#domineering

Metropolis, that night, had a different kind of glow. Neon lights shimmered in rain puddles, turning the streets into a golden, wet mirage. A light drizzle whispered against the pavement, carrying that clean, almost electric scent that only came after the asphalt had been drenched.

You stepped out of the Daily Planet with your bag slung over your shoulder, thinking only about food and a warm bed. You hadn’t gone more than five steps when you heard that voice.

“Wait—!”

You turned just in time to see him wrestling with his umbrella, trapped in the revolving door like an oversized, clumsy kid desperate not to lose sight of you. Clark Kent — your personal shadow — with rain-darkened patches on his shirt and that familiar urgency in his eyes, like you were the center of his universe.

“Are you hungry? Do you want me to walk you home?” he asked, slightly breathless, as if he’d run a mile.

Predictable, as always. He was always there, anticipating what you needed before you even said it. Water if you were thirsty, coffee if you yawned, practically begging you to eat if you skipped lunch. His attention wasn’t just courtesy — it was devotion. He looked at you like you were something fragile and precious… or like the world would end if he lost sight of you.

“I want something to eat first,” you replied, feeling his hand brush lightly against your shoulder. You couldn’t tell if it was to get your attention… or just an excuse to touch you.

A hot dog stand ended up being the choice, and — as always — he steered you toward the nearest spot with an awning to keep you out of the rain, though he was already soaked through. The roof barely kept out the cold, and the closeness made his body heat — mixed with the clean scent of rain and a faint trace of coffee — wrap around you.

Clark was ridiculously wet. His curls were plastered to his forehead, droplets sliding down his temples. His glasses were fogged up, giving him the helpless look of a drenched puppy. Without asking, you took them off and wiped them against your shirt.

The blush rose instantly to his cheeks, like it always did. You knew every small touch made him lose his words, and you enjoyed watching the tall, broad, clumsy reporter unravel over something so simple.

But this time, something was… different.

When you handed the glasses back and your eyes met his, there was an intensity there you’d never seen before. Not nervousness — something deeper, darker. Something that made you pause.

Before you could think twice, you kissed him. Impulsive, testing. Just to see what would happen. You expected him to stiffen, to pull back like always… but he didn’t.

Clark kissed you back hard, with a need that startled you. His cold, wet hands slid to your back, pulling you closer with an urgency you’d never felt from him. There was no space between you — you felt the solid press of his chest, the heat of his breath mingling with yours.

“Clark!” You pushed at his shoulders, your palms meeting soaked fabric. “You’re all wet — what are you doing?”

He didn’t react. Or maybe he didn’t want to. He just looked at you, as if your words were background noise.

“You kissed me, and I couldn’t think of anything else,” he murmured, his voice heavier than usual.

You raised an eyebrow. “So it’s my fault? You got my shirt wet. What are you going to do about that? I doubt a reporter’s salary will cover it.”

His face tightened with worry, like a scolded dog, but his eyes never left yours. “I’m sorry… I can… I can wash it for you. I’ll fix it.”

The way he said it — desperate, almost pleading — sent a warm shiver down your spine.

“Fine. You’ll fix it tonight,” you said, tilting your head. “You can use my washer. And since it’s already ruined… you can keep going.”

It took him a second to process. Then his pupils widened, and his hands found you again with that strange blend of hesitation and hunger. This time, you didn’t stop him — you wrapped your arms around him too, feeling the tension coiled inside him, like every muscle was about to snap.

Clark Kent — your sweet, devoted Clark — was showing you a side you’d never seen before. And it made you wonder if you really knew him at all.

Your apartment was warm, lit only by the soft orange glow from the streetlights outside. He stood near the door, hair still damp, holding your wet shirt like it was something sacred.

“Put it in the basket,” you said without looking at him, sinking onto the couch and flicking on the TV. You didn’t invite him to sit. You didn’t offer a towel.

He obeyed in silence, your voice like a command he couldn’t disobey. His heavy footsteps moved across the wood floor, but his breathing was the only thing you could hear.

“You just going to stand there?” you asked, eyes still on the screen.

He swallowed hard. Took a step toward you. “I was wondering… if I could… stay for a bit.”

The way he said it — part plea, part caution — made you smirk.

“I don’t know, Clark. You’ve caused enough trouble today.”

His shoulders dipped, but he didn’t back away. “I’ll do whatever you want,” he said finally, and it didn’t sound like a promise — it sounded like a confession.

You turned to look at him. His hands hung at his sides, fingers twitching like he wanted to touch you but wouldn’t dare without permission. His eyes… God, his eyes burned in the low light.

“Then go make me tea,” you told him.

He didn’t hesitate. As he passed you, you felt the heat radiating from him. In the kitchen, he moved with exaggerated care, like one wrong sound could shatter something between you.

When he returned, he crouched in front of you to set the cup on the table. At that distance, you could see his cheeks were flushed, his gaze deliberately avoiding your lips, like looking would be too much.

“Thanks,” you said coolly, taking a sip without inviting him to sit.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he confessed, voice low — more than just desire in it. It was hunger. Need.

“Not my problem,” you replied, though your pulse quickened.

He didn’t argue. Just swallowed and dropped his gaze, as if he’d take any punishment as long as he could stay.

The tea still steamed between you, but Clark didn’t touch it. He stayed on his knees, the heat of his body rising from the floor. His fists rested on his thighs, knuckles tight, like he was holding himself back.

“Clark,” you said, your voice stripped of softness, “you’re in my space.”

His head lifted slowly. Those dark, burning eyes locked on you, and you realized the words meant nothing to him. If anything, they seemed to anchor him where he was.

“I’m not leaving,” he said, voice deep and steady now.

“Oh, no?” You crossed one leg over the other deliberately, knowing it would drive him crazy.

“No,” he repeated, firmer this time — like for once, he was ready to defy you.

You traced your fingers along his jaw, only to push his face away gently. “Pathetic, Clark.”

The insult landed, but instead of retreating, he exhaled — almost like the humiliation only fed something in him. His big hands braced on the couch beside your hips, his body leaning closer, overwhelming… and still waiting.

You could feel his breath on your neck, hot and uneven.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmured, nearly desperate.

“Oh, I know,” you said, dragging a nail lightly along his chin. You loved seeing him like this — a man who could command any room reduced to someone who asked. Someone who needed.

His fingers ghosted along the hem of your skirt, but didn’t lift it without permission. That restraint was eating him alive.

“Ask for it,” you ordered.

“…Touch me,” he whispered, raw with need.

“Louder.”

“Touch me. Please.”

You tilted his chin up, meeting his eyes. “Only because you asked so nicely…”

Your hand finally brushed his neck, feeling the fast, hard pulse there. The sound that tore from his throat was almost a growl.

In a heartbeat, he was on you, his mouth claiming yours, his big hands gripping your hips like he was afraid you’d vanish. But even in that rush, you could feel him holding something back… a strength caged by the thinnest thread.

“Clark…” you murmured against his lips, testing to see if that thread would break.