synopsis: you find yourself at Our Lady of Perpetual Fortitude three times: once for your cousin's wedding, once for a relative's funeral, and once for...well, maybe you shouldn't say.
word count: 3k
need to knows/warnings: jud x reader, reader isn't particularly religious, jud teaches reader self-defense/how to box 😏, yearning, smutty but not full smut.
author's note: i feel the jud community getting larger each day ;) thank you sooo much for reading. <3
The first time you stepped foot in Our Lady of Perpetual Fortitude, there were certainly no holy thoughts crossing your mind.
Your favorite cousin was getting married, and you wished that this event was something to feel more sentimental about. To put it simply, her husband-to-be was a complete asshole, consoling only in his hefty bank account. You respected her hustle, frankly, but it was still difficult to watch a person you loved so much commit to someone so undeserving of her heart.
In protest, you wore all black.
The ceremony—as most Catholic weddings are—was ordained by a priest, one dressed in a large green robe with gold detailing. Throughout the long pre-nuptial mass, your eyes wandered towards the ceiling, then around the sides at a reading room and confessional stall. You'd never taken much of an interest in religion, but had to admit the church's architecture was a sight to behold.
Vows were exchanged, and in a flash, the ceremony was over.
There was a reception nearby, one which you chose to attend only for the open bar. Family was family, but sometimes it seemed more peaceful to avoid them. All they asked these days was if you had a boyfriend, and it was getting tiring. This was the 21st century, for christ's sake, and you had no interest answering to the elderly about your relationship status.
Before heading over to the party, you hung back in the pews. Looking around at the stained-glass windows and silent echo of the walls, you could see how someone might feel drawn to come here every week. If only they hosted a book club in this place, you mused.
Ten minutes or so passed in the comfortable quiet, and then a figure approached you from the altar. It was the priest from the wedding, now changed into a more casual uniform: black blacks, a black knit sweater with the sleeves pushed up, and a clerical collar. A tattoo accompanied his left wrist, and from the corner of your eye, you could make out more hidden black marks on the side of his neck.
Suddenly, your cheeks felt warm. Since when did they make priests like that? Surely that only happened in Fleabag.
"Hi, were you here for the wedding?"
You cleared your throat, tucking a lose strand of hair behind your ear and smoothing down the skirt of your dress.
"Yeah, I'm so sorry, am I in your way?"
The priest shook his head.
"Not at all. Stay as long as you want. I think there's a party, though. And I heard something about an open bar."
You liked him already, which made things much more difficult.
"Oh, yeah, I'll make it there eventually...I just, I don't know."
The priest motioned towards the empty spot beside you. Your nod in the affirmative was perhaps a little too quick.
"I'm not really religious," you prefaced. "But this place is really good at peace and quiet, I've got to say."
The priest laughed softly, and nodded in agreement.
"Yeah, it definitely is."
A beat of comfortable silence passed, and then he asked:
"Something on your mind I could help you with? Not as a priest or anything, if you're not into that. Just as a regular person."
You thought briefly that you were into it for a very different reason, but gave yourself a mental slap in the face.
"Oh, not really. It just sucks to watch the people you love marry such assholes."
He smiled—just barely—and made an agreeing hum.
"Yeah, I could sense some kind of friction. Like they weren't exactly marrying for love."
You sighed dramatically.
"It's a shame. My cousin, she's the bride. She is so full of love, and I wish she'd chosen to marry someone who could give that back to her. I think she's just trying to please my aunt and uncle."
"Family can be tricky. You want them to be your number one source of comfort, but a lot of the time..."
"They're the biggest fuck-ups of all?"
The priest looked at you, a little charmed, and laughed.
"Yeah, you could say that."
"Sorry, you're off the clock and I'm a stranger. I don't mean to dump all this onto you."
"Oh, I'm never off the clock. And I really don't mind. It's nice to talk to someone who says it as it is. Sometimes I wish I could teach the people here to be a little more honest with themselves. But it's really not my place to pass judgement," he said.
You nodded in understanding, and then he spoke again.
"And now here I am, dumping problems onto you. Sorry. It's not very proper etiquette in my position."
Shaking your head, you smiled ever-so-slightly.
"Well, I'm not a Catholic. So that kind of etiquette doesn't really apply to me."
Then, the priest gave you an unreadable look. Had you offended him? No, it was something else. Sort of like he was at war with the thoughts in his head.
You checked the time, and let out a tired huff of air. This was the first moment you'd wanted to live in since this morning, but your absence at the reception was probably starting to become obvious.
"I should go, my family is probably looking for me. Thank you for the company, really."
"Anytime," the priest replied.
It seemed like he really meant it earnestly.
You stood from the pew, heading toward the aisle, when the kneeler underneath the seat caught on your shoe.
One foot tripped over the other, and it seemed like you were doomed to fall over—until the priest's tattooed arm gently steadied at your hip for balance. You felt it right in your stomach.
Both of you stood in the aisle then, and he cleared his throat. Was he blushing?
"I'm sorry, I didn't meant to, uh..."
You shook your head swiftly.
"No, don't be sorry. You just saved me from falling flat on my face."
Like a true gentleman, he walked you to the church door and held it open. Before walking out into the warm, humid summer air, you turned to face him.
"Father, I never got your name."
He swallowed thickly.
"I'm Jud. No Father necessary."
"Well, Jud, I hope to see you around."
~
The second time you stepped foot in Our Lady of Perpetual Fortitude, you felt completely immoral.
A highly removed elderly relative of yours had passed away of old age. He wasn't particularly kind to you, and had a very archaic way of thinking. There was no reason for you to be in attendance, really, but when your parents had forwarded the address, it was impossible to say no.
You felt slightly embarrassed to admit that the subject of your desires had not changed once since the wedding, but it was the truth. Jud consumed all of your thoughts: sometimes innocently, and occasionally not so much. It was exactly like you to have a crush that was completely unattainable, but it wasn't something that could be helped.
