!

“Deal,” you chuckle, the relief evident in your voice. “I’ll see you then, love you.”

The line clicks dead, and the sudden silence of the apartment settles heavily around you. You lower the phone, setting it face down on the kitchen counter. Leaning forward, you prop your elbow on the cool surface and drop your chin into your hand, letting out a long, weary sigh into the empty room.

It wasn’t that you meant to completely isolate yourself from the world; it had just happened gradually. Ever since the messy and abrupt breakup with your ex, Clark Kent, the energy to put yourself out there had completely vanished.

Now, you just didn’t feel like doing anything anymore — no dating, no small talk, no trying to explain your life story to someone new. It was easier to just stay inside, where nobody could ask anything else of you.

You push away from the counter and head straight to the bathroom for an extra long hot shower, letting the water completely wash away the lingering tension you’ve had built up throughout the day.

After putting on your pajamas, you finally crawl into bed and pull your laptop onto your lap. You scroll through your emails you’d been avoiding and sort through the digital clutter of the day, when a sudden sound breaks the quiet of the room.

The room is completely quiet until your phone suddenly lights up on the nightstand, vibrating heavily against the wood as it begins to ring.

You glance over and see the name flashing across the screen makes your chest instantly tighten.

‘Clark (do not answer.)’

For a few heavy seconds, you just stare at it, your brain trying to remind you not to care about what he could possibly be calling you for. But despite the reminder in his contact name, you answer it right before it goes to voicemail.

“Hello?” you squeak.

“Hi,” his voice comes through the receiver, low and familiar enough to send a sharp jolt through you.

An uncomfortable silence falls between you as you anticipate his reasoning for the sudden call.

You swallow hard, gripping the phone a little tighter against your ear. “Can I help you?”

“Well y’know I was just in the neighborhood—” Clark says, his tone carrying a trace of that old, familiar playfulness. You could tell he was smiling on the other end of the line and it made your stomach churn.

“Clark,” you cut him off, your voice dropping into an annoyed, warning flatline.

He sighs, his tone turns quiet and serious, “Right, sorry, I uh, I just wanted to know if you’d be okay with going somewhere and talking for a bit,” His voice tilts up slightly at the end, hesitant and almost nervous as he waits for your answer.

You let out a quiet sigh, biting the inside of your cheek as you stare at the wall, weighing the risk of letting him back in.

“Please?” he adds softly.

God.

The word almost cracks your resolve, a familiar pull tugging at you to just give in. You try to suppress the instinct, before a desperate bit of self-preservation takes over.

“I’m not even home,” you lie, the excuse slipping out at the last second.

“Oh, well your lamp is still on,” he says almost too casually.

“What?” You look over at the nightstand, your heart taking a sudden dive. The lamp is in fact on and casting a warm glow across your bedroom. “How do you even know that?”

“Because I’m outside your window.” He speaks like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You drop the laptop onto the mattress, scramble across the blankets, and quickly yank open the curtains. Down on the sidewalk, standing right under the glow of the streetlamp, is Clark. He looks up, locks eyes with you through the glass, and offers a little wave, that familiar dimply smile cutting through the dark.

“Oh, there you are,” his voice crackles through the phone. He doesn’t even care that you just lied about not being home.

All you can do is stare down at him for a moment in disbelief.

Instead of heading down to meet him, you let out a sharp breath into the receiver. “Just come up.”

It doesn’t take long until that familiar, heavy-handed knock sounds against the wood of your front door. You scurry over, your pulse quickening, but you don’t unlock it all the way.

The door jolts to a sudden stop after a few inches, held fast by the taut metal link. Clark is standing under the dim hallway light, looking a little tired but searching your face through the narrow vertical gap. The chain hangs rigidly between you, a stark, physical boundary slicing the space between your two faces.

“Yes?” you ask, your tone flat.

“So?” Clark replies, tilting his head slightly, waiting for an answer.

“So.….what?”

“I asked if we could talk, maybe walk around for a bit,” he reiterates softly, his voice trailing off towards the end .

You analyze him, head to toe, through the slender gap of the door, taking a second to really think about it. He stands there anxiously waiting, looking like an expectant, hopeful stray, dressed in a layered brown sweater, jeans, and a matching brown leather belt. His hair is slightly disheveled due to walking in the evening wind. His glasses serve as a familiar disguise that feels almost absurdly endearing given what you know about his true identity.

You find yourself wishing he didn’t look the way he did, possessing that effortless, frustrating pull. Huffing out a breath in defeat, you squint your eyes at him.

“Hold on.”

You shut the door on his face, the latch clicking back into place. Leaning your back against the solid wood, you press a palm over your face and close your eyes.

Pushing yourself off your door, you travel around the bedroom, grabbing a light jacket to throw over your pajamas and sliding your feet into a pair of shoes.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror but don’t bother lingering for too long. It would be entirely redundant to try and fix your hair or throw on a bit of makeup considering he’s seen you in every way. All of you, in every way.

When you walk back to the door and reach for the doorknob, you pause, deliberately forcing yourself to wait so you don’t seem too eager to let him in.

After a few added seconds, you swing the door open quickly.

The sudden movement makes Clark snap his head up from where he had been staring at the floor. The second he locks eyes with you, that dumb, endearing smile instantly spreads across his face.

Stop.

“Where are we going?” you ask, pulling your jacket a little tighter around yourself.

“Just a walk around the block, if that’s okay?” His voice is soft, leaving the decision entirely up to you.

You give a brief, silent nod and step out into the hallway, pulling the apartment door shut behind you.

The walk down to the elevator is quiet, and once the aged, metal doors slide shut, the small space suddenly feels incredibly tight. You keep your eyes glued straight ahead, staring intently at the illuminated floor numbers so you don’t make any eye contact whatsoever.

But without even looking, you can still feel the heavy weight of his attention. In your peripheral, you notice him awkwardly shifting, his eyes drifting over to look down at you at least twice, testing the quiet between you.

When the doors finally slide open, you step out into the lobby. Walking side by side, you make your way across the floor and push through the heavy front doors of the building, stepping out into the cool, quiet night air.

What starts out as a hesitant lap around the block slowly stretches out, your quiet footsteps naturally guiding them into the grass-lined paths of the nearby park.

You tried your absolute hardest to stay closed off, keeping your arms crossed and your answers short, but you forgot how hard that can be when you’re around him. He just has an innate warmth to him that makes it impossible to stay guarded for long; it doesn’t take anyone long to feel comfortable around him.

As you keep walking, the conversation naturally drifts into the heavier stuff.

It starts with a few hesitant, awkward apologies, where both of you trip over your words as you try to find the right things to say.

You even find yourselves talking about the lingering regrets you’ve both been carrying around internally. It’s clunky and a little uncomfortable at first, but airing out the past brings a strange, quiet relief to the space between you.

Soon you reach your apartment building again. You push through the heavy doors and step into the elevator, the quiet of the lobby following you inside. Of course, you’re not surprised when you realize that Clark is staying with you until he sees you enter your apartment. It’s always been a habit of his so he knows you’re safe.

The ride up is a bit different this time. Instead of purposefully ignoring Clark’s gaze, you both keep glancing over at each other. Right as the elevator passes the halfway point, you both look up at the exact same time. Your eyes lock, and the sudden, intense eye contact sends a jolt through the quiet space.

You both quickly break away, snapping your focus down to the ground. The easy energy from the park instantly disappears and is replaced by a sudden wave of awkwardness as you both start shifting your weight and adjusting your jackets, completely unsure of what to do with your hands.

The elevator chimes, and the doors slide open, releasing you both from the small, confined box. You walk down the carpeted hallway until you’re standing right outside your door, it was a spot you two were very familiar with.

“Thank you for the talk,” you say softly, the honesty in your voice surprising even yourself. “It was definitely needed.”

Clark shrugs his shoulders and that quiet warmth returns to his eyes. “It was no problem,” he says, his voice low and sincere. “Really.”

You exchange your final ‘goodbye’s’ and Clark turns on his heels and heads toward the elevator. You slip inside your apartment, lock the door, and let out a long breath, leaning your forehead against the wood.

Standing in the quiet entryway, you feel it — that fuzzy sensation pulling right in the center of your chest. You absolutely hate that it's still lingering, even after everything that happened between you. You close your eyes, shaking your head aggressively as if you could physically knock the feeling out of your system.

Before you can even take a step towards the bedroom, a violent rumble of thunder rattles the walls and a massive downpour starts absolutely slamming against the glass.

You rush over to the window, parting the curtains and looking straight down at the sidewalk.

Right under the streetlamp — the same spot he was in previously — Clark is caught in the rain. He is completely drenched, his hair flat and sopping on his head, and his brown sweater has grown heavier (not that he noticed). He just accepts it and just hunches his shoulders, looking entirely miserable as he starts a slow trudge down the sidewalk.

You watch him for a few seconds, completely defeated.

He is so ridiculous, you think. You know he could easily outrun the clouds, but Clark Kent has to walk in the rain.

You yank the window open, the cool, wet wind blowing against your face.

“Clark!” you shout down into the street, throwing your voice over the sound of the storm.

He snaps his head up, squinting through the downpour as he looks up at your floor.

“Come back!” you yell, gesturing aggressively towards the building. He nods quickly, turning on his heel to sprint back inside.

You mentally go over the timeline of him crossing the lobby, waiting on the elevator and riding it back up to your floor.

By the time the distant ding! of the elevator echoes down the hallway, you can't even pretend to be casual anymore. You unlock the door and swing it wide open before he can even make it halfway down the corridor.

Clark quickly steps past you, slipping inside the warm apartment to get out of the open hallway. The heavy door clicks shut behind him, and only then do you turn to really look at him.

He looks pitiful. His dark hair is plastered to his forehead, his glasses are so fogged up and covered in droplets that it’s a miracle he can even see, and that heavy brown sweater is already dripping small puddles onto the entryway floor.

The second he clears the water from his eyes and looks at you, his face lights up, and that same hopeful, dumb smile cuts right through the rain dripping down his cheeks.

“Hey,” he says, his voice a little breathless as he stays firmly planted by the mat, hyperaware of the soggy mess he’s making.

“Don’t ‘hey’ me,” your eyes catch the dripping knit fabric. “You’re getting my carpet all wet,” you chuckle.

“Right, yeah,” he quickly kicks off his soaked shoes and nudges them onto the mat.

You gesture toward the bathroom door. “Just hand me the wet stuff and I’ll get you something dry.”

You stand outside the bathroom door, waiting in the quiet hallway as the sound of wet fabric rustling echoes from inside.

A moment later, the door cracks open, and Clark reaches out to hand you a heavy, waterlogged bundle of his soaked sweater and jeans.

When the door swings open just a few inches, you see it — the clear sliver of his bare torso through the gap. Your eyes drift instantly across the solid line of his broad shoulders and down the damp curve of his chest. The sheer frame of him fills the doorway, and your gaze linger for a beat too long before your mouth goes completely dry, forcing you to snap your focus back up to his face.

Clearing your throat, you take the dripping pile with one hand and quickly extend the dry bundle you pulled from your dresser — his old white t-shirt and dark sweatpants that was left behind months ago back when staying over was a regular thing.

Clark takes the clothes through the crack in the door, his fingers brushing against the worn, familiar fabric. There’s a heavy beat of total silence from inside the bathroom as he recognizes what you just handed him.

“I was wondering where these went,” his voice is quiet as if he’s talking to himself.

Once he’s dressed, Clark steps back into the living room, cleaning his glasses with the bottom of his shirt that was now lifted just enough to give you a perfect view of his happy trail.

Stop staring.

He slows his steps when he sees the couch. You’ve set up a pillow and folded a few heavy blankets across the cushions for him.

Outside the window, the storm continues into the pitch-black night. With the weather tearing through the streets at this hour, it would be ridiculous for him to even attempt walking home — superpowers or not. So letting him sleep on the couch is the only sensible option left.

“I’d feel super guilty letting you walk home in that,” you say, gesturing toward the heavy rain hammering against the living room window.

Clark rubs the back of his neck, giving you a small, humble smile. “Oh, I’d be fine really,” he says, his voice quiet. ‘I’ve walked in worse,”

His words say one thing, but his body language says another. He makes absolutely zero move toward the front door.

He isn’t reaching for his wet jacket, he isn’t checking his watch, and he certainly isn’t looking for his shoes. For someone claiming he’d be fine walking out into a torrential downpour, he seems remarkably content standing right where he is.

“Okay, well,” you say, clearing your throat. “You know where everything is.”

You pull off a quick shrug, trying your best to seem casual and completely unaffected — as if having your ex-boyfriend standing in your living room at night were the most routine thing in the world

The awkward silence in the apartment lets every buried thought and quiet memory rush to the forefront of your brain.

Panic creeps up your chest. Wanting nothing more than to put a solid wall between yourself and the constant reminder of his presence, you pivot toward your bedroom.

You start at a normal walk, but within two steps, your feet pick up a frantic pace. You practically power-walk down the short hallway, desperately hoping Clark’s sharp eyes don’t catch the absurd speed at which you’re retreating into your room.

You leave the door pulled shut, but leave it cracked open just a tiny sliver. As you crawl into bed and pull the blankets all the way up to your chin, you squeeze your eyes shut with absolute determination. You try to focus on the steady pattern of your breathing, desperately trying to drown out the noise in your head.

Through the narrow gap in the door, the subtle sounds of Clark settling in drift through the dark space. The quiet creak of the sofa cushions as his heavy frame sinks into them. The soft rustle of the blanket being pulled over his shoulders. A long, weary exhale that cuts through the quiet room.

At least forty five whole minutes stretch on, each one feeling longer than the last. You toss, turn, and stare at the thin strip of pale light cutting across your ceiling, but sleep remains completely out of reach.

Coincidentally, Clark is actually having the same problem.

He’s lying flat on his back, staring up at your living room ceiling with his hands tucked behind his head, his chest rising and falling in slow, heavy rhythm. The old white t-shirt smells faintly like your detergent, and every time he inhales, it pulls him right back to every night he spent under this roof.

His mind drifts back to the nights you used to share. He could never forget how pretty you’d look when you were all flushed and unraveled in his arms.

He also remembers how soft and sweet you are. If he told you that he had been with another woman since you’d split, he’d be lying.

Just the thought of it makes him sick.

And of course tonight you looked perfect — your cheeks blushing a subtle hint of pink when he caught you off guard, the small line between your brows when you furrowed your brows at him. Even with all the walls you’ve put up between you, you still manage to drive him crazy.

The constant chatter in his brain pulls a heavy breath from his chest, making the space between you feel thin.

Oh no.

He squeezes his eyes shut tight and groans in frustration quietly as that familiar warmth flows straight through his veins and pools low in his stomach.

He yanks one of the pillows from behind his head and buries it firmly over his lap, pressing it down against his growing erection as if physical force alone could force his body to stop.

It backfires completely. The added friction and weight only makes it worse, sending a sharp jolt straight to his core. Overwhelmed by the sensation, his hips instinctively push up against the soft pillow, seeking even a fraction of relief for the ache building inside him.

He freezes the second he hears the couch springs shift beneath him, holding his breath as he listens intently toward your cracked bedroom door, praying you didn’t hear him lose a fight to himself.

Of course, you would hear him if you weren’t getting all hot and bothered yourself.

You’re completely rigid under the covers, a pillow wedged firmly between your legs as you clutch the edge of the mattress. You fight the overwhelming urge to slide your hand down and touch herself the way you wish he could.

You shut your eyes and bite down hard on your lower lip to keep your breathing steady. You know that if you gave in, or let your breathing hitch, he would instantly hear every single second of it.

For a few agonizing minutes, Clark stays on the couch, silently rocking his hips up against the pillow in a desperate attempt to work off the unbearable friction burning through his flannel pajama pants.

He sighs in defeat and runs a clammy hand down his face.

Fuck it.

A spark of courage settles in his chest and he quietly pads across the dark living room and towards your bedroom.

He stands in the doorway, watching you in the dim light for a few quiet seconds before sneaking inside. You hear him quietly call out your name, causing you to immediately close your eyes and pretend to be sound asleep.

He walks farther into your room, his sock clad feet making no sound against the floor as he walks closer to the side of the bed, pausing right beside you to silently observe your face in the dim light.

His eyes drift across your sleeping figure in the dark, unable to look away from how soft and pretty you look in the low light.

You try your best not to tense your muscles as he runs his fingers gently down your bare shoulder, the warm tips tracing the curve of your skin.

His breathing turns shallow as the touch sends another wave of heat straight to his gut. Keeping his eyes fixed on your quiet face, he reaches down with his other hand, carefully palming himself through the fabric of his boxers, slowly relieving the throbbing pressure.

As his fingertips travel lower, tracing down your bare skin and towards your hips, you carefully crack your eyes open.

“I know what you’re doing, Clark,” you blurt out into the dark.

The words instantly cut through the quiet room, but he doesn’t stop. Instead, his breath hitches, and his fingers keep moving against your soft skin, unable to draw away.

“M’ sorry,” he whispers, his lips now brushing your arm. “I missed you so much,”

His palm slides slowly along your side, his pulse hammering against your skin as he leans down, his mouth just inches from your ear.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathes. “Just tell me to stop, and I will.”

You turn around on the mattress, your eyes locking onto his in the dim light for a beat.

He opens his mouth to speak again but before he can say another word, you reach up to grab the front of his shirt, pulling him down into a kiss.

Clark’s knees almost buckle beneath him, his legs going weak as his lips meet yours. He completely melts into you as you pull him upward, easily guiding his weight until he’s positioned right on top of you.

He presses his broad palm flat against your chest, his fingers spreading over your sternum as his lips drag deeply against yours. The rapid pulse of your heart thuds into his hand, matching the wild pace of his own.

“Your heart is beating so fast,” he murmurs against your mouth, his voice breathy before he leans back in to capture your lips again.

“So is yours,” you whisper back, allowing your tongues to tangle together in a deep, intoxicating rhythm.

Clark ruts his hard cock firmly up against your cunt. The tip catches directly against your clit, sending a sharp wave of pleasure straight through you that draws out an involuntary whine.

“Do you want me?” he asks, his breath hot against your neck as he grinds into you again.

You were too far gone to realize that you were letting Clark back in almost too easily, but with the way he was pressed so perfectly against you, he’s the only thing you need right now.

“Yes,” you gasp out, clutching his shoulders. “Right now.”

Clark groans at your words, sliding his hand up under your shirt to cup your breast, massaging it firmly. His big, warm hand pulls a loud moan from your throat, your hips bucking up against his.

He moves his lips down your body until he reaches your cunt. He quickly works off your shorts and buries his face against your center, taking in a deep, unsteady breath of your scent.

He lets out a soft whine, leaning down to press slow, warm kisses directly against the fabric of your panties. His hands move to the elastic, gently sliding the fabric down your legs until they’re discarded somewhere in the dark.

His finger trails down your slick heat, tracing your wetness in an agonizingly slow stroke. He looks down at your folds, his voice barely a breath as he whispers, “Hi, pretty girl,” unabashedly to your cunt.

You feel his lips press a slow, wet kiss directly against your pussy, letting his warm breath linger for a second before his tongue swirls out to flick right against your clit.

He dives in, fully eating you out with pure need. His hands grip the undersides of your thighs, planting his thumbs firmly into your skin to hold you locked in place so there's no chance of escape.

Your fingers weave their way to his dark hair, gripping tight as he licks and laps into you without missing a single beat.

Two thick fingers slide deep inside of you, instantly hooking right where you need them. He presses his weight into the bed, completely shameless as he begin to hump the mattress, the thick swell of his cock grinding against the sheets right beside your thigh.

“Clark, I’m gonna- ‘M cumming,” you gasp out, your fingers tightening in his dark hair as the rubber band in your belly finally snaps.

“Mhm, mhm,” he murmurs against your skin, not slowing down for a single second. He holds you steady, helping you ride out every last ripple of your high.

After littering your inner thighs with a few more kisses, he starts to push himself up, but your hands immediately catch him to halt his movement.

“Still need you,” you whine as your hand drifts straight down between his legs to wrap firmly around his cock.

He smiles, a breathy chuckle slips past his lips. “Oh, baby,”

He leans back up, pressing a sweet kiss right against the corner of your mouth before kicking off his pajama pants and boxers to free himself.

He slowly drags the length of his cock up and down along your folds to collect your wetness.

“Are you sure? Use words pretty,” he asks as he taps his tip against your clit a few times. You can tell by the dimples peeking for the upteenth time tonight that he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“C’mon Clark,” The impatient tone in your voice leaves no room for debate.

A quiet chuckle rumbles in his chest. “Sorry,” he murmurs, taking a breath before lining himself back up and steadily sinking all the way inside.

“Biiiig stretch, there you go honey,” A sharp, synchronized moan breaks through the quiet room as he fills you up completely.

