kommanders

[kommanders]

so good omg

The Best Friend Experiment

Part 1: When Did You Get Hot?

Clark Kent x Reader Summary: You and Clark Kent have always lived in comfortable patterns, late-night dinners, movie marathons, patching him up after patrols, covering for him at the Planet. He’s your best friend, steady and certain, the one constant you’ve always been able to count on. And when your frustration with your lack of experience boils over, you blurt the unthinkable: you want him to be your first. Clark refuses at first. He's horrified, protective, pacing your kitchen like a man afraid of breaking something precious. But when you threaten to give yourself to someone else, his fear of losing you outweighs everything else. He agrees, reluctantly but resolutely, and the two of you strike The Pact. Rules are set: slow steps, gentleness, dinners and handholding, and above all: no kissing on the mouth. Content Warning: 18+, MDNI, Explicit sexual content (oral sex (f &m), first-time exploration, Emotional angst, References to Clark’s past relationships (Lana Lang, Lois Lane), Heavy yearning, slow burn, best-friends-to-lovers tension, Best Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Gentle but Hungry Clark Kent, No-Kissing Rule  word count: 16k Part 2 | Series Masterlist notes – not proofread

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The apartment smells like garlic and butter long before you pad into the kitchen, socks whispering against the hardwood. Clark is at your stove again, sleeves rolled to his elbows, broad shoulders bent toward a pan like he was built for domesticity instead of saving the world. His hair is a little damp still from the shower he took at your place, post-patrol grime scrubbed away with your shampoo, because his own ran out weeks ago and he hadn’t bothered to replace it when he could just come here.

“Don’t tell me you’re burning my pan again,” you tease, leaning against the doorway.

He turns, grinning that crooked grin, a dimple denting his cheek. “Gosh, no. I’ve got it under control this time. Promise.”

Steam curls around his wrist as he tosses pasta into sauce with an easy flick. He looks maddeningly natural there, in your kitchen, like he belongs. And the truth is, he does. He’s been doing this for months now. Late-night dinners after long shifts, after longer rescues, after days that leave him wrung out and you worried sick until he lands heavy-footed on your fire escape.

You slide onto the counter, knees brushing the fabric of his flannel as he moves past to grab a wooden spoon. He pauses, like he always does, when his body gets too close to yours, like he’s aware of every inch of space and how dangerously little exists between you. His hand ghosts over your thigh, not quite touching, just hovering as he reaches for the spoon. You hold your breath anyway.

“Dating apps treating you any better?” he asks, voice light, casual. You don’t catch the way his knuckles whiten briefly around the handle.

You roll your eyes, exhaling a laugh. “Please. My last match thought Smallville was a brand of chewing tobacco. Next.”

Clark chuckles. It’s low and warm, a vibration in his chest you feel through the air. “Sounds like a keeper.”

You swat his arm. He doesn’t flinch. But he looks at you then, eyes soft in a way that makes your chest tighten.

Dinner’s simple. Pasta and garlic bread, eaten cross-legged on the couch with a movie you’ve both seen a hundred times playing in the background. You steal bites off his plate, just to hear him sigh your name with mock exasperation, though he always slides the bowl closer so you can reach easier.

Later, when his phone buzzes with that tone you recognize, he’s already on his feet, muttering an apology. You grab his jacket, shove it into his hands before he can forget it, and lock the door behind him as he disappears into the night.

He’ll come back. He always does. And you’ll be waiting for him with a smile and the first aid kit.

-

He returns hours later, hair mussed, shirt torn at the shoulder. The window creaks as he steps through, boots heavy on the floorboards, smelling faintly of wind and smoke and that metallic tang of the city. You don’t ask questions. You never do, not right away. You just tug him toward the couch, your palm firm at the crook of his elbow, and make him sit.

The scrape at his jaw is shallow, barely visible beneath the stubble already darkening along his skin. It will heal before sunrise, you both know it, but still you reach for the first aid kit tucked under your coffee table. Habit. Ritual. One of those quiet things the two of you have built without ever needing to discuss it.

He sits obediently, long legs bent awkwardly in the cramped space between the couch and coffee table, his hands resting on his knees like he’s afraid to touch anything. The lamplight glows against his cheekbones, softening the cut of them, turning the strands of his hair copper where they curl damp against his forehead.

You lean in with gauze, your breath catching for just a second at how warm his skin is beneath your fingertips. It’s always warmer than it should be, like standing too close to a hearth. It radiates into your hand, seeps up your arm. 

“You’re gonna run out of patience one day,” he murmurs, voice low, almost rough.

You shake your head, pressing the gauze gently to the scrape. “Not with you.”

The words fall heavier than you intend. They hang there between you, too big for the small apartment.

You don’t notice the way Clark stills, how his throat bobs as he swallows hard. His hand twitches on his knee, like he wants to cover yours, like he wants to anchor himself, but he doesn’t. Instead, he shifts slightly, eyes darting down to your mouth before he forces them away, jaw tight.

You lean back, setting the gauze aside. Smile faintly, the way you always do when a crisis has passed, even a small one. “See? Good as new.”

To you, this is just another night. You don’t think about how handsome he looks like this, not really. Or rather, you do, but it’s filed away in that distant, objective part of your brain: yes, Clark Kent is tall and broad and built like some golden-age movie star; yes, women stare at him in coffee shops; yes, your mother once whispered “he’s awfully good-looking” when she met him at Thanksgiving. But to you, he’s just Clark. The man who forgets his umbrella every time it rains, who always overcooks the garlic bread, who texts you corny jokes when you’re stressed. A friend.

So you don’t notice the way his eyes linger on you now.

What you do notice is how he sighs when he finally relaxes, how his shoulders slope, the weight lifting just enough for him to lean back into your couch cushions. You notice the comfort of his presence filling the room, the way it always does, steady and quiet and certain.

You yawn, stretching, then slump sideways into the couch cushions. Your head finds his shoulder like it always does, without hesitation, as though his body is the most natural pillow in the world. You don’t think about it. Never have.

But Clark does.

The weight of you against him is gentle, familiar, the crown of your head brushing his jaw. He exhales slowly through his nose, willing his heart not to race, not to hammer like it does when he’s hovering over Metropolis with the wind in his ears. You’re warm against his side, and he wonders if you know you always smell faintly of citrus from your shampoo, if you know how the scent threads itself into his memory and clings there stubbornly, just as much a comfort as your laugh.

Your hand slips absently across his chest, fingers tugging at a loose thread on his flannel. You don’t look at him, eyes half-lidded from the late hour, but Clark feels the touch like a brand.

It’s the kind of touch Lois never gave him. Lois had been love on fire, sharp edges and decisive hands, her touch purposeful and electric, never casual. He had loved her for that, once. But when things ended, when her ambition carved a path too sharp for him to follow, he realized how badly he ached for something different.

He risks a glance down at you. Your lashes rest against your cheeks, your breathing slow, your lips parted just barely as if you’re already drifting toward sleep. The loose thread slips free of his shirt under your fingers. He swallows hard.

“Comfy?” he asks, voice too quiet, the words roughened around the edges.

“Mhm.” You burrow in closer, cheek pressing into the slope of his shoulder. “You’re warm.”

He almost laughs. Always warm, you’ve teased before. Like a space heater. Like the sun.

Instead, he tilts his head back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. He counts the slow rise and fall of your breaths, lets the sound of them calm him the way even the quiet of Smallville sometimes can’t.

It would be so easy to stay here. To imagine this as something it isn’t.

But Lois’s ghost lingers in the corners of his mind, her voice sharp, her kiss quick, the way she once told him she couldn’t be tethered to someone who belonged more to the world than to her. 

Clark closes his own eyes, forcing his breathing even, careful but contained. He tells himself it’s nothing. Just those same comfortable patterns. But he feels it anyway; the ache blooming in his chest, the quiet, impossible longing that grows a little heavier every time you lean on him without hesitation that he tries to deny and ignore.

One day, he fears, it will be too much to hold back.

You drift further, half-asleep against his shoulder, your breaths evening out. Your hand slips from his chest to your lap, slack with exhaustion. Clark doesn’t move, doesn’t even shift the arm that’s starting to go numb beneath your weight. He just sits there, listening to the quiet tick of your clock on the wall, the muted hum of city traffic outside your window.

When your head tips lower, threatening to slide off his shoulder, he finally moves. Carefully, like every muscle in his body has to be convinced not to wake you, he eases out from under you. You stir faintly, mumbling something incoherent, and he freezes until your breathing steadies again.

“Easy,” he whispers, voice so soft it’s almost a prayer.

He leans down to tug the throw blanket off the back of the couch, unfolding it with a practiced flick. Draping it over you, he smooths it into place along your shoulders, fingers brushing the crown of your head for just a second too long before he pulls back.

You sigh in your sleep, burrowing into the cushions. Peaceful. Trusting. Clark stands there a moment longer, hands braced on his hips, staring down at you like he’s trying to etch the sight into his memory. You, safe. You, comfortable. You, his.

Not his.

He exhales, shakes himself, and tiptoes toward the fire escape. The night calls him again, sirens in the distance, someone out there who will need him. He slides the window open, slips into the dark.

Just before he goes, he glances back over his shoulder. The blanket has slipped down to your elbow, and he wants to go fix it, wants to go back and tuck you in tighter, but he forces himself not to.

“Sleep well,” he whispers into the stillness. Then he’s gone, the curtain swaying in the breeze he leaves behind, and you’re none the wiser.

-

The newsroom is too loud. Phones ringing, keyboards clacking, the low hum of chatter ricocheting off the walls of the bullpen. You’ve had your headphones in for twenty minutes without music playing, just to block it all out.

Jimmy drops into the chair across from your desk with a cup of burnt breakroom coffee and that mischievous grin he always gets when he’s about to annoy you. “So. Tell me about the new guy.”

You groan. “What new guy?”

“The app guy,” he says, gesturing vaguely with his coffee like that explains everything. “Tall, kind of boring looking, weirdly into Lex Luthor’s NFT’s? You sent me screenshots last night.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Jimmy, he thought ‘NATO’ was a type of salad.”

He winces. “Yikes.”

“Yikes,” you echo, spinning a pen between your fingers. “I unmatched in record time. Pretty sure that has to be some kind of world record.”

Jimmy shrugs, taking a noisy sip. “Still. You’ll find one eventually.” Then he murmurs, “Unless… you’re still hung up on the Clark thing.”

Your head snaps up. “What Clark thing?”

He raises both hands, innocent. “Relax. I just mean you two spend… a lot of time together. More than you spend with anyone else. And people talk.”

You snort, maybe too quickly. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

Jimmy gives you a look like he doesn’t believe you, but lets it go. You don’t let it go, though. The words linger long after he gets distracted by a photo assignment, rattling around in your brain like loose change.

Because it’s true. You and Clark are close. But not like that. Not in the way Jimmy means. Clark is… Clark. He’s warmth and laughter that rumbles low in his chest. He’s a safe place to land when the world feels too sharp.

And yet, whenLois’s name slips into conversation at the copy desk, someone gossiping about her latest byline overseas, it cuts you sharper than you expect.

Lois Lane. Brilliant. Gorgeous. Not afraid of anything. She had Clark once. She had all of him. His big, clumsy heart, his attention, his hands, his mouth. You don’t even have a fraction of that.

You stare down at the blank page in front of you, pen poised but unmoving. The spiral starts quietly, then picks up speed: you’re tired. Tired of being the only one at girls’ nights who doesn’t have a story. Tired of swiping left on strangers who want to skip straight to “u up?” without ever learning your last name. Tired of lying in bed next to Clark after movie nights, listening to his steady breathing while your body aches for something you’ve never even had.

Virginity. Once, it felt like something worth protecting, worth saving for someone who would matter. Now it just feels like proof you’ve been waiting too long for a bus that’s never coming. And you’re so tired of waiting.

By the time you pack up to leave for the night, the thought has already taken root. It hums low in your chest, restless, impossible to ignore. You find Clark by the elevators, his tie loosened, glasses slipping down his nose as he flips through his notes. He looks up at you, smile tugging at his mouth, and suddenly your gaze sticks there. On the curve of his lips, the way they part like he’s about to say your name.

Your stomach flips. Just for a second, your brain betrays you: you imagine what it would feel like if he bent down and kissed you right here in the half-lit elevator bay. Not a friendly brush of lips. Not soft. Hungry.

His big hands braced on either side of you, mouth claiming yours like he couldn’t stop himself if he tried. Heat bolts through you, pooling low in your stomach so quickly you actually stagger. The image is gone as soon as it comes, but your pulse is still hammering, traitorous.

You snap your eyes away, fumbling with your bag. It’s Clark, you remind yourself, stern and panicked. He’s your best friend. He’s off-limits. He doesn’t think of you that way. You don’t think of him that way.

Still, when you sneak a glance back at him, he’s already looking at you, brows furrowed like he noticed something shift. 

You paste on a smile, too bright, and jab the elevator button with unnecessary force. The thought lingers anyway. 

-

The night feels like every other night you’ve spent together; comfortable, predictable, stitched together by the kind of domestic rhythm that sneaks up on you. Clark is barefoot in your kitchen, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, stirring something. The simmer of sauce punctuates the quiet, the wooden spoon clinking soft against the pot. You’re perched at the counter with a glass of cheap red wine, chin propped in your hand, watching him move around like it’s his kitchen instead of yours.

He hums under his breath as he tastes the sauce, a tune that clings to him like a second skin. You sigh, swirling the wine until the color shivers against the glass. “You know, sometimes I think dating apps are just elaborate psychological torture devices.”

Clark glances over his shoulder, bemused, eyes catching yours through his glasses. “Another bad one?”

You scoff. “Define bad. He spelled my name wrong. Twice. And I’m pretty sure he was only pretending to like books because one was in the background of his profile picture. When I asked which one, he said… ‘the brown one.’”

Clark chokes on a laugh, shoulders shaking as he turns back to the stove. “Ouch. That’s, uh… not promising.”

You tip your glass toward him like a toast and knock back another sip. “Promising? Clark, my romantic life isn’t even functional anymore. It’s… barren. Wasteland barren. Like, salt-the-earth-and-never-grow-again barren.”

He stirs the sauce with more focus than necessary, like he can hide behind the motion. His voice is soft, almost careful. “You’ll find someone. Someone who… sees you. Knows what you need.”

The words sting more than they should. You want to roll your eyes, to laugh it off. Instead, something sharper tumbles out. “Easy for you to say. You’ve had people, Clark. Real relationships. Lana, Lois,” You stop yourself, but the damage is done. His back stiffens, barely perceptible, but you’ve known him too long not to notice.

Your throat feels tight. “I’m just saying,” you add quickly, voice softer now, “you’ve been… wanted. Desired. You know what that feels like. I don’t.”

And it’s true. You remember college, the way Lana Lang used to slip into study sessions with her lipstick smudged and Clark trailing after, his ears red, his collar tugged loose like he’d been pulled too close. You remember the quick glances they exchanged across classrooms, the secret marks just visible on her throat when her ponytail slipped askew.

Then Lois years later; the stolen moments in the newsroom, her biting laugh, the flush in Clark’s cheeks when she teased him too openly. You’d caught the shadow of them once, in the reflection of a window: her hand fisted in his tie, his body bent to hers, hungry and urgent. He had been hers completely, until he wasn’t.

And you? You’ve never had any of that. No marks, no flushed faces in the aftermath of being wanted too much. No whispered secrets in the corner of a crowded room. Nothing but silence, and waiting, and stories secondhand.

You laugh, but it cracks in the middle. “I’m twenty-something years old, Clark, and I’ve never even… you know. Done it. Everyone around me has stories, memories, experiences…and I’m just,” You gesture vaguely with your wine glass, heat crawling up your throat like shame. “Nothing. A blank page.”

He sets the spoon down carefully, like it might break if he’s not gentle. Turns to face you fully, expression so tender it almost hurts to look at. “That’s not true.”

“Yes, it is.” The words slip out sharp, too defensive. You set the wine down before you drop it.

Clark takes a step closer, concern knitting his brow. His eyes hold yours, soft and steady, and that’s what does it. The way he looks at you, like he’d carry the weight for you if he knew how. Like he wants to.

And before you can think better of it, the words break free. 

“Clark, I want you to be my first.”

Silence.

It drops between you, heavy as lead.

His eyes widen. His whole body goes rigid, like you’ve set off an alarm only he can hear. He actually stammers, “W-what?”

You set the glass down too hard, the sound sharp in the quiet. “You heard me.”

He blinks rapidly, takes a step back, rakes a hand through his hair. “No, no, no. Gosh, you can’t. You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” You snap.

Clark starts pacing, long strides back and forth across your linoleum, his voice breaking against the edges of disbelief. “This is crazy. This is…you don’t want this. You’d regret it. You’d regret me.”

The frustration that’s been simmering in you all night boils over. “Don’t tell me what I want, Clark.”

He turns sharply, mouth open like he’s going to argue, but you’re already there, heart hammering against your ribs, words spilling out reckless and hot.

