the-nerdy-goddess

Clark chose it to take a moment to breathe, to give his mind a reprieve from the mental load it is to think straight when all he senses is the smell of your perfume wafting off you from where you sit across the office.

Come to think of it, the air in the room is starting to smell quite familiar.

He turns around so fast, he nearly drops the files he's holding onto like they're a lifeline. He almost chokes on his own spit when he goes to swallow down the flustering. His glasses have gone slightly askew, and he wouldn't be surprised if his hair was a complete and total mess to pair nicely with his red face.

“Uh–Hi! You…had some copies, too?” He's making a fool of himself, more than usual, and he thinks he may have to just fly into the sun once this interaction is done.

You hum from where you are at the door, smiling with darkly glossed lips. You take a few steps towards him, just slow enough for Clark to feel like a little lamb looking up at lioness and her enchanted, flicking eyes distracting him from her blood-soaked maw.

“No,” you shrug, “just needed something.”

Clark somehow gets backed into a printer and clears his throat like it will cover the sound of him hitting the machine. “Ah,” he nods, quickly turning around, happy to have any excuse to avoid further humiliating himself.

He starts shoving papers into folders. The closer you step, the warmer the air becomes, the warmer he becomes until he's betraying his Mama's name with his awful thoughts and the awful reaction his body is having to them. To you.

Before he can even begin to sort his thoughts enough to pretend he's not a pervert, he feels your shoulder brush up against the side of his arm. He's reminded of just how small you actually are compared to him, after his brain has done nothing but make you feel like something towering over him with your divinity—(is that what you are?).

He glances at you reaching your hand up for one of the upper shelves. You don't seem to be stretching very far—that is, you don't seem to be trying very hard. Which doesn't mean anything! As lovely and professional as your skirt is, in his professional opinion, it is a bit on the shorter end. Your tights do their job in covering what your skirt cannot, but they also just give him a really lovely outline of the bottom half of your soft, pillow-y thighs, only to then offer a direct path all the way down the curve of your calves.

He imagines what it would be like to hold your leg in his hands. How soft would it be, how small. Would you laugh if he squeezed, or would you sigh as the tension released? And if it sighed, would it be a quiet breath, or would the relief let the gentlest moan slip just enough to supply his dirtier thoughts with something to think about a million times over.

“Kent?”

His head snaps up at the speed of light. He pales when he realizes he's been caught red-handed staring at your legs like a total creep.

You offer this little smile, and he's so hopeless that he chooses to ignore the deviant grin that hides, thinly-veiled, in your voice. “Could you help me reach that?”

He follows your finger up to the box of index cards just out of reach on the shelf behind you. He swallows thickly, nodding to himself as he brings his folders back to his chest.

You don't move. You're still pushed up against the shell, your hand resting lazily on a shelf that you can reach. And it doesn't seem like you'll be moving any time soon.

He clears his throat nervously, “Y-yeah. ‘Course.”

Clark holds his breath like it'll save him as he takes little steps forward, shuffling his feet as he slowly gets closer to you. And closer. Until his body is nearly pressed up against your back.

Your warmth is seeping through his clothes and into his skin. Every breath brings nothing but the smell of your perfume, your hair, the deodorant underneath it all. He holds his breath and clenches his jaw like that will keep the insistent arousal in his pants from threatening to press into your back.

He snatches the index cards the moment they're within reach. And just as he's pulling away, he swears he felt your body brush back against his own, your bottom pressing into him the way a cat would to an owner's leg.

Stacks of paper fall to the ground in a fluttering mess of scattered files and folders. He wishes the ground would swallow him whole.

He's too proper to accuse you of doing this on purpose. So as he rushes to the floor with a clumsy urgency and starts haphazardly collecting his things, he does it while rattling out apologies and repeating in his head over and over again, “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

He's a heap of a man on his knees. His glasses are off kilter, his tie is thrown over his shoulder, his hair is probably a floppy mess. If he ever had a plan to impress you during this whole ordeal, it has been disgraced into a need for a speedy exit in the hopes that you'll forget about it, and you can both pretend it never happened.

“Sorry! I don't know what happened. I–”

A black heel lands abruptly on top of the folder he went to collect. He freezes in place, his brain short circuiting into a mess of confusion and shock and spell-related dysfunction.

His gaze slowly drags up the length of your leg, clad in sheer black tights that just barely hide your skin from him. He travels past your knee, along your skirt, up your blouse where his eyes linger ungentlemen-like on your bosom.

Your eyes lock. There's a smile on your lips that makes him feel like he's been set on fire from the inside.

You linger, just watching each other like you've got him locked into an enchantment—and you do. With slow, teasing hands, you grab the middle of your skirt and begin to drag it up your thigh. Clark watches, unable to look away. His breath is useless, his glasses are becoming harder to see through, and he's sure his face is red as tomatoes in the summer sun.

“If you don't mind, Kent,” you hum, lifting your knee and letting it meet the underside of his chin. You tilt his head up to meet your gaze once more. He's completely starstruck, glued to your every will like sap on a tree. “I think I might need a little more of your help…”

Clark gulps.

His mouth falls and closes, and then falls once more, before finally relenting. “My…help?” His wide eyes are bright even in the dim room.

Your heel returns to the paper-covered floor. With a tiny breath and a glance away, you murmur, “Unless you don't want to.”

Something twists in his chest. He's pretty sure by now that you are, in fact, doing this on purpose, but the off chance that you are as dejected as you seem has shattered his heart out of his own idiocy. If he weren't already on his knees before you, he would be crashing down onto them now.

Clark eagerly reaches a giant hand to you, wrapping it around your calf with a kind of gentleness a man his size shouldn't have. He's warm where his palm cradles your leg, his other hand holding your ankle like you're made of pure gold.

The way his eyes shine at you is enough to drive you mad. His thumb brushes the inside of your knee as he tentatively drags his hand beneath the bend of your knee.

“What…” his shallow breath stutters. “What kind of help?” His glasses are beginning to fog up an almost ridiculous amount. He hopes you don't notice and quietly knows you do.

A grin makes its way to your lips, spreading as your hand comes to card your fingers through the black curls of his hair. He shudders beneath your touch. “I think you know.”

There's a moment where neither of you moves. He looks up at you with an unbelieving kind of reverence. His thoughts are rushing, piling on top of each other and making them near incoherent.

She wants me. She wants me? Terrifying. I never thought she'd choose me. She wants me. Beautiful. Is this a dream? She has to be a dream. So pretty. I have to worship her. I adore you. Am I dreaming?

Clark's lips press against your knee and linger. His eyes never leave yours. He traces his mouth tentatively along your skin, watching you as his hands carefully make their way up your leg, slipping beneath your skirt and spreading wide over your hips. His fingers dip beneath the waistband of your tights, and he slides them down your legs with a painstaking care that makes your chest shake.

Clark cradles your ankle as he removes your heels, holds his breath when your tights are placed gently on the floor. He looks back up at you with eyes that shine before his gaze drags down your body, stopping at your skirt.

He takes his time in lifting it up and over your hips, and his breath stutters at the sight. He forgets he's supposed to be cherishing you (he's also forgotten that time is not as generous as he's playing it to be), and he dives forward to press his mouth to your clothed pussy. He kisses you over your underwear, licking the wet he finds there and moaning at the taste.

You smile at him, drawn by the way he mouths at you like you're something irresistible. You let your fingers curl through his hair again, tilting it back just enough to make him look at you again.

“We don't have all day, Kent.”

Your gentle chide kicks him into overdrive. You're right. Of course, you're right. You asked for his help, and time is not on his side. Anyone could walk in, or come looking for one of you after being gone for so long. Although he really wants to cherish every inch of you, he knows he can't properly do that. At least not here.

So he'll just have to do so well that you let him do it again, when he can truly take his time with you.

Clark peels your underwear off with a little more urgency, just as careful to set it where he'd left your tights. He doesn't let himself gawk at the sight of you for too long as he lifts one of your legs over his shoulder, taking on most of your weight with ease.

When Clark's mouth meets you, you gasp.

He's indulgent. He leaves kisses for you to feel all over after he's done. They linger on the inside of your thighs, your mound, the wetness of your pussy—which he gladly buries his face in. He licks and sucks along your slick folds until you—who he has never seen with a hair out of place—are covering your mouth to keep quiet as breathy hums become muffled moans behind your hand.

Clark is anything but quiet. He's almost whining at the taste of you on his lips, a mix of spit and arousal coating his chin. The tip of his nose brushes your clit in such a way that you know he has to be doing it on purpose. (He's not.)

His eyes are heavy-lidded, his skin is the prettiest shade of red, and his crooked glasses are so fogged up that you wonder how well he can actually see. They'd probably do better off, but you quite like the way he looks like this, messy and generally wrecked. He mumbles into your pussy like his mouth isn't full. “So good. You're so—mmph!” The nastiest slurping sound fills the room, and you're breathlessly trying not to moan while also trying to reprimand him for such blatant noise.

“Clark!” Your whisper is almost not a whisper. Clark moans at the sound of his name on your lips. He has never heard you say it before, and fearing it now is doing numbers on him and his ruined underwear. “C-can't be so loud. We're—m’my god. Gonna get caught.”

Right now, Clark couldn't give less of a fuck. He's here on his knees in front of you with his face between your legs, living an absolute dream. If Perry White himself opened that door and fired him on the spot, he can't say that he would be too upset for as long as he could still taste you on his tongue and remember the feeling of your moans through the vibrations in your thighs.

He flattens his tongue and licks, he wraps his pink lips around your clit and sucks, his arms come up and wrap securely around your hips to make sure you can't squirm away in your pleasure. The sheer size of him is evident enough when he's standing, but here with him on his knees from you, it's staggering. Your thighs are the size of his biceps, for fuck’s sake. The man is massive, but he crumbles completely the moment you flutter your lashes too well.

You feel his tongue stroke along your sex, dipping inside to taste your arousal as it gathers. You feel the filthy, wet sensation of drool making you impossibly soaked. Your greedy hands only pull him closer to you—if that were possible. He clings to you like he's worried you'll slip away, with strong arms clasped around your thighs and his glasses crooked from being pressed so closely to you.

“Right there, mhm.” Your voice is this shaky thing in the air, hushed but overwhelmingly aroused. When you feel one of his hands brush his thumb along your slit, your thighs tense. He teases your folds, stroking and spreading your wetness around, using it to rub indulgent circles over your clit. You feel like glass ready to shatter.

“Fuck—Kent,” you gasp. His mouth goes slack against your pussy. He sucks your clit into his mouth until you're holding your breath to keep from making sound. Your goal dissipates when he slides one thick finger into you. You feel your knee threaten to bend and give out beneath you, lucky to have most of your weight held up by the mass between your thighs.

