your best american girl

you whirl around to glare at him. “then who did, james? a ghost? the fucking tooth fairy?”

“I don’t know!” he throws his hands in the air. “maybe you did it by accident. people do that all the time. or maybe the cat—wait, shit. we don’t have a cat.” he pauses, squinting. “right?”

you just stare at him.

he grins. “okay, not the cat. but maybe there’s like… a draft? that hits the switch? I’ve seen that happen.”

“there is no draft that turns lights on, james.”

he opens his mouth again, and you know if you let him keep going, he’ll just keep saying words until your brain leaks out your ears. you're annoyed. he’s being dumb, like usual. and he looks so hot while doing it, it makes your eye twitch. so you decide to hit the kill switch.

you lift your shirt and flash him.

james’ brain short-circuits at the vision that are your bare tits, all without a warning.

he freezes like he’s buffering in real-time. his mouth drops open, then closes. and then opens again, but nothing comes out. his hands fall limp at his sides, and all that beautiful, bulging muscle might as well be made of marble.

“what were we fighting about…?” he breathes, voice suddenly low and reverent, eyes locked on your chest like they’ve found god.

his eyes scan every inch of your skin carefully, how smooth—and delicious, if you ask him—your tits look, your nipples hardening as soon as the cold air hits them.

you arch a brow. “exactly.”

he drags his gaze up slowly like it's physically painful to tear his eyes away. “are we allowed to solve every fight like this? because I feel like this could really work for us as a couple.”

you start to laugh, but it cuts off when he takes two massive strides forward and pulls you against him by the waist. his hands settle low on your back, his whole body radiating heat and barely restrained need.

“fuck, baby,” he groans, ducking his head and kissing down the top of your chest. “you’re so smart. so fucking smart. why are you the genius in this relationship?”

“you’re not even denying that you were wrong.”

“don’t need to,” he mumbles into your skin. “I already lost. and I’m happy to lose. please let me lose again."

you giggle, but it melts into a gasp when he sucks one of your nipples into his mouth like a man starved, moaning as he mouths at your skin, worshipping you like your tits just ended world hunger.

“james-” you start, breath hitching.

“I’ll remember to turn off every light in the house for the rest of my life if you keep doing this,” he swears, already walking you backward toward the bedroom. “actually, never mind. leave all the lights on. I want to see everything.”

you pretend to sigh in defeat, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as he lifts you and lays you onto the bed without effort.

“and you say I’m the manipulative one.”

he grins against your chest, eyes dark and hungry. “I can’t even spell manipulative.”

and just like that, the fight is over—but your shirt stays off for the rest of the night.

“I can’t focus,” he whines, slumping dramatically in his seat. “your tits keep moving when you breathe and you smell so good and—fuck, baby, this is torture.”

you don’t even look up from your notes. “that’s the point of the library, james. to study and suffer. quietly.”

“I’d suffer a lot better if you sat on my face.”

you almost drop your quill.

“james.”

“what?” he says, blinking at you like a puppy who’s never done anything wrong in his life. “I’m being serious. we’ve been here for almost an hour. you haven’t let me touch you once.”

“that’s because we’re here to study.”

“I am studying,” he says, standing and grabbing your hand. “studying you.”

he drags you into the back row, one of those dead aisles that hasn’t been reorganized in ages, and cages you against the dusty shelves.

“you’ve been bouncing your leg for ten minutes,” he breathes, nose brushing your cheek. “drives me fuckin’ crazy, you know that?”

“james, someone could see-”

“then be quiet,” he says, already sinking to his knees. “or shut me up.”

and then he's there, lips pressed to your inner thigh, hands pushing your skirt up around your hips, mouthing at your cunt through your underwear like he needs it.

one slow lick, hot and wide and messy, and your knees nearly give out.

“oh my god,” you whisper, biting your knuckle. “jamie-”

"not james anymore, huh?" he smirks.

you tug his hair, making him groan before his mouth goes back between your legs.

“been dreamin’ about this all day,” he mumbles against you. “wanna make you cum right here. right fuckin’ now. let me, baby. please, please.”

his tongue finds your clit, swirling slow at first, teasing you. then faster and firmer, sucking until your hips are jerking forward and you're grabbing the shelf behind you to stay upright. his arms wrap tight around your thighs, anchoring you to his face. you feel him moan when you grind down on him, shameless and slick and desperate.

and then he groans, muffled by your cunt. “come for me. come in my fuckin’ mouth.”

the orgasm hits you in a dizzying, trembling rush, your legs start shaking, your whole body curling in as you try not to cry out. and he just keeps going, tongue soft now, licking you through it, practically whining with how good you taste.

you slump back against the shelf, completely ruined.

“turn around,” he says, getting on his feet and yanking the zipper of his pants down.

you barely have time to grab the bookshelf before he’s pushing into you from behind, his thick, pulsing cock stretching you open with one deep, filthy thrust.

“fuck, yes,” he groans, hands gripping your waist. “so fuckin’ tight, baby. still so wet from my mouth. you like being my little library slut?”

you whimper, grinding your hips back into him. “yes. yes, jamie, please.”

he ruts into you like he can’t help it. like something in his brain short-circuits the second he’s inside you. it’s frantic, dirty, loud. the sound of skin slapping, shelves rattling, his hand clamping over your mouth when your moans get too high-pitched.

“wanna ruin you,” he pants in your ear. “wanna fill you up, make you drip all over these books. fuck you so hard you can’t walk back to class.”

you can’t speak. you’re shaking, coming again without warning—this time around his cock, spasming around him as he keeps thrusting, frantic and desperate.

“shit—fuck, I’m close, come with me, baby, wanna feel you come on my cock, please.”

and you both fall apart together.

you cry out into your palm. james groans against your shoulder, hips stuttering as he spills inside you, cock twitching as you pulse around him. he ruts into you through it, milking every last drop, every last wave.

then you collapse, bent over the shelf, dripping and breathless, your legs barely holding you up.

he leans forward, pressing kisses down your neck, still buried inside you.

“best study session of my life,” he mumbles.

you wheeze. “we didn’t study.”

he smirks, kissing your temple. “nah. but I still learned something.”

"what?”

he pulls out slow, admiring the mess. “that your cunt is way better than anything in that textbook.”

You caught him in the barn, alone, wrench in hand, working on some old farming equipment. Sweat dripped down his neck, his white tank clinging to every ridge of muscle.

“Clark,” you breathed, stepping in behind him and shutting the barn door.

He turned, brow furrowed, wiping his hands on a rag. “Something wrong, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” you pouted, toeing off your shoes. “My boyfriend’s being way too good in front of his mom and it’s driving me insane.”