He rests his forehead pressed against your shoulder as you both take a few seconds to really feel each other.

“Clark, please move,” you whisper into his shoulder, the soft plea breaking through the quiet room.

“Hold on...just give me a second,” he mutters, his voice a little strained and gritty.

His whole body is rigid over yours as he shuts his eyes, concentrating with everything he’s got just to keep from busting right then and there. His hands grip the sheets beside your head, knuckles turning white as he takes a few slow, steadying breaths into your skin, trying to catch his control.

He mumbles a quiet ‘okay’ to himself before slowly rocking his hips into yours. His cock deliciously drags along your walls in a way that you had craved for far too long.

The slow, cautious pace vanishes as he suddenly picks up speed, driving into you with a desperate rhythm that has both of your hips snapping together in quick, breathless bursts.

His lips find yours again, capturing them in an urgent kiss. Every deep thrust pulls needy whines straight from both of your throats, muffled against each other's mouths.

Your hand drifts back down between your bodies, fingers finding where you both connect, feeling every inch of his length working in and out of you.

Clark shifts, leaning back just enough to look down at your stomach, his eyes locking onto that familiar, distinct bulge beneath your skin.

“Look,” he whispers as he reaches down with his hand. “Forgot about that,”

He presses his palm down firm against the swell, and the sudden, intense pressure sends a helpless, high-pitched mewl straight out of your throat, your hips instinctively arching up into his touch.

The headboard thumps loud and hard against the wall with every single stroke, a heavy, rhythmic banging that’s definitely going to bring in some noise complaints from the neighbors.

It doesn't even matter. You’re way too far gone to care, legs wrapped tight around his wide waist as he jackhammers into you, completely lost in the static fuzz that filled your brain.

“I missed you,” he pants against your ear, the pace not slowing for a second. “I know you did too, I can feel it,”

Clark’s words pour out into a mindless, frantic babble, the words tumbling out raw and unstructured between hard thrusts. “I should've done better, fuck, I know I should’ve. I’ll do better for you, I promise, if you’ll let me, please,”

You can’t even assemble a proper sentence. Your brain is completely fried from feeling his cock punching into that spongy spot inside of you over and over again. All you can manage is a series of nonsensical nods, letting out weak, incoherent noises.

You both hit the edge at the same time, and Clark can feel your walls starting to clench tight around him with every shuddering breath.

He reaches further down between your legs and tweaks your clit.

The sharp, intense bolt of electricity makes you clench around him even harder, almost locking him in place. Clark lets out a harsh, guttural groan, his jaw tight as he tries to hold back for two more seconds.

“Where do you want it, hurry,” he grunts, his voice completely wrecked.

“Inside,” you gasp out, barely able to force the word past your lips.

The second the word leaves your mouth, he buries himself as deep as he can go and spills inside of you.

“It’s all yours, m’all yours,” he slurs against your skin, filling you up as your whole body shatters in a synchronized, overwhelming climax that leaves you both shattered.

You both lay there in the quiet room, chests heaving as you breathe heavily against each other.

Clark slowly pulls out, shifting over to the nightstand to pluck a few tissues from the box. You lie entirely limp and exhausted as he gently cleans you both up.

He reaches over the edge of the bed and scoops your panties from the floor along with his own boxers. He slips your underwear back onto your hips before pulling his on. He then finds your shirt, holding it in front of you.

“Arms.”

Without even having to process the thought, you sit up and automatically raise your arms so he can slide the fabric back over your head and shoulders. It all comes so naturally, a familiar routine your body has known a thousand times before.

He settles back down at your side, wrapping his arms around you to pull you flush against his chest, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your temple as your breathing finally begins to slow.

It was one of those hot summer days. The sun was high in the sky, beating down over the neighborhood that smelled of freshly cut grass, savory barbecue, and a hint of citrus. Chris strolled over to your house which was just a few doors down from his, wearing a pair of black swim trunks and flip flops.

It was quite the arrangement. Chris would clean out your in-ground pool once a week, and in exchange, you'd pay him more than a reasonable amount of cash, let him go for a swim, and give him as many cold glasses of your home-made fresh-squeezed lemonade as he could possibly want. It was a win-win. You got a sparkling clean pool as well as a bit of eye candy, and Chris got some kind of relief from the grueling summer heat and some extra spending money.

Chris approached your front door, his finger tracing the door bell before he rang it, the chime sounding throughout your luxurious estate and echoing off the high ceilings. Your designer heels clicked sharply against the gold marble flooring, your ponytail bouncing with every step as you made your way to let the pool boy in.

"Chris, you made it," you greeted him with a smile, looking up at him after pulling open the heavy mahogany door open. Despite the eight year age difference and the height boost from your heels, Chris still towered over you. Your eyes flicked over his shirtless form.

"Wow, somebody's been working out." You reached out and subtly touched his bicep, your freshly-manicured hot pink nails grazing the skin that was stretched over his muscle.

A rosy blush rushed to his cheeks as he nervously ran his long fingers through his brown hair. "Thanks. I've been hitting the gym a lot this summer."

"Looks like it's paying off," you responded, giving him a playful little wink. "Come on in." You spun around, making your way back inside, Chris' eyes immediately dropping to your ass and your nicely-shaped legs that were peeking out from under your little white skirt that swayed in cadence with your stride.

"Where's your husband?" Chris wondered aloud, still ogling you as he shut the door behind him.

"Oh, you know. Business trip. The man's always working, but it's how he affords me," you laughed, strutting down the hallway and into the dining with Chris right on your heels.

It was true. You weren't just any kind of woman. You were a gorgeous, sophisticated woman with expensive taste, and you wouldn't have settled for a man who made anything less.

The thought of the two of you being all alone made his cock twitch.

"Glass of lemonade?" You offered, wandering over to a cabinet.

"Sure. I'd love one," Chris replied, licking his lips as he watched your skimpy top ride up to expose your back dimples while you reached for a tall glass on the top shelf.

"Just made a fresh batch this morning," you told him as you tugged open the fridge door, retrieving a glass pitcher from inside and filling Chris' cup to the top, the ice cubes and lemon slices making it look all the more refreshing and aesthetically pleasing. You plucked a little decorative umbrella and a pink bendy straw from a drawer, putting the final touches on the drink before sliding it across the stone slab countertop over to Chris.

"Thank you, ma'am," Chris nodded, taking the glass from you and taking a big gulp before letting out a satisfied sigh. "I'll go get started on the pool."

About twenty minutes later, Chris was in your backyard, his lemonade already half gone. He had already tested the chlorine levels of the pool and was skimming the leaves and debris from the top of the water with a net when you slipped outside in your little white bikini, your sunglasses, and a floppy sun hat.

In one hand, you held a martini glass, in the other, a small bottle of oil. Tucked under your arm was a book and slung over the other was your towel. Chris glanced up at the sound of the sliding glass door shutting behind you as you floated over towards your lounge chair.

"Hope you don't mind if I get a little sun bathing in while you work," you called out, setting up by the poolside and draping your towel over your seat before you plopped down on it.

"No, not at all," Chris shook his head, his blue eyes dancing over your figure once more. "Please do."

He fixed his gaze on your martini as you held it to your lips, secretly wishing he were the glass. Normally, you would just watch Chris from the big window in the dining room that faced the pool, and he never thought anything of it. Of course, you'd want to make sure he was doing it right and actually working, considering you were paying him by the hour.

But having you watch him up close and personal in your tight little bathing suit made him a little nervous. And undeniably excited.

He tried to focus on the job that needed to be done, but he caught a glimpse of you out of the corner of his eye, sprawled out on your sun lounger, oiling up your arms and legs. Chris couldn't help but notice the way the sun rays hit your glowing skin while you delicately ran your hands over your body.

He swallowed hard. He knew how wrong it was to be staring at a married woman, imagining putting his hands where another man's belonged, but he couldn't control himself.

He'd always secretly been attracted to you. And how could he not? You were exactly his type. Polished. Elevated. Refined. A little older. Sexy as hell. And taken, of course. But the fact that he wasn't supposed to want you made him want you even more. Like forbidden fruit.

His jaw dropped and eyes widened as he witnessed you untie the string on your bikini top, revealing your voluptuous breasts underneath. You carelessly tossed the fabric off to the side like it was nothing before you drizzled a bit of oil on your chest, sensually rubbing it in.

Chris watched in awe, drinking in the sight as you squeezed your tits together, slowly running your hands over the swell of each one and softly rolling your nipples between the pads of your fingers. You let out a soft exhale, goosebumps blooming across your warm skin as you continued to tweak your sensitive buds that hardened under your touch.

He could have sworn you were putting on a show just for him. And he wasn't going to miss a second of it.

You spotted Chris, his mouth agape, his blue eyes locked onto the way you were massaging yourself with a desperate look on his face.

"I gotta even out these tan lines somehow," you shrugged and gave him a little smile. "You don't mind, do you?"

Chris could feel the blood rushing down below his waist before you could even finish your sentence. He nodded dumbly, gaze still fixed on you as he lazily moved the skimmer about in the pool. "I mean, no. I don't mind at all, ma'am."

He tried to subtly adjust the growing bulge in him swim trunks but both his erection and his attempts to hide it didn't go unnoticed by you. You smirked, putting some more oil on your hands before rubbing them together and massaging the liquid into your bare shoulders.

You couldn't deny how much you were eating up the attention. Sure, you were the type of woman who turned heads when you went out. It's not like you weren't used to attention, but it usually came from men you didn't particularly find attractive. Chris, on the other hand, was definitely your type. Brown hair, blue eyes, tan skin, and perfectly straight, white teeth.

Out of the corner of his eye, you could see him still staring. You didn't have any intentions of taking it any further. You just liked to tease him a bit. And you liked the ego boost, knowing that even though you were getting older, you could still pull a younger, attractive guy.

His lemondade glass sat perched in the sun on the patio table between the two of you, condensation sweating down the sides of it. Without taking his eyes off of you, he set the pool net on the ground and wandered a bit closer to you, picking up the glass and sipping from the straw. However, he was feeling thirsty for something else.

He watched as you slightly arched your back off the chair, trying to cover your lower back in oil. Soon after, you flipped over, revealing your perfectly plump ass as it swallowed the g-string of your bikini. He took in the sight of you, mesmerized by your body, realizing this was his opportunity to jump in.

"I think you missed a spot on your back. Here, let me get it," he rasped, licking his lips as he closed the space between the two of you.

"Oh, Chris. You don't have to-" you started to say, but he was already reaching for the oil. Sure, you were trying to tease him a bit but you didn't expect him to take the bait so willingly. A chill ran down your spine as you felt him drip the oil on your flesh.

"I don't mind," he told you, dominantly placing his hands on your midback, kneading the liquid into your sunkissed skin with his thumbs.

"Oh," you moaned, relaxing into the sensation. His hands were so strong.

"Gotta take care of this pretty skin of yours," he whispered, his large hands roaming lower and lower before settling on either side of your waist. He couldn't help but let his thoughts wander the same way. He ever so gently grabbed your hips, imagining pulling them towards him while hitting it from the back.

He was rock hard in his swim shorts now, the dirtiest of fantasies playing out in his mind as he manhandled you.

He picked up the bottle of oil, fighting every urge to use it to jerk off with. He drizzled more onto your skin, his hands dropping to the small of your back, pressing his thumbs into your back dimples, his eyes glued to your ass.

"Oh, Chris," you moaned, feeling immediate relief as he massaged you, letting yourself relax into the chair beneath you. The sound of his name escaping your lips in such a breathy manner drove him wild.

You knew you shouldn't be letting the pool boy touch you, especially without your husband home. It was definitely crossing a line, but a part of you secretly liked it. Plus, it's not like you were let him touch you inappropriately, right?

Suddenly, your eyes shot open and you reached around behind you to swat his hand away when you felt both of his palms on each of your ass cheeks, giving them a hard and deliberate squeeze. "Christopher!"

"I'm sorry. My hand slipped," he lied, feigning innocence.

You rolled your eyes. Of course, you didn't believe him. However, you couldn't deny how much it turned you on. He couldn't find that out, though, and your husband certainly couldn't find out. "Hands above the waist, okay?" You told him.

"Mhmm," he nodded dismissively, his hands finding their way back to your midback and your shoulders. He drew circles with his thumbs as he rubbed the oil into your hot, smooth skin, and you started to relax again.

Just when you were wondering if him groping you was truly a mistake, you felt his fingers stretch around your ribcage, brushing against the side of each of your breasts, causing you to jump. "Young man! What do you think you're doing?" You scolded him, whipping around to face him, lowering your sunglasses so they were resting on the tip of your nose as you shot him a glare.

"Ma'am. I swear. It was an accident. I'm just trying to help," he replied, pretending to be just so naive and holding his hands up defensively. "I was just trying to get your front. May I?" He asked sweetly.

You sighed before hesitantly responding, "Fine, but keep your hands only in the appropriate spots. You hear me?"

He nodded timidly, pouring more oil on his hands. You flipped over, laying on your back in your lounge chair as Chris pressed his thumbs into the sole of your right foot. "Mmm," an involuntary sound slipped out from behind your lips as he massaged your arch.

"So. Your husband gone a lot?" Chris chimed in, his intense blue eyes tracing the curves of your body and your breasts that were still on display.

"Unfortunately," you sighed. "I miss him."

"I bet you get so lonely," Chris responded in a low, textured voice. "I bet sometimes you just need a helping hand around here."

You chuckled, knowing damn well what he meant. You were determined not to play into it. "Not really. I'm a pretty independent woman. I do just fine taking care of myself, thank you very much."

"I'm sure you do, but I'm sure it would be nice every once in a while to have someone else take care of your needs," Chris' voice dropped even lower as he started to work his way up to your ankle.

You groaned under the feeling of his hands when he started to massage the lower part of your legs and your calves. "That's it. Just like that, Chris," you cooed.

His eyes were locked onto your mound, the way the your bathing suit hugged your puffy lips.

"You know, if you ever need anything else while your husband's away, like changing a lightbulb or car troubles. Even if you just need a little human touch, you know how to reach me." He worked his way up your leg, massaging the plush part of your thigh. "I mean it. If you need anything at all, I'm your guy."

You knew he was hitting on you, pushing the boundaries to see how far he could go, his hands wandering higher and higher, closing in on your heat. You knew you should stop him. You were married after all. It had already gone too far.

Suddenly, he paused for a moment, and just when you were starting to miss his hands, you heard him pop open the bottle of oil again before pouring it onto your lower stomach, dripping some onto your bathing suit bottoms. He smeared the shiny oil around on your abdomen, his palm gently brushing over your mound as he rubbed it in.

"Oops," he said half-heartedly as he watched the oil seep through the fabric, rendering the white material practially see through at this point. His mouth watered at the sight of your cunt peeking back at him. He brushed his thumb over your slit, making you shudder.

He expected you to slap him or grab him by the wrist, or at the very least, scold him and protest. However, you didn't stop him. You didn't say a word. You just uttered a breathy sigh. He pressed down gently on your clit through the fabric, drawing small circles as he watched for your reaction.

"Chris.. I'm a married woman," you finally broke the silence. "Happily married."

Chris didn't stop. He just glanced around for a moment before bringing his gaze back to you. "I don't see your husband anywhere."

The way he said it made your stomach flip.

"Chris, we shouldn't be doing this," you weakly protested, the words losing their meaning when you let him continue. With every stroke of his thumb, another moral of yours went out the window.

His cock jumped, twitching against the fabric of his shorts. He loved how wrong it was. He loved that you knew how wrong it was, but that your body needed it so badly that you wouldn't dare stop him at this point.

"I know. We really shouldn't be doing this," he agreed, but he didn't stop. "Just like your husband shouldn't be leaving you all alone with the pool boy. And just like you shouldn't be stripping down in front of me while I'm trying to work." Chris continued drawing tight circles on your bundle of nerves through your oiled up bottoms. "It's too late for all that, though, isn't it?" He gave you a devious smirk, his blue eyes consumed by lust.

He paused for a moment, watching how you'd react to the sudden loss of stimulation. You ever so slightly bucked your hips up until his thumb was pressing down on your clit once more. He had you right where he wanted you, desperate and writhing beneath him.

"You'd better not tell my husband about this," you softly whispered, letting him have his way with you.

"You'd better not tell your husband about this," Chris commented back, slowly undoing your bikini bottom string.

He untied the right side first. Then the left. Then he slowly peeled them away from your body, giving him a perfect and unobstructed view of your immaculate pussy. He leaned in closer, admiring every fold, his hot breath ghosting over your heat and making you shudder.

"Chris," you whimpered as he spread you open with his long fingers.

"Look at this perfect fucking pussy," he mumbled gruffly, leveling himself between your legs. He wrapped his strong arms around your thighs, roughly pulling you closer towards him, making you gasp.

You tipped your head back, your floppy hat falling off and joining your bikini on the ground as he dragged his tongue from your weeping hole up your slit and to your clit. "Oh, Chris," you sighed, letting your eyes flutter shut for a moment as he repeated that a few times, licking slowly, deliberately, and delicately.

"You taste so fucking good," he rasped, one hand resting on your lower stomach as he worked on you with his mouth.

You were almost caught off guard by how dominant he was and the way he was speaking to you. He was always somewhat professional when he came over - "No, ma'am," "Yes, ma'am." You certainly hadn't heard him talk dirty before, and you loved it. It made you think that maybe he'd been fantasizing about this as long as you had.

He teased you some more, flattening his tongue and softly flicking it over your sensitive bud, lapping you up. His gaze flickered up at you, his blue eyes meeting yours as he closed his lips down around your bundle of nerves, suckling on it. Your toes curled as he hummed against your heat, his lips vibrating against your clit. You whimpered, running your long fingernails through his hair, gently tugging on it.

"You're doing so fucking good," he purred against you, alternating between licking and sucking. You felt him circle your entrance with a finger before pushing it in, making your jaw drop in response.

"Chrissss," you hissed, feeling yourself tighten around his knuckle. He chuckled against your cunt at your body's response before slipping in another finger. He doubled his efforts, using a combination of his tongue and fingers, making you cry out. He glanced up at you a moment, his blue eyes boring through you, sending an electrifying feeling through you.

"Your husband do it like this?" He wondered aloud, making your stomach swirl with arousal.

"That's not very nice. To ask about my husband in a situation like this," you teased him, shooting him a wicked little grin.

"Sorry," he half-heartedly apologized. "But does he?" He asked again, curiosity getting the best of him.

It turned you on even more to know that your husband was on his mind, like he was competing with him even if he wasn't there, hoping he was doing an even better job than your man could.

"Not quite like that," you replied breathlessly.

"What a shame. Guess it's a good thing I'm here. To show you how it's properly done." A mischevious smile curled on his lips before he went back to devouring you.

You could feel heat rushing to your cheeks. You'd never felt so flustered by someone younger than you.

The coil in your stomach grew tighter, threatening to snap at any moment. He continued to drive his long fingers into you, his skillful tongue drawing tight, small circles over your clit while he suckled on it.

You started to come undone, your body trembling beneath his touch, his seductive eyes locked onto yours the entire time as he finger-fucked you and licked you through your first orgasm of the day, his name uncontrollably rolling off the tip of your tongue over and over again.

"Look at what a mess we made," he smirked up at you, slurping up every last drop of your arousal.

He retreated from between your legs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his hard on more prominent than ever through his swim shorts.

"Come here," you cooed, shooting him a wicked grin. You hooked your manicured fingernails in his waistband, pulling him closer by the material. "Let me take care of you now."

He licked his lips and eagerly nodded, his face softening into a more submissive expression. You ran your long, pink nails over his length through the fabric, making it twitch under your touch. A smile curled on your lips at the reaction.

He looked down at you, his blue eyes full of desire. He watched intently as you lowered his waistband, his cock springing out enthusiastically. Your eyes widened when you saw how long and thick it was. You wrapped your fingers around his shaft, starting to stroke him while admiring his swollen pink tip that was slick with a layer of precum. "It's so big," you commented.

He blushed, biting down on his lip to hold back a whimper, eagerly waiting for what you were going to do next.

You kept stimulating him with your hand, gently brushing your thumb over his tip, drawing out more of that clear fluid that made the head look so shiny. He shuddered under your touch, his cock throbbing in your grasp. You couldn't resist not tasting it any longer.

He parted his luscious lips, letting out a soft exhale as you dragged your tongue over his slit, savoring his salty flavor. You pulled back his length, exposing the underside of his cock and licking a long stripe from the base to the head, tracing a prominent vein.

His hand immediately found the back of your head, his fingers tangling themselves in your hair as you took his tip into your mouth, wrapping your lips around it and gently sucking on it. He felt like he was in heaven.

"Oh, my god," he whimpered, his gaze flickering between your pretty eyes and your soft, wet mouth. "Please don't stop."