He was accepting and kind and so hot and unlike anyone you'd ever met, but you sensed there were secrets he kept close to his chest. Jud was like a painting, the kind that made you notice something new at each glance.
You sat in the same pew as last time, dressed in the same black ensemble.
Jud noticed you amongst the crowd quicker than he'd like to admit. After the wedding, Jud hosted mass every week with his eyes glued to the very pew you'd met on, guiltily replaying the interaction in his mind.
He thought your presence must have been God testing his resistance to temptation, chastising him for all the thoughts he'd had about you before going to sleep.
After the funeral ended, something hit your love-sick brain like a brick: what if he didn't even remember you? It had been over a month. Surely, with charm like his, there was a lot of foot traffic in this place.
Slowly collecting your things, you stalled an exit, giving Jud the chance to approach you first.
Once the crowd shuffled out, your eyes met his. Jud smiled slightly and approached your pew.
You were having some major deja vu.
"Hi, Father."
He winced, just barely.
"You really don't have to call me that. Unless you forgot my name, which I would understand."
"Definitely not."
Then, you nervously bit the bottom of your lip, like maybe even that was too suggestive a reply.
"I'm really sorry to have you back here on such difficult terms," Jud said sympathetically.
You furrowed an eyebrow, then looked at your black clothes in acknowledgment.
"Oh, yeah. Don't be, he was bound to kick the bucket. He was, like, 1000 years old and kind of misogynistic."
He laughed, this time more indulgently than you'd seen from him before.
It was now or never, you realized. Visiting this church by coincidence a third time would be stalker-ish.
"Well, listen, you've done a lot for my family this past month. Can I buy you coffee?"
Jud ran a hand over his face.
"I'm not sure that's such a good idea."
You put a hand on your hip.
"What, priests aren't allowed some caffeine every once in a while? Or am I really that bad."
"No, it's not—you're not..."
Jud looked up at the ceiling in some kind of silent communication with God, and then said:
"You know what, sure. That's what I should have said. Thank you for offering."
~
Coffee turned into dinner, which turned into drinks. It was dangerous how much it felt like a date, and Jud fought with himself to let go of the very same sentiment. But just as he'd feared, it would be impossible to quit you.
"I'm surprised you're drinking," you said, seated across from him in a booth. "I thought there was some kind of rule against that."
"There is, but I'm not always so traditional."
You hated the part of you which wondered how lenient he might be about other aspects of his life, especially after the disappointing internet search you'd made last night.
Are priests allowed to date?
The answer was a resounding no.
"Can I ask what you did before becoming a priest? Tell me if I'm being too nosy."
Jud gestured with his hands like he didn't mind.
"I was a boxer."
You regretted asking. This was all getting way too horny. Why couldn't he have said something that didn't give such a vivid visual image?
"Wow," you said stupidly. Then: "What made you leave that behind?"
It seemed like he didn't want to elaborate.
"You don't have to tell me. I've kind of wanted to learn, maybe not boxing, but some kind of self-defense. I just don't want to feel susceptible to being fucked with, you know?"
Jud nodded.
"I get that."
You realized you'd probably had one Aperol Spritz too many after asking:
"Could you give me some tips sometime? Teach me some technique, or something?
Jud realized a similar thing when he replied:
"Yeah, of course."
The evening passed quicker than it came, and although he'd technically offered to be your self-defense coach, you sensed sadly that this might be your last night together.
The two of you walked back to the church, where your car was parked by its lonesome in the dirt.
"Well, this is me," you gestured.
Jud furrowed an eyebrow, like he suddenly remembered alcohol had consequences.
"You really shouldn't be driving home."
And you probably, definitely shouldn't be, but just to be polite, said:
"Oh, I'll be okay. I'm staying at my parent's for the weekend, it's not far."
Jud shook his head.
"No, really, it's dark, and I think we both had too much to drink. I can make up a bed for you in the church."
"I really wouldn't want to put you out."
"It's really not a bother. You'd be putting me out a lot more by making me worry about you out on the road."
It was settled.
By "making up a bed," Jud had just meant giving you his, which caused another half-hearted, tipsy argument.
"Noooo, please, I'll take the couch. You've done enough for me."
"Y/N, you're not taking the couch."
Your heart fluttered at the sound of your name coming from his mouth.
"Well, can't we just...share the bed then?"
You regretted it immediately.
Jud looked at you with widened eyes, dropping the pillow he'd pulled from the closet for you.
"Um, I—"
You were mortified.
"Oh, God, I'm so sorry, I should not have said that. I've had a little too much to drink and—"
Jud gave you a familiar contemplative expression, the kind you'd seen many times since meeting him in the church but still couldn't seem to crack.
"I'll put a glass of water and an Advil by the nightstand. I have the heater running, but let me know if you need any extra blankets."
Once Jud left for the kitchen, you screamed into the pillow. Just to make matters worse, it smelled just like him.
~
The next morning, you had a minor headache but felt surprisingly spry.
Your eyes fluttered open, scanning the room around you. After a moment of tired dazing, your mind caught up to your body.
"Oh my God," you whispered to yourself.
Before you could race out of bed and run towards the door, Jud knocked lightly.
"Want any coffee?," he asked.
Too late to avoid the embarrassment now. It was slightly surprising he wasn't already ushering you out the door. Very polite, you thought.
"Sure," you said hesitantly, and then: "I'm sorry, I must have been acting so inappropriately last night, I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable or—"
Jud brushed the air with his hand, dismissing your worries.
"Not at all. I'm a little hungover myself, I have to say."
Twenty-four hours ago, you were certainly not expecting to be eating breakfast in Jud's kitchen. You wondered desperately what he was thinking, but felt for some reason that it wouldn't be right to ask.
When you finished your mug of coffee, Jud took it from the counter for a refill.
"Were you serious about learning self-defense?," he asked with his back facing you.
You were surprised he remembered at all.
"Honestly, yeah. Were you serious about giving me a crash course?"
~
Around noon, you met Jud outside the church, stopping home to change into more appropriate clothes.
If you did say so yourself, you were quite the natural.
