Clark Kent still won’t quite give in. 

(No matter how many times you bat your eyelashes.)

He still maintains the fact that he never should’ve fucked you in the first place. 

“It was a lapse in judgment, and I’d had a little to drink.” He’ll say. “Wasn’t thinking straight,” he’ll say. “I took advantage of you. You’re too young for me. You’re beautiful, honey, what do you even see in an old man like me?” He’ll say. 

Doesn’t matter that he’s a grown man and one beer is like a Sprite to someone his size. Doesn’t matter that you yourself were a legal, willing adult. None of it matters to Clark when he truly believes that he has your best interests at heart. 

But ultimately, joke’s on him. Because like they say about a gateway drug, one hit and he’s got you hooked. 

And he’s nothing if not your dealer, enabler: letting you in when you knock, giving you a stool to perch on while he fixes his beat-up old truck.. Paying when the two of you order in, (he won’t take you out for fear of your reputation.) giving you a well-worn flannel when you get cold. 

Clark’s not exactly above blame, here, either. 

After a certain point, some would call that a relationship. Yet your boyfriend, Clark, decidedly won’t. 

And that’s not the only thing he won’t do. 

He won’t let himself kiss you back for too long, won’t let you touch below the belt on his jeans. Won’t fuck you, but he’ll happily tease you. 

Distractedly, obliviously, until he’s looking at the scene before him, ashamed, unable to hide the hard-on pressing against rough denim underneath you. 

The History Channel’s on, yet you’re unable to give the documentary playing quite the attention it deserves. Why?

Because for the past twenty minutes, Clark’s been playing with your clit like he just needed something to do with his hands. 

See, your boyfriend’s weird about history. He’s super into it, so at first, you thought he’d be some sort of armchair expert. But there’s huge swaths of human history like pre-1930 that he just knows nothing about. 

“Over the centuries, many conspiracy theories have come out about the Titanic. One of the most popular all ties back to insurance fraud. The RMS Olympic, another ship owned by the White Star Line,” the narrator drones, voicing over a B-roll of grainy black and white pictures. 

Your lips are shut tight as the blunt tip of Clark’s finger dips inside of you, your eyelashes fluttering over the tops of your cheeks as pleasure rolls over you in a wave. He’s been at this so long, he could probably look at you sideways and you’d come. His thumb swipes over your clit again, lazily, like he still doesn’t realize what he’s doing, and a whimper escapes from behind your teeth.

“Y’okay?” He mutters, his eyes still never leaving the TV. You’re about to grab his wrist, the situation just feeling more and more ridiculous by the second. But you didn’t fight it as he slipped his hands past the waistband of your shorts, your underwear, and you’re not going to fight it now. 

And you know, clear as day, if either of you acknowledges it, he’ll stop. And you’d do anything to guarantee that he doesn’t. 

“Yes, Clark.” You reply, thighs trembling as he adds another finger inside of you, curling them in tandem just like he’s interested in the new sensory experience. 

“Had no idea people could be conspiracy theorists ‘bout something like a boat. Seems a bit silly, don’t it?” He drawls, and your eyes go upward, pleading with whatever deity that’s above to give you strength. 

“P-people are,” you start, sighing as he rubs your clit with purpose now, almost like he’s giving you a reward for your nonchalance. “Conspiracy theorists about, just about, everything.” 

You’re pretty proud of yourself for getting that full sentence out. It feels like your boyfriend is too, with the way he pushes his fingers all the way inside of you. The heel of his palm bumps against that agitated bundle of nerves, creating a friction as he fucks his fingers into you. 

The sweetest torture: the tensing of your muscles as you writhe against the worn leather of his couch, your hand slapped firmly over your own mouth, and the only sign of his possible awareness to the situation being a slight tinge of red across his cheekbones. 

“Oh, shit,” you cry, toes curling. Your stupid, stupid boyfriend. “Fuck, Clark!” 

It’s then, then, that he’s startled from a daze, tearing his eyes away from the picture of J.P. Morgan on his television screen to look at you. 

And what a mess you are: your eyes rolling back into your head, hair mussed, body shaking as you wet the thin skin of his wrist with your arousal. 

For once, he lets you ride it out, muttering sweet nothings (mainly to himself, since you’re too far gone to properly hear anything) as you clench around his fingers. 

It’s impossible to ignore the erection he’s sporting, his thighs widening to give himself more space as you look him over. It’s a hard goodbye, his fingers leaving your fluttering hole, but it’s bittersweet: Clark brings his hand up to his lips and sucks like he’s starving. 

“You’re a jerk.” You snarl, cranky due to the fact that he’s more or less unbothered and you look so desperate for it. 

His hand grabs your face, rough, fingers still wet against your cheek as he pulls you closer. 

“A brat won’t tame herself.” He replies, breath fanning over your lips, his just out of reach.