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Clark still sometimes gets whiplash.
He has always considered himself a giver. Being able to make someone feel good, to be the reason for someone else's pleasure, it was all the gratification he needed. Especially when it comes to you—you're so much smaller than he is, so sensitive and vocal and lovely—how could he not adore making you come apart when your back arches off the bed so cutely?
Clark is happy to be a giver, he's fully content to use his fingers and mouth and whatever else to bring you to your peak. If there's ever a time where you don't feel like taking the length of him—as doing so is a long endeavor that takes a lot of time and preparation and effort—he doesn't bat an eye before whispering a sweet “That's never a problem” before he brings you to another orgasm.
But sometime in your relationship, you'd told him something that completely blew him away.
“I want to take it.”
He'd just smiled, his breath shallow as he toyed with your hair with his curled finger. He went in to kiss you gently, your lips softly pressing. “You want to take me tonight?”
You'd put your hands on his chest, not pushing, just keeping him an inch away but still wrapped around you. “No, I mean,” a breath, “I want to take you…in my mouth.”
His heart had pounded so hard in his chest, he thought it might actually kill him. His hands on your hips tightened you slightly, the image of you looking up at him through your lashes while your lips wrap so nicely around him filling his thoughts until he's mentally berating himself for thinking of you in such an improper light (he much prefers looking up at you and wrapping his lips around that little button of yours.
He'd never really given that much thought to it, you sucking him off. Granted, not many girls—women—ever really ask, and anyone who had realized quickly that he may be too big for that and had to settle for just using their tongues or taking just the tip. He doesn't really mind, he's made it more than clear that he'd be fully satisfied if all he ever did was make you cum again and again while he watches in awe.
But, alas, he can't say no to you. So when you'd asked so sweetly, he'd gotten all awkward and shy and led you to the most comfortable spot he could find, put you in the most comfortable position you could be, and talked to you like you were the sun herself while he whimpered and moaned at the way you touched him.
You were not a pro by any means—in fact, Clark was the first man you'd ever gone down on. It was comforting to know that he was about as inexperienced as you were when it came to this part, you knew he wouldn't judge if you did something wrong. The first time had been like the other times, but you were so clumsy and sweet and pretty and you that he hadn't lasted very long, spilling out into his hand or onto his own belly just so he's not getting you messy with it.
That didn't change by much. Clark is still a bit of a wimp when it comes to you sucking him off. He doesn't last long, but he's quick to recover if it even deters his stamina at all. He whines and moans and grunts when you do it, sounds like he's constantly on the verge, ready to blow before you've even taken him in your mouth. Just the thought of you wanting to make him feel good like that—especially when no one else has had the interest or ability?—it drives him crazy.
What has changed, however, is your ability. You used to hardly be able to get past the tip, but now you've managed to get your lips more than halfway down. And before you could do that, you worked to find all of his spots that make him dizzy, all the tricks that make his eyes squeeze shut.
He's found that he looks forward to these “practice sessions” just as much as you. He likes to play with your hair while you do it, likes to listen to the quiet, slick sound of your mouth around him, to watch the head of his cock kiss the back of your tongue right before you gag around him. It doesn't help that you sometimes touch yourself while you do it, circling your clit or pressing your fingers inside of yourself and sending terrible vibrations through him when you moan.
None of this, however, means that he ever asks first—he loves doing it with you but he still much prefers watching you fall apart because of him as you gasp and moan and grip onto him like you'll fly away if you don't.
Which is why he's very eager to see you after a long day at work and a fight with some otherworldly creature immediately after. He gets home, lets you know he's coming over soon, takes a much needed shower, and heads to you with some flowers he picked up on the way.
Clark lets himself in. He moves quietly upon not seeing you in your living room or kitchen. You're probably in your room, obviously unaware that he's here or you'd be rushing to greet him right now. So he trims your flowers, sets them in your favorite vase, and makes a beeline for your room.
He knocks gently on your door before opening it slowly. You're sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing lotion into your skin as you glance up at him with a warm smile. You're the picture of pretty, wearing a hoodie you'd stolen from his place (ironically a Superman hoodie with his symbol and all.) He can feel your warmth from here, that fresh-from-the-shower warmth that has a thin layer of steam lifting from your skin. “Hi, honey.”