"Okay, make sure your thumbs aren't tucked in. Pretend I'm...someone you really hate, someone who's really fucked with you."
You wanted to tell him that it was probably impossible to hate him, even hypothetically, but tried your best, throwing a punch at his raised, open palms.
"Good," he said. "Just try to keep your arms up to protect your face. Not that I don't enjoy looking at it."
And that went straight to your core, so you threw another good punch to force the feeling away.
After a few more rounds of punching practice, Jud moved on to another skill.
"Now, tackle me to the ground."
You furrowed your brow.
"Oh, I don't know if I have the strength to—"
"Yes, you do. Just tackle me onto the ground, and once you're on top, thrust your knee in between mine. A kick to the groin is an immediate kill, at least for a guy."
Thrust, groin, on top. You felt like some kind of sex-obsessed frat guy, unable to focus on anything but Jud's figure, sleeves pushed up with a little sweat on the bicep on his arm.
Get a grip, you said to yourself like a mantra.
You made your advance, trying to remember that this was a useful skill that should garner more serious attention.
Running forward, you tackled Jud to the ground, hovering over him and slotting your knee between his, just as he instructed. You decided to cut him some slack and be gentle with the knee.
"Yeah, good. I definitely wouldn't want to fuck with you," Jud said, slightly out of breath.
Then, you're hovered over him for much too long, neither of you making a move to untangle from each other.
The air was quiet, aside from the sound of your labored breathing. You could only imagine what the neighbors would think if they saw this.
A piece of hair fell in front of your face, and Jud reached up—the veins in his forearm slightly flexing—and tucked the strand behind your ear.
Your noses were practically touching at this point, and it would take only the slightest movement for your lips to be touching.
"I don't know if this was a good idea," Jud practically whispered.
"Why?"
It was barely above a breath.
Then his lips grazed yours, ever-so-cautiously at first.
"I'm sorry," he starts. "I shouldn't have—"
Before he could finish his sentence, you kissed him back feverishly. One thing led to another, and you'd flipped onto your back.
"Not out here," Jud said in between kisses.
He helped you up from the ground, brushing a few leaves out of your hair.
Once you were inside the church, your lips collided again. You bunched up his shirt in your hand, and he pulled your hips closer to his.
"You have no idea how many times I've thought about this," you sighed.
"You know no idea how much I've tried not to think about this. It's impossible."
You started to make a move toward a pew, laying on your back.
"No, I'm sorry, I can't fuck you on this wooden pew. There's no way it's comfortable."
You wanted to say that it really was no matter, and you would have been open to fucking him in a ditch somewhere, but refrained.
The walk to his bedroom felt unbearably long, and you were hardly able to keep your hands off of each other. It was a wonder that this hadn't happened sooner.
You pulled Jud's sweater over his head, and guided his hands to pull down your shorts.
As he continued to undress, you pulled your shirt off and laid in his bed with your elbows propped up.
He looked at you, and made the same repressed expression from your first meeting. So that's what that was all about.
Jud swallowed thickly.
"What have you done to me?," he sighed, more to himself than to you.
You moved onto your knees and pulled him on top of you. He kissed your neck down onto your chest, and your hand traveled to his trousers.
"Oh, Jesus Christ."
"Would he appreciate you using his name in vain?," you asked, maybe just to bait him a little.
Jud smiled against you, continuing to kiss down your stomach and then to the place you needed him most.
~
The next morning, Jud planned on a lengthy confession, but recounting the prior night only ended up giving him more to admit.
And each Sunday after Mass, you paid him a visit.
"See you next week, Father."
"Don't call me that," he said, before kissing you against the altar.
last night was shaping up to be perfect… all until it wasn’t. the dark had worked its way in faster than you'd realised and time ran thin. clark, ever responsible, insisted that you call it a night. but come morning you can’t shake the anticipation from the evening before...
ft. superman / clark kent x f!reader
18+ MDNI. if you do not have your age on your blog you will be blocked, you must be 18+ to interact with and follow this content.
content: porn no plot, smut, oral (f!receiving), established relationship, quickie, fluff and smut, superman is referenced but not featured, this is all shy and sweet comic clark, and sharp tooth clark- first time writing him so <3
word count: 6.3k
ao3 ver. (must be a registered user to view)
Monday morning. Tired bodies reluctantly pulled out of warm bed sheets as the sun only just begins to rear its head over the horizon. The sound of an alarm that's all too familiar and no time to laze around, and barely enough time to get ready.
When you finally roll over after a few more minutes of ‘resting your eyes’ you find the covers beside you thrown back and the sheets empty, crumpled, but still tepid. The sound of the shower running is barely noticeable as you lift your head and you have to wonder how someone can have enough energy to start the day right away.
But your boyfriend always does. It’s something you almost envy about him. However, for you the call of the morning doesn't get any less tedious, only more mundane and usual.
Unfortunately being an early bird isn’t contagious despite his efforts to align your routines.
Heavy footsteps weighted by fatigue lead you to Clark’s kitchen and you can feel the chill on the tile through your threadbare socks. The apartment is still on the colder side in the early hours of the day but the pyjamas you have stolen from his dresser keep you warm enough until you can get a hot drink to fight off the cold.
And that's exactly your next step as you retrieve the big ‘Daily Planet’ mug that he had so graciously allowed you to use. Over time some of your own belongings had started appearing in his home, blankets, toiletries, even a saucepan or two. But something you will always sooner take of his is the damn mugs.
This one in particular was a gift from the office, obviously, and you wonder if the purpose of the gift was actually damage control in disguise.
See, the Daily Planet loves branded everything. If they can find a way to put their name on something they will, so cups like these are in abundance in the office. Or at least they were, but the numbers started to dwindle.
Clark is a clumsy man, this is a fact better known than his name. Second to that is that Clark is not a particularly small man, despite the hometown nickname that gets around. So when the office started providing these dainty things with handles as thin as toothpicks instead of the disposable plastic stuff something was bound to happen. They barely fit in his hands and that combined with the fragile nature of them was a disaster.
