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The bass rattles the floor of the club.
The kind that crawls up through your heels and lodges itself in the empty space behind your ribs, syncing your heartbeat to the rhythm.
Metropolis at night is loud and gaudy, an endless rush of neon and smoke and crowded sidewalks.
The club is no different—light slicing in different pinks and purples, fog machines hissing, bodies colliding like waves on the dance floor. The air taste like liquor and perfume and every inch of the building is saturated with a syrupy heat.
Lois is the one who suggested it, leaning over your desk after you shot her down for the third time and carefully reminding you that ladies drink for free at Supernova on Thursdays.
That was all the convincing you needed to put the positively dull city council piece Perry had you dredging up on the back burner.
Cat and Jimmy jumped on the chance to get a little too wasted on a work day. And you couldn't even remember the last time you really let loose and had a little fun, not until Lois dragged you into the back of a cab after work and told you to stop being a coward.
And Clark?
Well, Clark came because you asked him to.
That's how it always is—one tug at his sleeve, one sweet smile, and he follows.
Now, you're well into your third drink and laughing as Lois' hands grip your wrists and pull you deeper into the current of swaying bodies.
Clark is at the bar.
He sticks out just like he always does in places like this—too tall, too broad, dressed in clothes that don't belong under strobe lights. He's the only one not drinking, the beer he ordered almost twenty minutes ago is steadily sweating in one big hand and still completely full.
You already tried to get him on the dance floor, tugging on his hand until he relented with that shy smile that curved at the corner of his mouth.
The thing about Clark, is that he never lets go of himself easily. Even with the music pulling at you both, even with your body pressed up against his, he held back—polite distance, careful hands.
A complete gentleman through and through. It was sweet, almost unbearably so, but not what your bloodstream is buzzing for tonight.
So you left him at the edge of the crowd with Jimmy, and found Lois. Lois, who doesn't do anything halfway. Lois, who knows just how to take your hand and whirl the two of you into something shameless. Her sharp laughter cuts through the pulse of music as she tugs you closer.
It's harmless, just a little dirty dancing among friends. But Lois moves like she writes—sharp, fearless, a little reckless.
It doesn't stay harmless for long.
Her hands are at your waist, her lips grazing the shell of your ear as she leans in to shout something you quite can't hear over the music. You feel yourself flush, lips stretched into a wide grin as you arch into her just to keep up with the rhythm. The crowd closes in around you on all sides, neon strobes across her face and she looks like sin wrapped in silk.
You’re too caught up in it—Lois’ hair brushing your sweaty cheek as the beat thrums beneath your skin. Your hips roll back against hers in time with the pounding drop of the bass, laughter catching on your tongue, your hands reaching back to slide down the curve of her sides.
The two of you move like you’ve done this a hundred times before—like you know how to tempt an audience, even if the audience is one polite farm boy from Kansas trying his damnedest not to stare too hard.
Trying and failing spectacularly.
You glance over your shoulder once, just to check if your theory is right, if he's watching.
He is. God, he is.
Those bright blue eyes keep darting back to you like moths to a flame. His jaw ticks each time you sway your hips, and his ears are going pink at the very tips—a telltale sign even in the flickering dark.
You know that look. You've seen in before, countless times. When you lean in too close over his shoulder to steal a pencil off his desk and your shirt dips just low enough to show off the lacy edge of your bra in a way makes him forget how to type for good thirty seconds.
This is different. This look is something more than hungry.
He knows you're doing this on purpose. That only makes it all the more fun.
Lois notices too, of course she does. The corner of her mouth curls into a wicked grin as her thumbs slide beneath the waistline of your skirt, her lips brushing against your ear. "He's watching."
You only hum, letting her drag your ass back against her thigh in a way that makes Clark's knuckles whiten on the glass.
It's almost impressive, how long he lasts. How long he tries to be good. Polite. Midwestern. Sitting there pretending the sight of you grinding with Lois isn't clawing something raw out of him.
You can't stop the smug smile that stretches across your face, tipping your head back to rest on Lois' shoulder and rolling your hips in dirty sways as you watch him through half lidded eyes.
Until finally—he isn't sitting anymore.
Clark is up and moving through the crowd with his eyes trained on you and only you.
He doesn't storm over. That isn't him.
He takes his time, like he's debating it the whole way, like he might lose his nerve before he gets to you. But when he does—when that broad chest is right there, blocking out the flashing lights, his hand warm as he gently tugs you out of Lois' grasp—it feels less like an interruption and more like inevitability.
"Mind if I cut in?" Clark's voice is low, pitched down to the bass. A little strained, but still impossibly careful.
"Be my guest." Lois smiles sharply, stepping back with one last pointed look your way before she melts into the crowd.
You're left pressed to Clark' chest, grinning up at him like butter wouldn't melt in your mouth. "Come to sweep me off my feet, Kansas?"
