jules

A table leg is caught by a foot, there’s a soft thunk as the antique lampshade that Ma Kent had found in a spontaneous estate sale, is saved from its impending shatter on the floor. The house is the type of quiet that makes every single noise enhanced; despite the bumps in the night, Martha and Jonathan Kent don’t even stir in their bed at the very end of the dim hallway. 

Clark is tugged along by his flannel, his posture awkwardly bent as he grapples at the plushness of your hips to keep you steady. 

When you laugh against his lips, he hushes you, “Baby,” he says with a smile, “We have to keep quiet.” 

“I know, I know. I’m sorry.” you whisper into another kiss. 

The night had taken a turn for the better. Clark had taken you to a local Farmer’s Market in the afternoon, where he didn’t let you spend a single cent on the produce and even managed to surprise you with a bunch of vibrant purple Coneflowers on the way out. You ate the food you had packed for the two hour round trip, lazily slouched in the passenger seat of your own beat up truck with your feet on the dashboard; as Clark took it upon himself to be designated driver. 

He carried the heavy load of produce to your home, which was just over the hill from the Kent Farm, and then a game of Bullshit! was played next to the cool water of the pond next to the Kent’s humble abode. 

Your relationship was relatively new, deciding to wade through the strains of a long distance relationship between Smallville and Metropolis together, because, well…all good things come to those who wait—Clark had paid his dues in waiting until the time was right. Even with the distance, the solid foundation of your friendship made the task of figuring each other out a lot easier than if it had been a clean slate. 

Clark knew what you liked, how you took your coffee, that you were impossible to have a conversation with at 6AM, and how you tug at your earlobe out of nervous habit. He knew the buttons that shouldn’t be pushed, and most importantly: how to make you happy. 

The only minor blip that took a trip round Clark’s mind any time he landed back in Smallville, Kansas; was that he couldn’t preemptively figure out how you liked to have sex. 

1.) Because, you two hadn’t had sex yet. And, 2.) Because, Clark Kent was a big adult virgin with zero experience on female anatomy under his belt. 

So, when you had leaped into his lap and began kissing him enough to make his mind go foggy with desire, Clark decided—if you were so inclined—to resolve that little voice taunting him in the back of his mind. 

(You took the hint when his large palms came to cup your ass, taking a possessive handful and kneading them whilst he groaned into your mouth.) 

In record timing—because Clark didn’t want his first time to be in the back of your truck—you had playfully stumbled through the doors of the Kent household, tangled together with Clark blindly leading you toward his bedroom, just so he could kiss you more. 

As you stumble again, Clark saves you with a strong arm hiking you up and keeping you in place as you wrap your legs around his torso. He takes two long strides, giddy with a heightened libido, and carries you into his childhood bedroom with posters still pinned from his formative years. 

It didn’t make for a romantic setting to have sex, but you seemingly weren’t phased as you tugged Clark’s bottom lip with your teeth. 

The kisses becoming sloppy, you peel yourself off of Clark and encourage him to sit on the edge of his bed with two palms to his toned chest. He greedily kisses you a handful of times as he walks backwards, slumping down onto the mattress when the back of his legs hit the soft fabric of the plaid sheets. 

You waste little time to climb onto his lap, your linen shorts riding up your legs as you straddle each leg on either side of Clark’s. The room became quieter, aside from the ambient noises of cicadas outside the open window, and the hushed smacking of lips as your hands do the talking all over Clark’s frame. 

He can hear your heartbeat. It thumps so loud, his brows pinch in mild worry. 

Clark pulls back, “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah,” you look at him all starry-eyed, “Just excited. We’re about to have sex, right?” 

It’s that question alone that has Clark sorely reminded of the situation at hand, and the glaringly obvious absence of experience with sex. It draws out a gulp from his throat, knowing he can’t conceal the lack of knowledge from you forever, but still feeling mildly ashamed over it. 

OK, he didn’t have to be anxious over your reaction. You were sweeter than honey, with less judgement than the average human on Earth. Clark knew you’d kiss those insecurities away and render it completely normal to be a virgin, just over the precipice into your thirties. 

It was the whole, ensuring he can please you, without eliciting a fake orgasm to patch over his inability to touch you correctly. 

Clark wasn’t naive. He’d read columns in the newspaper about women and their selflessness in surrendering a true climax to stroke their partner’s ego. It sort of made him scrunch his nose in confusion, because how were men plummeting in the numbers of sexually pleasing their significant other?

He’s watched videos, deciphered what a true female orgasm was and when it was all for show. 

Clark Kent wanted to be good, in all aspects of his life; including making you feel good in bed. 

“Is everything okay?” you repeat his question back to him when you watch his pretty blue eyes glaze over. You huff out a laugh, “Where did you go there?” 

Clark rubs the length of your back, “I…Uh,” he swallows, “I have to tell you something. Before we do…all of this.” 

You nod and smile politely. 

Clark’s ears go redder than an apple. 

“I’m—Golly, this is embarrassing. I haven’t had sex before. Ever.” Clark averts his gaze, his bottom lip juts out ever so slightly before he continues, “I don’t know what I’m doing with any of it. Apart from putting a condom on.” 

