jordyn

''Hey,'' he rasps, voice rougher than you've heard it in years. He pushes off the doorframe and takes two unsteady steps inside, then stops like gravity is pinning him to the floor. ''I made it. Barely.''

You reach him before he can say anything else, hands sliding up his arms. His biceps feel the same, warm, thick, impossibly solid, but when you squeeze, there's no flex of superhuman muscle pushing you back.

''You're shaking,'' you say, almost an accusation.

He lets out a low, surprised laugh that turns into a pained groan. ''Yeah. Turns out flying without a full charge is... well, exhausting.''

You guide him toward the couch, but he doesn't sit right away. Instead he leans back against the wall, head tipping until it thumps against the plaster. His suit is still pristine, but sweat beads at his temples and darkens the collar. You've seen him come home bruised and bleeding after fights with gods, but he's never looked this... mortal.

''Talk to me,'' you demand, voice kind but insistent. Journalist habit. You cup his jaw, thumb brushing the freshly shaven skin. ''What's happening?''

Clark exhales through his nose, eyes sliding shut for a second like even that small motion takes effort.

''The solar eclipse,'' he says finally. ''The moon's blocking the sun completely. Has been for almost two hours. I didn't have enough left to fly to space, so I burned through my solar reserves getting back here.''

He opens his eyes again, meeting yours with a dopey (and slightly delirious, you're assuming) smile.

''I wanted to be home with you,'' he admits, quieter. ''Before I couldn't fly anymore. Before I couldn't... do anything anymore.''

Your pulse kicks up. ''And now?''

''Without the Yellow Sun, my powers deplete until I'm functionally identical to an ordinary human. A normal, mortal Kryptonian without powers. I'm just... me. Six-foot-four, two-hundred-thirty pounds of farm muscle, and a really inconvenient hard-on because—'' He stops, cheeks flushing. ''Because I haven't felt this... equal to you in a long time.''

You stare at him. He stares back. The apartment is quiet except for the distant sounds of the city and the soft, uneven rhythm of his breathing.

''Equal,'' you echo, testing the word. Your fingers slide down his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart under the S-shield. It's not the slow, steady metronome you're used to. It's fast. Human. ''You mean... you wouldn't have to hold back?''

His throat works. ''There's not much to hold back when I'm this...'' He gestures vaguely at himself. ''...depleted. I wouldn't have to worry about breaking your pelvis if I thrust too hard, or leaving bruises on your skin. I wouldn't accidentally snap the headboard in half when I—'' He cuts himself off again, jaw tightening. ''Gosh. I sound like an animal.''

''You sound like a man who's been fucking his girlfriend like she's made of glass for years,'' you correct him, voice dropping low. ''And now doesn't have to.''

Clark's eyes darken. You step closer until your body presses against his, feeling every inch of him, still towering, still broad, still so much bigger than you, but without that effortless power coiled underneath.

''Tell me,'' you murmur, fingers tracing the line of his jaw down to the pulse hammering in his throat. ''What do you want to do right now, Clark?''

He swallows hard. His hands, big, calloused, trembling, settle on your waist.

''I want to make love to you until you can't think straight,'' he admits, voice rough. ''I want to feel every flutter and clench without having to listen for your heartbeat to make sure I'm not hurting you.''

A slow, wicked smile curves your lips.

''Then do it,'' you whisper. ''Show me what Clark Kent feels like when he finally lets go.''

His control snaps like a frayed rope.

One second you're standing, the next he has you lifted, still strong enough to do it easily, and your back hits the wall with a solid thump that rattles the framed photos of you, Clark and Krypto.

His mouth crashes into yours like a man starved, messy and desperate and tasting faintly of ozone and sweat.

You laugh breathlessly against his lips when his hands fumble with the hem of your shirt, fingers clumsy from fatigue.

''Need help, Kent?'' you tease.

''Shut up,'' he groans against your lips, but there's laughter in it too, bright and surprised. You help him yank the shirt over your head. Then his hands are on your bare skin, warm, rough, greedy, and he groans like the contact alone is enough to short-circuit him.

''Golly,'' he breathes against your neck. ''You feel so good. Always do. But like this—'' He bites down on the sensitive skin, your back arching with a sharp moan.

''Like this,'' he continues, voice wrecked, ''I can feel every shiver. Every goosebump. Every time your pulse jumps under my tongue.''

His hips rock forward, grinding the thick ridge of his cock against you through the suit. You hook a leg around his waist, pulling him closer.

