again?