Your smile gets bigger at the tail end of his confession and you tilt your head to meet his bashful gaze, “That’s okay. We can go slow.”

(Clark knew with a few more rounds, he wouldn’t want to go slow.) 

He mumbles, “Yeah?” 

“Yeah. We don’t even need to have sex right now—” 

“Please.” Clark interjects, “I want to have sex with you.” 

This has you stifle a laugh, hands smoothing over his chest and coming to rest around his neck. With the green light as bright as ever, you lean back in and kiss Clark softly until you are met with a little more eagerness that makes you rock your hips against his. 

You can feel him—you had felt it down the hallway—through his jeans, evidently straining against the denim as a wet patch begins to form where you presume his reddened tip is resting in his underwear. It spurs you on to press down onto him, your hands thread between the coils of his hair to give one tight tug. 

Clark whines pathetically. 

As you’re grinding against him, Clark short-circuits, unable to process where his hands should be; so you guide them to your ass again.

His fingers nudge beneath the fabric of your shorts and he soon realises the lack of fabric beneath the linen. 

“You’re not wearing underwear?” he asks against your swollen lips. He can practically feel the pulse triple in the protruding vein of his cock when you smugly shake your head. He groans, “Fuck.” 

You kiss some more, and then pull away, “You want me to give you some pussy eating lessons?”

Clark bobs his head and you slide off of him in order to shimmy out of your clothes. The air is humid with the intense want, as the curves of your body are illuminated by the soft glow of the porch lights. Clark rubs a hand across his jawline as he watches you purposely take your time to peel the thin layer of fabric from your legs; only to bite his knuckle when you turn and bend, giving him a full preview of the slickness gathered between your thighs.

The wetness clings to your inner thighs, smothered from the friction of grinding against Clark and he can’t help but salivate at the thought of what you might taste like. 

Sweeter than any sugary treat you lick from your fingers, he thinks. 

He tosses the vulgarity of his thoughts to the side when you yank your top over your head, unlatching your own bra to expose your naked chest. 

“Do you want to hang your clothes up?” Clark asks stupidly, because now he’s nervous—you’re heavenly.

You step into his space, hands on either side of his face as he begins to press open-mouthed kisses to your stomach, “No, Clark. I don’t want to hang up my clothes right now.” 

“Hm. Just making sure. Linen wrinkles.” 

There’s little time between Clark hungrily pressing kisses to your naked flesh and you on your back, with your heels pressed into Clark’s mattress as he kneels at the end of the bed. Something that the Kent male admired about you, was that there was little room to dwell on things that may have another person—like himself—pink with sheepishness. 

Your fingers tap on your stomach as you shuffle a little to reach the edge of the bed, “You can stop at anytime,” (He soon finds out he doesn’t want to.) “It’s no big deal. Just be up for some live constructive criticism, okay?” 

“Please be honest with me.” Clark pleas shyly, “I don’t want you to fake it.” 

You deadpan, “…I’m not the type. You’ll know.” 

Clark chuckles and you part your legs for him to slot between them. His broad shoulders unintentionally hook your legs as he pushes himself up enough that his nose brushes against your navel, where he presses a chaste kiss with his eyes pinned on you.

He feels the goosebumps rise against your skin when he presses kisses to your inner thighs; his tongue coming out to taste the remnants of you smeared against your thigh. 

Golly, he thinks, his presumptions were right. 

Eventually, Clark makes it to your sweetest spot, blue eyes trained on the nectar that saturated your folds. 

He licks his lips as you start to speak, “Honestly, just treat it like you’re kissing my…well, the lips on my face. Start off slow, map it out and then you can start finding a groove.” you shift under his hungry gaze, “You can use the whole surface area, I’ll tell you what feels good when you do it.” 

Clark doesn’t respond verbally. His sights set on your pussy, he leans in and presses a soft kiss to your puffy lips. He drifts his eyes upward to watch your reaction as he gathered the pool of juices leaking from your hole, dragging it upward and letting it fall from his tongue back onto—he could only presume—where your clit was. 

That wasn’t very virgin like, you think to yourself as Clark repeats the same action again. 

When your stomach tenses and your hole clenches around nothing, Clark smirks cruelly. 

You blink down at him, “I thought you don’t know what you’re doing?” 

“I don’t.” Clark kisses your pussy, “This feels right, though. Am I doing it right?” 

“Yeah…” 

Clark prevents a smug remark leaving his mouth and continues his endeavours between your legs. The hunger builds in him, and he finds himself sloppily making out with your pussy as you begin mewl above him. 

His eyes flutter shut, a groan coming from the back of his throat as he pulls your hips toward him, nose nuzzling against your clit which has you arch your back off of his bed. 

You writhe under his touch, fingers curl into the sheets as your jaw goes slack from the sensation that strikes up your spine when Clark trails his tongue from your hole, upward. He’s a little off-centre, in his own daze and you tilt your hips to assist him in locating the correct spot where the bundle of nerves are. 

“To the left.” You whine quietly, and Clark obliges. “Holy shit, Clark. What kind of virgin are you?” you mewl. 