''Then stop talking,'' you say, nipping his lower lip. ''And fuck me like you've always wanted to.''

Clark doesn't need to be told twice.

He scoops you up again, carrying you toward the bedroom with long, determined strides, the heavy thud of boots on hardwood and the ragged sound of his breathing filling the apartment.

He kicks the bedroom door shut behind him, wood rattling in the frame, and drops you onto the mattress with enough force that the springs groan in protest. You bounce once, twice, laughing breathlessly as you prop yourself up on your elbows. He's already tearing at the clasps of his cape, fingers fumbling for the first time because there's no super-speed to make it effortless and quick.

''Gosh darn it,'' he mutters before finally ripping the cape free and flinging the red fabric across the room. It lands in a heap against the dresser.

You're already shimmying out of your sweatpants, watching Clark with hungry eyes. He looks... wrecked, in the best way. Hair mussed from the wind of his labored flight home, suit clinging to sweat-damp skin, chest heaving like he just ran a marathon, and so fucking hard the outline of his cock strains obscenely against the red fabric.

He catches you staring and gives a crooked, almost shy grin that doesn't match the feral glint in his eyes.

He's on you in two strides, knees sinking into the mattress, caging you beneath him. His hands, still trembling faintly from the lack of solar energy, grip your hips and yank you down the bed until your ass is right at the edge, and you moan at how easily he manhandles you.

''Gosh,'' he breathes, staring down at where your legs wrap around his waist. He drags one palm up your inner thigh, spreading you wider, and groans when he sees how wet you already are. No super-hearing to tell him exactly how soaked, but he doesn't need it. The slick shine on your folds is obvious, obscene.

''Tell me if it's too much,'' he says suddenly, voice cracking with lust and worry even as his thumb brushes your clit and makes you arch. ''I can't— I can't hear your heart. Can't tell when your pulse is spiking because you love it or because I'm hurting you.''

You reach up, cupping his face, forcing him to meet your eyes.

''Clark,'' you say firmly. ''I'll tell you. I promise. But right now, I just want you to fuck me like you've been dying to.''

His pupils blow wide.

He doesn't bother stripping the suit all the way, just yanks the crotch open with a sharp rip of fabric that makes you gasp. His cock springs free, thick and flushed dark, already leaking at the tip. He's bigger than most men could dream of being, and it looks absolutely obscene.

He notches himself at your entrance, drags the head through your slick once, twice, coating himself. ''You feel incredible. No one makes me feel the way you do,'' he mumbles absentmindedly.

He slams home in one brutal stroke, bottoming out so deep you swear you can feel him in your throat. Your back bows off the bed with a choked cry, nails digging into his shoulders. He's huge, always has been, but without his powers tempering the force, the stretch burns in the best way, filling you so completely you can barely breathe.

''Oh, wow,'' he pants against your neck, hips stuttering like he's fighting not to come already. ''So tight. So, so tight around me. I can feel you fluttering. Gosh, I can actually feel it without having to focus—''

His hips snap forward again, harder this time, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the room. The bed creaks ominously, but he doesn't stop. He can't. He fucks you like a man possessed, each thrust driving the air from your lungs, his big hands pinning your wrists above your head so you can't do anything but take it.

''Look at you,'' he rasps, eyes raking down your body. ''Taking all of me. Every inch. Look how your stomach—'' He presses one palm low on your belly, right where he can feel the bulge of his cock moving inside you. The pressure makes you clench hard around him, and he whines. ''Yeah. Right there. Feel that? That's me.''

You're already close, overstimulated from the relentless pace, the size of him, the way he's finally letting go. Your thighs tremble around his hips.

''Clark, I'm gonna—''

''Come,'' he orders, voice rough. ''Let me feel it. Let me feel you soak me.''

Your orgasm hits like a freight train, sharp, blinding, your walls clamping down so hard he nearly loses it right then. He talks you through it, whispering praises and dragging it out, making you shake and whimper as aftershocks ripple through you.

But he doesn't stop.

He flips you onto your stomach, yanks your hips up, and drives back in from behind. One hand fists your hair, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to arch your back perfectly for him.

''Again,'' he pants. ''Give me another one. I want to feel you come while I fill you.''

You're oversensitive, clit throbbing, every stroke too much and not enough. You sob into the sheets, pushing back against him anyway.

''Clark—''

''You can take it,'' he interrupts, more of a desperate plea than a command, but then guilt floods him. ''Tell me to stop if—''

''Don't you dare stop,'' you gasp. ''Fill me. Please.''