You continued to pump your hand back and forth as you took more of him, your lips sliding down his length and your tongue circling his tip. He pinned his eyebrows together, contorting his face in a look of sheer pleasure as you took every inch of him. He tightened his grip on your hair, his lips curving into a satisfied smile.

"Your husband is a very lucky man," he commented, his glazed over eyes locked on yours. "It's never felt this good before."

His flattery turned you on all over again. Hearing that he'd never had it this good before invigorated you. You doubled your efforts, hollowing out your cheeks, sucking a bit harder, your soft tongue grazing every ridge and every vein as you continued your ministrations.

You hummed around his cock, the vibration sending an electric feeling through his lower half and making him moan. You kept going, bobbing your head back and forth and twisting your wrist on the upstroke, adding an extra layer to the sensation.

Chris slowly started to lose his composure, the knot is his stomach pulling tighter. His breaths became ragged, the sloppy wet sounds of your mouth mixing with his desperate moans.

You prayed that your neighbors weren't outside to hear, all of them completely aware your husband was out on business and that today was pool cleaning day. It wouldn't have taken a detective to connect the dots.

He gently tugged on your hair, pulling you all the way down onto his cock, making you gag a bit, his hips stuttering involuntarily at the feeling. He tossed his head back, pinning his eyes closed, pleasure inscribed into his features. His orgasm crashed over him, his cock twitching uncontrollably between your lips, painting your tongue silky white.

A guttural moan fell from his lips, the aftershocks still coursing through him as you slowly and gently stroked him through the sensation, slurping up and swallowing every last drop. He peered back down at you, his eyelashes fluttering open as he silently wondered to himself if he were dreaming.

"Wow," was all he could utter once you pulled off him with a pop, giving him a teasing smirk.

"Want some more lemonade?" You asked him, glancing over at his nearby empty glass.

He nodded. "I'd love some, ma'am. Please."

You gave him a little wink, not buying his little polite and innocent facade after what he'd done to you, and what he'd let you do to him. "Be right back." You waltzed inside, completely naked, your bikini still in a pile by the pool ledge.

You came back out with a fresh glass, and Chris gulped it down eagerly, feeling parched from how many fluids you'd drained him of.

Sure, the both of had already cum, but you weren't finished with him quite yet.

Moments later, you had him completely naked, leaning back on your lounge chair as you straddled him, lining his tip up with your entrance. He peered down at the way you slipped it in, his jaw dropped and his blue eyes full of lust.

"Oh, my god," he moaned, throwing his head back as he felt your warmth envelope him. You sunk down onto his length, the wonderful stretch causing your walls to flutter around him.

"It's so big," you cooed again, sitting all the way down on it until every inch was inside of you. He throbbed at your compliment, a word he loved hearing in relation to his cock.

"Bigger than your husband's?" He piped up, his blue eyes locked onto yours.

"Christopher," you replied, smirking at him as you placed a finger to his lips, teasing him. "That's not a very polite question."

"I-I'm sorry," he whimpered beneath you as you started to ride him, swiveling your hips in a way that left his head feeling completely empty.

You wouldn't admit it, but he was bigger.

His eyes dropped to your breasts bouncing in front of him as you started to pick up the pace, his hand involuntarily flying up to cup the right one. His other hand found your waist, enjoying every second of your warmth and the sweet sounds of your pussy sucking him in.

He'd only ever experienced you like this in dreams and in his fantasies. He couldn't believe he was actually inside of you while you bounced on his cock, drawing him closer and closer to the point of no return.

All he could think about was how incredible your pussy felt wrapped around him, and all he could bring himself to mutter were unintelligible moans as you started to bring him to the edge, riding him like your life depended upon it.

"Gonna cum," he mumbled, throbbing inside of you, about to bust at any moment.

You continued bouncing on him, peering down at his rosy cheeks and his desperate and fucked out expression. He looked beautiful.

"I-I can't hold on. Gonna cum," he warned again, gripping your waist tightly with both of his hands like he was trying to lift you off of him despite how incredible it felt. "Gotta pull out."

"Shhh, just let go," you hushed him, slowing down a bit and exaggerating the movement of your hips, your walls massaging his most sensitive spots. "I don't want you to pull out."

That was all he needed. That little bit of permission. He held your hips in place, his fingers digging into your soft flesh as he thrusted into you from underneath, the tip of his cock hitting all your hard-to-reach places.

"Oh, Chris!" You called out as he pounded into you, taking charge as you both came undone in unision.

You clenched around him as you finished, the sensation sending him over the edge seconds after. His cock pulsated, several spurts of cum squirting out of his tip and pumping you full, moans spilling from his lips.

He looked up at you through his dazed expression, completely breathless before burying his face in your breasts, his arms wrapped around your waist. "Wow," he mumbled into your soft skin. "That was amazing."

You placed a hand gently on the back of his head, softly ruffling his hair as you held him, still sitting on his cock as it still subtly twitched inside of you. "You did so good."

It's Clark's birthday.

Well, as close as an alien being can come a birthday.

He insists it isn't a real birthday. You insist that's exactly why it deserves celebrating. So you spend the entire afternoon pretending you're just making dinner.

Clark never questions it. He kisses your cheek when he comes into the kitchen. Wraps those ridiculously broad arms around your waist.

"Smells incredible."

"It will be," you say, nudging him away with a wooden spoon. "Out."

"Bossy."

"It's your birthday."

"I thought you said birthdays weren't real for Kryptonians."

"They're real enough for me to banish you from my kitchen." He laughs—that warm, earnest laugh that still makes your stomach flip—and disappears toward the living room with a dramatic sigh.

"Yes, ma'am." By the time the sun has disappeared beneath Metropolis' skyline, dinner is finished. Candles flicker across the apartment. Clark smiles the second he walks back in.

"You did all this?"

"You only turn..." You pretend to think. "Thirty-something once."

"I've stopped counting."

"I noticed." He ducks his head, embarrassed by the attention already. You eat. You laugh. He opens the tiny pile of gifts you'd insisted on buying despite his repeated protests that he "didn't need anything."

His favorite coffee beans. A new notebook. A framed photograph of the two of you at the Kent farm. He stares at that one for a long time.

"...You're gonna make me cry."

"You cry at dog food commercials."

"They're emotional."

"They're advertisements."

"They're moving advertisements." You laugh until your sides hurt. Eventually he starts clearing the dishes.

"I'll get these."

"You always do."

"You cooked."

"That's because I'm spoiling you."

"You spoil me every day." You lean against the doorway, watching him rinse plates with the same careful attention he seems to give everything. Your heart squeezes.

He's just... Clark. Kind. Gentle. Good.

"Hey." He looks over his shoulder.

"Yeah?"

"I've got one more present." His eyebrows lift.

"You said we were done."

"I lied."

"I should've known."

"You should've." He dries his hands on a towel.

"So?"

"So..." You suddenly feel nervous. Ridiculously nervous.

"You have to stay here." Clark immediately looks concerned.

"Is everything okay?" You laugh.

"Yes."

"You've got that face."

"What face?"

"The one that usually means you're about to surprise me."

"...Maybe." He smiles.

"I like surprises."

"You won't in about three minutes." His smile only grows.

"I doubt that." When you disappear into the bedroom, Clark waits exactly where you told him to. He even clasps his hands behind his back. Patiently. Like the world's most obedient golden retriever.

He hears drawers opening. Closet doors. Your quiet muttering.

Then... Silence.

"Can I come in?" he calls.

"No."

"...Okay." Another minute. Then—

"You can look now." Clark turns. And promptly forgets how breathing works. You stand in the bedroom doorway, cheeks warm with embarrassment, wearing something you'd spent far too long convincing yourself to buy. A silky little lingerie set, the bright red fabric reminiscent to his suit.

The air in the room goes thin, vacuum-sealed by the sudden, complete stop of all biological function in one Clark Kent. He's standing by the window, one hand still on the curtain he'd been pulling closed, and for a full three seconds, he is utterly, beautifully still. His mouth, which had been open to say something—probably something sweet and endearingly dorky—hangs slack. His eyes, usually so soft and warm, are wide, dark pools of pure, unadulterated shock. He doesn't just look; he absorbs. He absorbs the sight of you, the way the deep red silk clings to your curves, the delicate lace trim against your skin, the way the color is a vibrant, living echo of the suit he wears when he's being anything but the gentle man standing in front of you.

The faint, ambient city light from the window catches the sheen of the fabric, making it glow against your skin. It's a bold, unapologetic statement. A challenge. And from the way his chest finally remembers to expand for a shallow, sharp inhale, you know he's accepted it.

Clark simply... Stares.

"...Clark?" His mouth opens. Closes.

"...Hi." You laugh.

"That's all you've got?"

"I..." He rubs the back of his neck. "I had... several thoughts."

"Oh?"

"They all disappeared." You grin despite yourself.

"So you hate it."

"What?"

"No, I just—"

"You've been looking at me for thirty seconds."

"I'm trying very hard to be respectful."

"Respectful?" He nods once.

"Very." You fold your arms.

"I don't want respectful." His eyes widen just a fraction.

"You don't?"

"No." He swallows.

"...That makes this significantly harder." You take a slow step toward him.

"Why?"

"Because..." He smiles sheepishly. "I'm exercising an enormous amount of self-control."

"Oh?"

"You have no idea." You stop directly in front of him.

"So don't." His eyes flick from yours... and then very pointedly back up again.

"I feel like this is a test."

"It is."

"And if I fail?"

"You'll probably end up kissing me." Clark pretends to think.

"...That doesn't sound like failing." You laugh softly.

"It isn't." Only then does he reach for you. Not urgently. Not hungrily. Just carefully. Like you're something precious. His fingertips brush your waist.

"You look..." He shakes his head. "I don't even have words."

"You've never needed many."

"No." His thumb traces a tiny circle against your side. "I really don't." He trails off, his gaze tracing a slow, reverent path from the strap on your shoulder, down the line of your ribs, to the high-cut hem of the panties that leaves so little to his imagination. A faint, dusty pink begins to creep up his neck, a charming blush that spreads to his cheeks. It's the sweetest reaction, and it makes a boldness surge through you.

A slow, disbelieving smile spreads across his face, chasing away the shock and replacing it with something far more dangerous: awe.

"I'm trying to think of a word that isn't completely inadequate," he says, his voice dropping an octave, gaining a low, resonant hum that vibrates right through you. "Beautiful is too small. Stunning is too common. You're… you're a revelation." He takes another step, and this time he doesn't stop. He closes the distance between you in two long strides, but he doesn't touch you. He just stands there, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body, close enough that his scent—clean laundry, autumn air, and something uniquely Clark—fills your lungs.

"You did this for me?" he asks, his voice thick with an emotion that goes far beyond simple appreciation. He reaches out, but his hand hovers just above the silk covering your hip, trembling slightly with the force of his restraint. He's always so careful with you, so mindful of his own strength, but right now, you can feel the barely leashed power in him, the coiled tension of a god who is looking at his own personal idol. You swallow, your heart hammering against your ribs.

"I thought… I thought it was appropriate." His eyes flick up to meet yours, and the heat in them makes your knees feel weak.

"Appropriate," he repeats, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. "It's the most appropriate thing I have ever seen." His gaze drops back to the red silk. "It's my color." Finally, his fingers make contact. They don't grab or possess; they trace. The calloused tip of his index finger follows the scalloped edge of the lace along your hip, a touch so light it feels like a feather, yet it sears your skin all the same. You shiver, a full-body tremor that has nothing to do with being cold.

Clark's breath catches. Not because he's trying to hold himself back anymore. Because he's genuinely overwhelmed.

"You shivered," he murmurs, immediately pulling his hand back. "Did I—"

"No."

"You sure?" You nod, smiling despite yourself. A tiny, crooked grin tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"I wasn't expecting..." He gestures helplessly toward you. "...any of this."

"You don't like it?" His eyes go impossibly wide.

"I think if you ask me that one more time, my brain is going to short-circuit." You laugh.

"So that's a yes?"

"That is an extremely enthusiastic yes." Satisfied, you take another step closer until there's barely an inch between you. Clark instinctively places his hands behind his back. You blink.

"...Seriously?"

"I'm trying."

"Trying what?"

"To be a gentleman." You tilt your head.

"Clark."

"Mm?"

"You look like you're standing at military attention."

"I kind of am."

"You know this is your present, right?"

"I am very aware." You place your hands on his chest.

"So are you going to unwrap it ?" The words hang in the air, a direct, playful challenge. Clark's breath hitches, a visible stutter in his chest. His hands, which had been clasped so firmly behind his back, come around to his front, but he doesn't touch you. They just clench into fists at his sides, a silent testament to the war raging within him.

"Unwrap it," he repeats, his voice a low, strained murmur. "You say that like it's a simple thing."

"It is," you whisper, leaning in until your lips are just a breath from his. You can feel the warmth radiating from his skin, smell the faint, clean scent of him. "It's just me, Clark."

"That's the problem," he breathes, his eyes fluttering closed for a second. "It's you." He opens them, and the raw, unbridled want you see there makes your own breath catch. "And I want… I want to touch you so much it's physically painful. And that's the part that's dangerous." You don't back away. You press closer, letting your body mold against the rigid, unyielding lines of his. You feel the tremor that runs through him, a full-body shudder of restraint.

"You won't hurt me," you say, with a conviction you don't have to fake. "You didn't hurt me before and you won't hurt me now."

"I've never been tested like this," he counters, his voice thick. He looks down at you, his gaze so intense it feels like a physical touch. "You… you have no idea what you do to me. What this…" He gestures vaguely at the red silk, at your skin, at all of you. "…does to me. It's like looking at the sun. I know I shouldn't stare, but I can't look away."

"Then don't look away," you murmur, and you take his hand. His fingers are clenched so tightly his knuckles are white. You have to gently pry them open, one by one. "Touch me, Clark." You guide his trembling hand to your waist, pressing his palm flat against the silk covering your side. The contact is electric. He sucks in a sharp breath, his eyes glued to where his hand rests on your body. You can feel the heat of him through the thin fabric, feel the barely contained power thrumming in his touch.

"See?" you whisper. "Just a touch. We're okay." He lets out a shaky exhale, a sound of profound relief and escalating tension. His thumb begins to move, stroking a slow, careful circle against your side. The calloused pad of his thumb drags against the delicate lace, a delicious friction that sends a jolt straight through you.

"You're playing with fire," he warns, but there's no real threat in his voice. It's a statement of fact. A confession.

"Good," you breathe, and then you take your other hand and trace the line of his jaw, feeling the rough stubble there. "I like it a little warm." That seems to be his breaking point. A low growl rumbles in his chest, a sound you've never heard before, deep and possessive. His other hand comes up to cup the back of your head, his fingers tangling gently in your hair. He's still being careful, so incredibly careful, but the gentleness is laced with a new, undeniable hunger.

"You're a menace," he murmurs, but he's smiling as he says it, a slow, dangerous smile that makes your toes curl.

"Only for you," you promise. And then he's kissing you. It's not the slow, worshipful kiss from before. This one is deeper, hungrier. It's a kiss that says the test is over and he's decided to fail, gloriously. His mouth moves against yours with a desperate urgency, a need that's been simmering just beneath the surface. He kisses you like he's starving, and you are the only meal he's ever wanted. His hands begin to explore, moving with a newfound confidence. One slides down your back, tracing the delicate line of your spine until it reaches the curve of your ass. He squeezes, gently at first, then a little firmer, and you moan into his mouth, arching against him. The other hand moves up your side, his thumb stroking the underside of your breast through the silk, teasing you, making you ache for more. You can feel him, hard and insistent against your belly, a testament to just how much he's holding back. It's intoxicating, this power you have over him, this god who trembles at your touch.

"Clark," you gasp, breaking the kiss to drag your lips along his jaw. "Please…"

"Please what?" he rasps, his hands still roaming, learning the landscape of your body through the thin fabric.

"Unwrap me," you demand, your voice breathy and bold. "Take it off." He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and burning. He takes a deep breath, as if bracing himself. Then, with a focus that is both terrifying and incredibly sexy, he brings his hands to the delicate straps on your shoulders. His fingers are huge and calloused, but they move with the precision of a surgeon as he hooks them under the thin silk. He doesn't rip it. He doesn't tear it. He slides the straps down, slowly, reverently, his eyes following every inch of fabric as it peels away from your skin. The red silk pools around your waist, and his gaze follows it, hungry and appreciative.

"Perfect," he breathes, the word a prayer. He leans in, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to your collarbone, then another, and another, working his way down. His hands are on your waist now, holding you steady as his mouth explores newly exposed skin. Every kiss is a brand, a promise. You reach behind your back, your fingers fumbling with the tiny hooks of the bra. Before you can get them undone, his hands are there, covering yours. He gently bats your fingers away and, with a focus that makes your head spin, expertly unhooks the clasp. The last piece of silk falls away, and you're bare to his gaze. He just looks for a moment, his eyes tracing every curve, every line, with an awe that is humbling. He looks at you like you're the most beautiful, precious thing he's ever seen, and in that moment, you feel invincible.

"Clark," you whisper, reaching for him. "Now you." He blinks, as if coming out of a trance. He hesitates, always so achingly polite. So you reach for the edge of his shirt, tug it up over his abs, and for a split second you can feel the fluttery uncertainty radiating off him. Maybe he’s worried he’ll tear the fabric, or maybe he’s just not used to being undressed, but you don’t let him stall. You peel the shirt up and off, and the moment your palms brush over his shoulders, his breath hitches again. He’s massive. Not just tall—every part of him is packed with corded, sculpted muscle, but there's a softness to his skin, a warmth that makes you want to press your face into his chest and let him surround you. There's a spatter of freckles across his collarbones, a few tiny scars along his ribs that make you want to kiss each one. You plant your hands on his chest and urge him backward until the backs of his knees catch the edge of the bed. He sits before he even realizes he’s doing it, and his hands shoot out, catching you at the waist, steadying you as you straddle him. The silk panties are still clinging to you, but the rest of you is bare, and the heat of his palms is almost scalding against your skin. He stares up at you, pupils blown wide with wonder.

“You’re unbelievable,” he murmurs, half to himself, and you grin, winding your arms around his neck.

“So are you. But you’re still overdressed,” you whisper, fumbling with the button on his jeans. His hands cover yours, steadying, helping, but always gentle. You get the zipper down, and when you tug, he lifts his hips obligingly. He’s wearing those ridiculous Superman boxers you got him as a gag gift last Christmas, and the sight of them—stretched to the point of obscenity—makes you giggle. You slide off his lap, dropping to your knees, and pull the boxers down. He’s hard already, thick and heavy and flushed nearly purple, and for a heartbeat you just look, drinking in the sight of him. Clark’s hands hover in the air, clearly unsure where he’s allowed to touch. But you know what you want. You guide his hands to your hair and look up at him, waiting for a nod. He gives the tiniest one, as if afraid of what he’ll do if he lets himself go. You run your lips along his length, mouthing at the sensitive underside, and Clark makes a noise that’s more vibration than sound. Your hand isn’t enough to wrap around him entirely, so you use both, twisting and stroking as you lick up to the head. You feel the pulse of him, the way he’s shaking, see the way his jaw is set so hard it looks like his teeth might crack.

“Wait, wait-” He gasps, cupping your cheeks to drag you back up to him. “Come here.” He closes the space, arms winding around your waist and lifting you up as if you weigh less than the comforter on the bed. There’s a thrill to being handled so easily, a jolt that starts in your belly and pulses out through your nerves. He lays you down, slow and reverent, but then he’s hovering above you, all that mass and heat caging you in, his hands bracketing your head. A kiss, softer than you expect, lands on your lips. He keeps himself propped up, so careful, like he’s terrified of crushing you. You can feel him trembling—actually trembling—holding himself back. You reach up, sink your hands into his hair, and draw his mouth to yours again, harder, teeth knocking, tongues tangling. His hips rock down, once, and the thick press of him has you parting your thighs, desperate for friction. You grind up, needing more, and feel him jerk, the length of him throbbing against the silk of your panties.

“It’s okay,” you manage to whisper between kisses. “I want you to.” He’s shaking his head minutely, as if disbelieving, but then you guide his hand down, palm to your breast, and he groans, a near-silent quake. His thumb brushes your nipple and you arch up, greedy for the pressure. He gets braver. He sucks at your neck, bites, then soothes the mark with his tongue. With each touch, he tests your limits and his own, watching you for the slightest sign to stop. You want him to lose it. Want to see what happens when a man who can break planets lets himself be greedy.