Clark coaxes in and out of you in deep, intentional strokes, curls until he finds a spot in you that has your heart beating a little differently, your breath shifting into something instinctually shaky. He's looking up at you over the rim of his crooked glasses to see how your eyes have glossed over, how your jaw goes loose. A second finger joins the first, and he's pumping his fingers into you until you're moaning like you've forgotten where you are.

Refusing to go far, Clark's words are slurred against your slick folds as he murmurs in hushed warnings. “Sound so pretty–” a stray whimper slips out of you in response, “–but you, mmph, gotta be quiet, hon–”

He cuts himself off with his eagerness to keep tasting you, greedy and enchanted by you. You make some breathy sound and raise a hand to cover your mouth. It's a weak attempt, but it works well enough.

He just works his fingers so well against that fucking spot. He sucks and licks at your clit like candy, and you're too close to handle it all. Your thighs quiver with each passing second. He can see you, hear you, feel you getting closer. It's like experiencing a miracle, some strange and beautiful magic unraveling before him.

You struggle to think straight as you feel that heat gathering, the knot building into something glorious. You grab and tug at his dark curls, you arch your back and roll your hips against his face, you try as hard as you can to hold in your sounds.

Clark is aching for it just as much as you. You look down at him, the mess of a man he is on his knees and drooling into your cunt. He's so pretty, probably the most beautiful man with the most beautiful eyes you've ever seen. And looking at him, peaking over his glasses and gazing at you like you're precious, a thought passes through you that maybe you've seen those gorgeous eyes before…

You don't have much time to think about it, though. His fingers coax you a certain way, and his lips smacking against you as his tongue massages your clit gets to be too much when he moans into you like he's never had anything better. You hadn't realized just how close you were until your fingers are tugging at his curls and your jaw is slack with a sneaking pleasure.

“Oh– Clark, I–” you gasp, stifling your sounds to a quiet squeak that would embarrass you if you weren't so far gone. “Fuck, yes, Clark. Yes, yes, yes.”

Clark holds tightly as he carries you through your orgasm like a mission. He's deliberate and indulgent, he looks like he'll fall apart from just watching you. Every tremble and every breathy sound that comes out of you has him that much more disheveled and needy.

“Good,” he huffs, his deep voice dangerously close to a whimper of his own. “Good girl. So– mmm– you're so perfect.”

You struggle to put yourself back together. Every time you start to come down, his tongue strokes another tremble out of you that shoots up your spine and makes you soft. You're stuck doing nothing but shaking and failing to hold your own weight until the sharp feeling of overstimulation has you pushing him away from you with a gasp.

You stand there on shaky legs, with Clark still knelt in front of you and ready to catch you if you fall. He stares up at you like you're a shining star, and you would look shyly away if his eyes weren't so enticing.

You reach forward, and as your hands come to his face, he reaches up to catch your elbow when your fingers find his glasses. It is, by no means, a rough touch. It's like he's bracing himself, wound up with an anxiety that he watches you notice.

Then you adjust his crooked glasses to sit right on his face. His eyes flutter when you stroke your thumb delicately along the apple of his cheek.

With bated breath and a smile softer than he's ever seen on you, you murmur. “Thank you.” You push this lonely curl out of his face.

He looks like he's at a loss for words. So instead of answering, he presses this soft, gentle little kiss to the inside of your knee. Then he's redressing you with movements slower than what the unintimidating threat of time should allow.

It's only once you're fully decent again that he finally stands to his full height, dwarfing you once more. The sight of him, toe to toe with you and giant, has you looking smaller than usual. It's not an alarming look either. You look like you're trying not to fluster. He's never seen you look like this. And it's driving him crazy.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, deep and gentle and unnervingly sweet.

You smile at him, and he's lost all his breath in a moment. “You should get cleaned up. You look like a mess.”

Your gaze drifts down, finds his mouth, plump-lipped and pink.

When you kiss him, he's frozen for the first second. Then he's wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into him like he's been waiting years for this. His body molds to yours like your body completes him. He kisses you until you're just as breathless as him.

And when you pull back, you can taste yourself off his lips. You give him another smile, this one filthy and sly. “See you around, Kent.”

And then you leave him standing alone in the closet like nothing ever happened, folders and papers on the floor, the index cards you'd asked him to grab for you left behind. The only sign you were ever there is the lingering of your perfume in the air, your taste on his tongue, and the visible outline of his cock against his slacks.

Superman taglist: @the-nerdy-goddess Clark Kent taglist: @disillusioniary @pinkpantheris @joaofandoms @harumscarumcos @dethspllz @yogichi @jackierose902109 @serendippindots @linda-park-arrow @tiredkiwi26 View taglist here...

He's grateful for the little victories, even though it meant he had to pay for it by spilling his, and only his, piping hot coffee from the nice café farther from The Planet (which is another reason he was so late, as they were as much apology/bribe coffees as it was a pick-me-up for his less than chipper mood). And he forgot to pack an extra shirt. Lois threw him a sympathetic look when he grabbed her cup before being roped into another bout of urgency.

So Clark was late and tired showing up to work, now smelling like coffee and wet clothes. And just when he thinks that might be the last of his really unfortunate events of the day, he realizes he's past due on one deadline and there are two more to meet within the next three days.

So, yes, when he finally gets home (after stopping a major traffic accident all the way across town in the middle of his commute) and you're sitting so pretty at the kitchen counter, he's more than happy to see you smiling up at him like your day has improved tenfold upon just the sight of him. He drops everything carelessly by the door and crosses the floor in a few long strides.

He scoops you up into his arms, curves his body around yours as your arms drape over his shoulders. A surprised yelp quietly escapes you when he holds you tight, his hands greedy and already grabbing at places that make you feel warm.

Before you can open your mouth to greet him, he crashes his mouth down on yours, doesn't apologize at the bite of lips against teeth. You don't mind, you're still reeling to catch up. He dips down, hands low on your waist before he's hoisting you up with his large hands cupping just below your ass, squeezing your thighs.

Before you know it, he's got you naked against the window-wall that opens out to his beautiful nighttime Metropolis view. It's a shame you can't see it with your back pinned up against the glass, your arms and legs wrapped around his giant body. He's got his elbows hooked beneath your thighs and your pussy open wide for his thick length. You're holding onto his shoulders for dear life as he fucks you against the window for all to see.

It doesn't help that it's dark out and the lights in the apartment are not. If you weren't so high up, you'd panic more about the threat of being seen by anyone who happens to catch you getting railed (and maybe if your brain wasn't struggling to form coherent thoughts—that might help too).

“C-Clark, fuck, I can't–” You don't get to finish your words, on account of the surprised moan that squeaks out of you when his cock bullies your cervix with a few too-consecutive thrusts.

Clark's teeth are clenched so tight, you're afraid they'll crack. His voice is husky, his breath heavy, and he's watching your face where you're trying to hold his eye contact. You're having a hard time with the delirious tears in your eyes.

He shushes you gently, kissing your forehead as he adjusts to pull you closer. “It's okay, bunny. You can take it. Just–Just let me do this, and I swear to you—I will make it up.”

You're already really sensitive. Your mind is a scrambled mess, your nerves are firing at will, and your body has conceded to his every will like putty. Somewhere between the second and third orgasm, your pussy just started sucking him in with the kind of greed that probably docks points off your sense of feminism. The fourth one claimed all sense of control of your mouth.

Clark's got far too much stamina, he's already stuffed you full twice since opening that door. (The first time on top of the kitchen island. The second on the rug in the living room—you were trying to pick up your shirt and seeing his load leaking out of you like that kind of set his brain on fire.) You said something about the neighbors and a noise complaint, and his response was along the lines of “I want all of Metropolis to hear you moaning my name” and proceeded to start fucking you against the window to show you how serious he is.

He doesn't mean to get so…horny. You're just so beautiful, and he just adores you so much. After the day he's had, seeing you was enough of a pleasure to send him off the deep end. He wants you to feel how much he adores you, to fill you with it, to see it drooling out of you so he can push it back in.

“Doin’ so good for me,” he coos, dipping his head down as far as he can to kiss the top of your head. You're squished so close between him and the window that his body completely towers your own, effectively sandwiching you. And he's moaning like he's on Cloud Nine. “Pretty bunny, so warm. Have no idea how much I needed you, an’ you're bein’ so perfect.”

The filthy wet sound of his cock smacking in and out of you is absolutely drenching the air in lust. It's loud and slick, and Clark's head is spinning with the smell of you. He doesn't realize your voice is just a bit pitchier than normal, less composed (a little more on the feral side).

You try to speak between harsh breaths and whines. “Baby, it's…so much. So big and—an’ so deep.”

He nods quickly. “I know. I know, baby, but you can take it. I know you can” He shifts to an angle that only allows for sharper thrusts, your breasts and body bouncing every time his hips meet you. It's rough and wild, wilder than you're used to from Clark, just a little too deep and a little too rough. The way you spasm and gush around him adds more fog to hibrain. “Take it, bunny. Take it, take it all. F-fuck, take it.”

The swear that stutters off his tongue sends a jolt of electricity through you, and the feeling that ensues has completely dissolved the last part of your brain that wasn't completely drunk on him. You moan and whine against the heat of his body, and you sound sweeter than any pornstar ever could (not that he's in the habit of watching a lot of porn, but he's heard moaning before).

He shifts one hand to your hip, presses the rough pad of his thumb to your clit and tries not to push even closer into you (he's going to shatter the glass if he keeps it up). You let out a choked moan, gasping as you clamp down around him once more, gripping like a vice, as though you're trying to suck his orgasm out of him.

There's a dull ache beginning to make itself known somewhere deep in you, but you can't bring yourself to care because mixed with the delicious height of another awesome orgasm, it feels perfect.

The bordering-on-crying whine of his name that shudders through your body and off your tongue is what sets him off in the end. It's this raw thing that probably wasn't even supposed to leave your head. “Yeah, yes! God, Clarkie, ‘m so full.”

“Oh, fuck!” He doesn't mean to swear—or growl. It releases itself from his chest as he pushes his hips flush against your body. “Thaaat’s it. Take it all, good girl.” He holds you like he would if he were flying—tight and secure and restlessly protective. His hot load spills inside of you, a little too much, as his hips desperately search more of you, pulling you impossibly closer until he's rubbing so deep that you wince.

Clark kisses you like he's afraid this might be his last chance. He stays buried in you for a long time, the both of you catching your breath as he slowly regains his overly tender affection. His grip loosens, he eases out of you with a regretful grunt and traces hearts into the skin of your aching thighs in a quiet apology. He kisses all over your face as he takes you to the couch and lays you out beneath him.

He rests his chin on your tummy, looks up at you and lets his hands spoil you. He kisses anywhere he can reach, massages your belly with loving hands. His voice is so, so tender when he speaks. “Sorry, I went too hard.” If you didn't know better, you'd say he sounded a bit choked up to you.

You smile, your fingers stroke carefully through his fluffy black hair. “S’okay, you needed it, and I'm happy to give.”

He kisses just below your navel. “Still sorry.”

