The house was already shaking by the time you pulled up. Music thumping through the walls, lights bleeding through the windows, laughter spilling out the front door in waves.

Typical.

Kooks always threw the same kind of party.

Big house. Loud music. Too much money. Not enough sense.

And him—your ex.

Poster boy for it all.

If you’d had any sense, you would’ve waited until morning to grab your stuff. But he’d texted you earlier, something smug about “tonight’s fine,” and you weren’t in the mood to drag it out. 

You just wanted your things back. 

Heads turned the second you stepped inside, bag slung over your shoulder. The air was thick—sweat, perfume, bass vibrating through the floor. Eyes followed you, some with pity, most with that hungry curiosity Kooks always had for drama that wasn’t theirs.

And then there he was.

Leaning against the counter, beer in hand, that same smirk already in place like he’d been practicing it just for you.

“Well, look who finally decided to show up,” your ex called out, voice loud enough for everyone to hear.

You forced a thin smile. “Just here for my stuff.”

He pushed off the counter, strolling closer until he was right in front of you, confidence dripping from every step.

“Come on. We both know why you’re really here,” he said, tone dipping low—what he probably thought sounded smooth. The smell of alcohol didn’t help his case. 

You frowned, face scrunching up in disgust.

“Yeah. To get my shit and leave.” You said flatly, before turning toward the stairs.

But he moved faster, cutting you off.

“Still pretending you don’t miss me?”

You scoffed, arms crossing tight. “What’s to miss? The love triangle between you, me, and your ego?”

That one hit. You saw it in the flicker of his jaw before he recovered.

“Don’t act like that, baby,” he drawled, still trying, still not reading the fucking room.

You rolled your eyes so far back you might’ve slipped into another dimension.

“I’m not your baby. And I’m not acting. Move.” You shoved past him. Hard enough that his drink sloshed in his hand, nearly spilling down his shirt. 

He was still running his mouth as you headed for the stairs—every word confirming exactly why you’d left in the first place.

By the time you hit the second floor, the music had dulled to a low, distant thud beneath your feet.

His room looked the same as it always had. The same tangled sheets. The same clothes on the floor. That same heavy mix of overpriced cologne and cheap arrogance still clinging to the air, sharp and overdone, like he thought it could cover everything else.

The feeling tugged at you—strained, bitter—but you pushed it down. You dropped your bag on the edge of the bed and crossed to the dresser, pulling drawers open one by one. You grabbed what was left: a few shirts, your perfume, things you didn’t even remember leaving behind.

In the bathroom, you scooped up the rest with one arm. Skincare, hair ties, half-used bottles that had been sitting there too long. You didn’t stop to check what was worth keeping. Just kept moving, focused on leaving as fast as you could.

All that was left was the nightstand, cluttered with smaller things. An extra charger. Lip balm. A book. Little reminders that once, you’d actually lived here.

You stepped out of the bathroom, quietly cursing under your breath about how ridiculous this all was. About how ridiculous he was.

The zipper on your bag rasped faintly as you tucked the last few bottles inside, the quiet sound almost lost beneath the bass thudding from downstairs. You straightened, brushing your hands against your thighs, already turning toward the nightstand—

Then the bedroom door flew open.

Quick. Sharp.

It slammed shut just as fast, the echo cutting through the music below.

You froze mid-step, pulse skipping as your eyes locked on the figure now standing in front of the door, his back to you.

Broad. Solid. Familiar.

A silhouette you recognized maybe a little too quickly.

Rafe. 

His shoulders were tight, like he was bracing for something. Or maybe trying to outrun it.

Your eyes lingered longer than they should have, tracing the tension in his back, the slow rise and fall of his frame. You tilted your head slightly, curiosity slipping into something quieter, something sharper. Because Rafe Cameron didn’t run from anything.

Not people. Not consequences.

He moved through spaces like the world would part for him eventually. Like time itself would slow down just to fall at his feet. And it usually did.

So what the hell had him slipping into rooms, shutting doors like he needed to hide?

The corner of your mouth lifted.

“What are you doing?” you asked. Your voice wasn’t sharp, just amused. 

Intrigued, even.

He turned, slow but unbothered, like he’d only just now realized he wasn’t alone. A red solo cup hung from his hand, paired with that same unreadable ease he alway had stamped across his face.

Then his eyes met yours.

His lips twitched up—just barely. It was something crooked, but subtle.

“Hi,” he said. Voice low. Lazy. Like he had no intention of explaining himself.

And knowing him, he probably didn’t.

“Hi,” you echoed, tone matching his, but you didn’t let him steer the conversation. Your smile tugged wider as you took a slow step closer, eyes narrowing just enough to make it playful.

“What are you doing in here?”

A soft chuckle slipped out of him, deep and smooth. His lips parted, maybe to give one of those half-answers he was famous for.

Then you heard it.

A voice from the hallway.

High. Loud. Whiny.

“Rafe?”

It dragged out like a complaint. Followed by another, more desperate call.

“Rafeee—come on.”

He didn’t flinch, but something in his jaw tightened. Just for a second. Like even hearing her voice scraped against something in him.

You glanced toward the door, then back at him.

“I see,” you said, laughing under your breath.

He smirked faintly, lifting his cup for another drink, but his eyes stayed on you, steady and unblinking.

And you felt it—the weight of his stare sinking low in your stomach, warm and heavy.

It had always been like that.

That quiet pull that existed long before you ever admitted it to yourself. The kind that lived in glances that lasted too long and silences that said too much. It was always there, thick in the air, but never acted on.

Your ex made sure of that.

Rafe was “bad news,” “not your type,” “off-limits.”

The one time you’d slipped—bumped into Rafe at a party and muttered a quick apology—it had been enough to start one of those “boundaries” arguments your ex liked to rehash. Over and over. Like saying sorry was a betrayal.

And maybe it was. Not because of you, but because of the way Rafe had looked at you that night—the same way he was looking at you now. Like the room had narrowed to just the two of you, and he didn’t mind letting you know it.

From the hallway, the girl’s voice rose again. Louder this time. Dragging out his name in that grating tone that made it sound like a plea.

Rafe sighed under his breath, muttering something you almost missed. “Shouldn’t have even come. Don’t even like the guy.”

He followed it with a roll of his eyes and a slow shake of his head, like the whole night was one long mistake he was trying to blink out of existence. That familiar mix of irritation and indifference—his signature—settled across his face as he glanced away for a second, then right back to you.

You knew they weren’t real friends, Rafe and your ex. They were more like mutually tolerated acquaintances—something about deals, favors, image. That kind of friendship didn’t last without alcohol or an audience.

Still, you teased. 

“If you don’t like him,” you asked, eyes skimming the rim of his cup before meeting his stare again, “then why are you here?”

Rafe’s gaze dragged over you like he was weighing his words, deciding if silence said it better.

When he finally opened his mouth, he flipped it cleanly.

“Why are you?”

You caught it immediately—the shift, the way he dodged without ever breaking eye contact. Typical. But this time, you didn’t press. You let him have the out.

A soft sigh slipped past your lips as you turned toward the bed, the reminder of why you even came here cutting clean through the haze.

“Just grabbing my stuff.” You said, voice taut and measured.

It wasn’t defensive. Just honest. You didn’t owe him more than that.

He nodded slightly, still watching you.

“Yeah, I heard you guys broke up. Shame.”

Your eyes snapped back to him, fast and sharp. “I don’t think so.”

Rafe smirked—not wide, just enough to crease the corner of his mouth. Like he’d been waiting for that.

Then—

“I wasn’t saying it for you.”

His words came smooth and low, carrying a rough edge that landed exactly where they shouldn’t have. Right in that place you pretended didn’t exist—the one you’d denied a hundred times.

You shook your head, trying to clear it, and stepped toward the nightstand for the last of your things.

Rafe didn’t say a word.

He just leaned against the doorframe like he belonged there, one hand wrapped around the solo cup, the other tucked loose into his pocket. His eyes tracked you, slow and steady, dragging over every shift of your body with a focus that pressed heat into your spine.

The silence stretched, but not in a way that begged to be filled. It hung thick in the room, weighted and electric. It curled around your body, crept up your legs, settled just beneath your skin.

You swung your bag over your shoulder and turned toward the door, ready to walk out like you hadn’t noticed. Like your pulse wasn’t racing.

But he was there.

In front of the door again. Still. Calm. Blocking nothing and everything all at once.

Your breath caught before you could stop it. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, just stood there with the same unreadable expression. The kind that made it hard to tell if he was daring you to leave or waiting for you not to.

Standing that close, the pull hit again. Harder this time.

You could smell the liquor on his breath—sweet and sharp. Feel the warmth radiating off his skin. It filled the space between you, made the distance feel smaller than it was.

You swallowed once, tightening your grip on the strap over your shoulder.

“Have a good night,” you said, voice quiet but steady.

He matched it, tone easy. “You too.”

Your eyes lingered on his face, slow enough to give you away. The sharp angle of his jaw, the line of his nose, the way his lips parted slightly when your gaze dropped to them. A subtle twitch curved the corner of his mouth, like he knew exactly where your thoughts were heading.

Heat curled low in your stomach, thick and undeniable. The air between you thinned. Every inch of space suddenly felt too loud, too charged, too full of the tension you’d spent months pretending wasn’t there.

You felt it in the silence. In the way both of you held still. In the way you waited for the other to break first.

And then—

Fuck it.

You dropped your bag without a second thought, barely hearing it hit the floor. Your hands were already reaching for him, fingers hooking around the back of his neck as you pulled him in fast. 

Your mouth crashed into his like you were mad at him for how good it felt. Like the silence, the glances, the weight of his stare had finally worn you down to this.

Rafe moved just as quick.

The red cup left his hand in an instant, beer splashing out as it hit the floor somewhere behind you. He didn’t look to see where it landed. Didn’t care. His hands were already on you, urgent and greedy, dragging down your back, gripping your waist.

Your fingers twisted in his shirt, mouth parting wider as his tongue slid against yours, deep and rough. His grip on you was bruising, palms locked at your hips like he’d been waiting too long to touch you and wasn’t about to be gentle about it.

The kiss turned desperate—messy, breathless, all tongue and teeth and the sound of shallow breathing between half-formed moans. Every step he took pushed you backward until the back of your legs hit the edge of the bed. His weight pressed you into the mattress, the sheets twisting beneath you until—

You felt it.

Something hard, wedged beneath your back.

You broke the kiss just enough to reach down, fingers brushing over the fabric before closing around it. Your chest tightened the moment you brought it into view.

A phone.

His phone.

Your ex’s.

You hadn’t even noticed it earlier in the mess of the unmade bed.

For a second, neither of you moved. The silence stretched thick between your bodies, the weight of it pressing into your ribs. Then your gaze found his again, a flicker of amusement cutting through the heat. 

Something passed between you. Unspoken. Instant.

Rafe’s eyes dropped to the phone, then back to you, slow and wicked, before a laugh slipped out. 

Then came the smirk. Heavy. Knowing. Like he’d just been handed a gift he wasn’t about to waste.

The air in the room shifted.

Sharper. Dirtier. Meaner in all the right ways.

Without missing a beat, you tilted your head toward the nightstand, voice low.

“There. Prop it against the lamp.”

Rafe didn't ask questions. Didn't hesitate.

He walked over, flipped the phone in his palm, then swiped to the left. The screen lit up instantly, camera open from the lock screen. With one tap, he flipped it to video then pressed record, setting it in place with a casualness that made your skin prickle.

From that angle, your face barely even showed in the frame. But Rafe's? Clear as day. And he didn’t care. If anything, he seemed proud of it.

He turned back to you just as you opened the nightstand drawer.

Your hand reached in, grabbed one of the condoms your ex always kept stashed there. You held it up between two fingers, brows raised in silent question.

Rafe glanced down at it, then up—his eyes dragging over you in one slow pass before a rough, amused laugh slipped out.

“That’s not gonna work,” he said, grin cutting wide. “Too small.”

The jab landed exactly where it was meant to, and you couldn’t help the way your mouth curled. A breathless sound escaped as you tossed the condom across the room without another thought.