So they made a new version just for Clark. This mug is significantly larger as is its handle and the point of it was for him to bring it into work to use instead of sacrificing what they had in the break room. A bigger mug for bigger hands. But then you got yours on it.
You are not a morning person, not by any means, so a mug that’s twice as big means twice as much coffee. And god, you need that.
Clark has yet to make any move to stop you using it so you’ve been taking the lack of resistance as a go ahead in lieu of actual permission. A few times he’s scoffed a comment about it being overkill but he still washes the cup for you to use again anyway. And you know it’s for you to use again, not him, because if he didn’t want you using it he’d put it on a higher shelf and he never does.
Though you don't even get a chance to wander to the sink as Clark creeps up behind you, snaking muscular arms around your waist and anchoring his chin on your shoulder. He’s a warm weight surrounding you and you immediately lean back into the embrace, knowingly he’ll help you fight off the chill of the early start.
"Good morning." He hums against your ear, timbre deep with the last drag of sleepiness. You bring one of your hands down to rest over his where they lay on your stomach and squeeze his threaded fingers.
“Morning, love.” You yawn, leaning your head back with a soft ‘thump’ against his shoulder.. He huffs a curt laugh, a contented little noise, and squeezes you tighter.
“Did you sleep okay?” He asks, taking the mug from your hand and setting it down onto the counter in front of you. No need for a warm drink now that your own personal furnace has you wrapped up in his hold and the goosebumps on your arms are settling away already.
You shrug your shoulders and mimic his little hum, drumming your fingers on the back of his hand.
“Mhm, just wish we had longer.” Your voice is scratchy and overtired but still sweet enough to make Clark’s heart swell. You punctuate your complaint with yet another squeeze of his hands and he drapes a chaste kiss over the junction of your neck and shoulder. You can feel his glasses bump against your skin.
Safe to say lazy mornings are much more your style. No alarms, nowhere to be, and all the time in the world to stay wrapped up with one another and cuddle.
Or have sex.
Yes, embarrassing as it is, that’s why you are so cranky as of this morning. Last night was shaping up to be perfect, the air around you both was getting stuffy and hot as the world outside got darker and darker, closing in to a romantic evening.
Your back was pressed to the bedroom door, engulfed by Clark’s shadow as he blocked the hurriedly dimming daylight from the window behind him. His large hands were under your shirt, sliding higher, higher, as his knee snuck in between your thighs and pushed a gentle pressure against you.
Arms wound around his shoulders you carded a hand into the loose black curls at the nape of his neck, desperately tugging him down to you. A low grunt pressed against your lips, a messy, feverish kiss.
The rolling of your hips was subconscious, more muscle memory than cognisant action, and one of his hands came back down to your waist to steady you. The pressure doubled with a surge of pleasure that forced a shiver through your body. Clark delighted in the feeling.
Desperation flooded you. Meek mewls spilled from your lips as Clark began a trail of damp kisses down the column of your throat, sharp canine teeth crazing the delicate skin. It only made you more restive, hips bucking to chase the warmth that was pooling thick and low. He helped you rut against his thigh by pulling your body so easily with that steady grip on your hip, a shadow of the strength he masks.
It should have been embarrassing, how quickly he could get you like that, but in that moment your mind was nothing but thick haze and him.
Your hands wandered down his toned chest to his belt, tugging his dress shirt free from beneath the waistband of his trousers. You pushed it up as best you could, greedy hands sneaking underneath with nails grazing along his stomach, ghosting over his abs.
You felt him tense, a groaning gasp for breath roll down your neck, and his other hand flew out to hold himself steady with his palm beside your head.
Clark pulled back then, lips parted and panting, wet with a shine of spit. He froze and so did you. The way he looked at you took your breath away, how a gaze could be so soft, saccharine, all the while ravaging you at the same time. Yours must’ve been much the same, maybe with shakier pupils.
Until his eyes drifted and dark brows knitted together in the middle. He took his hand away from the side of your head, pulled it between your bodies. Everything seemed to slow then, all apart from the rapid beating of your heart that pounded in your ears like ringing static. You realised the darkness around you, as did he. The night had crept in fast.
He was checking his watch when his face dropped and he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth to bite down on it.
“Clark…” You whined, fingers hooking into his belt loops instead. It was hard to see in the lowlight but you knew he was red in the face, chest heaving with each breath as he seemed to remember himself, his grip on your hip loosening.
“Don’t get all shy on me, please?” You whispered with your voice a little ragged. He hummed and swallowed a gulp, adams apple bobbing in his throat.
He had gone all bashful, and though it was becoming a rarity compared to the early days of your relationship, you knew that when he got like this it was hard to backpedal. It was like a switch flipped.
“Sorry, sorry.” He muttered mindlessly, kissing you quick and chaste. You tried to chase the exchange but he was too quick to get away, distracted.
It wasn’t because he was having second thoughts but rather other, distant thoughts, likely a deadline hanging over his head. And he’s too responsible to let you distract him from the nagging that had started up at the back of his mind.
Clark couldn’t tear his eyes away from his watch, his hand came away from your hip and his knee away from your body, dropping you back down from where he had you held.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He repeated, his tone as apologetic as his frown. “But look at the time. I mean, there’s a big meeting in the morning and knowing summer traffic it’s probably going to be awful out there.” You ignore the obvious and listen to his stammering.
“We should probably turn in. But… there’s always tomorrow night, yeah?” So not a deadline but a meeting. You don’t know what offends him so greatly about missing another hour or so of sleep but you didn’t want to push him, even though the lowly kindled warmth had turned into more of a desperate ache.
Your long sigh seemed to pain him but you conceded, nodding glumly.
“Okay, but you promise?” You pleaded, mind fuzzy as you tried to come down.
“Promise-?”
“Tomorrow night.”
“Oh,” he huffed a shy laugh, pulling at the collar of his shirt like it was suddenly suffocating him. “Of course, love. Tomorrow night, I promise.”