He slams in one last time and comes with a broken moan that vibrates through your whole body. Pulse after pulse floods you until you feel it leaking out around his cock, dripping down your thighs even as he keeps grinding, trying to push it deeper into you.

He collapses over you, careful even now not to crush you completely, chest heaving against your back. His cock is still twitching inside, still leaking the last of it.

''I didn't hurt you, did I?'' he whispers after a long minute, voice wrecked.

''Never.'' You turn your head, catch his mouth in a messy, sated kiss.

Clark stays buried inside you for a moment, hips twitching with aftershocks, his forehead pressed between your shoulder blades. His breathing is ragged, and you can feel every uneven exhale against your skin as his weight pins you to the mattress in the most delicious way.

Eventually he rolls to the side so he doesn't crush you completely. You feel the hot rush of his come immediately when his cock slips out of you, leaking out of you and onto the sheets. He watches it with something like dazed fascination, one big hand sliding down to cup your pussy possessively, thumb smearing the mess over your swollen clit.

''Golly,'' he mutters, voice hoarse. ''I... that's a lot.''

You laugh softly, still catching your breath, and turn to face him. His cheeks are flushed, hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, eyes heavy-lidded and tired in a way you rarely get to see post-sex.

You reach out, trace a lazy finger down the center of his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart slowing gradually.

''Feeling mortal yet, Kent?''

He huffs a laugh that turns into a groan when he tries to shift closer and his thigh muscles protest. ''Yeah. Very.'' He winces as he stretches one leg out. ''My quads are burning. And my back— For gosh sake, did I pull something?''

''Clark,'' you laugh, propping yourself up on one elbow so you can look down at him properly. ''You're just sore.''

He shoots you a mock-glare, but the corner of his mouth twitches. ''Laugh it up. I haven't had to deal with lactic acid buildup since... ever.''

You trail your fingers lower, over the defined ridges of his abs, then lower still until you're brushing his softening cock, still impressive even at half-mast, slick with both of you. He twitches under your touch, sensitive, but doesn't get hard again. Not instantly. Not like usual.

''Look at you,'' you tease, voice dropping to that soft, filthy murmur he loves. ''No super-speed recovery. No round two in three seconds flat.''

Clark's eyes darken at the words, even as his cheeks flush deeper. He catches your wrist, squeezing gently.

''Keep talking like that,'' he warns, voice rough, ''and I'll find a second wind whether my body likes it or not.''

You grin, leaning down to brush a slow kiss against his jaw. ''Promise?''

He groans again, but it sounds more like a laugh this time. His arms wrap around you, still big and strong enough to make you feel small and safe.

''I'm gonna need a minute,'' he admits, nuzzling into your hair. ''Maybe ten. Possibly a nap. Is this how tired normal people get after sex?''

You hum happily, tucking your face against his throat where his pulse is still racing.

''Take all the minutes you need,'' you murmur.

...

thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕

you just stare at him. “you let me go at you like a vampire and didn’t think to mention that first?”

he shrugs, cheeks a little pink. “i didn’t wanna ruin your moment. you looked really focused.”

you groan and flop forward, burying your face in his chest. “clark.”

“in my defense,” he says, trying not to laugh, “this is the first time anyone’s been disappointed that they can’t injure me.” you hit him in the ribs—it does nothing. he peeks down at you. your brows are furrowed, lips pursed forward in pure thought. suddenly, your bare feet are padding on the wooden floors. you make a sharp turn into the bathroom and shuffle through your makeup bag. finally, you pull out the shiny tube.

he hears the click of the cap before he sees you again. you’re strutting back, hips swaying and smirking. your lips are twisted in triumph, the lipstick already slick across your mouth. clark’s still propped up against the pillows, watching you with that boyish, utterly doomed look on his face. “uh oh.”

you crawl onto the bed with the kind of slow, lethal grace that should be illegal. “stay still, superman.”

his eyes dart down to your mouth, then back up. “should i be scared?”

“yes,” you say sweetly, straddling his hips. he’s warm under you and still shirtless, still glowing faintly like he swallowed the sun. you grab his chin with two fingers, tilting his face, and then press your mouth to his neck. firmly, purposefully, slowly. you pull back to admire your work. a perfect crimson kiss blooms right beneath his jawline. “there,” you declare, victorious. “perfect.”

clark touches it, awestruck. “you vandalized me.”

you grin. “i claimed you.”

he sits up a little straighter, brows high. “this is your version of a kryptonian bonding ritual?”