Clark leaves your clit with a soft pop to respond, “The Kryptonian kind.” 

Smug asshole. 

He returns to his position, kissing and licking until there’s a crease between your brow when he sucked on the correct amount of nerve-endings that had your toes dig into the broadness of his back. 

“You can finger me too.” you breathe out. Clark nods, eager to add to your pleasure. You note his hesitancy when his mouth stutters against your folds, and you lift your head to peek at him, “Middle and ring finger.” 

Clark slowly guides his fingers into your hole, brows raise when you clench around his digits, “Like this?” 

“Yup,” you whine and drop your head back onto the soft pillow, “Curl them up a little, you’ll feel a spongey spot.” 

The rhythm Clark reaches as he focuses his attention on multi-tasking with two thick fingers inside you and his mouth latched onto your clit, sends your vision white-hot. You fall into a concoction of silence and concentration when you feel the build-up in your stomach, sweat slick on your brow-bone as you bruise your arm from biting down on it to keep yourself silent. 

Clark—for a self-proclaimed virgin—was exceeding all expectations for his first time. It was as if, as soon as he had gotten a taste against the skin of your thigh, something primal had been unearthed; meaning he just…knew what to do. 

Perhaps, later on, you’d thank all those newspaper columns and videos he studied prior to this moment. 

Clark can feel the tightness as his fingers delve as deep as they can reach into your pussy, the base of his fingers slick with a mix of your wetness and cream. He finds himself shamelessly grinding against the mattress, his tip sensitive and drooling at the lewd sounds of him eating your pussy as if it were his only source of nutrition.

In his childhood bedroom, at that. He’d not dwell on that part too much. 

He whines against you, sending the correct amount of vibrations into you before he unlatches himself from your clit to spit your juices back onto it. Clark hums at the sight, his mouth coming back down to press a couple of chaste kisses to your pussy folds until you’re practically curling into yourself. 

“Clark—” you whisper in a gasp, eyes closed, “I’m going to come. I’m going to come.” 

This gives Clark all the encouragement he needs to ensure that you’re not falsifying your claim of a climax. He begins to suck your sensitive clit, and your mouth forms into an ‘O’ shape as his fingers curl at the perfect moment to draw you over the edge. 

Your body goes rigid against the mattress, almost folding in half from the sheer intensity of the orgasm that tears through you. Clark continues his assault on your clit as you practically convulse your way through your climax; thighs clamping around Clark, which he had no intentions of protesting about. 

It takes about thirty seconds until you can let out a proper breath, lids heavy as Clark pulls away with a string of salvia connected from his pink lips to your vagina. His chin is soaked with your juices, flashing you a toothy grin before slowly pulling his fingers from inside you. 

“Shit.” you sound hoarse, “I barely had any tips for you.”

Clark shrugs and brings his two fingers into his mouth to suck on the leftovers of your orgasm. 

His fingers pull from his mouth, his pupils blown from the immediate addiction and you can see the intentions of lowering his head for a second round; only for you to halt him with your hand to his forehead. 

“It’s too sensitive right now.” you chirp. 

Clark nods, his body moving up the mattress until you’re encased between his muscular arms. He presses a sweet kiss to your lips, the victory evident in the dimpled smile that spreads across his face when he pulls away to stare at you. 

You kiss him again, hand finding its own way down to where you could feel Clark’s hardened cock against his jeans. The denim was soaked from precum—although it took a moment to understand if he had fully came in his pants from eating you out. 

(He hadn’t. But, he was two minutes away from blowing his load.) 

You tap his thigh, “Off.”

Clark slips off the bed—silently cringing at the creak from the frame—and sheds himself of the denim jeans that conceal his strained cock. You rest on your elbows to admire his toned physique, all muscle and minimal fat; as if he’d been carved from stone. It was only until he drops his boxers that you truly get a better understanding at what you were about to grapple with. 

His erection springs free and the tip slaps just beneath his belly button. It’s red and wet enough for you to assume that Clark had about two minutes under his belt before he came from you merely touching him. 

You shift to kneel on the mattress edge, eyes pining at the length of his cock. 

Clark allows you to drag one long, wet stripe from the base of his cock, all the way up to the sensitive slit before he stops you from taking him in your mouth completely. 

“I won’t last.” Clark advises quietly, cheeks dusted pink, “We can do that another time.” 

“Got it, Smallville.” you beam, sitting back to give him some space. You then ask “Do you have a condom?” 

Clark nods, rounding the single bed to open up the bottom drawer at his bedside to reveal a box of condoms collecting a film of dust. He throws you a glance from his peripheral, knowing your thoughts are somewhere between sympathy, disbelief—that no one in Metropolis had even attempted to have sex with him—and worry that the condoms were well past their use by date. 

Again, Clark was a virgin. He wasn’t stupid. 

He had made sure the condoms in the last drawer, because he hadn’t needed them thus far, were well within their means to be an effective barrier when the time came. 

A silver packet is pinched between his fingers after he opens the dust-coated box, and you’re quick to take the cardboard container from him in order to place them in the top drawer next to his bed. 