“Hey, sweetheart,” he smiles, leaning down to press a long kiss to your forehead. He comes back to you, arms already wide open and ready to receive you.
You're more than happy to accept, standing up from the bed and nearly throwing yourself into him with your arms wrapped tightly around him while he holds you close. His nose angles down to your hair, breathing in the scent of you, honey and vanilla with a sweetness that makes him want to taste you.
“How was your day?” he murmurs into your hair. You pull away, still looking up at him with that warm look in your eyes, though there's a deep pool lingering behind it that has him holding you a little tighter.
“It was nice, I got off early,” you shrug a shoulder, like you're rushing to get done with your recap. “Which is good because if not, I probably would have been there today.”
He'd thought about that when he realized where that alien was, on your usual route near your favorite café. He'd been in such a panic to get there and make sure you weren't in sight that he'd forgotten that the first thing he should do is probably get the alien’s attention to keep it from wreaking more havoc for the moment he takes to search for you. His heart had been beating so fast, he was wondering if the sun was even working when he'd gotten a little dizzy at the thought.
“You were great out there today.” Your voice pulls him back, and he gives you a gentle smile.
“Thanks, I missed you,” he says, as if those answers were related.
You breathe a gentle chuckle through your nose, raising your hands to cup his cheeks. He leans into them. “Missed you,” you say softly, standing on your toes to kiss him. He meets you in the middle, his lips warm and his hands firm at your sides. His thumbs rub delicate circles into your hips, so painfully loving that it makes you dizzy.
He tilts his head a bit, leaning in more. One of his hands raises to the back of your neck, and your lips go sloppy against his. He smiles against you, pulling you closer by the small of your back and pushing you back gently towards the bed.
You press your fingers into his chest so, so gently that he almost misses it. He pauses but keeps kissing you in shorter pecks so you can still speak.
But you don't say anything. You just turn him around and back him into the bed until he's falling into the edge of it with a light chuckle. You walk in the space between his thighs, hands on shoulders as you keep holding his face to kiss him. He hands land kindly at your hips, pulling you closer to him and he breathes you in.
“I missed you a lot,” he says, his lips slipping from your own to the corner of your lips, then your neck, and over to the spot below your ear.
“Yeah?” You let out a shallow breath, letting him kiss you with roaming hands. His lips brush over the curve of your neck. One of his arms wraps around your waist, pulls you in closer in favor of nibbling little marks into your skin.
You keep imagining them wrapping around you and throwing him over his shoulder with ease. You imagine him picking you up and wrapping your legs around his waist, kissing you—fucking you—without letting you so much as slip.
And it'd be so easy for him, too. He could lift you over his head and chuck you two miles out if he wanted to, but he wouldn't because he would never chuck you more than a couple feet onto the bed.
Your hand trails down to his arm, his muscles flexing beneath your palm. You lose a breath. “You did really great today.”
He smiles, letting you hold his cheeks and peck his lips between little breaths and the occasional giggle from one of you. “I watched the whole thing on the news. You were amazing.”
“Super?”
“Shut up.” It loses any bite it could have potentially held because you're too busy laughing at his stupid joke, kissing him as a way of silencing him.
You trace your hands along his neck, down the front of him. They venture out, spreading over his broad chest and coming to rest at the sides of him. “I've been thinking about you all day, and then I saw you on the news,” you say gently, your lips brushing his with each movement. He tilts his chin up, beckoning you in for another kiss—greedy as you.
You feel his hand rubbing along the center of your back, up and down and up and down in warm circles that have you sighing into his mouth. “You looked so hot,” you whisper, then pause. “I don't like the phrasing but it's the best I can do.”
He smiles so wide against your mouth, you're almost sick of him from that alone, if only you weren't incapable of getting sick of him and simply sick on him instead.
“That’s okay,” Clark says. “I'm not too worried about it, honey. I'm happy as long as we never leave this room.”
You scoff, though your smile ruins it. “Well, then you're gonna be real sad tomorrow when we have work.”
“Who has work?” he hums.
“Both of us?”