“pretty much. and don’t wipe it off.”

“never.” he promises, all starry-eyes and solemn.

the next morning, he stumbles into the bathroom half-asleep, hair a riot of soft curls, rubbing at his eyes. he flicks on the light—bright, unforgiving—and freezes. his reflection blinks back at him, bleary and shirtless. his neck, his collarbone, and the swell of his shoulder are completely covered. your lipstick blooms across his skin. your smudged kisses in scarlet and rose, one dusted over his clavicle, another tucked just beneath his ear like a secret.

he exhales a laugh. quiet and disbelieving. his fingers skim over one of the stains, careful not to smudge it further. “yeah,” he murmurs to the empty room, lips twitching. “definitely claimed.”

Clark finally reaches your table, a relieved smile painted across his face. “Almost got lost there for a minute.” He jokes. His glasses started to slip on the journey, they sit on the edge of his noise, barely hanging on. Just like you. “For the lady.” He puts your drink on the table, but before he slides it over he pulls a straw from his pocket and in one quick movement unwraps it and slips it into the glass for you.

Your thighs squeeze tighter, the heat in your lower stomach growing.

This is so stupid, you think, he’s just a guy!

Expect he’s not, he’s Clark.

You feel like a teenager, ruining your panties at the drop of a hat, practically creaming at the smallest gestures. A door that’s held open, a chair that’s pulled out, one time he switched with you on the sidewalk so you were on the inside. The motion had been smooth, effortless, he just pulled your hand until you were in-front of him, then he dropped it and side stepped so he was closest to the street. He didn’t even acknowledge it afterward, just continued walking, switching his bags to the other hand so he could hold yours.

You nearly pulled him into the first alley you saw.

That doesn’t even count the things you’ve watched him do as Superman, the times you’ve ridden him into oblivion after a reading a story about how he saved a cat from a tree or something equally as ridiculous.

“Thank you.” You hum, bringing the straw to your lips and taking a sip. “What is it?” You ask.

Clark slid into the booth across from you, taking a sip from his own drink- a water. “Just a dirty Shirley, was gonna get a Bay Breeze but I remember you said pineapple juice gives you heartburn.”

You imagine all two-hundred and forty pounds of him at the bar asking for a Dirty Shirley with that sweet farm-boy smile. You wonder if he’d let you drag him the bathroom.

“It’s perfect.” You assure him, taking another sip to avoiding adding something sappy like ‘so are you.’

Clark beams, then starts telling you about how he saw an ad for a furniture store that’s going out of business.

“Lois said the deals are crazy.” He explains, hands waving as he talks. “Thought I might pickup a new bedroom set.”

You tilt your head, “What’s wrong with the one you have?” Most guys hardly have a bed frame and a top sheet, Clark has a matching headboard and armoire.

Clark shrugs, “I only have one end table, you should have one for your side.”

Your side. Your cunt pulses again, needy and inconvenient, you can’t take her anywhere.

“I also want a bigger dresser, so you can have more than just one drawer.” He explains. You actually have two drawers, and at least a quarter of Clark’s closet. Nevermind your spot in his medicine cabinet or the key to his apartment in your purse.

Maybe he’s trying to get you pregnant. Seduce you with domesticity and home furnishings.

“Something wrong?” Clark asks.

Nothing honey, you think, just imagining you installing car seats and holding babies.

“Nothing.” You promise.

You insist he continue telling you about furniture and all of his other home decor plans. You wonder if he’d want to live on a ranch some day, you’d bet it’d have a great big porch with a swing. Or was he more of a suburbs guy? You wonder if he’s thought about it, owning a house, having a mortgage and hosting barbecues. Visions of Clark in front of grill wearing a cheesy apron and nothing else. Your brain spins.

You make a joke about reinforcing his new headboard and Clark’s entire face turns red, then he admits he already ordered a kit to mount it to the wall.

Dear god.

You only last another half hour, resolve cracking after when you try to pay the bill and Clark swats your hand away with a dismissive ‘Don’t be silly.’ You splurge for the extra fast Uber.

Clark’s apartment gives you butterflies. It’s perfectly mundane, filled with bookshelves, a couch and floor to ceiling windows. What really gets you is way he actually has seasonings in his cabinets, multiple pots and pans in the drawers, cleaning products under the sink. In the bedroom he has room darkening blinds, hanging on real curtain rods instead of those cheap tension rods. A shoe rack by the door and above it a hook he added for your purse.