He scoffs gently, the barest hint of one. His hands settle hesitantly on your waist, so high up that you have to fight the urge to laugh. "I think Lois took care of that three songs go."
You catch your bottom lip between your teeth, throwing your arms around his shoulders loosely. "Then I guess you have some competition to beat out."
At first, Clark doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s shy, hesitant, hands still firmly glued to your hips. His gaze flicks down to your mouth, then away, then down again. His body is far too stiff, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, towering over you in that way he never seems to know how to handle.
You have to make the first move.
Sliding closer, you catch his gaze and smile up at him like it's a dare.
It works.
Little by little, the hesitation slips away. Your hips brush, your chest grazes his, and something cracks open. His grip tightens, sliding lower down your waist as he pulls you into him, your body moving against his as the beat crashes over you.
Clark is warm everywhere, too much heat radiating from him, his breath uneven on your hairline when you press against him harder. When your hands drift lazily down his chest, teasing the buttons of his shirt.
The lights pulse, throwing shadows across his unfairly handsome face. Red. Blue. Yellow.
You know exactly what you’re doing when you grind your hips against him harder, feeling his shoulders stiffen, hearing the little breath he lets out like he can’t stop it.
His head dips, mouth grazing your temple as if he means to say something—maybe a warning, maybe a plea—but the words don’t come. Just that shaky little exhale, his fingers digging into your waist like he’s hanging on by a thread.
Warmth pools deep in your belly, slipping down between your legs to wet the thin lace of your panties. Your greedy hands drag slow up the hard plane of muscle hidden under his jacket until you can bury them in those thick curls.
You tug his head closer, making him bend down enough so you can speak directly into his ear. Your glossy lips brush along the shell of his ear, you can feel the shudder that runs through him at the feeling. "Are you hard?"
Your voice is barely above a whisper, but Clark can hear it clear as day. The breathy tone dipping low as heat shoots up your spine with every word.
Clark's hands twitch, his breath catching and stuttering as he screws his eyes shut for a few beats. When he opens them, you gaze up and nearly gasp. The blue is completely gone, swallowed by an inky black like oil slicking the surface of an ocean.
"Yes."
And that's when you decide you've had enough of the dance floor.
You catch his hand, thread your fingers through his, and tug him through the crowd. He follows without a single protest, towering behind you, murmured apologies falling from his lips each time you bump into someone with your impatient haste to get him alone as soon as possible.
It's funny, the way he's so polite even when he's so obviously hard, even when you can feel the tension radiating from every inch of his body.
The bathroom is mercifully empty when you shove the door open, dragging Clark inside and into the only stall before locking it behind you. The bass outside is muffled now, but still there, vibrating heavily through the walls.
"Wait—" Clark's voice chokes out your name as you crowd him, lips mouthing wetly against his neck. His hands fumble like he’s not sure whether to stop you or hold you tighter. “We—we shouldn’t—”
The protest dies in his throat when you sink to your knees.
It's a downright obscene sight.
Clark, shoved into the grimy single stall that's covered in crude graffiti and scrawled messages telling you who to call for a good time, all while being wrapped up in that stuffy polyester suit jacket and neatly pressed khaki slacks. He's still in his goddamn tie and dress shoes for Christ's sake.
His glasses are fogged up, his cheeks flushed a pretty pink. His broad shoulders press tightly against either side of the stall, making him look even bigger than usual.
Your pussy clenches weakly around nothing, arousal swirling deep in your core. You can't wait anymore.
Your fingers are fumbling at his belt before he can work up the nerve to try and stop you. His big hands twitch at his sides, half reaching for you, half pulling back like he can’t quite decide which urge to follow.
The belt gives, the button pops, the zipper peels down inch by inch. His cock is already pressing obscenely against the thin cotton of his boxers, straining with an urgency that makes your mouth water.
There's a wet spot seeping the fabric, you want to tip forward and mouth at it until the next stain drenching the fabric is his own release.
But there's something you want even more, so you waste no time yanking his waistband down.
Clark's cock springs free from the ruined cotton of his boxers and slaps against his stomach with a filthy wet sound, flushed a rosy red at the tip and leaking. Precome shines under the shitty fluorescent lighting, dripping down the thick vein along the side.
You moan before you can stop yourself, lips going slack.
He tries to angle his hips away, tries to bite down on a sound that would betray just how badly he’s throbbing, but your fingers tease along him and he keens, the noise cracking right out of him, high and helpless.
You tsk disapprovingly, wrapping your hand around the base to feel the velvety skin. He's scorching to the touch, fever hot. "Don't get shy on me now, baby." Your voice is sugary sweet, commanding, your fist sliding up in a tight grip. "You're gonna let me play with this big cock, aren't you?"