You tug him lower, wrap your legs around his hips, and roll your pelvis up, grinding shamelessly on the hard line of his cock . He gasps, a beautiful, wounded sound, and ruts back against you, the head of him dragging over your clothed clit. Your panties are soaked already, useless as a barrier. He nuzzles into your shoulder, breath warm and erratic, and you realize he’s actually panting. Maybe he’s never been this far gone before. He peels your ruined panties down, hands trembling so much he nearly tears them, and then he’s there, the blunt, swollen crown of him pressed right up to you, waiting.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” Clark pants, forehead pressed to yours, arms trembling on either side of your head. He lines himself up, fighting for control. He’s so careful, always so careful, but you can see the desperate way he shudders, the white-knuckled grip of the sheets. You wrap your ankles around his waist and arch up, grinding again. The head pushes in, slow, slow, and the stretch is glorious, almost painful. Your gasp comes out as a whimper. He stops, panic vibrating through his whole body.

“Did I—?”

“Don’t you dare,” you say, voice already wrecked. “Don’t you stop.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then your jaw, apologizing with every inch—but he pushes deeper, and you can feel the tremor in his arms as he holds himself up. You flex around him, and he makes a sound that could probably shatter glass. Inch by inch he sinks in, and when you finally take all of him, the pressure is almost unbearable. A weird, beautiful ache that makes you shiver all over.

“Jesus Christ,” he groans, head dropping to your shoulder. “You’re—this is—”

“Clark,” you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders just to feel something tether you to earth. “I want it, I want all of you, please.” The words come out half-sob, half-laugh. He moves, experimentally, and the friction nearly rips the air from your lungs. He sets a rhythm—slow, at first, so cautious, but you can hear the strain in his breathing, the way he’s fighting himself not to go faster. You bite his neck, scrape your teeth along his jaw, and he snaps his hips a little harder, a little deeper, and the bed frame groans in protest. You want more. You egg him on with your nails, your teeth, the filthy encouragement spilling from your lips.

“Harder,” you say, and the word cracks in the middle. “I can take it.” He groans, obeys, and his hips start to snap with real force. You can feel the violence he’s holding back, the restraint in every single thrust, and it makes you wild. You rake your nails down his back, leaving red trails, and that’s his breaking point. He catches your wrists, pins them above your head with one hand—so gentle, but the implication is clear. He could hold you there forever. He fucks you harder, deep and fast, and your vision starts to blur around the edges. He’s so deep it almost hurts but you don’t care, you want to be split open, ruined, filled up until nothing else exists. You can see him trembling with the effort to hold himself back, the fear—no matter how absurd—of what he might do if he lets go. It makes something fierce and protective rise up in you, the urge to prove to him that nothing he could do would ever hurt you, not in any way you didn't want.

“God, Clark-” You whine, eyes rolling back as you icnh your hips higher to meet his thrust. “I-I want you to come inside me, baby, please.” You beg. Clark’s entire body tense, and his cock twitches so violently inside you.

“Don’t- Shit- don’t say shit like that, sweetheart.” He rasps, struggling to keep his soft pace. His brows draw up tight as he ruts into you slowly.

Oh my god.

The mere idea of coming inside of you has him reeling for whatever little control he has left.

"Fuck, shit- You're going to make me come too fast if you say stuff like that, baby." He manages. You dig your nails into his back, searching for anything to hold onto. He could snap you in half, but you want him to, want him to lose himself and find out what happens. You grind your hips up, demanding every inch, every bit of the impossible stretch, and try to match the rhythm that’s making the mattress shriek. Clark looks terrified, eyes wide and dark, sweat sticking his hair to his brow, but he doesn’t stop—he slams in again, this time almost brutal, and the sudden violence knocks the breath out of you.

“Yes,” you manage, barely a whisper, “More—harder—please, please—” His hand wraps around your throat, not squeezing, just cradling, and his pace grows frantic. He’s losing it, just like you wanted, his fear of hurting you overridden by the urgency of not letting you down. Each thrust is devastating, shaking the bed, the walls, maybe the whole fucking city. You clench around him, greedy and desperate, and his voice shatters in your ear.

“I can’t—I can’t—I’m—”

“Do it,” you choke, “Fill me up—want you—want all of you—” He looks down, eyes wide and wild, and something in his restraint snaps. He pulls out almost all the way and slams back in, filling you to the hilt. The bedframe slams into the wall, the headboard rattling so hard you think it might snap, but you don't care. All you care about is the way he's fucking you, the way you can feel every inch of him, the way he's losing control for you.

You dig your heels into his ass, urging him deeper, faster, and he obliges, his thrusts growing ragged and desperate. He grips the mattress so hard you hear the springs groan, and for a second you think he might tear it in half.

You want to see how far you can push him. He snarls, actually snarls, and flips you over in one seamless movement, ass in the air, face buried in the pillow. He pauses, panting like he's about to lose his mind, and then he slams back in, hands planted on your hips. You feel the sheer force of him, the way he's holding you, the way his fingers dig in just enough to remind you of who he is. You arch your back, grinding into him, and he lets out a guttural sound, hips snapping into yours with a rhythm that should break you.

The smack of skin, the slap of his hips against your ass, the desperate, animal groan vibrating out of his chest—it’s like you’ve become something else entirely. You’re dizzy with it, with the way his cock drags deep inside, with the sharp, sweet stretch, with the spreading ache that feels like it’s opening your whole body up to take him. You push back, matching his rhythm, and your spine arcs, your thighs shaking. He’s lost language, reduced to one sharp word at a time—“God. Oh, fuck. Please—” and you know, you know, there’s nothing in the world he wants more than to let go.

You’re not sure when the tears start, hot and unexpected, but there’s this animal tenderness in how he slows, palm splaying across your back and stroking, stroking, as if the only thing in the world that matters is getting it right for you. You try to say his name, but it’s just a bitten-off sob, and then he’s pulling out, flipping you again, gathering you against his chest with a gentleness that borders on worship.

He kisses your face—your cheeks, the bridge of your nose, your eyelids, everywhere the tears touch—and you realize, with a sudden and undignified lurch of your heart, that he’s terrified. Clark Kent could punch a hole in the sun and yet the thing that shakes him is the thought of breaking you.

You dig your nails into his back, holding him together, and yank him down so he’s pressed flush-tight, full weight braced over you. His cock slides between your thighs, hot and slick, and you angle him in, guide him home. The second he’s inside, you lock your legs around his hips, trapping him there.

“Don’t stop,” you gasp. “Don’t you dare—”

His answer is a groan, choked and needy, and he thrusts so deep you see stars. Wet heat pulses against your insides, the rhythm building—rough, desperate, perfect. He’s not holding back anymore, the fear buried under the need to have you, to be inside and part of you, to fill you up until the world goes silent.

“Jesus, you—” He can’t finish, just trembles, and for a second you think you might actually cum from the sheer size of him, the force, the intent. You’re pinned under him, the world narrowed to the thick, relentless pressure, the way he moves, grinding out desperate claims—“So good, you’re perfect, I can’t—” into the skin of your throat.

You can feel it, the edge coming on sharp and sudden, and your moans get higher, frantic, until you’re begging—actually begging—“Clark, please, please, I need—” and that does something to him. He lets out a sound that’s almost inhuman, thrusts once, twice, then grinds in so deep you swear he’s in your throat.

You press your palms into the sheets, leverage your hips back into him, greedy for every inch. The world has narrowed to the heat of him pounding into you, the sound of flesh meeting flesh, the snap and creak of the frame beneath. Your face is mashed into the pillow and you’re gasping, drooling, babbling things that don’t quite make sense. He’s so deep you swear you can feel him in your chest.

He hunches over you, one massive hand splayed between your shoulders to anchor you, the other digging crescents into your hip. You clench down, just to see what happens, and his hand trembles. He pulls out—almost—then buries himself to the hilt. You arch, cry out, and he growls, his lips brushing your spine.

“Clark—” You try to say more but there’s no air. You reach back and grab at his wrist, squeezing, making him hold you even tighter. He gets it. The next thrust is brutal—he’s not holding back anymore, and you love it, you want it, want to be wrecked by him.

“You’re perfect,” he gasps, voice almost ragged. “So perfect, fuck—” The hand on your back snakes around to your belly, then downward, and he finds your clit and circles, clumsy but desperate. Your whole body goes tight, and it takes only two more strokes for you to shatter. Your vision whites out; you scream into the pillow, thighs locked and trembling. He keeps fucking you, chasing his own end now, and you’re sobbing, begging, “Please, please, Clark, please—”

He pulls out and flips you again—your body limp, boneless—then slides right back in, missionary this time. He braces your thigh over his shoulder and you watch his face as he loses himself, the hunger and awe and fear and love all carved into his expression. He holds your face in his enormous hand, thumb stroking your cheek, and it’s so tender you almost cry.

He pins you there, half folded under his weight, your thigh hooked over the breadth of his shoulder. The heat of his palm encompasses the side of your face and the contrast floors you—he’s all brute force and coiled muscle, but the way he cradles your jaw, the way his thumb brushes slow arcs under your eye, it’s like he wants to memorize every detail before you vanish. Sweat pools at the hollow of his throat. His chest heaves, splattered with freckles you’ve mapped a hundred times. He looks at you with wonder, and beneath it, the terror of a man who could level you if he lost focus for even a heartbeat.

You drag him down, mouth to mouth, greedy for the taste of him. He fucks you, hard, and the friction burns, leaves you wide open and raw in the sweetest way. Your body feels like a live wire—every nerve ending lit and sparking, pain and pleasure in perfect symmetry. He grinds in deep, grunting, and the pressure builds again so fast your vision narrows, fuzzes at the edges.

He stutters, almost pulls back, and you grip him tighter, nails biting into the nape of his neck. “Don’t you dare,” you pant. “I want it. I’m not glass.”

He shudders, a full-body quake, and his hips snap forward, desperate. “You don’t know—” he chokes, “I could—” But you see it, the way he’s gone glassy-eyed and wild, the restraint fraying to a single trembling thread.

“I want you to,” you say, and you mean it. You want him to lose control. You want to see what happens when a god stops pretending to be a man. “Come inside, Clark. Fill me up. Please.” “God, you’re so good, so fucking perfect—” Clark’s words tumble out, raw and reverent, as you lock eyes, desperate to watch him break apart. You reach for his jaw, thumb brushing his trembling mouth, and he kisses your palm, breathing hard. Sweat beads high on his brow. His body’s a miracle of control, but you can feel the end coming for both of you, hot and inevitable.

You hook your legs around his hips, heels digging into the small of his back, and pull him in—deeper, yes, but also closer. It’s never close enough. Your body aches for him, your core spasming as you clamp around his cock. He lets out a strangled moan, fighting the urge to rut in uncontrolled, but you grab his face and force him to meet your eyes.

“I want it—” you whisper, unable to say more. The stretch, the fullness, the pressure—it’s almost agony, and you want to drown in it. “I want you to come inside me, please, Clark.”

He shakes, the mountain of restraint fracturing. His thrusts go wild, deep, messy, almost punishing, and you love it. Your body sings for it. The pleasure crests with a white-hot sharpness, and you arch, mouth open in a wordless shout.

“God, harder, please-” You beg, and you hear Clark whine. God, he loves it when you’re needy for him, but even despite him fucking you rough, he’s terrified of hurting you. "Clark," you gasp, voice gone hoarse, "please—harder, need you to—" The rest of it burns out as he presses his forehead to yours, sweat slick between you, and slams in deep enough you see white. The air shakes with the force of it. The bedframe protests, slamming in rhythm against the wall, but you want more, more, more.

He lets go of the last thread of restraint and the world narrows to the wrack of your own body and his—how he holds you, how he rocks into you, how his big palm cups the back of your head so you don't hit the wall with each thrust. He's so careful, even now, the motion rough but the touch on your face impossibly gentle. You want to cry at the sweetness of it, the way he wrecks you and cradles you at the same time.

Your orgasm catches you off guard—a blinding, tearing wave that leaves you gasping, back arched, nails raking his shoulders. The sound that claws out of you is animal, ugly, and Clark soaks it in, reverent. You clench hard around him and he shudders, almost comes, but holds on, biting his lip raw. His cock twitches inside you, thick, iron-hard, and you want him to break, to let go, to give you everything.

"Inside," you choke, and you see him panic, see the terror flash behind the animal hunger. "Clark—inside, please, I want it, want you—" He shakes, a tremor so deep it rattles your bones, and you can feel the heat building in him, the unstoppable gravity of his release. "I'm not breakable," you whisper, and he laughs, a broken whine, and fucks you like he believes it. His breath is a broken rhythm in his own ear, a wet rasp of need and disbelief. You look up, sweat-sheened and spent and still greedy, your lips parted around the start of a word you never finish. His cock slips, the drag of it inside you so intense he almost comes at once, but you hold him deep, your thighs anchoring him, your hands cradling his jaw. He’s so far gone that he doesn’t notice his own whimper, the shudder that ricochets through every muscle.

You’re whispering something, but he can’t parse it, just your mouth moving, your eyes shining, your nails digging deeper into his back. He’s been warned since childhood—always hold back, always be careful, always, always—so he tries, even now, to savor, to move gently. But he can’t. You are pulling him down, not just into you but into the gravity of your need, and it’s overwhelming. He’s drowning in it, wants to drown.

Your heel presses into his ass, urging him to thrust again, to fill you, and the next time he drives in, his brain whites out. The friction is exquisite, nearly unbearable, and the tight heat of you is a vice around him. His hands cup your face, a thumb trembling at your cheekbone, and when he looks down, he sees you: flushed, teary-eyed, wanting.

"Do it," you gasp—voice so full and raw it doesn't sound like you. "Please, Clark. Please come inside me." He’s so big inside you it feels like you’re going to split, but you want it, you want it, and you say it over and over. He buries his face in your neck, sounds like he’s on the verge of tears, and his hips piston in a perfect, brutal rhythm. Every thrust knocks the air from your lungs. His abs are tense, slick with sweat, the muscles in his back shifting under your palms as he fucks you into the mattress. You hold on for dear life, and somewhere beneath the pleasure there’s this wild, helium-light joy: Clark Kent, Clark Kent, the sweetest man alive, is losing his mind inside you.

“Don’t stop, please, don’t stop, I need it,” you gasp, and he shoves a hand under your ass, lifting you higher, changing the angle so he hits even deeper. You’re so full it’s almost too much, and the stretch burns, but it’s perfect, it’s exactly what you want. He groans your name like it hurts, his voice cracking, and his movements get sloppier, desperate, like if he stops for a second he’ll explode. You want him to. You want to take everything he’s got.

“I can’t—” he pants, lost, “I can’t hold it—” You grab his face, force him to look at you, and meet his wild, scared eyes with your own.

“I want you to,” you say, and you mean it so hard your chest aches. “It’s okay. I want you to come in me.”

The words break him. He rears back, driving into you with everything he’s got, and the noise he makes is pure surrender. You lock your legs around his waist, letting him rut into you, watching the moment the pleasure overtakes the fear.

Every warning, every hoarded restraint, is gone. He feels the snap of control and lets himself go, lets the violence of it take him. He fucks you hard, the slap of pelvis to thigh, the slick heat, the stretch of your body taking every inch—he’s never felt anything like this and never will again, all the atoms in his body vibrating to the same frequency as yours. He holds you open and pounds into you, each stroke a shattering loss of self, and your moans egg him deeper, harder, until he’s slamming in with a pace that would destroy a normal bed, a normal person, a normal world.

He comes so hard it feels like dying, spilling into you, hips jerking uncontrollably, his vision going black at the edges. You lock around him, milking him, and he chokes on his own breath, the pleasure so sharp it hurts. For a moment he’s afraid he’s actually broken you, that he’s gone too far, but you pull him in, wrap arms and legs around him, and whisper nonsense into the curve of his neck.

He holds perfectly still, trembling over you, afraid that if he moves he’ll crush you, rupture something, collapse the whole room into itself. He’s still inside, hot and leaking, and you shiver at the sensation. He can feel your pulse racing under his palm, your chest heaving against his. He ruts into you lazily, dragging out his orgasm as what seems to be endless ropes of come burst out of him.

"Ah, shit, fuck-" He hisses, hips rolling forward again as his whole body shudders and a new wave of thick white come coats your insides. You whimper in overstimulation, thighs shaking.

"I'm sorry," he gasps, the words ripped from his throat. "I can't—I'm trying to stop, I swear—" He looks utterly devastated, his face a mask of horrified pleasure as his body betrays him again. Another helpless pulse, and you feel the warm flood deepen inside you. He's so full of remorse, so completely undone by his own lack of control, that it would be almost funny if it wasn't so incredibly hot. Your walls clench around him pathetically and his head falls forward.

"Fuck!" he cries out, his hips slamming home again. His entire body shudders- and then drops. His cock twitches inside of you before deciding to finally lay limp.

The sudden dead weight of him is a shock. One moment he’s a coiled spring of Kryptonian power, the next he’s just… Clark. A very heavy, very still, very naked Clark collapsed on top of you. His head is tucked into your shoulder, his face pressed against your skin, and for a terrifying second, you think he’s actually passed out. His breathing is shallow, almost nonexistent.

"Clark?" you whisper, your voice small in the sudden, ringing silence of the room. You wiggle a little, trying to get out from under him. "Clark, honey, you're squishing me."

He doesn't move. Then, a muffled groan vibrates against your neck. "M' sorry," he slurs, the words thick and syrupy. "M' stuck."

You can't help it. A breathless, shaky laugh bubbles up out of you. The sheer absurdity of it—Superman, defeated by his own orgasm, pinned to a mattress by a mere mortal—is too much.

"'M sorry for the mess," he mumbles into your skin, his voice laced with a sleepy, post-coital shame. "An' for not stoppin'. An' for breakin' the bed." You shift again, and he finally seems to rouse himself enough to push up onto his elbows. He looks completely wrecked. His hair is a disaster, his eyes are hazy and unfocused, and there's a dopey, blissed-out smile on his face that makes your heart ache. He looks down at where your bodies are still joined, and the dopey smile immediately vanishes, replaced by a familiar, horrified blush.

"Oh, god. I'm still… I should…" He starts to pull out, and you cry out in pain.

"Oh- Shit- Clark- no, wait, stay-" You gasp. "Just for a minute." His eyes go wide and he stares down at you. Clark's entire face drains of color. He freezes so completely you almost think you've broken him.

"Oh God." His hands immediately come up to cradle your face instead, like he's terrified to touch you anywhere else. "I hurt you."

"No—"

"I did."

"You didn't."

"I— sweetheart, I—" His voice is trembling now. Actual panic. The kind that only ever shows itself when it comes to you. He tries to shift away from you without pulling out but he fails catastrophically and all he can do is rest his body on his heels, still buried inside you, and hide his face in his hands.

"Clark-"

"God, baby, every time." He whispers. "I did this last time- and you- you couldn't walk for a week. Why do I- I'm so sorry baby, I knew better and I hurt you again."

Clark's shoulders curl in on themselves.

"I knew better," he repeats miserably. "I got carried away, and I knew better."

You reach for him, threading your fingers through the curls at the back of his head.

"Hey." He won't look at you. "Clark." Nothing. He's spiraling. You know the signs. Every mistake, no matter how small, becomes proof that he's dangerous. Proof that he doesn't deserve to touch you.

You tug gently on his wrist.

"Look at me." Slowly... He lowers his hands. His eyes are glossy. Not from tears. From guilt.

"You sore?" he asks quietly, like he's afraid of the answer. You give him a tiny smile.

"A little." His face crumples.

"'A little' still means I did that."

"It also means I enthusiastically helped." He lets out a defeated sigh.

"That is not making me feel better."

"I know."

"I keep tellin' myself I'm careful."

"You are."

"And then..." His voice trails off. "I lose my head."

"You don't lose your head." He gives you a look. "...Maybe a little." Despite everything, you laugh. The sound seems to loosen something inside him. Just enough. He carefully eases back, moving with exaggerated caution, checking your face every second. You hiss out a breath when he slips out of you, your thighs clamping shut.

The loss is immediate and sharp, a hollow ache that's almost worse than the overstretch. You feel the immediate, warm trickle of his release, a testament to the sheer volume of him, and it’s so intimate, so messy, it makes your heart clench. Clark sees it, too. His gaze follows the trail of fluid down your thigh, and any color that had returned to his face vanishes. He looks like he’s about to be sick.

“No,” he whispers, shaking his head. “Oh, no.” He’s off the bed in a blur of motion, so fast you barely register it. One second he’s there, the next he’s across the room, grabbing a towel from the dresser and returning with it, his expression a mask of pure, self-loathing panic.

He kneels beside the bed, his movements stiff and awkward. He looks at you, at the mess between your legs, and then back at your face, his eyes pleading for forgiveness you haven’t even asked him to give. “Can I…?” he asks, holding the towel up like a peace offering. “Please let me… I need to…”

You nod, unable to speak, and he gently cleans you with a reverence that is almost painful. His touch is impossibly light, his focus absolute, as if this is some sacred ritual of atonement. He’s so careful, so thorough, and he’s muttering under his breath the whole time, a stream of quiet, miserable apologies.