“Fine. If you won’t help me, then I’ll just sleep with the next guy I match with.” The declaration cuts through the room like a blade.

Clark freezes. His jaw clenches tight, the muscle ticking, something dark flickering across his face; fear, anger, something deeper you can’t name. His voice, when it comes, is low and rough. “Don’t.”

You cross your arms, trying to steady yourself even as your pulse thrashes. “Then what should I do, Clark?”

Clark freezes in the middle of your kitchen. His chest rises and falls too fast, his big hands flexing like he doesn’t know what to do with them. That sharp “Don’t” still vibrates in the air between you, too raw, too guttural to sound like anything but instinct.

You uncross your arms, your own words suddenly sounding reckless, childish in your ears. Your throat burns. “If you really don’t want me like that, Clark, it’s fine. Just say it and then forget I said anything. I’m just being stupid.”

“Stupid?” His head snaps toward you, eyes wide, voice breaking.

“Yes.” The word claws out of you, brittle. You grip the edge of the counter, needing the bite of wood under your fingers. “Stupid to think I could compare to… to Lana. To Lois. To anyone who’s ever had you looking at them like they hung the stars. I know I can’t.”

The silence that follows is suffocating. Your ears roar with it. Heat climbs up your neck until you feel like you might combust. You can’t stop yourself.

You keep going, raw and shaking. “I’m not beautiful like Lois. I’m not perfect like Lana. I’ve never even had anyone want me badly enough to…” Your voice falters, lips trembling, but you force it out, “…to leave a mark.”

Clark inhales sharply, like you’ve struck him. His jaw works, but no sound comes out. He drags both hands through his hair, pacing another tight line, his heavy steps against the linoleum loud in the stillness. “Don’t say that,” he finally grinds out, low and harsh, like he can’t stand hearing it.

You let out a hollow laugh, but your chest aches. “It’s true. And it’s fine, Clark. I don’t need saving from this. You don’t have to fix it. You don’t have to fix me.”

That’s when it cracks. Clark spins toward you, shoulders tense, eyes burning with something you can’t name. His voice comes out strangled, all rough edges and desperation, “Listen. You can’t. You can’t just… give yourself to some guy on a screen who doesn’t know you. Who doesn’t care about you.” His throat bobs, his voice rising. “Gosh, you…please. Please let me help you.” The words feel like they rip straight out of him, leaving him raw and trembling.

You blink at him, stunned. “Help me?”

“Yes.” He takes a step closer, then another, until he’s right there, towering, restless energy radiating from every inch of him. “If this is really what you want, if you’re ready, then it should be with someone who,” His voice breaks again, eyes dropping to the floor. “who already knows you. Who already…” He stops himself, fists clenching. “Not some stranger.”

Your heart pounds so loudly it drowns out the ticking of the stove timer. For a second you think you’ve imagined it, his voice breaking, the words please let me help you. You search his face, but he won’t meet your eyes, jaw working like he’s swallowed something sharp.

A strange twist settles in your chest, equal parts victory and dread. You’d wanted him to say yes, hadn’t you? You’d wanted this: his safety, his steadiness, his hands instead of a stranger’s. And now that he has, your stomach churns with sudden nervousness, the enormity of what you’ve asked for crashing down around you.

“You’re serious?” your voice comes out thinner than you mean it to, trembling at the edges.

Clark nods once, curt, as though the word yes might be too heavy for his tongue. “We should…” He drags a hand across the back of his neck, eyes fixed somewhere near the floor. “We should probably set some rules. Talk about… the arrangement.”

The word makes you wince; clinical, detached, like this isn’t your best friend offering to give you something you’ve never had. But you nod anyway, because he’s right. Rules. Boundaries. Otherwise you’ll drown in everything this isn’t supposed to be.

There’s a long pause. The kind that stretches, tightens, pulls at you until you can barely stand it. His hands flex against his thighs, restless. You realize he’s waiting for you to be the one to start it. Your mouth feels dry. “No kissing,” you blurt, before you can second-guess yourself. His head jerks up, startled, and heat rushes to your cheeks as you push on, fumbling. “Not on the mouth. It’s too… intimate. Too dangerous. If we’re going to do this, then I-I need to keep something back. I can’t blur those lines.”

For a moment, he just stares, lips parting like he wants to argue, then closing again. His shoulders sag slowly, the tension draining out of him in a heavy exhale. “Alright,” he says finally, voice quiet but steady. “No kissing.” The words drop between you, solid and immovable. That’s safer. Cleaner. The rule is a wall, and you cling to it.

“My rule…” He starts, “is that you always have to be honest with me. About what you want. How you feel. If you want to stop.” 

You let your gaze linger on him, feeling your heart flutter. You knew he would be the best person to ask this of. “Of course,” you say. “I expect the same of you.” But even as you watch him swallow hard, eyes still carefully averted, you feel it. The realization settling in, sudden and sharp, that this is happening. 

“If we’re doing this,” he says, voice low and deliberate, “then it has to be done right.”

You frown faintly. “Right?”

He nods, finally meeting your eyes. The intensity there makes your throat go dry. “I don’t just mean rules. I mean the way we handle it. You deserve… care. Respect.”

Your chest twists. You look away quickly, down at the stem of your wine glass. “Clark, this isn’t supposed to be anything…serious.”

“I know.” His voice is soft but firm, cutting across yours. “I know it’s not supposed to mean more. But it still matters. You matter. And if I’m the one you trust with this, then it shouldn’t feel cheap. It should feel… safe. Special.” The words make your skin prickle, warm and uneasy. You’d expected fumbling, detachment, something clinical. Like he had seemed moments ago. But no. Not Clark Kent, with his big heart and impossible sincerity, insisting on making it feel like it means something.

He takes another step, close enough that you can feel the faint heat radiating off him. “So,” he says, clearing his throat. “Dinners. Real ones. At home, out in the city, doesn’t matter. No rushing. No skipping steps.” His mouth quirks, faint and sheepish. “Not with me.”

The laugh that slips from you is nervous, but it loosens something in your chest. “So what, you’re writing a gentleman’s syllabus?”

That earns you the ghost of a grin, fleeting but brighter than it should be. “Something like that.”

You nod slowly, heart still thundering. “Okay. Dinners. What else?”

His brow furrows as he thinks. “We start small. Hands first. Touch. Just… getting used to each other.”

The idea makes your stomach clench, a pulse of heat winding low. His hands are so large, so steady; you’ve watched them patch wounds, cradle mugs, tie his tie with fumbling frustration. The thought of them holding you on purpose, of being allowed that kind of closeness, makes your breath catch.

Clark must see something shift in your face, because he extends his hand, palm up, tentative. His size dwarfs yours, calloused lines cutting deep across his skin.

Your fingers hover a moment before you place your hand in his. His warmth seeps into your palm instantly, the contact deliberate, purposeful in a way it’s never been before. His thumb brushes lightly across your knuckles, cautious, reverent.

You don’t look at him. You just let him guide you toward the couch. The cushions dip as you sit side by side, his hand still wrapped around yours. The silence is louder than the ticking clock on the wall.

When his arm slides around your shoulders, you freeze a second, then lean in, cheek pressed to the solid wall of his chest. The fabric of his shirt is soft, but beneath it is pure strength, steady and overwhelming. His heartbeat drums under your ear, slower than yours, steadier, but strong enough that you can feel it reverberate through you.

Cuddling. You’ve done it before in half-steps: falling asleep during movie marathons, leaning on him after long days. But never like this. Never deliberate. Never with his arm firm and deliberate around you, like it belonged there. The silence stretches, warm and suffocating all at once. You tilt your face up without thinking, caught by the nearness of him. His thumb rises, brushing a featherlight stroke along your cheekbone.

Your breath stutters. For one wild moment, you’re sure he’s going to close the gap, press his mouth to yours and shatter the rule you just built. His gaze dips, his hand cups your cheek, and the air between you hums with possibility. But then he swallows hard, pulls back, jaw tightening. His hand falls to his lap.

You exhale shakily, relief and disappointment tangling until you can’t tell the difference. The pact is made. The first lesson is done. And nothing will ever be the same.

-

The next few days at the Daily Planet feel… different. Not radically. Not like the whole office can see what you and Clark decided in the hush of your kitchen. Perry White still barks headlines across the bullpen. Printers still jam. Jimmy still roams around with a camera slung over his neck, muttering about light angles and cropping.

But for you? Everything has shifted a few degrees. You catch yourself glancing at Clark more than usual, more than is safe. And every time you do, he’s already looking at you, like he can’t help it either. The two of you fumble through it, trying to pretend you’re not aware of what’s coming, of the pact you made.

On Tuesday, you’re both assigned a late-night edit. The bullpen has mostly cleared out. Clark sits across from you, glasses slipping down his nose as he types. His tie is loosened, collar open, and when he leans back to stretch, the motion pulls the fabric taut across his chest. You try not to notice. You fail miserably.

“Everything okay?” he asks, catching your stare.

You snap your gaze back to your laptop screen, ears burning. “Fine. Totally fine.” When you risk a peek, his mouth quirks, dimples deepening. He doesn’t call you on it.

Wednesday morning, he brings you coffee. Your exact order, written in his careful scrawl on the cup. Extra cinnamon. Just how you like it.

“Thought you could use it,” he says, setting it down beside your keyboard.

You blink at him. “You bribing me, Kent?”

“Gosh, no,” he says quickly, flustered. “Okay, maybe a little.” He shifts his weight, glasses sliding again. You reach out without thinking, push them back up the bridge of his nose with a single finger. He freezes, eyes wide behind the lenses, and for a split second you feel his breath hitch.

You pull back fast, heart pounding. “You’d lose your head if it wasn’t attached.”

He laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Guess I would.”

By Thursday, the tension has settled into something quieter. The two of you walk back from lunch, shoulders brushing occasionally. Clark carries the paper bag of sandwiches like it’s precious cargo.

“You don’t have to keep treating me like glass,” you say suddenly.

His brows furrow. “I don’t.”

“You do. With… this.” You gesture vaguely between you, the pact hanging unspoken in the space. “I’m not going to break.”

He chews his lip, thinking. “I know. But you’re important to me. And important things… I like to handle carefully.” The words make your throat tighten, though you don’t say so. You just nod, bumping your shoulder into his lightly. He smiles down at you, and the knot in your chest loosens a little.

The days pass like that, small moments threaded through your normal routine. Glances that linger too long. Coffee runs that feel like courtship. The brush of his hand against yours when you pass papers back and forth.

Clark bumbles, tripping over his own feet when he tries to reach for the same file you do, spilling a pen from his pocket when you tease him about his tie, but somehow he still comes out of it looking steady, charming in a way that makes your stomach flip. It’s a delicate balance: pretending nothing has changed while knowing everything has.

And every time his eyes soften when they land on you, every time he hovers like he wants to touch you but stops just short, you’re reminded: the pact isn’t just theory anymore. It’s waiting, looming, inevitable.

The next time it happens, it’s a Saturday night. You’re at Clark’s apartment, curled on his couch, an old vinyl spinning softly in the background. The lamps are dim, the kind of golden light that makes shadows cling to the walls. He’s barefoot, in worn sweats and a soft gray T-shirt that stretches across his shoulders. The air smells faintly of the ginger tea he brewed for you, steam still curling from the mug on the coffee table.

It feels comfortable, like any other night you’ve spent tangled into each other’s orbits. But underneath that ease is the thrum of something new, something heavier. Clark sits beside you, his big frame taking up more space than he means to, thighs brushing yours whenever he shifts. He fiddles with the hem of his shirt, clearing his throat once, twice, before he finally says, “So… do you want to… start?”

Your stomach flips, nerves sparking. “Start?”

He meets your eyes over the rims of his glasses, the corners of his mouth twitching. “The, uh, lessons.” He says it clumsily, like the word doesn’t quite fit in his mouth, like it tastes wrong and too intimate at the same time.

Your laugh comes out breathless, shaky. “Right. The lessons.”

A long pause. Then, more seriously, he extends his hand, palm up, as though offering a truce. “We’ll go slow.”

You slide your hand into his. The warmth of his palm hits you immediately, too hot, like he’s running a fever. His fingers curl around yours carefully, reverently, and suddenly something as simple as holding hands feels like standing at the edge of a cliff.

He shifts, tugging you gently until your legs brush fully, until his thigh presses firm against yours. “Don’t just sit there,” he says quietly, coaxing. “Touch me.”

You swallow, nerves rattling, and let your fingertips trace along the broad lines of his palm. Up across his wrist, the pulse thrumming steady beneath your skin. Your hand travels tentatively up his forearm, brushing the fine dark hair there, grazing across the muscle that flexes when he breathes. 

Clark exhales softly, a sound you feel more than hear. Your touch hovers just shy of his bicep, until his hand covers yours, guiding it upward. His voice is low, coaxing, almost tender. “Not just there. Here.” You spread your palm over the swell of his bicep. Solid, unyielding. His shirt shifts beneath your touch, soft cotton stretched over iron muscle. 

He leans closer, his breath warm against your temple. “It’s more romantic like that,” he murmurs, his voice pitched low, coaxing. He draws your hand up further, across the curve of his shoulder, slow and deliberate. “To trace your hands across your partner’s skin.” Your breath hitches as he guides you, your fingers sliding over the slope of his collarbone, the thick column of his neck.

“And here,” he whispers, nose brushing the line of your jaw, his words grazing your skin. “Especially here.” Your pulse stutters. You know he won’t kiss you, but the closeness is unbearable, his mouth hovering just shy of your skin, his breath ghosting heat down your throat.

“Clark…” Your voice trembles.

He pulls back fractionally, enough to look at you, eyes glassy behind his glasses. “Is this okay?”

You nod, too quickly, words caught in your throat. “Yeah. More than okay.”

Your hand lingers at his neck, thumb brushing the sensitive place just below his ear. He shudders almost imperceptibly, and the tiny sound that escapes him is half sigh, half groan. It punches straight through your chest, winding you. You want more. 

Your hand still rests at the thick column of his neck, thumb grazing the tendon there, and you swear you feel his pulse spike under your touch. His breath hitches, low and audible, and then his much larger hand covers yours, anchoring it in place like he can’t bear to let you pull away.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, his voice deeper now, roughened. “That’s what touch does. Makes your partner aware of you. Not just skin… but here.” His thumb presses gently against your palm, slow, deliberate, before guiding your hand lower, down across the solid slope of his shoulder. You trail across the cotton of his shirt until the muscle beneath makes your fingertips tremble. His arm flexes instinctively under your touch, a ripple of strength he doesn’t mean to show.

Your laugh is breathless, shaky. “You really going to give me a lecture on holding hands, Kent?”

The corner of his mouth quirks, but his eyes don’t leave yours. “Every time you try and give me guff,” he says, voice dropping lower, almost a growl, “I think about how easy it would be to shut you up… like this.” Before you can scoff, his hand tugs yours firmly, pulling you flush against his chest. The sudden movement knocks a gasp from you, sharp and surprised. Clark groans softly in response, a sound caught deep in his throat, like he already knew that’s exactly how you’d sound.

Your chest presses to his, the world reduced to the steady thud of his heartbeat under your ear. His hand slides up your spine, big and sure, fingers tracing a path that leaves you shivering.

“See?” he whispers, his nose brushing along your hairline, down toward your temple, barely skimming your skin. “Touch is about more than contact. It’s about intention. The difference between a hand on your arm…” He draws your hand back down, across the thick swell of his bicep, your palm flat against muscle. “And a hand here.” He guides your hand down further, curling your fingers gently around his forearm until you squeeze instinctively.

He exhales sharply, a hiss of breath, as if even that small pressure rattles him. Your head tips back on instinct, exposing your throat to the heat of his breath. His nose skims your jawline, the faintest brush, so light you wonder if you imagined it, until you feel the ghost of his lips, not a kiss but close, grazing the delicate line of your skin.

Your own hands are bolder now, exploring on their own, brushing across his shoulder, the edge of his collarbone, curling tentatively at the nape of his neck. His skin is fever-hot under your touch, and when you tug lightly at the hair there, he lets out a sound so soft, so unguarded, you have to bite back a whimper. Clark’s palm cups your waist, spreading wide over your ribs, thumb stroking just beneath the curve of your side. His other hand slides down your arm, not gripping, not pinning, but steady and insistent, until your fingers are trapped between his own. He threads them together deliberately, like he’s reminding you who’s guiding this.

“You learning yet?” he whispers, lips brushing so close to your skin they graze the shell of your ear.

Your pulse stutters. “I-I think so.”

His chest rumbles with a low, quiet laugh. “You’re shaking.”

You swallow hard, your forehead nearly bumping his. “And you’re warm. Now we’re both stating the obvious.”

His lips hover close, his breathless laugh skimming your mouth, so close, but not touching. Not allowed. His restraint is maddening, your own rule haunting you even as you ache for him to break it. Clark exhales slowly and steadily, like he’s reining himself in with both hands. His nose brushes your cheekbone. His thumb strokes your knuckles in a steady rhythm. His chest expands against yours, and you feel the heat of him, the hunger beneath his composure.