You smile when Clark meets your gaze in confusion, “You’ll need quicker access to them now.” 

“Ah.” Clark chuckles under his breath, making quick work to peel the condom from the open wrapper and sliding it onto his length until it’s positioned comfortably. He looks up to see you staring, and suddenly feels timid from the exposure, “I—Uh—How do you want to do this?” 

“I’ll ride you.” you watch as Clark’s cock twitches at your words, and you tug him back onto the bed with ease. 

With kissing resumed, Clark’s hands trail up and down your sides as he settles on his back as you straddle him once again. He can feel himself begin to leak onto his stomach again at the brush of your vagina against his tip before you collect him in your hand and position him at your wet hole. 

There’s a split second of panic, throat constricting because, really, Clark had been salvaging his virginity for the right person; who just so happened to be the one woman that had been in his life from the sandpit in kindergarten. You had always been the person for Clark Kent, and this cemented that statement. 

Your eyes briefly meet Clark’s for the green light, because you cared about his own comfortability in a highly vulnerable moment. Clark could retreat at the notion of having sex with you for the first time, and you wouldn’t even bat an eyelid. 

When his head bobs to encourage you forward, that is when you sink down ever so slowly onto him. 

The tip of his cock is broad, much like the rest of his physical attributes, and you pause to allow yourself to adjust to the stretch. Hand braced against his chest, the shudder of his breaths can be felt against the palm of your hands. 

After a minute, you sink down another couple of inches and Clark can see splotches in his vision from the warmth clenching around him. 

(Definitely not lasting two minutes.) 

Without too much greed, you lift yourself back up to meet his tip and then sink down to add another inch. Clark lets out a guttural groan—hands positioned on the swell of your hips—as you repeat this motion until he’s buried at the hilt. 

“I’m not going to last.” Clark whimpers pitifully. 

You lean down to kiss him, “It’s okay. I just want you to feel good. Does this feel good?”

“Yea—Yeah, baby.” 

“Good.” you affirm as you slip up and down his cock with ease. 

Clark’s brows crease, teeth grit as his fingers dig into your skin to ground himself. He can feel the familiar sensation travel up his pulsing cock, balls tightening as your juices drool down onto him. You quicken your pace, Clark buried deep in you as you rock against him. 

The bed begins to creak beneath you, and you refrain from squeaking a laugh out at the ridiculousness of having intimate sex on Clark Kent’s mattress with the outdated decor you adored. 

“Gosh, sweetheart, I’m—” Clark scrunches his face up, “I’m about to cum. You’re so good to me, you feel so good.” 

“Uh-huh.” you manage to string out, your movements more desperate until his headboard begins to softly thump against the back wall. Without much thought, you stick two fingers into Clark’s mouth as you bounce up and down on his length, “Come on, Clark. Give it to me.” 

Clark prevents himself from biting your two fingers off when his eyes drift to where you two were connected. Your cream had collected on his shaft, your pussy sucking him in further with each bounce. 

It takes one minute and forty seconds for Clark to cum. 

You have to remove your fingers from his mouth and clamp a palm over him to muffle the abrupt moan that is released from the pits of his stomach. His hips shoot upwards to bury himself deep in you as he shoots his load into the condom. You quietly praise him through it, legs clenched at his sides as he ruts into you until he’s utterly spent. 

Once his muscles relax, you allow yourself to drop onto his chest with him occasionally twitching in the aftershocks inside you. 

Clark’s breathing is shallow, his eyes closed as he traces his index finger across your bare back.

His lips curl into a smile of deep content.

You don't have a chance to decipher exactly what he's brought as you flinch behind the cover of the door, not cruel enough to close it in his face, but wanting to. "Spencer! What are you doing here?" 

"Well, you live here." 

His hand comes up tentatively near yours on the door. He doesn't push it further in or attempt to come inside. He might have, if you hadn't squeaked in warning, biting down on the soft inside of your cheek. 

"Is everything okay?" he asks.

"Everything is fine!" You squeeze your eyes closed, your pulse a hummingbird hammering between them. 

"Really?" Spencer asks, taking back his hand. "Can I–"

There's a shuffling sound like he might step forward, and that's the last straw, you're fully panicking as you slam it closed.

A too long silence. Your breath comes unnaturally quickly, your thoughts racing to match. I can't believe I just did that. Why did I do that? 

What do I do? 

"Spencer, I'm naked," you say. 

"You were definitely wearing clothes. What's wrong? I brought breakfast, I thought I'd surprise you. I texted you. When you didn't answer I figured maybe you were still sleeping after last night, but… now I'm thinking maybe I read that wrong."

"You didn't read it wrong! You can always come over!" you insist, looking around behind you as if you might suddenly find a full face of makeup hiding in your sideboard, or a fresh change of clothes hanging on the coat hooks. 

"Okay, so, can I come in?" 

You poke at the sore bit of skin in your cheek with a wince. "Spence, I'm not dressed. Like, I'm not ready. I look like a mess." 

