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It’s been three months since Clark Kent first stepped into Jitters Coffee.
Standing a head taller than your regulars. Impossible to miss, and his smile quickly became a fixture in your daydreams.
Three weeks since you memorized his order - medium mocha, whipped cream, chocolate curls - and plucked up the courage to say hi.
Unable to help grinning at the way he leaned over the counter to shake your hand. Old school and sweet, and it stuck with you as much as he did.
Three days since your first date at Mo’s Cafe.
Your number inked carefully on the cup - he had called the second he saw it. Turning when he heard your voice answer, those blue eyes finding yours from across the street as he lingered outside the Daily Planet.
Smiles and salty fries dipped in milkshakes - long conversations lasting after close, Clark’s hands shoved deep in his pockets as he walked you home.
Three hours since the third - phone calls and snuck-in lunch breaks spanning the hours in-between.
Anticipation hummed beneath your skin this morning, as he turned and waved after grabbing his coffee. Heat pooling low, with lingering looks and fingers that brush, entwine, squeeze.
You’ve thought about it long before it happens.
The eager press of his mouth against yours. Already a hint of familiarity, in his touch and the way he gripped your waist. The warm curl of his cologne around you, and the way you parted so easily for him when he deepened the kiss.
His bulk blocking you from the street, feet following when your fingers finally twisted around his tie and tugged.
And three minutes since you came against his tongue.
That had been a surprise.
You hadn’t known what to expect from this corn-fed, Kansas man. Pretty eyes framed beneath dark curls. A kind mouth that smiles too easily.
Flushing at your own sweet words. Two fingers pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, as his head ducked.
The kind of man you could open up to, when you were ready.
Not ready to pick at that knotted web that had lead you to Metropolis from Gotham. The job at Wayne Enterprises that you’re not even sure how to begin to put on your resume - but you think that if anyone would listen, you’d want it to be him.
So sure that you’d be corrupting him.
But there had been an assurance in the way his mouth met yours, as the front door shut behind you. The careful way he lead you through your house, as if he didn’t need the hushed directions murmured out against his lips. As if he already knew where to go.
Your clothes carefully peeled off - reverently, left folded on your bedside table.
“I don’t do this often.” He had confessed, in between kisses.
Between the flit of his tongue against yours. Lips pressed against your cheek, then your jaw. Hungry and unhurried.
Eyes shadowed by curls, when his mouth dragged against your collarbone. Too big for your mattress, having to fold himself to fit.
“Take girls to bed?” Your brow raised, amused -and his eyes had dropped.
“No.” His head shook, a huff. “Yes. Not just that-. Date, I guess.”
The words had sent a spark alighting in your chest. Radiating, filling up the cavern behind your ribs, tracing down your veins until it pulsed between your thighs.
“Too busy writing about what everyone else is doing?” Your lips tugged up at the corners. Fingers loosened his tie, traced along the buttons.
“Something like that.” Another look, before he added, “I just want you to know that I-“
It hung - open ended - but you were ready to fill this, if nothing else.
The first three button tugged free, and your hand pressed against his heart, “I like you too, Clark.”
Something in him loosened. A sigh and a soft smile. Glasses left folded on top of your sweater, as he inched down - your thighs parted around him.
Struck by how blue his eyes were, when they flicked up to meet yours. You don’t know how you missed it the depth of them - a cloudless sky on a bright, summer day - as often as you looked.
But there’s something different about them.
About him, about the mouth that pressed against your hip. Against the elastic band of your underwear, then the damp spot against the silk.
About the deep groan - pitched low - when you arched into him. Breathless as his fingers hooked your underwear to the side. A murmured-out string of small-town interjection, as his thumb slid against slick skin.
As if you were truly seeing him for the first time.
There’s another murmur of his name - more instant - before he’d given in. Head ducking, letting his tongue flatten against your clit.
Groaning at your taste. Something tentative in his movements, until he caught the hitch in your breath, the way your hips moved to meet him.
A hand fitting against the curve of your ass, palm splaying wide, as it tipped you up to meet him. Slipping beneath later, until he could tease the tip of his middle finger between your thighs.
Pleas had tumbled from your lips. Your hand found his free one - flattened against your belly. Dragging it up to the swell of your tits, letting him cup you.
Your own had wound in his hair. Pushing back the thick curls as those eyes fluttered shut. A single one breaking free, dipping across his forehead as he slowly worked you open.
And as the pleasure swelled, your mind flicked back to before. Wondering how he could have you this close this quickly. If he was just a quick learner. Or if there was something more between you - if he felt that connection, too.
The thought left just as quickly. Too much - not enough room left for wondering as the orgasm crested inside. And then, breaking - crashing over you.
Letting your thighs clamp around his ears, and all he did was groan against you. Breathless and unyielding until you were boneless, legs finally splaying wide as stars burst behind closed eyelids.
And somewhere between then and now - in that timeless stretch of space - he wound up beneath you.
