Info - smut, handjob, teasing, slightly subby Clark Kent, sight fem dom, degrading and praise, public handjob, humiliation kink, reader knows Clark is superman
I could tell from the look on his face that he hadn’t had a good day. His curls were dishevelled from his large hands running through them too many times. The strong expanse of his jaw was set, and I could practically hear the grinding of teeth.
The subway began to move, and I moved subtly. Metropolis trained you to be one with the jerking of public transportation.
I was glad he hadn’t noticed me and ruined all the fun. However, he had picked a perfect spot just behind a waist tall barrier. He was idly reading the Daily Planet, probably perusing the stories he already knew by heart as a way to steady his nerves.
He let out a noise like he’d been hit when I plopped down on him. I knew it hadn’t really hurt him. I liked what he immediately began to say before recognising me.
“I have a girlfriend-“
He stopped himself as I smirked down at him. I watched as he gulped, his Adams apple bobbing deliciously.
“Yeah? Have you now? One you haven’t texted all day?” I demanded. His eyes shifted to the side. When they focus back on me I recognised how he’d made them soft in an effort to gain forgiveness.
“Gosh, I’m sorry. I was putting out fires all day. Not literal fires, I mean at the daily planet, with Lois and Jimmy being out I - ohhhhhh!”
I ground down against his trouser covered crotch. Cocking my head, I stuck out my bottom lip to mock him.
“Had such a bad day Clarky?” I asked him.
“Y-yes,” he stuttered. “But I still should have texted you more.”
I’d asked him several opinions on a novel I was currently working on. Though he enjoyed his journalism and I my romantic fantasy, writing was something we bonded over. Usually, I could trust him to always get back to me extremely quickly about this sort of thing.
“Yeah, you should’ve,” I nodded. I pulled my coat open a bit more to reveal my tiny skirt and tight top. His eyes bugged out of his head and I watched a smile form.
“Good thing,” I hummed, lifting the skirt, showing him now that I wore no panties. He gasped. “I know how to fix bad days.”
“Y-yeah?” He asked. One of his large hands finally reached out to steady me on his lap. He’d keep me situated right where he wanted me no matter how the train lurched.
“Yeah, I do,” I told him. My slick, naked core was rubbing slowly up and down the front rise of his slacks. He sucked in a breath. His blue orbs stayed glued to what my pussy was doing.
“Wh-what, what would that be?” He murmured. Trying to get me to say some of his trigger words in this tone he loved.
“A good milking,” I whispered. His head fell back, eyes fluttering shut in bliss. I gyrated my hips more and began to kiss his neck sloppily.
“Here?” He nearly squeaked. His head had lifted back up and he was looking around.
“Yeah baby, right here,” I smiled. “A little punishment with your pleasure.”
“B-but what if people s-see?” He whined. The car jolted, pushing me down onto his hard length. His groan was guttural, and his eyes heavy lidded.
“Would that bother you?” I asked, my lips near his ear. My hand slowly unzipped his pants. I reached down inside to feel the hard and heavy length of him.
“Oh GOSH!” He hissed.
“You didn’t answer me. Would it bother you if people saw you getting milked in public?” I teased.
“Ma’am?” He asked, eyes looking at me needily.
“I bet you wouldn’t mind. Just like you didn’t mind leaving me on read today.”
I was stroking him now. Up and down his shaft my hand moved. He looked like he was fighting intoxication. His hair was a mess, cheeks and lips pink, and those eyes were swimming with the most desperation I’d ever seen. He was beautiful.
“I’m s-sorry baby,” he whimpered, writhing slightly in his seat.
“You know what people probably think right now?” I asked devilishly. “They probably think I’m whipped. They probably think I’m such a weak, needy slut who just had to hop on your lap. What would they think if they knew it was the other way round hmmm?”
I reached in and fully took out his dick now. It was oozing gobs of precum all over my hand. His meaty shaft and balls were swollen and pulsating with need. I chuckled at his predicament and he bit his bottom lip so hard he nearly drew blood.
“Oh my, oh gosh, oh, oh,” he was gasping, large chest heaving.
“That truly it’s superman who is the whore who lets me take his cock out anywhere. How would it feel if people knew you have the strength to throw me off you, but you let me do these things to you because you’re a pervert.”