Rafe was already leaning in, his mouth catching yours before you could say anything, one hand sliding behind your neck while the other gripped your thigh, pulling you closer.

The kiss turned fast. Messy. His teeth scraped your bottom lip as his tongue pushed deeper. He moved with you, climbing back onto the bed, knees sinking into the mattress as he adjusted his hold. 

You shifted with him, bodies tangling, lips never separating as you both pushed further into the sheets. His hands roamed without pause, sliding up under your shirt, over your stomach, each touch making your breath catch against his mouth.

Your shirt was gone a moment later, pulled over your head and flung somewhere near the pillows. His hands were already moving lower, fingers hooking into the waistband of your shorts and yanking them down, leaving only the thin stretch of your panties behind.

You reached for him next, tugging at the fabric clinging to his chest until he leaned back just enough for you to strip it off. The cotton slid away, revealing muscle and the sharp lines that cut down his stomach. Your fingers trailed over his skin, slow at first, then lower, finding his belt.

Rafe watched you the whole time, smug and silent, while you worked him out of every layer. The buckle clinked under your touch, his pants dragging down his legs before hitting the floor with a thud. His boxers followed, and then he was bare in front of you.

When your gaze dropped, the air caught in your throat.

He was hard already, thick and full, the flushed head slick against his stomach. It sat heavy between you, impossible to ignore, and even harder to forget. You didn’t need to say it—one look and it was obvious.

That condom wouldn’t have stood a chance.

You glanced back up at him, jaw tight with the effort not to react, not to give him the satisfaction. But it was too late. He was already smirking, that same cocky tilt to his mouth that said it all.

Told you so.

His voice came next, low and rough—

“Turn around.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. 

You moved fast, quicker than you ever had in your ex’s bed. Your knees sank into the mattress as you turned to face the headboard, hands bracing against the cool sheets. You arched your back just enough, offering more, and behind you, you heard him exhale through his teeth. The sound was sharp, guttural, and it only made your stomach coil tighter.

Your eyes flicked to the nightstand, to the phone propped perfectly in place. The screen reflected the shape of your body, the silhouette of Rafe moving behind you. His hand slid along your waist, steadying you as the other slipped lower, hooking your panties to the side before he lined himself up.

The head of his cock pressed against your entrance—just barely—before he pushed in hard, burying himself to the hilt.

The stretch of him ripped a broken moan from your throat, your arms buckling under the weight of it. He didn’t give you time to adjust, didn’t pull out slow—just gripped your waist tighter and fucked into you like he meant it.

“Shit,” he groaned, voice roughening against the sound of skin on skin. “I knew you’d be this good. Knew it every damn time you looked at me and didn’t say a word.”

You whimpered into the air, thighs trembling under him, the friction almost too much and the praise making it worse. Your hands scrambled for traction, clutching the sheets, but he held you steady, rhythm merciless.

“You’re taking it so well,” he gritted out, hips pounding into yours. “So fuckin’ good.”

You moaned louder, head dropping forward. Each thrust pulsed through every nerve, your breath stuttering as your body hovered between pain and pleasure, desperate to keep up with him.

“Fuck,” he said, voice sharp now, pitched just enough to carry. His grip on your waist tightened, pulling you back into every stroke. “No wonder you’re so pissed all the time.”

You thought he was talking to you at first—until his next one hit.

“Pussy like this, and you still couldn’t keep her?”

Your brows pulled together. Confused. Caught halfway between breathless and blank. Then your eyes slid sideways—back to the camera.

And there he was.

Rafe.

Looking dead into the lens.

You gasped, the realization crawling up your spine faster than his rhythm. Dizzying. Raw.

He wasn’t talking to you.

He was talking to your ex. No shame. No hesitation.

“I’d be mad too,” Rafe said, voice thick. His eyes stayed locked on the lens, mouth curling into something dark. “Had all this and fucked it up.”

His hips never slowed. Never faltered.

He kept driving into you, hard and wet and ruthless, every thrust hitting deep, every snap of his hips landing like a full-stop.

Like he meant every single word.

Rafe leaned forward, his chest brushing your back, breath hot against your ear.

“Bet he never fucked you like this, huh?”

The words scraped down your spine, low and ragged, grinding straight into the center of you.

A soft, broken sound slipped from your throat as your eyes fluttered shut, jaw going slack. His voice, the snap of his hips against your ass, the wet drag of friction between your thighs—it all filled the room in a way you couldn’t escape.

“All that time he spent whining about me…” Rafe grunted, driving into you harder. “And he couldn’t even make you come right.”

Your moan cracked open at the end, wrecked and raw. “Rafe—fuck.”

“That’s right,” he said, voice rough with grit. “Tell him, pretty. Tell him who’s making you feel this good.”

“Rafe,” you gasped again. “Rafe—please.”

He grinned, dark and full of bite.

“Louder. So he can hear what it sounds like when you’re actually enjoying yourself.”

And you did.

You gave him everything. A cry so loud it tore from your throat, echoing off the walls, wild and broken. The kind of sound no one could mistake for anything else.

The kind of sound anyone standing outside that door would’ve heard.

Rafe’s laugh followed, deep and cocky, dragging straight through your already-raw nerves.

He straightened up behind you, hands slipping down to your hips. Then he pushed you down into the mattress, arching your ass higher. A new angle. A deeper stretch.

And when he drove back in, it hit everything, sending you over the edge.

Your legs shook. Your mouth dropped open. You came with a shudder, the orgasm tearing through you in one long, overwhelming wave.

Rafe fucked you through it, hips pressing into you as your body clenched around him, helpless to the pace. 

He didn’t stop—not really—but the rhythm eventually shifted, slowing just enough to drag every motion out, grinding deeper until your breath hitched. 

His voice came next, thick with control.

“That feel good?”

You moaned, voice wrecked. “Yes.”

He leaned in, chest grazing your back again, his words brushing against your ear.

“Better than him?”

You lifted your head, voice cutting through the noise loud enough for the camera to catch it. The sound that left you was half a moan, half a laugh—mocking and undone all at once.

“So much better.”

Rafe looked straight into the lens, a slow smirk crawling across his lips. No guilt. No apology. Just a man who knew exactly what he was doing, and who he was doing it to.

He didn’t break eye contact with the camera as he buried himself in you over and over, your body jolting with every deep thrust. His fingers dug in harder, holding you in place, forcing you to take every inch. You tried to breathe, to pause, but he didn't let you—not yet.

Because a real fuck didn’t stop at one orgasm.

And your ex?

He was about to learn that the hard way.

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So, on the evening of his 28th day being gone, your nerves are fried within your skin. Completely frayed and undone. Completely destroyed. Mirroring your heart, in a way. 

“He will return, dear. Pay no mind to the number of days he’s been gone,” your mother says after she kisses your temple. She’s been sitting next to you on your bed, arm around your shoulders, comforting you through every silent fallen tear and soft mutter about how much you miss him. 

“It has never been this long,” you whisper. She presses her lips into a thin line and tightens her grip on you. When you were a child and you were this upset, she would pull you into her lap and cradle you for as long as you needed the comfort. Sometimes—especially on a night like tonight—you wish you were still small enough for it. 

“I’m starting to fear the worst.” 

There’s a whimpered little cry that accompanies your confession. It’s almost as if that cry was trying to fight that sentence from leaving you, trying to fight an unintended manifestation of your worst nightmare. All your mother does is chuckle at you and give you a soft squeeze. 

“That boy cannot stay away from you. No matter how hard the gods try to keep him at bay, he will return.” 

You push out a weak little laugh. Your hands find their way to your face so you can wipe your tears away. 

“He is almost as stubborn as his Father,” you offhandedly mumble. Your mother hums. 

“Aren’t they all?” 

With another kiss, this time pressed to the top of your head, she pulls away from you and stands up from your bed. She pats your shoulder and says, “Sleep. You’ll fall ill if you keep worrying over him like this.”

You send her a smile. It’s hardly there. A subtle lift of the corners of your lips. When she’s on her way out of your room, you exchange a set of whispered “I love you”s before everything around you falls silent. Your mother has a beautiful way of silencing your worried thoughts. Now that she’s gone, they’ve returned in full swing. 

How long has he been dead? Did it happen quickly? Did his Father willingly let him walk into death? Had he been prepared for it? Is that why he almost refused to leave you this time, or why he asked you to run away with him? Did he think of you in his final moments? 

Was your name the last thing to grace his tongue before it lost its ability to speak?

Oh, that one is terrible. Selfish and cruel, as a matter of fact. You shake your head and run a hand over your face. With a sniffle and a harsh internal chastising, you scoot back onto your bed and lie down. Your eyes meet the ceiling of your home. The bland, dull white of it is boring enough to put anyone to sleep no matter their mental torment. 

Moments before sleep finally takes you, a gentle breeze brushes over the side of your face and shoots a shiver down your spine. You huff and gently push yourself up onto your elbows. You love your mother more than life itself, but her nasty habit of accidentally leaving your bedroom window open is going to kill you one day. 

When you open your eyes, you see a shape in the corner of your room. A massive, dark shape in the form of a person; your exhausted mind figures it must be some sort of specter. You gasp and lurch forward to run out of your room. The sharp inhale echoes, bouncing off the walls. 

Seconds later, Kal-El’s lunging forward to cover your mouth with one massive hand, attempting to quiet your scream before it can materialize in the first place. 

“Shh! It’s only me!” He laughs quietly to himself and shakes his head. 

“If you want me to stay, I suggest you keep your scream in.” 

You groan against his palm and smack at his broad shoulders with both of your hands. He doesn’t so much as wince, but his smile and the mischievous glint in his eye grows every time a blow lands. When he pulls his hand off of your mouth, you whisper shout, “Are you trying to frighten me to death?!” 

All he does is lean forward and kiss you as a response. You can’t help the fire burning in your cheeks and the smile growing on your lips while he does so. Reuniting with him and all of his infuriating habits always brings you the most joy you’ve ever felt. A kiss so deep, so loving, so filled with his adoration for you usually strikes all of his annoyances away.

When you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him into your bed as you fall back down into it, you both laugh into the kiss. The momentary bliss doesn’t last long, though; he’s too busy pulling away from the kiss and looking down at you. 

“If that happened, I would be the first to venture down to Hades and retrieve you.” 

“Your confidence will be the end of you one day, Kal-El,” you tease. He rolls his eyes. His big, blue, beautiful eyes. They’re just as bright in the moonlight as they are in the sunlight, and yet so much more striking this close up. You allow yourself to drink him in, to reacquaint yourself with his sharp and yet soft, lovely features you could never dream of forgetting. 

“You spend your days complimenting my confidence. I’m convinced it is your job to do so,” he counters while he spreads your legs and settles between them. 

“Confidence may not have been the right word, then. Perhaps I was talking about your stubbornness.” 

That one gets him to scoff at you. 

“Do you really believe I’m as stubborn as my Father?” he asks while kneeling between your legs. It’s an excuse for him to reach up and open your curtains, to let a little more light into your room so he can see you for the first time in a month. You sit up to follow him, interrupting the way his eyes were drinking in your features beneath the blue moonlight. 

“Stop listening to my conversations!” you hiss. “And, anyway, I said you are almost as stubborn as your Father.” 

He huffs. His hands ghost over your arms, slowly dragging up to your shoulders so he can brush your hair off of them. When his warm, calloused palms cradle your cheeks, you soften. Your nerves stitch themselves back together. The aches and pains in your heart dissipate. For the first time in a month, everything feels right. This is where you’re meant to be. This is who you’re meant to be worshipped by. 

You couldn’t possibly be angry with him. Not when he’s returned to you, as he promised he would.

“I missed you.” 

When tears started pooling in your eyes, you’re not sure. But they’re there, and as they slip down your cheeks with those three little words, Kal-El thumbs them away. 

“Words cannot describe how much I missed you. The only thing preventing me from losing my head was knowing each one of my steps brought me closer to you,” he coos in return. He leans down to connect your lips, but only for a moment. When he breaks the kiss again, you fear you’ll go insane. Your hands find their way to his breastplate. Usually, you beg him to rid his body of it. Of any clothing, really. 

