-

You threw back shot after shot until they started tasting like water. The burn tickled your throat, putting a lazy smile on your usual pouty lips.

This smile only brightens when you see him. Standing more than a foot taller than you, glasses sitting just a little crooked, and more buttons undone to his white dress shirt than you remembered, he makes his way over with that trademark awkwardly eager demeanor.

“Clark!” You throw your arms over his shoulders, leaning against him for support as his hands gently grab at your hips to steady you. They were so big yet somehow so polite, only provoking you.

“Hey,” he beams down at you through a faint blush, “all good?” He cocks his head with concern, one hand hesitantly reaching to brush stray hair from your face, the other still lingering on your hip.

Had you been sober, you would’ve felt the way his fingers twitched against you like they wanted to move, to touch more. Like he’s been wanting to all night, hell, since he first met you.

He didn’t trust himself around you, but he also just couldn’t stay away. He tries to keep both his mind and eyes from wandering. But you make it (him) so hard, he could almost swear you do it on purpose sometimes.

Your work outfits consisted of shirts cut too low, skirts too high, and a bottom lip pulled between your teeth in concentration. God, you looked like the hot tutor in a bad porno. You even acted the part, the way you treated him like your favorite student.

Either he’s a pervert or you’re a tease. Maybe both.

He was pulled from his thoughts as you take his hand, tugging him toward the floor. With no time to process, he follows you like a lost puppy.

The music gets louder, the bass harsher, the colored lights flashier, and the crowd sweatier. Still, he could only focus on you.

Your hands raising above your head, your eyes fluttering shut, your hair bouncing with your body, and your hips swaying to the music. Pure bliss.

All he can do is stand there with overbearing admiration and attraction. He thinks you're the prettiest girl he's ever seen. And seeing you like this... it'll be seared in his memory forever, to say the least. He couldn't even try to imagine anything better.

That is until you turn around, back flush to his chest and ass pressed up against him just right. He lets out a shaky breath into your ear, his hands instinctively sliding around your waist. The intention was to still you, but he doesn't.

He can't. Not when it feels this good.

Instead, he allows himself to revel in the way you fit so perfectly in his hands. Just for a minute, a long one.

"Come on," he finally declares, strained, "let's get you home."

It takes less than a block of you struggling in your heels for Clark to decide to carry you the rest of the way. Faster and more practical, that’s all.

His big arms hold you with ease while you absentmindedly trace his jawline. The feeling of your nails on his skin sends shivers down his spine.

You walked, well, he walked in comfortable silence as you were too busy working him up with simple innocent touches and he, in turn, worked on his breathing.

Finally up the stairs and through his apartment, Clark sets you down on his bed, so gently as if he were afraid you and the moment would shatter.

You’re a delicacy.

He had pictured you in his bed a countless amount of times, dreamed of it even. Which made leaving you alone to lay in it even harder.

He would sleep on the couch, take you home in the morning, then see you at work and continue to wallow in his internal suffering.

“Stay,” you call out, voice so soft and sweet he thinks he imagined it.

“What?”

“Stay with me.”

It’s not a command, but he obeys.

There he lies in his coffin, face paler than ever, trying to make his big body small enough to fit within the imaginary walls.

You immediately close the space between the two of you, resting your head on his chest and tangling your legs with his.

You really are going to be the death of him.

Suddenly, his senses are swamped. He can feel the heat radiating from between your legs, burning him up. His body moves before his mind can stop it, hand slowly inching up your thigh. He doesn't miss the way you open your legs so willingly, only spurring him on more.

Oh my god, you're wet. That's it.

Something inside him breaks. He flips over, trapping you underneath him.

“Please, let me- can I…?” His head frustratedly drops to the crook of your neck. He huffs, as if breathing you in is the only thing grounding him.

“Use your words, Clark,” you coax, fingers threading into his hair and tugging his head back to make him look at you.

He whines.

“Can I touch you?” His fingers are practically trembling at the hem of your panties, desperate to just tear them off.

All it takes is a nod from you and that’s exactly what he does. Way past the point of self control, he throws the ripped fabric to the floor along with your dress and eases two fingers inside.

The stretch makes your mouth fall open in a broken moan. He catches your parted lips in a kiss and lets out a grunt of his own.

It’s messy.

Tongue and teeth and pent up feelings.

He works his way down, leaving a trail from your chest to your lower stomach. Then he stops, looking up at you, eyes wide and pupils blown.

This is your last chance. To stop him, to say you don’t want this, to get up and leave.

Instead, you buck your hips up. A silent plea.

You could almost swear he lets out a quiet ‘thank you’ before attaching himself to your cunt. Always with the farm boy manners.

He laps at your folds like a thirsty dog, fingers still pumping in and out of you. You writhe under him but he’s quick to hold you down, needing to keep you like this.

“Oh, fuck,” you manage out between moans, “feels so good, baby, doing so good for me.”