You tilt your head, breath ghosting over his cock, just to watch him twitch and crumble. Clark's throat bobs hard as he swallows, glasses sliding down his nose.
“Please,” he breathes, so soft you almost miss it over the muffled bass thumping through the walls.
That's another thing about him, he'll always say please. Even when he's on the verge of rutting into your mouth, he'll always ask nicely like the good boy he is.
That's all the permission you need.
......
Clark has never been in such a compromising position.
He doesn’t belong here—he knows it in every cell of his body. Not in this stall, not in this club, not with you kneeling in front of him like this, your eyes shining with liquor and mischief, petting at his cock like you’re born for this, molding him into a shape he doesn’t know how to refuse.
He should stop you. God help him, he should.
But when your eyes flicker up at him, soft and sly under your lashes, Clark’s knees nearly buckle. He swears he can feel the earth tilt on its axis, and his resolve crumble like a house of cards.
“Please,” he breathes before he can stop himself.
Your smile is pure evil, like you know you've won. Like you know Clark could never tell you no.
Clark knows that better than anyone. He knew he was done for the second he stepped inside the club.
Your thumb swipes along the head of his cock and his hands shoot out, gripping the flimsy partition like it might hold him upright. "Jesus."
Clark can't look at you, not if he doesn't want to come before you even get your mouth on him. He stares at the scratched up door above your head, cheeks burning, ears so hot they ache. His cock pulses in your hand, more precome blurting out to drip down the side.
Clark—well, Clark is Superman. He knows what he looks like—he's seen himself enough in the mirror to no that no one should take him, not comfortably.
It was something that always embarrassed him when he was younger, changing in locker rooms, keeping his towel clutched too tight around his hips. He learned to never let anyone see too much, to turn his body into a secret.
Even now, it feels indecent, wrong, this obscene weight in your hand.
And yet—you hold him like he’s not a problem, not a burden, not too much. You hold him like you want him heavy and hot and pulsing against your palm. Like you know exactly what to do with a man like him.
You suck in a sharp breath, and his stomach lurches.
“God,” Clark chokes out, hips jerking when your lips part. You breathe over the head of his cock, wet and hot, and he shudders so hard his knees tremble.
He can’t think. He can’t breathe. His cock throbs, fat beads of precome gathering at the swollen head before they spill down over your fingers. You smear it along his shaft like lube, and the sight of it makes his grip tightening, plastic bowing and creaking under his touch.
“You’re so big, baby.” Your voice is teasing, meant to make him squirm. "So fucking big, you're gonna make my jaw ache."
A whimper claws out of his throat—high, needy, humiliating—and he squeezes his eyes shut. “D-don’t-don’t talk like that-"
And then your mouth is on him.
The heat is searing, your tongue flat as you lick a long stripe from the base to the tip, your lips wrapping around the swollen head and sucking it into your mouth. His eyes snap down to you in time to see your lips wrap greedily around the flushed skin, the curve of your cheek hollowing as you suck.
Clark chokes on his words, his whole body jolts as his hands dig into the partition so he can't sink them into your hair. His head tips back against the wall with a dull thud, a strangled groan ripped from his throat.
Your mouth is obscene around him, wet sounds filling the tiny stall, spit glistening at the corners of your lips. You glance up through your lashes, and the sight is devastating—eyes dark with triumph, mouth stretched wide, throat working as you sink lower, lower, until his tip nudges the soft spot at the back of your throat.
He tries to pull his hips back, too afraid of hurting you, too embarrassed by the pathetic sounds falling from his mouth. But you chase him, swallow around him, drag your nails down the meat of his thighs in warning until his knees almost give.
“You’re—gosh—you’re gonna choke—” Clark's words break apart when you moan around him, the vibration shooting lightning straight to his gut. His cock throbs violently against your tongue, spurting another slick drop of precome down your throat.
You pull back just enough to whisper, lips swollen, spit shining. “I want to.”
Clark sobs, his hands moving before he can stop them. One sinks into your hair, guiding you back down despite himself, despite everything in him that says he should be gentle. The other cups the side of your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek to feel the obscene bulge of his cock filling your mouth.
"You're so beautiful," he breathes, so quietly—more to himself than you. "So pretty like this."
You moan in encouragement, clearly pleased with yourself. Your hands grip either side of his hips, nails digging into the muscle there as you swallow around him. You push and pull, guiding him in and out of your mouth in an obvious invitation.
Clark knows what you want. And he can't give it to you, he can't.
He's already pushing it by even letting himself touch you when he's like this. He can't edge over the line anymore, not when he could hurt you so easily.
Clark squeezes his eyes shut. The stall feels smaller by the second, collapsing in around him. His lungs burn like he’s drowning. He doesn’t know if it’s the heat of your mouth, or the shame of how easily you’ve undone him, or the ache in his cock that threatens to spill right into your throat if you so much as look at him again.