You pet his head, fingers moving through his scalp almost like petting a dog. His eyes flutter like one. He's so pretty right now, droopy-eyed, pink-skinned, sweat-kissed and sex-soft as his hands continue to soothe you. “I forgive you. I kinda…really liked it anyway.”

He rolls his eyes hard, but you don't miss the blush on his cheeks. He frames your hips with his large hands, kisses below your navel again. Then he's nudging his biceps beneath your thighs and encouraging them onto his shoulders with a sappy grin. He pulls you forward with a sudden tug, small for him but almost scrambling for you.

“Let me make it up like I promised.” His smile knocks the wind out of you and any voice in your head that says no (mostly for the sake of waiting to calm down) is thoroughly and disrespectfully denied in return. He kisses the space of skin where your thigh meets your hip too softly. You hardly feel it.

You almost whine, it'd be embarrassing if he hadn't heard much worse from you. “Please,” you breathe, nodding gently.

He smiles with teeth this time, and you're a total goner. He shifts his hips on the couch, his cock squished between him and the cushions as he tries not to grind himself down on them. (How he's still so needy—cock still a little hard, tip still a little pink, still leaky with whatever’s left in him—you'll never know. He lasts longer than drying paint, you swear.)

His eyes find your pussy, swollen and wet and stretched to keep him snug, as spit begins to gather in his mouth. His cum is drooling out of you, and he has to focus on not getting distracted and burying himself inside your pretty cunt again. He doesn't even say anything before he's eating you out like a man starved, moaning and grunting and gasping with just a little too much desperation.

You catch your breath between whimpers and moans and let your thighs clamp around his head tight. He can take it.

He watches you struggle to breathe through your pleasure, and finds himself in utter awe of you. You're just so pretty and perfect. After he's made you cum on his mouth and fingers a few times, he's definitely going to fuck you in the shower and then again into the bed until the shape of your bodies is imprinted in the mattress (at least).

He loves you so much. He needs you to feel it everywhere—dripping down your leg, aching between your hips, tender and bruised where his kisses get too excited. He's going to make sure you do. He's got to thank you for making his day better somehow, after all.

Superman taglist: @the-nerdy-goddess Clark Kent taglist: @disillusioniary @pinkpantheris @joaofandoms @harumscarumcos @dethspllz @yogichi @jackierose902109 @serendippindots @linda-park-arrow Tag yourself here...

Outside, the charity ball is still commencing. People drink and mingle and talk about shit no one actually gives a fuck about. Tommy's brothers and sister, Polly, and anybody who's anybody is here. Including yourself and your husband, as co-founders (done by you on purpose) of one of the more successful cigar and alcohol import businesses. He is likely still chatting with that obnoxious man near the finger sandwiches, who slobbered on your hand when he kissed it, about…you don't even know what they were talking about. You don't care.

Thomas Shelby approached as he had, handsome and calculating as ever. He'd spoken a bit with your husband, asked you to dance with a quip about returning you safe and sound. He was charming as you danced, flattering you, talking to you like you aren't just some business man’s wife and rather like someone who knew a thing or two about business herself. A double entendre, a risqué hand low on your back, and a whisper in your ear later, and he had you hidden away in a random tabled room and kissed you until you moaned.

Now his hand is pushing at the back of your head and his cock is down your throat. You suckle around him, and he grunts. His eyes never leave from your teary ones as his other hand joins the first, and he slowly pushes you down farther on his cock. “Good girl,” he draws as his pelvis meets your nose.

He holds you there until you're gagging for air. He pulls you off, and you nearly gasp too loudly as you desperately catch your breath. Tommy's thumb strokes pre and spit from your lips and smirks. His fingers hook under your chin, and when his thumb dips into your mouth, you close and suck until all you taste is his skin. He licks his bottom lip.

Tommy stands you up less than gentlemanly, turns you around without missing a beat until his chest is pressed up against your back. One of his hands comes up to cradle your throat, and he kisses a spot behind your ear. “Lift your dress,” he rumbles lowly.

You do as you're told. Not because he told you to, but because you're aching for it between your thighs. You bunch your dress up, and he leans you forward as he grabs himself, giving a few strokes.

“Stay quiet, yeah?” You nod quickly, and he nods back once. “Good.”

He splits you open on his cock a second later. A choked sound leaves you in your attempts to stay quiet, and you're covering your own mouth as his hips meet your ass. He shushes you tauntingly, gripping your hip in his free hand.

“Shut up and take it, dove.”

You do. Tommy thrusts into you with a fervent desire. You pant as the pleasure makes your legs shake. He's thick and far better than your husband ever was. He fucks you like it doesn't matter if he breaks you a little. If both your ragged breaths and your stray whines don't get you caught, the sound his hips make as they slap sharply against your skin surely will.

“Tommy,” you struggle to whisper. “Don't stop.”

He snickers, tightens his hold on your throat. Your ears tingle. “Why would I?” he hums, giving a particularly rough thrust that has your knees almost buckling beneath you. “You take me too well.”

He pushes you just a little bit farther forward. The angle allows him to hit a different spot, a better spot. He bullies your pussy with pleasure, smiles when your sounds grow.

“Keep that up, and we'll get caught,” he rasps. Another whine slips out of you, and he chuckles. “Or maybe that's what you want. Want someone to walk by and hear you, catch you fucking another man while your husband mingles by the fucking ice sculptures?”

You smile, laughing breathlessly. “Maybe then he'll try to fuck me properly.” His hips snap forward and you stifle another moan. “Hah, n-not that he's big enough anyway—oh, god.”

He shakes his head and his smirk deepens. “Dirty girl, speakin’ of your husband like that. Tch, tch, tch. Someone ought to teach you to be nice and quiet, eh?”

With the way he's pistoning into you, quiet doesn't necessarily seem like his goal. He's spearing you on his cock, stretching you wider with every stroke. You reach to grip the edge of a table for stability, moaning a bit too loud as your breaths become heavier, buzzing in the air around you both.

Tommy's hips falter for a moment. Before you can complain, he's slapping his hand over your mouth and holding your body to his chest. His shush is a whisper of its own as you try to get past the irritation of his pause to hear the faint sounds of a group of footsteps approaching down the hall.

You go still as stone, holding your breath as you both sit in the anticipation that's baking you alive. After barely a second, you feel his hips press up against you and suddenly remember that he's still buried in your pussy and twitching. When he grinds against you, body more than pressed against body, his hand shifts up to pinch your nose and your mouth at once, effectively silencing you.

He doesn't stop. He just keeps thrusting into you, slow enough not to be given away by the slick sounds of your shared arousal but fast enough to make your body lurch with the sudden need to breathe really hard. It goes straight to your head, makes you deliciously dizzy, and adds a tally to the board of things you now deeply need that your husband could never provide. Maybe Tommy's willing to sign a contract with you…

The thoughts are overshadowed by the conflicting emotions rushing through you—panic at the risk of being caught, bliss making your body pliant and loose, irritation at being interrupted in the middle of a wonderful high.

“Go on,” he suddenly purrs in your ear. “Moan for me right now and let them know what's happenin’.” It takes so much not to listen, not to stop caring and cry out his name and shame your husband for being useless of everything but the only important one: being a man you can take the last name of and do what you want (with a fib or two to really sell the “My husband's a wonderful business man”, the “No, he certainly didn't do so well by listening to me just because he's a goddamn idiot and I actually know what I'm doing”, and the “Of course I love him and didn't just marry rich and stupid. That would be absurd!” bits.

The sounds have reached their loudest as they walk directly past the door. And don't they just take their sweet time about it!

“Do it. Tell them how Tommy Shelby is ruinin’ your cunt so your husband can't even try to fuck you anymore. Tell them.”

You keen into his hand, still tight over your mouth. But your nose is free. You could still shout if you wanted. It would be muffled but they would hear you, and they would come to see. They would watch as Tommy fucks you from behind while your wedding ring gleams in the light that would bleed in from the hall. And you really want to.

You want to see them recognize you, recognize the fact Tommy is not your husband. You want their eyes to widen and their hands to clutch their chests at the indecency of it all. You want to look them in the eyes as you smirk and toss your piece-of-junk ring to the floor (for a wealthy man, your bands are lack-lustre at best). And you want Tommy to give you the filthiest kiss as he keeps fucking you like a two-bit whore.

His hips, though his thrusts are shallow, are still sharp and unforgiving. You barely manage to keep your moans blocked by his palm as your eyes squint at the rising of your arousal. You can feel some of it dripping down your legs. You're soaked, and Tommy chuckles darkly at the easy glide of his cock.

The steps are almost completely gone when the hand on your hip grabs your bicep and he's adjusting once more to let the sinful sounds of skin-on-skin echo in the room again. You moan too loud, muffled in his hand but not well enough. You wouldn't be surprised if the footsteps returned. You wouldn't be surprised if you didn't even notice them.

You reach your free hand beneath your dress, pressing your finger against your clit with ease. His lips are brushing your ear when he speaks again. His voice is a deep rumbling. The heaviness of his breath and the waning rhythm of his thrusts is how you know his brain is just as hazy as yours is.

“I'm gonna to fill you up, darlin’,” he grunts thickly. “Then I want you…to go back out there…and dance with your husband while my fucking cum drips down your legs. Nod.” You do, emphatically.

He huffs the smallest chuckle. “Good.” The hand on your mouth slips back down to your throat, where he squeezes until you can hardly breathe. Your lips part and a strangled moan leaves your throat. The arousal pulses between your legs.

Tommy fucks you in a way that makes it impossible to be silent. In harmony with the clap of skin, guttural moans and bated breath fill the space between you. You grind your hips back on him as you circle your clit. Tommy's hands tighten some more. His sounds move deeper as he grunts and groans with every cruel thrust.

Your legs are shaking at the growing pleasure within you. Your thin breath trembles. Tommy's fists grip you tight until you can't breathe anymore. And then he slams into you until you're cumming around him with a strangled cry. Your walls flutter around him as he buries his cock to the hilt inside of you. His hips rut into you, you go lightheaded at the growl of a curse that sounds like it's been ripped from his chest like a rib.

Without breath, the high of your orgasm feels so intense that it feels like it's stalled in the moment right before the very top of the height. The heat of his cum presses deep, spilling inside of you like he means for it to stick.

His fingers loosen slowly as he gives you more air a little at a time. You gasp and the rest of your high comes crashing down in waves. “God, Tommy. Yes, fuck!” You struggle to stand, and he holds you up to continue to grind into you.

When the pleasure begins to crest, and your brains aren't so hazy with your releases, you both catch your breaths in the quiet, heated space between you. The air is full to bursting with it.

He pulls apart from you, spreads you apart to see the result of his good work. He hums lowly, savoring the sight of his spend beginning to leak out of you. He smirks before he flips your dress down, straightens it out, and then turns you to face him.

He kisses you, something sloppy and primal. He bites down on your lip until they're kiss-swollen. You're sure you probably look a mess, but it'll be easy to fix.