An easy shift as he had stretched out on the mattress - helping you hook a thigh over his hip, palms flattened out on his chest.
And it’s as you come back to yourself- you’re not sure how you missed this, either.
A slight twinge in your hips, as your thighs widen to straddle him. His dress shirt tugged fully open now, exposing a peek of his chest and the tight cling of the white undershirt.
Just how broad he is, beneath the ill-fitting clothes and the curl of his shoulders. Not cut, not exactly. You couldn’t picture him hitting the gym as dawn broke, with how busy he was. Just - solid. Impossibly so, as the muscles flexed beneath your spread-wide palms.
And as your eyes drag down - big.
You want him, and you’re not sure he realizes just how much. How the feel of his fingers, buried deep and crooking - the flick of his tongue and the way he was moaning into you - only made your hunger grow.
Nestled in your pillows, content. Smile loose and tasting of you, when you lean forward to kiss him - his arm quick to loop around, keep you close.
Feeling the sharp exhale against your cheek, when your hand drops to work at the silver belt buckle.
“Don’t have to.” He breathes, chasing your mouth when you lean back, “That, I mean, this is enough.”
But he does nothing to stop you. His hand warm, as it spans the back of your neck. Solid as it curves against your spine - the softest nudge until your forehead is pressing to his.
“You don’t want me to?” You coo - the button popped, zipper dragged down.
“Well-” It cuts off as your hand dips beneath - the groan after pitched low. Your fingers dragging down velvet skin, teasing across a thick vein.
The rest come in a rush, as you finally wrap around and squeeze. Marveling at the way he fills your hand, fingers stretching to meet, and you would swear you felt him throb in your grip.
“I definitely want whatever you want.”
You laugh, and he smiles back.
And it almost takes you a moment to decide. A stroke from root to tip, and you're torn between taking him into your mouth - tracing every inch of him with your tongue, sucking on him until he's spilling down your throat - or taking him deep into your aching pussy. A heartbeat later, a low throb of need wins out.
“I want to ride you.” You admit - something that you might have been shy about saying, if it was anyone else.
But the way he looks at you - has been, that little nod and the way his hips lift so you can free him from his trousers - it sends a rush of boldness through you.
Enough that your hands reach behind. Loosening the pretty bra that you wore for him, the strap twisted against your shoulder. Lifting enough to peel the slick underwear down your thighs, kick them free.
Those eyes dark - stormy - when you’re pressed flush again. Your own admiring the parts of him you can see - flushed skin, the dark hair that leads down.
Human perfection, if there was such a thing.
“It’s been a while for me, too.” He’s nestled against you - thick and hard and warm, “I’m on birth control. Is this okay, or-?”
A roll of your hips against him - bare, and a sharp breath is inhaled through his nose. His eyes finally pulling away - bright, as they drag over you. Lingering on your abdomen, dropping to where he juts between your thighs.
“Yeah.” Clark husks, “Yeah, baby.”
He’s called you other things. Your name - laughing, exasperated, blushing. A soft ‘hey, sunshine’, in greeting in the weeks that had passed, with the way you grin so bright and so early for him.
But this - baby - how soft and sweet and possessive it sounds-
Something inside you flips.
And you think - you just might be falling.
His thumb brushes against your hip, “That’s good. Uh, great. I mean-”
A self-deprecating huff.
“Yes, please.”
Another hushed laugh, your teeth biting down against your bottom lip as you lift up.
Hovering, then - the head of his cock slick, as it rubs against you. Inhaling a breath, preparing to drop down - to take him - when his eyes make an effort to pull up.
Hands moving before you can process them. Catching around your waist, holding you in place.
“Wait, sunshine.” His fingers pinch, voice strained, “Hold on.”
“Clark.” It comes out short. A shift of your hips as a very human impatience thrums through you both, but it’s fruitless. It’s like pushing against a man of steel, impossibly strong.
“I know,” He breathes, “I know. Just, please-”
You slacken, at that. At the way his lips part, the press of his fingers, denting your skin.
Letting him take over. Achingly slow in the way he lowers you down. Your gasp rattling through your chest at how he sinks inside you for the first time - the slick slide and the pressure as you make room for him.
And then, back up.
Only to repeat, again.
A whine ripping free as you take another inch. Lifted, his cock left shining and glossy and a heartbeat of a minute where you’re so painfully empty - before you’re stretched around him again.
Moving you like a doll. You might have more thoughts about that if your head wasn’t so blissfully blank and so wholly consumed, all at once. Eyes snagging on his - how he hasn’t looked away, hasn’t blinked, once.
Fixed on your face. Every expression flicking across it, even the dip of your eyes when you hadn’t been able to help it. Dropping down, needing to see how he looks, half-nestled inside you.
Every second of pleasure that flits across your face, it is caught and captured. And when he shifts you - angling your hips, sinking deeper - it drags him across a space inside you that feels otherworldly.