He chuckled, setting the wrench down and crossing his arms. “You like seeing me play the perfect farm boy?”

“You have no fucking idea.” You closed the space between you, slipping your fingers under the waistband of his jeans, your voice dropping. “It makes me want to be a very bad girl.” Clark’s jaw tensed—his kryptonite wasn’t green anymore. It was you.

“You know we can’t—”

“I locked the door,” you whispered, licking up his throat. “Unless you want your mom to find out what a dirty mouth her sweet son actually has when he’s knuckle-deep in me—”

“Jesus,” he hissed, grabbing you by the waist and pinning you to the nearest stall wall. The air left your lungs as your back hit the wood, his thigh forcing its way between your legs.

“Thought I was being nice,” he growled against your throat, “but you just don’t know how to act, do you?”

“Not when you walk around like that,” you whined, grinding down on his thigh, your panties soaked through your shorts. “You’re killing me, Clark.”

He popped the button on your shorts like he was pissed, yanking them down with your underwear in one go. He didn’t even bother undressing himself—just pulled himself out, already hard, thick, angry.

“You want to get fucked like a slut in my mama’s barn?” he muttered, hiking one of your legs around his hip.

You nodded desperately, arms thrown over his shoulders. “Want you to—

You didn’t get to finish the sentence—he shoved into you in one brutal thrust, knocking the wind from your lungs as your nails dug into his back.

“Oh fuck— Clark—”

“Shut up,” he grunted, pounding into you with slow, punishing thrusts. “You’re gonna get us caught.”

“You’re the one—oh God—fucking me like this!”

He bit down on your shoulder to keep himself from groaning too loud. You were soaking wet, squeezing him like your pussy was made for him, and the sounds of skin slapping filled the barn with every thrust.

“You like being fucked where anyone could walk in?” he hissed into your ear, holding you up like you weighed nothing.

“Yes—yes—fuck me harder—”

He angled his hips, hitting that spot inside you that made your eyes roll back, and then—just as you were spiraling, breath caught in your throat—

“Clark? You seen the pie dish?”

Your heart stopped. Martha’s voice came through the window, clear and close. Clark froze, one hand clamping over your mouth, the other still gripping your ass as your body trembled on the edge of orgasm.

Your eyes met his—wild, terrified, turned on as hell. He stayed still, cock buried inside you, both of you straining to hear.

“Check the pantry!” he called back, voice perfectly casual. The man didn’t even stutter.

You wanted to moan, but his hand stayed firm on your mouth. You both waited in silence, barely breathing. Then—footsteps retreating.

Clark smirked. “Told you we’d get caught if you kept acting up.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders as you whispered, “Don’t you dare stop now.” He didn’t. He fucked you harder. He had you coming in seconds, his hand still over your mouth, soaking his abs with your slick as your body shook. He didn’t stop until he was full of you, pumping you full of hot cum with a grunt in your ear. You gasped into his shoulder, body twitching from overstimulation as he stayed buried inside you, panting against your skin.

“Jesus Christ,” you whimpered when he finally pulled back just enough to look at you—his eyes blown, sweat dripping off his temple. “You’re gonna make me walk back in there leaking down my thighs.”

Clark laughed, breath hot against your neck, voice low and smug. “Good. Maybe you’ll behave now.”

You scowled, still trembling, tightening your legs around him. “You’re an asshole.”

He nipped your jaw. “Keep it up and I’ll take you right here again after dinner. Bet you’ll still be wet.”

He let you slide off him slowly, steadying you with that absurd strength like you weren’t melting. You wobbled when your feet hit the barn floor, thighs slick and sore, your pussy aching and stuffed full of him.

You reached for your shorts, legs jelly, but Clark caught your wrist. “Leave ’em,” he said, smirking as he pulled your panties from his back pocket—the same ones from last night. “I’ll hold onto these.”

“Clark,” you hissed, wide-eyed. “I have to sit at the table with your mom!”

He leaned in, kissed your swollen mouth, and whispered, “Then try not to squirm too much, sweetheart.”

Back in the house, you sat at the Kent family table like nothing happened. “Everything okay?” Martha asked sweetly as you stepped back inside the house.

You cleared your throat, forcing a smile and ignoring the way your legs wobbled. “Just needed some fresh air.”

Clark kissed your cheek like the gentleman he absolutely wasn’t. And under the table, he slid his hand up your thigh again.

"s-shoot.. I told you, baby, they're sensitive.." he bites his lip when you wiggle in excitement. "they harden when you cum, right?" you pinched one and his hips jolted, huffing out at the way you were so oh-so-nonchalant about his extraterrestrial features.

"you witnessed it y-yourself..." "mhm.." he mimicked you when you pulled his dick out, ripping your panties when trying to simply pull them to the side. "clark!" and he chuckled, "sorry, sorry.."

you initiated the act, licking up his shaft slowly but with purpose. the tip of your tongue ran up and down his slit, making the kryptonian shudder in pleasure. suddenly, he pulled you up slightly, diving into your pussy. he started by giving it long yet fast licks, lapping your juices up like a dog.

"perfect..." you mumbled before taking him entirely inside your mouth, lips stretching over his girth. he moaned against you, deciding to suck onto your clit to reward for being such a good, brave girl.

now it was your turn to moan around him, the vibrations making him squeeze your ass softly.

the sounds of his slurping and your gargling bounced off the walls, and it wasn't long before clark started to talk you through it.

"j-just like that, yeah.. oh yes, baby, perrrfect– hmm.." he huffed ouf between licks, a particularly low groan that sounded suspiciously like a purr rumbled through his chest when you pulled up from his base to suck on the buds on the side, flicking one of them right when he flicked your clit.

"so good.. so freakin' good to me, oh yess– hmm, and you taste so‐ so good too..." he sounded so into it that it made you giggle, quickly licking the precum that oozed from his tip before taking him back into your mouth.

when the head of his cock snuck into your throat, you swallowed around him, the walls of your throat pressing down on him.

he whimpers, your name spilling out of his mouth as if he couldn't even think of holding it back. "f-fuh– I'm g-gonna.. I... I'm about to— nghh..." and he was so cute, because he couldn't decide between warning you he was about to spill into your mouth so you wouldn't be taken by surprise by his hooks stopping you from bobbing up and down, or continuing to eat you out.

fortunately for him, you didn't need to hear his warning, because you felt his buds hardening slowly against your cheeks. the knowledge that he was about to cum got you closer to the edge, your pussy clenching around nothing.

clark quickly changed that, however, when he squeezed down on your ass cheeks to move your hips, his tongue snaking inside your cunt to feel your walls clamp down on his tongue.

the penetration caught you by surprise, and so did your orgasm.

your body shook suddenly, your thighs locking around his head as he closed his eyes, forcing you deeper onto him so you could ride out your orgasm and his face simultaneously.

the moans you couldn't hold back vibrated against his dick, particularly his buds, who were already hooking onto you to lock your head in place.

your eyes rolled back when he shot his load down your throat, your cries now sounding more like gags than anything else.

it felt never ending, the orgasms seemed drawn out as clark's tip kept spurting out more and more cum, ropes upon ropes of seed coating your mucous membrane.

finally, when the hooks softened, you were able to pull away, and you did—quickly—gasping for air. "h-holy... holy shit.."

you got off of clark and sat up to lay back down next to him, draping your arm over his chest.