"You looked beautiful. For the two seconds that I could see your face, at least." You breathe in uselessly. An answer doesn't present itself. Spencer offers some wisdom while you panic, but you aren't sure you want to hear it. "We're dating, right? So as much as you clearly don't want me to see you like this, it's gonna happen. Hopefully regularly?" He laughs lightly on the other side of the door. "Can I please come in?" 

Nerves gnaw at your fingers, uncomfortable pins and needles. "What if you don't like it as much?" you ask quietly. You're surprised he can hear you. 

"Do you trust me?"

What sort of question is that? This isn't about trust. This is about you, an image of yourself you hold and that you want others to share, it's why you dress as you do, why you wear your intricate hairstyles, and spend hours upon hours priming and primping.

You want to be pretty deeply, especially in Spencer's eyes. Do you trust him to find you pretty still, without all the extra effort? Pretty from the moment you wake up? 

You wait for the verdict as you open the door again. The handle clicks and lugs, the hinge whining as it swings inward. You step backward to allow him space, meeting Spencer's eyes with an insecurity that doesn't suit you.

He doesn't react at first. His hand tightens around the neck of a sprawling bouquet, wildflowers like a burst of colour against his chest, the long white body of a lily of the valley kissing the curve of his neck. He smells like powdered sugar donuts and the food truck they came from, the story of his obsession a remembered delight. I think of you every time I cross the square to the train station by my place. The warm vanilla smell reminds me of your perfume. But I'm usually already thinking of you. He's been bringing you donuts intermittently for months now. 

He finally smiles at you, all manner of morning warmth flooding the room with him. The sun at his heels, the silky brown colour of his hair, you look up as he steps close, as light silhouettes him, turns the silk to fluff. You can see every detail this close down to the baby flyaways, and he can see the same. 

"How could you think I wouldn't like this?" he asks. His words are hushed with earnestness but yards from hesitant. Spencer is unabashedly, genuinely enamoured with you. "You're so pretty. You always are." 

You beg him silently to hold your face, taking the flowers from his hand. He can read you from that small action alone, raising a deft hand to your cheek. 

The first time you saw Spencer cry, he was in a hospital room being weaned off of a terrible thing, and it was sudden but expected all the same. He was suffering, recovering but in pain, and you would've cried if the roles were reversed. That was a long time ago. Seeing him upset doesn't get easier. 

“Spencer,” you murmur, “What's wrong? You look like you could burst into tears. Do you need me to get you a glass of water?” 

He shakes his head. You stay right there by his side waiting for the inevitable, the tears gathering in his eyes that he blinks away, and his painful swallowing. You have two hands —the one that isn't squeezing his arm jumps to his back to hold his stiff shoulder. 

“Do you want me to get Morgan?” you ask, unsure. 

It's a busy office, and you and Spencer sit on the outskirts closest to the offices upstairs and furthest from the hubbub. Nobody notices your closeness. You speak too quietly to be overheard. 

“Spencer,” you implore. 

He ducks his head, putting his hand to his brow. 

“I'm okay,” he says, his voice stronger now, “it's just my mom doesn't sound right in her letters lately, and I'm tired, and I wasn't expecting you to ask me.” 

“No?” you ask, giving his arm another tender rub. “Sorry if I'm upsetting you, Spencer. I was worried. You don't have to talk about it.” He winces. “But if you do want to, I'm right here.” 

He needs a hug, you decide (unsurely). You stand and he immediately lifts his head with worry in his eyes, but you're not going anywhere, the opposite. You cover up his head and shoulders as your chin rests gently atop his soft hair, a gravel to your tone as you say, “It's okay.” 

Spencer is silent. Slowly, tentatively, he wraps his arms around you in turn, and then he's squeezing you tight enough to feel it in your spine. 

“It's okay, Spencer. We can talk about it, huh? We can work something out. It wouldn't be terrible for you to take a vacation every once in a while, maybe that's what you need.”  

He breathes out against your sleeve. “Sorry,” he says. 

“It's okay.” You kiss his head. He likely doesn't feel it. “I promise, it's fine.” 

“I wasn’t expecting you to ask.” 

“I know, you said that already.” You don’t tell him with any malice, just reaffirmation. “But I’ll always ask. I care about you, I need you to be okay, Dr. Reid. You’re my pillar of strength.” He laughs with self-deprecation, but you mean it. “You are. You’re always there for me. You’re always looking after me.”

“Since when do you need looking after?” 

“That’s one of the best and worst things about you. You don’t realise what you are to people.” 

Spencer screws his hands into your blouse and grows still in your arms. You consider scolding him about wrinkles to lighten the mood, but he’ll take you too seriously, and stop hugging you, and that’s not what you want. You try to be subtle about the comfort you’re giving him as you wrap your arms behind his head to close him in, hiding him from any prying eyes, but the longer you stay holding him the more attention you recieve, until even your stoic unit chief can't pretend this is appropriate for the workplace. 

“L/N,” Hotch says in concern. “Reid. Is everything okay?” 

Spencer seizes up and tries to push you away.

You lift your chin above his head and give Hotch your stickiest smile, arms moving to a more amicable position behind his shoulders. “No, everything is not okay, Hotch. You realise I only joined the unit to be with Spencer, right? And you punish me by sitting me halfway across the office!” 