But as you changed into pyjamas, closed the blinds and settled into bed, the ache never ceased. It grew roots. It was the heat in your veins, the rivulet of sweat down your back. It made for a restless sleep.
All night long you were sorely aware of the weight of Clark beside you and though it would be unseemly, more so than the intrusion already was, part of you just longed to reach toward him and wake him so that maybe…
“I know, I know.” He agrees with a nod, snapping you out of your prurient reverie.
Clark reaches a hand up to capture a stray piece of wild hair that he tucks behind your ear, kissing your temple. You mumble something incoherent under your breath, a stubborn frown downturning your lips. He doesn’t need to turn you around to see it, he can hear it in the little huff of yours.
“Is that still bothering you?” Clark asks, half earnest, half unbelieving. The long breath you draw in is all he needs to hear. Yes, yes of course that is still bothering you.
You gently nudge him with your elbow and he drops his hands, allowing you to turn and face him.
“I’m sorry, hun.” He really is but that doesn’t stop the lilt of amusement you hear in his tone. “We have the whole evening to ourselves anyway, yeah? Just got to get through the day.” He says nonchalantly like it’s obvious and like you can’t still feel the heat last nights hasty touches provoked.
Clark is right and you know he is. As much as you aren’t moved in with one another yet you spend most of your free time here at his place that is slowly becoming yours, too. And this unofficial move in means you have almost every waking hour of your time to give away to the other. Almost. Everything outside of work hours. And today that isn’t good enough.
You grumble yet some more poorly strung complaints behind a yawn and he watches as you rub your eyes with the heels of your palms to wake yourself. Hopping up onto the kitchen counter you glance at him while he stretches stiff arms above his head, revealing a delicious slither of hairy tummy as his vest rides up.
“Hmph- but babe.” Your voice comes strained to nearly a whine, exasperated. Clark’s brows raise, taking the stride necessary to reach you and slot himself between your thighs, thumbs on the insides of your knees guiding them to part.
“Hm?” Careful hands find your hips and drag you toward him so your head can loll onto his shoulder, heavy and lethargic.
Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist to stabilise you as your ass sits right on the counter's edge, your arms looping around his shoulders and wrists crossing at his nape. A contented yet defeated sigh passes your lips when he gropes the plush of your hips in his hands unthinkingly, a ministration that only serves to make you worse.
“You know what you do. It’s cruel.” You lay it on thick, dramatic, and earn a patient laugh that fizzles into a tsk. His hands still and he turns to glance at the clock on the wall thoughtfully.
“It’s really bugging you that much?” He says, not sarcastically, not mockingly, but with a hint of actual surprise. You feel the heat rise to your face as you sit back to look him in the eyes, nodding coyly. There’s a dusting of pink across his cheeks, partially hidden under the thick frame of his glasses. But then he smirks.
“Well,” he looks at the clock again, lips pursed. “You’re- Are you sure you can’t wait?”
You nod ardently, hands sliding down his chest and under his arms, dragging your nails down the white vest he wears as an undershirt for work. Clark shifts his weight from foot to foot, a habit to disperse the nervousness that creeps up on him.
“Oh c’mon.” You nudge, drawing languid strokes up and down the man's back with one hand. He shudders beneath your touch. “Don’t act like you didn’t see this coming.”
Clark heaves an exasperated breath out, nosing into the side of your neck and gripping your hips tighter, fingertips sinking into the softness. A surge of heat washes over you and your head tips back to make way for him like it’s muscle memory, but he doesn’t latch on like your body wanted to brace for.
“But you know I have to be out of the house in good time today.” He groans against your skin. You love that he calls this rather small, one bedroom apartment a house. At first you tried correcting him away from what you thought was a slip of the tongue, but you grew to find it endearing.
“If I didn’t I would’ve just had you last night.” You can feel him smiling, hear his facade faltering.
“Mhm. But someone needed his beauty sleep, I guess.” You tease.
Clark’s airy laugh rolls along your skin, tepid breath eliciting goosebumps in its wake. The air feels lighter already with even the smallest of touches from him satiating some of the deep seated ache. But only some.
“You don’t have time to lament then, love. Gotta go soon.” Your reminder only seems to make him worse, especially when you hook your knees higher over his hips and cross your ankles behind his back so he can’t slip away. Well, he could, but he won’t.
He pulls back from you and rolls his eyes playfully, sparing yet another glance at the clock on the kitchen wall.
“Clark…” You simper, watching the way he pauses to muse. His glasses now sit slightly askew and the dark curls at his temple are sticking out at weird angles. You reach to adjust the thick frames, sitting them straight on his nose, and try to tuck the loose curls away behind his ears like he always does. He leans into your hand and hums absently.
“Clark.” You repeat, firmer this time but not quite stern. He looks at you with his best puppy-dog gaze, a facade of innocence you know he’s far enough removed from. He’s really mulling it over now, swallowing the lump in his throat and you don’t fail to notice how his adams apple bobs. It takes a good amount of self restraint to not lean down and kiss the soft spot of his throat.
“Oh c’mon, please?” You pout to hide a sly smile. “You’re thinking what I’m thinking, right?” With a dart of a tongue you lick your bottom lip, pulling it between your teeth and biting gently once it's glistening. He stares as you do so, unconsciously mimicking the nervous bite.
Of course he’s thinking what you’re thinking. It’s difficult not to when you’re crowding him like this with nails raking down his sides, the linger of your perfume barely a whisper since you last applied it yesterday mixing with that of his laundry detergent from his shirt you wear. It’s a heady mix, at least to a sensitivity such as his. And the way your heartbeat ticks up in a way that’s audible only to him makes it that much worse.
But he’s also thinking that it’s already half past seven. Meaning he has to be at The Daily Planet in an hour. Meaning that he has to leave the apartment in just about twenty five minutes. Meaning that he has to get dressed, make and eat breakfast, pack his briefcase and be ready to go in twenty five minutes. But because of the meeting maybe he should leave earlier and-
“Babe?” All of your bravado leaves you in an instant upon seeing the wrinkle pulled deep between Clark’s eyebrows, a tell that he’s lost in thought.