"t-that was..." he trailed off, still hazy from the orgasm. "I almost choked," you chuckled before gulping down the remnants of cum that were inside. "s-sorry, baby, you know I can't control it.."

"...wait." he sat up quickly and you looked at him. "what?" you questioned, "is it called the sixty-nine because—" "yes, yes sweetie, yes. that's why." he looked down at you, amazed. "holy molly, that's genius!"

It started as a joke. A dumb TikTok trend.

You were scrolling on your free time when the algorithm blessed you with a video captioned “Hanging up without saying I love you on my boyfriend to see how he reacts.”

The girl in the video ended the call casually and the guy instantly called back, mildly panicked, adorably confused.

You had to admit, the temptation was real.

And okay, yeah, maybe it was a little mean. But Clark? He was the sweetest. He’d call you “my love” like he was born in the 1800s, he always kissed your forehead like he’d never see you again, and he refused to hang up the phone without an “I love you.” Ever.

So obviously, you had to try it.

You leaned against your desk, grinning as you picked up your phone and hit “My Superman💙💙💙” on speed dial.

He picked up on the first ring.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

His voice was warm, velvet soft, and somehow always full of relief like just hearing you made everything in his day better.

“Hey, baby. Just checking in. How’s your day?”

He sighed gently. “Long. Bunch of back-to-back interviews. Cat spilled coffee all over my notes, again. But seeing your face at lunch made it better.”

You smiled despite yourself. “She did look guilty.”

“She did not,” he said, deadpan. “She smirked.”

You laughed. “Okay, okay. I gotta head back to work. Talk later.”

“Okay, I love you, bye.”

And with that, you hung up.

No “I love you too.”

You grinned. And waited.

It didn’t take long.

Your phone buzzed five seconds later. Clark Calling.

You answered, keeping your voice innocent. “Hello?”

There was a pause.

“…Did we get cut off?” he asked slowly.

“No, why?.”

Another beat of silence.

You could feel him thinking on the other end.

“…You didn’t say it back,” he said softly.

Your stomach twisted a little at the confusion in his tone.

“Say what?”

“You know.”

You smiled, gently teasing. “Do I?”

“Sweetheart.” His voice dropped an octave. “Are you mad at me?”

Your heart cracked a little. “What? No!”

“You always say it. You never hang up without saying it.”

He sounded genuinely thrown. Not angry, just off. Like his whole emotional compass had glitched.

“I mean,” he added quickly, “it’s okay if you forgot. Or if you’re just busy. I just— I thought maybe I did something.”

Guilt hit you like a truck. Or maybe a train.

You instantly felt like the worst girlfriend on the planet.

“I’m sorry,” you said softly, “It was just a TikTok prank. The ‘hang up without saying I love you’ one. I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

Clark was silent for a second.

Then: “A TikTok prank?”

“…Yeah.”

“You did this to me for a video trend?”

You winced. “I wasn’t recording it. I just thought it’d be funny.”

A pause.

Then he sighed. Deeply. Dramatically.

“I fought Kaiju,” he muttered. “I saved the world from alien and monstrous creatures invasion. But somehow this—this—is what takes me down.”

You burst into laughter.

“I’m serious,” he said, though you could hear the smile in his voice now. “I felt like I stepped into an alternate dimension. You always say it. My brain thought we broke up.”

You snorted. “From one phone call?”

“You don’t understand,” he said seriously, “I live in a state of constant anxiety. I love you so much it physically hurts. Don’t play with my fragile heart.”

“Clark…”

“Say it,” he demanded softly.

You bit your lip, heart warm. “I love you.”

“Again.”

“I love you.”

“Again.”

“Clark.”

He chuckled. “Just making up for the one I missed.”

You could practically see his dimpled smile through the phone.

After a beat, he said, “You know what this means, right?”

“What?”

“You just declared prank war. And I’m not above using my powers.”

“…Clark.”

“X-ray vision. Super-speed. Perfect memory. You don’t stand a chance.”

You groaned. “What have I done?”

He laughed. “Too late now. Love you, prankster.”

“Love you more.”

He paused. “Don’t hang up this time.”

You didn’t.

He must find a tell in your expression, going quiet and smiley. “What?” he asks. 

“You don’t have to answer.” 

“I doubt I’ll mind. I’d tell you anything.” 

You let your thumb stray toward the inside of his thigh. Feel the muscles there twitching. “I know I’m not your first girlfriend, but you told me you aren’t… totally experienced.”

“Right. What, do you want to know what I meant?” he asks. 

You know Clark’s fucked girls. Has gone down on girls, just not many. Clark has fucked and gone down on you, and he did it beautifully, but he’s never let you blow him: you’ve never asked. And it isn’t because you don’t want to, only, Clark seems to have a want to do things in his order and you’d been happy to follow his lead this whole time. 

“Has anyone ever gone down on you?” you ask quietly. 

Clark goes slightly stiff, despite best intentions. “No,” he answers, scratching at the nape of your neck. “No one’s ever gone down on me.” 

“You don’t want to try?” 

“No one’s ever offered, and I guess I’ve never wanted to ask.”

“How come?” you ask, to gauge where he is with it. 

“It’s different, to ask. Girls– women are expected to do certain things, but I’ve never expected anything of you. I still don’t. I figure if you want to, you’ll ask me, and if you don’t want to, it’ll never hurt anyone that you don’t.” 

He’s so, so sweet. The thought of him being too shy or too unwilling to be that guy makes you want to do it more. There is an expectation in contemporary culture, but it doesn’t mean the act itself between you and Clark has to have that connotation. 

“Can I blow you?” 

Clark huffs a quiet laugh. “You don’t have to, honey.” 

“Please?” 

Clark can’t hide the heat of his skin under your hands, but he’s putting up a convincing front otherwise. His hair has fallen into his eyes again, sweet knocked curls kissing a pale forehead. “I don’t wanna hurt you,” he says.

