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He's on his knees.
Superman is on his knees in front of you, eyes wide and brows furrowed in desperation. He's holding his hands up for you like you're some sort of goddess he's praying to. He's still got a dish towel on his shoulder, a few little splashes of water creating damp spots on his flannel, unbuttoned at the top and sleeves rolled up his forearms. They flex in a way that has you wanting to drop to your knees right on back.
All you'd done was walk into the room naked.
It was supposed to be a little joke—you just wanted to see what he'd do. You expected him to look over his shoulder standing over the sink, to drop his jaw and stare in amazement or something.
But when your soft feet pad against mopped wood floors, skin still a little damp from the shower but other pat dry, you'd murmured his name to catch his attention. He'd hummed, tilted his chin toward his shoulder while his visual focus stayed on the dishes.
You cleared your throat. He turned. You dropped your towel. He buckled. Whatever question he had died on his tongue upon seeing you.
And then he was drying his hands haphazardly on the towel and falling to his knees in front of you. He'd actually crawled a few feet, too.
“Oh, my–” His fists clenched with his teeth, and he fucking bowed, head to fucking floor. And he didn't do it just once. Every time he came back up to look at you again, it's like he remembered you were bare, and he just ended up cowering all over again. “You– Wow, I… Holy–”
He can't even form any coherent sentences! You knew you were dating a loser, you didn't realize you were dating a groveling loser. He's a total chump, and he has no care in the world about it.
Now he's looking at you like he's pained, like seeing you like this and not being able to touch you is physically destroying him.
(He can touch you, but right now, in his head, you're a goddess who has to be worshipped from afar until you give him explicit permission to worship her personally. Granted, he always thinks you're a goddess, but he's only a man.)
“Please, baby.” Now he's begging you. You don't think you can take this. You've kinda just been staring at him this whole time in amazed shock.
“Clark,” you say, sounding just as disbelieving as you currently feel. There's no way he's doing this right now.
The sound of his name from your lips alone has him bowing again and you actually cover your mouth with both hands. He makes this pained sound, comes back up, and whines at you.
There's no way he's this pathetic.
“Oh, my goodness. Please, angel. You—h-oh, wow. You are so—” He drags his hands down his face. “You're so beautiful.” He says it like he'll cry. He looks like he'll cry.
“Clark,” you say again.
“Just give me five minutes. It's all I need, five minutes, and I'll make you feel so good, sweetheart.” His hands do this sweeping motion as he gestures to all of you. He shakes his head, like he just cannot wrap his head around the fact that you're real.
“Come here.”
And Superman crawls on hands and knees to get to you.
He straightens up right in front of you, hardly an inch away. His hands hover over your sides, and he's looking up at you like he's still begging permission to touch you. Because he is.
You place your hands over the back of his and press them to your waist.
Clark melts.
He holds you gently in big, strong hands that have punched through solid rock and treats you like a dandelion that will blow away if he moves you too fast. His head lays against your belly, soaking in the warmth of you with another dreadful sound in his throat.
He's still murmuring partially coherent praises to you, but now he's doing it between kisses on your belly. He kisses you anywhere he can still reach on his knees. You're worried for his jeans and the holes they might contract.
Or you were worried. Until his lips are pressing right over your mound, and he's looking up at you with his chin on your belly. He looks like a dog, so in love with their owner that his eyes are glowing and he's licking his chops joyfully. You can practically see his tail wagging.
“Please, can I? Please, baby. I am on my knees for you. I need it so bad.”
Yeah…you're a goner. You can call him “chump” and “loser” and anything in between all you want, but when it comes down to it, you are just as whipped as he is.
“God, please do.”
He wastes absolutely no time. He dips his head between your legs and pulls you so close that you're practically on top of him. He's kissing your clit and licking your folds and mouthing at you like he's at a pie eating contest, no hands allowed.
He's got one hand up to your back and the other holding onto your thigh like he needs the support, like he's the one who's shaking on his legs and moaning at the ceiling.
He licks you like you're ice cream. He licks you like you're a lollipop. He licks you like you're soft and sweet, and he's a fat boy that just can't get enough.
And he's not silent—far from it. He's moaning and groaning into you while his jaw goes slack and his tongue goes stupid. You're pretty sure he's still talking, enjoying himself far too much to break away so you can actually understand him.
But, knowing Clark, he's probably not talking to you anyway.
Your legs are trembling, and you're sure they'll give out any moment now. Your fingers are curled in his hair, gripping and trying not to pull too hard (even though you're pretty sure he loves it, the slut). Your moans come in the form of heavy breaths and long whines and surprised whimpers.
“So pretty,” he mumbles, speaking into you. “She's so pretty, so sweet. I love you so much.” You're not actually sure who he's talking to—you or your pussy—but it makes you dizzy all the same.
You think he's losing it. His eyes are mostly closed—fluttering like he's fucking drunk on you—and his nose is nudging your clit, and his tongue is lapping along the seam of your pussy, and he's suckling on you like he's getting honey off a spoon.
“Clark, I–” You're panting now, at a loss of breath as he lavishes you. “I'm gonna—Oh, ‘m gonna cum, baby.”