His nod is slow, unfocused, and his fingers begin to drum against you in rhythm with the ticking seconds of the clock. Your expressions crumples into one similar to his own.
“If the time worries you that much then don’t let me hold you up, okay? I know I exaggerate but-“
Clark catches you with his pointer finger and thumb, tipping your chin up and suddenly stopping your nervous word vomit when your eyes lock.
“No, no.” He smiles. “You started this, don’t run from it now.” He speaks low but sweet, trailing his other hand up and down your side but only with a very light touch. You shudder and mimic his beam, another surge of heat prickling over your skin.
“You mean… You’ll humour me?”
“Maybe.” He hums. “Unless you’re having second thoughts?” He takes the hem of your t-shirt between finger and thumb to toy with the fabric, pushing his bottom lip out in a pout when you sweep his hand away to hold it in your own.
“Second thoughts?” You echo, rubbing the soft pad of your thumb over his knuckles. “Did you not hear me before?” You crane forward, pulling his hand into your lap while your lips brush the shell of his ear. You try to drop your timbre, the best job you can do of smooth and sultry that still hides a little bit of giddiness. “I need you, Clark. Please?”
He laughs curtly through a shiver when your breath fans the sweet spot below his ear and he grabs your hand to squeeze it. Your sense of mischief can be something so infectious, although sometimes poorly placed your second nature to seek out fun always assuages whatever is worrying Clark or bringing him stress. It’s refreshing to have another perspective on life, far less grave than his is often forced to be.
Who cares if he’s late for work? It’s not the end of the world and never will be. You however, will be the end of him at the rate you’re going.
Plus, he knows he won’t be late. He’ll just have to take the high road.
“Oh, hun. Come on then, what’ll it be?” Clark concedes, a shy simper pulling at his lips. You visibly light up, eyes shining with grin lopsided. You drop his hand in favour of cradling his face and trying to pull him down even closer to you. Both of his hands shoot out to rest on the worktop and support himself, thumbs pressing against your thighs and shoulders hunched inwards as he leans into your space, boxing you into his shadow.
Finally you lure him into the kiss you’ve been needing, one that immediately reignites the fire that was left to burn dry the previous night. There’s a brief timidness from him before you guide him into the rhythm of something heavier, headier, and he’s quick to lead from then.
Your bottom lip tucks snugly between his and you can feel the slight graze of sharp canines as he gently sucks on it, but doesnt pull. His hands sneak under your loose sleep shirt as he takes you by your waist, tugging you toward him so you’re teetering on the counters edge.
A combination of grunts and whines are lost in the exchange, spilling into the mouth of the other. Your hands glide down to his wide set shoulders, fingers curling with nails digging into forever unblemished skin. The soft pressure brings Clark back to his senses, pulling away from the heated kiss with lips parted and gasps falling.
“Answer me. What do you need, sweetheart?” He utters, voice having fallen to a deeper timbre which he clears his throat to correct. “We don’t have all morning.”
You pout briefly at the spine tingling kiss cut short but soon straighten up again.
“Weeell.” You sing-song, tepid fingertips drumming on his skin. You look down between your bodies, an unspoken instruction for him to follow your gaze.
“I think you owe me, don’t you?” The words come honeyed and sweet, your voice slow as if anything rushed wouldn’t stick in his mind that you’ve so quickly scrambled. Clark nods and smiles, unable to bite back the incredulous laugh that bubbles up. He can’t believe he’s been won over again but god, there’s some kind of satisfaction in giving in to your wants that he might never tire of.
“Oh, yeah?” He's red in the face, so red, he almost shines with how rosy he looks. The tips of your ears feel hot when you nod.
“Alright, alright. I should’ve known that you wouldn’t be able to wait until the evening” He tuts, all faux venom. “But you’ll have to clean the worktop after, deal?”
You deflate for a second, raising your brows at him as if to say he can’t be serious. Though you quickly wipe the exaggerated expression away as quickly as it had appeared, conceding so long as it means getting what you need. You pretend to think about it for a second first, though.
“Deal.”
“Good. Now c’mere.” He continues with a tone uncharacteristically gravelly that makes your tummy twist.
You barely have a moment to breathe before Clark is pushing lithe fingers under the waistband of your pyjama pants and tugging them down with enough force that you almost topple from the counter. A hushed gasp falls from your lips and you catch yourself with your hands on his shoulders, mouth fallen into a small ‘o’ as you look at him.
“Sorry, hun.” He mumbles, shimmying the fabric down your thighs until it falls over your knees and pools at your ankles. He gently takes you by the wrists and guides your hands to clutch the edge of the countertop, fingers curling around the lip of it. “Might want to hold on, yeah?”
Clark takes a step back, his eyes heavy on you, and slowly sinks to his knees on the kitchen tile. Your breath catches in your throat, stuck still as he lifts your legs and situates himself between your thighs, not bothering to pull the bundled up pyjama pants away that essentially bind your ankles.
“Clark…” With your shaky breath out goosebumps suddenly erupt along your skin, your body alert and painfully keen. Even just the delicate hold of his hands on your thighs makes it all rush back to you, the lightheadedness, the suffocating heat, the ache.
Ardent warmth creeps up his neck and flushes his face a deeper red, all across his nose and the apples of his cheeks. He smiles and titters curtly.
“Mhm. Is this okay? I thought if I just-“
“Yes. Please. Anything, I’ll take anything you’ll give me, baby.” You rush over your words, holding a tense eye contact with him. He just grins and nods, casting his gaze down and beginning to litter chaste kisses up the inside of your legs, soothing away the goosebumps with the warmth of his mouth.
He wastes no time in dragging his affections higher and higher, eyes falling closed while he leaves the height of your thighs dewey with spit. Then, a firmer, more impatient kiss to the clothed bump of your cunt.
You lurch forward instinctively and tighten your grip on the counter's edge, a gasping whine punching out of your throat. Clark dotes on the little wet spot that’s already soaked the fabric to a darker hue, smiling through every teasing kiss as his hand slides up your leg and fingers hook under the line of your panties.
