Clark was fresh out the shower, towel slung low on his hips, abs glistening, humming softly while digging through the drawer for boxers. Boys’ night tonight, something about poker, pool, whatever Bruce had planned. He looked like a whole Calvin Klein ad without even trying, all muscles and innocence. You watched from the doorway, silent and plotting.

You had just one spray left of the pheromone perfume you bought on a dare and Clark Kent was the perfect target.

You misted it on your neck, collarbone, and wrists, barely noticeable, then wandered into the room like it was nothing. Just your oversized sleep tee and bare thighs. You leaned over to grab a charger, totally innocent, letting the scent hit him.

He stilled.

Eyes slowly lifted from the drawer to your skin. Then your neck. Then back to your eyes.

“What’s that smell?” he asked, voice already thick.

“New perfume,” you said, shrugging like it was no big deal.

He blinked. Swallowed. Took a step toward you like he was being pulled by strings. His hand brushed your hip. Then both. Then he buried his face in your neck, arms wrapping around you like you’d disappear.

“Babe…”

“Clark, you’re gonna be late.”

“I don’t wanna go,” he mumbled, voice muffled against your skin. “Why’d you do that? You smell too good. It’s not fair.”

You laughed, but he just squeezed tighter, his massive frame practically melting into you.

“I can’t go hang out with the guys like this,” he whined, kissing your shoulder. “I’m hard, I’m needy, and I miss you already.”

“You’re literally still here.”

He groaned. “I know, but I could be inside you instead of playing darts with Oliver.”

And that was it.

He was stuck to you the rest of the night, clinging like a second skin, whining every time you even tried to pull away. The boys texted. He ignored them. You teased. He pouted.

Clark Kent was down bad.