Everyone watching either laughs or rolls their eyes, used to your dramatic favouritism. Even Hotch seems tired of it. 

“I’d be sorry if I thought that were true. Can you go back to suffocating Reid on your own time? We have some consults to look over.” 

You widen the gap between you and Spencer, allowing him the space to collect himself. “If you insist,” you say, grinning brightly. 

You stand in front of Spencer, heart aching as he sniffs quietly. He stands, and for a moment you think he won’t be alright after all, that your comfort was useless and he’ll need to excuse himself, but he draws a ghost of a line into your side with his knuckle and squares his expression. “Let’s get back to work,” he says to you with a small smile. You’ll talk more later. 

“Wanna hold hands?” you ask. 

“Maybe when everyone’s stopped looking at me?” he says under his breath, starting toward the steps to the conference room. 

“Wait, really?”

“What if I don't want to?” You ask, meeting his gaze. You look worried, and he wants nothing more than to press away the furrow between your brows.

He hums, propping himself up on his elbows above you—there it is, that curl again. You expected him to smile, laugh even, but instead he looks completely earnest. “Then we don't have to. We won’t do anything.”

“Clark,” you whine, turning your head into his pillows with embarrassment. You can already feel the warmth creeping up your neck, and his concern builds tenfold. “It’d be rude to blue-ball—”

“Don’t you worry about that,” he cuts in, leaning down to kiss your head before dropping onto the mattress beside you. He still feels your pout when he pulls you into him, so he presses, “Honey.”

“Sorry,” you blurt out, shaking your head. “Sorry, I—”

“You're not doing anything wrong.” His warm palm rubs your back, grounding you. Up, down, up, down. “And you're not blue-balling me. You could never, sweet girl. Look at you, it's already more than enough having you like this.”

Your cheeks burn hotter than before, and you wonder if he can feel your skin scalding his—it must be why he’s so warm, right? “Are you—are you sure? I can -”

He tuts, patting your shoulder like you’re an insolent child—but it’s packed with care, and Clark is never condescending to you, or to anyone, for that matter. “Nope, nope. Don’t do anything. Let’s do what you want to do, huh? I know there’s an idea in that head of yours.”

You roll the question around in your head; inspect it, dissect it, turn it every which way. But Clark never makes you feel less than worthy and beautiful, so why hold your tongue? Besides, his gentle hands are already unraveling the tension in your muscles, squeezing your forearms here and there. It’s profound yet simple, his love and care for you.

“Mmm…” You bite the inside of your cheek, pensive. “Love Island? I dunno, I’ve missed the last few episodes, and it's all Cat talks about.”

Tugging on his shirt, you add, “And we can make a cheese board.”

He gets clingy, when he’s been gone too long. You always understand—the world doesn’t wait for Superman—but Clark makes it up to you like he’s committed some great sin. You get kissed all over your face, before he falls to his knees and hugs your stomach. You giggle, running your fingers through his hair.

“I was fine, baby-“

“I wasn’t.”

“Clark-“

“I love you,” he mutters. “Hate being away.”

You hum, and sink down to his height. “I love you too,” you whisper, and his eyes shine. He never asks you to say it back. You know he loves it when you do.

And how could you not? He’s Clark. A puppy of a man when he’s at your side, then a feral animal once you get behind a door. You get splayed out on the sheets so he can worship between your legs, his tongue dragging over your sensitive pussy and a massive hand pinning you to the bed. You sob his name and buck off the mattress, and Clark sucks your clit between swollen lips. He need to be sure you’re ready, for when he drives his cock into your tight hole. You clench and whimper, but he just kisses you and drags his hips in slow, firm strokes.

He whispers more praise, as he drives you into the mattress. His good, sweet girl. So, so pretty like this. And he loves you, oh how he loves you when you scratch at his shoulders and call for him. He rasps it in your ear while he fucks you, chokes it out when he cums, and says it against your skin after you’re cleaned up and cuddled together. He loves you.

You’re never going to forget it.

✦Clark Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on AO3!✦

✦Author's Note: he's so soft i love him✦

“No.”

“What—?” Clark followed you into the kitchen, hands grasping at the air in desperation, “Honey, come on!”

You turned on your heel, face soured as you went through the motions of the conversation at hand that had lasted all of ten minutes before it shifted into the shallow end of a brewing argument.

The topic being: where to live.

Clark stood with his shoulders rounded and wore an incredulous look that—in your humble opinion—was a little dramatic given what he was asking you. You both stood in his Ma and Pa’s kitchen, both parents long retired to their beds when the housing topic arose at the dinner table.

It was time to combined two homes into one. And, neither of you felt like budging.

“I’m not moving into that…that thing.” You crossed your arms across your chest.

Clark’s brows raised into his hairline. “That thing? You mean to say, my home—your husband’s home?” When you threw your hands up in the air and moved past him to get into the living room and save yourself from being cornered, Clark followed hot on your heels. He then added, “Come on, honey. It makes sense. It’s safe, far enough away from…well, everything.”