He lingers close, your lips still brushing. “Go on, then,” he says. “Go see your husband. Give him a dance while you're filled with me, eh?”

You smile slowly, laughing delicately in the air between you. You bring your hands up to grasp the lapels of his tux and pull him close. “We should make this a habit.” You kiss him again and then start stepping away from him, still a little shaky in the legs.

“Wouldn't be a bad habit.”

You wipe at your lip where your gloss feels a little smeared. You smirk at the slightest red tint to his lips. You smooth out your dress, shoot him a wink, and place a hand on the doorknob. “Until we meet again, Mr. Shelby.”

A small smile finds his lips. He hums in return. You're gone a moment later.

After fixing yourself in a mirror, you find your husband where you suspected. By the finger sandwiches, still talking to the man who slobbered on your hand when he kissed it.

You sidle up next to him, the picture of a doting wife, as you hook your hand in the crook of his elbow. He looks over at you, pleased by the display.

“Darling,” you hum, leaning into his side. You tilt your head slightly to the side, batting your lashes with the most affection you could possibly muster.

He smiles upon seeing you and glances around briefly. The champagne flute in his hand bubbles idly. “Where did that Shelby go?” he wonders, setting his glass on the table at his side. He glances down at the necklace around your neck, terribly askew. He reaches up to straighten it as you try to contain the glinting in your eye.

You hum, your thumb stroking your bottom lip briefly, just subtle enough to present as a thought, rather than a confession. You wonder how long it would take him to find out—You wonder if he’d ever figure it out.

“Swept away by another.” Your hand gently squeezes his bicep, and you raise a finger to stroke his chin briefly, so soft and tender. “Darling, won't you dance with me?” Your voice is a purr. He gives in immediately—you watch in real time as he melts into something malleable. Because you know how to work a man.

“You don't mind, do you?” he asks, reluctantly looking to his new friend. He holds his hands up and shakes his head. He steps back once and gestures, as if to say, "Be my guest”.

So you lead him to the mass of people dancing to the slow playing instruments. Your husband takes your hand and wraps an arm around your back, pulls you close so your bodies are pressed together. You let him turn and twirl you as you relish in the feeling of Tommy's cum slowly drooling down your leg.

The Peaky Blinders taglist:@the-nerdy-goddess @theredviolets The Devil taglist: @lyarr24​ @runnning-outof-time​ @goblinjnr @kmc1989 @shelbyisms @weepingwitchofthewest @cl-0-vr @thoticious @sinarainbows @the-nerdy-goddess @urmomsgirlfriend1 @bernelflo @dragonslayersupremacy @alurafairy @pietroxreader @darkcastle167 @neonpurplestars89 @motopoppp @mrkdvidal1989 @thegen3sisark @niktwazny303 @feyresqueen @lovelylilbadone @electraphyng @carolina-angel @xsweetcatastrophe @strangeions @mournfuldeer Tag yourself here...

When you finally get a response, the most relieved breath leaves you as you crowd your phone screen like ancient text.

Love: Sorry for what?

You: nothing i just want your attention.

Love: Oh my god

You: loisss PLEASE come home

She's been away at work all day. You let yourself into her apartment a couple of hours ago when you woke up with nothing to do but think about the fact that your body needs her to come home right now.

You also just miss her and want to kiss her sloppy style.

Love: I'll be home soon

You: that's not fast enough. i need you NOW

Love: I can't leave in the middle of work, sweetheart

You pout, shoving your face into her pillow and groaning loudly. She must hate you if she won't ditch work for you, surely. That's literally the only possibility. She hates you, and she wants you to die.

You: you suck

Love: Oh goodness

Love: I love you.

You: hm.

You: iloveyoutoo

~

Long story short, she didn't come home soon.

You've been sulking around her apartment since you texted her earlier that day. You expected her home when she got off at work, which was usually late already—usually around six or seven, early enough to make dinner and watch a movie or something of the like with you.

But it's nearly eight, and she has yet to show her face. You got antsy a long time ago (really when she didn't show up at the earliest time possible), and now you're close to completely losing it the longer you spend surrounded by her but not her.

She's probably forgotten all about you, out there in the city finishing an article or chasing a lead while you lay here—alone… needy… desperate… doomed, even.

Okay, maybe you're being a bit dramatic, but it's okay because she said she would be home soon, and she isn't.

Oh, fuck. This is Metropolis. If she's late coming home, how do you know it's because of work and not some freak accident with a giant monster that even Superman (Clark, it's not hard to put two and two together) hadn't been fast enough to save her from?

Who are you kidding—this is Lois. And it's Superman. She's fine. She's just busy. Too busy for you apparently.

God, you're so horny.

You lay on her bed, staring up at the ceiling with your hands on your belly and too many thoughts rushing through your brain.

“‘I can't leave work,’ she says. ‘I'll be home soon,’ she says.” You lean over, reaching into the bedside table drawer and fumbling around for your faithful friend. Your fingers wrap around one, and pick it up, dropping it with the roll of your eyes when the color doesn't match to grab the other. “Well, fuck you, you're not home soon.”

You stare at your wand, pouting hopelessly. “Wish I could fuck you, but noo,” you murmur quite pathetically. “I'll handle it myself.”

You don't waste time on building yourself up or teasing or any of the fluffy shit you don't really care about right now. You just need to get off. You've been so needy lately, and it's come to a head now as you wait for your lover to come home so you can finally fuck her.

But now she's busy (always busy), and you have to deal with it on your own like some sort of peasant.

The wand buzzes almost violently from the setting you've put it at. And as you press it to your clit, expecting any kind of relief, you find nothing. You might as well be pressing it against the back of your knee.

You huff, shifting it around and around as you look for a better angle, desperate for something and finding absolutely nothing.

At one point, you let out a half-growl, your mini tantrum raging in the form of your feet beating into the mattress. You just need one orgasm. Just the one. You will literally ask for nothing else if you can just get there a single time (that's a lie, but it's the thought that counts).

Sometime during your fit, Lois steps through the front door with a huff. Setting her stuff down by the door, she closes it behind her and lets herself feel satisfied that she'd gotten her lead. At least tomorrow, she can just focus on writing the actual article without having to chase down a million dead-ends just to find something credible.

She'd been so distracted by the aching in her muscles and the relief of shuffling off her stifling shoes that she hadn't even noticed your stuff by the door. (To be fair, your stuff is so frequently by the door that it's more natural to see them than to not see them.) She's just about to text you that she's finally home when she hears a groan from down the hall.

She pauses, shuffling her phone back to her pocket as she trudges farther into her apartment, peaking around the corner to see nothing out of the ordinary in the kitchen nor the living room.

So when she gets to her bedroom door and peaks through to find you in the middle of her bed, she's not surprised. She can't say she's particularly surprised to see you spread out on top of her sheets either, vibrator in hand where you're craving pleasure and crease between your brows where you can't find it.

She smiles, shaking her head gently as she pushes the door open gently and steps inside. “Aw, my poor baby,” she coos, walking up to you as you startle slightly. The look you give her almost makes her feel really bad for coming home so late—her bad feeling ends where her satisfaction at seeing you already in her bed begins. “Couldn't wait, huh?”

She comes to sit next to your head, lifting it gently to place on her lap as she strokes your cheeks lovingly.

“Don't tease,” you nearly whine, mostly pout. “I need you.”

She nods, brows raised in amusement. “I can see that.” Her eyes flit to the vibe, still going in your hand but not where you need it. She leans in, pressing her lips gently to yours and chuckling every time to reach up for more.

When you switch off your wand to touch her face, she pulls away just an inch. “Well, don't stop on my account.”

You raise a brow, your sass unrestrained due to your apparent arousal. “You need to start on my account.”

Lois shakes her head, chuckling. “Nuh-uh. I'm already interested.” She shifts fully onto the bed, your body snug between her legs as she lets you lean against hers. “Come on, I wanna watch you touch yourself for me.”

The thought is already exciting her. She's been at work all day, stressed and thinking about you. Now she gets to come home to find you trying to get off, just to see that you can't because it's not her doing it for you? She's incredibly intrigued.

You're whining again, pent up and already over her games. “Lois.”

“Nope. Let's go.” She pats your side lightly, flashing you one of her charming smiles. “But you can lose the wand. We don't need it.”

“Lois.”

“Uh-uh.” She takes it from you—you don't fight her—and sets it onto the bedside table, effectively out of your reach. “Go on.”

Suddenly you're shy. You shouldn't be, it's not like you and Lois are new to this department of your relationship. Far from it. She's seen your body a million times, she seen you touch yourself a million times.

But this… This feels a little different.

Your legs move to close. “I want you.”

Her fingertips rub soothingly against your scalp. She hums, “Maybe you need more motivation.” She leans in, her lips pressed just behind the shell of your ear as she lowers her voice to a gentle purr. You shudder in advance, brain already dangerously close to becoming mush at just the closeness, the sound of her voice, the touch of her fingers. “I'm not going to fuck you until you make yourself cum on your fingers.”

You whine, breaking off into a grumble as you all but roll your eyes. “You genuinely piss me off.”

She hums once more, raises a brow. “Then I guess there's no reason for me to touch you, baby.”

You panic. You really do, because it's not like that's always a bluff. She's left you hanging for less enough times to make your heart drop down to your stomach.

“No,” you exclaim, the sound coming out in a near squeak. And she fucking smiles. Because she was bluffing. And she just wanted to hear you whine again. And you fell for it. You huff, glancing away, “Fine, you win.” Then quieter, “Evil bitch.”

She lightly smacks your mouth, still smiling, now chuckling. “Watch your mouth.”

You scrunch your face, settling into an obnoxious voice, “‘Watch yer mouth’.”

She raises her brows, amusement bursting in her chest. A surprised scoff leaves her chest. “Oh, we're mocking people now? Is that what we're doing?”

You quickly drop your act, eyes wide in joyful fear. “NoI'msorry.”

“No, it's okay. I understand.” She starts getting up. Your heart drops.

“I'm sorry!”

“It's fine,” she shrugs, standing. “Lay back and touch yourself for me. I'll be right back.”

You'll sob. You will ugly cry with all the gross fluids that come with it if she leaves you like this. “Lois, you can't leave me again!”

She's laughing as she goes, not even bothering to look at you as she leaves you behind. “I'm just leaving the room! Calm down.”

She closes the door.

You huff, falling back onto the bed with all the dramatic flair you've got as you stare at the ceiling. She'll be back in no time. She has to be. Her phone is in here, she won't leave the house with it. It's fine.

She might not touch you though if you're not touching yourself like she said, so you should probably start doing that.

It's awkward now. You don't know why, but it is. You close your eyes, letting your hand fall between your legs again, your finger rubbing dispassionately against your clit.

Needless to say, it's not working.

Lois comes back barely a minute later holding a camera. Upon seeing you, her shoulders slump and she shakes her head lightly.