“It doesn’t have to hurt anyone,” you say. You’ve both fallen into the quiet voices you use before you fuck, and he’s wearing an expression you’d find mirrored if you could see your own face, like he’s waiting for the next move, and then the next. “Okay? It’s not rough. Not unless you want it that way.” 

“Uh– I–” And while you’d like to say there’s something in him turned on at the notion, you genuinely believe that Clark Kent is astonished at the idea of hurting you on purpose. 

“You can tell me exactly what to do, or I could,” —you let your hand rest at his belt buckle— “do what I think you’d like. I can make you feel good, Clark.” 

Clark’s eyes fill with knowing. You’re seducing him and he’s being pulled in, but going willingly doesn’t mean he’s unaware. “Is that what you want? You wanna make me feel good?” he asks, teasing and testing. 

“Will you return the favour?” 

“I can lay you out right here,” he promises simply. Which is why getting on your knees in front of him is easy work. The eagerness on his face turns to worry, “Hey, you don’t have to kneel down there, we can move.” 

“It’s easier like this. Can see everything.” 

“Oh.” His mouth tightens.

“Not so easy, being seen up close,” you murmur. “But I know you’re pretty, Clark.” 

He’s hardening in his jeans. You readjust your position and use your weight to spread his thighs some, which helps to send a little more blood to his cock. You watch the fabric tighten a touch, watch Clark’s cheek dimple as he bites the inside of his mouth. 

“You okay?” you ask. 

“Hey,” he says, taking your elbows into his hands, “I’m fine, just trying to act like a gentleman.” 

Straightforward when he isn’t telling the flimsiest lies ever. You rally at his eagerness, holding his arms in tandem, fingers spread over curved biceps. 

“You really are something,” you mumble, letting your fingers trail down his arms. 

“Should I– can I take my belt off?” 

“Yeah, honey, open it up. Or I can?” 

He nods tightly. 

You slip the leather of his belt from the buckle, heat pooling in your abdomen at the clink it makes, and the quiet shush as you free it from a belt loop on either side. Your fingers are steady as you unbutton him, as you take the zipper between your fingers and pull it down. His legs widen to let you in, and you slide into the space as well as you can. His thighs are muscled, solid around you, squeezing you gently as you push his shirt up his stomach. 

“Lay back a li’l,” you murmur. 

Clark lays back. 

The erotica of his open jeans and his trimmed, dark tummy hair makes your eyes warm. Standing, you could rap your knuckles against his waist and hear it like stone, but there’s a new softness to his stomach when he slouches. 

You work your hand up to his bulge. 

“Are we done?” Clark asks, tipping his head back with a groan. There’s redness climbing his neck. “Fuck, let’s– let me take you to bed.” 

He’s mostly kidding. Careful, you slip your hand up his cock and back down again, marvelling the rigidity of it already, saliva pooling right behind your teeth. “Can I move these outta the way?” 

“Honey, don’t,” he says. Which means Honey, don’t tease.

“Baby,” you say, he’d felt it coming, but he still drags his head up to stare at you like you’re a dream, “do you want this?”

“Yes,” he says. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

He’s not so pale in the face now. “Yeah,” he says, “please.” 

You take the length of his cock into a tentative hand and lean downwards. Clark makes a noise before you’ve so much as breathed on it, the red head of his cock dry but so full of blood it looks bruised as your fingers close at the shaft. You look up at him, and you feel his weight in your hand, angling yourself down to touch his cock to your cheek. Then you turn your face to brush it over your lips, and any cool Clark held swiftly dissipates. 

It’s slow to begin with, just kissing a mouthing at the length of his cock, feeling it twitch on your tongue, the heat of his blood in your palm as you drag it up and down. With enough kissing the skin is slick, and stripping it makes a sound that’s almost as lewd as his shudder when you take the head against your tongue for the first time. He smells so fucking good, he smells clean, and he smells like his skin and that sweat scent before it has time to sour, like he’s overheating under your hands, and he smells like precum as it begins to dribble from his slit. You press your nose to his cock, drinking up the gasp he makes, his thighs tensing under your touch. And it’s perfect, but he needs to relax.

“Baby, take your pants off,” you say, drawing back from his cock, spit wet on your bottom lip. 

“What?” 

“I can’t kiss all of you–”

“I don’t think–”

“Clark, I’m not going to break your trust, baby,” you say, giggling lightly, not gonna kiss anywhere he doesn’t what, “just– just get undressed. I can– I can be naked, too.” 

He’s better convinced. Clark shimmies his jeans off, then his shirt when you laugh. You strip out of your shirt and reach back for your bra, but Clark clasps your wrist and insists that the jeans be the first thing to go. 

“Idiot,” you murmur without heat, standing off your achy knees to unbutton your jeans. You roll them down your hips. 

Clark’s once over isn’t half as salacious as it could be. “Beautiful,” he says. 

“Thank you. You like the set?” you ask, turning to the side to show him your blue underwear. The panties have see-through lace squares at the sides and the bra’s slightly too tight at the band, but his gaze doesn’t linger anyplace. He finds your face. 

His eyes flicker to your panties and then back again. “Beautiful,” he says again. “Come and sit up here with me, sweet girl. Can’t do that to your knees anymore.” 

“It’s easier–”

“I can move, but you can’t sit down there anymore.” 

You love when Clark uses his voice like that. It’s like it’s not him anymore. It’s not, totally. Threads of his other half wrap you up, have you crawling onto the couch next to him to set yourself down across his thighs, left arm and shoulder leaning on his legs, right arm guiding the head of his cock back into your mouth. 

“Guide my head,” you murmur around him. 

He gives his sharpest pant yet. “What?”

You grab his hand and press it to your neck. “Move me onto it.” 

“I don’t want to choke you.” 

“Then be gentle,” you advise softly. “I won’t let you choke me, babe, I just need help finding a rhythm.” 

For some reason, that’s what gets him most. Clark dissolves back into the cushions with his hand grasping your neck, guiding your head as you take his cock into your mouth. It’s all hot and humid and his crotch is quickly wetted, spit under your nose and on your chin, eyes misty as he brushes the back of your mouth with his cock. You refuse to choke and scare him off, so whenever he guides you down too close, you pull away. 

You hold the swell of him rather sweetly, rubbing a thumb over them each time you pull off his cock. He’s eager to fuck against your warm tongue, just a little too much, and you’re staring up at him with your mouth full and your nose wet when his eyes go silver. 

“That’s perfect,” he says, his pelvis flexing, “just like that– just– you’re perfect, I swear–”

“Love you,” you say, sniffing the heat that’s gathered in your nose away gently. 