“Yeah. That’s why it is called the Fortress of Solitude. Alone. Secluded.” You piled onto the description of the place, shivering at the memory of the last time you had visited. Mainly because it was freezing amongst other factors.

(Clark soon found out you might be one of the only humans on the planet that didn’t like the Fortress of Solitude.)

As the slander left your mouth, Clark pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “We can call it the Fortress of Unification. Two hearts unified. Together.”

“You can’t just change the name of something once it’s been named, Clark. Just ask the creator of the Bean in Chicago, who desperately reminds everyone it’s actually called the Cloud Gate.” You bent at the waist to pick up a blanket from the floor and chucked it back into the basket next to the sofa you and Clark had been cuddling on. You mumbled, “So dumb. It’s clearly a bean.”

Clark dropped his head back, his eyes closed as his nostrils flared in frustration from getting nowhere with you. When you turned around, you watched him openly, molars grinding out of your own frustrations and guilt rising in your chest.

It was a silly argument. Something that could be squashed in a less juvenile state, but you really needed Clark to realise you had just wrapped your head around the Metropolis Subway, and you didn’t want to undo all your hard work by living in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of robots to keep you company on the weekends.

“Look. If it’s the cost of apartments in Metropolis, I can find another job.” You said quietly.

Clark dropped his gaze to you. A full pout on his face. “Money isn’t the issue for me. I just think, I’ve got a perfectly good place to live!”

“You sound like a mother.” You argued with a laugh. “I’m going to bed. We can sleep on this. I love you.” You stepped into Clark’s space and kissed the pout on his lips before sauntering down the hallway to the spare room.

Clark rubbed the wrinkles on his forehead and broke into a speedy walk to catch up with you.

The daily planet was bustling with activity, busy noises of people talking, keyboard typing and calls buzzing in the atmosphere. Sunlight beamed in through the large windows of the office as the sun rose higher and higher into the bright blue skies.

You stood at the little kitchenette marble counter where the coffee maker was placed, adding whipped topping in your customized unicorn coffee mug, blissfully humming under your breath. Lois stood next to you, clad in her usual black pants and a blazer, adding 5 tablespoons of sugar to her own daily planet cup but paused when Clark walked over.

His hand moved to your waist, palm softly gripping there to move you aside so he could grab a spoon for himself. His hand stayed on your waist for a few moments before he removed it to stand next to you. “Morning.” He smiled at you, bright blue eyes crinkling at the sides behind those big frames, tall figure clad in a dark blue suit today.

You smiled back, staring up at his tall frame. “Morning, Clark. How was your weekend?” Leaning your back into the marble counter, you sipped from the mug watching Clark mix his own coffee.

“The weekend was great, actually. My parents came over to visit- still here. Ma’s planning on buying me a small dining table and chairs and a few more things which she thinks I desperately need.” He laughed but there was a hint of affection in his tone.

You widened your eyes, slightly dramatic. “All the way from Kansas?? Just to buy you furniture too?” You were in awe of the love his parents would shower him with.

“Yea! I showed her a picture of the apartment and she said ‘it’s too empty and dull’ and they flew out to make my place more like ‘home’.” He trailed off with the details, long fingers lifting to brush some strands from your face, tucking them behind your ear. You two laughed and chatted before work started.

He asked about your weekend and you relayed everything that had happened in the two days. Your hand moved to his chest to straighten his tie before it lifted higher to fix his crooked glasses.

Meanwhile Jimmy, Lois and Cat just stared at the two of you with different reactions each, at both of your casualness….? Jimmy stared with his eyes blown wide, news photographs forgotten on the table. “What- why- how are they so casual about this??”

Lois’ perfectly shaped brow raised, lips twisting in annoyance. “They are both idiots. That’s what this is….neither of them can see it.” She scoffs, shaking her head at both of y’all’s obvious and oblivious stupidity. “They’re both blind.”

“Blind in love!” Cat whisper-yelled, clapping her hands together with a wide grin on her face. “It’s a process, Lois….the process of falling in love…the moments…the realization. Oh cute!” She wiggled her manicured fingers in your direction.

It was a housewarming party at Jimmy’s new apartment, a pot luck everyone had decided to celebrate this new accomplishment. It was his very own place, no roommates, no family, just him all alone being an independent person.

As amazing as the gathering was with close friends from work, unfortunately with there being only one couch and 3 chairs, there wasn’t enough space to sit for you. “Hey, no. Sit there I’ll stand…..or sit on the table.” Jimmy laughed and called you over to take his seat but you waved him off. “It’s fine, Jimmy….I’ll just sit here..” With a smile you walked over to the couch where Clark, Perry and Cat were and sat on the arm rest on Clark’s side.

The arm rest was wider with a soft velvety material, making it easier for you to sit there with some ease at-least. Clark’s arm moved behind you and he wrapped it around your waist, resting a large palm on the side of your thigh. You two shared an easy going conversation, taking bites of your food between sentences, however the rest of the party had frozen in our spot at the sight of you two cozying up together.

While the others were a little used to this being your daily routine, Perry however stared like everyone had grown two heads. He stared at the two of you until you two felt his stare on your skins like a burn, and paused your conversation. “What happened?” Clark asked.