“I did some laundry with the clothes you left here,“ Another pulse, she’s furious now. “-I hope you don’t mind I ironed that white blouse with the flowers.”

You know exactly what you blouse he’s talking about, it’s cotton, has pleats and wrinkles if you so much as look at it wrong. A total pain in the ass to iron.

“You ironed it?” You ask, incredulous.

Clark shrugs, “I iron all my shirts, Ma says life is too short for wrinkles.” He’s at the fridge, grabbing each of you a cold bottle of water before moving towards the bedroom.

You want to eat him alive, tear his button down off with your teeth and ride him until he forgets his name. You feel like a rubber band that’s been pulled too tight, or a rope that’s fraying from tension, you’re about to snap. Your cunt screams, refusing to be ignored any longer.

You trail Clark to the bedroom, like a lioness stalking her prey.

Clark rests on the edge of the bed, kicking off his shoes, then his socks.

When he catches you waiting in the doorway, he jerks his head, as if to say ‘come here,’ and welcomes you between his legs without a second thought, knees spreading to make room for you to stand between them. Your hands curl around to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the rogue strands of hair. His smile is intoxicating, as sweet as it is devastating.

You crawl into his lap, legs landing in either side of his hips as he shifts backward to make enough room for you. His hands, big, strong, and capable, find your waist.

Your kiss is searing, an entire evening of pent up energy channeled into your lips. Into your hands pulling at his curls, into your thighs clenching against his hips. Your tongue is in his mouth, like you’re trying to capture his essence and swallow it. Clark is playing catchup, a startled noise erupting from the back of his throat.

What he lacks in preparation, he makes up for in enthusiasm, hands sliding down to your ass and squeezing the soft flesh. His lips press hard against yours, teeth clashing as he rises to the challenge, determined to match your intensity.

Your nose hits his glasses, once, then twice, and by the third time you need to break for air anyway. Your hands reach up, grabbing the arms and pulling them off his pretty, pretty face. You fold them and despite the urge to throw them across the room, you place them on his end table. Mr. Terrific would be pissed if you broke another pair anyway.

You’re leaning back in when Clark seems to remember himself, moving his hands off your ass and pulling his lips out of your reach.

Uh oh.

“Honey.“ He clears his throat. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

The fuck?

“Is there a reason you don’t want to have sex with me Clark?” Your cunt asks. The words have more bite than you intend, but honestly you don’t really care. You’re too horny for patience.

Clark goes stiff as steel beneath you, ears turning bright red. “Not what I said!” He defends, eyes screaming Innocent! Innocent man here! “I just wanna make sure you’re up for it.”

“Clark I climbed onto your lap, I’m very much up for it.” You assure him.

“Not complaining about that, trust me.” Clark says, his hands have found their way back to your waist and he gives it an affectionate squeeze. “Just,” he says tentatively, “You have that big presentation in the morning and I want to make sure you get a full eight hours.”

Once again he knocks you breathless. What man would willingly give up sex so his girlfriend (who totally forgot about that presentation by the way) can sleep? Your cunt flares, white hot and screaming his name.

Instead of answering you drop your full weight onto his lap, your thighs landing firmly on top his, your heat pressing tight to his crotch. His hips jerk, reacting to the sudden heat of you.

You grind down, chasing any friction you can get. You’re so wet you can almost smell it, you wouldn’t be surprised if he can feel it already. You should be embarrassed, but what else is a girl to do when her boyfriend spends all of date night promising domestic bliss and being built like a brick shit house.

“Clark.” You nip at his ear, “I’m sure.” The words come out low and lusty, whispered against his lips and punctuated with an achingly slow roll of your hips.

Thankfully, Clark is easily swayed. “Okay.”

You make quick work of his buttons, pressing a kiss each sliver of skin that gets exposed.

He’s burning up under your hands, thick cords of muscle rippling as you pull the fabric off of him. A smattering of chest hair decorating his pecs and abdomen, trailing into his pants like a map.

You reach for his belt next, giving it a hard tug and smirking when his hips jump. It lands with a thud somewhere across the room. You yank off his jeans, working fast and aggressive, until you only have his briefs left. Your index fingers are crooked into the waist band when Clark’s hand stops you, dwarfing your wrist in his grasp.

He gives you that look, the pleading one that makes his eyes look like saucers. You love when he’s like this, at your mercy, happy to let you take and take and take. “You’re still fully dressed,” he says, pressing a wet kiss to your jaw, then another to your pulse point, a third to your collarbone. “Not fair.” He whispers.