You’re strung tight, held there, every nerve burning with the anticipation of almost.

And then the shrill chirp of his phone slices the moment apart. Clark stiffens instantly, curses under his breath, soft, wholesome, and frustrated. “What the hay.” He fumbles for the device on the coffee table, already rising to his feet, your hand slipping from his skin. The spell shatters as though the connection was never there.

You blink, dazed, the sudden absence of his warmth like being plunged into cold water. A flash of the screen: Guy Gardner.

Clark presses the phone to his ear, his voice snapping taut, professional. “What is it, Guy?” And just like that, he’s somewhere else. His shoulders square, spine straightening, his tone flattening into that cadence you recognize too well; the one he uses when he’s already halfway out the door. Superman’s voice. Not Clark’s.

You sit frozen on the couch, your pulse still rabbit-fast, the phantom of his body clinging to you like static. Your palm tingles with the heat of his neck, your jaw buzzes faintly where his breath had skimmed seconds ago. The intimacy of it lingers, an ache with nowhere to go.

The call stretches on. His voice drops lower, edged with command, clipped and efficient. Every syllable drags him further from you, until the man who had been whispering against your skin moments earlier feels untouchable again; beyond reach, beyond want.

When he finally ends the call, he exhales hard, already moving. He reaches for his jacket, guilt etched plain across his face. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”

You swallow down the burn in your chest and force a smile, light, dismissive. “Go. It’s okay.”

He hesitates at the door. His gaze lingers, heavy, like he doesn’t want to leave, like he knows exactly what he’s leaving behind. For a heartbeat, you think he might say something, might undo the distance the phone call carved between you.

But then he turns, slipping into the night. The door clicks shut, the sound too final. The silence afterward is deafening. You sit there, the lamp humming softly, the record still spinning in the corner. Your hand is still buzzing with the ghost of his heat. Your jaw still tingles where he almost kissed you, where he didn’t.

You press your palm to your mouth, like maybe you can hold onto the ghost of him there, but it’s hollow. Empty. Not enough. Not even close. And suddenly you understand what it means to be left wanting by your own best friend, burning, restless, your body humming with echoes of a touch that didn’t go far enough.

You stay frozen on the couch for a long time after he’s gone, staring at the door like it might open again, like he might come back with an apology, with his hands, with his mouth. But the silence stretches, thick and merciless. The record player crackles until the song ends and the needle clicks against the groove, over and over, the sound scraping through your nerves.

Eventually, you peel yourself up, feeling unsteady on your legs, and wander toward his bedroom. You’ve slept here before, late nights after too many drinks, or when he insisted you take the bed and he crash on the couch. But this feels different now. Crossing the threshold feels like trespassing into the shell of him. The room smells like him. Soap and cedar and the faint spice of his aftershave. His flannel is draped across the chair by the dresser, sleeves rumpled like he’d shrugged it off hours ago, and when you brush your fingers against it the fabric is still faintly warm.

You collapse onto his bed, burying your face in his pillow before you can stop yourself. It smells like his shampoo, like the way his hair had brushed your jaw when he whispered against your skin. You inhale deep, shaky, until your chest aches with it. 

Sleep doesn’t come easy. Every time you close your eyes, you replay it: his thumb tracing your knuckles, his nose skimming along your jawline, the way his voice had gone low and ragged when he teased you. You hear him groan again in your memory, soft and unguarded, and your whole body jolts with heat. You roll over, restless, sheets tangling around your legs. Your skin feels too tight, too hot, every nerve keyed up. Your hand lifts on instinct, grazing your collarbone where his breath had warmed you, sliding down to your ribs where his thumb had stroked. You can almost feel him there still, like his touch has imprinted itself into your body. You squeeze your eyes shut, fists clutching at the pillow like it might anchor you. But the ache only sharpens.

The clock ticks on his nightstand. The city murmurs faint through the glass. And you lie in his bed, wide awake, aching with the memory of what almost happened. When sleep finally drags you under, it’s fitful and shallow, full of dreams where he doesn’t pull away.

You wake, disoriented and bleary, and you think maybe it was all a dream. The pact, the near-touch, the way Clark had held your hand and guided you over the solid heat of his body. But then you inhale, and the scent of him is everywhere. The bed is empty, of course. Cold on the other side. He didn’t come back last night. You knew he wouldn’t. Still, it’s jarring, the intimacy of waking in his space with no one there to temper it.

You roll onto your back, staring at the ceiling fan that spins lazily above you. The air feels thick with him, every breath a reminder of what you almost had, what you didn’t. 

The faint thud from the living room startles you. The window creaks, and a rush of cool air slips in. You sit up just as Clark steps inside.

He looks wrecked. Hair a mess, suit scuffed and soot-stained in places, cape dragging behind him. The S stretched tight across his chest is dulled with grime and exhaustion. His eyes are shadowed, jaw tense. But the second he sees you still curled in his bed, his whole body softens.

“Hey,” you whisper.

“Hey.” His voice is low, frayed.

“You look…” You hesitate, searching for the right word. Exhausted. Bruised. Beautiful. “...rough.”

He huffs a humorless laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. “That bad?”

You pat the space beside you, heart thudding. “Would it be okay if I… held you?”

He freezes in the doorway, like no one’s asked him that before. Like no one’s thought to. Then, slowly, he nods. “Yeah. Please.”

He sheds the cape, but nothing else, and crawls onto the mattress beside you, still in the suit, broad and solid, smelling of wind and smoke. He lowers himself carefully, resting his head on your chest. The weight of him makes your breath hitch, not crushing but grounding, like he’s anchoring himself to you. Your fingers slide into his dark hair, damp with sweat, thick and heavy between your knuckles. He sighs against you, a low, unguarded sound that thrums through your ribs. His big hand splays across your stomach, palm radiating heat through the thin barrier of your shirt.

“Better?” you murmur.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Better.”

At first it’s still, quiet. Just his breath against your chest, your hand combing slowly through his hair.  But then his other hand moves. It drifts lower, sliding deliberately down your side, over the dip of your waist, his palm so wide it nearly spans you. His fingers settle at your hip, a gentle grip, firm enough to anchor, cautious enough to let you pull away if you wanted. 

He doesn’t ask aloud. He doesn’t say a word. But every shift of his hand is measured, careful, waiting for the flinch that doesn’t come. The brush of his thumb against bare skin where your shirt has ridden up makes your thighs press together instinctively. The air between you feels molten, charged. Heat pools low in your stomach, sharp and insistent.

“Clark…” The whisper scrapes out of you, tremulous, unsure.

He lifts his head slightly, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them, voice pitched lower, rougher. “You can tell me to stop.”

“Don’t,” you breathe. Something flickers across his face at that. Relief, yes, but underneath it a hunger that makes your pulse stutter. It’s raw, unguarded, a look that belongs to a man, not a boy next door. His hands tighten fractionally on you, then slide upward with new certainty. He tugs your shirt up, higher, bunching it slowly above your ribs. His knuckles graze hot trails over your stomach as he pushes the fabric aside. You raise your arms, half-dazed, and he peels the shirt over your head in a rush, tossing it blindly onto the floor.

You’re bare above the waist, the cool air of his bedroom shocking against heated skin. He stays there, drinking in the smooth expanse of your exposed skin. Then Clark exhales like the sight has punched him. His chest rises and falls too fast, his throat working as his eyes roam your skin with reverence that borders on worship. 

“Goodness,” he mutters under his breath, almost like a prayer. His palms find you again, sliding across your stomach, tracing up your ribs, spreading wide to cup the sides of your breasts without fully touching the peaks. His hands are enormous, swallowing you whole, his thumbs ghosting in light, maddening arcs.

You shiver, a tiny gasp escaping before you can swallow it back. Clark bends, unable to hold himself steady anymore. His mouth finds your shoulder first, a warm, soft, wet press of lips. He lingers, then drags lower, to the hollow of your collarbone, teeth grazing lightly before his tongue soothes the mark. He makes a low sound in his chest as he feels you arch toward him, a sound that vibrates through your bones. He follows the curve of your body downward, fumbling, almost clumsy in his desperation, until his mouth finally closes over the swell of your breast.

You gasp, arching involuntarily, your back curving into him. The heat of his mouth is overwhelming. The drag of his lips, the scrape of his teeth against sensitive skin; it’s electric, shocking, impossible. You fist your hand in his hair without meaning to, tugging gently, and he groans against you, the vibration ricocheting through your chest. He’s fixated, consumed. His tongue circles your nipple, hesitant at first, then bolder when your broken moan answers him. He suckles there, wet and rhythmic, one big hand squeezing at your other breast, rolling the peak between his fingers until you’re trembling beneath him.

“Clark,” His name rips from your throat, ragged, high-pitched. He groans again, hungrier now, switching sides, lips and teeth and tongue working you over like he can’t get enough. His hand cups your breast tight, thumb brushing over your nipple in tandem with his mouth, until the twin sensation makes your hips jerk.

You never knew breasts could be this sensitive, never knew the tug of a mouth here could make your thighs clench, your whole body shudder. But Clark seems to know everything; knows exactly where to lick, where to squeeze, how to alternate between gentle suck and sharp nip until your voice breaks.

And then the thought slams into you like ice water. He knows because he’s done this before. Lana, back in college. Lois, not long ago, the stolen glances across the newsroom, the lipstick smudges, the aftermath written in the way his tie always hung just a little off. They taught him this. They showed him what worked. They gave him the knowledge that now has you clutching at his shoulders, moaning his name, desperate for more.

The ache in your chest rises sharp, cutting almost deeper than the ache blooming between your legs. It’s ridiculous. You asked for this: his experience, his steadiness, the safety of someone who already knows. That was the point. And yet the thought curls around your ribs like a blade, cold, cruel: you’re learning to be touched like this because he already touched someone else this way first.

The contradiction nearly breaks you. Your body is still alight, your chest caving with doubt. Clark doesn’t notice the shift yet, too absorbed in you, his mouth moving feverishly from breast to breast, his big hands squeezing, stroking, trying to memorize you. And you let him, torn in two: the soaring heat of being wanted, and the sinking weight of knowing you weren’t the first to ignite it in him.

Before you can drift too far, before the jealousy can root itself deeper, a sharp knock rattles the apartment door. “Clark?” Jimmy’s voice, muffled but too close. “C’mon, man! We’re late! Stakeout!”

The sound crashes through you like cold water. Clark jerks back instantly, eyes wide, lips wet, hair a wreck from where you’d tugged it. His chest rises and falls too fast, the S on his suit stretched tight over his shoulders. He looks wrecked.

Jimmy knocks again, harder this time, rattling the frame. “Kent! You dead in there?”

Clark presses a hand to his face, muttering a soft curse, wholesome but desperate. “Gosh darn it.” His gaze flicks to you, wild and guilty and hungry all at once. Your stomach lurches.

Jimmy’s voice comes again, impatient. “Clark? I can hear you moving around in there, man! Let’s go already, Perry’ll kill us if we lose this lead!” Clark scrambles upright, running a hand through his hair, tugging on a suit like he can erase the evidence of you on him, the damp sheen of his mouth, the flush staining his throat. He stumbles toward the door, still barefoot, then stops short and looks back at you, helpless.

You shake your head quickly, mouthing, Don’t let him in.

He nods once, swallowing hard, then calls back, voice pitched higher than usual. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be right there! Just, uh, got caught up!”

Jimmy snorts. “Caught up? In what?”

Clark closes his eyes, pressing his forehead briefly against the doorframe, visibly collecting himself. “Just give me five minutes!” he shouts back, tone softening. “I’ll meet you downstairs!”

There’s a beat of silence. Then Jimmy sighs. “Fine. But if we miss this guy because you were napping, I’m telling Perry it’s on you!” His footsteps retreat down the hall, fading until only the low hum of the city presses against the glass.

Silence returns, thick and suffocating. Clark stays by the door for a long moment, forehead still resting against the wood as if he can steady himself there. His shoulders are tense, too broad for the frame, his breathing uneven. When he finally turns, his eyes find you again. The way he looks at you, it’s like he wants to say a thousand things but can’t risk letting even one slip.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, voice thick. His gaze flicks away, then drags back, unwilling to leave you completely. “I didn’t… I didn’t want it to stop like that.”

Your throat tightens. You hug your arms around yourself, the phantom of his mouth on your skin still buzzing, tender and raw. “It’s fine. You should go. Jimmy’s waiting.”

He nods, but his jaw clenches, his hands flexing uselessly at his sides. For a heartbeat, he looks like he might cross the room again, might crawl back into bed and finish what he started. But instead he swallows hard and straightens. “I’ll come back,” he murmurs, almost to himself. His eyes linger on you, dim with apology and something darker. “Don’t… don’t leave yet.”

And then he’s gone, slipping out the door with hurried steps, his cape brushing the frame as it vanishes from sight. The apartment is silent again, except for your heartbeat still drumming in your ears. You lie back on his bed, tugging the sheets up over your chest, and stare at the ceiling fan.

He’ll come back. He said he would.

But the place where his mouth touched your skin aches like a bruise, and you know the mark will be there long after the door closes.

-

You know he asked you not to leave, but when Lois’s text lights up your phone (Need you. Luthorcorp scoop. Urgent.) you don’t hesitate. You dress in a rush, tugging your jacket over skin that still tingles faintly where Clark’s mouth had claimed you, and slip out of his apartment while the city is still blue with early morning.

You don’t even leave a note. 

The next few days blur. Lois pulls you into the chase: whispered leads, shadowed meetings, scraps of intel that keep you moving across Metropolis. You bury yourself in it, in deadlines and notepads, in the comfort of being sharp and useful, not just aching. 

But Clark is everywhere. You catch him in the bullpen, glasses sliding down his nose, shirt collar rumpled from another too-long night. His gaze finds you instantly, holds a second too long. You look away first, heart in your throat. 

Another day, your shoulders brush in the copy room. His arm flexes against yours, steady, solid, and your whole body lights up like he touched you everywhere. Neither of you say anything, Jimmy’s voice is echoing down the hall, but Clark’s jaw ticks, his throat bobs, and you know he feels it too.

Once, you pass him a file, your fingers grazing his. The brief contact jolts through you like static. He swallows, murmurs, “Thanks,” low and strained, as though even that one syllable might betray more than he should.

It’s only been days, but it feels like years. The bruise he left on your collarbone has already begun to fade, but the memory of it throbs fresh every time your eyes meet across the newsroom. You don’t speak of what happened, but you can’t stop thinking about it.

-

The next time you see him, he wastes no time. It’s late, his knock faint against your apartment door, but the moment you let him in, you know there’s no pretense tonight.

His hair is a mess, his glasses left behind, his shirt wrinkled from hours of wear. You had wondered if he’d come over tonight during your regular hang out. But now that’s he’s here, looking frayed at the edges but focused, it makes your heart race. When his eyes lock on you, you feel pinned in place.

He doesn’t bother with tea or small talk. His jacket is shrugged off, shoes toed away, and then his hands are on you, big, hot, reverent. He pulls you in, not to kiss, never to kiss, but to touch, to press the full length of his body into yours like he’s been starving for it.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he admits, voice low, dragged out of him like a confession. His palm slides under your shirt, fingers splaying across your waist, covering you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you. “About your skin. How you sound.”

The honesty makes your knees weak. Clark must feel it, the way you sway into him, because his grip steadies at your waist, broad hand grounding you. He leans back just enough to search your face, his eyes so achingly earnest even though his voice is rough.

“Are you okay with this?” he asks softly. His thumb brushes the curve of your hip, slow, reassuring. “I don’t want to rush you. Not ever. So tell me, are you really okay with me… touching you like this?”

You swallow hard, your throat tight, but your head bobs before you can even speak. “I’m sure.”

The relief that flickers across his face nearly undoes you. He nods once, sharp, like he’s locked the promise inside himself. “Alright. Then I’ll take care of you.”

The words land low in your stomach, heavier than they should. His hands slide lower, fumbling at the button of your jeans. He pauses again, eyes lifting to yours, before working them loose. The denim drags down your thighs, slow, leaving you in nothing but your underwear.

You flush instantly, heat crawling up your neck. It isn’t just that you’re exposed. It’s that you dressed for this. You’d chosen the softest, prettiest set you owned just in case he came. Delicate lace, a color you knew would make your skin look warm and inviting. You’d worn it under your clothes all day, restless with the knowledge of it, your stomach flipping each time you thought of him seeing. And now he is.

Clark exhales, sharp and shaky, his gaze dragging reverently down your body. His jaw flexes once, like he’s physically biting back the sound that wants to come out. You look away, embarrassed, your hands tugging at the hem of your shirt. You can’t bring yourself to say it out loud that you picked this just for him, that you wanted him to see you pretty. That you’ve never wanted anyone to look at you like this before. But the way his breath stutters, the way his hands tremble slightly where they hover above your skin, tells you he already knows.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, almost too soft to hear. “Honey, you’re beautiful.”