When he’s done, he tosses the towel aside and just looks at you, his shoulders slumped in defeat. He won’t meet your eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says again, and this time, the words are heavy with finality. “I’m so, so sorry.”

You push yourself up, wincing at the deep, satisfying ache between your thighs. “Clark. Stop it.” He doesn’t. “Look at me.” He does, reluctantly. “You didn’t do anything I didn’t beg you for. You didn’t do anything I didn’t want.”

“I wanted it too much,” he argues, his voice cracking. “I wasn’t thinking. I was just… taking.”

“You were giving,” you counter, reaching for him. You cup his jaw, forcing him to hold your gaze. “You were giving me everything. And it was the most incredible thing I’ve ever felt. Don’t you dare take that away from me by feeling guilty about it.”

A single tear escapes, tracing a path down his cheek, and he quickly wipes it away, ashamed. “I just… I love you so much,” he whispers, the admission raw and broken. “And I’m so scared of hurting you.”

“You’re not,” you say, your voice firm. “You’re not hurting me. You’re loving me. And I love you, too. Even when you’re a sheepish, awkward mess who can’t stop coming on my birthday.”

A watery chuckle escapes him, and the tension in his shoulders finally eases. “Your birthday,” he says, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “Right.”

“Right,” you confirm, tugging on his arm. “Now, get back in this bed and cuddle me. That’s an order.” He obeys, climbing back into bed with a newfound hesitancy. 

"You okay?"

"Mhm."

"You sure?"

"Clark."

"Sorry."

"You've apologized about forty-seven times."

"I don't think that's enough."

"It definitely is." He helps settle the blankets around you like you're made of spun glass. "Wait here." Then he disappears. Your eyebrows knit together.

"Clark?"

"I'll be right back." He returns less than a minute later carrying a glass of water, your favorite oversized T-shirt, and the heating pad from the hall closet.

"I... wasn't sure which one helped more." Your heart melts.

"You brought all of them?"

"I panicked."

"I can tell."

He sets everything within easy reach before hesitating awkwardly beside the bed.

"...Can I..." His hands fidget. "...Can I still cuddle you?" The question is so impossibly gentle that you could cry.

"Come here." He visibly brightens. Then immediately reins himself back in. "Carefully."

"I'm always careful." You raise one eyebrow. "...Usually." He laughs under his breath. Instead of climbing beside you like he normally would, he kneels on the mattress at the foot of the bed.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm improvising."

"You've never improvised in your life."

"I have."

"When?"

"...Once." You snort. He carefully settles himself between your legs, making sure not to bump you, then stretches out on his stomach. His broad shoulders relax as he gently rests his head on your lower stomach, listening to your heartbeat. He doesn't say anything for a while. One enormous hand comes to rest lightly over your hip, barely applying any pressure at all. Almost like he's asking permission. Your fingers wander into his hair automatically. The tension leaves him in one long breath.

"...Better?" you whisper.

"Mhm."

"You comfortable?"

"Mhm."

"You look comfortable."

"I am." His voice is muffled against your shirt. "I just..." He pauses. "I wanted to be close to you."

"You always are."

"I know. But I figured this was the safest place." You smile, scratching lightly through his hair.

"You're ridiculous."

"So I've heard." Another quiet moment passes. He rubs absentminded circles against your side.

"So..."

"So?"

"I'm officially banning myself from birthday presents next year." You laugh softly.

"No."

"No?"

"You'll just have to keep practicing." His head lifts immediately.

"...Practicing?" You grin.

"Being less dramatic afterward." A sheepish smile spreads across his face.

"I don't think that's possible."

"I know."

He lowers his head back onto your stomach with a contented sigh. Then he stirs, lifting his head to look at you with a newfound seriousness.

"I think," he says, his voice still a little rough, "that my Kryptonian biology just tried to impregnate you with enough enthusiasm to repopulate a small planet." The sheer, earnest, scientific way he says it sends you into a fit of giggles. He grins, that sweet, sheepish grin you love so much, and joins in, his laughter a low, warm rumble in his chest.

"Well," you say, when you can finally breathe again. "It's a good thing it's not my birthday." His grin widens.

"Yeah?" he asks, his eyes twinkling with a mischievous light you've never seen before. "Does that mean next year, I get to wear the red silk?" You reach up and trace the line of his jaw, your heart so full of love for this ridiculous, wonderful man you think it might burst.

"Well," you say, leaning in to whisper in his ear.

"Happy Birthday, Clark."

taglist !

The morning light filters through the kitchen curtains daintily, catching the dust that dances in the air. You wrap both hands around your coffee mug, savoring the warmth against your palms as you watch Clark move through the kitchen with that easy grace he's always had. The kind that seems impossible for a man his size.

He's already dressed for the day's work: worn jeans that sit perfectly on his hips, boots laced tight, a flannel shirt still unbuttoned and hanging open. The fabric frames the broad expanse of his chest, and you find yourself staring over the rim of your mug, shamelessly oogling your husband. A year in Kansas still hasn't dulled the effect he has on you. You're not sure anything ever could.

If anything, it's gotten worse.

"I can feel those pretty eyes on me darlin'," he says without looking up, but you can hear the smile in his voice.

You grin, lifting your mug to your lips. "Can you blame me?"

He glances over his shoulder, blue eyes crinkling at the corners, and your heart does that stupid dance it's been doing since the day you met him.

"Not even a little bit, sweet thing."

The farmhouse kitchen is small, nothing at all like the sleek apartment you had in Metropolis. The checkered curtains you picked out together hang just above the kitchen window. Mismatched mugs collected from various roadside stops dangle from hooks just above the sink. The only thing in here that looks out of place might be the coffee maker, but even that is the older model the two of you thrifted when you were still sharing the flat in the city.

It's perfect.

Clark crosses to you, and suddenly the kitchen feels even smaller. He braces one hand on the counter beside you, the other coming up to cup your jaw. His thumb traces your cheekbone as he leans down, pressing his lips to yours in a gentle kiss.

"Good morning, Y/N," he murmurs against your mouth.

"Mmm g'morning Clarkie," you whisper back, your free hand finding the open edges of his shirt, fingers splaying against warm skin and solid muscle of his torso.

He kisses you again, deeper this time, and you feel him smile when you make a small sound of protest as he pulls away.

"I have to get out to the field," he says, though he doesn't move, still caging you against the counter. "Those fence posts won't repair themselves, y'know."

You shake your head slowly, gazing up at him doe-eyed. "They could wait one more day..."

"They could," he agrees, dipping his head to press a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your jaw. "But then I'd have to explain to my wife why I'm falling behind on my work."

You grin, leaning up onto your tiptoes and pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I think she'd understand."

His laugh is low and warm, rumbling through his chest where you're still touching him.

"I'll be back for lunch."

One more kiss, this one to your forehead. "Are you going to try to get some work done in the garden today?"

You scoff, rolling your eyes at him. "I always get work done, dear."

"Sweetheart," he says, pulling back to look at you with those impossibly blue eyes. "Yesterday, you planted the same row of tomatoes twice because you were... distracted."

Heat floods your cheeks.

"That's not... I was just... I planted those on purpose!"

But he's already grinning, that devastating smile that made you fall in love with him in the first place, and you know there's no point in denying it.

He shrugs out of the flannel, hanging it on the back of a chair, and heads for the door in just his jeans, t-shirt, and boots. You watch him go, already anticipating the view you'll have from the garden.

"Clark?"

He pauses in the doorway, looking back.

"I love you."

His expression softens at that. "I love you too. More than anything."

Then he's gone, the screen door creaking shut behind him, and you're left alone with your coffee and the absolute certainty that leaving Metropolis was the best decision you ever made.

･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

By mid-morning, you're kneeling in the garden with dirt on your knees and absolutely nothing to show for the last hour of work.

The cucumber plants sit in their containers, waiting to be transplanted. The weeds you meant to pull still lie untouched in the herb bed. Your gardening gloves lie abandoned beside the flower basket you haven't touched in twenty minutes.

Because Clark is in the field.

And... Clark is shirtless.

The sun beats down on his broad back, turning his skin golden, highlighting every shift and flex of muscle as he works. He's pulling at the white fence posts, hammering new ones into the hard fenceline with a heavy hammer, and you've, somehow, completely forgotten what you came out here to do.

Sweat gleams on his shoulders, trailing down the valley of his spine. His jeans sit low on his hips, and when he raises the hammer over his shoulder, his entire body flexes; biceps bunching, abs contracting, thighs braced wide for leverage. The impact echoes across the field, a rhythmic percussion that matches the sudden quickening of your pulse.

You should look away, you really need to. You should focus on the garden, on the work that actually needs doing.

Instead, you watch him drag his forearm across his forehead, watch the way his chest heaves with exertion, watch sunlight catch on the dark hair scattered across his chest. Even from this distance, you can see the definition of every muscle, the strength in every movement.

He bends to position another post, and your mouth goes dry.

A year ago, you watched him save the world in a cape and suit. Now you watch him build fences in worn denim, and somehow this feels more intimate. This is Clark without the weight of the entire world on his shoulders -- this is just a man working his land, building something with his hands, living the life he chose.

The life he chose with you.

You squirm where you're seated in the garden.

He straightens, rolling his shoulders, and even though he's too far away to see clearly, you swear he's smiling. Like he knows exactly what he's doing to you. Like he's enjoying it.

Your fingers dig into the soil, trying to reorient your mind, but your eyes never really leave him...

Three more hours until lunch.

It's going to be the longest three hours of your life.

･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

When Clark finally comes through the back door, he's covered in dust and sweat, his skin sun kissed and gleaming. You're at the counter slicing tomatoes for sandwiches, but the knife stills in your hand the moment you see him.

"Hey," he says, voice rough from the heat and exertion.

You force yourself to swallow. "Hey yourself."

He moves to the sink, turning on the faucet and ducking his head under the stream. Water cascades over his hair, his neck, running in rivulets down the planes of his back. He straightens, running both hands through his wet hair, slicking it back, and when he reaches for the dish towel you're already there, pressing it into his hands.

Your fingers brush his, and in that moment, he stills.

Clark's eyes darken as he looks down at you, the towel forgotten. Water drips from his jaw onto his chest, trailing paths you want to follow with your tongue.

"Lunch is almost ready," you manage, but your voice comes out breathier than intended.

"Is it?" He steps closer, crowding you back against the counter, and suddenly you're surrounded by him. The scent of the wood and his sweat, the heat radiating from his skin, the solid presence of his body barely an inch from yours.

"Clark..." It's meant to be a warning, but it sounds more like an plea.

He braces his hands on either side of you, caging you in, his face so close you can count the water droplets clinging to his eyelashes. "I've been thinking about you all morning, doll."

Your legs squeeze together beneath your sundress. "H-have you?"

"Every single second." His voice drops lower, growing rougher. "Knowing you were watching me. Knowing what you were thinking."

Your breath catches.

"And... what was I thinking?"

He leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "The same thing I was thinking."

His mouth trails down your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to your throat. "The same thing I'm always thinking when I look at you."

Your hands find his chest, fingers splaying over warm, damp skin. His heart pounds beneath your palm, as rapid as your own.

"You... we, have to go back to work," you whisper, even as you tilt your head to give him better access.

"I know that." He kisses your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. "But, we have all the time we need..."

You whimper as his hand finds the small of your back, pressing you against him. "We'll never have enough time."

Clark pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes blazing with promise.

"Then I'll just have to make sure tonight lasts twice as long."

･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

The afternoon stretches endlessly.

You kneel in the garden again, pretending to work, again, but your hands are clumsy and distracted. You've pulled on the same weed three times. The cucumber plants remain untplanted, wilting slightly in their containers while you stare across the field at Clark's distant figure.

The heat is near oppressive now, the sun beating down mercilessly, but it's nothing compared to the heat pooling low in your belly. Every movement he makes seems designed to torment you; the flex of his shoulders, the way his jeans cling to his thigh.

Tonight lasts twice as long.

Holy...

His words echo in your mind, a promise and a threat. You shift on your knees, but your body remembers the press of his against yours in the kitchen, the roughness in his voice, the way his eyes darkened how they do in the bedroom...

You check your watch. Three-fifteen.

Hours still to go.

･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

The sun crawls across the sky with agonizing slowness. You abandon the garden entirely, retreating to the porch with a neglected glass of sweet tea that grows warm in your hand. Clark works on, tireless, and you wonder if he's doing it on purpose. Simply drawing out the anticipation, making you wait, knowing what it does to you.

Four-thirty.

Five o'clock.

The evening breeze does nothing to cool the flush spreading across your chest, your neck. You want his hands on you. His mouth. You want everything he promised and more.

And then, finally... finally... you see him set down his tools and start walking toward the house.

Toward you.

He finds you on the porch, and the sight of him steals your breath. Golden hour light paints him delicious, catching the dust on his skin, the sweat still gleaming on his chest. He's exhausted, but when his eyes meet yours, everything else just, slips away.

"Y/N," he says softly, climbing the steps.

You rise to meet him, and then his arms are around you, pulling you close despite the dirt and sweat. You breathe him in, your hands sliding up his back.

"I missed you today honey," he murmurs into your hair.

You giggle at this. "You were fifty yards away, Clark."

"Mmm too far." He pulls back just enough to cup your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones.

"I love you. Gosh, I love this life with you."

Your heart aches at his words. "Clark-"

He kisses you, slow and deep this time. You lean into him, letting him hold you, breathe you in, have you. He groans as your tongue teases his lips, licking over the bottom one in question. He lets you in immediately, greedily sucking your tongue into your mouth, his fingers digging into your waist as he holds you close.

When he finally pulls away, his eyes have gone nearly indigo.

"Let me shower," he says, his voice thick. "And then I'm keeping my promise."

Your pulse quickens.

"Mhm, Clark... I'll be waiting."

･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

The water shuts off, and your heart hammers against your ribs. You're already in bed, wearing nothing but the cotton sheet draped loosely across your body. The bedroom window is open, letting in the evening breeze and the sound of crickets, the pale yellow curtains billowing softly in the darkness.

The bathroom door opens, releasing a cloud of steam, and then Clark appearrs, his towel slung low around his hips. Water still beads on his shoulders, his hair damp and tousled. His eyes find you immediately, and the desire in them has you holding back from touching yourself.

"Gah-lee, doll, look at you," he breathes, crossing to the bed.

The towel drops instantly. He's already hard, his cock thick and heavy, and you can't help the small sound that escapes your throat. The year of marriage hasn't scared you off, oh no not in the slightest... honestly, knowing exactly what he can do to you only makes the anticipation that much sweeter.

He climbs onto the bed, prowling over you, and pulls the sheet away with one yank of his wrist. Cool night air hits your bare skin, your nipples tightening instantly, and his gaze rakes over every inch of you with undisguised appreciation.

"I've been thinking about this all day," he murmurs, slowly settling between your thighs, his weight pressing you into the mattress. "Thinking about tasting you. Touching you. Making you come so hard you forget your own name, sweetheart."

"Clark," Your voice breaks as his mouth finds your inner thigh, sucking hard enough to leave a mark.

"No one can hear you out here," he whispers against your skin. "No neighbors. No one for miles. You can be as loud as you want, Y/N. And I'm going to make you scream."

His mouth moves inward, kissing and biting a path toward your mound, then travelling up your stomach and abdomen, until he reaches your breasts. He takes one nipple between his lips, sucking hard while his hand palms the other, rolling and pinching until you're arching beneath him, fingers tangled in his dark hair.

"Please, Clark," you gasp.

"Please what?" He switches to your other breast, his tongue circling the sensitive peak. "Tell me what you want, honey."

"You. I want you, now."

"You have me." He kisses down your stomach again, his hands spreading your thighs even wider. "Every part of me. Always."

And then his mouth is finally on you, every coherent thought becoming impossible as his head descends between your legs.

His tongue drags through your folds, slow and deliberate, tasting every inch of you. He groans against your pussy, the vibration of his voice making you cry out, your hips bucking against his face. His hands grip your thighs, holding you open, holding you still as he devours you like a man starved.

"Fuck, Clark-" Your fingers twist in the sheets, your head thrown back as pleasure builds hot in your core.

He circles your clit with his tongue, sucking it between his lips. You nearly come apart right there, squealing at the sensation. He pulls back just as you get close, kissing your inner thigh, making you whimper at the loss of his mouth on you.

"Not yet," he says, his voice rough with desire. "I want to feel you come around my cock."

He moves up your body, aligning himself at your entrance, the head of his thick cock pressing against you. Eyes widening at the perfect sight, you suck your bottom lip between your teeth, preparing yourself for the stretch that was soon to come. Your legs wrap around his waist, urging him closer, but he takes his time, pushing in slowly, inch by torturous inch.

"Gosh you feel incredible," he groans, his forehead pressed to yours. "So tight, Y/N. You're perfect, honey... all mine."

His words are breathy now as he works you open around him slowly, his hands gripping your waist.

"Yours, Clark," you breathe, and he bottoms out with a thrust that makes you both moan.

For a moment, he stays still, buried deep inside you, his eyes locked on yours. The intimacy of it, the connection between the two of you makes your chest blaze with a love so fierce, you never could've imagined it'd feel like this.

Then he starts to move.

His hips roll in a steady rhythm, each thrust deep and purposeful, hitting that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. You cling to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as pleasure corses through you.

"Harder," you gasp. "Please, Clark, harder-"

He growls, and his control snaps. His pace becomes punishing, driving into you with a force that would break anyone else. You take it all, your cries echoing off the walls as he fucks you, his gaze watching your breasts bounce beneath him with each thrust.

"That's it," he pants, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, the other moving to splay beside your head. "Let me hear you. Let me hear how good I make you feel."

"S-so good... mmmm hmmm, oh fuck, you feel so good Clark, so fucking big-"

He shifts the angle slightly, every thrust ramming his cock damn near through your cervix, the friction and fullness nearly overwhelming. Your orgasm builds quickly, the pleasure coiling impossibly tight in your core.

"Come for me," Clark commands, his voice rough and desperate. "Come around my cock, sweetheart. I want to feel it."

His palm, gently resting against your cheek, moves to your lips, messy and swollen from all the kissing. His thumb slips between the two, and you greedily suck him in, his eyes widening at just how eager you are to take him.

"Should spank your ass for not getting anything done today," he chuckles, and your core clenches hearing the Clark Joseph Kent actually swear. "But you'd probably like that, wouldn't you? Bend you over and spank your cute ass, for staring at me all day, turning me on from the very minute I wake up? Hmm?"

Your orgasm crashes over you in waves, your pussy clenching around him as you scream his name. He fucks you through it, prolonging every pulse of pleasure until you're trembling and gasping beneath him, his hands moving to grip your waist and shove himself deep.

"Yes... mmm so wet for me Y/N, yes-"

He thrusts deep one final time, his cock pulsing as he comes inside you, filling you with heat. His groan is guttural, and he collapses against you, both of you breathing hard, skin slick with sweat.

For a few moments, no one moves, the only sounds your combined heavy breathing as Clark lies atop you. His weight pins you to the mattress, his face buried in your neck, his cock still buried deep inside you. Your hand drapes limply over his shoulder, feeling his heart pound against your chest.

"I love you," he murmurs finally, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "I love you so much, sweetheart."

You smile tiredly, your fingers grazing the soft hairs at the nape of his neck.

"I love you too." You turn your head, catching his lips in a soft, lingering kiss. "I love this life. I love this place. I love everything we've built together, Clark."

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes soft and full of devotion. "The best decision I ever made."

You match his gaze. "Leaving Metropolis?"

He smiles softly. "Choosing you."

Your heart flutters as he kisses you again, his lips soft against yours. "Every single day, I choose you."

And today, tomorrow, and every day after, you'd continue to choose him too.

Contains: smut, porn with slight plot, infidelity/secret affair, brat taming, power imbalance, rough handling, possessiveness, dirty talk, degradation, spanking, hair pulling, slight breath play, tearing of clothes, breast/nipple play, fingering, clit play, oral (m receiving), face fucking, tit-fucking, rough sex, overstim, unprotected piv, creampie, aftercare(?), dom!duke brat tamer!chris x sub!fem mistress(brat)!reader

based on this request

The afternoon sun bled gold across the terrace, catching on the rim of porcelain cups and the silver thread embroidered into the duchess's sleeves. She sat at the center of the picnic spread like a painting come to life, back straight and her smile soft, with one hand resting on her husband's arm as she leaned into him on the cushion-lined bench.

I stood a few paces back near the tea cart, and I wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

The duke, Christopher, or Chris for short, as his wife called him, looked comfortable in a way he rarely did in court. His doublet was unlaced at the throat, his boots kicked out before him, and he was watching his wife with an expression that made the ladies-in-waiting exchange knowing glances amongst each other. He watched her with such soft devotion, it could’ve fooled anyone… but not me.