But you’re so happy that he’s back here, that he’s finally with you again, that you’d let him keep it on forever if he so pleased. 

“You were away for far too long,” you whine. “I feared you were dead.” 

He chuckles. Shakes his head and pulls back just to look at you, just to drink you in once again. 

“Not even death itself could keep me away from you, my heart.” 

That feeling—that relief—floods your system when, for the first time in five years, he stands in front of you. There’s no smile on his face. No moonlight illuminating his eyes as he glues them to yours. No smile on his lips and no promise that you’ll get to kiss them within only a few seconds. Just a solemn, darkened look in his eyes, and a scowl you’ve never seen before, and a harsh, hardened mask that you’re struggling to read. 

This is still the same Kal-El you grew up with. His face has not changed much. His eyes are still bluer than the sky, and his full lips would probably feel the same on your skin, and his broad shoulders are as commanding as ever. 

And yet he is much different. 

Despite that, your relief and elation persist. They worm their way through your skin, your muscles, your bones. Warm your cheeks and steal your breath from your chest. You’d almost forgotten how to breathe until your body forced you to suck in some of the already electrified air between you two. 

Your voice finds its way back to you when you rasp, “What are you doing here?”

Incredible. The first time you see him in five years, and that’s what your cursed brain and vocal chords spit out. 

Kal-El stays planted in his spot, unflinchingly rigid. Stuck in it, standing just a few steps away from your door, hands twitching at his sides while he continuously balls them into fists and releases them. The rough heave of his chest is visible even in your widened distance. Each rise and fall of it sees the shadows of all the slashes on his worse-for-wear breastplate shifting and growing. 

“Is it too late to receive a prophecy?” he gruffly asks. His voice brings you comfort despite sounding angrier and deeper than it once was. Your head aches, light from your ritualistic fasting and from the dark, low timbre rising from his throat, crossing the distance between you, and floating into your ears. 

You clear your own throat. Swallow once, then twice, just to get the lump out of it enough to reply to him. Steady your knees so that collapsing isn’t an option, so that he won’t be able to run over and save you from cracking your head open on the shaky floor beneath your feet. 

He doesn’t deserve to save you after this long, right?

“The ritual is over, and—and I know you can speak to your Father without my help.” 

He nods. It was more of a bowing of his head. His eyes remain on you. You aren’t sure what he’s about to say, but you know for a fact that you aren’t scared of it. 

Nothing can be worse than the five year silence you’ve endured from him. 

“May I speak to you, then?” 

“Are you not speaking to me now?” you return. A barbed, rough thing that you unintentionally threw his way. It gets his stone-set frown to twitch, the corners of his mouth to tick upward for a split second. Maybe the Kal-El you remember is still in there somewhere. 

“Well played. I missed your quick wit,” he mumbles. He looks down at the floor between you. At the few feet of distance that feel like miles. When he lifts his eyes to meet yours, they shoot a shiver down your spine that only he could conjure. 

He takes one step forward. 

You take one step back. 

“I have a question for you.” 

His voice is still deep, but it’s a little hesitant, now. Not as confident. That backward step of yours must have knocked some of his confidence you love so much away.

“What manner of question?” you inquire. As your chest heaves and your voice trembles, you can’t help but wonder if he’s seeing and hearing that. If he’s sensing your nervousness. If he’s picking up on the adrenaline and exhaustion coursing through your veins. If he still knows you as well as you know him.

“Personal,” he answers. Straightforward and honest. Not as playful as he once was, but still just as curious. 

You press your lips into a thin line. How dare he? 

“You—” you cut yourself off with a scoff and shake your head. After letting out a harsh little pointed laugh, you ball your fists up at your sides and continue. 

“You are out of your mind. You resurface after five years of the darkest, most vindictive silence, and you believe you still have the right to my personal life?”

“I did not believe asking the Oracle a question would cause so much strife. Is it not your life’s calling to answer them?”

“Asking the Oracle a personal question is causing the strife. You should have been here if you were interested in my life.”

He laughs at your venom; venom you feel bad about throwing at him, but venom he’s earned, if you were being honest. You haven’t heard his laugh in what feels like an eternity. It’s a sound that threatens to knock the breath right out of your chest and have you barreling toward him. A sound that might make you throw away all of your hesitations about accepting his apology—if it ever comes. 

“A general question, then?” 

You roll your eyes.

“Very well,” you mumble. Your left hand waves him on while you walk over to your bed. Tries to yank the question out of him just to get it over with. Kal-El shifts on his feet—stumbles just a bit—before he stills and plants himself across your room from you once again. 

He misinterpreted your wave. You weren’t calling him over to your bed, despite the fact that you very much want to. With a gentle clearing of his throat and a soft whisper of your name, he pushes out the question that he mentioned:

“Will you ever trust me again?” 

It hangs in the thick air between you. You answer him first, silently, with a few quick blinks and a rough glare. But your words, angry and hurt, find their way out of your mouth soon after.

“That was your general question?” you viciously quip. “I see that these last five years have turned you into a liar.”

You gnaw on your bottom lip for a moment. Suck in a deep breath before you release it and clench your jaw. You weren’t supposed to get this angry, but how could you have stayed calm? 

“No. I don’t believe I can trust you anymore.” 

His face twitches; a reaction you’ve only seen once before, when you told him what your future held for you and your relationship. He’s taken aback. Shocked. Betrayed. 

How ironic.

He mutters your name once more, a little louder than last time, then says, “I am the same man you once knew.” 

You hold a hand up to silence him when he attempts to continue speaking. It works instantly. He heels like an obedient dog. Despite the fact that your head nearly started spinning from hearing his tongue form your name twice in less than a minute, you push forward.

“You could not possibly be the same man I once knew, because he would not have left me for five years without so much as a single uttered word. My Kal-El would not have done that.” 

You pull your sheets back and sit down on your bed. It’s easier to turn your back to him when you say this, but your head tilts to the left just a bit. Just enough to keep him in your peripheral. 

Your voice returns. Soft. Hesitant. Weak.

“This is the equivalent of a stranger breaking into my bedroom. You may have my Kal-El’s face, but you don’t have his heart.” 

Your head falls at the same time that his does. While you’re too busy looking at the fabric of your dress, fingers picking at the soft weave of it and eyes stinging with bitter, confused tears, you hear him shuffling. Usually steady hands fumbling with something while his footsteps slowly march toward you. What a rare gift it is to hear the footsteps of someone who usually moves in silence. 

What a gift it is to hear him at all. 

When he rounds your bed and enters your view again by standing just in front of you, you can feel his warmth before you see him. Although you refuse to raise your head and meet his eyes, you’re still surrounded by him. Inescapable in body and in mind, apparently. 

But the avoidance of eye contact doesn’t last long, because he reaches down to cradle your jaw and tilt your head up. A shiver runs down your spine, followed by a shockwave through all your nerve endings. The first time he’s touched you in nearly an eternity, and his calloused hands are still as soft in their handling of you as they always were.

His thumb runs over your bottom lip. A soft touch that distracts you from the fact that he’s no longer wearing his breastplate, that his top half is completely bare. That explains all the shuffling you heard behind you. It also explains the heartbeat blooming between your thighs as your eyes not-so-subtly rake over the body you’ve longed for. 

The candlelight you’ve yet to extinguish is falling on him as any light does. Cascading over his skin before seemingly sinking into it. You’d never know he had been through years of battles where he’d almost gotten his life taken from him judging by the innate perfection of his body. No scars. No bruising. No bleeding wounds. 

Simply golden, glowing, and perfect. The pure perfection of a god’s favored child. 

He calls your name again and you force your eyes away from his body. 

“I don’t have his heart?” he softly asks. Then, he kneels in front of you. Now that his face is mere inches from yours, he releases your chin. His eyes flicker from your gaze to your lips. Back and forth. Slow, gentle flits in which his eyelashes are speaking louder than his words. Communicating all of his desires within one simple repetitive motion.

Your breathing hitches in your throat as you feel his fingers slowly, softly curling around your right wrist. His heat is almost unbearable. A once comforting feature of the person you were entangled with now twisted and contorted into a hateful reminder of the past. It radiates off of him and bleeds into your skin, threatening to scorch it beyond repair.

And yet you find yourself leaning into him, almost as though your bodies are magnetic. As if his being is supposed to merge with yours. As if the only way to complete that merge is to press yourself into and against him for all of eternity. 

“You recognize his heart, don’t you?” he questions. He raises one brow as he finally peers directly into your eyes. 

“Would you know it if you felt it?”

When did his face close in on yours enough to feel his breath fanning out over your skin?

You don’t respond with words; just a simple nod of your head. You’re too busy staring into his eyes and trying to control your own breathing, trying to prevent passing out. They’re still bluer than the sky but hiding something deep within them that you can’t place. A secret, probably. He likely has millions of them now.  

He lifts your hand and presses it against his chest, right over the racing heart within his ribcage. The rough, quick, recognizable thump of it makes you whimper. It gets quicker and harder when you whisper his name and shake your head. You want to tear your hand away, want to pull off of his chest and send him away. 

“Is this not the heart you know?” 

A tear slips down your cheek. His other hand immediately rises to your face, cradles it, and thumbs that tear away. Your brain and tongue want to decline him. 

Your heart has other plans.

“Yes,” you admit through a sob. “Yes, it is.” 

He smiles. His heart races beneath your fingers once again. The creases at the corners of his eyes are deeper than you remember, but the brightness within his irises and the beam of his smile are the same. All of it is just as heartbreakingly beautiful as you remember, and although it should feel good, it hurts. 

Just as he’s sliding his hand down from your cheek to your neck and bracing his thumb against your jaw, you shake your head and back away from and push off of him. Skitter backwards and deeper into your bed. 

“You should not be touching me,” you regretfully mumble through the lump in your throat. More regretful words follow a soft hiccup and the frantic wiping away of your tears with the back of your hands. 

“And I should not be touching you. You know as well as I do that this is not permitted.” 

“But—”

“No,” you aggressively cut him off while leaning back on your elbows. Your glare is harsh. Unforgiving, in a way; something you force upon yourself just so that you can make the inevitable of having to turn him away easier on you.

“Why did you come here in the first place?”

He pushes himself up from the floor to kneel on your bed. His knees press into the mattress, tucked between your legs while his hands gently caress them. The feeling of his palms is something you know all too well. All heavy and hot and familiar against your ankles, slowly sliding up your calves before he grips your knees. Before his fingers brush against the bottom hem of your dress. 

Soon enough, his hands fly up to your hips so he can keep you from running any further. 

“Is it not acceptable for me to see you? Is my potential visitation not the reason you chose this very temple to dedicate yourself to?” he aggressively responds. 

You try to push his hands off of you and open your mouth to chastise him for touching you again, but you don’t get far. His grip tightens until it’s almost bruising your hips. You should hate the way it feels. Why don’t you hate the way it feels?

And then someone standing in your still-open doorway speaks, instead. 

The women in the temple fawn over Kal-El unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. It almost makes you regret bringing him to the gathering room in the middle of it instead of stowing him away in your bedroom, but you had no choice. The idiot had left your door open and, as a priestess was walking by in the middle of the night, she happened to see him in your room.

It cut the conversation you were having—and his desperate, topless groveling—short just before he could dive into you.

Now, you’re dealing with a group of priestesses being diminished to a bunch of jittery, lovesick school-girls. Feeding him praises, asking him questions, fawning over everything he does and every gift he displays. 

The worst part of it all? Kal-El seems to love it.

“How strong are you, Kal-El? Is there no limit to what you can lift?” 

“May we see another one of your gifts?”

“Can you really dash across the city in the blink of an eye?”

“Have you always been so handsome?”

That last one has you scoffing. Has you crossing your arms over your chest and smirking to yourself as you fall to the back of the crowd of priestesses. That ought to do a lot for his ego. Or, his confidence, as he refers to it. 

They don’t know that it took him years to grow into his ears. That he wasn’t always so muscular, that he once favored a twig instead of the tree trunk that very same twig fell from. That he used to hide his eyes in conversation by gluing them to the floor because he was too scared to speak to others. That he used to be so shy you thought you’d never hear his voice.

That you loved him despite all of that, and that you still love him.