Your stomach flips. And then he lowers himself, his mouth pressing to the soft inside of your knee, a gentle kiss that makes you twitch from how unexpected it feels. His hands brace wide against your thighs, keeping them parted, steady. He doesn’t look at what he’s doing yet, he looks at you, watching your reaction as his lips trail higher. Another kiss, closer to the center this time. Your breath hitches audibly. Clark hums low, the sound vibrating against your skin, and keeps going, leaving a hot, open-mouthed press at the sensitive skin just above your thigh.

You squirm under him, embarrassed by how quickly the heat pools low in your stomach. He lifts his head slightly as you squeak out his name, his nose brushing higher, his mouth hovering just shy of the lace between your thighs. His voice is steady but roughened, like he’s fighting his own restraint.

“Sweetheart, I need you to know,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours, “I want this. I’ve wanted this. But it’s only if you do. You can tell me to stop at any second, and I will.”

Your mouth goes dry, your pulse hammering. You nod too quickly, then manage, “I don’t want you to stop.”

Something flickers in his gaze; relief, hunger, something deep and fierce. He groans softly, the sound caught in his chest, and his hands spread wider across your thighs, anchoring you.

You feel the tremor in your voice when you add, “But… if you do that, you’re going to see how wet I am.” It’s a confession and a warning all at once. Your instinct is to close your legs, mortified, but Clark’s grip only tightens, firm and sure, keeping you open.

His eyes never leave yours. They burn steady, unflinching, the corners soft with something almost protective.

“No, sweetheart,” he says, voice low, determined. “I’m not going to see it.” His head dips, mouth brushing closer, closer. “I’m going to taste it.”

And before you can breathe, his nose grazes you through the lace, his tongue following in a hot, deliberate stroke across the damp fabric. The shock of it tears a gasp from you, your hips jerking against his hold. He groans at the taste, the sound guttural, like he’s savoring even that little of a taste.

“Clark,” your voice cracks on his name, half a plea, half a warning. He hums low in answer, the vibration rolling through the soaked fabric, right into you. His nose nudges the lace, inhaling softly, and your whole body jolts at the intimacy of it. Then his mouth closes over you again, sucking lightly at the fabric itself, pulling it into his mouth just enough that you feel the tug, pressure and heat combining until your hips buck.

His grip on your thighs tightens immediately, steady, immovable. His hands span wide across your skin, anchoring you open.

“Easy,” he soothes, voice muffled against the lace. “Stay with me.” You whimper, unable to stop yourself, and his lips curve faintly against you as if the sound pleases him.

“Sensitive,” he murmurs, his mouth brushing the damp fabric. “So responsive.” His tone is reverent, almost proud, like he’s cataloging every twitch, every gasp, every place you give yourself away.

Your cheeks burn, heat crawling all the way to your ears. You bite your lip hard, mortified by how wet you already are, how obvious it must be. “Clark, please.”

“Patience,” he says softly, teasing but steady, the rumble of his voice sinking into your bones. He noses at the fabric again, tongue pressing one long stripe against your core, harder this time. “I told you, sweetheart. I’m going to taste you. Really taste you.” The words drag low in your stomach, clenching everything tight.

And then his teeth catch at the edge of the lace, tugging gently, peeling it away from your skin inch by inch. His hands slide higher, thumbs brushing the crease of your hips, bracing you wide. His eyes flick up to yours, checking, but they’re darker now, glazed with hunger he’s barely holding back. The air feels thick as he pulls the fabric aside, his nose brushing bare skin for the first time. The first rush of cool air against you makes you shiver, but then his breath is there, hot and unyielding, and your thighs twitch instinctively.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, almost to himself, as though he’s been waiting years for this exact moment. His thumbs stroke gentle circles against your trembling thighs, coaxing you to stay open, to let him see. 

And then his head dips again, his mouth lowering, slower than torture. His nose brushes your bare folds, and his tongue follows, the first slick stroke against you raw and devastating. The lace finally pushed aside, you can feel the first rush of cool air against you, shocking after how hot your skin burns. You shiver, thighs twitching, but Clark’s broad hands keep you steady, thumbs stroking gentle circles at the crease of your hips. His eyes flicker up to yours, dark and intent.

His nose grazes you, just barely, and you gasp at the simple press of heat where no one’s ever touched before. But then his tongue follows again, another slow, deliberate stroke from bottom to top, wet and warm and devastating. The sound you make is sharp, torn from your throat before you can bite it back. Clark groans at it. A low, male sound that vibrates against you, like your voice and your taste are more than he can take. His grip on your thighs tightens, just slightly, not holding you down but grounding himself.

He pulls back just enough to breathe, chest heaving faintly, his eyes glazed. His lips shine with you, and he drags his tongue across them almost unconsciously, like he can’t stand to waste even a trace. “Sweetheart,” he rasps, voice rough with awe. “You taste… better than I imagined.”

Your face burns, the heat crawling down your neck, your chest. “Clark! Don’t say things like that,” you whimper, covering your face with your hands.

But he catches one wrist, presses a kiss to the inside of it, then guides it back down to the bed, gentle but insistent. “Look at me,” he murmurs. “I need you to see how much I want this. How much I want you.” It’s almost too much, his honesty, his hunger, the sight of his mouth wet from you. Your stomach clenches tight, your legs trembling.

And then, without another word, he lowers his head again, his tongue sliding against you, savoring, learning, worshipping. Clark hums low against you, steadying your hips with those enormous hands, but his mouth is patient, unhurried. He maps you carefully, like he’s tracing lines in a book only he gets to read. Long, slow laps from your hole to your clit, the kind that make your thighs quake. Pausing to press open-mouthed kisses against places you didn’t know could make you shudder. His tongue flicks, cautious at first, tasting you in pieces, savoring every reaction.

You try to press your hands to your face again, embarrassed by the noises spilling out of you, but Clark shakes his head faintly against your skin, his voice a rumble. “Don’t hide from me,” he murmurs, words brushing wet and hot over you. “Every sound you make… I want it. It’s perfect.”

The praise makes you keen softly, and he groans in response, tongue circling tighter, more insistent. His restraint slips a little, his mouth closing over you in a firmer suck, and your whole body jerks. Clark exhales sharply through his nose, the sound desperate. His hands spread wider on your thighs, holding you open as if he can’t risk losing an inch of you. He drags his tongue up again, slower this time, pressing harder, savoring the wetness he pulls from you.

Then another stroke, faster. He pulls back to catch his breath, lips slick, chest rising quickly. His eyes flicker up, dark, dazed, and he admits in a rough whisper, “It’s never…” he swallows hard, tongue darting to lick his lips, “never been like this before.”

Your stomach twists, your legs trembling. He doesn’t give you time to answer. He groans, almost pained, and dips again, hungrier this time, tongue pressing, circling, teasing until your hips are straining up against his hold. He’s still gentle, still reverent, but it’s fraying at the edges; the worship tipping toward desperation. Every sound you make pulls another groan from him, every twitch of your thighs answered by the press of his mouth harder, wetter, less restrained. It’s like he can’t help himself. Like every taste is undoing him more than it undoes you.

Clark’s mouth moves slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring every inch of your hot flesh. The flat of his tongue drags up, steady and reverent, before circling in a tighter pass, his lips sealing over you in a gentle suck that sends your back arching. You whimper, thighs trembling, but he only presses closer, holding you steady with hands that could crush steel but treat you like spun glass. His fingers splay wider on your thighs, thumbs stroking little soothing arcs as though reminding you: You’re safe. You’re wanted. 

Your chest is heaving, breath shaky, but the thought is creeping in again. How he learned this. Who he was… 

He lifts his mouth just enough to speak. “Stay with me,” he whispers, voice ragged. “Don’t think about anyone else. Don’t think about before. I want you. I want to know how to make you feel good.” His lips are slick, swollen already, and the sight of him looking up at you from between your legs nearly steals your breath.

Heat floods your cheeks, but the words burrow deep, chasing away the cold stab that had threatened last time. His eyes are steady, dark and unyielding, and you can’t look anywhere else. He dips back down, slower this time, tongue stroking with maddening precision, testing, adjusting with every gasp he pulls from you. The tip flicks experimentally, then softens, broadens, a new rhythm until you cry out, clutching at his hair. He groans low at the sound, the vibration sinking through you like another layer of touch.

“Yeah,” he breathes against you, coaxing, encouraging. “Like that? That’s it. Let me hear you.”

Your thighs quake, trying to close, but he holds you open easily, his hands firm but never harsh. He mouths at you hungrily, reverent in the way he lingers, tongue tracing you over and over, like he’s memorizing every shape, every reaction.

It isn’t just sex. It isn’t just practice. It’s Clark learning you, cataloguing the way your body arches when his nose nudges higher, the way your breath hitches when he flattens his tongue broad against you, the way your voice breaks when he seals his lips and sucks gently, coaxing. He’s hungry, yes, but it’s threaded through with something steadier: the determination to prove that this is how it should feel, how intimacy is supposed to be. Not rushed. Not careless. Not left wondering if you were enough.

His mouth lifts again briefly, wet and shining, his voice wrecked. “Sweetheart, you’re everything. Let me show you that.” And then he’s back at it, hungrier now, tongue moving faster, more deliberate, groaning into you like he can’t stop himself.

Your whole body is trembling, your stomach tightening, the room spinning around the single point of his mouth. And still, through it all, his hands stay steady, his voice breaking between groans, coaxing you back to him, grounding you in the present, in the way he wants you.

Clark’s mouth works you open with an intensity that borders on worship. Every stroke of his tongue feels deliberate, every shift adjusted to the sound of your breathing, the shiver of your thighs, the way your fingers twist tighter in his hair. It’s overwhelming how much he pays attention. How every second feels like he’s learning you, piece by piece, until there’s no part of you that doesn’t ache for him. You can’t think about anything else. Not Lois, not Lana, not the shame that crept in before. Just him. Just the way his mouth is dragging you higher, the way his voice rumbles low against you when you cry his name.

“Clark!” your voice breaks, needy, trembling. He groans in response, and the sound vibrates through your core, sharper than anything your own hands could ever give you. Because that’s the thing; when you touch yourself, it always takes so long. So much coaxing, so much pressure, until maybe finally something sparks. But with Clark? He can barely touch you and you’re already drenched, already shaking apart. You’re so close you could break from nothing more than the sound of him groaning into you.

Your thighs try to close again, overwhelmed, but his big hands hold you steady, spreading you wider, keeping you open for him. “Don’t hide,” he murmurs against you, voice ruined. “I want all of it. I want you.” 

It tears through you, this desperate need to give it to him, to be undone completely, to let Clark Kent be the only one who ever knows you like this. 

Your head tips back, eyes squeezing shut, as the pressure crests sharp and unbearable. Heat coils low, higher, higher, until there’s no air, no thought, just him. “Clark, I’m gonna…”

And then it hits, breaking you open, shattering through your body in waves. You cry out, trembling, clutching his hair like a lifeline as your hips buck against his mouth. He groans at the taste, holding you down, devouring every second of it like he’s starving. It goes on and on, rolling through you, until you’re left limp against the mattress, chest heaving, sweat slicking your skin.

Clark doesn’t move right away. He kisses softly at the inside of your thigh, licks you gently once more, almost tender, like he can’t stop himself. His cheek rests there, heavy and warm, his hands still anchoring you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. When you finally blink down at him, dazed and undone, he’s staring back at you like you’re the only thing in the world. His lips are swollen, wet with you, and the hunger in his eyes is threaded with something deeper, steadier.

“Sweetheart,” he whispers, voice raw, “you have no idea how much I wanted that.”

And all you can think, through the haze, is how badly you want him to know everything. Your body is still trembling when Clark eases his mouth away, but he doesn’t stray far. He presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, soft and reverent, then another just above your knee. His hands stroke slow patterns into your skin, broad thumbs smoothing over the marks he’s left from holding you open.

“Perfect,” he murmurs, voice rough and low. His cheek rests against your thigh, hot and damp with sweat, his breath cooling the skin there. “You were perfect for me.”

Your chest heaves. The words feel like a balm and a burn at once, too much for a body already wrung out. He kisses higher, just shy of your center, lingering, tasting one last time as if he can’t bear to stop. When you flinch, too sensitive, he chuckles softly against you, easing back to scatter gentler kisses along your hipbone.

“Did so well,” he whispers, every word brushing your skin. “So sweet… you don’t know what you do to me.”

“Clark…” The heat rises in your cheeks again, fresh and overwhelming. 

He lifts his head at last, slow, like he’s reluctant to let go of the place he’s claimed. His hair is mussed from your grip, his lips swollen and glistening, his eyes dark as he looks up at you. You can’t breathe. The sight of him between your thighs, wrecked from you, it’s undoing all over again. Your hand drifts without thinking, fingers brushing along his jaw. You trace lower, brushing over the corner of his mouth, damp with your release. Clark’s breath catches. He leans into the touch instinctively, eyes half-lidded, and for one breathless second the world narrows to a single thought: kiss him.

It would be so easy. Just tilt forward, close that last inch, feel his swollen mouth on yours. You ache for it, more than you should, more than you dare. Your hand lingers there, thumb brushing his lip once more. His gaze flicks down to your mouth, heavy and intent, and your stomach drops. But then the rule roars back in your head. No kissing. Not on the mouth. Too intimate, too dangerous.

Your heart thunders as you pull your hand back quickly, rolling onto your side with a shaky laugh that’s too thin, too brittle. “That was… wow. Um.”

Clark scrubs a hand through his hair, cheeks flushed to the roots, his laugh just as nervous. “Yeah. Golly. Wow.”

The air is too heavy, the silence too weighted. You both laugh again, too loudly, brittle around the edges, trying to shatter it. You don’t mention how close you came to breaking the rule. How badly you wanted to. But you feel it, sharp and undeniable. And it terrifies you.

-

Later that night, after you’ve showered the sweat from your skin and eaten the food he insisted on making, something simple, because his hands wouldn’t stop shaking enough for anything more complicated, you find yourself curled with him on your couch. Your legs are tucked beneath you, his thigh pressed against yours, and your chest is still buzzing with the memory of his mouth between your legs. Every time you shift, the soreness makes you blush, heat flashing through you at how thoroughly he’d undone you.

And every time you look at him you think of how hard he’d been earlier, straining against his slacks while he devoured you. You’d seen it when his hips shifted as he rose from the bed. He hadn’t let you touch him then. His rules. His ridiculous, chivalrous rules about “going slow” and “taking care of you first.” As if going down on you until you screamed his name wasn’t the least gentlemanly thing a man could do. Your face burns at the thought, but your frustration outweighs the embarrassment.

“You know,” you murmur, swirling the last of your wine, “it’s not very fair.”

Clark glances over, brows raised, dimples threatening. “What isn’t?”

“That you…” You wave your hand vaguely, your courage fraying under his gaze. “Did that to me, but didn’t let me,” Your cheeks flame, “help you.”

Color rushes into his face instantly, and he sets his glass down fast, clearing his throat. “Oh gosh. You don’t need to worry about that.”

“I want to,” you say quickly, too quickly. Your fingers twitch in your lap, restless. “Clark, I saw you. You were…” Your words falter, but the image of him hard and aching fills the silence anyway.

He shifts uncomfortably, tugging at the hem of his shirt, his ears pink. “That’s not… I didn’t do this for… repayment.”

“I know.” Your voice softens, your hand finding his arm, squeezing. “But I want to. I don’t want this to just be you taking care of me. I want to take care of you, too.”

Clark’s jaw works, his throat bobbing as though he’s fighting himself. His eyes flick to yours, then away, then back again. “You don’t know what you’re asking,” he says finally, voice hoarse.

“Yes, I do.” Your voice is steadier than you feel. “Let me.”

For a long moment, neither of you move. His chest rises and falls too fast, his hand flexing against his knee like he’s trying to restrain himself. Then, slowly, he exhales. His gaze locks on yours, glassy and dark, and he nods once. “Alright,” he murmurs. “But only because you asked.”

The tension coils sharp and hot in your stomach. Your hand slides down his arm, over the swell of his bicep, to his wrist. You take his hand, guiding it to your lap, and then you shift onto your knees before him.

Clark swallows hard, watching you with wide, uncertain eyes. “Sweetheart…”

You glance up at him, biting your lip. “It’s my turn, Clark.”

And for the first time, his composure cracks completely. You kneel in front of him, your heart pounding so hard it drowns out the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchen. Clark sits stiffly on the couch, his broad frame filling the space, hands gripping his knees like he doesn’t know what to do with them. You swallow, reaching for the hem of his shirt. He catches your wrist lightly, thumb brushing over your pulse.

“Sweetheart, wait.” His voice is soft, frayed.

Your stomach twists. “You don’t want me to?”

His eyes widen, horrified at the suggestion. “No. Gosh, no. I,” He drags a hand through his hair, ears pink, dimples flashing nervously. “I just don’t want you to feel like you have to.”

“I don’t.” Your voice is firmer than you expect. “I want to, Clark. I want… to know what it’s like. To touch you.”

