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Bitten

Fandom: Superman (James Gunn/DCU) Pairing: Clark Kent x Reader POV: Clark Kent’s perspective Rating: 🔥 (18+) idk what this is. clark neck-biting brainrot. it attacked me. this may never happen again (unless it does) Tags: soft!dom Clark, respectful thirst, neck biting, desperate!Clark, flustered and trying not to beg, lap sitting, tension-filled intimacy, emotional restraint breaking Summary: Clark Kent is trying—really trying—to be good. Respectful. In control. But when you end up straddling his lap and teasing him with slow, deliberate bites to his neck, his carefully constructed restraint begins to crack. Told from Clark’s POV, Bitten dives into the quiet chaos of desire he tries so hard to suppress… until he just can’t. There’s whimpering. There’s whisper-begging. There’s him barely holding it together while you unravel him one kiss at a time.

He had you in his lap.

Somehow.

Some terrible, beautiful accident of timing and weak self-control.

He meant to just hold you. Meant to let you sit there for a minute while you talked, while your fingers traced patterns over his shoulders, while your thighs settled across his hips and—

Focus, Kent. Focus. You’re not even kissing. You’re just… existing very close together.

And then you shifted.

Just slightly. Leaned in.

He thought you were going to kiss his cheek.

Instead?

Your lips brushed his neck.

He stiffened.

Okay. Okay. That’s fine. That’s—oh stars above—

You did it again. Slower this time.

Then—God help him—you bit.

Not hard. Not really. Just enough to send a lightning bolt straight down his spine and right to where his belt suddenly felt too tight.

“Mm—” he grunted, trying to keep it in.

You leaned back, eyes curious, smug. “You okay?”

He looked at you with panic disguised as polite confusion. “Mhm. Yep. Totally normal behavior. Just… reacting to temperature shifts.”

“Interesting,” you said, grinning. “Because you’re burning up.”

“I run warm.”

“Clark.”

“...Don’t do it again.”

But you did.

Right beneath his ear this time.

He whimpered.

You actually heard him whimper.

And then he was grabbing your hips—tight, like he needed to ground himself—and breathing hard.

“Please,” he muttered. “That’s not fair.”

You tilted your head. “What’s not fair?”

“You doing that. And expecting me to stay good.”

You bit him again. Lower.

He shivered.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” he half-gasped, voice trembling, lips brushing your shoulder like a prayer. “I’m trying. I’m really trying.”

His hands were shaking.

“Clark…”

He looked up at you, pupils blown, hair mussed from where you’d run your fingers through it.

“If you bite me again,” he whispered, voice broken with need, “I’m not gonna be able to stop.”

You kissed the spot you’d just marked. “Maybe I don’t want you to.”

He groaned. Whined, really. Buried his face in your shoulder and just held you.

“Please,” he said, barely audible. “Please don’t do that unless you’re ready.”

You softened.

Because under the begging and the shaking and the wrecked little sounds, he was still Clark. Still gentle. Still scared to lose himself with you.

So you kissed his forehead.

“I’m ready,” you said.

And that was it.

He broke.

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