Sweet, perfect man.

You stand, and he reaches after you, hands flexing when he catches himself. Your top lands on the floor, and your bottoms quickly following suit.

Clark watches you undress, ands grabbing at the sheets beside him. You can see his cock straining where it’s still trapped under fabric, you’d bet money on there being a wet spot pooling against his tip. The thought makes your mouth water. A little voice in your head coos, mine mine mine mine.

“You wanna take care of me right?” You ask, doing your best impression of silk, making sure each word drips with want.

He nods, frantic, eager to please.

You crawl back onto the bed, walking on your hands and knees towards him. Your Clark, big blue all scared and excited, lets you chase him. His long legs kicking at the sheets for traction as he shuffles back, not stopping until he hits the headboard with a ‘thump.’

You don’t stop until you’re back in his lap, even closer than before. Your tits pressed so tight to his chest you can feel his ribcage shudder with each breath. Gotcha.

Despite your victory, you can’t help but think that he’s exactly where he wants to be.

His lips are parted, pink and swollen from your kisses.

This time when you kiss him it’s almost soft, at least the closest you’ve come to it all night. He moans against your mouth, and you can feel his hands hovering over your body as he brings them higher and higher. You wonder where he’ll land, what part of you he needs to touch the most.

He bypasses exposed skin, all the soft places just begging to be groped and cradles your face instead. His thumbs swipe delicate strokes over your cheekbones, like you’re something precious.

In contrast, your hands are rabid. A wave of want so strong you swear you feel wetness drip down your thigh. You’re too impatient to take his briefs off now, instead you pull him out, his cock thick, heavy and hot in your hand. His tip is red and angry, like he’s the one who’s been worked up all night.

You think it’s only right, that a man who is so good, so thoughtful, was rewarded with a dick pretty enough to make angels cry.

You tuck the waist band under his balls, making sure to give them a soft little tug, (something you know he likes), and then you start sink onto him.

The stretch is immediate, intense and overwhelming. Like your body is rearranging itself to find every spare inch of room, whatever it takes to make him fit.

Normally Clark prepares you, eats you out until you can hardly spell your own name, then he fingers you until you can’t remember the alphabet, but tonight you need the stretch, need a fullness only he can provide. You want to sit at your desk tomorrow and feel him every-time you move. Want every curve, every vein etched into your walls.

Clark makes a noise, something between a gasp and a moan, as if you’ve stolen the air out of his lungs. Then he kisses you, hard and messy like he’s trying to do the same to you. You don’t pull back until he’s bottomed out.

“This is how you can take care of me.” You murmur against his lips.

It’s like you can feel him in your lungs, and suddenly the lines of lion and lamb are blurred. You whimper, hips grinding down even though you have no where to go. A smug smile pollutes Clark’s pretty face, beneath you, ever so slightly the tables start turning.

In an effort to keep your lead, you rise up, stopping just short of his tip, and then drop down again, putting your all your weight behind the it. He hits so different like this, finding that spongey spot inside you with every pass.

His smile disappears into a moan, his head tipping back in pleasure as you give him the tightest squeeze you can muster. You watch the veins on his neck pop, he’s already closer than he wants to admit.

“Gosh, honey.” He whispers, “So tight.” His voice is full of reverence, the kind most men reserve for praying. His gaze is locked on the sight of you wrapped around him, the ring of your arousal that’s forming at the base of cock. He stares at it like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, eyes wide and hands shaking. A sacrificial lamb at the alter of your cunt.

It makes you feel drunk.

Your thighs are burning, trembling on either side of him as you try to raise yourself again. Between the width of his body, and the sheer length of cock you have to travel, you’re already struggling to find a rhythm.

You can feel his heart racing, body tense and all but vibrating as try to steady your self, both of your palms pressed flat to his chest for support. You’re trying to find the will, doing vaginal acrobatics to try and distract him from the fact that you’re falling apart. But Clark, who has made himself an expert in reading your body, doesn’t fall for it. You’re suddenly reminded of his strength, of the superhero hiding under a mop of a curls and dimples. You foolishly mistook his tension for want; you realize now, as his hands curls around your hips and lift you up, that it was restraint.

Instead of pushing you back down, he holds you there, letting your cunt flutter around just the head of his cock. You can’t even think as you try to fuck yourself down onto him. Your hips thrash with the efforts, but gravity is no match for his strength.