Something flickers across his face, relief, hunger, something deeper, and he leans back slowly, releasing your wrist, letting you decide. Your hands shake as you tug his shirt up, the fabric bunching over his stomach. He helps you, pulling it off in one motion, leaving his chest bare. He’s warm everywhere, heat radiating off his skin, the ridges of muscle shifting as he breathes unevenly.

You trail your fingers down his chest, over the hard plane of his stomach, until you reach his waistband. Your throat tightens. “Clark… this is my first time. Ever. Touching a man like this. I don’t really know what I’m doing. What if I’m… bad at it?” The words tumble out in a rush, embarrassment hot in your chest.

Clark exhales, ragged, and reaches down to tip your chin up with two fingers, forcing your eyes to meet his. His touch is gentle, his gaze steady. “You could never be bad,” he says firmly, low and certain, like it’s a truth he’s swearing by.

His thumb strokes along your jaw, grounding you. “I want you to touch me. That’s what makes it good. Just the fact that it’s you.”

The sincerity of it nearly breaks you. And when your gaze flicks lower, to where he’s already straining achingly against his jeans, the heavy outline of him thick and urgent, you can’t help but believe him. Your hands fumble at the button of his jeans. He sucks in a breath when you pop it open, the zipper dragging slowly down. His cock strains against the thin cotton of his briefs, the head already wet with pre-cum, the sight of it making your mouth go dry.

Clark groans softly when your hand hovers uncertainly above him. “Sweetheart, please,” he whispers, his voice wrecked. “Don’t be afraid. Just touch me.”

Your fingers curl around him tentatively through the cotton. He jolts, hips bucking minutely into your hand, a sharp sound escaping his throat. The power of it stuns you, how easy it is to undo him, how much he feels from so little.

“Yeah,” he groans, eyes squeezing shut, his hand covering yours briefly, guiding the slow stroke. “Just like that. You’re doing so good. Better than good.”

And with every praise, every tremor of his body, your nerves ease and your confidence builds, until the embarrassment fades and all you can think about is how Clark Kent is trembling under your touch.

-

He thinks he’s prepared. He thinks he’ll be able to keep himself steady, guide you through this, talk you gently into confidence the way he always does. But then your small, shaking hands tug the denim down his thighs, and he’s straining against his briefs, leaking, aching, and the sound you make when you see him nearly finishes him on the spot.

His throat goes dry. Your fingers trace the outline of him through the cotton, tentative, almost shy, and the touch rips a groan out of him before he can catch it. His hips jerk into your hand, humiliatingly needy, and his head tips back against the couch with a low, wrecked sound.

God help me, I’m already losing it. 

He tries to cover your hand with his own, to steady you, to guide you through the first slow stroke. “That’s it. Just like that,” he rasps, forcing the words through gritted teeth. “Easy. You’re doing so good.” But when your fingers hook into the waistband of his briefs, tugging them down, he forgets how to breathe. His cock springs free, thick and flushed, the cool air hitting him like ice against fire. And then your bare hand closes around him.

“Oh my,” Clark’s hips buck hard, his thighs trembling as a desperate groan tears out of him. His vision goes white at the edges, every nerve ending screaming at once. His hand flies out, gripping the couch cushion, knuckles whitening, because if he touches you right now he’ll beg, he’ll break. 

His chest heaves, heart pounding like a jackhammer in his ribs. He wants to say something reassuring, something steady, but all that comes out is a strangled, “You…Honey, you don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

But the truth is, you do. You hear the raw sound in his throat, you see the way his body shakes under your tentative strokes, and it emboldens you. Your grip tightens slightly, your rhythm steadies, and Clark almost sobs at how good it feels. Your thumb brushes over the head, smearing pre-cum down his shaft, and his whole body jolts, a helpless sound catching in his chest. His thighs quake, sweat beading along his temple.

“Clark,” you whisper, in awe. “You’re shaking.”

“I know,” he gasps, choking on the admission. His hand fists uselessly in the sheets beneath him, his body fighting to hold still, to give you space. “Sweetheart, I can’t…I can’t help it. Been hard since the second you opened that door. And now,” His jaw clenches, his voice breaking. “Now it’s your hands. I can’t.”

Your pace quickens instinctively, guided by the desperate sounds spilling out of him. He wants to slow you, wants to tell you to take your time, but the reality is he’s so close he can barely think straight.

“Please,” he chokes, sweat dripping down his neck, chest heaving. “Don’t stop. Whatever you do, don’t stop.” And for the first time in his life, Clark Kent feels completely, utterly powerless. Undone by your hands.

He tells himself to breathe. To keep steady. To guide you through this. But your hand is warm and tentative and so small around him, stroking from base to tip, smearing more pre-cum down his length, and his thighs are trembling already. He forces the words out anyway, hoarse and broken.

“Good, just like that,” he rasps, hips twitching helplessly into your touch. “Slow at first, sweetheart. Let me…let me last a little longer for you.” But it’s a lie, because he knows he won’t. He’s never felt like this, never been this close this fast. You’re watching him so intently, biting your lip, brows furrowed in concentration as if you’re memorizing every sound he makes. And every sound feels ripped out of him, low groans, breathless gasps, the choked way your name keeps catching in his throat.

“Clark,” you whisper, voice shaky, “am I… doing it right?”

His head falls back against the couch, eyes squeezing shut. “Sweetheart, you’re killing me,” he groans, hips bucking into your fist. His hand fists uselessly at his side, trying not to reach for you, not to push. “You’re more than right. You’re, oh baby, too good.”

You swallow at his words, your pace faltering for a moment before you tighten your grip and stroke him slower, more deliberately. His whole body jolts at the shift, a strangled groan tearing out of him. He thinks he’s braced for anything, thinks he can hold out, until—

The wet heat of your mouth suddenly wraps around the head of his cock. 

Clark’s entire body jerks violently, hips thrusting up into the slick warmth before he can stop himself. His eyes fly open, vision blurring as he looks down and nearly loses his mind. You’re on your knees between his thighs, lips stretched around him, cheeks hollowing as you take him in as far as you can. Your eyes are watering a little with the effort, but they’re locked on his, steady and unflinching.

“Oh, God,” Clark chokes, hand flying to the back of your head before he can think, fingers tangling in your hair. His thighs tremble under you, his chest heaves like he’s fighting for breath. “Sweetheart, wait. You don’t…you don’t have to!” But then your tongue slides along the underside of him, slow and deliberate, and his words dissolve into a guttural moan that echoes off the walls. His head lolls back again, teeth clenched, trying to hold himself together, but it’s useless. Every time you lower yourself further, taking more of him into your mouth, his hips jerk, his throat works around another broken sound.

“Baby, you feel so good,” he gasps, voice strangled. His grip tightens in your hair, not to push, but to anchor himself, to keep from falling apart completely. “I can’t…I can’t believe this is you.” He’s trembling now, whole body shuddering as he watches you, your lips stretched wide around him, your mouth hot and wet and devastating. His thighs quiver with every slow bob of your head, every flick of your tongue. He’s already a mess. His thighs are shaking, sweat dampening his hairline, his grip in your hair trembling as you work him over with tentative but determined strokes of your mouth. He should be the one guiding you, steadying you, but all he can do is groan and try not to come undone too fast.

“Sweetheart,” his voice breaks, deep and hoarse. “I can’t… not much longer if you keep that up.” Your lips slide lower, your tongue flattening under him, and he chokes mid-sentence, hips jerking up helplessly into the wet heat of your mouth. The moan you give around him is what unravels him further, soft and muffled, the vibrations rolling through his cock. His entire body jolts, eyes flying open to stare down at you. Your cheeks hollow, eyes wet, mouth stretched tight around him, and the sight nearly knocks the breath from his lungs.

He pulls lightly at your hair, trying to ease you off, give you a chance to breathe. “Wait, sweetheart.”

You slide off with a wet gasp, spit shining on your lips and his cock glistening in your fist. Your chest heaves as you look up at him, flushed and wrecked, and your voice comes out ragged.

“Clark,” you pant, your hand stroking him slow and firm, “finish in my mouth.”

His whole body seizes at once, a groan tearing out of his chest. “Oh. Oh heavens,” Before he can say more, you sink back down, lips wrapping tight around him again, deeper this time, taking him until your throat flutters and your eyes water.

His hips buck, his head slams back against the couch, and the sound that rips out of him is raw, desperate, nothing close to steady. “God, don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

He’s panting now, chest heaving, hand clutching at your hair but not pulling, just anchoring himself as his thighs tremble under you. You moan again, low and needy around him, and that’s it: he unravels completely. Hot release floods your mouth in pulses, his cock twitching against your tongue. His entire body shudders, helpless, guttural sounds spilling from his throat as he comes harder than he ever has in his life.

You don’t pull away. Even when your throat works around him, even when you gag faintly and tears spill from your eyes, you hold on, swallowing every drop, taking everything he gives you. Clark can barely breathe. His whole body is limp, trembling, his hand still tangled in your hair. He forces his eyes open, dazed, staring down at you, lips wet, mouth still wrapped around him, throat working to swallow him down.

And the sight wrecks him all over again. He’s gasping. That’s all he can manage at first, ragged, uneven breaths as he slumps back into the couch, sweat cooling on his skin, his body still trembling from the force of it. And you’re kneeling there between his thighs, lips swollen, chin wet, throat working as you swallow the last of him down. The sight of you, so careful, so determined to take everything he gave you, it knocks the wind right out of him.

You wipe at your mouth with the back of your hand, demure, composed in a way that makes heat lick through him all over again. Then you look up, and there’s pride in your eyes; shy, yes, but also steady, certain. You know what you just did to him. You know how completely you wrecked him. Clark’s heart lurches, then flips violently in his chest, beating fast enough he’s sure you’ll hear it. He hasn’t felt it like this in years; that dizzying rush that isn’t just lust, not just heat, but something sharper, deeper.

He stares at you, still panting, chest heaving, and the thought finally crashes into him with terrifying clarity in a voice that is no longer able to be ignored: you’re more than his best friend. You’re everything he’s been afraid to want.

And he wants more. More than your lessons, more than stolen touches and rules. He wants you in every way there is to want someone. But he can’t say it. Not now. Not when you’re still glowing with shy pride, still flushed from trying something new, still trusting him with all the firsts you’re handing over.

The heat between you lingers, so heavy it feels like the air itself has weight. Clark’s chest rises unevenly beneath you, the thud of his heartbeat loud where your ear rests against him, a frantic rhythm that betrays the words he won’t let himself say. Because they’re right there, pressing up his throat, the dangerous, irreversible truth. That this isn’t just friendship anymore. That maybe it never was.

You didn’t just touch him tonight. You woke him up. He can see it now, with startling clarity: it’s always been you. That tug in his chest every time you teased him through late-night stakeouts, every time you dropped into his apartment like you belonged there, every time you smirked at him across the bullpen with ink-stained fingers. Even back in college with Lana. Even in the newsroom with Lois. He thought what he felt then was real, but it was always leading here. To this. To you.

And now, looking at you flushed and proud, demure but glowing with the satisfaction of what you’d just given him, Clark Kent realizes he’s been completely taken by you for years.

He can’t say it. He won’t risk it. Instead, he gathers you up with arms that feel too strong and too careful all at once, tugging you into his lap until your body molds against his. His chest cages you in, warm and solid, smelling faintly of clean soap and the sharp metallic tang of the city that still clings to him. His lips brush your temple, lingering, reverent, soft enough that your skin tingles long after.

“A real gentleman,” he murmurs, his voice low and frayed, like it costs him something to speak, “will always kiss you after… that.”

Your breath stutters, catches, your eyes flickering instinctively toward his mouth. The rule rises between you like a wall, heavy, unyielding. Too intimate. Too dangerous. He knows it. You know it. So his lips stay tucked safe in your hair, pressed against your temple, against your hairline, anywhere but where they truly want to be.

The silence that follows is unbearable. His breath warms your skin, his chest still heaving beneath you. You shift, and the brush of your thigh across his lap has him swallowing hard, his jaw clenching tight.

He clears his throat, the sound rough, and tries to wrench the moment back into safer territory. “How are you feeling?” he asks, his voice pitched lighter, almost casual, though the strain edges every word. “With… with the lessons?”

You blink up at him, cheeks still flushed, hair mussed from his hands, and for a terrifying heartbeat Clark thinks you’ll call him out. Drag him back into the weight of what just happened. Force the words from his chest. But instead, you smile, shaky, small, but genuine. “Better,” you say softly. “Like I’m actually learning.”

Something twists low in his stomach. His thumb strokes absent circles along your arm, his chest tightening almost painfully. “Good,” he murmurs, his voice quiet, heavy. “That’s… that’s the point, isn’t it? To take it slow. To get you ready for…” He falters, the words catching like barbed wire. His stomach flips, heat surging through him at the thought of being inside you, of finally giving you everything. He swallows hard, forcing the rest out in a whisper. “…the real thing. Not now. But soon.”

You shiver against him. He feels it; the subtle tremor where your body presses into his, the way your breath stutters. He doesn’t know if it’s nerves or anticipation. Doesn’t know which would destroy him more. But then you nod, your head resting against his shoulder. And that’s enough.

He tightens his hold, arms wrapping around you, his chin brushing your hair as if he could fold himself around you completely. The warmth of you sinks into him, grounding him, anchoring him in a way nothing else ever has. It’s all he can allow himself for now.

Inside, though, his heart pounds so hard it feels like the truth might split his chest open and spill out anyway. That you are more than his best friend. That you are everything.

And Clark Kent has never been more afraid of ruining something in his life.

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[kommanders]

bye your blog and your letterboxd are gorg

omg you’re literally my fav blog on here thank you!!!!

[kommanders]

⭑ » ˚₊⋆˚ ࿔ 𝜗𝜚 MDNI 17+ ❝ 𝐌𝐘 𝐁𝐒𝐅 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐁𝐒𝐅 ❞

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: dick grayon x reader x wally west

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you’re hanging out with your best friend, wally, and turns out, his best friend is also there! cue your mouth and your pussy being filled up in the best ways possible. (or, you, dick, and wally have a threesome)

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 17+ CONTENT, threesomes, vaginal sex, unprotected sex (wrap it!), oral sex (m! receiving), choking, overstimulation to the max, hair pulling, filthy talk— seriously, this is filthy, cum swallowing, praise kink, they kiss while they eiffel tower you.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: they’re so fucking hot, I just couldn’t resist. I didn’t know if this should’ve been a double penetration oneshot but that one will be soon! trust! sorry if the reader doesn’t really talk this much… when you read what happens, then you’d understand why, lmao.

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you didn’t know how you ended up in this position; on your back, legs up, jaw open. but here you are, and your brain is too scattered to even think about the full timeline… but you attempt to.

very simply— wally wanted to hang out with you, “spend the night!” he says, and turns out? dick was there too, mainly because wally invited him too (you begin to think he purposely wanted both of you). you didn’t hate that you were attracted to your best friend’s best friend, it just felt weird, but god damn dick is a sexy man.

and what happens when three sexy people are in the same room together? clothes disappear and filth is muttered. and now? you’re here, on your back, brain completely mushed up by these two guys.

wally was standing by your head, dick was in between your legs. wally’s dick was longer but dick’s cock was thicker, and you could feel the difference.

“which one do you want filled first?” wally asks you, his right hand stroking his cock with a few jerks as his left hand reaches down to squeeze your left breast, dick moved your legs onto his shoulders as he lines up with your folds.

you groan, his fingers feeling so good on you as dick’s hands squeezed your thighs. having four different hands on your figure… you could feel your body temperature rise with each touch, each damn finger. “I-I don’t care… just get in me d-damn it.”

dick chuckles, squeezing your thigh a little harsher. you gasp as he squeezes your thigh but also you feel wally twist your nipple. “okay, okay, baby, no need for the attitude.” he shoots back, looking at wally as he tilts his head. “you go first, walls, shut that pretty mouth.”

“don’t tell me to shut—” you begin to say before you get cut off.

not by words, not by a squeeze. but rather by wally’s long cock pushing into your mouth. he doesn’t go all the way with his eight inches, around four inches as you gargle. drool drips down your chin as your head tilts back, looking up at the redhead as he shushes you. his hand on your breast going up to your jaw, stroking your chin.

“there you go.” he coos, pushing in the last four inches, his messy orange happy trail faintly tickling against your chin. you’re forced to breath through your nose as the bulbous tip of his cock hits the back of your throat. “christ baby, didn’t know you could fit all ‘me in your mouth.” he mutters.

dick’s grin never fades, his thumbs stroking up and down your inner thighs as he kisses your ankle. his right hand stroking your thigh as his left hand reaches up to gently caress your right breast. “got a mouth worth millions, baby.” he encourages, his left thumb rubs circles to harden your nipple.

with his left hand on your jaw, wally points to dick. “c’mon man… no fair you’re not having fun.” he somberly says, looking back down at you. “you want dick’s dick in you, baby?” he asks, tapping on the underside of your jaw to make you answer.

it takes you a few moments, swallowing your spit the best you can before you nod. “y-yes! f-fucking hell, please—!” your begs are muffled due to wally’s long cock.

but they hear it anyway.

wally looks back up at dick with a smirk. “well, you heard the lady of the hour.” he insinuated.

the birdboy grins and doesn’t take any other words or moments before he presses his tip against your sobbing pussy, pushing into you. fuck fuck fuck. he’s so thick. shit. if you thought you couldn’t breath (in the best way) because of wally’s dick in your mouth, now you couldn’t with dick’s dick in your pussy.

your eyes roll back the moment his cock begins to push into you, your toes curl as your left set of nails dug deep into whatever section of wally’s left arm your nails could find as your right hand gripped wally’s best sheets. “nghhhh.”