As for myself, I poured myself more tea and didn’t bother to look at them. I didn't need to. I could feel the warmth of their domestic tableau at the edge of my vision, such as the way his thumb traced circles on his wife’s wrist, and the way she leaned into him like a flower turning towards the sun. It was sickening to look at.

Chris lifted a grape from the bowl between them to feed her, and she took it between her teeth and laughed softly. "Five years, darling." she said, her voice carrying that particular lilt she used when she was being earnest. "Five years since I married you, and I would wed you again if I could in a single heartbeat."

I lifted my teacup, taking a slow sip, and let the moment sit on my tongue like something sour.

Five years. And unbeknownst to her, I had been in his bed for three of them.

It started the summer the duchess went to visit her family. I remembered the heat of that day still, the way the air hung thick with hay dust, and the way Chris’ hands shook when he backed me into the stable loft. He had been looking at me for months by then. With the kind of look that made my skin prickle every time we made eye contact. And the kind that made me start wearing my bodice just a little looser, just to see if he would break.

That afternoon in the hay loft, he did not ask. He just pushed up my skirts, yanked down my stays, and fucked me into the straw until I couldn’t walk straight. His hand was clamped over my mouth so the stable boys wouldn’t hear, while his teeth sank into my shoulder, biting down to keep himself quiet when he came.

I remembered the way I had smiled in the dark afterwards, half-buried in hay, knowing he had chosen me over the empty bed waiting for him in the manor.

There had been other times too. The night of the autumn ball, when the duchess had retired early with a headache and Chris found me in the library. He had me bent over the desk, and took me while the music from the great hall drifted through the windows. I remembered staring at the spines of his books as he moved behind me, counting the gold lettering, and feeling nothing but triumph. I had been the one he came to find. Not her. But me.

There was another occurrence during a hunting trip last spring, when his party had ridden out at dawn. Chris returned earlier than expected while the others were still chasing stag through the eastern woods. He found me in my bedchamber, still in my nightdress, with the sheets tangled from a restless morning. He didn’t bother asking why I wasn’t dressed. He simply crossed the room, pushed me back onto the mattress, and fucked me into the pillows with the curtains half-drawn and the afternoon light slicing through the cracks.

I remembered the way he breathed my name when he finished, ragged and undone, and the way I smirked against his shoulder because I knew exactly what I had done. I had pulled him away from his hunt, from his duty, and from the life he was supposed to be living. And I relished every moment of it.

Now, in the garden, he sat beside her with that attentive expression. I watched the way his thumb traced the inside of her wrist, and the way he leaned towards her when she spoke. I knew that hand. I knew the weight of it on my throat in the dark, and the bite of his fingers in my hip when he forgot himself. The duchess saw a devoted husband. I saw the man who marked my skin at night and then sat across from his wife at breakfast as if I didn’t exist.

He lifted another grape. The duchess took it from his fingers with a soft laugh.

She didn’t know the things I had done with that hand, or the things I had done for him while on my knees. She was unaware of the sounds he made when his wife was asleep and he slipped through my door instead. And that knowledge sat in my chest like a held breath.

But today, the air between us felt wrong. I felt it in the way Chris wouldn’t look at me, not once, or even spare a glance my way. His eyes stayed fixed on his wife as if I didn’t exist. But his jaw was tighter than it should’ve been and his shoulders squared.

It was definitely because I was standing a few feet away. And he was simply refusing to acknowledge it.

I stepped forward to refresh the duchess’s tea. The pot was hot in my hands, and my grip was steady.

"Allow me, Your Grace."

The stream was smooth and amber, perfect, until I let my wrist tilt just a fraction too far. A thin ribbon of tea spilled over the rim and ran across the tablecloth, soaking the edge of a linen napkin.

"Oh! Forgive me." My voice came out silk, shot through with just enough dismay to pass. "How clumsy of me."

The duchess waved it off with a patient smile. "It’s nothing. Only tea."

She didn’t flinch or suspect anything ill. She simply dabbed at the spot with her napkin and turned back to Chris, reaching for his hand again.

I should’ve stopped there. I knew I should’ve.

But she was looking at Chris with those wide, trusting eyes, and he was looking at her like she was the only woman who had ever mattered. And all while I had been warming his bed for three years, pouring her tea and lacing up her gowns, and standing in plain sight while she smiled at me, having no idea what I had done with her husband the night before.

"Five years." I spoke up, my voice cutting through her reverie like a blade through silk. "Truly remarkable. Most husbands lose interest by year two."

The words landed like a stone dropped into still water.

The footman at the edge of the terrace froze midstep, and a lady seated on a chair nearby with her embroidery went perfectly still. The duchess's hand stopped halfway to her mouth, and she blinked at me as if I had spoken in a language she didn’t understand.

But Chris, he set down his teacup with a soft clink that somehow commanded the entire table.

His sharp blue eyes met mine for the first time all afternoon, and they didn’t seem warm anymore. They were winter and stone, which made my stomach clench even as my chin lifted. He held my gaze for a long moment, long enough for the heat to creep up my neck, and definitely long enough for me to realize I may have pushed too far.

"That will be all." he said, his voice commanding and perfectly even. A tone he used when there were witnesses, and when he was too controlled to show a crack.

But I knew him. I knew the flatness in his eyes was a storm waiting to break.

The duchess looked between us, something flickering across her face. Confusion, perhaps. Or the first whisper of suspicion. She smoothed her skirts and offered me a small, uncertain smile, as if she wasn’t sure whether to scold me or comfort me.

"She’s only teasing, dear. She didn’t mean anything by it."

Of course, she was defending her lady-in-waiting. The wife was defending me to her husband, and the irony was so sharp I almost laughed.

But Chris didn’t look away from me. "I said, that will be all." His words were final, like a door slamming shut.

I dipped the shallowest curtsy the duchess would accept, gathered my skirts, and turned around. The walk across the terrace felt longer than it should’ve. But throughout, I felt the duke’s gaze on my back like a hand, like a brand, and most definitely like a promise.

The sun would soon set in a few hours, and I knew he would come find me then.

Later at nightfall, in my bedchamber, candlelight pooled on the vanity glass as I watched my own hands move through my hair. The hairbrush was silver, heavy and cool against my palm, as I drew it through the damp strands in long, measured strokes.

I hummed as I worked, a melodic tune that I had heard the musicians play at dinner. It curled through the quiet room, wrapping itself around the scent of lavender soap and the candle's slow burn. I liked the sound of my own voice in the stillness, and the way the melody filled the space, making the room feel less empty.

The afternoon was still sharp behind my ribs. I recalled the way Chris had looked at me from across the tea table. How his jaw had tightened when I spoke out of turn, and the way he had dismissed me in that clipped tone.

But I had seen the cracks in his demeanour, such as the flicker in his eyes before he looked away. He had been holding himself still, holding himself back, and I had known it even as I turned and walked away.

Chris surely watched me leave. I had felt his gaze on my back like a hand pressed flat between my shoulder blades.

I set the hairbrush down and leaned closer towards the mirror. The woman looking back at me had sharp edges. Her jaw cut clean, and her lips pink and full. Her eyes were dark and steady, holding the kind of heat that made men forget where they were. I tilted my chin, and watched the hollow at the base of my throat catch the light. The nightgown's neckline was cut low, the silk barely grazing my nipples, where I could see the shape of them through the fabric, round and taut.

On the contrary, the duchess had a softness to her. A gentleness that suited the role of a duke's wife. But she didn’t have this. She didn’t have cheekbones that caught candlelight like blades, or a mouth that promised trouble. She didn’t have the kind of body that made men forget their vows.

However, I did.

My humming resumed, softer now, almost a whisper against my lips. I picked up the hairbrush again and drew it through my hair, letting the rhythm carry me. A certain kind of warmth started to settle in my belly.

I knew he would come.

And as expected, the series of knocks came, in three short raps.

My hand stopped mid-stroke. My eyes shifted towards the reflection of the door in the mirror, and I watched the slow bloom of my own smile. I set the hairbrush down, rose from the stool, and crossed the room in silence. The silk whispered against my skin, across my stomach, and over the curve of my hips. My bare feet padded across the floorboards, until I stopped in front of the door.

I pressed my palm flat against the old wood. I could almost feel Chris’ presence on the other side. But I didn’t open it just yet. 

Instead, I let the silence stretch. I wanted him to wait, and let him wonder if tonight would be the night I finally refused him. I wanted him to feel the edge of that possibility.

Another knock came, and this time it was harder and louder.

A low voice came through the wood. "Open the door." It was Chris’ voice, roughened at the edges. The same tone he used when he had stopped pretending.

I finally turned the latch to unlock the door. The door swung open, and there he stood in the candlelight with his face half in shadow. His collar was unlaced, leaving his throat bare, and his sleeves were rolled up to the elbows.

His cold blue eyes found mine, then dropped to my mouth, and then descended lower. The air between us suddenly went still and thick.

"Your Grace." I greeted, my lips curving into a knowing smile. "I was wondering when you would come."

Chris stepped forward without a word, and I stepped back to let him in. The door swung shut behind him with a heavy thud, making my body thrum in anticipation.

At first, I didn’t move. I let the triumphed smile spread slowly across my lips, letting him see it in the candlelight. The satisfaction and the knowledge that I had been right, once again.

He stood with his back to the door, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm he was trying very hard to control. His arms hung at his sides, with his fists clenched, his jaw set, and his eyes dark and unreadable in the low light. The shadows carved hollows beneath his cheekbones, and I could see the pulse in his throat, ticking fast.

"You know," I spoke up, breaking the silence. "I knew you would come."

"You embarrassed me today." he said.

"I embarrassed you?" I let the words sit on my tongue, tasting them. "I made a comment at a tea party. You have had me bent over tables and taken me in the dark while your wife slept three rooms away, and I embarrassed you."

His expression flickered. Cracked, just at the edges. "That is different."

"Is it?"

"You know it is."

I laughed. The sound was sharp and hollow, and it bounced off the walls, and I watched him flinch at it.

"I know nothing of the sort, Your Grace. You have had me for three years. In the stables, in the library, in my bed, in yours, and even against the wall of the stillroom while the servants slept overhead. You have marked me in ways I cannot wash off. And today you sat beside your wife and fed her fruit and pretended I did not exist!"

Chris crossed the room before I finished speaking.

His hands caught my arms, gripping them hard enough to bruise, and then he pushed me backwards until my shoulders hit the wall. The impact knocked the breath from my lungs. His body pressed into mine, the heat of him searing through the thin fabric of my nightgown, and his mouth was a breath from my ear.

"You think I don’t know what I have done to you?" His voice was rough now, frayed at the edges, the voice he used when the duke was gone and only Chris remained. "You think I don’t carry it?"

"Then carry it louder." I said.

His hand came up to my throat. Not squeezing, just resting there. His palm was flat against my pulse that was hammering beneath my skin, as his fingers curled around the curve of my neck. He could surely feel it, every beat and betraying flutter.

"You said what you said today because you wanted a reaction." His thumb slowly traced the line of my jaw. "You wanted me to come to you tonight. You’ve been wanting it since the moment I didn’t look at you on the terrace."

"I wanted you to look at me."

"Look at you." His jaw tightened. "I have spent three years looking at you. I have spent three years wanting you, taking you, and pretending I could stop."

"Then don’t pretend." The words hung between us, heavy and naked.

His palm pressed flat against my windpipe, firm but not cutting. The candlelight carved shadows beneath his cheekbones, making him look dangerous in a way the duchess never saw.

"You have quite the mouth on you today, hm?" he gruffed. I could tell he was holding himself back by a thread.

I swallowed against his hand, feeling the way his fingers tightened in response. "I learned from the best."

The blue in his eyes turned colder. His thumb pressed into the soft hollow beneath my jaw, as he tilted my head back until the ceiling was all I could see.

"You spoke out of turn today." he said. "In front of my wife."

"I spoke the truth."

"The truth." he scoffed, letting out a breath that was almost a laugh, but there was no humour in it. "You think I give a fuck what the truth is? And do you truly believe your word against mine would ever be considered?"

I smiled up at him, even with his hand on my throat, and the wall digging into my shoulder blades. "You seemed to give a fuck when you pulled me into the library after the spring ball while your wife was playing cards in the next room."

Chris’ grip tightened, by just a fraction. Just enough to make my pulse flutter. "Careful." he warned.

"Or what, Chris? You'll banish me?" I let the words drip. "Send me away? Find some other girl to warm your bed when the duchess is asleep?"

He was quiet for a long moment. His eyes moved over my face, searching for something I wasn’t sure he would find. "You think I need you." he said slowly.

"I know you do."

"You need to be taught a lesson." he said, his voice dropping to something that made my stomach tighten. "You need to be punished."

Before I could answer, his hand left my throat and found my wrist instead. He roughly tugged me away from the wall, turning me, and pushed. I stumbled forward until my knees hit the edge of the bed frame, my palms catching against the plush quilt.

"On your hands and knees." he commanded. “Now.”

I obeyed, but slowly, as a wicked grin spread across my lips. I let him watch me settle onto all fours, as the silk of my nightgown slid against my thighs, and my hair fell forward in a dark curtain. I could feel his eyes on me, and the heat of his gaze tracing the curve of my spine and the swell of my hips. I arched my back just enough to give him a better view.

Chris’ hand found the hem of my nightgown and urgently hiked it up, bunching the silk around my waist until the air hit my bare skin. I was completely exposed. My ass bared to him, and the soft shadow between my thighs visible in the candlelight. I pressed my forehead into the mattress and let him take a good look.

"This is what your mouth earns you." he rasped. "This is what happens when you forget your place in front of her."

His hand came down flat against my ass. The crack of it split the quiet room, sharp and loud, and I gasped into the mattress. The sting bloomed across my skin, bright and spreading, and I felt my fingers curl into the bedding.

"Count." he said.

"One."

His hand landed again, this one a little harder. The sound echoed off the walls, and I bit my lip against the moan that wanted to follow.

"Two."

Chris spanked me again, and again, each strike landing on a different spot, spreading the heat until my entire body was burning. I lost count somewhere after six. All I could feel was the weight of his palm, the crack of each blow, and the way my skin sang under every impact.

When he finally stopped, his hand rested on the curve of my ass, warm and heavy. The shape of his palm printed on my skin felt like a brand.

"Look at you…" he said, his voice had changed to something darker… and mesmerized. "Look at what I have done to you."

His fingers traced the curve of my ass, dipping lower, until he was sliding along the wet heat between my thighs. I heard him draw a sharp breath.

"Fuck, you’re dripping." he said. "You’re soaked from your punishment."

I turned my head, trying to see him from over my shoulder. Chris was staring at my thigh, and I followed his gaze. My own arousal was running down my inner thigh, a glistening trail that caught the candlelight.

He gathered some of it on his fingers and brought them to his lips. He tasted me slow, his eyes never leaving mine, and the sight of it made my breath catch.

"You’re a whore." he said, the word rolling off his tongue like honey. It sounded almost affectionate. "A greedy little slut. But mine… my whore."

I said nothing, but gasped softly. Him claiming ownership of me had my hole clench in need.

So Chris’ fingers found my cunt again, sliding through the wetness, and circling my clit before pushing inside me in a single, smooth thrust. I cried out, my arms buckling, catching myself on my elbows as his fingers worked inside me. Two of them, long, thick, and insistent, curling against that spot that made my vision go white around the edges.

His other hand fisted in my hair and yanked, pulling my head back until my spine arched. The pain was sharp and perfect, making me moan against the pull of it.

"You think you can say whatever you want?" he asked, his voice deep in my ear as his fingers drove into me. "You think because I want this cunt that you have power over me?"

"I know I do." I gasped.

My defiance made his fingers curl harder, and I choked on the sound that escaped me.

"You forget yourself." he hissed, pulling his hand out of me. Before I could grieve the loss, his arm wrapped around my waist and hauled me up. My back hit his chest, my spine pressed against the heat of him, and his hand found my throat again. His fingers pressed into the soft skin beneath my jaw as he held me against him.

His mouth found my ear, his breath hot against the shell of it. "You’re my wife's lady-in-waiting, and you spread your legs like a strumpet in a coaching inn." Chris’ lewd words landed hard, and I felt them spark in the pit of my stomach.

His other hand, still slick with my wetness, slid down between my thighs and found my clit. He circled it with his thumb, firm and relentless, and I bucked against him, my hand flying up to grip the back of his neck.

“Chris—- please—“

"That’s it." he said against my ear, and I could tell he was smirking, watching me melt.

My fingers dug into the nape of his neck, into the soft hair at his collar, as I held on while his thumb worked me in maddening circles. My legs trembled and my breath came in ragged gasps. The liquid heat was building, coiling low and tight in my belly, and I could feel myself clenching around nothing, desperate for him.

His grip on my throat tightened. Not enough to stop my breath, but just enough to remind me who was holding me up. "You’re going to cum for me." he demanded. "And then I’m going to use you however I please."

His words made the pressure within me burst. I came undone in his arms, my body convulsing against him, as a weak cry tore from somewhere deep in my chest. I felt everything: the heat, the release, and the way his thumb kept circling me through it, drawing it out until I was shaking. I moaned in protest from the oversentivity, until he finally let go.

I fell forward onto the bed, my arms too weak to catch me, as my body sank into the mattress. In the quiet room, I could hear my own breathing, ragged and loud and the whisper of the candle’s flame dancing.

I twisted around, rolling onto my back, and the movement pulled my nightgown taut across my body. The silk strained against my breasts and across my stomach, making my hard nipples visible through the thin fabric. My chest rose and fell with each panting breath, and I watched him watch me.

Chris stood at the edge of the bed, his hands moving to the buttons of his trousers. He worked them open with deliberate slowness, his eyes never leaving mine. His cock sprang free, thick and hard, the tip glistening with a pearly bead at the end .

After removing his waistcoat and shirt, he climbed onto the bed and settled between my thighs, the weight of him pressing me into the mattress. His hands found the neckline of my nightgown, the silk which was stretched thin over my breasts.

"You’re spilling out of this." Chris said, his voice roughened by lust. "Like a common whore showing off what she has to offer."

He grabbed the fabric at the neckline, where my breasts threatened to spill over, and tore it open. The rip was loud and sharp, the silk giving way to his strong hands, and left me completely bare before him. The air hit my heated skin. His eyes moved over me, from my breasts, to my stomach, and then between my thighs. Chris looked at me like I was something he wanted to devour.

His hands found my breasts, cupping them, and squeezed fistfuls of my flesh. He kneaded them roughly, his thumbs circling my nipples until they were aching from the friction, and I arched into his touch.

"You have the most perfect breasts." he praised. "Does my wife have hers like these? Does she make me hard just by looking over my way?"

I shook my head, my voice lost.

"No." he agreed. "Only you. Only my ravishing whore."

He then lowered his head and took a nipple into his warm mouth, sucking hard, and biting down until I gasped. The pain mixed with pleasure, sharp and bright, had me threading my fingers through his hair as he moved to the other breast, giving it the same treatment. He sucked and bit until my nipples were swollen and aching, until I was writhing beneath him.

When Chris pulled back, I watched him wrap his hand around his thick cock. He then pressed it between my breasts, sliding the head along the valley of them, and I felt the heat of him against my skin.

"Squeeze them together." he said.

I obliged, and pressed my breasts around his cock. Chris thrusted into the tight channel of them, the head barely brushing against my chin with every movement, as he elicited the prettiest groans. The sensation was strange and hot, but the friction of his skin against mine, and the way he used my body like a toy thrilled me. I gasped at every thrust, the head of his cock sliding wet and thick between my breasts.

My hand drifted down, reaching to soothe my aching clit, but Chris’ hand caught my wrist before I could touch myself.

"No." he said. "You don’t get to touch yourself. Tonight you are mine to use. You’re my slut, and I will do with you as I please."

"Please, Chris." I heard myself plead. "Please fuck me."

"You will be fucked when I decide you will be fucked." He pulled his cock from between my breasts and looked down at me, that hard line still carved into his jaw. "But first, since that mouth of yours gets you into so much trouble, I want it around my cock."

He shifted forward, his knees bracketing my ribs, and the head of his cock pressed against my lips. I parted them without hesitation, letting him push past the wet heat of my mouth, and instantly the taste of him flooded my tongue. Salt, skin, and the faint trace of my fragrance from where he had pressed between my breasts.

"Take it." he ordered, his hand fisting in my hair. "Take all of it."

I opened my throat wider for him. He thrusted deep, making the head slide past my tongue, and press against the back of my throat until my eyes watered. I gasped around him, my hands finding his thighs, and he held me there for a long moment, letting me feel the stretch and the fullness of it.