“I love you.” He grabs your cheek in his hand. “I love you more, honey, you look insane like this, I didn’t realise…” 

“This is why people like it so much.” 

He adores the hint of shyness he hears in your voice, you can see it in his smile. You can almost see his teeth. But behind his smile there’s a need there, something anxious, so you lean your face against his hip and begin pumping his cock in a slick hand. “Let me make you cum,” you say softly. 

Clark doesn’t answer. He gives you this besotted leap-of-faith kiss pressed to top of your head and nudges your mouth back toward his cock. “Kiss, please,” he begs. 

You press tens of little kisses into his cock, letting precum bead up and drip onto the tip of your tongue. 

“Clark,” you say, licking the salt from your lips as his breath starts to stagger, “you can cum, honey, do you want to? You can cum in my mouth.” 

He shakes his head vehemently and covers your hand where it’d been pumping his cock. For a second, things are stopped, but then he drops his head back against the cushions and uses your hand under his to jerk his full length, sticky heat pressed into each finger, the pressure of each strip like a lick until he’s suddenly over the edge. He brings your hand up and tugs at the tip of his cock, cum dripping down your knuckles in fat rivulets. 

You give an experimental pull.

“Fucking–” He moans your name like an afterthought. “Ah, baby, baby–”

“Sorry,” you say. 

Clark catches his breath for so long you worry you’ve permanently maimed him. He’s still holding your sticky hand to his cock, letting it drip down his front and his hip the longer he leaves it alone, but who are you to judge? You force him to free your hand in search of a discarded t-shirt. 

When you’ve managed to clean off your hands and Clark’s abdomen, he lifts his head from the couch to deliver a suspicious glare. “What the hell, babe?” 

You startle. “What?” 

“How’m I ever supposed to get off by myself now? I think you just ruined me forever.” 

“I’m sure you’ll be okay. Idiot.” 

He wipes his hands again and before he takes your face into both hands. “Kiss, okay?” he asks, pulling you forward. 

“Mm,” you affirm against his lips. A kiss is sorely needed. 

It’s an unashamed kiss that spans a half-second too long, like he’s forgotten you need to breathe to survive, but he says sorry with a chaste peck pressed to the very corner of your eye and one of his great groaning sighs as he gets an arm around you and manhandles you into his lap. 

“Watch your dick, baby,” you mumble, ready for the quiet, dizzy afterparty that comes whenever you both fuck. 

Clark just laughs under his breath. “It’ll be fine. Now let me see these,” he says, tipping you back enough to bring his free hand to your thighs. His thumb brushes the bump of your cunt. “I don’t think you can take these off. That’s, like, not even federal at that point. It’s international.” 

“Crime to undress me?” you ask, not bothering to click into the conversation fully. Clark’s barely any better, all mumbly and sluggish as he brushes a hair off of your cheek.

“Mm, no, I don’t think so. That wouldn’t bode well for me, would it, beautiful?” 

You wrap your arms around his neck to nuzzle under his jaw. 

And Clark? He lets his head fall back again, sighing with the same dizzying pleasure he’d shown with his cock pressed to the roof of your mouth, as though he finds your affection just as heavenly.

“I owe you a debt,” he says to the ceiling. 

You kiss his Adam’s apple, unhurried. As far as you’re concerned, he’s paid it forward greatly, 

Clark looks up when you kneel, his face quickly taken by a smirk. It looks funny on him, missing any of the smugness you might see when he’s Superman against one of his boggling villains. He seems boyishly pleased before you’ve so much as opened your mouth. 

“Are you busy?” you murmur softly. 

“Oh, never too busy for you,” he says, rolling it around in his mouth as he places his book upside down on the nightstand. 

“No? I don’t have to persuade you to put things down?” you ask. 

He really couldn’t look happier. Like, he’s ecstatic rather than lustful, though this is often how it starts with him. 

“Nothing in there could be as interesting as you are,” Clark says. He pats the bed in front of him. “Come here? There’s more than enough room for you.” 

You cannot crawl sexily, won’t kid yourself into thinking so, instead walking carefully on your knees until you’re in touching distance, settling quietly, carefully. 

“You’re such a treasure,” he says, more to himself than you as his fingers brush your knee. “Have you always worn stuff like this?” 

“The shifts?” you ask, pinching the fabric between your fingers. “No, not really.” 

“No?” 

“No. I bought a couple when we first started dating…” You flush at the idea of telling him something like this and then tell him anyhow, because you might be the shyest thing he’s ever seen, but you’re also undoubtedly in love with him, and craving to have him in confidence is a constant. “It was exciting, when you asked me to be your girl,” —that exact phrase— “I went online that night to look at babydolls and, uh, new panties and things, I never had to before. I liked thinking about it.” 

His fingers work further down your thigh. “Never had to?” 

“No. You’re my first boyfriend. You know that already.” 

Clark soothes away your puzzled tone with a big hand spread out over your thigh. Shaved again. He rubs at you searchingly, his brow slightly crinkled. “I’d have you in a sack, if you wanted that.”

You laugh. 

He smiles. “I would. You could wear full briefs to bed.”

“Yeah, cos that’d be sexy. Me in my jammies, you’d love that.”

Clark smarts, indignant. “I would.”

You laugh again, wrapping your fingers around his thick wrist. “Sure.”

“Honey, I would. I’d love to see you in your pajamas. I didn’t realise you had pajamas, I– stupidly, I thought this was what you’d usually wear to bed.” 

“I’m supposed to be sexy.” 

You hadn’t meant to say it quite so abruptly. Clark wasn’t expecting it either, his lips parted enough to catch a slip of his tongue. Just as abruptly, his teeth snap and his mouth closes, both hands finding yours. “You are,” he says, his mouth such a serious line that your heart feels like it’s constricting in your chest for a moment. “Without trying, you are. With effort too, don’t get me wrong, I– I don’t think I’ve ever had so much blood in one place–”

“Clark,” you whine, unbidden. 

“–some nights, your dresses, those lacy skirts and stuff, that’s all beautiful. You’re beautiful. But don’t think you have to dress up every night for my benefit, huh?” Your face goes so hot you can feel it in your ears, ‘cos his voice is like satin, talking to you like you need it gentle. “I’d just as happily have you in one of my old t-shirts. Or your jammies.” 

“Why are you asking me about this?” you deflect. 

He closes his hands around your wrists with a light squeeze. “You won’t let me in the bathroom when you’re in there most the time, but every night you stand in the door in one of these lovely things and I was just… wondering, I guess. I can be really awkward. I wanted to know if I was overstepping with the bathroom thing, but. Anyways. I have my answer.”

“What? What answer?” 