“holy shit, sweet girl.” dick groans, his right hand going onto your abdomen, feeling himself push into you as his left hand held onto your calf. “you feel so damn good… fuck.” he looks up at wally, who’s grinning at the sight. “dude, you gotta get some of this.” he says to him.

why is it so hot when they speak to you like this? it shouldn’t. really. but it just is.

wally shrugs, feeling your nose brush against his balls. “don’t worry, I’ll get her pussy later, this mouth feels too damn good.” he suggests. “this pretty body, my god baby.” he groans, looking at your body with lust in his eyes.

your eyes remained rolled back as your breaths through your nose blows onto the underside of wally’s cock, your pussy fluttering against dick’s as he settles his thick cock into you.

and before you knew it, you could feel both of their hips move, both pulling out of their respective places before thrusting back in, dick was harsher with his thrust— with that thrust, he pushed you upwards, making it easier for wally to push back into your mouth. “w-wally! d-dick!”

it feels so damn good, and pleasure shoots through your veins as both of them begin to move their hips at the same time. dick was a little faster than wally, groaning with each flutter of your pussy as wally caressed your jaw, pushing in and out of your warm throat.

your moans fill the room— or the best they could leave your stuffed mouth. they were high pitched, drool causing a mess as your fingers claws at both of their forearms, one above your head as the other sat on your abdomen.

“seal those lips ‘round me baby.” wally encourages, and you listen to him. it’s so slick in your mouth, your lips sealing around his cock as wally murmurs a praise, seeing you hallow out your cheeks with each time his cock hit the back of your throat.

“you’re such a good girl.” dick praises lowly, his hips rutting with each slow thrust. you love the praises, it makes you feel good inside and your brain melt a little more.

dick moved his left hand, sucking on his thumb before putting it on your clit, stroking up and down. a bigger moan leaves your mouth as your heels dig into dick’s shoulder. “does this pussy want it faster?” he asks.

when you’re so stuffed that you’re unable respond; the redhead does it for you. wally grins as he says a suggestion. “fuck her pussy deeper, I’m sure she can take it, she’s a big girl.”

dick smirks and follows wally’s words, especially after feeling your walls clench around him as he adjusts his posture, pressing both hands into the mattress on each side of you as he angles himself lower, and where he hits? fucking. delicious.

your moans vibrate wally’s cock, mentally grinning to yourself as you see how he’s affected by it. one of the best sensations he’s ever felt, feeling it from his base as he goes a little quicker but not too much, not wanting to hurt you.

the acrobat notices wally’s eyes roll back at your moans making his cock feel like heaven itself, he leans closer, sweat padding down his face. “what’s the matter, lightning bolt? I do something good for once?”

“shut it.” wally mutters, leaning close to dick as they keep eye contact with each other. “keep moaning f’us baby, keep that pretty mouth up.” he blindly praises as he taps your jaw.

you groan as he taps on your jaw, your lips sucking harder on wally’s cock, tongue sliding up and down the underside of him. it feels so good. you’ve never felt so good.

and before either of the former titans could stop, their lips press together, both of their hips going faster in you. wally’s lips are warm while dick’s lips are cold, their tongue pressing together.

wally’s left hand moves off your jaw and down to your clit and in return, dick’s right hand moves out of the sheets and wraps around your throat, feeling wally’s dick in your throat.

“christ dude.” he murmurs against wally’s lips. “knew you were long but not this fucking long. this fits in your suit?”

wally shrugs, hitting the back of your throat constantly with each push of his hips. “it helps that I’m a grower.” he chuckles as he can feel his balls tighten.

dick’s lips go to wally’s jaw, pressing sloppy kisses as he increases his thrusts within your pussy, your moans are too broken and your mouth is too stuffed. you can feel your vision whiten, it’s all so overwhelming— in the best ways you could even imagine.

“look at this pussy, taking him so well, knew this pussy was amazin’.” wally slurs, patting your clit before he rubs tight circles. your hips jerk, your pussy flutters, and you’re so close to cumming. “you close, dick? cause holy shit, ‘m not gonna last in this pretty girl’s mouth.”

dick nods, pressing his thumb into your throat. “yeah— so close… gonna cum… fuck.” he groans.

and somehow, someway, all three of you finished together, as if you all knew each other’s minds too well to argue. and nothing could compare or even warn you to the feeling you felt.

wally pushed back his cock only by a few inches, not wanting to overwhelm the back of your throat as dick thrusted in as deep as he could get, down to the base of his cock to the point his balls rubbed against your pussy. your veins overflowed with pleasure, nails dug deep to the point your hand lost color and you drew blood from both of the boys as you orgasm.

“wally, fuckkkkk—dick…!” you slur as your body strains, knees bending harshly on dick’s shoulders as you feel your body get overwhelmed with so much rapture.

for a few moments, you feel like you’re in heaven, your body feeling so damn good, mind ruined by such a explosive orgasm. you feel limp against them, you feel wally’s hand stop rubbing your clit as you cummed around dick’s cock, slobbering on wally’s cock as your vision finds itself back. “ugh… fuck…”

then, you felt it. your pussy being warmed up with dick’s cum as his semen painted your walls white. you felt sticky, his cum pushing deep within you as he stroked your throat, gently grinding against you to get his semen deeper. “fuckkkk, sweet girl, pussy feels so damn good. take my cum like this… knew you could take it.” he groans, looking at wally as wally pulls out, his cock straining.

you keep your eyes on wally as he looks at you with furrowed eyebrows and needy eyes. “open. open your mouth baby.”

and the damn second you opened your mouth, before your tongue could fully extend, his cum landed in your mouth, eventually spreading onto your tongue. not only your pussy felt warm and sticky, but now your mouth.

wally cums a lot more than dick, because dick finishes harder than wally. ropes and ropes of cum shoots out as you took every single inch, dick’s pupils blown as he watches the sight in front of him, his hand keeping your mouth open.

moments after; you swallow all of wally’s cum, you feel it stick to the back of your throat as dick lets down your legs off his shoulders, your hands leaving their forearms as they fall to the bed.

wally moves his cock once his balls feel empty, his breaths heavy. “and you were hiding your mouth this entire time, baby?”

with your mouth empty, you’re able to respond as you lean up, legs spread as dick’s semen dripped out of your folds. “well you two hid your dicks from me so…”

dick grins and wally smirks and you knew you weren’t getting any sleep that night. not like you wanted any sleep with these guys next to you.

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this idea has been gnawing at my mind for a while and finally decided to write it. I love them both so much, they’d be so good in bed, I need them both!

✦ comments and reblogs are always appreciated! ✦

@murdock-slvt 2025!

[kommanders]

PERFECT PAIR

pairing - kyle rayner x batsis!reader summary - just late nights, study dates and a whole lotta love based on this ask divider by @cafekitsune

a saturday night was rolling its way round in gotham city, noises of car alarms and loud pedestrians framing the air.

you hummed quietly, letting out a puff of breath in growing exasperation and fatigue.

you had been stuck to your laptop for what felt like hours, doing research for your masters, the process had been hard and long; you could trace all the days down of tim bragging he could complete the degree in half the time, damian looking down on you (lovingly) for doing something as "insubstantial as a degree," cass and steph who made you breakfast when you stayed all night, and, finally dick and jason who seemed to lounge in your apartment, stealing all the good snacks, as you drowned in essays.

if anything, it was perfect, perfectly frustrating too.

another paper was due by the end of the night but it seemed like your brain was frazzled as the words couldn't find their way onto the page. sighing in defeat, you leaned back and gently closed you eyes.

it wasn't easy but somedays you wondered if all of it was even worth it.

"baby?" a soft voice rang out, your eyes gently fluttered opened, turning towards the sound.

in your view, the love your life, kyle rayner, stood against the door with his head tilted and arm resting lazily on the door hinge.

"hey, baby," you tried to muster a smile but it turned into a tired grimace.

he crossed the room and took you into his arms, his hugs were always so tight and sweet and snuggly; it was one of the best things about him. "you're doing so well," he kissed the top of your head and pressed his chin softly on your crown, "i'm so proud of you."

"thank you," you took his large hands into yours, intertwined them, and held them close to your heart, as you took long deep breaths, "it just gets so hard sometimes..."

you faltered slightly, "sometimes what i feel like i do doesn't compare in anyway to you, or dad, to everyone else, i don't know why i'm complaining." you laughed weakly.

"hey, hey, no we're not doing this." he took his hands back and pressed them warmly against the apples of your cheeks, gazing into your eyes with his floppy black hair and lopsided smile.

"never, ever, think what you do is insignificant. on top of being the most beautiful woman in know, you're also the most intelligent and hard-working person, willing to work yourself to depths that i don't even know i could reach myself."

your lip quivered and you let out a watery laugh, pressing a kiss to his right hand, "god you always know what to say."

he knelt slightly pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose and then to your eyelashes, "that's because i know you, baby, and i love you,"

you hugged him tightly, knowing you wanted to spend the rest of your life with the green lantern, "i love you too," you murmured.

changing the subject, you squinted up at him, "what have you been doing in the meantime, anyway? it smells really good and it's not like you to be unusually quiet..."

his hands whipped up in mock surrender, kyle being his awkward self, "guilty as charged milady!" he pulled you out of your chair as you groaned half-heartedly, "you've been working so hard these past couple of months, even whilst i've been away with the corps and i just wanted to show i'm proud of you."

he led you up to the roof by the waist and suddenly you were met with a large green construct as a table, the most gorgeous and delectable foods laid on top; ranging from a bowl of fruit salad, some doughnuts, and even your extra cheesy favourite lasagne - sprinkled perfectly with parsley.

above all that lay green paintings in the air, kyle used his ring to beckon them over to you.

your eyes crinkled in confusion as you looked at the paintings, you thought they would be random constructs that kyle had created, however upon closer viewing you noticed all of them were of you.

they ranged from just now as your tongue stuck out cutely as you read essays over, your beautiful smile as you collected your first bachelor's, even a painting of you giving a mock presentation to your family despite all of them interrupting you during every second.

but what caught your eye was a picture of you and kyle where you were both caught in laughter over something silly, the memory was hazy but it was the thought and consideration. he had put in for you, day in and day out that almost had you bursting into tears.

"kyle, oh god, this is beautiful, i love you, i love you, i love you!" you jumped onto him and kissed him all over, as he giggled childishly, "this is the best thing you've ever made!"

"even better when i drew you dad and clark making out in the watchtower supply closet?" he teased.

you gently whacked his chest, "don't start, you pointed at him accusingly, then chuckled, "yes that was golden, i still remember the look on b's face. priceless."

you both chuckled lightly, the gotham skyline painting your faces in the most breathtaking way, as kyle dragged you over to a blanket, bringing the food along. you hugged him a little tighter, love filling your mood with such a light kiss of life.

you wouldn't change anything for the world.

[kommanders]

hey guys sorry for ghosting!! i’ve had such a rollercoaster of a week basically long story short i didn’t initially get into my dream uni and then today i did! but ive been at work non stop at my family’s cafe so i haven’t had anytime to write😪 i’ll try and get requests done and hopefully will get a wip posted either tmrw night or saturday night🤍

[kommanders]

hell yeah

⌞ tag team ⌝

⫶ mdni , fem! reader, fingering, p in v, threesome, clark is a sweetie

୨ৎ gummys note: no idea tbh. need them bad tho.

“you’re gonna make her tap out bruce,” clarks soft voice cuts through the steady ah, ah, ah’s that spill from your swollen lips, a warm thumb moving to gently wipe the drool that’s leaking. the man behind you only scoffs at his friends reprimand, purposefully driving his cock deeper just to spite the man.

“she’s not gonna tap out kent.” bruce mutters, the billionaire’s tone smug “she can take it. she said it herself didn’t you sweetheart? said you could,” his big hand flattens against your lower belly, gripping your skin as he holds you tight against him “take it easy huh? that it would be a walk in the park?”

you can’t think, let alone speak. so you settle on the easiest option and nod jerkily.

“good girl.” bruce croons and he’s quick to reward you with a slow roll of his hips, cursing as your pussy gets unbelievably tight.

shaking his head clark snorts “you’re terrible wayne. poor girl can’t even think straight.” clark muses, his words directed to his friend. it was a sight seeing a spitfire like yourself all quiet and pliant. not to mention he couldn’t exactly deny how absolutely breathtaking you were. soft tits swaying each time bruce ruts into you, skin flushed and covered in a light sheen of sweat. the way your cunt was swallowing bruce—

the super man leans forward on his knees, your back arching almost immediately at the firm pressure he begins to apply to your throbbing clit, rubbing in a tight circle.

“nnuh..”

“bruce is so mean huh sweetheart? been mean all night with you.” clark murmurs, holding your hazy gaze.

“stretching you on his big cock—can’t even let you breathe huh?” the man hums—lips curving into a gentle smile when he feels you buck. you can’t help but shut your eyes, the mind numbing pleasure of bruce’s cock fucking into you and the sweet touch from clark has your brain melting. it’s too much yet not enough at once, your body on the brink of nothing but sheer pleasure.

“why don’t you cum for us baby,” clark coo’s, sliding his middle fingers lower and gently spreading your folds “cum for us and then i’ll fuck you nice and slow.” his words are a syrupy promise—preparing you for whats to cum come.

“think she likes that idea kent,” bruce mutters, his other hand sliding to grip your tit for support. he’s close too, breathing harshly against your neck and shoulder. balls tight and ready to spill although he’s patient enough to wait for you.

one particular snap of his hips pushes you over the edge and your lips part in a choked gasp as you cum hard. bright spots behind your lids and body trembling in his firm hold. the beefy man behind you follows a few steps later, spilling into your pussy with a hiss.

“messy.” clark comments to himself when bruce finally pulls out and he begins to feel the mans cum drip from your cunt. you whine and squirm when clark slowly begins to fuck bruce’s cum back into you—even bruce pauses for a second. chests heaving and that familiar fire starting back in his stomach.

clark, ever the gentleman though allows you to get your bearings for the most part (despite the slow fingering). letting you come back to earth and the tingles to subside, leaving you in a state of bliss and relaxation. and then he’s maneuvering you into his lap, letting your head rest against his shoulder while he tugs his boxers down just enough to free his own neglected cock.

“ready sweet thing?” the journalist gently slaps his cock against your sticky folds, chuckling when you writhe. he waits for you to say yes before he does finally sink into you with a obscene squelch cause your pussy is so full of cum already.

“so warm.” one of clarks hands go behind your head, holding you close while he slowly begins to rock into you from beneath. it’s absolutely filthy really but clark seems to enjoy it. the way you claw at his shoulders and how you babble about just how deep he is. the faintest outline of his cock visible through your tummy.

even bruce couldn’t help but to watch with intensity—stroking his cock to match the pace clark set while he keeps his eyes trained on where you two are connected. every so often he’d thumb the leaky slit as his semen gushed out of you and down clarks cock.

it doesn’t take very long for you reach your third orgasm of the night (the first had come when bruce and clark had both taken turns eating your pussy until you were close to sobbing), biting onto clarks shoulder to muffle yourself. the action of you cumming sends clark right there behind you, his grip tightening just a little as he cums inside you just as bruce had.

the room grows silent while you each catch your breath (and bruce cleans the cum from his fingers because yes, that was hot) , clark easily pulling you off his cock and turning you around like you weighed nothing.

“think you can handle a little more y/n?” a soft kiss pressed behind your ear as clark situates your jellified legs over his own thighs, spreading you wide open and facing bruce.

“y-yeah.” your voice is shaky but there’s a underlying firmness to it. you wanted this—wanted more of them.

the two men exchange glances, bruce moving between your legs—cock bobbing.

“think you can take us both?” the billionaire murmurs with a questioning head cock.

“at—”

“the same time.” clark supplies warmly, his cock already growing harder against your back.

did you want that? to have your cunt absolutely owned by your two closest friends who you had sorta been pining over for years now?

“yeah,” you lick your lips and spread yourself even wider “i can take it.”

both men look almost surprised and you feel smug for just a fleeting moment. they didn’t think you’d tap out now did they?

-

uhh..yeah.