Perry’s gaze flitted between the two of you, lips lifting in a confused frown. “Are you two-“ he points between them with a finger, “- dating or something?”

Everyone in the room held their breaths but you two just stared at him for a good minute before bursting out laughing. “What?!” You snorted. “Perry? What- no! Hah! No….why would you say that?” Clark shook his head with a smile, a big laugh waiting to spill.

“Perry, where did that even come from?” The usually awkward and shy guy now looking like his face is gonna fall off from laughter.

They all just stared at you two, the question ‘why would you think that’ sounding ironic considering the position you two were sitting in. Clark’s arm around your waist, hand rubbing your thigh, your bodies leaning close into each other’s warmth, your head almost on his chest and your hair almost in his face.

“Right…..” Lois muttered. “Yeah no idea why anyone would think that.” Her eyes rolled back. Cat only snickered.

It was an autumn evening, all greenery replaced by browns, oranges & red shades and the trees shedding leaves on the sidewalk which the two of you walked on.

Clark’s one hand was shoved in the pocket of his brown jacket, and one held your hand, rubbing his thumb over your skin. It was just a friendly stroll which you two would often go out for on the weekend evenings.

The two of you had grabbed coffee from a nearby cafe which was probably more expensive than it should’ve been. “I can’t believe Perry thought we were dating.” He laughed, shaking his head.

“I know right?! I wanna know what went through his head.” A snort left your mouth. “That’s so weird honestly.”

“It kind of is, yeah but Perry is- I mean he’s aging…..”

“He’s old now.” You finish his sentence and he nods.

“Even Lois asked why he’d say that.” Clark added as the two of you reached a bench nearby and sat together. His arm rested on the back of the bench, behind you and wrapped around your shoulder.

“Who knows what goes through old Perry’s head.”

Clark and You were clearly very oblivious to the chemistry and tension between the two of you- or maybe you knew and were playing pretend. Whatever it was, everyone around you shipped it but were also sick of you two being ‘just friends’ because clearly you weren’t just that.

Maybe one day Cat would straight up tell you two to date each other, or Lois would slap the back of both your heads and tell you two to act right, or maybe Jimmy would somehow slip up and you’d both end up shocked but for today….you two were going to enjoy your coffee as just two friends who were very very touchy.

A/N:

Friends to lovers is actually so cute! I love it….the close proximity and everyone seeing it but them.

Maybe I’ll write one with Clark x reader friends to lover confession??

Anyway…MUAH! ♥️

“Sweetheart?” Clark popped his head round the doorway into your shared bedroom, his features melting to goop when he caught sight of you laying atop of the sheets on the bed. Glasses—for concealment of identity purposes—pushed back up the bridge of his nose, Clark stepped into the bedroom with one motive: kiss you goodbye.

It was a sacred ritual to Clark Kent. He had called it a privilege, kissing you that is, and something he’d take advantage of until his very last breath. Of course, that meant your availability to kiss needed to be at an all time high every morning, shared lunch time break and nighttime.

(Clark had even bought you a subscription to a lip balm company for the sole purpose of saving your lips from being kissed off.)

So, when Clark entered the room with no hidden intentions, you propped yourself higher up on your pillows and tilted your chin upward to give him the access he needed to get his daily kiss fix.

He grinned at you. All smug and devilishly handsome. One hand coming to rest against your jugular as be brought his lips to yours. “Mm.” He mumbled with satisfaction against you, “I’m just about to head to work.” Another kiss, “I’ll miss you.”

“And you too.” You pulled away and let your husband chase you for another kiss. Your hands came to his chest to pat it, “Have a good day at work—What are you doing?”

Clark had pressed a kiss to the very top of your head—not something out of the ordinary considering the noticeable height difference—however, his lips descended downward, to your forehead, your temple, the tip of your nose, lips again and then down to your chin.

He raised his head from where he had begun to work his way down your neck with a morally pure expression.

“Kissing you.” He blinked.

“Yeah. I got that.” You let out a breathy laugh and tugged at the curls on his head. “You’ve already kissed me.”

“Yeah, honey.” Clark threw you a petulant look, as you should have been on the same wave-length as him from the start. He smiled again, “I’m kissing all of you.”

With that, your husband transcended an abundance of kisses upon your body. Not an inch of you went amiss as he swapped smaller pecks for prolonged ones at his favourite parts of you, humming as he made his way down to your feet.

Through the giggling, you had anticipated him to halt his kisses at your feet. No man’s land due to it being too ticklish. To which, you were proven entirely wrong when Clark stood at full height at the end of the bed, his blue eyes pinning you to the spot as he caressed your calf and brought leg upward to press a kiss to your ankle, and finally to your feet.

The moment his lips pressed the sole of your foot, you snatched it away, gawking at his behaviour.

“Ew. Clark.” You rubbed your foot against the sheets to remove the itch.

Clark chuckled. “What? I can’t kiss your feet now?”

“I mean…you can at some point. Just give me time to mentally prepare.” You shrugged and sunk back into the plushness of your mattress with a healthy post-worship glow. “Now scram.”