“Nuh-uh.”
You pull back from him, giggling at his idiocy. “Yuh-huh.” You kiss him again to silence his happy laughs. You kiss him until he's holding you like he just can't get you close enough. You kiss him until his hand and lifting to the back of your neck. You kiss him until his lips stray from your own to find your neck once more, intent on covering you in kisses until they leave imprints of him on your skin.
You sigh against his lips, the occasional tiny whine slipping past when he kisses a spot that makes you dizzy. Without once ever breaking away from him, you bend your knee as you slowly sink down to the floor. He follows you, his hands reaching for yours as he pulls away reluctantly with a gentle whisper of your name.
“Shh,” you look up at him, your sweet look tainted by the desire that's grown significantly in your eyes.
He rolls his eyes, giving you a lopsided grin. “I wanted to take care of you tonight.”
Your arms rest on his thighs, your fingers wrapping around his buckle but not undoing it. “You always take care of me,” you murmur, spreading your other hand out along the surface of his thigh, moving high up until you feel the muscles tense beneath your palm. “You always take care of everyone. Let me take care of you, baby.”
Clark can't deny you, even if all he wants to do right now is lay you out on the bed and ravage you until you can no longer form any coherent sentences longer than three words. But if you want to “take care of him” and give him those eyes that you know he's weak again, he's going to let you.
“Okay,” he says, though he says it with a kind of drama that makes you laugh.
You undo his belt with fingers that have become way more nimble in the time you've been with him. You pull it free from the metal, then from his belt looks, and then from your hand to the floor. He helps you shimmy his jeans down his legs, tossed somewhere to be forgotten, his shirt soon joining as you loom up and admire him.
He's very strong. It's something you can tell upon seeing him.
When he's just Clark Kent at The Daily Planet, he's this clumsy giant who is much too nice and mild-mannered to be a reporter. His suits are just a bit too big on him, his hair is a curly mess, more often than not, you find his glasses crooked on his nose when you come visit him.
When he's the Superman soaring through the sky, he's battling huge aliens and monsters (though he never uses that word because he finds it derogatory, so you refrain), saving men and women and children and the fucking mice that happen to scurry in the way of danger. He flashes adored smiles, ensures people are safe, proves to be nothing short of a superhero.
But here, in the space of your bedroom, hidden away from the rest of the world, he's just yours. He's strong and kind and so very loving that you want to burst. He treats you like gold, he serves you hand and foot, he shudders at your every touch just to turn around and make you scream his name.
You lean in to kiss his chest. You kiss him all over, letting your hands roam the spaces your lips don't touch. He watches you through hooded eyes, cradles your elbows or holds your sides or your hands. He looks at you like you're the sun that fuels him. You just kiss him more.
You splay your hands over the expanse of his thighs, giving a gentle squeeze to listen to his little grunt when you rub your thumbs into the spot that you know he likes. You’ve learned so much since you started doing this with Clark.
You know he likes to be teased—though he complains about it like he doesn’t. He likes when you kiss him all over, touch him like you’re tracing the patterns on a painting. You know he likes when you trace the tip of your tongue along his femoral artery, going up, up, up until his breath gets thin.
He likes when you slip your fingers into the waistband on his boxers, curl around them while you continue to tease. He likes to see you slowly tug them down until he springs free, stare at him a half-second too long before you’re getting rid of his underwear entirely.
And now he’s fully naked, and you’re still in his hoodie and that pretty pair of underwear he’d gotten you when you’d told him your favorite color. He doesn’t mind, as long as he gets to see you, he’s happy. It’s sickening.
You wrap your fingers around the base of his cock, hardening beneath your touch and getting prettier by the second. You don’t know how he does it, but his tip is flushed this beautiful pink color, he’s so nice and thick, and he’s pretty. He twitches in your hand, which makes you giggle. He makes this dreadful sound, not quite sure what to do with his hands.
“Don’t laugh at me,” he whines.
You look up at him, smiling and taking your hand off him. “M’not laughing at you, sweetheart,” you reassure, bringing your hand to your mouth and licking a long stripe up the length of it before wrapping it once again around him.