He’s the complete opposite, now. He looks at all of them and speaks to each person directly. He winks at them. He asks them questions to get to know them a little better, and he acts like he’s surprised at everything they show him within the temple. 

The only thing that’s the same is the way he still loves you.

You let them encircle the man you still love, too. They can have their fun. 

Because, no matter how much they demand his attention, you notice him staring at you. Taking any chance he can get to look at you, to ensure you’re still there, that you’re still looking at him. It’s subtle; the only time he’s ever been subtle in his adult life, perhaps. 

“Does your Father speak to you about us?” one of the newer priestesses asks. You roll your eyes. What a stupid question. There’s a decent possibility that his Father doesn’t even exist, at this point. If that’s the case, you have a few questions to ask him about who was sending him on those tasks so many years ago.

“Oh,” Kal-El mutters through what you know as an awkward laugh, but what they’ll think is a charming, relaxed one. “Of course. He is aware of your dedication and incredibly appreciative of it.”

You cock one eyebrow up. Kal-El’s eyes meet yours as he’s scanning through the crowd. It’s almost as if he can see through them. 

“Liar,” you mouth. 

He winks at you, this time. 

“What brings you to Delphi, Kal-El?” another girl asks. He keeps his eyes on you, although it’s clear that he heard the girl. She’s looking up at him with all the love in the world, and yet all he can do is stare at you. 

“Just visiting an old friend,” he answers without hesitation. It’s annoying how the corners of your lips tick upwards at the sound of it. Some of the girls start barking their questions to him, but they bounce right off of him. 

“An old friend? Are you not visiting for your Father, instead?” you ask above all the voices. He smiles at you. 

“A little of this, a little of that.” His response is nonchalant. Playful. Enough to make your temper from earlier dissipate the tiniest bit. Your brow ticks up in amusement, as do the corners of your lips. 

Another girl steals his attention. 

You turn on your heel and retreat to your room. Sometimes, his light is too much to bear.

When your feet brush over your bedroom’s cold, stony floor, you get rewarded with a shiver shooting up and down your spine. The chill of it is something you never get used to, especially when all you’re accustomed to is warmth. Warmth from the sun. Warmth from Kal-El. 

You sigh as you look down at the altar to Apollo pressed against the foot of your bed.

“Your son will be the death of me and of the girls. Best you collect him now and send him off on a task if you want priestesses here come Spring,” you mutter to a god who isn’t listening. To a god who doesn’t exist, for all you know. 

You round the altar to get to your bed, but the sound of your door opening and shutting makes you punch out an embarrassing little fearful squeak and spin on your heel to see who’s there. You should have known who it’d be. Even though you’d like to delay the inevitable, he barrels into it head first. Of course he does.

Kal-El mutters a soft apology for frightening you, then starts toward your bed. Toward you. When you back away—just like you did earlier—he stops in his tracks.

“Your priestesses seem to like me.”

“They don’t get to meet a half-blood every day. Especially not one descending from their god,” you confess. 

Their god. Not yours.

You don’t want to look up at your god, so you focus on your bed instead. On the feeling of the soft linen beneath your fingertips. The more you look at him, the less likely you’ll be to send him away like you know you must do. 

He hums. Shoots you a smile that you’ve dreamt of seeing for eons. One you can feel even though you’re not looking directly at it. 

“I remember when you once treated me as they do. As though I was exciting to you.” 

You roll your eyes. Couldn’t fight back your own little smirk if you tried, but at least you can keep yourself from looking at him. From falling into him like you desperately want to. 

“Don’t fool yourself. You lost your beautiful, half-blooded luster to me the very first day we met. Do you remember that? When I greeted you and you ran behind your mother?”

“I thought we agreed we would never speak of that!” he tosses back at you. You laugh to yourself.

With a soft clearing of your throat and a few gentle blinks to rid yourself of your suddenly stinging tears, you reply, “Maybe, but…I think of that shy little boy more often than not.”

He says nothing. When you glance at him out of the corner of your eye, you can see the pink dusting over his cheeks, illuminated by the candlelight you’ve yet to snuff out. Kal-El shifts a bit. Shifts as though he’s uncomfortable in his own skin. You choose to continue for him. 

“We agreed on a lot of things that neither of us have upheld, anyway. You have broken your promises, and I have broken mine. That’s just…” 

You pause to let out a sigh. You wave your hand. You finally look at him, and he looks just as broken as you feel. Shoulders slumped. Lips set in a frown. Hands twitching at his sides, balling up then releasing. You’re not happy with the amount of times you’ve seen that in one night.

“I don’t know. Life, perhaps. The horrid whirlwind of life. Of our life.”

Things fall silent for a while as he contemplates his own response—if you can call a maximum of 10 seconds “a while.” He’s always been more of a doer than a thinker. 

“Our life?” 

His voice is quiet, but the look in his eyes is loud. Accusatory. Maybe a little hateful. You’re not accustomed to seeing rage in his eyes—especially not rage being directed at you. But you’ve been here once before. You know what it looks like.

Your face flushes with an unbearable heat. Sharp, prickling, embarrassed tears start welling in the corners of your eyes. Your chest caves in on itself and you let go of your sheets in order to take a single step closer to him.

“No, you misunderstood, I simply meant—”

Your attempt at deflecting falls on deaf ears because he interrupts you. Should have expected that. You said what you said, and his penchant for being headstrong will take it and run with it.

“Do you ever think about what our life would have been like had you not chosen this?” 

You frown, and your rebuttal dies in your throat. The tears that had been pooling in your eyes grow larger and larger until they finally slip down your cheeks. With a trembling bottom lip and a refusal to look at him anymore, you shrug your shoulders.

“No,” you eventually, half-heartedly whisper. A lie that floats over to him and pisses him off. 

“You left me, Kal-El. I stopped thinking about you some time within your five years of silence.” 

That pisses him off more. 

“Your heart has been hammering within your chest from the moment you saw me. Tell me again that you have stopped thinking of me without your heart betraying your tongue,” he seethes. You grumble a few curses beneath your breath. After you ball up your fists at your sides and glare at him, he sends you a glare of his own to match.  

Maybe it’s your subconscious that forces you to close in on him. Some unspoken desire that causes you to storm up to him and give him a rough push on the front of his breastplate. It’s disheartening how all of your strength barely makes him move an inch.

“Perhaps my heart has given me away, but it races when it sees you because I’m reminiscing about the man you once were! The one who never would have left me even though we could not be together!” 

He shakes his head and his face falls. He says nothing, but you can see his jaw ticking over and over again as though he’s chewing on the words he wants to say to you. Why he’s holding them back, you’re not sure—but you don’t give him a chance to expel them, anyway.

“You gave up on us! I made my choice because I still wanted you to be in my life! You ran away like a coward! Like an imposter of your own title!” you shout. 

Every few words are punctuated with rough punches against his chest. Your hands ache, knuckles bruising and breaking open from each repeated impact on his battle-worn breastplate. Hitting him feels like punching a stone wall. 

Worth it.

You pull back once your hands are numb. Your face and knuckles are soaking wet; with tears, with blood, with your steadily bubbling hatred for the man you’ve loved your entire life. As you pace around in front of the altar at the foot of your bed, you berate him more:

“Why do you claim to be a hero? You didn’t save me! You abandoned me when you always promised me you never would! You were the only person I could count on, the only god I believed in, and you left me!”

 It’s as though a dam has broken. You’ve kept these thoughts in for far too long. Lived with them. Let them rot your heart and soul. If he’s here visiting an old friend, doesn’t he deserve an update on how she’s been feeling?

Kal-El punches out a loud, angry groan and closes the distance between you two within the blink of an eye. He covers your mouth with one large palm and wraps his other arm around your waist, something that forcibly stops your frantic movements as you try to wriggle out of his tight, unforgiving hold. 

Any other day, you’d be grateful to have him on you in such a way. But when he’s got you this close, when he’s this angry, and when you can feel the edge of his Father’s altar digging into the back of your thighs and the heat of his body bleeding into yours, you’re not as welcoming to it. 

“I did not abandon you by choice! It was forced upon me!” he booms. 

You still to process his words while you try to rid yourself of the fear of being yelled at by someone stronger than any living being in the world. His palm stays glued to your mouth. Your hands fly up to his exposed biceps. 

He lowers his volume, but he’s still irate when he says, “This abandonment was my attempt at saving you.”

He closes his eyes for a moment. All you can do is blink up at him. To rid yourself of your tears, to clear your line of sight and ensure that this is actually happening. That he’s this close. That you’re not imagining this. That he just said what he said. 

When he reopens his eyes, you have no choice but to look into them. Where else would you look, anyway? Nothing is as appealing as his eyes.

“I know how utterly relentless my Father is to His Oracle,” Kal-El confesses. The low vibration of his voice bleeds through his chest and into yours. Is it wrong that it’s stoking a fire deep in your belly?

“He would have ruined you. These rituals would have driven you mad. He would have used you as a beacon for His voice and torn your body and mind to shreds, and He wanted to tear you apart. He wanted to destroy you.” 

You tense in his arms. Your blood runs cold despite his heat bleeding into you while he holds you like you’ll shatter and disappear if he lets you go. How on Earth are you supposed to go forward with a revelation like that? 

Kal-El smiles at your suddenly widened, worried eyes. It’s weak. A gentle lift of the corners of his lips, one corner going a bit higher than the other like it always does. You see this crooked smile every time you close your eyes. What a blessing it is to see it in person once again.

“You were the only thing that could take me away from Him. Don’t you remember that?”

He sighs, a deep, heavy thing that he expels from his nose. His palm slides off of your mouth so he can cradle your cheek instead. So his thumb can slowly glide back and forth over the soft apple of your cheek and swipe away your tears. As his fingers curl around your jaw and his other hand tightens around your waist again, he mutters, “I obviously couldn’t let Him get His hands on you. He knew I wouldn’t stand for it.” 

“What did you do?” you whisper. A sad—but relieved—little question that you push out from the depths of your chest. At least he stood up for you, right?

“I made a deal with Him,” he answers. His hand falls from your cheek to his own bicep where your hand lies. As your fingers interlock and he gives your hand a squeeze, your heart swells within your chest. This is what your body is made for: Being pressed against and intertwined with Kal-El’s. 

“My silence for His.” 

The confused knitting of your brow makes him laugh to himself. He pauses. Swallows so thickly, so roughly, that you can hear it. 

“He would not acknowledge you as long as I stayed away from you. As long as I continued to do His bidding.”

All of the air leaves your chest in a pathetic, shaky sigh. The truth would have been easier for you to handle if he had simply said he was angry with you for leaving him. The silence, both from Father and son, would have been easier to digest if that was the case.

Instead, you have a man still in love with you and yet barred from being with you, and a god who hates you. 

Poetic.

You finally tear your eyes off of his by leaning forward and pressing your forehead against his left shoulder. It hurts to look at him. It hurts to be close to him, but it hurt even more when he was away. Seems like no matter what happens tonight, you’ll wake up in pain in the morning.

His hand releases yours so he can lift it up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers curling into your hair and gently pulling on it. It’s a soft maneuver; one that earns him a quick glance into your eyes again. You whine. Whether it was from need or exhaustion, you aren’t sure. It might have been both. 

Then, he descends. Presses his forehead against yours, brushes his nose against yours, lets his lips ghost over yours in a way that makes your knees tremble and your nails dig deeper into his biceps. 

“No,” you unconvincingly whisper while you turn your head away. “We can’t. Your Father, He…”

Kal-El ignores your little plea. Ignores his Father, too, when he presses a soft, featherlight line of kisses along your jaw. Before you know it, your body is arching into his; exhibiting a mind of its own, especially when he starts kissing down to your neck.

“He will kill us both,” you quickly mutter. Another whine accompanies your statement as soon as his tongue laves over your pulse point. He hums, ignoring your warning and slipping his hand out of your hair and toward your left hip. His other arm tightens, pulling your hips flush against his. 

“He’ll have, ah—” you cut yourself off with a moan as soon as you feel him suckling on that sensitive spot just below your ear. One he knows well. One he’s spent a lot of time mapping out. 

