Clark never let anyone see him like this.

He had learned long ago to lock himself away when his rut came. It was safer that way. He had heard stories of Alphas losing themselves—shattered walls, broken bodies—but Clark was different. Stronger. More dangerous.

He refused to take that risk.

So, when the fire started building under his skin—when his instincts sharpened, his control wavered, his muscles coiled too tight with need—he did what he always did. He left.

Bruce and Diana understood. They never questioned it, only stepping in to watch over Metropolis in his absence. It was an unspoken agreement, a silent pact. Kal-El couldn’t afford to lose control.

But here, in the Fortress of Solitude, with his body burning and his mind fraying, the only thing anchoring him was you.

He trembles against you, curling into you as though trying to mold himself into your warmth. His face is buried in your chest, lips trailing over your skin—your collarbone, your shoulder—like he can’t stop, like he needs to memorize you with every touch. Each ragged breath is laced with need, the tension rolling through his muscles before you smooth it away with gentle circles. He exhales shakily, forehead pressing against your shoulder before shifting again, listening to your heartbeat like it’s the only sound that matters.

He clings to you with the tenderness of a child holding their favorite teddy bear and the desperation of a drowning man grasping for a lifeline.

His arms cage you in, desperate, unyielding, but not to restrain—only to stay tethered. His murmurs are soft, sometimes too quiet to hear, but when you catch them, they’re confessions—reverent whispers of love, shuddering pleas when the weight of his urges bears down too heavily.

A broken sound leaves him, muffled against your skin. “Don’t let go.”

His voice is hoarse, trembling, nothing like the Man of Steel the world knows. This is Clark—stripped bare, laid open in the only place he lets himself be vulnerable.

“I need you," he whispers.