“Oh my word. Baby, you’re going to kill me. I swear,” he was moaning like I was kryptonite.
I leaned in to kiss him. His lips were greedy. I continued to pump his thick, leaking cock as he sucked on my tongue. My other hand went into his hair and when I pulled he whined.
“You’re just a disgusting little freak aren’t you?” I asked him.
“Yes, oh, yes, say that again,” he pleaded. I smirked at him.
“My pervert, who likes his little dick milked,” I murmured. His eyes rolled back in his head as his cock throbbed hard.
Sometimes he liked this. We both knew in height, and in length he was anything but small. However, on bad days, when he didn’t want to be SO important, he wanted this treatment.
“Baby, I’m gonna,” he gulped, and then let out an exhale. “I think I’m going to-“
“Oh Clark, right here? On the subway?” I tutted.
“Can’t, help, it,” he panted. His eyes were wild like an animal’s. I couldn’t deny the pleasure I got from this.
“Awww, and you wore a sweater vest over your shirt too. All that cum will show up so well now. If you’d just stuck to the regular white button up it wouldn’t,” I mocked.
“Please, can’t hold it,” he whined.
“You’re going to look so pretty with the mess I made you make all over yourself,” I giggled.
“Y-you’re really gonna make me?” He squeaked. “Right here?”
“I don’t hear any perverts asking me to stop,” I shrugged, and sped up my hand.
Calling him that again made him buck his hips up. He wanted this bad. It was adorable to watch.
“Say you like it,” I goaded.
“I like it,” he obeyed.
“Say you wanna cum,” I instructed.
“I want to!”
“No,” I purred, pressing my other hand to his throat. His eyes went wide behind his thick rimmed glasses.
“Say what you want me to make you do,” I demanded softly.
He was completely at my mercy. His cheeks were tomato red as I slowed my hand to give him a warning. This kicked him into high gear.
“Cum, I want you to make me cum alright?” He spluttered out with a ridiculously embarrassed look on his face.
“That’s it,” I cooed. “Good boy.”
It was these last two words that sent him over the edge. His cock began to pump out rope after rope of hot gooey essence. I aimed it so that it did indeed land on his chest. One powerful splurt even hit his glasses. He was too far lost in the lust and pleasure to give a damn.
He was a masterpiece that I sat back to admire. His lips and glasses were dripping in gooey sperm. His eyes were watering and his lips were swollen. Cum painted his sweater vest in stripes. His cock lay in his lap, softening, but still gorgeous. An utter mess, all by my hand.
“I think this is our stop baby,” I chuckled as I kissed his salty lips.
genre: comfort, comedy, domestic softness, emotional release, slice of life
warnings: crying, emotional, mild humor
synopsis: everything that could go wrong does—from bumping your head to dropping your strawberries. by the time you make it home, you’re ready to fall apart and cry in sanemi’s arms
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the day had wrung you out like a wet rag. it started stupid, almost laughable if you weren’t the one living it. you woke up with a start when, in the middle of your sleep, you somehow rolled too close to the wall and smacked your forehead right against it.
the dull thud jolted you awake instantly, and you laid there for a moment clutching the sore spot, groaning quietly to yourself. it wasn’t the type of pain that lingered, but it was sharp enough to set the tone for the rest of the day.
then, while you were brushing your teeth, disaster struck again. you were half-asleep, moving around the room lazily with your toothbrush in your mouth, when your little toe caught the edge of the dresser leg. you stumbled forward, biting down hard on the toothbrush to stifle the scream that wanted to rip out of you.
hopping on one foot, eyes watering, you cursed under your breath, brushing hurriedly as though finishing faster would erase the sting. your toe throbbed with every step afterward, a dull reminder that the day was already working against you.
breakfast didn’t save you either. you had your heart set on an omelet—fluffy, warm, the kind you could fold over with vegetables and cheese melting inside. your stomach practically growled at the thought.
but when you reached for the carton of eggs, you realized with horror there were none left. the kitchen felt too quiet, too cruel in that moment. you stood there, clutching the empty carton as if it had betrayed you, your frustration weighing heavier than it should. all you wanted was an omelet.