“Your head! He’ll have your head for defiling His Oracle!” you pathetically squeak out while your hips buck against his. Kal-El shakes that very head that his Father will likely rip off of his body. 

“I think we should let Him watch.” 

His fingers ghost over the hem of your dress where it lays at your mid thighs. He pushes you back further onto the altar belonging to his Father, lays you out on top of it, without caring about the sound of things falling off of it and clattering to the floor.

You’re both going to die. This will certainly seal your fate. 

“Kal-El,” you whisper. He looks up at you as his hands slide further and further up your thighs, fingers curling around the soft flesh of them so he can spread your legs and slot between them. His fingerprints burn into your skin all the same. How you’ve missed that burn.

“We will not survive His wrath if we do this,” you warn him while splaying out on the altar beneath you. The cool stone of it does marvels for your heated skin as it permeates through your thin dress. 

“My wish to spend eternity with you will be fulfilled, then,” Kal-El quips while he pulls back just to rid himself of his clothing. You roll your eyes, but the heat welling in your cheeks and the smile spreading on your lips is unavoidable. That sharp tongue is still the same.

His breastplate being off gives you the ability to touch his body when he returns to you and climbs atop of you on this altar and settles between your legs. You try your best not to focus on his hardened length, on how it’s flush against his stomach because of how big he is, on the way the tip of it is slowly dribbling small, soft white pearls of precum down onto your dress when he’s above you, now.

If you think about it too much, you’ll drool.

As your palms glide up from his abdomen and stomach to his chest, he works on winding your legs around his waist.  

“We can’t do this,” you whimper, nails digging into the soft, fleshy skin of his chest. When you press your hand flat against the left side of it, you find his heart racing beneath your palm.

“Tell me you want me to stop,” he purrs. “Banish me from the temple. From your body.” 

You can’t. You won’t. So you stay silent.

Before you know it, he’s leaning down to press a litany of kisses on your skin. He starts at the corner of your lips, then moves down to your chin and your jaw. Those distracting, sweet little things make it hard for you to notice one of his hands has slipped beneath your dress and is inching up to the soft apex of your inner thigh. 

Your hips raise to his intoxicating touch despite your mouth saying, “This is wrong, Kal-El.” 

He scoffs. When he pulls the thin, wispy excuse of a pair of panties you’ve got on to the side and runs two fingers through your folds, he smiles. Your body jolts but raises again, weak and dizzy and drunk off of him just from this small reuniting of your skin. 

Skin that should have never been separated.

“It seems as though your mouth does not agree with your body,” he coos.

He collects a tiny bit of your seemingly unending wetness before sliding his fingers up to your clit and simply pressing them against the sensitive bud. You squeal and arch your back into him, your clothed chest pressing against his bare one. 

Why on Earth has he not taken this dress off of you?

Maybe he can read your thoughts, because not even a second later, he takes his hand out from beneath your dress and grabs onto the neckline of it where it sits just above your breasts. It’s an illusionary soft touch, though, because within the blink of an eye, he’s ripping that dress in half in only a few rough pulls and exposing your bare upper body to him. 

You gasp in shock, but your cunt flutters around nothing and you push out a moan you didn’t even know you had in you. 

“If you are my Father’s Oracle, and I do His bidding, do I not have a right to defile this body?” he asks, dipping his head down and kissing your neck and chest. His stubble scratches over your skin, roughness that overtakes each tender kiss, and has you bucking your hips up in a desperate attempt to meet his once more. 

Then his wicked fingers return to and start circling your clit; the movement is gentle and slow, lacking any of the force you need to actually finish. You keen and shake your head, wrapping your arms around his neck and tangling your fingers in his thick, curly hair. Those curls are much longer than they was all those years ago when you last clung onto them for dear life while he brought you to the light. 

A rough tug on them has him picking his head up and detaching his lips from your skin. He shoots you a charming little wink. Something to remind you this is the same Kal-El you’re dealing with despite his rougher, more frantic touches. 

“Although,” he lowers his head just a bit, lips brushing over the shell of your ear as he whispers, “I recall you calling me your god.” 

With a smirk on his lips and honey in his deep, tempting voice, he purrs, “So perhaps I’m taking what’s rightfully mine. That would make you my Oracle. My priestess. I’m taking what belongs to me.” 

You couldn’t stop your eyes rolling back into your head if you tried. Oh, how you’ve missed this filthy mouth and these skilled fingers. 

You tug on his hair again and punch out an embarrassingly loud moan, your hips gently chasing each circle he draws on your clit. Kal-El replaces his fingers with the pad of his thumb, continuing the circles as he slowly pushes those two fingers inside of your weeping, messy cunt. 

The sting from the stretch of his fingers forces a yelp from your throat. Your legs twitch around his waist and you attempt to squeeze your thighs together, but to no avail. He’s too broad between your legs. Too big. Too heavy. 

You try to skitter away. Try to pull back yourself back. But he’s got a tight grip on your waist with that other hand; one that keeps you still, one that squeezes your hip and pins you down beneath him.

He kisses your cheek and sets a soft, steady pace when he begins pumping his fingers in and out of you. 

Kal-El pulls back to look you in the eyes. It’s hard to resist him when he’s knuckle-deep in your severely neglected cunt and cooing, “Rest your tired body. It’s been far too long since someone’s taken care of you, hasn’t it?” 

With tears pooling in your eyes and an inability to look away from him, you nod. You cling to him, tightening your arms around his neck so you can pull yourself up and press your lips against his. The kiss is frantic. Hot and heavy. Clicking teeth. Clashing tongues. Five years’ worth of anger, of hatred, of longing and lust—all coming to the surface. 

You moan when he softly bites and tugs on your bottom lip. After it snaps back into place, you giggle and try to kiss him again, but you’re too busy falling back down onto the altar and crying out in pleasure, instead. He’s started to curl his fingers deep inside of you after each soft thrust of them, brushing up against that soft spot that always makes your thighs shake and your head spin. He remembers your body almost better than you already know it.

“That’s it,” he whispers through kiss-swollen lips and a prideful smile as he gazes down at you. “Let me take care of you.” 

“You must stop,” you brokenly whimper, hips squirming and stomach tightening more and more with each swipe of his thumb over your clit and thrust of his fingers into your cunt. It’s not like you want him to stop; not when you’re this close, not when you’ve missed him for this long. But maybe if it seems like you’re protesting this, you won’t be punished as harshly. 

“Just a bit longer, my heart,” he coos. You melt immediately. Tears slip down your cheeks as you arch off of the altar pressing into your back. My heart. That affectionate name hasn’t been spoken to you in ages, and yet it still sounds exactly the same. Reverent. Sweet. Caring. You must be dreaming.

Except you very much aren’t. Kal-El’s still moving his fingers and drawing soft circles on your clit with his thumb. He’s still pressing kisses into your skin as though he’s praying into it, his lips brushing against your collarbones, his teeth marking your now exposed skin as he trails down to your breasts and eventually sucks your right nipple into his mouth.

You curse. You dig your nails into his bare shoulders and claw down the broad expanse of his back. You cry out his name. Then you come so hard that there are stars in your vision, that your body is uncontrollable beneath his, and that you’re gushing around his fingers and dripping down onto the altar beneath you. 

Kal-El pulls off of your nipple with a pop, but he continues working your clit to help you ride out your orgasm. He kisses you, then. Slow and sweet with a gentle glide of his tongue against your bottom lip. As he slips his tongue into your mouth, you slide one of your hands down his chest, abdomen, and stomach, fingers brushing against his toned body so you can reorient yourself with him. 

“Tell me who you belong to,” Kal-El whispers against your mouth when he breaks the kiss and pulls his fingers out of you. His hips buck as soon as you wrap your hand around his cock and give it a few gentle, teasing pumps. The breathy little moan he pushes into you is enough to get you to come again. 

“You know it has always been you,” you whisper back. You guide the tip of his cock to your cunt and allow him to glide it through your folds. The fleeting contact on the sensitive little bundle of nerves with each roll of his hips makes you whine and squirm, but he wraps one arm around your waist to still you and continues moving. He shudders. Then whimpers. 

“Say it again. Who do you belong to?” he gruffly commands. It’s always been cute to you when he tries to steel himself as he’s falling apart.

He punctuates that question by pushing the tip of his cock into your dripping cunt, and your breath hitches in your throat. You manage to expel it when he buries himself in you to the hilt with no resistance, but it’s only because his size knocks all of the air out of your lungs. 

“You! I belong to you!” you keen. Your head meets the altar beneath you, fully tossed back and eyes squeezed shut as he nearly splits you in half. He nods despite his face slipping down and being buried in your neck. As he pulls his hips back and slowly pushes them back in to meet yours, you cry out in some sort of mix of pleasure, pain, despair, and happiness. 

Kal-El groans, eyes lidded and chest heaving. The twitch of his cock against your walls tells you he’s already close. He was right when he said it’s been far too long.

You remember this ache, this burn, this stretch all too well. The further Kal-El dives into your cunt, the more convinced you are that he’s in your stomach. That he’s trying to become one with you judging by how deeply he’s buried in you, how his arms are tightly locked around your waist, how every inch of his skin is on yours. If your bodies could meld together, he’d have figured out how to do it by now.

“You’re all mine,” he breathes into your skin between hot, open-mouthed kisses on your neck and each moan that tumbles from his lips. He pushes himself up onto one hand so he can peer down at you. The other hand slips away from your waist so he can grab your chin and force you to look at him. You do as he wants, although it’s through lidded eyes and teary, blurred vision. 

“Denounce my Father on His own altar. Tell Him who your real god is,” Kal-El demands, voice low and deep and hateful—but not towards you. Towards the god you’re supposed to worship. Towards the Father you both have nothing but disdain for. 

What else are you supposed to do? Deny the truth?

“You’re my god,” you confess while you squirm under the intensity of his gaze. High-pitched and breathy and desperate, but it’s the full truth. Always has been. Always will be. 

“That’s right. I’m your god,” he growls, cocky and full of himself and somehow hotter than he’s ever been.

He smiles down at you. Odd to see that big, beautiful, crooked grin when he’s spewing nothing but filth out of his mouth, but that makes him all the more enticing. He rolls his hips against yours a few times. The tip of his length bumps against your cervix and has your body recoiling from the shock, but only seconds later, you belt out your loudest moan of the night.

“I love you,” Kal-El professes just as his thrusts get a little sloppy. As his hand meets your waist and his fingers leave a few dark marks on your left hip from his rough grip. As he desperately tries to hold back a whimper from the tight squeeze of your fluttering walls—and fails.

You work up just enough strength to lift your head and squeak out, “I love you.” 

A gentle repetition of his own words. 

Something that floats up to him, has him flushing a soft pink, and leaning down to press your lips together. 

“May I ask why you returned after so long?” you softly inquire. 

Kal-El shifts beneath you. Stiffens and tightens his hold on your waist before he gently shrugs. He presses a soft kiss on your temple and tugs your blankets up and over your shoulders.

“Something told me you needed me.” 

You huff against his neck and your eyes flutter shut. You brand a smile into his skin the same way that he’s branding his fingerprints into yours.

“I’ve needed you every day for the last five years, Kal-El,” you mumble against the side of his neck. He chuckles. His fingers, much gentler than earlier, glide up and down your back. A soft, repetitive drag that makes it harder and harder for you to stay awake. 

“I saw your father upon my arrival in Delphi, and I took that as a sign.”

You smile again. Your hand slides up to his chest and your palm presses over the left side of it. The thump of his heart is slow and steady. Likely the last bit of comfort you’ll have before sunrise. 

“He warned me you were here. He still does not like you.” 

Kal-El laughs at you. You furrow your brow and sneak a peek up at him. 

“It isn’t a laughing matter.” 

“It is,” he hums against your lips when he leans forward to kiss you. “Because my Father still does not like you. All of the cards are stacked against us.” 

You groan and pull away from him. Your head gently smacks against the bare skin of his chest as you bury your face into it. 

“What will we do?”

He could probably sense the worry in your shaky voice. Because, when he gives you a squeeze, tangles your legs together, and kisses your head for what seems like the thousandth time tonight, he remains calm to combat your fright. 