He toys with the material, pulling it away from your body and idly sliding his hand back and forth to stretch the band. All the while his kisses search higher, the cover of the fabric barely a buffer between your bodies, and certainly not a buffer between the way each wet press of his lips makes your senses light up.
A kiss that barely grazes your clit is what has you squirming, impatience getting the better of you as you can’t help but card a hand into his thick, dark hair. You tug but it only makes him release the band of your underwear so it snaps back against your skin. You yelp quietly and grumble a complaint he can’t quite hear.
“Sorry, sweetheart.” He huffs, breathing you in with nose a hair's width away from your body. “Am I keeping you waiting?” Every breath fans against that damp in your underwear, a feather light sensation that aggravates the unabating ache like a poker to the sparking start of a flame. You groan.
“‘Have been all night.” You tug his hair again in time with the unbidden bucking of your hips. And he laughs, he fucking laughs, eyes flicking up to find yours with a look of bemusement and that same distant linger of surprise.
The lone fact that you want him in such a way is enough to get him off, too.
“You’re so sweet.” He again slips his fingers under the side of your underwear, following along the curve of your v-line down to your weeping cunt. “Thank you for waiting, baby.”
Finally Clark pulls your sodden panties to one side, keeping them held with a thumb pushed under the bunching of fabric. He stares for a second, bottom lip bitten between his teeth and pupils blown wide. It’s agony.
Every nerve in your body feels like it’s been kicked into overdrive, making each sensation doubly sharp and heightened. The anticipation is almost physical, a dragging build that translates into a stronger and stronger bodily response with every second you’re left waiting, ticking towards an eventual snap.
“Gosh. You really couldn’t wait, could you?” He huffs breathlessly, barely able to pull his eyes away for a split second to look up at your pouting expression.
“‘That obvious?” You say equally winded, choking on a gasp when his tongue shallowly dips through your folds. You groan through gritted teeth and your thighs squeeze around his head, his large hand that grips your leg sliding further around to pry them back apart, letting him get in deeper.
“Mhm.” He grunts in a kiss pressed firm against your entrance, smiling when he feels you clench around nothing. Another tug at his hair and Clark is finally starting up a rhythm of lapping at your cunt, licking broad stripes before focusing on your clit.
A moan dripping with relief punches out of your throat, your head thrown back and eyes shut tightly. Every breath you take comes along with a lusty little noise, a constant spew of whines that you can’t control. But finally the ache begins to untangle.
You can feel the tension unwinding, that high-strung lingering leaving your muscles as you start to feel that bit more lax, like putty in Clark’s hands. In its place comes a fire. Though, it’s not abrasive like you’d known it before, it’s delicate. It starts right by the warmth of Clark’s mouth, your whole lower body awash with a soft heat that feels like his touch all over you, like the tepid hold of his careful hands.
He sucks gently on your clit with a ball of spit on the end of his tongue, keeping up the flicking licks behind the seal of his lips. A cry of his name leaves your lips and only serves to embolden him, earning a sharper, wetter suck that has you squeezing your thighs around his head and rolling your hips against his face.
“Clark-!” You gasp again, chest heaving with each laboured breath and mouth left agape. The heat spreads upwards, slowly wrapping itself around your entire body, fingertips tingling and toes curled. He licks a firm stripe from hole to clit and you double over, grabbing the hem of your sleep shirt and trying to use it as a gag to muffle your moans. These walls are only thin, after all. Metropolis’ best.
Clark squeezes your thigh and you strain to force your eyes open, glancing down at his mess of black hair and your fist curled into it. His glasses are sat wonky and the lenses are steaming up, something you only get a good look at when he draws back slightly to pant down some breaths. You can’t help but giggle at the sight of him.
With your hand on his head you push him back a little bit more, bashfulness creeping up on you when he groans in protest. Your shirt falls from your mouth, the hemline now dark with spit.
“Baby.” You titter, reaching down with your other hand to take his glasses off and ditch them on the counter next to you. He looks up at you then, face flushed, eyes wide, lips wet. It makes your stomach twist.
“There. That’s better.”
His shoulders shake with a matching mirth, a split second of a laugh before he dives back in, knowing his priorities. Clark surges that bit closer, nose and chin near flush against you as he hones his attention to your neglected entrance.
Again starts the firm lapping with the flat of his tongue, each lick pressing deeper than the last, working you open with the gentle pressure of each one. Until finally the tip of his tongue pushes in, shallow but still nerve numbing.
“Fuck-!” You scramble for the hem of the shirt again, trying to muffle your pretty sounds for the sake of your poor neighbours. There’s a twist low in your gut, a tension that has you rutting against Clark’s face all over again. But he encourages it.
His free hand slides up the outside of your thigh until he’s grabbing a handful of your ass and using the grip as leverage to rock you against his mouth. His nose nudges your clit over and over with every buck of your hips and his tongue still eagerly teases at your hole, everything a mess of spit and slick.
You can’t help but to pull him closer, fingers tangling steadier into the hair at the crown of his head to keep him where you need him. Your other hand returns to the lip of the countertop, clinging on like he knew you’d need to and holding yourself steady to keep up the desperate, rapacious rolling of your hips.
“ClarkClarkClark-“ You muffle out, eyes scrunching closed again and thighs shaking with the ripples of pleasure that pull the muscles taught. You can really feel it now, the knot tying tighter in your gut with every greedy lick and suck. It’s that fire, that ache, it’s that with which your throat goes dry and mind goes hazy. It’s the warning of your undoing.
And Clark can hear it.
Your heartbeat is a rapidfire thrumming in his ears and with every drag of your body against his face he hears it spike. Louder and louder it grows, faster and faster, accompanied by an unending babble of whines and moans.
It’s bliss, his own eyes are rolled back and knuckles are turning white where he manhandles you. Just a little more and he knows he has you.