so you decided to go into town to replace what you needed. but halfway down the street, the thin strap of your sandal gave way, snapping loose with a pathetic little pop. you stopped dead in your tracks, staring down at your broken footwear. people walked by, some glancing curiously while you bent awkwardly, trying to hold the strap together with your fingers so you wouldn’t have to limp the rest of the way. each step was humiliating, your foot half-slipping out of the sandal with every move.
you thought maybe things would get better once you reached the market, but the universe wasn’t finished mocking you yet. the strawberries you picked out so carefully, choosing only the ripest and reddest ones, didn’t even make it home. the paper bag tore before you could react, and the fruit spilled out, tumbling across the dusty ground. you scrambled to grab what you could, but most of them rolled too far, crushed beneath careless footsteps. you sat back on your heels, staring at the ruined berries, a lump building in your throat.
then, as if to twist the knife, you heard laughter. not mean-spirited, not directed at you on purpose, but close enough that it echoed in your ears. a group of girls nearby giggled at something between them, though the timing made it feel like they were laughing at your pathetic attempt to gather squashed strawberries from the dirt. your cheeks burned hot, and you ducked your head, too embarrassed to even look their way.
by the time you made it back home, you were barely holding yourself together. every little thing from the morning to the trip into town clung to you like a weight.
sanemi was waiting when you walked through the door, leaning against the frame casually. his eyes sharpened immediately when he saw your expression, scanning you as though he could read the entire day in the slump of your shoulders. “hey. you okay?”
that was it. those two words broke whatever dam you had left.
you crumbled against his chest, burying your face into him as sobs tore out, messy and unrestrained. “no—no, i’m not okay!” you choked out, fists clinging to the fabric of his haori. your whole body trembled with the effort of holding in what now spilled uncontrollably.
he stiffened for only a moment before his arms came around you, one hand firm against your back, the other cradling the back of your head. “what the hell happened?” his voice was gruff, but there was no edge in it—just urgency.
you hiccupped, words spilling out all at once. “i hit my head on the wall this morning in my sleep, then i stubbed my toe while brushing my teeth, and i was gonna make an omelet, i wanted it so bad, but i didn’t even have eggs left! so i went into town, but my sandals burst in the middle of the street, and everyone saw—and then i dropped the strawberries i bought and they rolled everywhere and people stepped on them—and this group of girls was laughing at me, and i—”
you gasped for air, voice cracking as fresh tears ran down your cheeks. “—i just had the worst day, and i’m sorry, sanemi, i’m sorry for even crying about this because i know it’s stupid, i know you go through more in a single day than i could in a whole year, and i shouldn’t even bother you with this—”
“hey. shut up.”
you blinked against his chest, startled by the bluntness.
he pulled back just enough to look at you, his scarred face serious, eyes narrowed not in anger but in something firmer. “don’t ever say sorry for coming to me with this crap. i don’t care if it’s strawberries or sandals or your damn omelet. you had a shitty day, so you tell me. got it?”
your lips trembled. “but… it’s so trivial compared to—”
“no,” he cut you off, his tone harsh but his thumb wiping a tear from your cheek gentler than anything. “don’t do that. don’t compare your pain to mine. yours is yours, mine is mine. i don’t want you swallowing this stuff just ‘cause you think it’s small.”
you stared up at him, chest tight, words trapped in your throat.
sanemi let out a long breath, pressing his forehead briefly against yours, grounding you. “i’d rather you cry in my chest over broken sandals than pretend you’re fine and rot inside. so stop apologizing.”
your tears started up again, but softer this time, not from frustration but from the release of finally being heard. you clung tighter to him, nodding against his shirt.
“okay,” you whispered.
his hand rubbed slow circles on your back. “good girl,” he muttered, voice low, almost reluctant, but the warmth in his touch betrayed him. “now, c’mon. we’ll fix your sandals later. and i’ll get you your damn omelet.”
you let out a shaky laugh, muffled against his chest. “you don’t even like omelets.”
“i don’t have to like ‘em,” he said, guiding you toward the futon with his arm tight around you. “i just have to make sure you get what you want.”
and sitting there with him, your face still pressed against his chest, you realized sanemi shinazugawa wasn’t just the man who fought demons all day—he was also the man who’d fight the world itself if it ever tried to laugh at you again.