His head tilts back a bit, and you watch his jaw tense, worse when you slowly drag your fist up and down the length of him until he’s leaking out onto your skin. You gather it with your spit, watching him try to keep it together when you squeeze around his base.
“That’s really nice,” he says warmly. His praise has your pace quickening just a bit. You sit up on your haunches, pressing kisses on the inside of his inner thighs, so high up that you can feel the warmth emanating off of him.
You let your nose nudge against the base of him, sticking the tip of your tongue out to lick tentatively at him. You make the smallest contact, and he’s already holding back little grunts. He’s so sensitive with you. He loses his mind over the littlest touches, grips the sheets every time you flutter your lashes at him.
You hold him in one hand, letting your tongue flatten against him as you drag it slowly and wetly up the length of him. He clenches his jaw and groans, his breath shallow already. As your tongue dips beneath his mushroom tip, you wrap your lips around him as suckle gently, flicking your tongue along his slit.
His hands fist the sheets, needing something to ground him while you suck the tip of him into your mouth. Pre-cum is dripping onto your tongue, and you hum at the taste of it, which only makes it worse.
Pulling off of him, you gather spit on your tongue and cover his cock in it until it’s glistening. He’s murmuring barely coherent praises at you, watching you like he’ll cry. This is the same man who will spend hours on his belly, spreading you open as he devours you until you beg him to stop (you don’t have to beg, but you do).
You take one of his hands in yours, your lips still wrapped around him as you place it on your cheek. He cradles you, breathy short and eyes big as dimes. Without missing a beat, you let your tongue lick along his girth as you suck him gently in. You’ve got him about halfway in, bobbing your head and letting out these tiny whimpers when his thumb strokes your cheek.
“You’re doing so good,” he breathes. “Y’feel so good, sweetheart.” His hand finds your hair, holding the top of your head with no strength whatsoever. It just rests there, something to hold onto while you treat him like royalty.
You let the tips of your fingers draw patterns on the length of him not snug in the warmth of your mouth. His breath is shaky, and his legs are tensing and untensing beneath your free hand like he’s going to burst any second now—but he won’t. You know Clark’s body by now, and even when he feels the best he’s ever been, he lasts.
You know that when you press your thumbs into the meat of his inner thighs, his breath catches. You know that when you stroke his cock while you flick your tongue along the underside of him, he tries not to lift his hips to meet you. You know he likes when you use your fingertips to brush the skin of his balls. You know he likes when you take him in your mouth and work your tongue over him like a sucker.
“You always–ah!” He catches his breath as your slick hand strokes the remainder of him. “Always know…how to make me feel—good! So perfect for me, honey. Oh, sshhh-ugar. Hah, h’right there, baby.”
His praise is filling your brain with white noise. You go blank with it, your mind full of nothing but the pretty sounds he makes and the way he holds you and the taste of him on your tongue. Tiny moans slip from you every time his get choppy, which only makes it worse.
Clark’s hand slips from your cheek, moving back until it’s wrapping gently around the back of your head, still so gentle that you probably wouldn’t feel it if you weren’t so tuned in to every sound, every breath, every move he makes.
You’ve got him more than halfway now, feeling him at the very back of your tongue, arousal slipping down your throat. He can’t get enough of you as he watches you take him, the steady bob of your head as you work your mouth and tongue and fingers over him like he’s everything.
He’s watching as his dick kisses the back of your throat each time you go down. It’s hypnotic, the way your mouth moves around him to accommodate. He can’t believe how lucky he is to get to have you, to kiss you, to hold you, to look at you and now that you want him like he wants you.
“Doin’ so awesome for me, angel. My perfect girl.” His voice has raised a few pitches, words more slurry and breath all over the place. He removes his hands from you, returning them to the sheets just so he doesn’t slip up and pull—or, gods forbid, push.
His hands tremble a bit, and the evidence of his pleasure is going straight to your head. You feel it pounding in your heart, coursing through your veins, spilling out of the sides of your mouth, leaking onto your underwear.
You want him to feel good—need him to feel good. You need him to feel as perfect and as loved and as cared as he makes you feel. You couldn’t imagine not giving back to him all the love that he gives to you.