He makes this rough sound in the back of his throat, and you can feel his shoulders slump, like the news has absolutely gutted him. If he hadn't lost it before, he definitely has now. With his hands cupping the backs of your thighs right beneath your ass, he holds you like treasure and drowns himself in you.
Seriously. You don't remember the last time you registered him pulling back for even a second to get a breath. He's been suffocating himself practically this whole time just to keep from having to pull away from you for something as trivial as air.
He suckles around your clit, and now you're the one who's losing it. You are pulling at his hair now. You can't help it—how could you when he's treating you like a five course meal?
That familiar knot is coiling in your stomach. Your knees are weak and your hips are seeking him out, and your brain is being reduced to white noise and the sight of him fucking devouring you on his knees like you're otherworldly royalty and he's the commoner.
He's still murmuring encouragement, but you can't make them out on account of him still being smushed against you. And on account of your brain being so completely fuzzy in your ears.
“Ahh, Clark. I… I'm so—Oh, fuck, I'm so close.”
You're moaning and whimpering, and you can't think for the life of you. Not that you need to. He's doing all the thinking for you, and the only thing in his mind right now is, “She tastes so freaking good. She sounds so pretty. She's so beautiful. I love her so much. I need more of her.”
He's half-devastated you're close because that means you might want to stop, and he just wants to sit here forever. But he'll be damned if he doesn't make you cum on his tongue. He needs it more than anything in the world right now.
It takes you by surprise when you do cum. It hits you in a rush of ringing ears and flashes of white and buckling knees that he accommodates for with ease. You throw your head back to the ceiling, grip onto his dark, curly locks, shake on top of him as your release floods every fiber of your being. Your body is numb with pleasure. It's the only thing you can taste on your tongue.
Clark is a mess beneath you. If you thought it felt good to cum, catching glimpses of him through your blinding pleasure is making you question who's enjoying it more.
And he stays right where he is, licking and lapping and sucking and moaning. You're only just noticing his hips bucking up against nothing while he melts into you. It's filthy and lewd and, fuck, you never want it to end.
When most of the haze clears and his tongue becomes too much, you're pulling him back by his hair to catch your breath. There's a crease between your brows where you're trying to gather yourself again, so lost and so fuzzy and so good. When you look at Clark, his eyes are glazed over and the entire bottom half of his face is glistening with your arousal like he'd rubbed himself in it. Because he had.
He sits back on his haunches, staring up at you like you're his entire world. Because you are. He is so madly in love with you, it makes him crazy in the head. He's got a lopsided grin on his face, and he's still holding onto you like he's scared you'll disappear if he lets go.
“Fuck,” you huff once you can finally think straight. “Clark, you…” a breath “...are so amazing.” He melts, chin to belly as he looks up at you once more, still looking like a good boy. “I love you s’much.”
He grunts, dips his head woefully as he pulls only a single hand away to adjust himself in his pants. He wraps his arms around your hips, pulls you against him. “I love you, too. So much. Too much.” A pause. “No, not too much. Never too much. You…” He lets out a sigh, like he's mourning the fact that he could never put into words how much he loves you.
He looks up at you then, imaginary tail wagging. “Are you done? Because I'm not done. Unless you are, then I can be, but I'll cry a little bit.”
You let out a startled giggle. He is way too excited for this. “What about you, honey?” You trace his temple all the way down his cheek and then down to his chin. He hums like he's been kissed.
His cheeks, already stained pink with his love for you, goes darker. His eyes dart away for no more than a second (because he can't bear to look away for too long) and then he says, “You don't have to worry about that…”
Oh, my god, you think. The fucker came in his pants.
You can partially see it now—it's hard when his body is pressed against your legs—the dark stain spreading in the seat of his jeans. You bite down on your lip to stifle the whine that tries to come out.
Clark doesn't like that. He frowns, reaches up, releases your lip from your teeth, smooths over it with his thumb, and says, “Don't do that, you'll hurt yourself.” Then, a pause. “And I want to hear you.”
You let him hear your next whine. You nod, looking down at him with hooded eyes. Your legs are still shaking, and you're still so sensitive, but you need him far more than you need a break.
“Okay,” you say in a small voice, a few pitches higher than before. “If…if you're not busy…”
“I'm not,” he says quickly, despite the sink full of dishes behind him and the towel drying on his shoulder. “Never. For you? Mm-mm.” He says it like the notion is pure insanity.
He's so lost, and he doesn't even care. He kisses right below your belly button and keeps looking up at you with all the love he can physically manage to put in his eyes.
Without ever having to break away from him, you manage to get your back to a wall for some added support. You don't expect him to wrap his arms around your thighs and stand, keeping you secure on his shoulders as he keeps you pressed into the wall and wrapped up around him.
“Can I? Please? Just wanna make you feel good, sweetheart. I need to.” He begs you like you hadn't already said yes.
You look down at him, so shocked and so in love. How you managed to fool him into loving you this much is entirely beyond you.
“Please?” you whine, hands in his hair. “Yes, Clark. Please do—A-ohh, fuck!”
Once again, he's got his head buried between your thighs, sucking you down like candy. “Love my pretty baby so much,” he's mumbling into you, once again either talking to you or “her”. You can't even actually make out what he's saying, but it's too good not to tell. “My perfect girl. So warm and sweet, and she loves me so much.”
“Clark, what are you saying?!”