“Whatever it is, we will do it together, my heart.”

He stood behind you at the edge of the bed, driving into you over and over while you pushed right back, keeping pace without needing to be told. His hands locked around your hips, pulling you onto his cock as your body bounced against him with every thrust. He felt each impact through his grip, but all of his attention remained fixed on the movement beneath him.

Your panties only made everything impossible to ignore. The lace thong stayed crooked across one side of your ass, stretched tight where it still clung to you and twisted where he’d shoved it aside. Each stroke tugged the fabric a little higher, the thin strip shifting against your skin every time you took him deep again.

And you kept doing it. 

Meeting him thrust for thrust. Taking every hard snap of his hips and sending your own back for the next one, making it worse. Better. Harder for him to remember there was a camera pointed at either of you. Clark watched as you arched your back for him, leaning forward until your chest pressed deeper into the mattress, opening yourself up for another hard pass. Then another. Your ass lifted higher beneath his hands like you were giving him more room to fuck you, and something about the sight of it made him sink into the moment completely.

His grip tightened around your hips first, fingers digging in as he pulled you back onto his cock. Then one hand lifted.

The first smack cracked through the room. Your ass jolted beneath his palm while his cock stayed buried inside you, the impact making everything move around him. Clark watched it happen, watched the soft recoil of your body, the way your back dipped a little lower like the sting had only made you want more.

So he did it again.

Another sharp slap landed across the same cheek, louder this time. Your body jumped beneath his hand, but your rhythm never faltered. You only pushed back onto him harder, pulling a groan from his chest. Clark did it again without slowing, his palm coming down as your hips kept working against his.

Every reaction pulled him deeper into it. The louder you got, the harder he fucked you, and the harder he fucked you, the more your body gave back. It built between you, each response feeding the next until the control he usually kept so firmly in place started slipping.

His fingers bit into your hips as he drove into you faster, each motion pulling another sound from you until one hand left and caught the lace bunched across your ass. He wound it around his fist and pulled it taut, drawing your thong higher before using it to pull you back onto him. The next one landed heavier, and so did the one after that, each pull bringing your ass straight into his hips while he pushed forward to meet you. 

Your voice climbed with the pace, each sound coming quicker as your back arched farther and your thighs tensed beneath you. Still, you kept pushing back, kept taking him, even as the pressure building inside you started to ruin your rhythm.

Clark could feel how close you were in the way you kept tightening around him, gripping harder every time he yanked you back by the lace and buried himself again. And knowing it only made him lose more of that control. His thrusts got deeper, harsher, each one knocking another sound out of you while his fist stayed twisted tight in your thong. He kept dragging you back and pounding into you without easing up, your body winding tighter around him until every stroke pushed you closer to the edge.

He thought the sight before had been bad enough, damning even, but now he knew better. Clark was so caught up in the way your body met his—the way your ass lifted for him, making the fabric bite into your skin as more of it disappeared into his fist—that he almost missed the way your sounds started changing. They pitched higher, grew messier, breaking apart with every movement between you. Then your back arched differently. Your ass snapped back hard against him once before your rhythm broke, stuttering against him as your thighs went tight and started shaking.

You came around him like that, crying out while your pussy clamped down hard enough to pull a ragged breath from him. Still, he didn’t stop. Didn’t miss a single beat. The lace strained across your hips as your body jerked beneath him. Every time you pushed back or tried to move with the force of your orgasm, he pulled you closer without realizing it, keeping you right there on his cock while he drove into you again. He wasn’t thinking about the fabric anymore. Wasn’t thinking about how far he’d stretched it or how much pressure he was putting on it.

He was thinking about the way you sounded. The way your ass kept trying to meet him even while your legs shook. The way you kept squeezing around him, wet and tight and still taking every hard thrust he gave you. Every pulse around his cock dragged him closer until his own movements started getting rougher, less controlled, his hips slamming into you while your orgasm kept working through your body.

Then he pulled you back onto him again, harder than before.

Snap.

The lace gave in his fist, the sound cutting clean through everything before a little yelp jumped out of you. But even then, you didn’t stop fucking him. Your hips kept working, pushing back onto his cock with the torn fabric hanging loose around you, and that was enough to send him over.

Clark started to come with a rough, broken groan, his fist tightening around what was left of your thong as you kept fucking yourself back onto him. His hips lost whatever rhythm had been left, chasing the feeling instead as your body kept meeting every desperate rut. Somewhere in the middle of it, he swore he apologized. Thought he managed a strained, “Sorry,” but it was hard to tell when the word disappeared beneath your sounds and the relentless movement of your hips.

It nearly took him under completely before he remembered the scene. Remembered what he was supposed to do. More through sheer luck than any real will of his own, he slipped free at the last possible second, one hand keeping you steady while the other wrapped around his cock and stroked him through the rest of it.

His groans came out loud and unrestrained as thick, hot cum spilled over your ass. There was more than either of you expected. Some landed higher across your lower back while the rest gathered over the curve of you and slowly slipped toward the torn lace at your hips. The camera moved in close behind you, catching every filthy trace he’d left on your skin. You stayed arched on the mattress, still trying to catch your breath, while Clark stood over you with his chest heaving, eyes fixed on your ass like even now, after everything, he still hadn’t seen enough.

© anon-188 - est. 2025 | all writing, layouts, and designs are my original content. please do not repost, copy, translate, or recreate my work in any form.

a/n: it's been so long, guys, i'm so sorry. i'm working through my drafts this weekend, so hopefully i can post some more soon. also, not sure how i feel about this one lol. either way, i hope you guys enjoy <3

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It started as an ordinary crush. Everyone had a crush on Superman, right? That was what you kept telling yourself every time your mind wandered back to his smile, the dimples that came with it, his voice, the little curl that always seemed to fall perfectly against his forehead. It was harmless... normal. Practically expected, in a sense.

That explanation became less convincing when you thought about the way the suit fit him, how it showed the shape of everything. And you did mean everything. Your eyes were particularly drawn to certain pieces. Pieces you kept to yourself when people asked what you were thinking about, because what were you supposed to say? That his arms looked obscene in that blue? That his thighs looked even worse? That those red briefs fit too damn well for something everyone was just expected to casually ignore?

Right.

So when people asked, you stuck to the basics. Kept it simple. When Lois mentioned Superman and yet another rescue, you gave something polite, something normal, something that made you sound like a decent citizen and not a woman quietly losing a fight against her own imagination. When Jimmy talked him up, you dulled everything down and smiled, nodding along like you hadn’t already looked at the photo he was describing three separate times. Cat tried her luck more than anyone, of course, always watching your face a little too closely when she mentioned how good Superman looked on camera, how the lens loved him, how some men were just built to be looked at.

But you didn’t fold. You just shrugged, kept your expression clean, and said, “Yeah, the camera works for him." Some watered-down version of what you were actually thinking.

Clark noticed too. 

Not like the others. No, his revelation was far more accurate. You two weren’t exactly friends or anything, but you had worked on a few pieces together, which meant late nights, long drafts, shared coffee runs, and him becoming well acquainted with you whether he meant to or not. He knew your crush on Superman went far past what you let people see. Knew that your body had its own reaction reserved specifically for him. Well, not him. The other him. And at a certain point, that distinction was starting to drive him crazy.

Like today.

The bullpen had gathered around for the latest clip of Superman, everyone’s attention fixed on the screen while yours looked almost too controlled. Soft interest. Casual smile. The right amount of impressed, muted just enough to pass as normal. But Clark’s attention was nowhere near the screen. It was on you. While your mouth said something kind and sweet whenever Superman was mentioned, he heard how fast your heart was beating under it. Heard the slight change in your breathing when Cat said the suit looked good from a specific angle. Caught the small shift of your legs when Superman looked into the camera and answered the reporter directly, voice calm, steady, painfully familiar.

That one stirred something in him. Something he covered with a quick clearing of his throat, eyes dropping to the papers in his hand like they suddenly required all of his focus.

But then Superman laughed in the clip. Just a low, easy laugh at something the reporter said, nothing dramatic, nothing meant to be anything at all, and Clark heard you let out something that almost wasn’t a sound. Half sigh, half something else, something that would have been far more dangerous if it had come out any harder.

That little slip of breath hit him harder than he expected. 

Right below the belt. 

Not that you hadn’t already been working your way into his system, because you had. Slowly. Quietly. In little ways he could pretend not to notice until pretending stopped working. But this was getting harder to ignore. You were there now, wedged somewhere between Clark’s curiosity and Superman’s pride, reacting to a version of him you didn’t know was sitting three desks away, listening to every sound you tried to hide.

All of it dragged something up in him he had no business letting loose. Something possessive. Something too pleased. Something he was fighting like hell to keep quiet.

It took everything in him not to look at you for the rest of the day. 

And every day after that.

It had been no more than a week since you had nearly moaned in front of the entire bullpen. Superman came on the screen and you nearly did too.

What were you thinking?

It had been an involuntary response, something you usually only let happen in the quiet of your apartment where no one was around to witness it. No reporters, or editors, or Cat watching your face like she was waiting for it to tell on you. It was just something about his laugh, the tenor of it, the way it rolled out deep and warm, paired with that slight tilt of his head. Oh, and the hung smile. That too. The one that sat on his mouth a second too long and landed right between your legs before it reached anywhere else.

Jesus, you were down bad.

You knew that. Denial wasn’t even worth the effort at this point. Superman was part of your job as much as he was part of your thoughts, no matter how incoherent those thoughts became when they showed up. You had sworn to yourself that you would at least try to tone it down. That he didn’t need to consume every corner of your mind. That you were a grown woman with responsibilities, deadlines, and at least some self-respect left.

Unfortunately, only the logical part of your brain got the memo.

He had already broken your focus twice just this morning. Once while you were getting ready for work, toothbrush in hand, staring at your reflection while your mind wandered straight back to him for absolutely no productive reason. The brushing session went on far longer than necessary, your eyes unfocused, toothpaste nearly sliding down your wrist before you finally snapped out of it.

And again in the Daily Planet elevator, purse tucked under your arm, trying to look normal while your brain decided that 8:42 in the morning was the perfect time to replay the exact sound of Superman’s laugh. You nearly missed your floor completely, only snapping back when Clark Kent, of all people, glanced over from beside you and said, soft and polite, “This is you.” You blinked, looked at the glowing floor number, and stepped out too fast with a quick, “Right. Thanks.”

Yeah, embarrassing enough, but it didn’t stop there. 

Not long after you settled in at your desk, breaking news echoed throughout the bullpen, grabbing everyone’s attention. Especially yours. There he was, flying through dust and debris, catching pieces of towering buildings like they weighed nothing. You figured the montage would be over soon, that you could will your way through it for just a few more seconds, keep your face neutral, keep your breathing normal, keep your eyes from lingering anywhere they had no business lingering in a room full of people.

But then you heard his voice.

He was talking after saving a burning building while simultaneously fighting another alien invasion in the city, because apparently one crisis wasn’t enough. All smoke and wreckage around him, the streets torn up behind him, the sky still half-lit with whatever had just been trying to kill everyone. He had a few smudges across his skin, dark streaks near his cheek and jaw, his hair curly but messy in that way where you could tell this hadn’t necessarily been an easy feat for him. Still, he got it done. Of course he did. And unfortunately for you, he looked damn good after doing it.

That image of him stuck with you all day, well into lunch. Normally you’d sit with Lois and Cat, let Cat bait you, let Lois talk through the latest lead, pretend you were functioning like a normal person. But today you had “so much work” and you were just “too busy.” The first half was a lie, but the second half was relatively true. You were too busy.

With Superman.

You sat at your desk, pen and notebook suddenly becoming less like paper mates and more like partners in crime as you started writing. Ignoring Superman’s presence as it radiated through your body wasn’t doing you any good. If anything, it only made it worse. The more you tried not to think about him, the more your mind supplied the details anyway. The smudges on his skin. The mess of his hair. The way his voice had sounded after the fight, steady but rougher, like the city had pulled something out of him and he still had more to give. 

So your best solution? Write it out. Maybe if you gave the thoughts somewhere to go, he’d go with them. Maybe felt like a high-risk, low-reward situation, but you were desperate enough to try.