“Oh, that's just sad.” “You brought your camera?”

She brushes off your question entirely as she's moving to the large dresser in front of her bed to set up her camera.

“I love you, but you're doing a piss poor job.”

You shrug. “You do it better. So you should do it for me.”

“No.”

She presses start. The red light kicks on.

“You're recording?”

She shrugs, walking over to you again. “It's not even there. Just you and me.” She shifts behind you once more, making a home where your warm body leans into her own. “Open those legs for me, honey.” You do as she says, slowly prying your legs open against your camera-shy urge to keep them clamped shut.

Lois watches you with a grin, a determined glint in her eyes telling you that she's going to make sure it's done right. You shudder.

Opening your legs for you, she spreads them wide, hooking them over her knees to make sure you're on full display for the camera—for her.

“You gotta do it like I do it.”

“I want you to do it.” You sound like a broken record (a quiet one that's too shy to play now that you've got an audience).

“And I will, but you have to first.” She kisses you, her lips slotting over yours as you both crane your heads to properly embrace the other. One of her hands cradles your cheek, so happy and so content to kiss you after her very long day.

She pulls away hesitantly, her voice husky. “Let me see your hands.”

You raise them, clumsily finding her own and sighing when she smiles. She covers the back of your own, placing them on your knees and guiding them for you. She smooths them along your skin, moving slowly from your knees to the bottom of your thighs, higher up past where you want them to feel your hips.

“You've gotta work yourself up first.”

Your voice is quiet in the warming air. “I'm already–”

“Hush. Just work with me, baby.” She kisses your cheek, then over your jaw until she's got your earlobe caught gently between her teeth. Again, you shudder.

She guides your hands finally to the crux of your thighs, teasing the skin of your labia with feather-like fingertips. Your fingers trail so softly over yourself, occasionally catching at your clit but never enough to offer anything but a ghost of stimulation.

“Go slow,” she hums. “Just use your fingers and… Just trace here.” She continues her gentle guidance. Your body feels so hot, tingling sensations simmering beneath the surface all over. “Good?”

You nod, your breath thin and light. “Mhm.”

“Good,” she purrs in your ear. She moves one of your hands, wrapping your fingers around your nipple. “Play with that, baby. Nice and light, there you go.”

Okay, yeah… This is working.

“And when you're ready—you'll know when—then you touch your clit.”

You nod, your voice breathy, “Okay.”

She smiles, her lips at your ear as she watches the way you touch yourself, your fingers teasing and trembling slightly with your growing need.

Lois watches you like a predator biding her time, waiting for the perfect moment to finally, properly get her hands on you. She listens to your thin breaths become shorter, unsteady puffs between wobbly lips. She watches your thighs tremble so slightly, your nose twitching.

You're nearly holding your breath as you murmur, “I… I think I-I'm–”

She shakes her head, “Not yet. Just a little more…”

You whine but listen, teasing and taunting your own body as the need simmers beneath the surface until you feel like it's too much. When you start to whimper so gently, this quiet little thing in her ear, she nods into your shoulder, her smile wide.

Your finger traces over your clit, and you gasp lightly. Your hips are nearly seeking out your own touch as you lean into her.

“See? Doin’ so good for me, baby,” she says, bringing one hand up to grope your breast, squeezing greedily before her fingers come to wrap around your nipple. You moan as she circles it, twisting and pulling until your body is teaming with desire.

“That feel good?” You nod. “Good. Now just take this finger and…”

She guides your middle finger along the seam of your pussy, playing with you amusedly. When it dips inside, delving between your folds and being welcomed by your warmth, you lean farther into her. It feels so good to be touched, even if it's by your own hand, after waiting all day for some kind of relief.

She kisses along your jaw, your neck, your shoulder, teasing you while you finger yourself. You thrust as she thrusts, curl as she curls, and as she listens to the way your moans get a little desperate, she smiles at how good you're being for her.

“Just like that, baby. Keep doing that.”

She snakes one hand around you, her fingers teasing a circle around the outside of your clit before finally relenting to touch you like you want. “You're so beautiful all spread out like this, just for me.” She kisses you. “Are you gonna come for me, baby?”

You nod quickly. “Yes, please.”

Her lips graze your ear, nibbling on it gently. “Go on, then. Come for me.”

And you do. Your fingers stutter inside of you as your walls tighten so much that it becomes a little hard to move. She keeps rubbing your clit, humming every time you moan her name into the air of the bedroom, your thigh shaking and closing around your hand.

She rubs your clit until you're too sensitive to take it, whining as you squirm. She kisses along your neck and shoulder again, turning your head so she can capture your lips with a deep sigh.

And when she pulls apart, she wraps her fingers around your wrist and brings your hand to your mouth, pushing the fingers you were using to touch yourself with past your lips. You don't have to be told as you suck around them with a hum, preening under her intense gaze.

“Such a good girl for me,” she purrs.

You nod gently, reaching your hand to grasp her thigh. “Can you touch me now?”

She happily obliges. “Of course, sweet girl.” She moves you just enough to move next to you, one of her hands already greedily stroking the length of your thighs. “You've been so good for me tonight. I'm sorry I left you hanging so long.”

Your brain is a bit too fuzzy with desire to be upset at all with her for anything, especially with her face still so close to yours, her lips inches away. “S’okay,” you murmur. You want to kiss her so bad.

“But I'm here now, and I'm gonna make it up to you,” she smiles, her fingers coming to tease the seam of your pussy.

She doesn't waste time trying to build you up again—you're still already soaked and shaking for her as she presses two fingers inside of you. You sigh at the very welcome intrusion, your walls fluttering around her as you try to greedily suck her in.

You try not to squirm against her, clenching as she thrusts them too slowly, driving you crazy with her taunting. You whimper, holding her arm for some kind of stability as her fingers keep coaxing.

“Please. Lois, please more.”

She shushes you, but gives in anyway. She thrusts them in and out of you, curling against that spongy spot that makes your knees weak and your brain foggy. The more wrecked you look, the harder it is to keep this slow, steady pace she's been trying to hold over your head.

But she decides she doesn't necessarily care anymore as she moves her fingers in and out of you at a speed that makes you moan her name just a little too loud.

Her hooked fingers make you dizzy, ruthlessly fucking into the most sensitive part inside of you until the pleasure is too much for you to breathe through.

“Ahh-oh, my god. Please don't stop,” you stutter, your tongue heavy as lead as your jaw drops at the sheer weight of the pleasure.

She smiles, so invested in the way you moan, the way you clench around her fingers, the way your arousal leaks out over her hand. She's entranced in it, like she'll die if she looks away for even a second.

“Not gonna stop, baby. Just keep going, doing so good for me.” Her voice is low and velvety in your ear, both soothing and so undeniably arousing.

You feel like you’re gonna burst like a balloon that's gotten too full. There’s a deep gasp in your chest waiting to be taken as it curls and curls like the movements of her fingers. Your legs tense, your belly tight as it anticipates your undoing.

“I– Fuck, so close.”

Spurred on by your whimpers and pleas, she pumps her fingers faster inside. You're not sure how much longer you can go with her fingers fucking into you like this.

“C'mon, baby. Come on my fingers, I know you can.”

Her command is the last thing you need. It doesn't help that she just keeps thrusting, fast and rough and perfectly against that dizzying spot.

You bury your head into the crook of her shoulder, crying out as you come undone around the pumping of her fingers. Her free hand holds you to her, her thumb brushing soothingly along your cheek as she continues to murmur happily in your ear.

“Fuck, so good, baby. Look at you, listen to you.” She bites her lips, working that spot ruthlessly as you just keep clenching and gushing and writhing in pleasure.

You can't form any coherent words by this point. You can hardly breathe right, bursting for her. Everything in your body is tense with the best feeling coursing through your veins.

It's a while before the sharp pleasure twisting your gut loosens into something blissfully limp, laying against her as her fingers slow. You are only just catching the filthy squelching sound they make, even when they're being pulled out of you wetly.

She laughs to herself, looking at her hand as she keeps holding you. “Oh, my god, honey.” You glance over to see, wincing slightly when you see the way her hand drips. “You did so good. Look at what you did.”

She guides you out of her shoulder to see you, clearing your face of tears you hadn't registered. “Such a good girl,” she coos, kissing all over your face before she's finally indulging you with a warming kiss to your lips.

When you catch your breath, your legs still trembling, you mumble stickily, “Gotta wash the sheets.”

She nods. “Yeah. Or throw them out.” You soaked the bed.

You hide away in her shoulder again, and she simply shakes her head, still so happy. “No, no, no. You did so good, honey. Don't hide.”

She kisses you again, holding you until you're completely limp once more. Then she stands and carries herself away from the bed. She sucks her fingers on the way, hums at the taste of your arousal (to your absolute horror). You watch as she leaves you for the dresser, and then all the blood drains from your face when you catch the camera still sitting there, light still red.

She takes it and ends the recording, looking upon it with a smile that rivals the sun.

“I forgot you were fucking recording,” you mutter.

She turns her smile on you. “Yeah, well this is for safe keeping. We can watch it later.”

You hide behind your hands, ignoring the wetness beneath you. She laughs, coming back to you as she crawls across the bed, obviously not caring about the drenched sheets.

She takes your face in her hands like you're something precious and kisses you, long and deep and felt somewhere special in your chest. “Don't hide from me, baby. I love you too much not to see that pretty face.”

You melt under her gaze, the blue of her eyes liquid with love. You nod gently, holding her wrists as your thumbs stroke them lightly. “Love you, too.”

Superman taglist: @the-nerdy-goddess Tag yourself here...

You tear your eyes away from the oven to look up at Clark. He's still got his clothes from work on, and you love the view you get of his ass in those slacks.

“Yeah?”

He watches the pasta. “Can you hold this for a sec?”

Correction: you, your chicken alfredo, and you idiot boyfriend.

You glance around his area for what he could possibly mean when you glance at his hand and find nothing. You roll your eyes, “That’s your hand, dumbass.”

“I know,” he smiles, his voice soft as he makes a grabby hand at you. “I just…like the way it fits with yours.”

He's gonna make you sick, smiling down at you like you're the fucking sun. Your heart is doing this weird thing in your chest. You think it's heart failure.

“Shut the fuck up. I'll beat you to death.” You take his hand as you say it, and he helps you up so smoothly, circling his arm over your head and tucking you into his chest.

“Wow,” he says as he does it. “That was kinda harsh, don't you think? Maybe we should tone it down a bit.”

Clark's doing that thing where he nudges his nose into your hair, smiling against you like he knows what it does to you when he speaks like that in your ear. You glance up at him, those pretty blue eyes that are literally sparkling for you. Yep. It's heart failure.

“I'm going to fucking kill you.”

Because just telling him that he's so pretty you think you'll die just doesn't seem to reach deeply enough.