You hardly even think about it, too eager to see him come apart because of you. You don’t realize it until after you feel the stretch of your throat, the twitch of his cock on your tongue, your nose pressing into the trimmed hair at his pelvis.
It lasts for maybe two full seconds at most, but seeing you take him all the way down? Watching the length of him crammed into the tight space of your throat—feeling it as the tip of your tongue brushes his balls? He never stood a chance.
It happens all at once, surprises the both of you when he lets out this choked sound, a desperate mix of rough gasps and moans and the occasional grunt. You feel the warmth on your tongue as you’re pulling off of him, taste the salt as it spills. Ropes of white come in hot spurts, landing on your tongue and your cheeks and your nose and some on his thighs.
Shocked, you stroke him until he’s nothing but droplets, looking at him in awe of the crease between his brows, his parted lips, his shaking breaths. He looks like something to be painted, sculpted in marble to be worshipped by many for eons to come. You would worship him—you do worship him. You’d gaze up at his statue on your knees forever and whisper your praises to him without ever blinking an eye.
When the air settles and his breath slows, he looks down at you with lidded eyes. And then they widen in absolute horror, taking in the sight of you covered in his cum and draining of all color. “Oh, gosh,” he gasps, standing frantically, his legs a little shaky, to swipe his shirt from the pile of clothes.
He kneels in front of you, both of you on your knees now as he oh, so delicately cleans your face. His hands are so soft and gentle, one cradling your chin and the other swiping some of his release from under your eye. “I am so sorry,” he pleads. “So, so sorry. I did not mean to do that, it happened so fast.” He makes this sound like he might cry. “I would’ve pulled out, I am so sorry, honey.”
You’re nearly giggling, leaning back on your legs, your knees a bit sore from the floors, your jaw a little achy from the exercise. “Clark, it’s okay,” you smile. Your hands hold his waist as he continues to clean you up so tentatively. “I really don’t mind. I’m just glad you enjoyed yourself.”
He finishes up, scanning your face and your neck and anywhere else he may have “sullied” you hundred times over, only tossing his shirt without a second thought once he’s satisfied. He cradles your face in his hands and holds you like you’re the universe.
“I don’t like getting you dirty like that,” he murmurs, resting his forehead to yours.
You chuckle lightly, pressing a chaste kiss to the tip of his nose before returning to his affection. “I know you love me and all, but I’m not going to get mad at you if you cum on me. I wouldn’t care if you jerked off over me and came all over my body—I’d probably just watch you like you made the universe of something.”
He goes cherry red. “I’m not gonna do that.”
It’s a fun thought, either way. “I know.” He was going to do it, but you beat him to it. You pull him in, breathing him in as you lift onto your knees once more in search of him, as though his body wasn’t pressed flush against yours.
He can taste himself on your tongue, and it’s making him dizzy. He really doesn’t deserve you (or, at least, he thinks so). It’s a wonder you actually exist—he wasn’t sure it was possible. His arms wrap around you, and he manages to lift you. You don’t know how, but he does, and then he swaps places with you as he settles snug between your legs.
“My turn?” he asks, his eyes shining.
You’re going to have a heart attack if he keeps looking at you like that. You don’t think you can handle all of this love and affection all at once. “How could I say no?” you murmur, cupping his cheeks to meet him in another kiss.
He hums into your mouth, slipping down to your neck where his nose lightly brushes the little bump in your throat. “If you don’t want me to, you should say no.”
Yeah, you’re going to have a heart attack—or go clinically insane (whichever comes first).
“Yes, it’s your turn,” you laugh; although the warmth settling in the pit of your stomach is going to make you squirm, if he doesn’t do it first. “I’m all yours, Big Blue.”
Clark scoffs, but he’s going to play those words over and over in his head until the day he dies. He leans up, kisses you slowly, and spreads your legs wide. He locks eyes with you as he kisses the inside of your knee, then lifts your hoodie up just enough to see your underwear and the dark patch of arousal you’ve been building for him since you heard him messing around in your kitchen.
“Yeah,” he breathes, pulling you closer until you’re barely on the very edge of the bed and his face is mere inches from you. He looks up at you like you’re an angel. “I’m yours.”