Clark, on the other hand, had been working through revisions for your most recent piece together. Nothing too crazy, just a few additions that would support the notes you’d give him later. Easy work. The kind of work he could usually get through without much trouble. 

And perhaps that had been the problem.

It didn’t take much for Clark’s focus to drift away to its new favorite spot—you. His back was to you, your desk set behind his, and from what he could hear, you were having a pretty productive day. Your pen moved across the page in smooth, steady strokes, pausing here and there before starting again. He assumed they were revision notes at first, something detailed enough to help the piece, something that almost pushed his attention back to his own screen.

Almost.

Just when his mind started to drift away, he heard the telltale signs. Your heartbeat picking up, your breath cutting in shorter intervals, quiet enough that no one else would notice but clear enough to him that ignoring it became its own kind of effort. He heard the shift of your legs, crossing and uncrossing twice beneath your desk like you couldn’t quite get comfortable. But more than that, your writing had changed.

The pressure. The shift from a smooth glide to the sharper scratch of pen against paper. The stroke of each letter becoming so specific, so weighted, that he could make out most, if not all, of what was being written.

—that’s the part I can’t seem to get out of my head. Always so big, like it’s too much until it isn’t—

Clark’s fingers slowed over his keyboard.

He had picked up on the rhythm some time ago, from the hours you’d spent working side by side. And no, it wasn’t intentional. It had happened gradually, built through marked-up pages, half-finished articles, and too many notes passed back and forth. He knew the way you wrote when you were focused. Knew the difference between a quick note, a revised sentence, a thought you crossed out before it could finish.

This wasn’t any of that.

I keep thinking about how it would feel to let him spread me open with those hands.

Clark went still.

The sentence formed clearly enough that his breath caught before he could stop it. For one second, he told himself to stop. That this was wrong. That he shouldn’t be listening just because he could. He was raised better than that. 

That one tugged at that Boy Scout conscience of his, just enough to have him start pulling his attention back.

Then your pen moved again.

S-u-p-e-r-m-a-n.

He couldn’t have ignored that even if he tried. His attention snapped right back to where it had no business being, caught on the scratch of your pen, the weight behind each word, the small breaks in your breathing as the page filled. Every piece of it gave you away, telling him exactly what state you were working yourself into.

You wrote about wanting him all the time. About wanting Superman’s body over you, in you, around you. About how badly you wanted to know if he’d fuck like you imagined he would. About how you didn’t think once would be enough.

The more your thoughts sharpened, the more your body reacted. Your heartbeat had gone fast enough now that it wasn’t even subtle to him anymore. Your breathing kept catching, then evening out, then catching again, like every line was pulling another reaction out of you. He was tuned into all of it, too tuned in, and by the time he realized how bad it had gotten, it was already too late.

He was hard.

Not gradually. Not with any warning he could pretend he missed. One second he was fine, or close enough to pass for it, and the next he wasn’t. It hit all at once, a sharp drop into want that had his whole body going tense around it, leaving him straining beneath the desk, trying not to shift, trying not to make it worse.

His jaw tightened. 

And you just kept writing.

You started with his mouth, then his hands, then yours, your thoughts slipping straight to what it would feel like to take Superman between your lips. About how good it would feel to get on your knees for him first, to feel him against your tongue, to see if he was as big as you’d been imagining every time the camera caught the front of that suit from the right angle.

That was bad enough.

Then Clark’s brain supplied the rest.

Your mouth wrapped around him. Warm and wet, lips stretching around the tip before taking more. Your tongue gliding over him slowly, tasting, teasing, making him feel every inch of it before you let him deeper. The thought of you doing that little sigh he’d heard before—the one that caught low in your throat and turned into something closer to a moan once it slipped free—sent another pulse of heat straight through him.

Behind him, your chair creaked.

The sound was small, but to him it might as well have been a confession. You shifted in your seat, trying to move the pressure somewhere else, trying to get comfortable while your pen kept scratching across the page, and Clark heard the next thought almost as clearly as if you’d said it out loud.

You wrote about riding him. About how you’d feel him everywhere. How you’d have to take him slow at first, because he’d be too much to just drop onto, even if all you’d want to do was bounce on him the second he let you. About how your body would work have to work around his size, how you’d sit on him inch by inch and then lose your mind once you finally had all of him.

That image hit harder.

He saw it immediately. You on top of him, thighs spread over his lap, riding him slow, just like you wrote, trying to adjust before the need won out. Then faster. Harder. Your body lifting and dropping, bouncing on his cock as your hands gripped his shoulders or maybe braced against his chest. Your tits moving with the rhythm. The way your face would change once it started feeling too good to hide—

How tight and warm you’d feel taking him.

That was the one.

Clark’s whole body locked around it, a soft, involuntary grunt catching in his throat as he came.

His fingers curled against the edge of his desk, the force of his release hitting hard enough to leave him tense beneath it, but quiet enough for him to bury the sound under the scrape of his chair as he shifted in his seat. His other hand moved a second later, reaching for nothing in particular, just something to make it look like he was adjusting, like he hadn’t just lost himself at his desk over the sound of you wanting Superman.

The movement caught your attention, pulling you out of your thoughts. Your pen paused mid-thought as the reality of where you were settled back in far too late. Work. The bullpen. Deadlines. Actual responsibilities, unfortunately. You blinked down at the notebook, shut it a little too fast, then reached for the folder sitting beside your keyboard like that had been your plan all along.

Clark heard you stand. Heard you coming toward him too, of course, which only made him sit a little straighter. Too straight, probably, but he couldn’t help it. His hand lifted to his mouth, fingers resting there in a passable attempt at concentration.

Every sense he had was still tuned to you, tracking the distance as it closed, the faint shift in your breathing, the soft rustle of the folder in your hand. He forced his eyes to stay on the screen, even though not a single word made it through.

“Hey,” you said when you reached his desk, holding it out to him. “I meant to give this to you earlier. It’s just the notes for the revision.”

Clark turned enough to take it, but not enough to really look at you. He couldn’t trust himself with that yet.

His fingers brushed the edge of the folder as he took it from you.

“Thanks,” he said.

You gave him a small, apologetic look. “Sorry. I’ve been a little distracted today.”

Clark heard your heart jump at the word distracted. Just a quick, telling little stutter beneath everything else. Unfortunately, his body had a similar reaction, sharp enough to make his grip tighten around the folder as he kept his eyes on his screen.

You didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe you were too caught in your own embarrassment to look too closely.

He kept his face steady. Well, at least tried to. Then you made it worse.

“I wish I could focus like you,” you added.

Clark let out something close to a laugh, but it barely made it there. A strained huff, half-hearted at best, paired with a nod that probably looked more convincing than it felt. 

“Yeah,” he said, because it was the safest thing he had.

You smiled, still oblivious, and turned to walk away.

Focused.

That was one word for it.

© anon-188 - est. 2025 | please do not repost, copy, translate, or recreate my work in any form.

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It started as an ordinary crush. Everyone had a crush on Superman, right? That was what you kept telling yourself every time your mind wandered back to his smile, the dimples that came with it, his voice, the little curl that always seemed to fall perfectly against his forehead. It was harmless... normal. Practically expected, in a sense.

That explanation became less convincing when you thought about the way the suit fit him, how it showed the shape of everything. And you did mean everything. Your eyes were particularly drawn to certain pieces. Pieces you kept to yourself when people asked what you were thinking about, because what were you supposed to say? That his arms looked obscene in that blue? That his thighs looked even worse? That those red briefs fit too damn well for something everyone was just expected to casually ignore?

Right.

So when people asked, you stuck to the basics. Kept it simple. When Lois mentioned Superman and yet another rescue, you gave something polite, something normal, something that made you sound like a decent citizen and not a woman quietly losing a fight against her own imagination. When Jimmy talked him up, you dulled everything down and smiled, nodding along like you hadn’t already looked at the photo he was describing three separate times. Cat tried her luck more than anyone, of course, always watching your face a little too closely when she mentioned how good Superman looked on camera, how the lens loved him, how some men were just built to be looked at.

But you didn’t fold. You just shrugged, kept your expression clean, and said, “Yeah, the camera works for him." Some watered-down version of what you were actually thinking.

Clark noticed too. 

Not like the others. No, his revelation was far more accurate. You two weren’t exactly friends or anything, but you had worked on a few pieces together, which meant late nights, long drafts, shared coffee runs, and him becoming well acquainted with you whether he meant to or not. He knew your crush on Superman went far past what you let people see. Knew that your body had its own reaction reserved specifically for him. Well, not him. The other him. And at a certain point, that distinction was starting to drive him crazy.

Like today.

The bullpen had gathered around for the latest clip of Superman, everyone’s attention fixed on the screen while yours looked almost too controlled. Soft interest. Casual smile. The right amount of impressed, muted just enough to pass as normal. But Clark’s attention was nowhere near the screen. It was on you. While your mouth said something kind and sweet whenever Superman was mentioned, he heard how fast your heart was beating under it. Heard the slight change in your breathing when Cat said the suit looked good from a specific angle. Caught the small shift of your legs when Superman looked into the camera and answered the reporter directly, voice calm, steady, painfully familiar.

That one stirred something in him. Something he covered with a quick clearing of his throat, eyes dropping to the papers in his hand like they suddenly required all of his focus.

But then Superman laughed in the clip. Just a low, easy laugh at something the reporter said, nothing dramatic, nothing meant to be anything at all, and Clark heard you let out something that almost wasn’t a sound. Half sigh, half something else, something that would have been far more dangerous if it had come out any harder.

That little slip of breath hit him harder than he expected. 

Right below the belt. 

Not that you hadn’t already been working your way into his system, because you had. Slowly. Quietly. In little ways he could pretend not to notice until pretending stopped working. But this was getting harder to ignore. You were there now, wedged somewhere between Clark’s curiosity and Superman’s pride, reacting to a version of him you didn’t know was sitting three desks away, listening to every sound you tried to hide.

All of it dragged something up in him he had no business letting loose. Something possessive. Something too pleased. Something he was fighting like hell to keep quiet.

It took everything in him not to look at you for the rest of the day. 

And every day after that.

It had been no more than a week since you had nearly moaned in front of the entire bullpen. Superman came on the screen and you nearly did too.

What were you thinking?

It had been an involuntary response, something you usually only let happen in the quiet of your apartment where no one was around to witness it. No reporters, or editors, or Cat watching your face like she was waiting for it to tell on you. It was just something about his laugh, the tenor of it, the way it rolled out deep and warm, paired with that slight tilt of his head. Oh, and the hung smile. That too. The one that sat on his mouth a second too long and landed right between your legs before it reached anywhere else.

Jesus, you were down bad.

You knew that. Denial wasn’t even worth the effort at this point. Superman was part of your job as much as he was part of your thoughts, no matter how incoherent those thoughts became when they showed up. You had sworn to yourself that you would at least try to tone it down. That he didn’t need to consume every corner of your mind. That you were a grown woman with responsibilities, deadlines, and at least some self-respect left.

Unfortunately, only the logical part of your brain got the memo.

He had already broken your focus twice just this morning. Once while you were getting ready for work, toothbrush in hand, staring at your reflection while your mind wandered straight back to him for absolutely no productive reason. The brushing session went on far longer than necessary, your eyes unfocused, toothpaste nearly sliding down your wrist before you finally snapped out of it.

And again in the Daily Planet elevator, purse tucked under your arm, trying to look normal while your brain decided that 8:42 in the morning was the perfect time to replay the exact sound of Superman’s laugh. You nearly missed your floor completely, only snapping back when Clark Kent, of all people, glanced over from beside you and said, soft and polite, “This is you.” You blinked, looked at the glowing floor number, and stepped out too fast with a quick, “Right. Thanks.”

Yeah, embarrassing enough, but it didn’t stop there. 

Not long after you settled in at your desk, breaking news echoed throughout the bullpen, grabbing everyone’s attention. Especially yours. There he was, flying through dust and debris, catching pieces of towering buildings like they weighed nothing. You figured the montage would be over soon, that you could will your way through it for just a few more seconds, keep your face neutral, keep your breathing normal, keep your eyes from lingering anywhere they had no business lingering in a room full of people.