“Well, that was just more direct,” he chuckles, twirling you out from his chest to go back to the saucepan. His hand still holds onto you, and you squeeze it gently.

“You're so–” you feel the sudden urge to take his face in your hands, whether it was to kiss him silly or cover his stupid, gorgeous face, you don't know, “–fucking perfect. You little bitch, I hate you.”

He places a hand over his heart. He sounds gutted as he continues stirring the sauce. “You're so mean to me, and all I ever do is call you pretty.”

He reaches an arm out for you, pulls you flush against his side. Despite your words, you're looking up at him with dream-filled eyes as you smile and giggle at his dumb, stupid words that make your brain fuzzy.

“And give me goddamn brain aneurysms with all your little fucking ‘You’re perfect’, ‘I’m so in love with you’, ‘You’re the only one I’ll ever fucking need’. And I'm the mean one of this relationship.” Your grade-A impression of him makes him laugh to himself, and you feel sick to your stomach (butterflies) at the sound of it.

You wish he'd look at you. He's been staring at that saucepan, and you're beginning to become jealous of the inanimate object that currently has his strong hand wrapped around its handle.

He just needs to look at you, and you'll be content. He gives a hearty laugh, tucks you closer into him and finally lays his eyes on you once more. Fuck, you always underestimate how much it slaps you in the face whenever he looks at you with those pretty ocean blue eyes.

“Hold my hand and watch your mouth before I have to wash it out with soap like my ma did me.”

Your eyes are hooded now. You don't even bother to hide your obvious ogling. You feel like the sun with the way this man blossoms under your gaze. “I hope it's not too close.” It comes out more as a murmur as his hand gently pinches your side. He smiles so brightly when you squirm.

“Hush,” is all he says before focusing on finishing dinner with you tucked away in the safe shelter of his arm around you.

~

Clark has fallen in love with your potty mouth, despite what he says. He, himself, hardly swears. He was raised in the Midwest with very hospitable parents who taught him to keep a clean mouth. Getting him to cuss sometimes felt like dragging a stubborn horse by the muzzle and trying to get him to drink from a perfectly clear and fresh pond (not to mention there's a good chance that horse is dead anyway and getting him to drink won't be possible in that situation, though not to call Clark a dead horse because he is most definitely a very handsome stallion)—but he insists that you curse enough for the both of you.

Now, you'd wanted to take that as an insult but you know that Clark is incapable of insulting you. He genuinely just feels like you accommodate for his urge to swear, taking the weight off his shoulders and kissing you in thanks.

Or maybe he just adores you and everything about you and finds any excuse he can to love you more. He doesn't know, and it doesn't matter. Not when he's got you laying across his lap on the couch, watching some reality TV show you're both too lazy to change.

He's not really paying attention anyway. His gaze keeps dropping down to you and the comforting way you rub the back of his palm where his thumb brushes warm circles into your side. You catch him looking, smiling up at him and his ocean blue eyes that sparkle at the sight of you.

“Dinner was really good, pretty boy,” you say, reaching a hand up briefly to brush his chin. His eyes flutter at the contact, his smile widening. “Thanks for cooking.”

“Of course, honey.”

You pucker your lips as you kiss up at him. He understands your demand, one he is more than happy to follow as he leans down to you, moving the warm hand on your waist up to cup the side of your neck. His arm on the back of the couch drops down to cradle your head.

His kiss is so soothing. He smiles against your lips, breathes you in like perfume. You feel nice and warm, and a little fuzzy in your belly when he pulls away just enough to be able to look at you.

You watch the way his eyes dart all over your face, like he's trying to commit every little spot or blemish to memory. He looks at you like you're the only strength he'll ever need. Meanwhile he's got eyes the color of sapphires and your favorite little curl is sticking out on his forehead tonight. It looks so soft, you want to wrap it around your finger just like you've got him and he's got you.

“God, you're so fucking pretty,” you murmur, lifting a finger to smooth along his jaw.

His smile quirks, “I should be saying that to you.”

“I know, I was merely giving you some suggestions.”

He lets out a hearty laugh, though still gentle in the closeness you've kept. His thumb rubs circles into your scalp, slow and just barely grazing with his short nails. “Well, thank you very much.”

Maybe it’s a Kryptonian trait, but you swear his eyes actually shine when he looks at you. Like he’s got real stars caught in the oceans of his irises. Pair that with the way he giggles at the end of his words, and you’re a goner.

“Shut up and kiss me, you little fucker,” you say it between little laughs because that’s the only thing keeping you from just growling at him and taking a bite. You pull him down to kiss him again, your arm hooked around him, but he shakes his head at you, his smile spread wide over his face.

“What did I say about watching that filthy mouth of yours?” His lips are ghosting over yours. If you close your eyes, he’s basically already kissing you. But you don’t close your eyes, because he’s giving you the hottest look in the world, a mix of a warning and wanting and worshipping.

“You said you’d wash it out, but I don’t really believe you.” You raise a hand up, brushing the tips of your fingers against his cheek and up to tuck his pretty curls behind his ear.

“Well, how about this, sassy girl?” His fingers are so soft and soothing in your hair, worse when the tip of his nose presses gently into your cheek on his way down to your ear. “If another swear comes out of your mouth, you'll have to answer directly to me.” You shudder.

You look back at him, your smile just as unwavering as his sparkling eyes. “Do it, pussy.”

His lips collide with yours, firm but still so loving as his hand curls nicely around the back of your head. He pulls you to sit up, his mouth never parting from yours. He grunts briefly into you when you nip at his bottom lip, frenzied and wanting nothing more than to feel him ravage you.

His arm snakes around you, lifting you up until you're sat across his lap. You straddle him and concede to the pleasant feelings tingling all over your body. He tastes like parmesan cheese and lemonade, his large hands gripping your sides in a reverent way that borders on greedy.

“Is this your idea of a punishment?” His hand dips below one of his oversized shirts draped over your shoulders to feel the smooth expanse of your belly. Your hips search briefly for him as they beg for his touch. “Because if it is, I'll have to act out more often.”

“Oh, you don't want that.” Clark’s voice is a low purr in your ear as his mouth drops down to press loving kisses all over your shoulder and neck, drawing his love on your skin while his hands tighten around your hips.

Your mind is getting fuzzy with the way he's nipping at your neck. Your eyes flutter lightly, and you press your front to him in your deep-seated urge to be near him. “No?”

His only response is a hum because he's too busy kissing you like it's the last time he'll ever do it to waste time on words when he can just show you how much he adores you.

One of his hands peel off of your side to reach up higher until he's cradling your breast in his hand and squeezing considerately. He groans deep in his throat, worse when your fingers play at the hem of his shirt. In the brief moment that your lips aren't pressed together, you pull his shirt over his head and toss it to be forgotten somewhere in the living room, joining the TV’s noise in the background.

You feel like you're burning up. You want him—need him so bad. The more he swipes his tongue over your bottom lip, the more his pretty eyes look at you like the sight alone will bring him to tears, the more you want to wrap yourself in him so tightly that you no longer know where he ends and you begin.

His hand travels down the curve of your hip, taking your shorts with it, down more to the slope of your inner thigh to feel every inch of you. Your legs tremble already with just the ghost of his fingertips on your skin. You shudder above him, all thoughts of punishment and whatever else you were talking about no longer present in your mind as he slowly strips you of your shorts.

“Mm, Clark, please touch me,” you gasp lightly. He silences you with a greedy kiss.

His thumb presses into the space between your thigh and the rise of your mound. You don't know how that alone has you breathing out a deep sigh into his mouth, your hips still reaching for him. He's got his strong arm wrapped firmly around your back, and his other hand teasing you is driving you insane. You need him so bad. You don't care what he gives you, as long as he gives you something. You're almost whining, and he's feeding off of it like some fucking succubus or something.

You drop yourself down fully onto his lap, slowly and deeply grinding your hips onto his lap. “Fuck, I need you. Please, honey, please touch me.”

He makes this dreadful sound at the back of his throat, lifts you up again before you can even think about trying to grind down on the bulge growing in his pants. Clark likes to pride himself on his self control but even he has his limits when it comes to beautiful girls in his lap making beautiful sounds and begging him to make her feel good (or, really, just you in his lap making beautiful sounds and begging him to make you feel good).

His hand follows the slope of your thigh before dipping down to finally trace the pad of his middle finger along the thin cotton of your underwear. You immediately shudder, your legs briefly trembling at the feeling that shoots through them and curls deliciously in your gut.

His name falls like a feather from your lips. You grind your hips into his hand, tiny movements that you hardly register. But he does. He feels it in his palm and up his arm, spreads all through his chest and down to the rise in his slacks.

“Shh,” he says, breathless and full of pleasure. “Gonna make you feel good, baby.”

You feel his fingers pulling your underwear to the side, and your lips go slack against his mouth as a long, thick finger sinks inside of you. Your legs go tight, your back straight as you feel the slight stretch within you.

Clark's lips drop down to your neck, mouthing along your shoulder and beneath your ear to taste your skin. He grabs a hold of your waist in his free hand, his grip firm but not unkind as he allows you to rock your hips into his palm. You mumble his name through sticky lips, your brain fuzzy with the pleasure clouding your mind.

When a second finger stretches you even more, you press your body against his. He looks up at you through lidded eyes, one hand holding you close to him. His breath is thick, mixing with yours as you stare at one another with gazes hazy with lust. “S’that feel good, baby?” he murmurs, tracing the underside of your jaw with his nose.

“Yeah, yeah,” you huff. “So good. Please don't stop, Clark.”

He ducks his head down to your chest. His mouth is all over you, dragging his lips over your skin, tracing his tongue across your collarbone, taking your nipple so, so lightly between his teeth that you shutter, worse when his tongue darts out to paint it pretty and peaked.

You're grinding down now into his palm like it's the last thing you need to do before it's all over. You hold onto his shoulders, trying to keep yourself steady as he holds you up with one hand at your waist and the other curled inside of you.

It feels so good. His fingers are just the perfect length to coax against the sensitive spot inside of you that makes your back arch. You whimper against him like you're seconds from falling apart.

“Baby, please,” you gasp. “Wanna cum so bad. Please, I need it so fucking bad.”

You lean forward, forcing his head to come back up just so you can kiss him again. He's happy to oblige, readjusting his hand to rub the pad of his thumb against your clit. Your hips jerk forward against the motion, the callouses gained from growing up doing farm work, and then fighting giant aliens all over Metropolis just about every other day—and sometimes more than once a day.

You collapse against him, pressing your body flush against his, needing to be close or you'll lose it. You're fluttering around him, the pressure to your clit making your head fuzzy and your whimpers a touch louder. You whisper “please, please, please,” into his mouth.

And when your breath is hitching higher and higher, Clark listens to each one like they're telling him secrets man should never know. But he knows. He knows all of your secrets, and just how to open you up.

His fingers slip out of you without a single warning. Your moaning turns into a wretched whine, your hands tightening at his shoulders as you grind down in search of his hand. He holds you still, looking up at you with parted lips evening his breaths and eyes blown wide with lust.

