#(im back

"Every universe, except this one"

Hi yall! I’m back🫶

Been resting 😴 and I feel much better now 🌸

Back in business mfckeerrrr👺👺👺👺👺👺👺

Love my scull pookie as always 💝

thinking deeply and heavily about clark being all desperate and messy when you're just making out...

warnings: smut (mdni), pwp, sub!clark, dry humping, ruined orgasm, dirty talk.

like, that man is SO down bad. you put your lips on his, and he's already leaning back on the couch, closing his eyes and grabbing your hips. pulling you down with him, chest to chest. and the kisses at first are soft, but he still can't help the little groans that come out of his mouth into yours as your hands run down his neck and start unbuttoning his shirt.

but his brain's short-circuiting because he's hard already—goddamn, he's fucking Superman and the only thing he can't do is take control of his body when you're on top of him. (embarrassing. so fucking embarrassing.) that's his constant thought until you roll your hips down against his bulge, and any image in his mind just vanishes.

he grips your hips harder, fingers digging in and bucking up against you. the whimper falling out of him so easy. “baby, shit,” he gasps. it's so cute how he loses his mind every time.

“i know, i know,” yes, of course, you know. you feel his dick through his pants, feel it pressing, like it’s actually trying to force its way inside you already. but you would be lying if you said that you don't love this version of clark. this mess of groans and pleads and full-body shivers, like he wasn't saving the goddamn world just a few hours ago.

it's something that should be honestly studied. how the fuck does this man turns into such a puddle? his head's back on the cushion as you speed up the roll of your hips. and his voice cracks. “hah, no— stop, please,” the only thing you're able to do with that answer is smirk and kiss him harder. this time he opens his mouth like some starved chick waiting to be fed, and the second your tongue touches his—

he grabs the back of your neck, making you gasp and let out a little laugh. he's always so fucking greedy. won't even let you pull back to breathe. “you're— evil, so, so— fuck, evil,” he chokes out, hips snapping up again.

you know him like the back of your hand, you know how he sounds when he's close, how his body gets tense but his eyes go all glassy like his brain’s buffering. you know he doesn’t wanna cum in his pants like this and make a mess of them—but god, the way you’re rocking against him, moaning into his mouth, licking his tongue, tugging at his curls is just purely and innately evil. and when you press your lips to his cheek, licking a stripe down his jaw, trailing lower to his neck??

he can't take it anymore.

he gets one hand down your pants, fingers kneading your ass, pulling you harder against him. “you really love—”

you shut him up. shoving your fingers into his mouth, and he moans around them instantly. “clark,” you murmur, teeth scraping the skin of his neck. “just cum, baby,” that earns you a groan, his hips jerking like he’s trying to get away from his own orgasm, but it’s pointless now. you watch him—eyes squeezed shut, panting, sucking on your fingers like he doesn't know what to do with himself.

and then you hear it. that sound. the soft rip at the seam of his pants.

“nnghh,” he chokes on your fingers, and he's cumming hard in his boxers. ugh, again, why did i do it again? he thinks. you feel the warmth of it through the fabric, sticky, soaking his underwear, white ropes gluing him down as he throws his head back, gasping. his free hand’s clinging to the cushion until you hear the fabric tear.

“sweetheart,” he rasps, voice half-gone. “you keep making me cum like this, i’m gonna go fucking crazy.”

but you know he's not done.

because next thing you know, you’re flipped onto your back. he’s yanking his pants and ruined boxers off, his dick still semi-hard, glistening, still fucking leaking like his body doesn’t understand it’s supposed to stop.

and then—he shows you the mess. holds up his boxers like evidence.

“this is a humiliation ritual,” he deadpans. or tries to. the corner of his mouth betrays him first. even more when you laugh and blush about it, because fuck, you love this man.

his boxers are, indeed, all stained white, soaked through. “no one's gonna take me seriously if they find my boxers like this, are they?” he asks, dropping his voice, leaning closer to you as he pulls the rest of your clothes off.

you grin. “i guess not.”