“You have a complex. I’ve given you a complex,” he says decidedly. 

“You did not.”

“I did. Clearly, I haven’t made it obvious how much I want you at all hours, in anything, and you assume you have to dress up to earn my affection.” Clark dips his head forward, a sweet, dark curl kissing his forehead. “Tell me you like the lingerie, at least.” 

“I do.” You realise you can tell him more, and decide to trust him with a little more truthfulness. “I don’t love shaving my legs every night.”

“No?” His eyebrows rise. “Then don’t.”

“Yeah? You won’t care?”

“Of course I won’t.” 

You hold your arms toward him and he does the same, taking your hips into his hands as you begin the melding ascent into his lap. Clark folds you into him nicely. “And you really don't care if I stop wearing the lacy panties?”

“Honestly? I assumed you were spoiling me. I had no idea you thought I’d care about them otherwise. Wear anything. Wear nothing.”

You press your nose to his neck, withholding a sound too close to a moan at his smell and general solidness beneath you. His arms are a vice around you that you’d rather die than lose. Especially now he’s letting you say goodbye to headrush-showers and the two hour delicates wash on cold. “Promise?” you murmur.

“I promise.” 

Worry washes your features, something must be really wrong. You start making way over to him, but as soon as you take a step forward he puts a warning hand in front of him.

“Stop! Don’t move,” his deep voice comes out strangled, like he’s been screaming for hours. “Don’t come closer… please. Just–just stay there.”

He keeps his hand up to stop you, panting heavily as he swallowed to try to soothe his dry throat. He slowly looks up, and groans when he meets your eyes. His pupils are blown wide, dry lips parted, his breath ragged like he’s been flying across the globe. His usually perfect wavy hair is now flat, messy, sticking to his sweaty forehead.

“I didn’t want to come here,” he whines. “I–I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“What happened to you?” You ask from your spot, fighting the urge to run to his aid.

“I’ve been infected,” he chokes out, and your brows furrow more. “Some kind of … alien pollen. It hit me out there. I flew straight into it and fuck ... It’s messing with my head, my body, I…”

He suddenly turns away, pacing in small frantic circles on your balcony like he’s trying to shake something off. His hands tremble as he fights to not make eye contact, like just looking at you hurts.

“What do you need? D-do you have the antidote?” You ask, scared as hell. He never acts like this.

He just shakes his head first with a bitter laugh, only to nod frantically afterwards.

God, if only you knew.

“I tried to wait it out,” he groans, fists now in his hair. “I swear I did, my love, I locked myself away for hours … tried to fly as far as I could but I kept turning back because I could smell you.”

Your breath catches in your throat, somehow understanding what this was about.

“I can smell you, sweetheart. Even from across the city … I can hear you breathing … your heartbeat. I didn’t want to hurt you but right now I have you in front of me and I can see–dammit … I’m sorry–“

He stumbles backward like he’s ashamed of himself, like he can’t even look at you.

“You know can’t turn it off,” he whispers. “I never mean to look, I swear, but I can see you now. Everything.”

Of course you know what he means. You know he can see right past his giant shirt covering your body. And the guilt on his face is gutting. He looks like he’s trying to claw his own powers out of his skin.

“Clark… it’s okay. You don’t have to explain, ”you step forward, slowly, gently. “It’s not like we haven’t–“

“No you don’t get it!” He snaps, his voice booming through your walls so loud you were sure everyone on the block heard him. He instantly feels worse with the way you flinched to his volume. “S-sorry darling … you just don’t get it … you have no idea what it’s like to smell you and know how soft you are, how warm. My instincts are going crazy. I just need to be inside you … I need to touch you, mark you, fill you up until I can’t think straight,” he just rambles, eyes raking through your body.

You take a deep breath, his words making you clench your thighs together and he noticed. Of course you’ve had sex before. You know what he sounds like when he’s needy. But this? This is feral. You’ve never seen him like this.

But you’re willing to do anything to help him. Always.

“Clark… you don’t even have to ask,” you speak softly, your own eyes darkening with desire.

He shakes his head. You don’t even understand the amount of restraint he’s having right now.

“I do … I always do. Especially now. Because I’m not going to touch you like I should. I’m not going to make it about you. I’m going to use you. Because you’re the only one who can fix me … you are the antidote and I hate it. I hate that I can’t even think straight unless I’m inside you … I need you so bad, darling, I’m shaking–“ He cries, an actual tear comes out his desperate eyes.

You’re watching a god fall apart in front of you.

Because of you.

You finally cross the space left, and he doesn’t stop you this time. You grab his face between your hands, and kiss him without hesitation. His arms immediately cling to your frame, cold hands slipping under your shirt to roam every inch of your warm skin.

You moan into his lips, when you taste the salty tears on his face. His hands land on your ass, and he squeezes hard, bruising, making you squeal. He immediately pulls back, apologizing. Like he still can’t let himself go.

“I love you, I’m sorry–” he blurts out immediately, hands soothing the skin he pinched while he fought the urge to do it again, harder. “God I love you … and I would never hurt you. Never. I swore I’d never touch you like this. Unless you asked me to. Unless you wanted me to. So please … tell me you want this too. Say yes, or I’ll leave. I swear I will.”

He nods, frantically, like he’s trying to convince himself more than he’s trying to convince you.

“I’ll leave if you tell me to,” he breathes. “I’ll fly through a mountain. I’ll bury myself in the ocean. Just don’t say yes unless you want this. I’m barely holding on– if you say it, I won’t be able to stop.”

You want him. God you always want him.

The way he keeps asking makes you want him even more. Even if he’s not your Clark now. Even if he won’t take care of you like he always does. Even if you can’t breathe or move after. Because you love him too.

“I want it,” you whisper against his lips, nodding. “I want you. You need me? Use me. Take all you want … I can take it.”

It’s over.

The moment you say yes there’s no going back. He lunges forward, tightening his grip on you as he lifts you off the ground to fly you towards the wall, knocking the lamp when your back hit the wall, leaving you both in complete darkness. Only the moonlight left to shine over his hungry eyes.

His massive hand cradles the back of your head to protect it from the hit, while the other tears off your shirt like he needs your skin on his or he’ll die. Your panties don’t even last two seconds before they fly away too.

His lips hit yours. Tongue desperate, hands everywhere, so large, so shaky, everywhere at once. He groans into your mouth like a man dying of thirst finally tasting water.

“Thank you,” he gasps between kisses. “Thank you sweetheart … I’m so sorry I can’t help you first … but I need you … I need to feel you inside, please just let me…”

He knows it hurts you when he doesn’t prepare you properly, when he doesn’t make you cum at least twice on his fingers before he fucks you …but he can’t right now. Not when he can smell how soaked you are already, not when he swears it’s dripping on the carpet.