[kommanders]

hey guys, i just wanna start of by saying thank you so so so much for 100 followers i genuinely can’t belive so many of you like my fics i only started doing this 3 weeks ago so the support is so insane!!

i’m gonna be quite inactive till maybe friday/saturday, i’m trying to get around requests and tmrw i find out my exam results and if i got into my dream uni so im kinda stressed but i will come back swinging out the gate with more fics !!! ily all mwah <3

[kommanders]

you’d literally have to pull me off him

#needthat

[kommanders]

TWO IS BETTER THAN ONE

pairing: bruce wayne x reader x batman

summary - a contraption used by the penguin splits your husband into two separate identities, batman and bruce wayne, igniting a hidden fantasy you're more than happy to indulge in... cw - established relationship, doubles sex/threesome, no self-cest, oral sex fem! and male! receiving, praise kink, hair pulling, minor degradation, marking, biting, unprotected penetrative sex, multiple orgasms

based on this ask a/n: i've always wanted to do a challengers style fic hehe, also tysm guys for 100 followers i've only been doing this for 3 wks that's so insane ily guys <3 divider by @cafekitsune

IT WAS YEAR TWO OF THE BAT as gotham city's protector, as their symbol. two long years of nights. two long years of your husband scouring the streets, and purifying them with the trail of justice. two years of billionaire philanthropist bruce wayne leading a double life.

you had witnessed every enigmatic case that plagued his mind, cleaned his bruised body, kissed every single scar, and held him during the long, dark nights that even he didn't think he could back from. often, it had felt like you had been through everything together and that you could predict anything.

until tonight.

you had been sat at the window ledge in your shared bedroom for the past two hours, silently thinking and waiting for your husband to come home - this was your normal routine.

he normally traipsed into the room at around 2am, bones cracking delicately, lips fixed into a permanent grimace as you patiently waited to hear the extravagant tales that gotham city had to offer.

but when the clock struck 3am you nerves began to rise, manifesting in soft chills around your body, worry forcing a tight crease in your brow.

bruce was rarely late and always a man of his word. even in those rare times where he found himself in a difficult situation, he always sent alfred up sending his regards.

conveniently the butler wasn't in sight either, the only trace of him being the chamomile tea he delivered to your door 5 hours prior.

you lightly hummed to yourself in an inquisitive manner that rivalled bruce's, beginning your journey down to the batcave.

walking down to the grandfather clock that acted as a double entrance down to the wayne family secrets, though, for some strange reason, it was

wide open.

a draft could be felt all the way up in the hallway and it made you shiver slightly.

alfred must have left it open during the night.

you sauntered down the steps and into the cave, nearing closer you heard hushed voices - a heated exchange that seemed like it wasn't going to be solved any time soon.

you assumed it to be bruce and alfred; like any father and son would do, they would bicker.

sometimes away from you as a sign of respect, other times they would spat in front of you as you sat amused by their squabbles.

whilst the situation seemed to create a curve in your lips, you were slightly confused and perhaps even slightly irritated that bruce had not come to bed. but after all, the city never slept - and even you understood that.

you could alfred's plea in a fragmented fashion, "-need to tell her!"

even bruce's tone seemed to stretch, you knew the small skin of his nose would be tightening with controlled anger, "control the situation before she finds out."

find out what? was he injured? was someone dead?

was he...has he cheating on you?

endless possibilities filled your mind and as you moved further, another hushed voice seemed to join the conversation, making you falter slightly. "cobblepot needs to answer for this."

you could account for the aristocratic-like voice, alfred, the confident and stoic voice, bruce; the last one confused you. it was a commanding baritone that you recognised but couldn't quite place.

perhaps a justice league member? though not many of bruce's colleagues that you knew spoke such a discernible way.

stepping from out of the pillars, you perked your head out in curiosity, going out to greet the trio, "bruce, it's 3am, is everything ok?-"

the sight you were met with stopped you dead in your tracks.

they all froze as if they had been caught by their mother. in your eyeline, alfred shook his head and gave a soft glare to the two men. next to him was bruce. your husband. but also batman. also your husband.

you reeled in shock, you were seeing double.

bruce was clad in his designer black slacks, accompanied by his loafers and finely pressed dress shirt, ironically the same attire he had left for work and the same one you had seen him take off to get in the batsuit.

as ominous as ever, the bat stood firmly, brooding in the shadows and clad in the batsuit, firm and thick - just like your husband.

"bruce what's going on you whispered." pointing between the two of the figures, expecting an explanation.

"it's me." he simply offered.

"yes, i know it's you, but who," you pointed to the man in your husband's suit, "is that."

no one said anything. bruce could you hear you lose it by the second.

"it is both bruce wayne and the batman, miss," it seemed alfred was the only one willing to explain the strange situation, he turned to the two of them, "your husband was ambushed by a contraption and came back in a pair."

"alfred," batman and bruce warned to the butler.

he continued in a petty british flair, "we are unsure how mr. cobblepot managed to achieve such a state of affairs," he flicked his hand at his adopted son, well sons, "but justice league records have shown that all effects reverse within twenty four hours."

you opened your mouth. then closed it just as fast.

the batman moved marginally, in a calculated approach, "the penguin's device had intentions to split the intended victim into singular atoms, however, his design as always appears flawed..." he paused and turned to himself, to bruce wayne, giving him a a small glance of apprehension, "...instead he managed to separate our two identities into two separate beings."

"so what you're saying is that there's two of you, i have two husbands?"

"this is what circumstances have come to, yes" the bat addressed you and, honestly, it felt like he had stripped everything away from you and left you bare. you knew how the batman's gaze left his enemies quaking in fear, but for you, it left you horny as fuck.

in that moment it felt like the air had tightened, your mouth parted lightly and your sleep shirt suddenly clung to your skin in a rush of heat.

shit. you weren't supposed to be enjoying this.

bruce noticed every shift. he always did. and he knew you were aroused at the sight of the both of his personas standing in front of you. he cleared his throat and met you, "it's been a long night. for now, we'll retire to bed and solve this puzzle tomorrow with clearer heads."

he held eye contact with you the entire time and your cheeks immediately flushed.

alfred hummed in the corner, already halfway up the stone stairway, "you are correct, good night master wayne, master batman, and goodnight to you, miss." in the darkness you could make out the mischievous glint in his eye, always the one to find situations like this amusing.

the bat passed you with one loaded look and followed the butler, assuming to one the guest rooms. bruce followed, taking your hand and leading you behind him up to your room. you sucked in a breath, anticipating what was to come.

***

"so, darling, what do you make of our guest?"

bruce had now changed out of his work garments and swapped them for some black sweatpants, the ones that deliciously decorated his abs and v-line. he knew exactly what he was doing.

his quip was dry but direct, wanting to work out your thoughts desires in the very moment.

"guest is one way to put it," you said dryly, shuffling on the bed to make more space for him, "he's still you at the end of the day."

"i know, and i know that you know with the way you reacted at the tone of his voice." bruce was teasing you now.

fuck, he was on to you, "is there something you want to tell me my love?" he questioned, placing one chaste kiss at inside of your neck. he now moved to the shell of your ear and whispered, "something that i won't later find out?"

you squeezed you eyes shut and lightly pressed your thighs together, how on wonder woman's earth were you gonna tell your husband that you fantasised fucking both him and his superhero alter ego?

"you want both of us, don't you." he hummed gently, placing his hands on your hips firmly, "you won't say it but your body is."

"you want both of us, don't you?"

you responded with a curt nod and a breathless yes, his lips quirked upwards to a faint smirk, "i thought me using the voice in bed was enough, you're insatiable."

bruce pressed his lips firmly to yours, kissing you boneless and enough to make your heart lurch. your toes curled as he slid his tongue into you mouth, sliding it across yours sensually, bruce's hands moved under the hem of your shirt and ghosted the skin of your middle, when all of a sudden, two firm knocks could be heard from the doorway.

you both parted in a mirrored pant, gazing at each other and then turned to the door. you knew exactly who it was.

you looked at bruce for permission - he sent you an unyielding nod - you rose from the bed and walked to the door, opening it with a feather-like tug.

you were met with a broad chest, littered in scars and deep ridges, faint swirls of raven hair, muscles for days and sharp quads that could snap anyone in half if they looked the wrong way. you looked down, he was clad in black boxers, the wayne staple with gold embroidery at the seams, he looked thick and firm. you looked at the bat, he still had the cowl own.

you scoffed, it seemed like they had their own differentiation system and had even planned this full exchange in their minds.

you walked bag to the bed, next to bruce and patted the space next to you own the bed. you were on edge but bruce was right, you knew exactly what you wanted. and you'd get just that.

the bat moved wordlessly in the room just like the shadow the public had painted him to be. his body pressed down the bed and you felt both of their auras smother your own. they turned to each other with one quick look, and instantly bruce pulled your face to his, kissing you deeply again. your lips meeting made a wet and sexual noise within the room, your tongues hot with your impulses.

a string of saliva connected the two you, when, just as commanding, the bat pulled your chin in his direction. your lips pressed together, however, where bruce was relatively soft and sensual, the batman kissed like he wanted to dominate you, his perversion evident in the way his erection grew in his undergarments, hand palming your breast with aggression. your panties felt restrictive in the moment and you felt your pussy slick with arousal.

you pulled back with a sharp gasp, taking a deep breath, as their mouths placed themselves on either side of your neck. bruce nibbled softly, kissing and licking bruises as a memory. batman bit and sucked marks across the skin like a warning.

you closed you eyes, lazing in the situation, as your desire came to life and was even better than you imagined. you began to palm the both of them through their clothing, wanting to mirror the pleasure they were giving you. you felt them both in your hands, hot and fucking heavy, the idea making you feel the urge to come.

it lasted no longer, as bruce pulled you and picked you up to move the two of you further up the bed, "bruce what are you-"

he kissed away your question and moved you to sin on his lap, you humped his erection, he let out a breathless moan and kissed your neck in caution, "you're going to get what you came for."

he unbuttoned your sleep shirt from you, freeing your breasts and groping them with his large hands, rolling your nipples as you tipped your head back.

the batman shuffled with your movements, ripping your shorts away from your legs and tearing your panties off you; bruce mumbled that he'd buy you ten more, smirking that his darker self had the same idea.

the batman kneeled in front of you and pressed his nose deep into your sex, inhaling you to become high of your scent. with no avail, he began to eat you out with conviction, licking your body out like a man starved, like man who knew there would be no such promise of you tomorrow.

he circled you clit and sucked hard, enough to make tears well in your eyes and you toes to curl deliciously from pleasure. bruce kissed away the tone of your mewls, placing his hands in yours.

"she takes it so well." the bat growled in that deep, raspy voice which sent you eyes rolling into the back of your head, he placed two thick fingers into your pussy, pulling your legs wider apart with one hand when you attempted to close them.

"she does, doesn't she?" bruce replied curtly, one hand travelling down to your clit and rubbing it in fast circles, the added pressure making you whine loudly. "come for us, dirty girl."

with the encouragement, you began to gush, the bat pressed into you licking you deeper as you came. your moans were a badge of honour to him as he moved to press a possessive hand across your stomach.

they both kissed your respective parts as you basked in your orgasm, you didn't notice the bat shift upwards. in an instant, he flipped you over on all fours and pressed kisses on the curve of your ass, palming your cheek and spreading your slick all over.

bruce with his sweatpants on the floor, stroked his cock to the pace of your sweet breaths, he spat on it as gentlemanly as possibly, the added slick making his underside vein shine in the dark light.

"open, my love." you opened your mouth and welcomed his length, swallowing it up to the base, you held the position, looking up as tears filled your eyes. he stroked your cheek with love and gently tugged your hair, beckoning you to please him.

on the other end, the batman also began to palm himself, moving to tap the head of his cock on your clit, sending sharp shocks which made you jolt back onto bruce.

he pressed your back down and your ass arched perfectly for him, in one swift moment he was filling you to the brim, you were so full. you moaned on bruce's cock as the bat fucked into you hard and fast, giving you no time to recover.

you could feel every ridge and curve of the bat, his cock kissing your cervix as his hands gripped your hips, no doubt that it would leave bruises. you licked up bruce's cock, taking his balls in your hand as you kissed and fondled them. "harder." you stated simply. you wanted to remember every single second of this night.

the bat fucked you deeper, rubbing your clit with a hand, your back arched in pleasure, you mewled onto bruce, sucking him with newfound vigour and kissing his tip carnally.

they didn't know, but you were claiming them with every passing touch.

the bat's movements began to falter as bruce began to moan, you knew he was about to come. with one last suck, you looked up at him as he came in hot spurts in your mouth, "good girl," he gently offered to you. his hands traced your face as you swallowed every drop.

the bat fucked onto you harder, you cried out as you came to your second orgasm of the night, you saw white, panting deeply, he pulled out and came heavy on your ass, painting a picture that you would reminisce in the morning.

you lay back on the sheets, spent and satiated as you gently smiled to yourself. your eyes gently closed and you feel deep into a sleep.

***

"this is where you got that fantasy from?" bruce's lip curled, half in disgust, half in attraction.

it had been three weeks since that night and you had now felt comfortable explaining where you'd gotten that fantasy from.

you were both curled up in your room, watching challengers on your laptop as you explained the complicated dynamic that art, tashi and patrick had to the billionaire.

"it's hot, don't you think?" your cheeks burned.

"it's perverted." he snorted at you.

"well you loved it," raising your eyebrow at him, pressing your lips together.

"you're insatiable."

[kommanders]

dreading the fact that first day of classes is tomorrow LMAO (bout to be chained to my books and articles now)

how about Kyle and reader having a study date but the entire time that the reader was locked in (wish it's me) with their books, Kyle was drawing them the entire time with a note that encourages them to keep pursuing what they love even when it's hard ;))

omg enjoy your new school year, i hope it goes really well for you!

love this idea, thank you for requesting my baby kyle!!!

[kommanders]

hi! would love to request something where Bruce is hit by some contraption that splits his identities into 2: Bruce and Batman, and reader shares a secret fantasy about being with both at the same time (established, married) - thanks! I appreciate reading your work.

wait i love this idea omg!! also tysm for reading🫶🏾🫶🏾

[kommanders]

i had a dream about jason todd the other night and he chased me around my city and pushed me off a building - lol.

then he professed his love for me whilst i was on the floor😭

[kommanders]

Hello! Can I request slightly submissive Bruce x reader? Specifically Battinson’s version (like very much praise kink & desperate) - thanks!

omg i lurvvvv this idea , bruce defo leans more sub in my eyes and i love battinson!

[kommanders]

hey everyone! my requests are currently still open for the summer so if you have any asks or ideas send them my way <3

[kommanders]

PURE HONEY

pairing - bruce wayne x fem!reader x clark kent word count - 4.2K summary - on an intergalactic mission, your partners are poisoned by a peculiar substance - sex pollen. they come crashing down into the night, chasing the only antidote they can find: you warnings - 18+, sex pollen, established relationship, pwp, nasty smut, begging (and it's not from you) oral sex (fem! and male!receiving), handjob, unprotected penetrative sex, hair pulling, dirty talk, eye contact, everyone basically switches lol , two sufferers of huge dick syndrome, as yonce said "we be all night!" can be read as a pt.2 to possessive or as a standalone divider by @cafekitsune

the grandfather clock struck 12am in the wayne manor, chiming at the axis of the estate, signifying the early beginnings of a new day.

the building, which usually was hauntingly quiet, felt even more muted to you as you attempted to shrug off your nightgown; it was one of your anniversary gifts from bruce, one of hundreds, expensive and snug, to him it was perfect. clark loved it even more so as the colour illuminated your skin in the night, and its shadow sculpted your figure in a way that made him drool in his sleep.

by the grace of whoever controlled the universe, gotham was going through a heatwave. which was weird. the usual gloomy, wet and dark gotham was sticky with heat and had left the manor unremarkably tepid.

tepid enough for you to have spent the week planting fresh flowers, baking plenty batches of banana bred and sunbathing in the garden. it had been the most peaceful week you had in a long time, allowing relaxation to seep into your bones after months of hard work.

but tonight, conveniently, your lovers were not here.

it had still vexed you that the justice league whisked them away from you for a top secret mission off world.

the memory of hal jordan and barry allen wolf-whistling outside of your shared bedroom when the team had arrived was fresh, you could envision the sharp eyebrows clark and bruce raised in tandem as your sacred time had been made privy and discussed by the super heroes.

you were certain barry and hal would be stuck in the back seat of the space ship, if bruce had his way. he always did.

not many had known, but you and clark were able to bring a playful side to bruce that none had seen before. where he was stoic and cold with others, he always gave the two of you a small smile when you both made witty comments. he was soft and caring, always the one to check up carefully on clark after a brutal fight or even making sure you had your favourite herbal tea in stock. bruce was considerate, a great way to balance clark's brightness; the smallville boy who demanded his 9 kisses from the two of you at night and picked fresh roses straight from the plant as a gift.

the three of you acted as a trinity, always supporting each other and always loving one another.

they had both left lingering kisses on your lips after their mission debrief, leaving a zest of unspoken feelings in the air. you knew something was different about this mission but thought little of it upon their departure.

and so at times like these, when you were left alone to your thoughts, you missed them terribly, the silence driving you mad.

even alfred's absence was felt, you had given the butler the weekend off amidst the chaos of the looming heatwave; he left your favourite dinner in the refrigerator and muttered something about 'gotham weather being subpar to the english countryside.' typical.

with a sharp exhale you made the move back to your room, growing tired of your own wandering when a load crash was heard within the building. it echoed eerily and left a trail of goosebumps in your wake - it seemed to be coming from the cave.

the noise was enough to make you shiver in the heat whilst you slowly crept towards the noise. the hairs on your back rose with bubbling fear at the thought of an intruder.

you grabbed a sabre from the decorated wall and walked slowly towards the cave entrance, you knew if worse came to worse you could hold your own - clark and bruce had trained you for moments like these in the most extreme cases.

creeping further down into the catacombs, the commotion grew in volume, you heard muffled noises and...whimpering?

your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, thinking some bats had become injured in a rabid manner.

the batcave was in full view, a crater lay depressed in the floor and concrete was scattered far and wide.

you took in a deeper breath and stalked closer to the centre, raising the sword above your head and preparing for a sharp, clean swing.

with a sharp scream, you made the sabre oscillate down into the direction of the assailant, until all of a sudden a large hand gripped yours tightly, holding you in place.