"That’s it." he groaned. "Look at you. Look at my whore on her back with my cock down her throat."

Chris pulled back and thrusted again, setting a rhythm that had me gripping his thighs, as my fingernails dug into his skin. His hand stayed twisted in my hair, guiding each thrust, and his other hand found my breast. He squeezed, kneaded, and rolled my nipple between his fingers until I moaned around his cock, the vibration making him hiss through his teeth.

"You like that?" he asked, his voice ragged. "You like being used like this?"

I couldn’t answer. I could only take him, as my throat worked around each thrust, and my hands stroked the solid muscle of his thighs as he fucked my mouth. He played with my nipples the whole time, pinching and rolling until they were swollen and aching, and I was wet and dripping onto the sheets beneath me.

He then pulled out slowly, his cock glistening with my saliva, and crawled down my body. The head of his cock pressed against my stomach, leaving a wet trail across my skin as he positioned himself between my thighs.

"Look at this pretty cunt." he husked. "So wet and ready for me."

He took his cock in his hand and dragged the head across my slippery slit. Once, then twice. The sensation was maddening, the head catching on my clit with every pass, spreading my wetness across my folds. I could feel his precum mixing with my arousal, turning into a slick, sticky mess that coated my entrance.

"Please…" I begged, as I tried to catch my breath. "Please, Chris."

"Please what?" He dragged the head through our arousal again, slower this time, pressing just at my entrance without pushing in.

"Please fuck me. I need to feel you."

"You need to be filled?" He slid the head of his cock over my clit, and I bucked beneath him, as a sob caught in my throat. "You need your cunt stuffed full of my cock?"

"Yes! Yes, please!"

He kept teasing, sliding through the wetness, and the head of his cock kept catching on my entrance then slipping away. The tension built until I was trembling, and clawing at the sheets. I was becoming desperate and would have said anything, promised him anything, to feel him inside me.

"Please," I whimpered again. "Please, Chris. I need it. I need you."

He leaned over me, his hands bracing on either side of my head, and I felt the head of his cock press against my entrance. He held there, just at the threshold, with his face inches from mine.

"Whose are you?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"Yours."

Then he pushed in.

The stretch was everything. I cried out, my head pressing back into the mattress, as my hands flew up to find his shoulders. Chris filled me completely, inch by inch, until his hips were pressed flush against mine and I could feel him everywhere. He stayed there, buried to the hilt, letting me adjust to the size of him.

"Look at me." he said.

And I did. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and there was something in them that made my chest ache.

Then he began to move.

His thrusts were deep and punishing, each one driving the breath from my lungs. His hands were braced on either side of my head, his forearms corded with tension, and the angle had his cock rubbing against a spot inside me that made stars burst behind my eyelids. Chris was everywhere, all around me, inside me, his breath hot against my neck, and his body pressed me into the mattress.

"More." I gasped. "More."

So he gave me more. He drove harder and faster, each thrust hitting that spot with devastating precision. I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he lowered his head to my neck, his breath coming in ragged pants against my skin.

My nails raked down his back, leaving red lines in their wake, and he groaned against my throat. The sound was low and animal, a sound the duchess probably never heard from her husband. It was a sound he saved only for me.

"Whose are you?" he asked again, his voice rough and raw.

"Yours, Your Grace. I’m only yours."

"That’s right." He drove deeper and harder, his hips slapping against mine. "You are mine in ways she will never be. She is my wife, my duchess, but you… you are my whore, my harlot. You are the one I come to when I need to feel something real. When I need to let go."

Chris’ hand found my throat, pressing gently, and he lifted his head to look at me. His eyes were dark, his mouth parted, and he was beautiful like this, completely undone and raw.

"Cum for me." he said.

The pressure within me snapped. I shattered beneath him, my body clenching around his cock, as my cry got swallowed by the dark. Chris followed a moment later, a low groan tore from his throat, as his hips pressed hard against mine while he spilled into me, hot and thick.

We stayed like that, tangled and breathing, in the flickering candlelight. The air smelled of sex, sweat, and the duke.

I laid there, with my skin flushed and my thighs sticky with the evidence of us. I was sore and satisfied, still feeling the marks of his hands on my skin, and his seed dripping from between my thighs. I could feel every place he had touched me, struck me, and claimed me.

Chris raised himself on one elbow and looked down at me. For a moment his face was soft, unlike his usual stern face. There was something raw and unguarded visible upon it, that made my chest tighten.

He then leaned down and kissed me.

It wasn’t like the other times he kissed me. This kiss was slow, deep, and thorough. His hand cupped my jaw, as his thumb traced the line of my cheek, and he kissed me like he was memorizing the shape of my mouth. Like he was drinking me in. His tongue slid against mine, and I kissed him back with everything I had, while my hand found the back of his head, and my fingers threaded through his hair.

The kiss went on and on, stealing my breath, leaving me dizzy. Chris took and took until there was nothing left, until I was gasping against his lips, and until he had pulled the last of my air into himself.

And that’s when he pulled away.

Chris looked different. The softness had vanished, and it was replaced by the smooth, unreadable mask of the duke. He sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and reached for his trousers.

I watched him dress in silence, and he didn’t even spare a glance at me. His movements were efficient and practiced, the same way he always dressed himself after he had spent some time with me. When he was done, he straightened his collar and walked towards the door.

Chris paused with his hand on the latch. His back was straight, and his shoulders set. Almost like he wanted to change his mind. 

But he didn’t turn around. The door opened, closed, and then he was gone.

I laid there in the rumpled sheets, with my body aching in all the right places. The candle had burned low, casting long shadows across the ceiling. I was red, sore, and dripping with the evidence of him.

I smiled in the dark.

Let him walk out with that stoic face and lie straight to his wife’s face. I would still be here in the morning, by the duchess’s side, and so would every mark he had left on me.

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he loves that you're a little more bratty and needy when you're pregnant. you're feisty because Mood Swings, but he just has to bite down on his smirk every time you yell at him (it highkey turns him on). not to mention, it makes for great sex. he enjoys it very much, especially when you're the one constantly initiating it with him. sometimes you shut down on him (hashtag avoidant) when the emotions get too much and he's extra sweet but also extra stern in reminding you that he's not going anywhere, promises to "fuck those stupid thoughts out of your pretty little head."

he fucking ADORES seeing you all round with the baby knowing that he put that in you. he loves how possessive he can be everywhere, he's extra touchy because that's his baby mama right there. his cock gets hard when he sees that you're struggling to fit into your old clothes because damn. he did that. they did that. he's bringing you onto the bed despite your complaints that you have to get ready and you're once again late for dinner with your friends.

he's there every night with his ear pressed against your stomach, just listening. the first time baby #2 kicks (before you learn the gender because you want it to be a surprise), he's over the fucking moon. like that's his baby. he's convinced it's a girl. "she's probably getting pissed at me in there already, takes after her mom." afterwards, he's constantly finding a reason to put his hand on your belly.

he's had the hospital bag packed for months with everything you need, including your favorite snacks. when the Time arrives, he's immediately taking over. if you thought he was bossy before, boy you havent met girl-in-labor!scott. when the baby's out, he's standing right next to you because you come first before anything. kissing your forehead, telling you you did so good, that you're such a fantastic mom.

after you get your rest, scott is there with a whole sushi spread from your favorite, expensive sushi restaurant in town, one that you only go to as a treat. by the way, he avoided drinking and eating everything you can't eat throughout your pregnancy because hashtag solidarity.

he's constantly fussing around you despite you telling him to "please leave me the fuck alone for two seconds" but he'll begrudgingly hover. he buys a house enough for each kid to have their own room and an additional room (he says it's for a home office but just in case you want a third...).

he's been carrying a ringbox in his pocket, one that he saw you peeking at the last time you were out in the mall with ben. ben is the one who pointed it out to him and it was an easy purchase (you bet your ass he measured your finger size in your sleep). the only reason he hasn't proposed is because you're still a lil avoidant and marriage is Commitment and what you have now is good (trust that he will pop the question soon).

“You have no choice. Cum on your baby boy’s dick, come on, you’re supposed to feel good, so feel good then.”

She gargles on her spit in the middle of a long whine. Feeling him twitch in her walls while he’s in so, so deep, she thinks he’s stretched her as far as she could stretch. Leaks some on the base as he holds her by her ass and then pulls all the way out, kisses her clit with his tip, then shoves himself all the way back in.

Her clit aches, her walls clench, she feels like an animal. Getting used like this, filled like this. Molded and fucked into like she’s a doll made just for collecting his cum and taking all his cock’s beatings. Clark laughs and sweats, shushes her while he bounces his hips back up and feels her leaking more by the second. Adding sloppy friction so thrusting all the way in just felt and sounded that much better.

“Cream on me, baby, cream on it. Yeah. That’s it.”

“Y…You’re… You’re so deep—”

“Right where I’m supposed to be.”

Clark is smug as he grabs an ass cheek and smacks it, turning her cheek red as he extends his neck out to kiss her chin.

“Mmmhm. You know you have to. It feels too good to slow down,” Clark hums. Closes his eyes and rushes his hips upward, not even feeling the ache of the workout of thrusting upwards at such a rapid speed. If he did feel sore later it wouldn’t matter.

This position, these deep, quick thrusts were the easiest way to make her pussy weep and gush a mess. Since he memorized her body, the techniques that got her sopping wet, he liked to punish her with all the overwhelming pleasure every now and then and draw it out until she couldn’t feel anymore. Until he milked her so good she was gaping, dripping the evidence out, and snoring right on his lap just after cumming as many times as he made her.

“Spit in your baby boy’s mouth. Do it. Don’t disappoint me now, honey, I need a drink.”

She nods with her mouth gaped open, body stuttering with each of his hard thrusts while she gathers up all the drool she could and aims her head over right over his sprawled out tongue. He holds her hair back as she hovers, hums while her drool spills out in a long, warm drip right onto his mouth, tongue and chin. Can’t help himself but lick the rest off, swallowing it right up before grabbing her hand and forcing her thumb into his mouth. Starts to suckle, dragging his lips up and down her digit and humming some more around her knuckle. Doesn’t halt his thrusts or break his speed.

The slapping sound still ripples every time their bodies meet, joining right to the hilt and gaining a bigger and nastier mess on both of their thighs while she tries to keep holding on as to not fall over on him.

Clark licks on her thumb, finally slows his dick down, but still ensuring he goes in deep. She’s sat on his lap with his sweaty, heavy sac bunched right up against her ass.

“Still holding your cum, Mommy? Don’t hold it, baby, I know your pussy needs this.”

“I’m—I’m holding it for you,” she gasps, eyes dumb and rolled back while he easily bounces her up and down on him for the both of them. “I’ve been holding it. I can’t. You’re so big, baby.”

“You aren’t used to it by now, honey? Thought your little pussy had fun on all this cock. You want me to only fuck you with half?”

Clark is clearly taunting her, grinning while he demonstrates by only hitting her walls with the first three inches of his dick. It’s still so thick, even at the head that it alone has spit her open and made her bleed before. She panicked more than he did. Clark just soothed her with his tip, not caring when she bled all over him and got accustomed to his chubby size.

“No, no, fuck me with all of it. Please. My pussy wants it all.”

“Mmm, are you sure it isn’t too big?”

“Yes! Oh, god yes.”

Clark hums a laugh, playing with a strand of her hair, playing soft and innocent before he ruts all the way back in. Relishes in the reactionary moans while a fresh wave of milk comes dribbling out of her pussy, smoothing the way even more for every thrust. His cock is milky, shiny. Down to his balls. It’s always heaven for Clark, it’s exactly how he wants to beat her pussy up every single time.

“Yeah. Yeah you really fucking need it. Need all this dick to feel satisfied. Turned this pussy into a brat. Now she won’t feel anything if anyone smaller ever tries—“

“No one but you,” she interrupts with a high pitch gasp. Clenches her walls to emphasize her point, leaning down to kiss him, wet with spit while their tongues tangle. The reassurance already pleases Clark.

“Good girl. I love my Mommy. So loyal,” he breathes. Presses himself back to the hilt again, taking a finger to dip down into the mess, in their shared milk. Drags his finger around her pussy, getting it drenched in her bush and his before raising the finger up to her mouth and having her suckle.

“You like how we taste together?”

“Mmmmhm, so good,” she slurs. Licks the finger clean and then keeps sucking just for fun.

The visual has Clark losing the last bits of control that he had built up, now gradually leaving his body to deflate like a popped balloon. He stutters a curse and speeds his hips back up, pleading with her to cum with him at the exact same time.

“Come on baby, come on momma, let’s feel good. Together. I’m gonna make you.”

“I’m gonna cum—“

“You fucking have to. Oh yes, yeah please, all over my dick— all over me right now—”

She squeals and tightens as hard as she can, dribbling the mess of her finish as she simultaneously feels his nut start to burst right inside her. Each spurt, weak at first, starts to strengthen in both thickness and longevity. Painting her guts with everything milked out of his balls. They both cry and groan and hold onto each other, Clark rubbing her back and biting her shoulder with her name barely audible mixed with all his whines. His dick trembles and she feels it all. It made her finally want to take the last few moments to take on the control, rocking her pussy back and forth while Clark’s humming gets hilariously desperate and loud.

“Baby,” Clark laughs with a helpless wince. She laughs and still humps on his tip, little wet sounds more prominent now after their shared cum spills out. “You wear me out.”

“You wore me out as soon as you first put it in,” she retorts, still grinding like a bunny in his lap, bubbles of liquid still running down, taking Clark’s breath away while he watches with his lazy, horny eyes.

“I love to wear you out. Have to keep treating that pussy right.”

“Mm, you always do. Look,” she plants her feet on either side of his thighs, letting him get a closer, better look of her creamy pussy and his cum slathered dick.

“Fuck… fuck we can go again. Use our cum like lube,” he breathes. Trails his thumb over her wet clit and rubs, teasing her with a raised brow, hoping she takes him up on his offer.

“You know I can’t get enough of this cock.”

“I can see that.”

Clark pointedly looks down. He hasn’t fully been able to look back up since.

“Do you want me on top,” he offers. “I’m not tired. I can fuck you fast again.”

She laughs and lifts her body to pull his cock out, tumbling backwards with a lazy fall backwards to the foot of their bed.

“Mm. Hey, be careful baby. Don’t get too dumb.”

He cradles the back of her head while jacking his dick with the help of the mess they both made on it. Stroking her face and slapping her cunt with the brunt weight of his cock before he sinks just the head right back home.

He demands she open up her mouth so he can spit all over her tongue as he thrusts deep inside, getting lazier with his aim and ending up spitting on her face instead. Not that either of them had any objections whatsoever. She marveled in getting covered with it, opening her legs up and high in the air to free up space for his pounding yet again. He has her eat some of their cum that splashed out of her, getting some dripped all over her face right on top of all his spit while he dangles a finger that was covered in the mess.

Clark could bow down to the very sight. Seeing his love so drenched and coated in parts of him. His spit, his cum. While she takes him all the way. It has his head spinning with adoration, with gratitude, and a primal possessive need for binding her to him with everything he can.

. . .

Back in the day in the little town of Smallville, nothing but childish games, laughter, and running through the fields during summer mattered. When you visited your aunt’s house for the summer, befriending the shy little boy across the way, who always offered you his coolest toys and helped you climb trees. Back then, nothing could break the inseparable bond you both had, despite not seeing each other for months at a time. 

Every time he knew you were coming back to Smallville, Ma Kent helped him put together a little bouquet for you. He’d jog—or maybe dash like a blur—over to your aunt's home. He’d say hi to the old border collie, whose fur around the eyes was only getting grayer and grayer by the day. Then, he knocked on the front door, holding the pretty flowers to his chest hopefully. His advanced eyes would focus on the pollen-filled air as he gave a big smile, his front tooth missing and big blue eyes eager to play. When your aunt answered the door, she grinned. “What do I owe you for this pleasure?” she asked, a warm laugh bubbling from her chest as she stepped aside to let him in. “Is she here? Can she play?” Clark asked excitedly, holding the flowers out to your aunt. “I brought these for her; Ma helped me make them!” Your aunt's heart melted at this eager little boy, giving him a nod. “In her room.”

The summer stayed like that. Where you’d sneak into his room after you’d been strictly told not to, making shadow puppets with a flashlight; sometimes he’d even bring you on a small fly. Of course you knew about his powers; you were his best friend. His favorite friend. You’d cling to his back as he flew into the trees, listening to you giggle as the birds scattered away from their perches.

 At least, summer stayed like that until you both hit freshman year of high school, when you moved away from Kansas to a bigger city with more opportunities. No more 3-hour car rides down to the farm. It was the end of a lifelong era. Saying goodbye to everything you’d ever known, Kansas was a big difference compared to Metropolis. Everything there was frozen in time—at least in your mind. Clark would still be the same scrawny kid, with big blue eyes and nerdy. Someone who faded into the background. 

Life went on.

Clark thought about you a lot, but the letters between you started to fizzle as you both grew into different people. He was the nerdier type, not a lot of friends, but that was nothing new to you. You prospered in the city, finding solace in socializing, babysitting events, and trying new things around the city. Like the world was your oyster. In many ways it was. 

He still saw your aunt a lot; Ma and her had kept in touch, having dinner together once a week. Clark was still deciding his future, where he should go, studying at a nearby university as he helped do all the farm work at home. He’d ask about you sometimes, only to get vague, unfulfilling answers. 

In the comfort of your own room after long days of studying and working, you’d let your mind wander to him. Wonder about what he was doing. Had he picked up on journalism? Writing? Astronomy? He could do anything if he really set his mind to it.

After long semesters of studying, your parents surprised you with a trip to your aunts for the summer. Ditch the city life and hang out in the quiet for 3 months; allow your brain to relax. 

You stepped out of the car, stretching your legs after the 2-hour car ride from the airport to the farmhouse. You took in a deep breath as you stretched your arms above your head, the sweet smell of freshly cut grass and flowers, and then the unavoidable tinge of cow manure blowing in the wind. Your uncle grabbed your suitcase from the trunk, your thick tote bag slung over your shoulder as you walked up the creaky steps.

Everything was just as you suspected—frozen in time. The mailbox had a small lean to it, the old dog sleeping on the porch, dwindling to his last year or so. The porch paint was peeling, but the house was well painted. Your uncle had hurt his back, so you wondered who did it. “Looks good…” You comment, stepping in and slipping off your shoes. Your aunt gives small thanks as she wraps you in a tight hug. “Thank you, been getting some help on the farm. Polishing it. I miss you,” she said, pressing her face into your hair before releasing you. “Your room is the same. Go freshen up; we have dinner at the Kents tonight,” she said, arms crossed. 

You couldn’t help but perk up at the last name, the idea of Clark flashing your mind before you could stop it, and your aunt gave a knowing smile. “Yes, Clark is there. He’s still studying, helping Jonathan out since his back's starting to get like your uncles. We didn’t tell him you were coming.” The proud smirk on her face gave you all you needed to know. They had been planning this for weeks, keeping it just hush enough to dodge his superhearing. 

So you freshened up, excited to see your forever friend. You milled over the minor details, wondering if his hair was still dark and if his eyes were still bright. Then you wondered if he still looked through his telescope every night or if he spent his nights flying among the stars when he couldn’t sleep. The image you had of him was meek, still imagining the sweet and shy Clark Kent who needed a night light to sleep even though he had ten times the strength of an average man. 

You wore a pretty spring dress that went to your mid-thigh, one that showed off your smooth skin, showing old birthmarks you used to cover. Wherever they might be. You wore your hair nice and simple, making sure to do some light make-up before stepping down into the mudroom of the house. You held a casserole in a blue dish with a top lid, waiting for your aunt to be ready. 

The wait got too boring, so you went for the door. “I’m gonna start walking over!” you yelled, stepping out onto the familiar path that led up to the Kents' house. Your cowgirl boots crunched in the gravel beneath your feet as you watched the sun start to dip in the sky. It was your favorite walk, a short 5 minutes but beautiful. Unless you were in hot weather—then it was miserable. Tonight was nice, slowly cooling down.

You walked up the dirt path, hearing two voices discussing a car's engine, one you recognized as Pa Kent, and the other… well, you weren’t sure. It was deeper, soft and reassuring. Soothing. Pa Kent was under the car, and a tall man was standing, holding the car with one hand like it was nothing, his tight t-shirt doing nothing to conceal the strain of his bicep in the fabric. It made you dizzy when you noticed it. You could see the print of his abs through his shirt, his shoulders bulky, making him all the more a local beefy Kansan. He was tall, nearly casting a shadow. It wasn’t until he quickly turned his head to look at you that you realized who this boy—no, man—was.

You saw the thick, silky black head of hair, curled and wild on his head. The laughter bubbling from his chest at his father's rambling. Lethally blue eyes, ones that displayed every emotion inside them.