Your fingers wrap around his wrists, as you beg him not to stop. That experimental bounce becoming intentional. Focused, until you can feel that tension winding deep inside you. Knees pressing into the bed as you try to move with him, that burn in your thighs melding with the mind-numbing pleasure.
Head tipping back, eyes closing when it becomes too much. When you’re left, muscles stringing tight - his name coming in a rush as you clench down hard around him.
His answer comes - breathless and lost as your world closes in around you.
“Let go, baby. I’ve got you.”
It’s so different than the first.
You don’t know if you’ve ever come this quickly or felt this full - his pace slowing as your nails dig into his skin. Panting through the waves of bliss that wash from your spine to your toes.
Clark’s breathed out “That was, oh my gosh-“ would make you laugh, if it didn’t feel like he was taking up the space between your lungs.
If your mind wasn’t fuzzy, clinging to him as you lost your rhythm - depending on him to keep moving you through it.
And it’s this, that finally has his eyes dropping. Lingering on the slow bounce of your breasts. Caught on the soaked, slick shine against his curls and the base of his cock - the tight pulse as your pleasure wanes and the clenching promise to take every drop he gives you.
Letting you take over, now. That control loosening with the way you take him to the hilt, molded around him. Your hands lowering to his chest. Feeling the thundering of his heart, a pace that matches yours.
Letting your hips roll. Letting himself watch, stretched out beneath you and just as enchanted as before.
An encouraging sound when your hands lift to tease your tits. His cock jerking inside you, another bitten back curse when a hand drifts down.
His tongue dragging across his lower lip - a rough, bitten-back groan as you part yourself. Fingers splitting to feel him, dragging through your slick. Circling two fingers against your clit.
“You’re beautiful.” He says it so plainly, so suddenly, that you can’t help but believe him, “Should’ve done this before.”
You smile, “Should have given you my number sooner, huh?”
He can only nod, and it only spurns you on.
The third tears through you, soon after - brought on with the with press of your fingers and the slow rock of your hips. His own palms flat against the mattress soon after your second, the tips digging into the sheets.
Teeth gritted like he’s in pain, the rough exhale of breath each time you shift up on your knees.
Drop back down.
Holding himself back, for just a little longer. Until he could feel you squeeze around his cock a second time.
He doesn’t make it long. That thread of self control fraying, snapping.
“Fuck.” It punches from him like a bullet, unexpected and ragged and harsh through soft lips, “You feel so good, baby. I think I’m gonna-”
His hands shift. Feather-light against your hips, like he can’t help but touch you again. Needing an anchor.
A shake of his head, as if retracting his previous statement - amending it.
“You’re going to make me come.”
Goosebumps prickle across your skin, and it only makes you double your efforts. The pleasure still an echoing memory each time your hips bounce against his, each time he rubs against that spot inside you again.
“Want you to, Clark.” It’s breathless, “Please-”
And it’s only now, on the brink, that he moves. Thrusts that stay shallow, deep and grinding inside you as his jaw tightens. The scrape of nails against your skin, muscles strung tight.
And then your name is on his lips in a soft moan. Tugging you down and flush, taking every inch as Clark spills inside you - your name a drawn-own gasp that lingers in the air, after.
It has your back arching, the fullness. The heavy jerk and throb, the panting breath and the leaded, sex-drunk weight of your limbs. Bringing you down to meet him, as his arms envelope you. Hips rocking together, until he finally goes still.
There’s a prolonged and blissful moment, after.
His head tipped back, with you spread out over him. Face nestled in the curve where neck meet shoulder - lips at his throat, feeling the fluttering thrum of his heartbeat as his fingers trace senseless patterns along your spine.
The warmth of him flooding inside you, leaking out - and it almost feels like you’re weightless. Hovering above the mattress. Frozen in time and space.
But then, it becomes more than just a feeling. The soft drag of your toes against the bedsheets, the bent curve of your legs lengthening.
Your eyes slipping open to see how his shirt pools beneath, gravity pulling the fabric down to the bed below.
“Clark?”
His eyes open, and then - you’re falling.
No more than a short distance - a foot or two at best - but your heart is leaping to your throat, and the sound of his back colliding with the mattress sends a shudder through the room.
A groan, and then the worn particle board is cracking in its frame. The legs beneath the footboard snapping, tilting the bed on its axis for a terrifying second before the headboard follows - sending the bed crashing against your rug.
You’re left staring at him, wide-eyed.
His expression matching your own, and it’s so unexpected and his face is so comical that you can’t help the laugh that’s barked out - your palm slapping over your mouth to muffle the sound.
“Oh no.” He gasps - a hand sheepishly drawing over his face, “Oh golly. I’m so sorry. I-”
The briefest hesitation, but then your mouth is tipping to his. Stealing a kiss - too chaste, after everything - and red blooms across his cheeks.
A small grin, as he finishes.
“I can explain.”