"-hey! hey, stop, what are you doing? it's me!" clark whizzed into your view, gesturing you to put down the sword.

you froze in shock , not expecting one of your lovers to be making such a mess in the cave - plus, didn't alfred say they wouldn't be home for a few more days?

shaking your head you ran into his chest and squeezed him tightly, "you're here? i've missed you, i thought you were never going to come home!" he picked you up with one hand and tugged you deeper in an embrace. his hands felt dangerously possessive as they wandered to your lower back.

"we'd never leave you, sugar" with that your body stilled, clark never called you sugar - it was always baby, darling, honey, or something incredulously old fashioned and midwestern. that was clark after all.

pulling back in apprehension, you took a real look at clark. he was still in his suit and covered in the remnants of debris, but it was his physical appearance that really floored you.

clark was slightly panting, his skin was flushed to a pretty pink and a light sheen covered his brow with moisture. his lips looked an angry red, like as if he had been angrily kissi-

he placed you firm onto your feet when immediately your back clashed into something hard and thick, clark spun you round and you into contact with the dark knight.

he hovered over you like a corrupt figure, whispering noises that sounded like a corrupt prayer, his hands journeyed over to your face, his thumb finding your lip and tracing it. he was shaken. something was wrong. his cowl was gone and his face was bare in front of you, his pupils were dilated and blown out of proportion. he looked like he had been enchanted by a spell which he didn't know if he could wake up from.

bruce was quiet, there were light bruises on his face down to his neck, his suit hanging off of him as if he tried to rip it of; it felt like his presence was scattered across the hollow in mania, his atoms colliding and tearing apart at each millisecond. he mirrored clark in such a way that you almost missed it. their bodies swayed in the same fervid chorus, bruce's snarl matching clark's pout - but something was wrong.

his eyes carried the same look he held just before he'd take you and clark to bed and rock your world. wetness began to seep into you panties but you grit your teeth and pushed it aside.

"is he okay? clark, what happened? bruce is everything alright," you voice began to raise in worry until clark shushed your increasing worries, pressing his head into your neck - wait was he sniffing you?

"just some minor mishaps that a little water can't fix, right brucie," you noticed clark's words were slurring slightly, yet he was agile on his feet and not weary. you narrowed you eyes at him, ticking a box of your mental checklist: not kryptonite, but what else?

bruce whimpered again, tucking his head into your shoulder for comfort and his knees began to buckle. "we missed you." he had said it so quietly that you would have missed it, had it not been for clark wrapping his hands back on your waist.

bruce looked at you as if you were one of his cases that he needed to strip down piece by piece and penetrate with his mind and touch.

"clark," you puffed out to the kryptonian, "help me carry him to our room,"

misreading your demand, he rather enthusiastically picked the both of you up and flew up to the room.

in a flash, bruce's bedroom came into view, you noticed that the billionaire's whines were growing loader by the minute, so you placed him on the plush sofa, hoping it would offer some solace to the hero.

his breaths became even more choked out as you neared to peel his suit off, "shhhh, i'm here bruce, it's okay." both you and clark fought to strip away the armour, he mirrored clark's look: hair all tussled, cheeks flushed, and his lips? bursting in anger as it looked like he had been biting down on the skin in pain.

but his body. holy fuck.

you had always thought yourself lucky that you had been gifted, not one adonis, but two. where clark was soft, clean-shaven and polished to perfection, pecs beating to the rhythm of a drum, bruce was rugged in his masculinity, slightly hairy and covered in scars, which you spent countless nights kissing one by one.

bruce's erection poked out from his boxers, angry and unattended for, as it pulsed with rage in front of your eyes. bruce was begging to be claimed. and it was killing you

he mumbled words, moaning again in pain - you couldn't quite make it out - but what was clearly identifiable to was the large tent in bruce's pants that pulsed with heat.

with a gasp, you looked back up at him and immediately clark pressed his front into your back, his hard on pressing firmly into you, "the pollen's done a wonder on you, hasn't it brucie?," clark giggled as if he was on a substance and your head whipped to question him.

"pollen? what pollen?"

"the sex pollen!" he said so matter-of-factly, smirking as if you were on the outside of the world's greatest inside joke.

bruce shifted next to you, placing a heavy hand to the side of your cheek, managing to string out a sentence, "i-it was some sort of..." he took a deep breath, unbeknownst to you that he was inhaling your scent, attempting to make the fragrance bind to his bloodstream and overtake his senses, "...aphrodisiac. from a world cra-crawling with biohazardous plants."

clark cut in, placing his strong hands to your hips as if you were an anchor, "brucie and i volunteered to go down, then we were exposed, diana and j'onn were not happy, then brucie started to get feverish as we planned an emergency return back to earth-"

bruce's moans interrupted clark's ramblings, it was clear he was significantly more affected than the kryptonian, "is there any cure, i mean, is there anything we can do to help hi-"

clark rutted his hard-on into your core, making you let out an unanticipated moan which reverberated within the room, what stunned you was that clark moved one of his hands under your chin to look at bruce state. you noticed he had made work to remove his suit from his body and stood naked.

with the other, he picked your right hand up and used it to palm bruce's cock under the dense material of the boxers. nice and slow, tantalising, just the way he liked it.

it brought him a little relief, he collapsed further into your touch.

despite being so concerned for his health, you were a little turned on. heat began growing between your legs, you tried closing them but clark's large thighs prevented you from doing so, he parted them back open.

"isn't it clear?" clark kissed down your neck in such a sedated way, it felt like time itself was decelerating to clark's command, "the antidote is you, sugar." he began to nibble down on your earlobe as bruce's attention now perused your neck, all the way down your robe covered breasts.

he mumbled a pained "please," wanting a release that only his lovers could give him, "please."

"tell us if it's okay, please baby," you could feel his precum through his suit, the moisture making the room's temperature sizzle at an insane high.

you continued palming bruce and spun round to gaze at clark, "i want to help, let me help?" you offered above his lips and with that, clark's resolve had left and his lips grasped onto yours, tugging you forward and caressing your lower lip. you couldn't help but slide your tongue across his as lust had taken over your mind, it was if you welcomed the pollen into your circulation - placing all three of you at such a state of inebriation that you would need days to recover. clark bit your lip, making you gasp as his tongue slid further in your mouth to explore all the possibilities that this night could lead you. you began to notice the hint of mint and a woody tang that lingered on his lips, realising bruce and clark had spent their time travelling back to earth trying to alleviate the other's pain.

you pulled away from clark in surprise and turned back to give your attention to bruce; he was fully writhing on the couch and you cooed at him, "you're doing so good for us, aren't you brucie?" you pulled out his hard cock and began to nuzzle at the base. you knew bruce. the pollen was steadily tearing at his rationality. ye he was strong but you wanted him to lose all restraint.

clark began to kiss bruce silly, quieting his cries as you began to lick up the base of his cock, making sure hum over the underside vein that always made him short circuit; he shuddered and clark palmed your tit beside you as a gesture of consideration, when suddenly, you had an idea.

you pulled clark off of bruce and pushed them both into the cushions, despite their protests,

"baby what are you doing-"

"is everything okay-"

their breathless concerns fell on deaf ears when you began to stroke both of their cocks, at a pace that would have two respective gods fall at your knees.

your left hand caressed clark, in gentle strokes as you bowed to take bruce into your mouth, slobbering all over his cock and bobbing up and down at a steady pace. you traced your thumb over clark's sticky slit, whilst your throat touched bruce's base, small hairs brushing against your nose.

the pornographic moans that could be heard at the moment from the world's finest could be enough to send the world into paralysis: they were entirely at your mercy.

"you spent hours fucking each other on that ship huh? you removed yourself from bruce as your hands worked the two of them up, your tone teasing them to the edge, "clark fucked you silly, didn't he brucie?"

bruce tipped his head back onto the sofa, chasing what seemed like the fiftieth high today as clark nodded beside him, "went down on him three times; fucked him twice - still wasn't enough,' his voice faltered as you began to suckle him now, he was girthier than bruce (where he was long), yet you still refused to back down from the challenge.

"wanted-," bruce's voice was high-pitched, he was begging, "wanted you."

"hmm that's right," you could feel both of their build up with each passing minute as you stroked them harder, mouth alternating between the two.

they were so close to release, you could feel it, when-

they ripped themselves away from you, their cocks slapped their stomachs, still standing proud and irritated as they stood and moved towards you.

you feel the power balance in the bedroom tilt on it axis when bruce growled at you, snatching you up in his arms and throwing your ass over his shoulder, he gave you a hard spank on your rear, making you squeal in shock. clark flew closely behind, giving you a light kiss and taste of what was to come.

bruce flung you onto his bespoke desk, the one he worked on during the late hours of the night, shoving all his files, papers and collectibles to the floor in an indecent manner.

he dragged you down the edge by your ankles as you gazed up at the two of them and in a hurry they were both on you.

two pairs of hands cascaded all the way from your breasts, pinching and pulling your nipples at a pace that made you sigh hedonistically, squeezing your tits tightly in between your necklace, letting the symbol decorate your body sinfully. your expensive robe was now ripped to pieces - thanks to clark, "brucie'll buy you five more, baby."

clark gripped bruce's chin aggressively and turned the gothamite to make eye contact with him, "you're gonna take everything you need, okay brucie?" he shoved the gothamite to his knees, in front of your clothed pussy, bruce used his teeth to drag them down the apex of your thigh.

he pulled your legs apart as clark moved to place his cock between your mouth, beckoning for you to open your lips and take him in full, which you gladly did. he was so heavy and salty on your tongue it had your eyes rolling to the back of your head. bruce began attacking your clit, "let me drink," he murmured as his tongue flattened and licked long stripes on your pussy, making juices flow down into his mouth like an elixir. he pressed your thighs deep into the wood, cracks began to seep into the desk, etching the experience into time that no doubt bruce would have them permanently commissioned into his daily work life.

"good boy, brucie," clark began to grab your hair and pushed his cock deeper into your throat, careful not to hurt you, but enough to make his pleasure take control, "take everything you need."

bruce shoved two of his thick fingers into your opening, scissoring them in a motion that had a white heat building up in your lower pit; you sucked clark harder now, your hands fondling his balls in an effort to make him cum.

"just like that, don't sto- ohhh" clark's cum began to fill your mouth, you swallowed it all, refusing to break eye contact with the kryptonian, you coaxed his balls to give you everything he had. despite everything he was still painfully hard, however bruce's actions took over your interest as his tongue continued to bully your clit and fingers massaging that special spot. tears began to feel your eyes as the heat only grew larger, "fuck brucie feel so good!"

you cried out in ecstasy as fluids gushed out from you and all over the desk, bruce was desperately lapping up everything you had to give, his hair stuck to his forehead, his mouth covered in your sex, his eyes begging for more.

"such a good boy for us, brucie," you whispered out in encouragement as clark snatched your body up from bruce's grip flying you over to the window, your tits pressed to the screen; it left a cooling sensation to your body, your arched your back into clark as he grabbed his cock, rubbing it over your clit in such a delicious way.

he pressed his cock in to you and both of your cries only spurred bruce on from the corner, he was sat in his chair, studying the two of you, jerking off to the sounds of the wetness that decorated the domain.

"look at him, baby," clark positioned him deeper into you, enough to make you squeeze on his cock tightly, "he's so gone for you, your sight makes him feel so good," your head lolled to the side as bruce image was striking enough to make your eyes close and mewls grow in capacity, you could all but feel every single thick ridge, pulsing vein, and prodding mushroom tip from clark and it was already bringing you to another orgasm.

"you're so good for us, sweetheart, thank you, thank you thank you-" clark was losing his sanity at how your wetness was dripping down to the floor.

your second of the orgasm of the night came in a blaze, illuminating the both of you as clark pressed you harder into the window, grabbing at your ass, fucking you harder as his wanton moans matched the frequency of bruce's.

his come filled you just as fiercely, filling every crevice inside of you, "we're not done with you," he growled.

he grabbed you by the legs and carried you bridal style to the bed, placing you on all fours. bruce was no beneath you, his eyes now black, his mushroom tip swollen and his abs contracting in pain.

you glanced down and climbed on top of him, placing your hands flat on his chest, "gonna take care of you both, don't worry," bruce pulled you down by your necklace in a feverish kiss, marking you with his tongue, his hands squeezed your tits, making you all slick.

clark pulled you back on to him, hand brushing your neck as he kissed gently across your shoulder, bruce groaned from beneath you, grabbing his cock and filling you in an instant, "you're gonna me the both of us feel good, understand?" this was the most possessive, the most hungry he had seemed all night - the pollen's control over his senses was its zenith.

you sank down on his cock, welcoming the stretch, glad clark had already accommodated you earlier, it had been so long since they had fucked you.

you tried to close your eyes to bask in the moment but clark immediately pushed into you, you could feel them both all the way in your throat, "open your eyes," bruce demanded coldly, he and clark fucked you at such a wicked tempo that they were able to slide themselves off each other, taking turns to bully you into submission.

you normally didn't shrink under his gaze but now it made you feel on display, your whole soul being exhibited under the watch of your lovers, who fucked you deeper into the mattress, "you doing so good for us baby," clark kissed you, his tongue sliding messily across your lips, teeth crashing messily as bruce's fingers slipped down to your clit, setting off another edge you weren't sure you'd come back from.

"make me come, ah, you want to feel pleasure?" you questioned, demanded, as their hands controlled your hips, thrusting deeper into your cervix, "make me fucking come!"

you whined at a high pitch as clark faltered first, his seed spilling into you in hot spurts; that set off bruce's orgasm as he followed soon after, filling your pussy with his sex.

you collapsed onto the dark knight as they both slipped out of you, their cum coating your clit and dripping down your thighs, you were spent.

your body shifted as bruce stood to join clark at your back, instantaneously you felt a set of mouths stroking your clit, tears fell from your eyes, "this isn't finished" bruce voice was hoarse but still challenging.

it was going to be a long night.

***

it had been hours, the dawn beginning to break through the gotham skyline, bruce's bedroom lay wrecked.

sheets were ripped, the frames on his bed lay splintered, the smell of sex lingered in the air.

but he didn't care, the pollen was out of his system, he had spent the most euphoric moments with his lovers - he had everything he wanted.

you were now taking a bath in his en suite, you had done so much for them and would need all the energy you could get. clark sat behind you, using his laser eyes to light a choir of candles across the room, telling you humorous stories about their time away in space. you gently giggled as your hands were wrapped in his.

bruce, now cleaned up and clad in silk boxers, placed two chaste kisses on the both of your lips, always a man of very few words. he silently exited the room to make his way to the kitchen and bring back some supplies.

he moved to open the door and was met with the sight of alfred.

shit.

he opened his mouth and closed it again. it was like as if his father had caught him in the very act of sex.

alfred silently handed him a tray: berries lay in a china bowl, with french toast on a large plate and some herbal tea within a porcelain pot.

"for the master and miss," he stepped back and spun on his heel, though he paused for a fraction of a second, "though may i remind you, master bruce, not to mix business and pleasure. i have had to receive a rather cumbersome telegram from lady diana, during my sabbatical."

alfred gently tutted and moved down the hallway, out of sight.

bruce could do nothing but close his eyes, take a deep breath, and step backward towards the room.

what a night indeed.

[kommanders]

finally finished the superbat sex pollen fic, aiming to post it later tonight, it’s nasty asf btw🤭

[kommanders]

The sex pollen fic.. oh I’m sat, also who do u picture for Superman and Batman?

my fics are always up for interpretation so i don't specify but me personally i picture david as clark (he's so big and yummy i love him). as for bruce i lean more towards pattinson (but like hear me out with the tenet look) or even comic bruce - mariko tamaki's illustrations or from world's finest 12 (i'm picky abt my bruce wayne look)