He can’t help but whimper in response, sending vibrations straight to your core. Looking down at him only makes matters worse. Stray curls framing his face, glasses fogged up, and hips wildly grinding into the bed.

Your head falls to the pillow harshly, face contorted in pleasure as your back arches up.

“Clark," you warn, "I’m gonna-” but he already knows, sucking on your clit while his fingers split you in half.

You cum. Hard.

On your thighs. His fingers. His face.

And he’s not done, licking up the mess you made. He doesn’t waste a drop. “Tastes like heaven,” he mumbles mostly to himself and you just watch in awe.

“Come here,” you coo, voice dripping like honey, “now, let me take care of you.”

He practically teleports to his rightful spot next to you, buzzing with anticipation. His jaw goes slack as you crawl into his lap, undoing the buttons of his shirt one by one. You slide it off his broad shoulders to find his chest heaving dramatically like he’d just run a marathon.

Your eyes drift back to his face which is tilted up, already looking at you. He doesn’t dare move a muscle, not until you say so. Poor thing can’t even see clearly through those clouded lenses, so you wipe them clear for him.

“Take them off,” he pleads, “wanna see you.”

You get rid of them and it’s like he’s seeing you for the first time. He cups your face in his hands, as if in disbelief that you’re real and really here.

He whispers your name like a prayer and your lips are back on his like that. Moaning into each others mouths and dry humping like horny teenagers.

Your hand slides down his flexing abs, dipping just under the waistbands to both his pants and boxers. He takes the hint, lifting you up with one arm and tugging the last of his clothes down with the other.

His cock comes springing up and he is fucking big. Far bigger than the biggest you’ve ever had. Like not sure if it would even fit big.

You quite literally stop and stare.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, voice ironically small and faint. Did he do something wrong? Did he misread the moment? Did he mess it all up?

“Nothing’s wrong,” you’re quick to reassure him, “you’re perfect.” He turns red.

You run your thumb over his sensitive, leaking tip, collecting the pre and bringing it to your tongue.

“Oh, gosh.”

He’s never been this turned on in his life.

In need of friction, he tries fucking up into your thighs. It’s so sad, you almost feel sorry for him. He sees the look on your face and it only gets him hotter. You would definitely be making a mental note of that.

You put him out of his misery, lining it up with your entrance and sinking down. He chokes out something between and cry and growl. Like he’s the one being torn into.

You claw at his chest, gasping in pain and pleasure. You have to stop when you reach the base, adjusting to his ungodly size.

And that’s when he sees it. He shudders and squeezes his eyes shut, opening them again to the same sight. He isn’t hallucinating.

Following his eyeline, you find a distinctly huge print in your stomach. “Oh my god, Clark.”

“I’m not hurting you, am I?” His gaze flickers between your face and the bulge as he caresses it with so much care you’d think it’s a baby. His expression is so innocent, you just smile and shake your head.

“I’m gonna move now, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Jesus.

The room fills with sounds of skin slapping and wet squelching with each bounce. Accompanied by filth from the two of you, of course.

“Been wanting this, wanting you.”

“I know, baby. All yours now.”

“Shittt,” he curses, maybe for the first time ever, as far as you were concerned, “say it again.”

You lean into his ear, lips grazing it as you whisper, “I’m yours, Clark.”

He bites down on your shoulder as an attempt to muffle the pathetic noise that escapes his throat. With that and the way he’s twitching inside of you, you can tell he’s getting there.

“You’re close?”

“Uh huh…” he pants out, “inside? Can I do it inside? Please?”

You couldn’t say no to him. And it’s not like you wanted to anyway.

“Go ahead baby, fill me up.”

He comes like it hurts, chanting your name as he releases into you. It’s hot and there’s a lot of it.

You’re right behind him, coming for the second time tonight. Your walls clench around him, squeezing and milking him absolutely dry. Collapsing into each other, he uses the remainder of strength to hold you tight just in case someone tries to steal you.

You’re barely awake as he carries you to the bathroom, going through all the motions of cleaning you up. Slipping you into his favorite old t shirt and tucking you in. You plant one last lax kiss on his cheek before rolling over and knocking out. He smiles himself to sleep.

-

You slept better than you ever had, lashes fluttering open to soft rays casting into the room.

Clark's room.

"Hey," his voice is just as gentle and comforting as the sun.

"Hey," you feel giddy and almost a little shy. Not used to this overwhelming sense of belonging.

"How're you feeling? Last night…” you can already hear the self doubt in his tone, the preconceived rejection he’s prepared himself for, “you were drunk…”

“Clark,” you cut him off, taking his hands in yours, “I knew exactly what I was doing. And I’d do it again.” And again and again and again.

His face lightens immediately.

“You mean it?”

You prove it with a kiss. And it’s different this time. It’s not urgent or sex driven. But loving. Taking your time since you’ve got a lot more now.