Clark Kent was standing in front of you with the piercing blue eyes, making your stomach turn into knots as you tried to keep your jaw off the floor and the casserole in your arms all at once. He wasn’t scrawny or loser-ish. He was handsome. Alluring. Hot. When had this happened? It was making your head spin, your heart stutter, and his super hearing picked up on every miscalculated beat. 

“Golly, long time no see!” he exclaimed, the excitement flooding his tone like it used to. Clark still had that sweet boy deep in there. The big puppy Kansas boy overflowed from his big heart that was being protected by his massive pecs—maybe that’s what they were for. To protect his big heart. “Hi…” You say shyly, watching his eyes run over you. Were you drooling?

He couldn’t imagine you looking this good; he knew you were pretty, but he was just taking guesses at what he remembered. Clark remembered your sparkling eyes and big smile, but now you were everything he had imagined and more. A dream in front of him. Pa made a grunt of irritation as Clark was slowly lowering the car, too distracted by you to remember what he was doing. “Son.” Clark did not answer, the car lowering another inch. “Clark!” Jonathan reminds. “Oh!” You gave a small giggle as Clark raised it again.

“Sorry, Pa. Can we do this after dinner?” His dad stood up slowly with a grunt and raised a weary eyebrow. “I won’t be able to see later.” Clark gave a quick reply, “I can see in the dark, Pa.” The older man shrugged, shaking his head and grinning at you. Jonathan pulled you into one of his familiar bear hugs before heading inside. Some people just seemed to be immune to time.

You heard the thud of the old truck hitting the ground again, and before you could blink, Clark quickly took the hot casserole dish away from you, talking away as he went inside. He told you all about what you’d missed. Or he tried. It had been four years after all. Clark wasn’t very shy anymore, or maybe he was just eager for your attention after being away from you for so long. This was going to be a long summer. That’s for sure.

Dinner was filled with familial chatter, old friends catching up. They told you embarrassing stories of Clark, watching his cheeks burn red. You watched as his forearms flexed as his knife glided through the baked potato on his plate. How his Ma told a corny joke, and he still threw his head back in laughter. How focused his eyes were, sweet with a pleading undertone when he asked for the salt, or the vegetables. You've got to tell your city stories, about all the chaos that contrasted the Kansas tranquility. 

The night ended with a blackberry pie and vanilla ice cream that everyone ate too much of. Clark was first to thank his mother for the food, his hands in his lap and grinning. His dimples were working overtime, and you felt your stomach tingle. Had he always had dimples? Surely they had just appeared out of nowhere…

—------------------------------

The summer was filled with much fun, and you and Clark’s prospering friendship. You guys spent hours together, walking your old stomping grounds like no time had passed at all. He still stole vegetables off your plate, called you nicknames, and tugged on your braids gently. Clark was gentlemanly too. Fixing your necklace for you, helped you rebraid your hair, unaware how it made your gut stir and flustered you. 

How could he be so attractive and sweet all at once? You just wanted to repay him in… inappropriate ways. Clark just kept flirting like it was nothing, and he was oblivious to how his southern drawl and kind smile could make anyone weak in the knees.

Dinners at the Kents’ led to bonfires that Clark conjured up with his… heat vision? He said he was working on the names for all of it; you giggled, watching him gently blow on the fire to get the flame crackling in the pit. “So, Clark. Besides school, what have you been up to?” you asked, watching him set logs into the pit, little pieces of saved newspaper in the bottom. He shrugged, looking up at you from his spot on the ground. “Helping Pa on the farm, exploring. I’ve been writing too! I flew up to Africa, kinda exploring their roots and connecting with their heritage,” he explained, totally nerding out. 

You watched as he talked with his hands, getting distracted from the fire that had now sputtered out. His lower lip jutted out in a pout, and you giggled, making a smile break loose on his face. He just couldn’t help it when it came to you. “Very admirable, Clark,” you said. Your praise made him straighten and smile. 

Clark noticed a change not long after that. Suddenly, he found himself fixing his hair before coming to your place. The other day, he had struggled for ten minutes alone to pick a shirt. This had never happened before! Sure, he had crushes, big ones even. But this one was different; he felt the need to impress you, be bold. Oblivious to how you were already drooling over how he looked.

Every time you smiled or laughed, he felt the air get kicked from his lungs. He felt his stomach twist in knots every time you wore a pretty dress. Clark had also remembered you with dirty knees and missing teeth, and to see you dancing by the fire to an old country song, or licking the batter of a spatula in the kitchen with his Ma, he felt warm. Different. 

He looked up from milking the cows, his eyes landing on you through the big window over the kitchen sink. Clark saw his mother, then you. The whole conversation buzzing in his ears. Martha saw you look out the window, and she had seen Clark look at you across the dinner table a thousand times now. “Funny, isn’t it?” Martha asked, turning to look at you lick the spatula again. The dough melting into your tongue. Your head tilted to the side and your nose scrunched in confusion—the motion reminded Clark of a bunny, and it made his heart warm upon seeing it. “Growing up, I mean.” You looked at Martha, then out the window at Clark, who quickly pretended to be milking the cows. You understood what she meant, giving her a nod and then a knowing smile. Martha returned it, kissing your cheek and heading to the porch. 

It wasn’t long before you and Clark were in tune with each other’s bodies again. It was like you knew when he entered the room, and he could pick out your heartbeat again. It was a little quicker than it used to be when you were kids. You looked at each other when laughing, and late nights were spent in your quilts as you told stories like you were kids. Some nights it was down by the pond, the moonlight bathing it. 

“Jump in with me, Clark,” you begged, eyes big and sweet. He hesitated, tilting his head. Gosh, he was so cute. “It’s cold, and we don’t have any clothes,” Clark replied, rubbing the back of his neck, his arm stretching and showing his muscle. “It’s not cold! You're immune to cold, aren’t you? Just get in!” You said, not giving him a chance to protest as you wiggled out of your jean shirts, jumping off the creaky dock in your oversized t-shirt and silly polka dot underwear. Before he could think any better, he was tugging his shirt off, letting his jeans fall to the ground as he jumped in, clad in only his boxers. The quick glimpse you got of his abs (and the hard-to-ignore imprint through the fabric) was enough to make the cold water worth it. 

That night you stumbled into your aunt's kitchen, giggling like school kids again. You popped open a bottle of wine; Clark just watched as you brought it to your lips, soaking all over the kitchen floor. He couldn’t bring his eyes off of you as you swayed, humming along to your own tune. The giggle was the sound of your soul, and maybe his too. 

All this time with you made him realize just how much he liked you. And now, with the wet t-shirt sticking to your skin, your hair damp over your face, and getting tipsier by the second, he pressed his lips to yours. He laughed against your mouth as you hummed into the kiss. Your body was electric, as you had been waiting for the moment. His overgrown stubble was brushing your slick skin. 

Maybe this is what dreams were made of. 

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a while…” You whispered into the kiss, pressing the wine to your lips again. You offered it to him, and he shook his head. His hands finally reached your hips, firm yet gentle palms keeping you in place. His back leaned on the counter, looking down at your smug smirk. He was enamoured by your drunk smile. The alcohol hadn’t hit your system yet, just drunk on the kiss alone. “Would you believe me if I said I had been too?” he asked, eyes full of adoration as he searched your eyes. A grin spread across your lips, shaking your head. “No, you’re so nice to everyone, and you always have that dopey look in your eyes. I thought I was just another girl…” You admit, taking a final gulp from the big bottle. 

Clark takes it from you, setting it on the counter behind him. He tugged you in, leaning in closer to your lips. His eyes flicked down to them, licking his own lips as he prepared for another kiss. “And the whole time I was just wondering when you got so good-looking… and how you could be so devastatingly hot and be so oblivious to it!” He closed his eyes, wishing his lips were on yours instead. “I was in turmoil too, scared to feel these things about my best friend. Couldn’t stand how pretty you were,” he admits. A small kiss to your lips, before diving in for another.

You let your hands roam his skin, the abs on his stomach that you had been dreaming about for weeks. You felt the undeniable outline of his excitement for you under his wet boxers. His hands were pulling up your wet shirt, tossing it somewhere into the kitchen. Your heartbeat was the only thing in his ear, other than your whiny noises of desperation. 

The familiar scent of your sweet arousal washed over his senses, everything in his mind clicking. For weeks he had been smelling it, mistaking the rich smell for your perfume. It had been your telltale sign of how turned on you were. Now he realized how you were wet, watching him do mundane tasks around the farm or his subtle attempts at flirting. “Oh, sweetheart,” he moans into the kiss, your lips leaving no mercy.

“Smell so good…” he adds, opening his eyes to take in your everyday bra and those polka-dot underwear. Had you known you were gonna get laid, maybe you’d picked something different. But now it didn’t matter. “Smell?” you ask, raising an eyebrow as you move your lips to his neck, the tough Kryptonian skin taking no damage as you sucked and kiss. “I can smell you… when you’re aroused,” Clark whispered. His hand went to your hair, tugging you away from his skin. 

Your face flushed, and you gave a guilty grin. “I wish I was more embarrassed than I am right now…” You mumble, unhooking your bra, letting him take in your breasts, how they sit on your chest without the confines of your bra. He was getting harder and harder by the second. “No need to be embarrassed. It’s sweet; thought it was your perfume.” His eyes devour you like you're something ethereal, a higher being. 

He picked you, pressing his hard-on against your throbbing cunt. It fluttered at the idea of taking his alien dick. You could feel the heft of it, and his thick, beefy thighs against yours. “I need you…” You begged, hands grasping at his sloppy curls. “In your aunt's kitchen?” he asked, apprehensive at first as he slowly lowered you to the ground. The tile was cold on the skin of your back, making you gasp. The alcohol was catching up to your system, making your stomach warm and bubbly. You nodded quickly, “Full circle…” 

That made him laugh, shaking his head as he hooked his fingers onto your panties, tugging them down and allowing the cold air to hit your pussy. His boxers were next to leave before he grabbed your hips, the hard floor the last thing on your mind as you took in his length. 10 inches with a thick base, precum leaked at the tip, and he throbbed from how hard he was. Everything about him was big as you had expected. In the mornings, you had tried not to peek as he bulged through his sweatpants in the mornings, trying to hide it with blankets or pillows.

Soon he was pushing into you, skin to skin as he took you on your aunt’s kitchen floor, not caring about the risks. Right now it was just you and him in the moment. You squeezed tight as he glided into you, the stretch making you cry out—you’ve never taken something so big. Even toys didn’t compare to this. Tears pricked your eyes as your wet folds accepted him greedily, your stomach bulging with his size. Small gasps and moans slipped from your lips, sounding like heaven.

When he bottomed out, he caged you with his arms, each hand on either side of your head. Clark paused. Your breathing mingled, and his chest heaved. “Please… Tell me how good I’m doing,” he whined. You clenched around him in surprise, but somehow more aroused at the thought. This big, broad-shouldered man needed to be praised for being the good boy he is. Just a puppy at heart. “You're doing so good, baby. Move your hips for me,” you insist, throwing your head back as he gave a slow thrust. You felt every good spot inside you being hit by his massive dick. 

A whine broke free from his lips, surprising you again. Clark started to rut into you like a dog in heat, each roll of his hips even greedier than the last as he took in your sweet praise like music to his ears. He can’t believe he’s finally living out his wet dreams with you. “O… Oh! Clark! Right there, please! Such a good boy, filling me up better than anybody!” Another broken whine broke from his lips as he continued to drag his cock in and out of you, occasionally dipping his head down to take your nipple into his mouth. 

He nudged the sweet spot inside you, repeatedly as slurred words of appreciation slide from your mouth. Your sweaty bodies move against each other, your hips starting to move with the rhythm of his as he tries to find your sweet spot. “Feel good?” he rasped, reaching a hand down to rub your sensitive clit, your pussy sensitive and puffy from how he was bullying it. You nodded, a quiet moan slipping from your lips as he buries himself in you before pulling almost all the way out, crashing back in again.

Your eyes roll back as he rubs circles into your bundle of nerves, feeling you clench around him. “That feels so good, Clark! Please, harder!” You insist, forgetting to keep your voice down. His hips begin to move faster, the slap of skin on skin filling the kitchen. It wasn’t long before you were going over the edge, your orgasm crashing over you, making your body shake as he continued to bully that spot, his lips catching your moans. His stomach burned with the familiar bubbling feeling, knowing his orgasm was approaching rapidly.

“Where do you want it?” Clark asked, trying not to spill inside you from how hard your clenching him, your fluids building a ring around the base of his cock. You bumble incoherent words before blurting, “Stomach!” 

Quickly, he pulled out, his cum shooting over your stomach, even your breasts, breathy moans escaping him. It just kept coming; you hadn’t ever seen someone cum so much. He was a mess above you, his hair messed up, his tip leaking with the aftermath, and sweat on his temple. Clark was the most beautiful man you had ever seen, so impossibly human and vulnerable. Even when he wasn’t human.

“Oh thank you, baby,” he whispered, your name following as he ducked down and gave you a kiss. Clark gathered your clothes, then you from the kitchen floor before starting the tub inside your small bathroom in your room. Where you laid against his chest as he ran a hot soapy rag over your body. The wine sat warm in your belly, and your legs were a perfect amount of shaky from the results of you and Clark’s love making. “Who knew all it took was a night swim?” 

You shook your head slowly, a small giggle bubbling from your lips. “It was more than that and you know it. Your irresistible,” you teased, closing your eyes as you leaned back. Clark shook his head, a blush creeping up his ears. The hot water steamed from your skin, and the bubbles were up to your chin. He spent the next 20 minutes drying you, rubbing lotion on your body, then tucking you into his chest as you packed his 6’4” and 240 pound frame on your full bed, your face buried in the crevices of his chest.

The next morning it was painfully obvious what you had done to both your families. You were both more touchy, the looks lingered, and your walk was a bit off-kilter despite your efforts to hide it. Martha and Jonathan of course gave him a firm talking to about the consequences and all that stuff, making him protest and squim in his seat.

You took your time stripping off your work clothes, leaving you in just your underwear that had him gulping audibly amidst the silence at the sight. Clark’s cock stood proud against his belly, red and hot to the touch, leaking slick that slowly dripped down taint.

You watch as your every step in his direction caused his dick to jump, twitching in anticipation while Clark looked up at you—desperate without shame.

“Hi, honey…” your words caused a whimper from his throat, mouth parting when your hand cupped his cheek. “Thank you for waiting for me.”

You knelt in front of him, flesh coming on contact with the soft fabric he’d laid for you, disregarding his arousal before you and smiling up at him softly. Your good boy, you thought. So willing and eager for you, and in desperate need to rid of the weight that sat heavy on his shoulders.

Clark, an extraterrestrial being forged of steel and muscle, as sweet and as soft as the hands that raised him, was familiar being the strongest one in the room—the one that commanded everybody’s attention.

Never has he felt this helpless, small. This needy.

Rough fibers irritate the sensitive skin of his wrist, the pale skin burning from the insistent rubbing of flesh against fibrous cordage though his hide barely flushes before the color fades back to a light pink.

And, at that second, he wished the glow of the sun couldn’t heal his flesh—wished that the sun had been a harsh red, if only to feel the pain for longer than a few seconds.

Thankful, however, that the gold glow hadn’t taken away the pleasure from your hands that caused his skin to pink. You left featherlight kisses from his knees, trailing up to the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, biting softly and fitfully.

The touch sent small pricklings climbing his arms, his skin erupting with goosebumps. Sweat beads from his temple the closer your lips drew to his crotch, hyper aware to your distance when he felt your breath brush his balls.

A soft whimper left him when you pouted up at him, faux pity lining your beautiful face before you took him in your hand. He was leaking like a faucet, coating every ridge and vein that drew helpless gasps from the man above you. 

Your hand pulls at him, squeezing his tip just right to cause a gush of arousal from the hole, and squeezing tight at his base to help him prolong his pleasure.

“Mmmph—” he huffed, hips jerking up to follow your touch before he forced it back down. Clark, who’s head had already felt fuzzy at the thought of being bound and at your mercy, could feel his head grow lighter with your every stroke.

Baby blues hide behind hooded lids, unable to hold them open when you brought your lips to his tip, the skin so red it looked painful. “hah—!” he breathed when you hummed around him, tongue peeking out to lave at his slit.

You hummed contently against him, the salty bitter taste of his arousal drove you with need to have him further in your mouth, releasing his entirety in your belly—but your focus was his pleasure.

So, you kept your tastebuds against his slit, kitten-licking the hole that oozed pre-cum like he was already coming. Clark whimpered and gasped in the air, loud and shameless. 

He lapped at the empty space to prevent his saliva from dripping down his chin, only for his efforts to fail and the sticky slop to drip down his sternum, slowly gathering on his navel and clinging to the hairs that led to his cock.

You tsked at the sight, pulling away to watch him squirm and jerk, hips rising to follow you. “Hmm…” you hummed. “Makin’ a mess baby.”

Clark apologized, words muddled in his tongue. “‘s alright, honey.” you whispered, leaving a fleeting kiss on his thigh while plucking the vibrator from where it sat atop the table. A jolt of excitement ran down your spine when your fingers switched it on, and it seemed as though you weren’t the only one.

The sound that emitted from the toy had a choked gasp escaping Clark, hips lifting and thrusting in the air looking for friction. One that you gladly grant by pressing the head of the toy against the head of his cock.

A cute yelp sounded from his throat, glasses foggy and skewed and barely hanging on the tip of his nose.

His chest, flushed, freckled and covered with a sheen of sweat, was heaving rapidly and without restraint—arching and bowing the longer you held the vibrating toy against him throbbing tip.

His hips jolt before he cursed lowly. He could feel his resolve fraying, softly spurting pre against the tremulous toy and whimpering when you held his base firm, painfully halting his release before it softly caressed his quivering thighs and cupping his tightened balls.

Clark babbled and babbled soft apologies to the air as you petted him, only to cut himself off with a groan when you slapped the scrunched skin and pulled the toy away. 

His spine bowed forward, almost toppling over you—and he would’ve. He could’ve ripped the rope off of his wrists and freed himself to finish the job—but he didn’t.

He wanted you to take care of him. To lose himself in the arms of his lover, succumb to your touch and feel his brain melt out of his ears.

And he was almost there.

“Doin’ so good, baby.” You knew he was almost there when his jaw dropped, his mouth forming a soft permanent ‘O’ that he felt no shame releasing his constant needy mewls from. You feel yourself gush at the sight, needy hole clenching around nothing.

Your fingers reach for his reddened tip then, the poor thing still spurting sticky fluid when you toyed with his frenulum, pulling back and rubbing at the exposed skin rapidly. 

He trembled violently against his bounds. Clark doubted he could keep it together any longer, especially when you reached up, fingers toying with his pert nipple with slick fingers. You thumbed the sensitive peak until you heard his breath hitch—a quiet indication of his release—and you pulled away before he could gush against your palm.

His freckled chest gleamed with sweat, gasping violently toward the ceiling at the loss. You let his cock fall limp, tapping occasionally as though it was a toy and not attached to your extremely expressive boyfriend. The one who let unabashed cute noises fall from his lips.

And just as he catches his breath, you go back and toy with his tip again, drawing out his orgasm further.

“Honey!” he panted, pleading for nothing and everything at the same time. And once his body curled over, his breath falling raspy at the end of his pleas, you knew he’d earned his reward.

Your hand cups his cheek, the contact he sought after immediately granted with a touch so soft, he couldn’t believe it was the same one that held his cock in a chokehold. 

You pressed you forehead against his, just as eager to watch him fall apart in your hands as he was finally reach his peak.

And he does so when he peeked his eyes open. Blues held contact with your own for only a few seconds before they disappeared behind his lids, falling apart and convulsing in your touch as uncontrollable spurts of warm spend covers your hand and reaches your heaving chest.

You held him there, one hand against the warm skin of his cheek as the other kept stroking his length, prolonging his release. You didn’t care for the mess that dripped to the floor nor the ones that marked your chest.

You only focused on the way he further leaned into your hands, seeking your warmth in his most vulnerable. 

Clark felt as though his brain was melting out of his ears with how leaden his limbs became, unable to fight even the weak fibers that held his balance, and only seeking the grounding nature of your touch.

You stayed there, holding this fatigued god-like figure in your arms, and give him the respite he so sweetly requested and earned.

💌 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐞: this was supposed to be posted a couple hours ago and i just found out it didnt....my eye's twitching. . .

𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬, 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝!

©𝐛𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐩𝐥𝐮𝐦 — DO NOT translate, steal or post my work anywhere else without my permission.𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐀𝐈 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐀𝐘 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐁𝐄 𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐈 𝐎𝐑 𝐁𝐄 𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐀𝐈 𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐘 𝐂𝐀𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘.