In which Jason’s time with his favorite person is interrupted ☆*:・ﾟ
You’re giggling at something Jason’s said, when he suddenly grabs your shoulder and steers you away from the book store window. Jason, for all his abruptness, is gentle as he guides you down the sidewalk. The coffee you cradle in your right hand thankfully hasn’t spilled all over the place.
“Jay? You question as he keeps up his speed, forcing you to catch up. “I thought you wanted to go-”
“Nah, I’m okay. Let’s try the new place you’ve been wanting- the one with the really good Mac and cheese.” Jason assures.
You frown. You’ve gotten use to sudden changes when it comes to Jason. Sometimes it’s having to cancel a date at the last minute or calling you at far too late in the night to ask if you’ve got a first aid kit because he just cut himself pretty bad and ran out of bandages. You’ve never seen someone cut themself so deep while cooking before, but you guess Jason’s late night cravings came back to bite him.
“Are you sure? We can-”
“Jay!”
Your boyfriend halts and you do too, clutching your cup with just enough pressure to keep it steady. Jason’s eyebrows furrow together and he pinches his nose bridge and then he turns.
When you turn to look, the man calling Jason’s name is extremely tall and built. He has these striking deep blue eyes that remind of the ocean during a storm. And next to him is a boy, who must be no older than ten, is holding a book wrapped in packing paper with the fiercest gaze you have ever seen. The look reminds you of Jason after he comes home from work, complaining about his coworker who won’t let him take the lead on their new project.
The man starts to walk forward, and Jason meets him half way, until all of you are seeking shelter from the burning sun under a cafe umbrella.
Your eyes shift from your boyfriend to this stranger, who has this wiry grin on his face, like this is the funniest thing he’s seen all year.
You look down at the little boy. He looks right back at you. You look away.
“Jason, how funny seeing you here. Who’s this?” The man asks.
“Just a friend,” You say, sensing your partner’s discomfort. You know how Jason enjoys his privacy, and if he doesn’t want this person to know, then he doesn’t want them to know.
Jason shots you a grateful look. “This is Dick, and that’s Damian.
“Oh!” You smiled. The first name you recognized. “You’re Jason’s coworker.”
Dick’s eyes light up as he smiles. “Yep. So fortunate that us brothers get to work together. I was thrilled with my little brother decided to join me and my father. He’s a great addition.”
“Jay you didn’t tell me you worked with family.” You chuckle nervously.
“I didn’t? Must have forgotten to mention it.”
Dick’s smile never dims for one second. “Headed to that new restaurant? We’ll join, Damian needs a snack break.”
Damian frowns and shoves off Dick’s attempt to ruffle his hair.
“Sure!” You blurt out nervously. You had prepped for all the things you might say when you meet Jason’s family, and impulsively agreed.
You boyfriend sighs next to you.
☆*:・ﾟ
Y’all no joke the Red Robin Mac and cheese is banger. Feel free to request anything!! :)
Damian Wayne who has a massive crush on !Oblivious Supes! Reader hanging tons of mistletoe around wayne manor to nudge you to it every time you and him hang out
*cue you both standing underneath the mistletoe*
Reader: "What's with all this mistletoe? It's so cool!"
Damian: "I hear it is a tradition to kiss the person beneath it."
Reader: "That's amazing. There's probably research on it! *proceeds to walk away to the library*
Okay, I wanted to ask if you can make a smut about Clark crowding reader in the shower sliding door pinned up face and chest against the shower door while he towers over reader after a long day patrolling needs to relieve some stress after Lex pissed him off and reader is a doctor that also is stressed and they both need some stress relief that night. (She knows he’s Superman) he almost breaks the shower door which is glass. Pretty please 🫶🏾☺️☺️☺️☺️
You left your keys on the small dining table, and the metallic sound echoed in the silence of the dark house. No lights were on, which immediately told you that Clark wasn’t home. “He probably went out on patrol,” you thought, as you set your bag on the nearest chair and massaged your neck, sore after so many hours at the hospital.
That day hadn’t exactly been one of the best. The hallways felt endless, the shifts heavy, and the urgent calls seemed never-ending. Intensive therapies, surgeries, consultations… all at the same time. Sometimes you wondered how it was even possible that your life was tied to someone like Clark Kent, a man so different from your chaotic, restless routine. Many acquaintances had questioned it too: how had you managed something so steady with someone like him? And though there was truth in that doubt, the answer lay in a secret only you shared.
You never would have met Clark if it hadn’t been for the fact that, behind those glasses and that shy smile, Superman was hiding. You had crossed paths with him because every time an injured person arrived after a catastrophe, he was the one who brought them into your unit, and you were the one who treated them. That strange dynamic became routine: he appeared asking about the patients, you answered with exhaustion but calm, and he always came back. Sometimes he even pretended to have cut his finger just to talk to you, and you would catch him when the supposed “cut” had already healed. The blush on his cheeks gave him away. That was when he finally dared to ask you out—not as Superman, but as Clark—and you accepted during one of your rare free moments. From there, the two of you carved out time until you eventually moved in together.
Life between you didn’t change much after sharing a home. Clark remained spontaneous: planning last-minute dates because both of you knew neither could arrange anything far in advance. He had to fly out to save someone, and you could be called urgently to the hospital at any moment. Your schedules rarely matched, but all you needed was to end the day together in the same bed. That certainty was the reason you agreed to live with him: because you wanted to see him not only in fleeting moments but in the everyday, even if they were tired and silent nights.
Clark took his role of taking care of you seriously whenever he could. He always kept the house in order, left dinner ready, and, when possible, picked you up from the hospital. At times, when no one was watching, he would lift you into his arms and soar through the night sky just so you could get home sooner. Still, there wasn’t always time for that, and you often had to return the normal way, exhausted but comforted by the knowledge that he was waiting for you.
You opened the fridge and saw a note pinned with a magnet: “On patrol, back soon. Dinner prepared on the stove. Don’t eat cold food :)” A smile slipped from you without thought. Clark loved leaving notes, and he had managed to turn that habit into an almost unbreakable rule in your home: the two of you left short messages for each other, like little bridges during the times routine kept you apart.
You followed his instructions. Heated up dinner, ate in silence, and then brushed your teeth. After tidying the kitchen a bit, you allowed yourself the luxury of taking advantage of your early arrival and went to shower.
The bathroom was always your refuge, the place where you could disconnect from the hospital noise, from the pain that clung to your skin after witnessing so much suffering. You undressed slowly, letting your clothes fall into the laundry bag. You turned on the shower and waited for the water to reach the right temperature. Steam began to fill the room, fogging up the mirror, and you closed your eyes, letting the water pressure wash away some of the weight pressing on your shoulders.
Clark arrived some time later, still in his suit. As soon as he opened the window, the first thing he noticed was the calm of the house: the dim light in the living room, your shoes by the armchair, and on the small desk in the corner, your white coat hastily folded over a chair back and a medical book left open halfway through. He smiled softly at the sight. He had seen it in the morning, closed and neatly placed before heading out on patrol.
“Love, I’m home,” he called gently.
Silence answered him. Clark frowned, stepped forward slowly, pulling off his gloves with a tired gesture. What a week… he had been running everywhere: between the newsroom, the house, a few favors for the League, and chores with Krypto. He felt exhausted—or so he thought, until he saw the bathroom door slightly ajar.
Thick steam escaped from inside, wrapping the hallway in that clean soap scent that always calmed him. He wasn’t a voyeur, nor a depraved man; he was simply a deeply in-love man who had been enduring weeks, two days, and exactly fourteen hours of an intimacy drought imposed by the demands of their exhausting dual lives. The temptation, however, was a magnet against which his firm morality fought weakly.
He approached in silent steps, his breath caught in his chest. The glass of the shower was fogged, creating a veil of mystery for any other eyes. But his, capable of perceiving even the molecular structure of things, slipped effortlessly through the curtain of steam and rested on you.
There you were, enclosed in that cubicle of marble and tiles like a jewel in its case. With your head tilted back, you soaped your hair, and Clark was able to observe, with an intensity that burned him from the inside, the path of the water down the curve of your neck, descending your spine like a silver river that forked at your shoulders to get lost in the secret geography of your back. He saw how a single, rebellious drop slid with agonizing slowness from your collarbone to vanish between your breasts. An absurd and visceral envy ran through his body; what obscene luck that simple drop of water had.
His gaze, hypnotic, then fixed on the bar of soap that slipped from your hands. It first fell onto your shoulder, leaving a foamy trail, and then rolled with a deliberate and cruel slowness to stop at the hardened tip of your nipple. Clark felt his teeth grind. A primitive, animal impulse shot through him like lightning: the irrepressible desire for it to be his lips, and not the soap, caressing that skin. For his hands, large and calloused, to replace that lather, squeezing with both softness and strength at once, feeling you shudder against him, hearing the moan he knew would escape your lips.
His sight descended then, past your waist, and there it found the proof of his damnation. You bent over to pick up the soap, and that perfect, sublime curve of your backside was exposed to him in all its glory. And at the center, that intimate, pink, and tempting place received the direct impact of the water, which slid over the sensitive skin. It was the most erotic image he had ever beheld.
The rebellion that always simmered in the deepest part of his being, that force that made him Superman but which Kal-El domesticated to be Clark Kent, erupted. Sanity shattered. In less than a millisecond, a sigh in time for him, the clothes that constrained him were just a pile of torn fabric at his feet. The shower door was flung wide open with a metallic screech, not from force, but from the speed with which he had pushed it aside.
You straightened up abruptly, startled by the sudden intrusion.
"Clark!" you exclaimed, your voice an echo of astonishment in the steam-padded enclosure. But your gaze didn't seek his. It landed on his bare torso, on the tense, soaked muscles of his arms, assuming he was only joining you for a functional shower, like the one two days ago where exhaustion had reduced you to two beings who soaped each other mechanically before collapsing into bed, without a whisper, without a caress to unite them beyond sleep.
But this time was different.
He approached, and you noticed the almost imperceptible tremor that ran through his body, a vibration of pure contained energy that disturbed the air around him. You stood still, like a lamb unaware of the torrent of lewd thoughts, of viscerally dirty fantasies and burning positions parading through the mind of that god dressed as a man.
With a deliberately slow movement, he placed the soap on the ledge. His voice, when he spoke, was a rough, hoarse version of itself, a sound you found strange and deeply unsettling.
"Let me help you."
The words fell like a rough caress on your skin. He had always been a man of predictable rituals: a soft greeting, a chaste kiss on the forehead, a respectful distance. But that night, something in your posture, in your stillness, had shattered that fragile balance.
As you turned, the reality of the moment hit you with brutal force. The firm, familiar pressure of his member, already in a state of total arousal, pressed against the curve of your backside. An involuntary shiver ran down your spine, but the words died in your throat, drowned out by the silent roar of your own pulse.
His hands, now smeared with the lather that once covered the bar of soap, began a meticulous and torturously slow journey across the geography of your body. The lather slid over your shoulders, your back, in a mockery of cleaning that was anything but innocent.
Nothing alarming happened, until his fingers, laden with foam, slipped under the curve of your breasts, encircling their contour with a pressure that was both firm and reverent. A deep sigh, mingling with the sound of the water. He repeated the action on the other breast, and it was then that you realized the soap had been completely abandoned. His palms, now free, settled again on your skin, massaging the underside of your breasts with an intention that could no longer be disguised.
His body pressed against your back, and you felt the heat of his breath on your nape, on the damp skin of your neck. His hands ascended with an exasperating slowness, as if fighting against a much more urgent and animal impulse that threatened to overflow. Something strange was happening in him; his proverbial patience was running out, consumed by an internal fire that seemed to devour him.
Finally, his fingers settled on your nipples, which hardened instantly under his touch. It wasn't a caress, but a taking of possession. He pinched and pulled them with a cruel precision that tore a stifled moan from you, a sound lost in the steam.
"God, Clark...", you whispered, and your voice sounded tremulous, vulnerable, while you felt the rhythmic movement of his member pushing between your thighs, rubbing against your most intimate sensitivity without quite penetrating you. The friction of his skin against yours was an exquisite torture.
Your own legs tightened instinctively, seeking more friction, more pressure, and that reaction of yours only fueled his loss of control.
"That's it, pretty girl... squeeze me like that," he murmured against your ear, and his words, so crude, so dirty, elicited another moan from you, longer and more surrendered than the last.
He stopped massaging one breast and his hand descended like a hawk, without hesitation, towards your center. With two expert fingers, he parted your sensitive folds and rubbed the tip of his member against your entrance, playing on the edge of the abyss. The sensation was so intense, so sudden, that your legs almost gave way. You held onto the cold tiled wall, gripping it tightly to avoid falling.
Clark, with a brusque movement, turned off the water. The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by the panting breaths of both of you and the persistent dripping of the showerhead. The steam in the bathroom was so thick it enveloped your bodies like a warm mantle, protecting you from the external cold.
Then, without warning, he drove a finger deep inside you. A stifled cry escaped your lips. Your hands gripped the wall tightly, your head hung forward, and, without any shame, your backside arched backward, seeking more of his penetration, more of that delicious invasion.
"Oh, Clark...", you moaned again, this time with a long, deep whimper, feeling the relentless rhythm of his fingers moving in and out of you.
"That's it, precious," he growled, and the voice came from the depths of his chest. He introduced a third finger, stretching you, filling you in a way that made you see white flashes behind your eyelids.
You moaned so loudly the sound reverberated in the small space, and your vision blurred completely. You raised your face, pressing your forehead and your sensitive breasts against the cold tiled wall as the wave of your orgasm ravaged you with devastating force. Your legs trembled violently, and only your support against the wall and his arm around your waist saved you from collapsing.
Before you could catch your breath, he turned you around. His lips found yours in a desperate, hungry kiss. He lifted you with a strength that stole the air from your lungs, and your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. In one fluid, almost natural motion, he slid inside you. There was no resistance, only a warm, wet familiarity that welcomed him with a guttural moan that escaped you both in unison. It was like coming home. You tried to breathe, you tried to moan, but all you managed was to place a trembling hand on his chest, feeling the frantic pounding of his heart beneath your palm, beating out the wild rhythm of your union.
"Clark…" you murmured, and the sound of his name was lost in the steam of the shower, drowned out by the urgency of his lips on yours.
He didn't respond with words, but with a deeper thrust, a movement of his hips that pushed you against the cold tiled wall, wrenching a gasp from you that he captured with his mouth. When he buried his face in the curve of your neck, you inhaled sharply, a choked sob that convulsed in your chest, but the overwhelming sensation of him inside you, filling you, stretching every part of your being, didn't cease for an instant.
"I love it when you squeeze me like that…" he groaned, his voice a rough, guttural rumble against your wet skin, and the rhythm of his hips accelerated brutally, shifting from a sensual cadence to a frantic, pounding pace that shook you to your core. Your arms, weak and trembling like a bird's wings, tangled around his neck, clinging to the mass of tense muscles in his shoulders to keep from falling apart.
"I can… Clark… I… I'm… Ah!" was all you managed to articulate, a series of broken syllables that heralded the cataclysm building within you.
A second orgasm, more violent and deeper than the first, electrocuted you, causing every nerve to explode in a blinding white light. He, far from slowing down, drove into you with renewed strength, prolonging the ecstatic agony to the point where you thought your mind would disconnect from your body. Just as the world completely blurred, you felt him spill into you, a hot torrent that marked you from within.
A deep sigh escaped your lips, believing in a truce, but then his hand, large and rough, settled on the curve of your buttock with an almost painful squeeze. He only ever did that when he needed it viscerally, when desire consumed him entirely. He gripped your flesh and, to your astonishment, moved again. He didn't pull out of you; only the excess of his white seed escaped, mixing with the water running down your thighs. But his member, still hard and throbbing inside you, resumed its movement, this time with a deliberate, torturous slowness.
He lowered you from the wall with an exquisite slowness, and your eyes, clouded with pleasure and steam, met his. You read in that blue gaze all the distance you had traveled and all the time you had missed each other. You rose onto your tiptoes to reach his mouth in a tender kiss, while your hand slipped between you and wrapped trembling fingers around the base of his erection, still inside you, feeling the texture of his burning skin. That simple touch, that intimate caress, was the spark. You drove him wild. You knew it, and a low, teasing laugh vibrated in your throat. He felt it against his lips.
You pulled away just a few centimeters, and he looked at you dazed, with an expression of disbelief and pure desire. Were you going to leave him wanting? No. Not at all. You would both lose if that happened. Even though your body still throbbed, soaked and shuddering from the recent orgasm, a new, deeper desire rose within you.
You wanted him to destroy you, to push you to the limit until sleep overtook you for hours, knowing the next day was for rest. You turned and pressed yourself against the shower glass, a clash of temperatures that made you shiver. Your breasts flattened against the cold, wet surface, and your nipples hardened instantly. You arched your back, presenting your backside to him, an obscene and deliberate invitation.
You looked at him over your shoulder, watching as his dark eyes, heavy with lust, traveled over your body: the curve of your ass, your sex still swollen and stained with the proof of your union, and finally, your eyes.
"Come on, Clark, fuck me," you whispered in a hoarse voice that didn't sound like your own.
It was enough. The rope of his control snapped. He thrust into you with a primal force, not giving you time to even breathe. You only managed to open your mouth in a silent moan that finally erupted into an echo. Your parted lips moved soundlessly against the fogged-up glass.
The thrust was so fierce that the shower door shook in its frame, creaking with the force of the impact. You arched your back into a perfect bridge, and he took advantage to grip your hips tightly, his fingers digging into your skin and pulling you even closer to him, eliminating any last bit of space that remained between you.
The cold glass of the window fogged up against your bare breasts, each of Clark's thrusts stamping your skin against the smooth, icy surface. His body, a mass of heat and muscle, held you immobile, trapped between the hardness of the glass and the ferocity of his possession.
"Is that what you want, isn't it? For me to fuck you until you forget your name," he growled in a harsh whisper laden with desire, his hips crashing against yours with a force that reverberated in your bones. One of his hands, large and powerful, mashed one of your breasts against the glass, and the contrast between his scorching palm and the cold of the window made you shudder.
"Yes…" you managed to exhale, breathless, your voice broken by a stifled moan. Your forehead rubbed against the fogged glass, drawing wet, invisible circles.
"Tell me, precious," he demanded, sinking deeper into you, as far as your body would allow. "Tell me you love feeling me fill you up with my come, how I mark you from the inside."
His words, loaded with taunt and domination, didn't hide the truth you both shared: a mutual need, a desire that burned equally in your veins. Clark transformed when he was with you; he lost the calculated control he showed the world, but never, not even in his most animal surrender, did he cross the line into harm. His goal was always shared pleasure, the passion that lifted you both up.
"Take it then," he ordered, and the rhythm of his thrusts became more brutal, more urgent. You felt the pressure of your orgasm building in your belly, a tsunami about to break. "No, precious, not yet," he murmured, and suddenly his hand descended with brutal precision to your clit, pressing it with his fingers with cruel exactness. "Hold on."
A violent tremor shook you. He wasn't prolonging your climax; he was forcing you toward another one, because he wasn't finished yet, and he wouldn't allow you to finish without him.
"Clark!" you screamed when the sensation became so intense your mind seemed to blank out completely. Your legs buckled, and if it hadn't been for his weight on your back, pinning you between his body and the glass, you would have fallen helplessly.
"That's it, precious," he grunted, his eyes closed and his forehead furrowed in concentration. "Like that… like that…"
A long, trembling moan escaped your lips. Your hands, pressed against the glass, vibrated. And then, he accelerated; a rhythm so frantic the glass resonated with a dull thud behind you. You, in turn, came apart again, your eyes rolling back. He spilled inside you with a rough, deep groan that seemed to come from the darkest part of his chest.
For a long minute, only the synchronized gasping of your breaths was heard. He slowly pulled out of you, and the warm liquid from both of you trickled down your thighs, forming small white and transparent bubbles in its descent. It had been so intense he had left more than usual. You closed your eyes, exhausted, but then his firm hands took you by the waist and turned you toward him.