“Clark!”

“Mm-mm. I told you you'd be in trouble, and you didn't believe me.” He shrugs, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. He looks absolutely fucking smug, and you're ready to wipe it right off his face and shove it down his throat.

“Yeah,” you scoff, “called you a quivering pussy because you're a quivering pussy.”

“Four.”

His face doesn't change, his body doesn't move. He just stares at you like he knows something you don't. Well, you're gonna fucking learn because who is he and his stupid pretty face to count at you for no reason?

“What?” you nearly snap. “W-what does that mean?” You're losing bratty bravado before you can get your question out. He just keeps staring at you. “Clark, what the fuck does that mean?”

He shrugs, like it's nothing. “Five.”

“Stop!” You pout, your hands on his chest. “Don't do that. You're being a dick, I'm serious.” He seems to like your pouting, your whining as his warm hands cradle your bottom, his thumbs stroking. “Are you fucking with me?”

“Woof,” he smiles. “That’s seven. The numbers just keep climbin’, don't they?”

You're gonna start whining if he keeps playing with you like this. You're not against it, but you know he'd love it, and you're kind of fucking with him right now so that just won't do. Either way, you don't like this game because he's shifty and too handsome for his own good (especially when he looks at you with those droopy lashes like you're a dream).

You stare at him, nothing but silence (and adoration) between you. You look at his pretty blue eyes, his pretty broad nose, his pretty pink lips, and you wonder how you can piss him off. (You could never piss him off, but it's worth a shot anyway.)

“Supershit.”

His face widens incredulously. “Nine!”

Your jaw drops, your irritation squashed by the giggle that cuts up your scoff. “What? That was only one!”

His face is pink, his ears are red. He's looking wide eyed at you with a barely contained frustration (not at you but amusingly pointed in your direction). He swears up and down that he doesn't care what people say about him, but then he hears “Supershit” and instantly loses all cool. His nostrils are flared, his lips are pursed. He's adorable.

“Yeah, but you know that's the one I specifically told you that I don't like, and you said it anyway!” The pink slowly spreads over his face, and you want to kiss him all over.

Nevertheless, you protest his reasoning. “That’s not fair!”

“Yes, it is,” he says, shrugging. “Besides, I was plenty fair when I warned you three times before. Not everyone is as forgiving as me.”

You pout, your hands playing with the curls at the back of his head. “So what, you're gonna make me cum nine times or something?” The idea has you shuddering, but you conceal it as much as you can as you get close, your lips nearly brushing his when you say, “News flash, genius, but I'm not sure even you could pull that off.”

He's a goner, because when you look at him like that and talk to him like that and tease him with something as simple as a kiss, how the heck is he supposed to keep his cool and stay sane?

“It hurts that you would doubt me–” he murmurs, slowly gathering a few increments of control back, “–but no, I won't be making you cum nine times. What kind of punishment is that?”

He leans forward, and the moment his lips brushing your earlobe, you're bested. You nearly fall limp against him, a shiver up your spine, your lungs too full and so empty all at once, your eyes hooded with the need for the pleasure he can give you.

“No, you need a proper spanking.”

You go still, slowly moving to look at him with incredulous eyes. “I beg your fucking pardon?”

“Ten.”

“Stop counting.”

“Stop cursing.”

There's a long silence where you both just look at each other. Straddling his hips, your fingers stroking lightly over the soft skin of his sides, you chew on the inside of your lip. “If I stop cursing, will you skip the spanking and just fu…” you purse your lips, glancing away from him, “...have sex with me?”

He stares back at you in silence, taking in every individual feature of your pretty face. For a moment, you wonder if he's even paying attention—(he's not)—as he watches you like you're the most precious thing in the world. You shudder, and that seems to bring him back to the present.

Clark lets out a deep sigh, then cocks his head to the side. “Maybe,” he says, his voice deep and teasing. “Convince me.”

You cradle his face in your hands, stare at him a moment, and then lean in to take his lips in yours. He's incredibly happy to kiss you back, his hands coming back to envelope you as you press your body flush with his.

Your hips find a rhythm once more in his lap, your lips parting as the seam of his pants catches against your underwear. He grunts into your mouth, hands tightening. He lifts you from his lap, readjust himself so that you straddle his thigh.

You nearly gasp when he eases you back down and guides your hips along the length of his thick, meaty thigh. You fall onto him, lips sloppy against whatever skin you can reach as he desperately moves you. You join in his mission, rocking back and forth with an enthusiasm that has you both catching your breaths just inches from the other.

Your legs begin to tremble the longer he guides you, his hands steady and strong, his thigh flexing through the fabric of his slacks, his cock getting harder and harder the longer he watches you, hears you, holds you. Your arousal slowly soaks through fabric before it begins to smear on his bare skin. He doesn't care, he's trying not to be a pervert as he tries to find the least creepy reason to keep these slacks so he can smell them when he's sad.

But then he realizes that that's actually, likely, just creepy. So he settles for tasting you later.

God, you're so close. You can taste the lilting of a rising orgasm, the twisting and the coiling making it difficult to keep your mind straight as your breath builds in preparation. He watches your eyelids flutter, feels the heat in your body, and follows the rising like he's bracing for it just as much.

Then, just like that, it's over as he lifts you from his lap and delivers a sharp spank to the soft skin of your ass. “Ahh, no,” you gasp, feeling the waning of your release souring. “No, please, you said you wouldn't.”

“I said I might,” he corrects. “I was very specific with my word choice—I am a journalist, after all.”

Despite the heat in your belly and the tingling in your unmentionables, you squirm in his lap with a small, “Clark, please...”

He shakes his head gently, his hands on your hips to have you grinding on him once again. “Shh,” he coaxes. “Just hush and ride my thigh, honey, and maybe I won't go to ten.”

You pout. You pull all your might into it. “You're an ass.”

“Eleven.”

You roll your eyes. “That one isn't even a bad one.”

He shrugs, still looking at you like you're art in a museum. “Sorry, I don't make the rules.”

“You literally do. This was your idea—that I do not support by the way!” You kind of do support it, but he can't know that.

“You're breaking my heart, honey.”

You glance away, muttering under your breath. “Apparently not enough.”

He hums amusedly. “I might add another two just for that.”

You just roll your eyes again, looking at anything but him as you figure out if you can sweet talk yourself out of this situation you've gotten yourself into.

You pause, looking at him with a half-steely gaze (the other half consists of nothing but sappy-melty-lovey-dovey-schmoopy-moopy feelings for him that make it really hard to look upset).

“Do your worst, Superman.”

He smiles, his eyes fond and his words teasing. “Oh, you don't want that.” He leans into the space of your shoulder, pressing kisses and tiny love bites and soothing licks to the skin as he starts grinding your hips down again.

He moves you faster now, wanting so badly to see you fall apart on top of him, punishment or not. He just wants you to feel good, he wants you to burst with pleasure. He's been edging you for so long already (he's only done it twice now), and he's getting antsy.

You don't mind. You want to come so badly. You feel it all over, the plea in every limb to let go and let yourself be scoured by it. The more he builds you up just to snatch it from your grasp, the more desperate you feel.

It doesn't take that long—how could it when he's tending to you so closely? Between the fabric rubbing against you, creating the friction you need, his arms so tight around you, his mouth at your shoulder, you never stood a chance.

And once again he's building you up, and it doesn't feel like he intends to stop this time. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes taking in the sight of you ready to finally, finally fall apart. He's muttering little “C'mon, baby”s and “You can do it”s and every praise in the book to have you racing to the edge.

It's the barest syllable, the smallest whisper of a word, but he hears it all the same. Of course he hears it. His ears are trained, focused only on you and every little sound that comes out of you, every little twitching of your nose or tensing of muscle. It's a tiny “shiii” but it isn't until that barely-there ‘T’ meets his ears before he's lifting you off his leg and folding you over his lap.

You don't have a chance to process until he's already hooking his fingers around your panties and riding them up until they're perched between your cheeks and there's nothing blocking him from landing that second strike.

You jolt forward in his lap. It doesn't hurt—he'd never hurt you—it's just a stinging that lingers there on the surface of your skin (and then somewhere farther down, more between your thighs). It's more that you're…

…surprised.

“Clark!”

He looks down at you, smoothing his hand over where he'd hit you. He puts so much care into it that you actually believe this is a “this hurts me more than it hurts you” scenario.

“I warned you, sweetheart,” he coos, which doesn't match the next smack to your ass that has you flinching. He smooths over the spot again. “That’s it. I want you to count ‘em out for me, honey. Can you do that?”

You glance up at him, “Clark!”

Another smack. “C'mon. I know you're my best girl, you can do it.”

There's another long pause where you look away from him, deciding your options. His free hand is placed atop your head, his thumb stroking your scalp indulgently as he waits.

With a little sigh, you whisper, “Three.”

Clark smiles, but shakes his head. “Nuh-uh. I haven't started yet.”

You look at him, wide-eyed. “But–”

“Those were just warm-ups. Your punishment starts now.”

And then he's spanking you again, sharp and stinging but nowhere near painful. “One,” you insist, thighs clenching.

“Good girl.” And then you melt in his lap, nothing more than putty.

Heat rises beneath your skin, and it's hot against the palm of his hand as he soothes you after every hit. You count them all, your voice shaky where he's still steady. He meets you every now and then with a kiss to whatever he can reach in this position.

It doesn't hurt. It stings. But either way, you've got tears welling in your eyes from the action of it, the feelings, the emotions, all of it. It swarms in your head and in your belly until the only response your body has chosen is to tear up.

“C'mon,” he purrs, sounding woeful as his hand is soothing your skin between spanks. “Halfway there, honey.”

You squirm for just a moment, a whine coming out of you without totally meaning to. “Clark–” Another blow. “Seven—I'm sorry.”

He strokes your cheek in his free hand. “Yeah?”

He spanks you again. You whimper, “E-eight. Please, I'm sorry. I'll be good, I promise. I…”

He pauses, petting your hair thoughtfully. “You what?” he prompts.

“I…” You swallow thickly. “I didn't think you'd actually do anything.”

Your Clark? Your soft, sweet, super Clark? Who cries when you cry? Who is devastated by the thought of so much as a paper cut to your skin? This is not something you ever imagined him actually doing. But, you suppose, he's full of surprises.

Clark turns your head so he can see your face properly. At the sight of the tears he'd been hearing you sniffle away, something twists in his pretty that has you wanting to kiss him better.

His voice is barely a whisper after a long pause he spends just staring at you, slowly stroking tears off your cheeks with his thumb. “Am I hurting you, love?”

Your eyes flit over his face, a little bleary, a lot in love. You shake your head gently, still wanting to kiss him all over.

“Gimme words,” he murmurs, fingers still stroking.

You find your voice once more, your hand squeezing gently where it rests wrapped around his bicep. “No, I'm okay,” you whisper.