“Clark what are you doing, please.” You beg, angry red welts appear under your nails as you claw at his skin, willing him to let you fall.

Your breaths, which had been up to this point been controlled and even, become heaves, borderline sobs. Your hips trashing in his grip as you try to get friction.

He shushes you, gentle and loving. As if it’s obvious he says. “Taking care of you.”

Then without warning, Clark pushes you down, faster than you could ever achieve yourself. Then he lifts you back up, and brings down again, fucking you on his cock until you’re crying out with each pass. Until your hips start to move with his hands, canting in time with each thrust.

“Tell me what you want.” Clark says.

You gasp, when did you lose control of this?

“Touch me.” You beg anyway. You grab one of his hands and drag it off your hip until it finds where your bodies are connected. “Please.”

Clark obliges, his thumb zeroing in your clit and beginning a familiar rhythm of slow, tight circles. The rest of his fingers spread against his cock, resting alongside your folds, teasing your weeping hole where it’s stretched around him. His fingers dance along the edges, like he’s threatening to slip one in. You’re already so full of him, but your pulse stutters at the thought.

Your hips jerk again, chasing his thumb as he bottoms out again, this time Clark lets you stay there, grinding against his hand while you fuck yourself down onto the base of his cock.

“That’s it, use me honey. Take what you need.” He says, his hand is sandwiched between you at an awkward angle in this position, but Clark is unphased, his thumb pressing even harder against your clit.

You cry out, your head falling into the crook of his neck as you chase your orgasm. You can feel it creeping up your spine, pushing your nerves to the edge, every hair standing at attention.

“Tell me-“ You hiccup, your own moan interrupting you. “Tell me about the bedroom set again.”

Clark freezes, surprised, but only momentarily. Then he resumes his efforts with fervor, shifting his hips so he can thrust up into you while his thumb doubles its speed.

“The end tables have outlets.” He tells you, “So you can plug your laptop in, work from bed when you’re too sore to walk.”

You bite down on his throat, feeling his pulse jump under your lips. You’re so close, so fucking close.

“Need a better bed,” He pants, “So I can fuck you through it.”

You clench, another ragged moan of his name falling from your lips. You can see your orgasm, the wave creating as it prepares to knock you over.

“Finance or buy?” You ask, voice shaking.

“Finance.” He punctuates it with a thrust. “Good-“ Another thrust “-for credit score.”

The earth shatters, your vision turning white and your blood to lava. Your orgasm crashes into you with the power of a tsunami, the power of it sweeping Clark away with you. Despite his own orgasm, his thumb never stops, he keeps circling your clit, dragging your orgasm out as long as possible, not pulling away until you finally stop twitching.

When you try to breathe again, you’re covered in sweat, both of your thighs are drenched in your ecstasy. So are the sheets.

“Jesus.” You pant, still not finding the strength to move, letting his cock soften inside you.

“Nope.” Clark says, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Just me.”

“Ha. Ha.” Your body sags against his, limp and exhausted.

You stay like that until your bladder finally gets the better of you. You pull off of Clark with a hiss and a wet sound that can only be described as vulgar.

It takes a minute to remember how to stand, legs uncertain as you take your first steps.

When you come back from the bathroom, clean and ready to sleep. Clark has changed the sheets, and is setting two Tylenol down next to the water bottle (he already broke the seal on it for you) that he grabbed earlier. “So your thighs don’t ache as bad in the morning.” He explains.

Folded in a neat square, one of his t-shirts is sitting on your side of the bed. He’s already slipped on sweats, and to your delight, he hasn’t bothered with a shirt. The clothes you’d abandoned on the floor earlier are gone, probably in his hamper (You love that he has a hamper).

Sweet, perfect man.

“Thank you.” You slip on the shirt and slide underneath the covers.

Clark climbs in beside you, holding his arm out so you can take your place curled against his side. He doesn’t speak until you’ve settled.

“So.” He starts, your head is on his chest, listening to his heart beat. “Since when are you so horny for furniture?”

You hum, too tired to be embarrassed. “IKEA catalogues are my Playboy.” You joke, a beat of silence passes. “I like how responsible you are. It’s really hot.” You admit.

You feel Clark nod, he doesn’t say anything but you hear his heartbeat pick up. Mid-yawn, you throw your leg over his waist, a silent ‘down boy.’

Then you remember what he said, right before you came.

“Since when are you worried about your credit-score?” You ask.

Clark doesn’t speak for a minute, like he’s weighing his options. His hand traces a lazy path up and down your spine.