The contrast was almost shocking: the same strength that had moments ago pinned you against the glass now enveloped you in a protective embrace, snuggling you against his sweaty chest. His lips, soft now, landed on your forehead in a series of small, calm kisses.
"Hello, darling," he murmured against your skin, his voice hoarse but sweet, tinged with affection.
"Hello," you whispered, burying your face in his neck, with no intention of ever letting go.
There it was. His greeting after everything. The peace after the storm.
Clark turned on the shower faucet, and warm water fell over both of you, covering you like a veil. He guided you under the water gently, and together you let yourselves be enveloped by the heat that soothed your tense muscles and washed away the sweat and the traces of your passion. There were no further intentions that time; just the water running over your skins, cleansing, calming, soothing.
He noticed your legs were still trembling slightly, a physical residue of the ecstasy that had consumed you both. Without a word, he wrapped an arm firmly around your waist, holding you against him, making sure you wouldn't buckle. He remained like that, chest against your back, until the last of the tremors ceased and the water began to cool. Only then, with slow and considerate movements, did he turn off the faucet.
The silence was broken by your deep sigh, one of exhaustion and utter fullness. Then, as you both turned, you saw it at the same time: the large fracture in the shower glass. A spiderweb of cracks radiated from the center, right at the height where your back had been pressed with such immense force. The glass had, miraculously, stayed in place.
Clark went completely still, staring at the evidence of his loss of control. An intense blush crept up from his neck to his ears, a wave of shame mixed with a delayed fear that clouded his gaze for a moment. You, on the other hand, let out a low, complicit laugh, a sound of pure relief at the danger that had been averted.
"Oh, honey…" you said, with a hint of tender mockery. You ran your hand over his back, feeling the muscles still tense under your palm. "I think we need to be a little more careful."
"I will be," he murmured, his voice deeper than usual. His gaze remained fixed on the cracks, as if he were visualizing the damage he could have inflicted on you. "I promise. I don't know what I would have done if… if I had hurt you."
"But you didn't," you whispered, gently turning him towards you so he would look at you. "I'm fine. We're fine."
You stepped out of the shower and dried off with plush towels. The room filled with the tranquility of mundane rituals: putting on pajamas, brushing hair. When your hair was finally dry, Clark gathered you back into his arms, opening up like a sanctuary. You sank into his chest, and he began to caress your back with a hypnotic slowness, as if memorizing every vertebra, every inch of your healthy, intact skin.
"Tomorrow, I'll replace the glass," he declared in a murmur against your hair. "I don't even want to think about you getting cut."
A smile touched your lips without you needing to look at him.
"That didn't seem so important a little while ago, when you couldn't stop groping my ass against that very same glass," you said, chuckling under your breath as you felt his body instantly tense up with embarrassment.
You looked up to meet his eyes. His cheeks were flushed a deep red, and the contrast between the man who had been dominating you with such ferocity minutes before and the one now blushing like a teenager struck you as profoundly endearing.
"Don't say that," he protested, trying to frown, but the effect was ruined by how flustered he was.
"What? That I can't get out of my mind when you told me you'd squeeze me until…?"
The sentence was cut short because he silenced you with a kiss. It wasn't a kiss of overwhelming passion, but a deep, slow, and deliberate one, as if he wanted to erase every one of your words with the taste of his mouth. When he finally pulled away, he continued with a shower of softer kisses: on the corner of your lips, on your cheeks, on the tip of your nose, on your eyelids. Each one was an apology, a promise, and a desperate attempt to get you to stop embarrassing him.
In the end, you both fell silent, wrapped in the calm of the bedroom. The embrace was so warm and the night so serene that you fell asleep almost instantly, your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
He stayed awake a while longer, stroking your hair in the dim light, staring at the crack in the bathroom door visible from the bed. He thought about how lucky they had been. And he promised himself, with ironclad determination, that never, not even in the throes of the blindest lust, would he ever put you at risk again. Your safety, your well-being, would always come first. Before, during, and after the ecstasy.
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This work is mine. Copying or translating this fic is strictly prohibited. Any issue must be notified directly to me. Thank you.