“Do it,” you pant, hungry for him. “Clark just do it … please.”

He doubts only for a second, and then without thinking he rips the suit. Literally tears it at the waist, tugging it to get rid of it completely. He’ll care about that later.

Right now he is just muscle in front of you.

His painful cock springs up, and he presses himself to you with a wet slap, your back hitting the wall again. Your pussy throbs at how impossibly huge he is over your stomach.

You’ve had him before. You’ve barely made it. You still want him to rearrange your guts.

“Feel that?” he groans. “That’s what you do to me, that’s what’s been driving me insane all day, darling.”

He’s not even pretending anymore, his cock is throbbing, massive, already leaking. He aligns himself between your soaked folds, rutting the tip against your pussy a few times like he’s lost control of his body entirely. You moan at the friction. Every nerve ending screaming.

You know he’s gonna wreck you. You weren’t ready. But at the same time you’ve never been more ready.

He grabs your thigh and lifts it against the wall, before whispering against your lips. “I’m sorry…”

He pushes his hips forward, and when he finally slides home with a snap … raw, hard, you let out a strangled scream.

One long, broken sound, high pitched and helpless, because he stretches you brutally, all at once, bottoming out with a growl. An actual growl. Like he finally felt some type of relief since he got hit with the pollen.

You fight back a cry, lunging forward to bite his shoulder. He starts fucking you into the wall as he whispers ‘I love you’ ‘thank you’ ‘sorry’ like some sort of chant. Like it’s the only thing keeping him rooted to the version of him that is still careful with you when you have sex.

Your breath leaves you in a gasp, your bare back against the cold plaster, legs around his waist, and arms clinging to his biceps for dear life. All you can do is moan as you get adjusted to his unfairly thick cock slamming in and out of you.

“Just like that … you’re taking me so well,” he pants. “You can do it, sweetheart … you’re doing so good … fuck, you were made for this … made for me.”

His hands grip your thighs. He fucks you like he’s possessed, no rhythm, no thought into it, just deep, hard thrusts that hit something devastating every time, shaking the wall with every slam of his hips.

And the whole time, he keeps whimpering into your neck.

“I love you … I’m sorry … I love you …I’m gonna ruin you …I need it…”

You think you’re about to white out when the room starts moving, but you quickly realize what’s happening.

He’s lifting your bodies off the ground.

Still fucking you.

Going up as much as your ceiling allowed him too. He pins you high on the wall when his head touches the roof, like gravity doesn’t apply anymore. It never does, not to you, not to him.

So now you’re fucking hovering. Literally. Unable to do anything but take it.

And you feel him like never before. A complete moaning mess. Nails dragging down his back, mouth open in shock as you look down to the floor. Your whole body is a live wire, and he’s fucking you like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

His cock twitches inside you. He’s already close. Has been since he walked through that window. But he’s holding it, fighting it, because he needs to stay inside. Needs to keep taking. You can’t.

“Fuck Clark … I’m gonna–“

“Yes? do it … darling please, you’re doing so well. I’ve got you … cum all over this cock baby I got you.”

Your body breaks before you can breathe. Your first climax of the night hits hard, clenching down on him, while you pant into his chest. Your whole body goes limp and he feels it.

He fucks you through it. Rough thrusts with his hand stroking your back and the other wrapped under your thighs. He keeps thanking you as his cock splits you open over and over.

“I wanna give you everything,” he groans, voice cracking. “Fill you up, stuff you full of me … Can I? Please? Let me finish inside you …. let me have you–“

“Yes, yes, fill me up,” you blurt out, still seeing stars.

He slams in once more and chokes, hips locked, whole body shuddering as he comes with a moan so broken it feels like it came from his soul. He shakes as he fills you, mouth pressed to your neck.

He doesn’t pull out yet. He holds you there, trembling, pressed against the wall like he knows you’ll fall if he loosens his grip.

Even after the first wave passes, after the groans, the shaking, the desperate I love you’s, he holds you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this planet.

“…Are you okay?”

You just nod, breathless, a blissed out smile in your face. He smiles too. And then, slowly, he lowers you back down to the floor.

But he’s not soft for long. He doesn’t even give you a minute to recover. He can’t. The second round starts before the first one even finishes sinking in.

You’re still trembling in his arms, leaking down your thighs, whimpering his name into the crook of his neck. And he’s still inside you. Still painfully hard.

Still needing you.

“One more, please. Just–just one more,” he begs. “Let me have you again. Please, darling I need it.”

“Take it Clark, take all you need,” you nod, absolutely wrecked.

But what’s a few more rounds with your unearthly strong boyfriend?

He melts.

You usually go multiple rounds, but he’s softer, he gives you downtime, even brings you water in between orgasms. But right now he can’t believe the way he fucked you and you still let him have more. But he needs more. The pollen is fogging his brain.

He finally pulls out, just to set you down on the floor. The second your back hits the rug, he’s on top of you again. And god he’s heavy. Solid. He doesn’t even hold his weight like he usually does because all he’s thinking about is fucking you senseless.

He buries himself deep again, groaning, cursing under his breath. You close your eyes, nails digging the carpet, back arching when you feel him deeper from this angle. You pant small whines from the feeling.

“Shhh … don’t–“ he coos, he wants to be slow, but he can’t. His hips snap hard without even thinking. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart … so good for me… just need one more.”

You know it’s not just one more. And he fucking knows that too.

None of you cares.

“You’re so wet … so perfect” he groans, the filthy sound gushing loudly every time he thrusted. “I didn’t even give you time to come down … didn’t even let you breathe and you still take me so well”

He praises. Worships. He looks down to where your bodies meet, and he sees right through your skin. He can see his huge cock filling you with every thrust. He can see your walls clenching around him. And he looses it.

You’re suddenly running out of air when he presses his chest to yours, pining you tighter to the floor with his body as he pushes harder. And you feel all of him. The broadness of his chest against your ribs. The strain of his thighs bracketing yours. His cock still buried deep, rock hard.

You hit his bicep with your hand first, but he’s not paying attention, he’s too caught up on the way your pussy takes him to notice.

It’s not smooth. Not rhythmic. Just sharp, ragged thrusts that hit you so hard your body jerks on impact, tits bouncing, nails clawing at his back as he crushes you into the floor with every rut of his hips.

Your head starts spinning.

“Clark,” you choke out, hitting his bicep again. “I can’t–can’t breathe…”

His head finally snaps at you, eyes going wide. He lifts up a bit, but he doesn’t pull out, he just … can’t.