Then you moan, louder this time. Too loud for where you are. A wet, lewd sound vibrating along his shaft, and the edges of his control snap like brittle glass.
His hips rock forward. Just a little, just enough that the head of his cock presses deeper into your throat. His breath catches, a guttural noise ripped right out of his chest as your fingers claw into his skin to hold him there.
“Oh God—oh fuck” His voice cracks, desperate. “I-I can’t—”
Your hands slide to his ass, nails biting as you pull him closer, greedier. He feels you gag around him, feels your throat flutter that much tighter. The sight of you glaring up at him with your mouth full makes his stomach clench, heat shooting down his spine like a live wire. His fragile resolve flies out the window.
He braces his shoulders against the stall, both hands buried in your hair as hips starts fucking aborted little thrusts into the soft heat of your mouth. His voice climbs embarrassingly high when he gasps out, “You’re—oh gosh, you’re gonna kill me—”
You won’t let up. Your spit slicks his cock enough to leave it shining, messy strings dripping down your chin, catching in the hollow of your throat as you bob your head faster. You take him deeper, letting the thick weight of him push against the back of your throat until your eyes water.
Clark whimpers. Whimpers. The sound cracks thin and desperate, breaking apart as he fists your hair harder than he means to, knuckles white. He’s flushed scarlet from throat to hairline, trembling as though he’s the one on his knees.
The pressure in his gut coils tight, unbearable. His balls draw up heavy, aching.
His hips speed up on their own, and the stall rattling around him is starting to grow louder and louder as he chases his release. “I can’t—I’m gonna—” His voice breaks, a whine that sounds nothing like Superman, nothing like the who the world thinks he is.
Now, in this moment, he’s a man unraveling in a bathroom stall with your lips wrapped tight around him.
When you hum around his cock, when you swallow like you’re already inviting his come, Clark shatters.
He spills with a cry, hot and endless, thick ropes of spend flooding your mouth. Biology he can’t control—he tries to stammer an apology, tries to pull back, but you grip him tighter and take it all. His head tips back against the stall again, groaning like he’s being wrecked from the inside out, your throat working frantically to gulp him down.
There’s so much. More than anyone should ever have to take. It dribbles from the corners of your lips, sliding down your chest. Your hand pumps the base greedily until he whines, begging, “Please, baby, please—’s too much—”
You do the cruelest thing of all. You pull back just enough to let his cock fall from your lips and show him your mouth, swollen and wet and full of him, before you swallow it all down in one obscene gulp.
Clark groans—a low, animal sound that claws itself from deep in his chest.
You place one last kiss to the drooling tip, just to hear him gasp, and weakly try to stand on shaky legs.
Clark meets you halfway, his hands impatient as they practically haul you off the ground and drag you to his mouth.
The kiss is filthy. Wet and messy. You moan into his mouth and press your body into his as hard as you can, he can taste himself on your tongue. He can feel the spit and come coating your chin smearing onto his when you tilt your head enough to lick impossibly deeper into his mouth.
You pull back to breathe, humming contently at the milky string of saliva connecting your lips to his. It dips and dips until the weight of gravity has it breaking in two.
You swipe your tongue along your bottom lip, savoring it. "You taste good, don't you?"
Clark groans like he's been shot with a kryptonite bullet, his cheeks flaming as he buries his face in your neck like that will be enough to hide from his own shame. His cock twitches weakly, still a hard plane of heat pressing itself into your stomach.
You laugh, a wicked sound. "Don't worry," you whisper, running your hands through his hair gently. "I won't make you say it."
Clark can’t respond. The stall smells like sex and liquor, like him, like you, and all he can do is cling to you like you’ve knocked his soul from his body.
Your hands are still buried in his curls, soothing him, stroking through the mess you made of him like you’re proud of it. He’s trembling under your touch. His whole body is tight with the aftershocks, thighs trembling, chest heaving against yours.
“Hey,” you murmur, soft, like you’re comforting him—like he isn’t the most powerful man alive, reduced to a shaking mess in a bathroom stall because you decided you wanted his cock down your throat. “Breathe, baby. You did so good for me.”
The praise cuts right through him, sharper than anything else. His cock twitches against your stomach, still hard, still heavy, still leaking. His face burns.
He doesn’t understand how he’s still so hard when you’ve wrung him out until his legs can barely hold him up—but then your lips curl against his ear, your nails scrape lightly at the nape of his neck, and he does understand.
It's you.
Clark pulls back enough to catch your glassy gaze, his hand sliding up from your neck to cradle your cheek, thumb trembling when he runs it along your spit slick bottom lip.
And when you nuzzle into his palm, eyes glittering up at him, Clark thinks he might just let you ruin him forever.