“Fuck!” You keen, entirely giving up on keeping quiet, much to Clark’s delight. He mumbles something like a ‘come on’ into your skin but it doesn't reach you, immediately lost underneath the sound of the flame roaring into your climax.
Your voice cracks a high pitched break and on the backs of your eyelids you could swear to only see white through every second that your orgasm drags on. With the peak of it that heat that was suffocating your skin ebs into a pleasant, tepid linger and for a long pause it’s all you can feel. The harboured tension of the night before was finally unstrung and in its place was nothing but euphoria.
You slump into the come down, leaning back with your head tipped to the side and shoulders meeting the cold tile of the splashback behind you. Meanwhile, Clark’s hands clamp steadily on your thighs, supporting you through the quaking with a firm grip.
A whine slips from your lips as he slows, but doesn’t quite stop, the rhythm of his tongue. You’re smeared sticky down his chin now, the gloss on his lips and shine of the end of his nose. With a couple more firm stripes up your cunt he ‘cleans’ up the gush of your orgasm, stifling a moan as he does.
“Clark, babe-“ You suck in through gritted teeth, body jolting with the buzz of the aftershocks. His eyes snap open at your quiet hiss, pulling back and resting his head against the inside of your knee where he leaves a soft kiss. He slowly adjusts your underwear back into place before drawing his hands away, earning another breathy noise from you in your sensitivity.
“Sorry, hun.” Clark hurries to duck out from between your legs, pulling himself back onto his feet with his shadow closing you in as he stands to his towering height. “Was that okay?”
He’s careful as he leans over you, one hand coming up to cup your face as the other reaches to pull your pyjamas bottoms back up and over your knees. You giggle and lean into his touch, holding gently onto his wrist as you do.
“Mhm. Much better.” Turning toward his palm you press a curt kiss against the warm skin and smile. “I could easily go back to bed now, though, m’tired.”
He laughs, dizzy and red faced from the stuffy heat that now hangs in the air around you. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand Clark next grabs his glasses from the counter where they sit at your side, the lenses still foggy, which he clears off with the hem of your shirt. You pout.
“That’s not what that’s for, y’know?” You grumble sarcastically. Clark shrugs as he puts his glasses back on, pushing them into place with his index finger with shoulders slumping once they’re sat, as if by instinct. Though his hair remains tousled and you’re almost prideful at the sight.
“I know. But that didn’t stop you either.” He retorts with a simper, tugging the fabric next to the damp spot from your mouth. The warmth of bashfulness creeps down your neck and you swat his hand away, rolling your eyes.
“Whatever. It’s my shirt so I can.” You deflect, holding your head high as best you can.
“Oh, is it?” He scoffs, amused. “Last I checked it’s actually-“
“Yep.” You interject. “Now, are you going to clean me up or what?” Glancing down you guide his gaze to follow, reminded of the fact that your clothes are still hanging around your knees where he hadn’t pulled them up all the way. He grits his teeth, almost remorseful as he shakes his head.
Clark helps you down from the counter, socked feet back on the cold tile, and pulls your pyjama pants up the rest of the way. He squeezes your hips as he shuffles the waistband into place with a snap of elastic.
“Sorry, sweetheart.” He starts apologetically. “But it’s like I said before, you’ll have to clean the counter. I’ve got to hurry and shower before work.” He rushes out, kissing your forehead and already starting to turn on his heel, headed for the bathroom.
“But I thought you already showered this morning?” You hurry to reply, features screwed up in confusion. But he’s already halfway across the living space by the time you finish your sentence.
“Hm?” He calls back. “Sorry, I said I have to hurry and shower!” There’s an urgency in his tone all of a sudden as he looks at the clock behind you, his actions all a bit frenzied.
“But you already-!”
“Shower!”
As he pushes the door open with his back you see him fumble with his belt, large hands struggling to slacken it as he pulls it looser by two notches, disappearing behind the bathroom door.
“So not subtle, Clark.” You smile.
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i do not give permission for my work to be copied, translated, fed to ai, or reposted. if you see my works posted somewhere other than here or my ao3 please let me know, thank you.
I am reaching out on behalf of my dear friend, Mohamad S., who is facing one of the most challenging times of his life. Mohamad is 37 years old and left his homeland in 2015 in search of a safer and better future. He’s a kind, hardworking man, and his small family has always been his greatest priority.
Living abroad, Mohamad has recently endured unimaginable loss and financial strain. Amidst the ongoing conflict in his homeland, his mother passed away, leaving behind his sister and her five young children—the last remaining members of his immediate family.
As the situation worsened, Mohamad managed to help his sister and her children escape to safety in Egypt, covering their immediate needs and securing a temporary refuge for them. Since then, he has been fully responsible for providing everything they need to survive during this transition.
In his efforts to support his family and cope with this devastating loss, Mohamad has found himself deeply in debt. To make matters even more difficult, he recently underwent knee surgery, which limits his ability to return to work for the foreseeable future. This has made it even harder for him to manage his financial responsibilities and the pressing need to provide his family with a stable future.
Mohamad is now working to bring his sister and her five children to join him in Belgium, where he hopes they can find stability and opportunity after all they’ve endured. This transition, however, requires significant resources that he is currently unable to meet alone.
For privacy reasons, we are not sharing Mohamad’s full name, as he has chosen to keep his identity discreet. While he initially refused the idea of asking for help, I couldn’t stand by and watch him struggle alone. I insisted on doing this for him because he deserves a chance to overcome these challenges.
Your contribution will help Mohamad repay the debt incurred during this difficult time, cover ongoing living expenses for his family, and assist with the costs involved in bringing them safely to Belgium.
Mohamad has been a good friend of mine for years, and I’ve always admired his resilience and generosity. Any support, no matter the size, will make an incredible difference in helping Mohamad and his family rebuild their lives after these painful experiences.
Thank you for reading his story and considering helping a man who has always done everything he can for his loved ones.
Adam
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I am reaching out on behalf of my dear friend, Mohamad S., who is faci… Adam Bin Ali needs your support for Help Mohamad reunite his family
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