You finally gasp for air as he shushes you softly, tucking away the hair sticking to your sweaty forehead.

“I’m sorry … I can’t … can’t stop. I tried, I swear I tried,” his forehead presses to yours, without crushing you alive this time.

His hips don’t stop moving. You pant between moans. You’re close again, you can feel it.

“It’s okay, you’re just … you’re so big …so heavy.”

“I’m sorry,” he breathes. “I’m sorry, I know. I just … I don’t want to let you go–”

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t let me go.”

His expression breaks. Because he knows. And you know. He’s not really letting you go. Not all the way. He’s still pressing his weight into you, even as he tries not to. Because he needs to. Because letting go means losing you, even just for a second.

He doesn’t know what takes over him, he grabs your hands and pins them above your head. Watching you sob, moan, eyes rolling back, skin already bruising in multiple places by his grip. He’s not like this. He should be apologizing. Begging. But you just feel so damn good.

And you like it, god you love it.

“I–I love it when you fuck me like this,” you confess, voice barely above a whisper, dumb smile on your face as he hits that spot repeatedly. “I just- I can’t…”

“I know darling, I know … just a little more,” he groans. “One more please. You can take it …you’re doing so good.” He soothes, but he can’t slow down, not when you’re clenching him like that.

He picks up the pace.

“C-Clark … please, I’m gonna-“

“I’ve got you, darling …I’ve got you, let yourself go for me.”

You see white this time. You’re not even moaning anymore. Just gasping. Twitching. Letting him take what he needs because you want to. Because this is Clark, your Clark, and you’d give him your whole body a thousand times if he needed it.

And he does.

He fucks you like you’re his last breath.

Even after you’re wrecked, limp, twitching … he keeps going.

You don’t even remember the next time he finishes. Or the time after that. Or where it happened. Your body is a mess, trembling and raw and wet and full. Marked. Praised.

All while he keeps saying, “Just one more … just let me stay inside you a little longer… please sweetheart, I’m still hard I know you can take it … this is the last time I promise…”

Again and again. You’ve never heard him lie so much before.

Yet still, with your hair splayed, legs shaking, literal tears leaking from the corners of your eyes from the pleasure, the pain, the strain, the goddamn pollen he pumps into your body every time he comes…

You are having the time of your life being drunk on his cock.

“Fuck me harder.”

You beg, even when you can’t feel it anymore. Maybe that’s why you need it harder … deeper.

And because you knew that once he came back to normal he wouldn’t fuck you like this again. And he makes sure to let you know.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry I’m hurting you. I just need you so fucking much … I love you I love you I love you—”

You just nod, because it hurts embarrassingly good.

You lose count of how many times he comes in total. How many times you come. You only know time’s passed when the sky starts to lighten outside your broken window, and Clark is rocking into you so slowly it’s more like he’s just holding you in place, his mouth pressed to your shoulder, whispering thank you with every lazy thrust.

By the time he finally slows down, finally wears the substance out of his body after dumping it all inside you … you can’t move. You’re limp in his arms, boneless and dripping and his.

Your bed feels incredibly soft in contrast to all the spots he fucked you on last night.

You’re draped across his chest, tracing the muscles under his bare skin. His fingers are in your hair. Barely moving, just tracing small patterns. Soothing you like he didn’t cause all the pain in your body.

You’re still trembling a little. Just from… after. Your body’s still echoing with everything he gave you. Everything he took.

Worth it.

Clark kisses your temple. He hasn’t stopped kissing you every few minutes. It’s like he’s trying to apologize without saying it. Like he’s trying to prove that he’s still the man you love, the man who flinches when he bumps your head by accident, who picks you flowers and gets flustered when you kiss him in public. The one who always put you first in bed.

Not the one who just broke the sound barrier flying to your apartment because his cock told him to.

“…I broke your window,” he finally breaks the silence, a chuckle makes his chest vibrate against your ear.

“Clark … you broke a lot more than my window.”

You both start giggling … glowing. Your throat hurts, you’re sore, probably can’t even walk today or the whole week, and somehow, it feels like the safest place on Earth.

“I love you,” he whispers. “So much.”

“I know,” you whisper back. “You said it like 87 times while destroying me.”

⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆

I created a blog dedicated to Superman, where I’ll be posting my writing for him from now on 🫶🏼 so if you wanna check it out, go to -> @404superman

“hey jamie” you giggle.

“missed you so much, god.” he groans again, voice muffled by your tits.

his arms wrap around your waist like he’s holding himself to life, his big hands slipping underneath your shirt and stroking your back gently, you wince at the contact.

“james! your hands are cold!” you whine.

you try to tug him upright but he clings.

“noo, don’t care. i missed these— i mean i also missed you, but god, i missed these.” he groans, rubbing his cheek against your chest again.

“okay, you big baby,” you mock. “did you eat already? want me to make you something?” your fingers tangle in his hair, a sigh leaving his mouth when you start scratching his scalp.

“i just wanna eat you,” he murmurs, his head turning slightly to sink his teeth on the side of your left boob.

you flinch. “hey!”

“mm, sorry love. you just look so pretty and yummy and pretty…” he mutters, his voice barely forming the words correctly as he feels the exhaustion from the week finally setting in.

“that’s pretty twice,” you give his head a small peck.

his arms tighten around you, giving a little squeeze. “i thought about you all week.”

“i’m glad, ‘cause i really missed you too,”

“couldn’t bear not seeing you every day,” he says, and even though you can’t see his face you just know he’s pouting.

“well, you were the one who said you couldn’t concentrate when i was around.”

“i know, that’s what i get for having the most beautiful, amazing girlfriend ever.” you smile when his words come out a bit sluggish. it’s more than obvious he’s both physically and mentally worn-out and still, he manages to make you feel like a teenage girl with her first crush.

you don’t answer him and he doesn’t try to talk again either. you lie there with him for what feels like half an hour, deciding to ask him again before he falls asleep.

“are you sure you’re okay?”

“baby, i just spent the most horrifying days of my life buried in books and checking flashcards over and over again, once i even forgot how to spell my name,” he pauses to kiss the exact spot where he bit you. “and the only thing keeping me from collapsing was the memory of you and my girls.”

“did you just call my tits 'your girls'?”

“mhm, ‘cause they’re my girls and i love them so much. not as much as i love you, though.” he hums.

you snort, “okay, drama queen.” you tug at one of his curls and he whines.

“don’t laugh, i’m serious. love you so much i’m never letting you go.”

“oh yeah?”

“yeah,” he hums again, feeling more and more sleepy as the seconds pass by and the comfort of being in your arms relaxes him. “gonna marry you and put your tits in my vows. gonna say 'i do' with my face right here.”