You can see the relief as it passes over his face. His hands soothes over your skin (both cheeks) as he leans down to press kisses wherever he can reach, like he's pressing apologies into your flesh. “Okay.”

Then he's back to it, another firm smack that has your toes curling, that has you turning your face so your nose nuzzles into his arm. It caught you completely by surprise, especially after his gentleness half a second ago. Every time it flexes, another wave of need mixes with the sting and makes it hard to distinguish.

“Hey!” you exclaim, the word coming out more as a whine than anything else. He gives you a look, and you nearly pout. “Nine.”

He smiles, kisses you again, and finishes his cruel, cruel punishment. And when the last blow lands, and you let out a breathy “twelve”, he's smoothing out the sting of your bottom, which is hot from his assault.

“Good girl. You did so well, I knew you could do it, honey.” He's helping you up to straddle his lap once more, one hand cradling your cheek and the other still soothing the sting. He kisses all over your face, until any evidence of the tears are gone and you're giggling from the affection in your chest (and really all over your body). “I had to finish, or you'd just think you could get away with anything by batting your lashes at me. Which you can, but that's besides the point.” You laugh, and he looks at you like the sound alone is what made the sun in the sky. Both his hands hold your face close to his, and he kisses your nose with a smile. “But I do accept your apology, especially because you did so well.”

You feel shy all of a sudden, looking up at him through your lashes. He sighs silently, a long and deep thing that has his shoulders going lax. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He kisses your face again, too happy to see you now and know that you're okay. “My best girl, just like I said.”

You raise your hands to his face now, mashing his lips with yours in a kiss you've been desperately craving. Your hands card through his hair, finding purchase and just keeping them tangled there. “I love you.”

He smiles like his face will split in two. “I love you, too.”

Then he's kissing you again, wrapping your legs around him as he stands to his feet and starts in the direction of the bedroom. You're both extremely handsy, touching and grabbing anywhere and everywhere, mouths stuck together like glue.

He lowers you so gently onto the mattress that you nearly wonder if the buzzing of your bottom is just a figment of your imagination and he hadn't actually spanked you for having a potty mouth. But then you remember how hot it was to be laid across his lap, squirming while he punished you.

His body looms over your own, his strong and broad frame blocking out anything else from your line of sight until all of your senses are consumed by Clark, and Clark only. He kisses all over your face again until you're giggling, the bulge still tucked away in his pants rubbing absently against your thigh in a desperate search for some relief.

You reach a hand down, wrapping your fingers around him and loving the way he sighs into your mouth, melting against your touch as he struggles to hold himself up over you. “Lemme help you,” you murmur.

He shakes his head, takes your hand to intertwine your fingers. “Needa be inside you, sweetheart. Been waiting so long.” He kisses you between every few words, needing to touch you at every second for the sake of his own sanity. You shudder, hooking your legs around his hips without ever even realizing it.

Then Clark’s pressing down on you, his hips grinding slowly against yours until he’s breathing so heavily that each breath passes over your cheeks and makes you dizzy. His pursed lips muffle his moans, even when he leans down to bury his face in the crook of your neck.

“Gosh, feels too good,” he huffs, one hand reaching down to hook around the underside of your thigh. He raises it even higher, half folded in half as he pins you beneath him. You squirm, just as you had when you bent over his knees. You mumble out a small “need you” in his ear, nearly smiling when he shudders, only for it to immediately falter when he’s grinding into you again.

Clark has to pull away from your body, pushing his pants down his legs unceremoniously, directly opposing the way he undresses you like you’ll shatter if he’s any less gentle. His cock is heavy between his legs, no less enticing when he takes himself in his hand and squeezes tightly around the base with a grunt. You practically make grabby hands at him, needing him close again, needing him to kiss you, to touch you, to be in you.

He answers in kind, bending over you once more as he lines up with the slick at your pussy. He coats himself in it, enjoying it far too much as your legs flex around him. When he finally, finally presses inside of you, you’re both moaning into each other’s mouths like you’ve found heaven on earth.

The stretch is always so delicious. He fills you up tight, pressing so deep that you feel him in a spot that makes you dizzy when he stays too long. He’s murmuring something, but your brain is kind of fuzzy with trying to adjust to the size of him as he lifts your legs over his shoulders and effectively folds you in half.

You didn’t really think you were flexible enough for it, but he proves you wrong. It’s not long until he’s pulling out to the tip of him and then thrusting in until you gasp. He sets a steady rhythm that makes you keen, back arching and eyes fluttering as you struggle to watch him.

“Always take me so well,” he rambles, his hips shifting back before driving back in. He moans with you, a few whimpers slipping past when it feels just a little too good, and he thinks he may actually do something super embarrassing (you wouldn’t find it particularly embarrassing, but you digress). “Golly, you’re so tight, honey. Squeezing me so nice.”

You could feel the tension in his hips, the subtle ways in which he holds back to avoid hurting you. Your hands hook around the back of his neck, pulling him in to kiss him, despite the aching in your thighs. Your breath is hot and heavy with his as you speak between eager kisses, “More. Please? Need all of you, baby.”

He’s a goner. He doesn’t need much convincing anymore. By now, he’s worked out the nuances of your body. He knows what you can and can’t take, and he knows that you’ll tell him if you need him to stop. So once you ask for more?

His hips smack into your with a half-grunt, half-moan. He thrusts so deep inside and so quickly that you don’t have time to keep up between, not even when he presses himself close and gives those short, deep thrusts that have your mind reeling. You feel the pleasure numbing your fingers and your toes, working up higher and deeper until you’re just letting him fuck you like he’s afraid it’ll be the last time.

“You’re so perfect,” he huffs. “Look at you, so pretty. Makin’ me feel so good.” He kisses you, and it’s so sloppy that there’s no sense in anything else. “R’you okay, honey? You want more? You look so pretty for me.”

Your hips twitch up to meet him, and all you can answer with is a jerky nod and a squeak of his name between moans. His cock drags in and out of you in the most delicious way, a euphoria you could never replicate without him gathering in your bones and making them useless. He’s so thick, so big—he’s perfect. He leans forward, his face inches from your own as his nose brushes against your own.

You think he’s going to say something to you, but he just kisses you again. He drinks you in like you’re made of the world’s finest honey, ambrosia crafted by the gods. He savors the taste of you, your lips, your tongue, the pretty sounds that you make.

“Sound so sweet when you’re not using that dirty mouth of yours,” he mumbles against your lips, nudging your chin up with his nose to kiss at your throat while you keep letting your noises fill the room, alongside the sound of his cock smacking against the slick you’ve gathered, the sound of the bed beginning to groan slightly under the weight of your bodies (mostly his and the power he uses to fuck you silly). “Listen to yourself, love. My sweet girl.”

You whine, and it sounds so pathetic. But it’s okay, because when you clench around him when a new angle has his brushing against that sweet spot just right, he’s whimpering in your ear like you’re fucking him. Tears gather in the corners of your eyes, slipping down the side of your face and disappearing somewhere in your hair. He wipes them away with his thumbs, kisses them when that doesn’t feel like enough.

“Shh, don’t cry,” he says, his hips never faltering. He keeps kissing you, even sneaks a hand between your bodies to rub tight circles over your clit—which makes you sob. “Don’t cry, honey. I love you.” Your lashes flutter, and then shut for a moment as your back arches and your head tips back. He’s brushing your cheeks again. “Nuh-uh, look at me. Haf’ta look at me when I’m making you feel good. I wanna see those pretty eyes of yours.”

You peel them open just for him. “F-feels so good. I–Clark, don’t stop.”

“Not gonna stop. Not gonna stop until you come for me, honey.”

You’re not going to last, not with the way he makes love to you, the way he gazes at you, the way he holds you like you’ll disappear forever if he doesn’t. It’s too much and not enough. Gosh, you can't think. Your mind is hazy with nothing but Clark, Clark, Clark!

“Ahh, Clark, g-gonna come. Please, please let me come.” It stutters out of you in a heap of words that don’t sound fully comprehensible to you. But Clark understands you. He always understands you, always knows what you want and what you need and how he can get you there.

“Please come for me, love,” he breathes, sounding so wrecked, like he’s going to break apart any second now. And he is. “C’mon, sweetheart. I got you, I’m here. Just come for me.”

And how could you refuse when he asks so nicely?

You tighten like a vice around his cock, your lips parting in a ‘O’ as you gasp. Your arched back shudders as your orgasm breaks you down piece by piece, crying out his name like you’re in trouble, and he’s the only one that can save you. Even through the pleasure, you manage to mostly keep your eyes on him as he fucks you though it, his hips pistoning into you and his thumb stroking your clit back and forth never letting up for even a moment.

Granted, you look so pretty that he’s chasing his own orgasm as it sparks in his bones and makes his muscles tremble. “That’s it,” he breathes. “You’re okay, you’re okay. Good girl, you’re so good for me. Look at you, precious girl.”

When he comes, it’s with a deep shudder that has him pressing himself all the way into you and grinding until you’re both too dizzy to think about anything being too much. You gladly take him as his hips bearing down forces your body even tighter in your folded position, forcing your thighs into their awkward angle until you’re certain you’ll be sore tomorrow.

Clark fills you up until you feel like you’re at full capacity, just bursting with him as he spills inside of you. He’s murmuring some nonsense in your ear, but you don’t pay it too much mind because you know what he’s saying—how good you feel, how pretty you are, how perfect you are, etc. You feed off of it like some sort of succubus.

Clark lingers long after he’s stopped moving. You both catch your breaths, deciding very quickly that you actually don’t care about breathing and would rather just be kissing the other. He consumes you with it, wraps you up in it like he needs it to live. (He’s pretty sure he does—fuck the sun.) (Golly, you may be rubbing off on him a little bit.)

When he pulls out of you, you let out a dissatisfied hum at the empty feeling that scours your bones. You’re clenching around nothing, just looking for him again. He smiles and kisses you some more, kisses and kisses and kisses until you can’t pout anymore.

“Are you okay?” he murmurs, still kissing.

You nod, warm and giggly. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Feel like jelly. Don’t think I can move.”

He laughs, loud, and kisses you again. “Don’t worry, I got you.”

And he does. He carefully adjusts your legs to wrap around his waist, lifts you in his arms and holds you close. He lingers there for a moment, just enjoying the closeness, before he’s carrying you to the bathroom as you cling to him. He sits you on the counter, and when he goes to break away so he can turn on the shower, you bring him right back with your arms wrapped securely around his neck.

You pull him down to kiss you again before he can ask anything. You’re both smiling into the kiss like idiots, too in love to do anything else.

His hands are warm at your waist, and your noses bump when you pull apart. “I love you so fucking much.”

He smacks your side so lightly that you hardly even feel it. He smiles wide, kisses you again. “Language.” Another kiss. “I love you, too.” And your chest is warm and fuzzy with all the things you feel for him.

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