“Wanna buy us a house someday. Good credit means a better mortgage.” He explains, point-blank and nonchalant. “Paying off stuff like furniture can build a positive payment history and they have a deal with no interest rate for the first two years.” Like the journalist he is, Clark Kent has done his research.

You freeze, head tilting up so you can see his face. Clark isn’t even looking at you, just smiling at the ceiling like he’s picturing it. You and him, a white picket fence and a freshly mowed lawn.

Your cunt roars back to life.

“Oh my god.” You groan.

Clark looks down at you, brows furrowed. “What?”

You don’t answer. Instead you sit up and despite the protest in your muscles, straddle him once more.

Authors note: that’s all folks!!!! In all seriousness I hope you liked this, if you made it this far thank you so much. If you enjoyed this fic please holler at me. I had a lot of fun writing this and ignoring the 194729 other wips I should be finishing! Go stream mans best friend by sabrina carpenter! Okay love you, say it back!

atsumu can't help but feel smug every time it happens and you're practically climbing him, treating him like a seat/bed. he grins and lets you do your thing, an almost teasing tone in his voice, but he really loves it, "someone's sleepy huh?"

bokuto can't help but sit up, eyes wide in surprise the first time you feel comfortable enough to let loose and sink into him when you're tired. he's literally scared to move and slowly brings his arms around you to hold you, cheeks flushed, heart pounding. once he notices the pattern, he gets excited every night cause he knows your clingy phase is coming.

oikawa is greedy and loves when you get all clingy, so much so that you unconsciously pavloved him into getting excited when you get sleepy. his eyes will light up when he notices your slow blinks while you're out with friends and he's eager to get you home. "doesn't going home and cuddling sound so good right now babe?" lets himself indulge in how pliant and touchy you are, leaning his head on you more and holding you close.

He kept nodding to himself, muttering words to be more encouraged and when he sees you waving your friends goodbye, he's sprinting towards you.

You hear your name from your back, someone screaming repeatedly at you as the footsteps get louder. You turn around with your eyebrows furrowed and a scary look on your face until you see that's just Bokuto running towards you.

"Oh hi, Bokuto-kun." You smile at him while he still has two steps to reach you, when he sees your cheeks make your eyes smaller, he almost trips.

"Hey!" He says, too loud as well.

His voice echoes down the hallway, he skids to a stop right in front of you, chest heaving from the sprint, and for a second he just stares with wide golden eyes. Then he remembers the flowers.

"Um, these! These are for you!" Bokuto blurts out, whipping the bouquet from behind his back so fast a couple petals flutter to the floor.

It's a big, bright mix of yellow sunflowers and soft pink carnations, tied with a simple ribbon that looks a little crooked like he wrapped it himself. His hands are shaking just a tiny bit as he holds them out to you.

You blink, surprised but in the softest way. "Bokuto-kun… wow. These are really pretty." You take the bouquet gently, fingers brushing against his for just a heartbeat.

He rubs the back of his neck. "I wanted to thank you for helping me so much with that test! I wouldn't have done it without you staying late to explain me everything." His voice gets louder with each words, then drops suddenly in case he's scaring you off. "So yeah, thank you! I hope I picked the right flowers!"

Your heart does a little flip at how earnest he sounds. You lift the bouquet closer and breathe in the sweet scent, smiling the whole time.

"You really didn't have to get me anything, you know? I had fun studying with you." You tilt your head, teasing him softly. "But thank you. I love them."

Bokuto's face lights up, a huge grin spreads across his cheeks, turning them pink. Then he gets really serious. "You're not allergic to pollen right?"

You shake your head, stepping a little closer without even thinking. "I'm not allergic."

He looks so genuinely happy, giving you those flowers made his whole week. Bokuto shifts on his feet, looking around the empty hallway, trying to get his thoughts together. "You're really cool, by the way. And super smart and fun." He scratches his cheek, glancing away and then right back at you. "Maybe we could hang out again sometime?"

"Oh, you got another exam coming?" you ask, without thinking about it much.

Bokuto opens his mouth and closes it. "Uh no, that was my last exam! I was thinking about just hanging out together, we could go get ice cream or something like that."

"Oh!" Your eyes widened, finally understand that he was asking you out. You nod fast now, your own cheeks warming a little. "I'd love to!"

He pumps his fist without meaning to, then catches himself and beams at you with pure sunshine energy. "Yes! Okay, awesome! I'll come pick you up tomorrow!"

a/n: prettiest boy in all haikyu