But then you heard his voice.

He was talking after saving a burning building while simultaneously fighting another alien invasion in the city, because apparently one crisis wasn’t enough. All smoke and wreckage around him, the streets torn up behind him, the sky still half-lit with whatever had just been trying to kill everyone. He had a few smudges across his skin, dark streaks near his cheek and jaw, his hair curly but messy in that way where you could tell this hadn’t necessarily been an easy feat for him. Still, he got it done. Of course he did. And unfortunately for you, he looked damn good after doing it.

That image of him stuck with you all day, well into lunch. Normally you’d sit with Lois and Cat, let Cat bait you, let Lois talk through the latest lead, pretend you were functioning like a normal person. But today you had “so much work” and you were just “too busy.” The first half was a lie, but the second half was relatively true. You were too busy.

With Superman.

You sat at your desk, pen and notebook suddenly becoming less like paper mates and more like partners in crime as you started writing. Ignoring Superman’s presence as it radiated through your body wasn’t doing you any good. If anything, it only made it worse. The more you tried not to think about him, the more your mind supplied the details anyway. The smudges on his skin. The mess of his hair. The way his voice had sounded after the fight, steady but rougher, like the city had pulled something out of him and he still had more to give. 

So your best solution? Write it out. Maybe if you gave the thoughts somewhere to go, he’d go with them. Maybe felt like a high-risk, low-reward situation, but you were desperate enough to try.

Clark, on the other hand, had been working through revisions for your most recent piece together. Nothing too crazy, just a few additions that would support the notes you’d give him later. Easy work. The kind of work he could usually get through without much trouble. 

And perhaps that had been the problem.

It didn’t take much for Clark’s focus to drift away to its new favorite spot—you. His back was to you, your desk set behind his, and from what he could hear, you were having a pretty productive day. Your pen moved across the page in smooth, steady strokes, pausing here and there before starting again. He assumed they were revision notes at first, something detailed enough to help the piece, something that almost pushed his attention back to his own screen.

Almost.

Just when his mind started to drift away, he heard the telltale signs. Your heartbeat picking up, your breath cutting in shorter intervals, quiet enough that no one else would notice but clear enough to him that ignoring it became its own kind of effort. He heard the shift of your legs, crossing and uncrossing twice beneath your desk like you couldn’t quite get comfortable. But more than that, your writing had changed.

The pressure. The shift from a smooth glide to the sharper scratch of pen against paper. The stroke of each letter becoming so specific, so weighted, that he could make out most, if not all, of what was being written.

—that’s the part I can’t seem to get out of my head. Always so big, like it’s too much until it isn’t—

Clark’s fingers slowed over his keyboard.

He had picked up on the rhythm some time ago, from the hours you’d spent working side by side. And no, it wasn’t intentional. It had happened gradually, built through marked-up pages, half-finished articles, and too many notes passed back and forth. He knew the way you wrote when you were focused. Knew the difference between a quick note, a revised sentence, a thought you crossed out before it could finish.

This wasn’t any of that.

I keep thinking about how it would feel to let him spread me open with those hands.

Clark went still.

The sentence formed clearly enough that his breath caught before he could stop it. For one second, he told himself to stop. That this was wrong. That he shouldn’t be listening just because he could. He was raised better than that. 

That one tugged at that Boy Scout conscience of his, just enough to have him start pulling his attention back.

Then your pen moved again.

S-u-p-e-r-m-a-n.

He couldn’t have ignored that even if he tried. His attention snapped right back to where it had no business being, caught on the scratch of your pen, the weight behind each word, the small breaks in your breathing as the page filled. Every piece of it gave you away, telling him exactly what state you were working yourself into.

You wrote about wanting him all the time. About wanting Superman’s body over you, in you, around you. About how badly you wanted to know if he’d fuck like you imagined he would. About how you didn’t think once would be enough.

The more your thoughts sharpened, the more your body reacted. Your heartbeat had gone fast enough now that it wasn’t even subtle to him anymore. Your breathing kept catching, then evening out, then catching again, like every line was pulling another reaction out of you. He was tuned into all of it, too tuned in, and by the time he realized how bad it had gotten, it was already too late.

He was hard.

Not gradually. Not with any warning he could pretend he missed. One second he was fine, or close enough to pass for it, and the next he wasn’t. It hit all at once, a sharp drop into want that had his whole body going tense around it, leaving him straining beneath the desk, trying not to shift, trying not to make it worse.

His jaw tightened. 

And you just kept writing.

You started with his mouth, then his hands, then yours, your thoughts slipping straight to what it would feel like to take Superman between your lips. About how good it would feel to get on your knees for him first, to feel him against your tongue, to see if he was as big as you’d been imagining every time the camera caught the front of that suit from the right angle.

That was bad enough.

Then Clark’s brain supplied the rest.

Your mouth wrapped around him. Warm and wet, lips stretching around the tip before taking more. Your tongue gliding over him slowly, tasting, teasing, making him feel every inch of it before you let him deeper. The thought of you doing that little sigh he’d heard before—the one that caught low in your throat and turned into something closer to a moan once it slipped free—sent another pulse of heat straight through him.

Behind him, your chair creaked.

The sound was small, but to him it might as well have been a confession. You shifted in your seat, trying to move the pressure somewhere else, trying to get comfortable while your pen kept scratching across the page, and Clark heard the next thought almost as clearly as if you’d said it out loud.

You wrote about riding him. About how you’d feel him everywhere. How you’d have to take him slow at first, because he’d be too much to just drop onto, even if all you’d want to do was bounce on him the second he let you. About how your body would work have to work around his size, how you’d sit on him inch by inch and then lose your mind once you finally had all of him.

That image hit harder.

He saw it immediately. You on top of him, thighs spread over his lap, riding him slow, just like you wrote, trying to adjust before the need won out. Then faster. Harder. Your body lifting and dropping, bouncing on his cock as your hands gripped his shoulders or maybe braced against his chest. Your tits moving with the rhythm. The way your face would change once it started feeling too good to hide—

How tight and warm you’d feel taking him.

That was the one.

Clark’s whole body locked around it, a soft, involuntary grunt catching in his throat as he came.

His fingers curled against the edge of his desk, the force of his release hitting hard enough to leave him tense beneath it, but quiet enough for him to bury the sound under the scrape of his chair as he shifted in his seat. His other hand moved a second later, reaching for nothing in particular, just something to make it look like he was adjusting, like he hadn’t just lost himself at his desk over the sound of you wanting Superman.

The movement caught your attention, pulling you out of your thoughts. Your pen paused mid-thought as the reality of where you were settled back in far too late. Work. The bullpen. Deadlines. Actual responsibilities, unfortunately. You blinked down at the notebook, shut it a little too fast, then reached for the folder sitting beside your keyboard like that had been your plan all along.

Clark heard you stand. Heard you coming toward him too, of course, which only made him sit a little straighter. Too straight, probably, but he couldn’t help it. His hand lifted to his mouth, fingers resting there in a passable attempt at concentration.

Every sense he had was still tuned to you, tracking the distance as it closed, the faint shift in your breathing, the soft rustle of the folder in your hand. He forced his eyes to stay on the screen, even though not a single word made it through.

“Hey,” you said when you reached his desk, holding it out to him. “I meant to give this to you earlier. It’s just the notes for the revision.”

Clark turned enough to take it, but not enough to really look at you. He couldn’t trust himself with that yet.

His fingers brushed the edge of the folder as he took it from you.

“Thanks,” he said.

You gave him a small, apologetic look. “Sorry. I’ve been a little distracted today.”

Clark heard your heart jump at the word distracted. Just a quick, telling little stutter beneath everything else. Unfortunately, his body had a similar reaction, sharp enough to make his grip tighten around the folder as he kept his eyes on his screen.

You didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe you were too caught in your own embarrassment to look too closely.

He kept his face steady. Well, at least tried to. Then you made it worse.

“I wish I could focus like you,” you added.

Clark let out something close to a laugh, but it barely made it there. A strained huff, half-hearted at best, paired with a nod that probably looked more convincing than it felt. 

“Yeah,” he said, because it was the safest thing he had.

You smiled, still oblivious, and turned to walk away.

Focused.

That was one word for it.

© anon-188 - est. 2025 | please do not repost, copy, translate, or recreate my work in any form.

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• links: masterlist | wattpad | tip jar 🫙 (support my writing!)

tips are never required, but always appreciated. thank you for being here!

It started as an ordinary crush. Everyone had a crush on Superman, right? That was what you kept telling yourself every time your mind wandered back to his smile, the dimples that came with it, his voice, the little curl that always seemed to fall perfectly against his forehead. It was harmless... normal. Practically expected, in a sense.

That explanation became less convincing when you thought about the way the suit fit him, how it showed the shape of everything. And you did mean everything. Your eyes were particularly drawn to certain pieces. Pieces you kept to yourself when people asked what you were thinking about, because what were you supposed to say? That his arms looked obscene in that blue? That his thighs looked even worse? That those red briefs fit too damn well for something everyone was just expected to casually ignore?

Right.

So when people asked, you stuck to the basics. Kept it simple. When Lois mentioned Superman and yet another rescue, you gave something polite, something normal, something that made you sound like a decent citizen and not a woman quietly losing a fight against her own imagination. When Jimmy talked him up, you dulled everything down and smiled, nodding along like you hadn’t already looked at the photo he was describing three separate times. Cat tried her luck more than anyone, of course, always watching your face a little too closely when she mentioned how good Superman looked on camera, how the lens loved him, how some men were just built to be looked at.

But you didn’t fold. You just shrugged, kept your expression clean, and said, “Yeah, the camera works for him." Some watered-down version of what you were actually thinking.

Clark noticed too. 

Not like the others. No, his revelation was far more accurate. You two weren’t exactly friends or anything, but you had worked on a few pieces together, which meant late nights, long drafts, shared coffee runs, and him becoming well acquainted with you whether he meant to or not. He knew your crush on Superman went far past what you let people see. Knew that your body had its own reaction reserved specifically for him. Well, not him. The other him. And at a certain point, that distinction was starting to drive him crazy.

Like today.

The bullpen had gathered around for the latest clip of Superman, everyone’s attention fixed on the screen while yours looked almost too controlled. Soft interest. Casual smile. The right amount of impressed, muted just enough to pass as normal. But Clark’s attention was nowhere near the screen. It was on you. While your mouth said something kind and sweet whenever Superman was mentioned, he heard how fast your heart was beating under it. Heard the slight change in your breathing when Cat said the suit looked good from a specific angle. Caught the small shift of your legs when Superman looked into the camera and answered the reporter directly, voice calm, steady, painfully familiar.

That one stirred something in him. Something he covered with a quick clearing of his throat, eyes dropping to the papers in his hand like they suddenly required all of his focus.

But then Superman laughed in the clip. Just a low, easy laugh at something the reporter said, nothing dramatic, nothing meant to be anything at all, and Clark heard you let out something that almost wasn’t a sound. Half sigh, half something else, something that would have been far more dangerous if it had come out any harder.

That little slip of breath hit him harder than he expected. 

Right below the belt. 

Not that you hadn’t already been working your way into his system, because you had. Slowly. Quietly. In little ways he could pretend not to notice until pretending stopped working. But this was getting harder to ignore. You were there now, wedged somewhere between Clark’s curiosity and Superman’s pride, reacting to a version of him you didn’t know was sitting three desks away, listening to every sound you tried to hide.

All of it dragged something up in him he had no business letting loose. Something possessive. Something too pleased. Something he was fighting like hell to keep quiet.

It took everything in him not to look at you for the rest of the day. 

And every day after that.

It had been no more than a week since you had nearly moaned in front of the entire bullpen. Superman came on the screen and you nearly did too.

What were you thinking?

It had been an involuntary response, something you usually only let happen in the quiet of your apartment where no one was around to witness it. No reporters, or editors, or Cat watching your face like she was waiting for it to tell on you. It was just something about his laugh, the tenor of it, the way it rolled out deep and warm, paired with that slight tilt of his head. Oh, and the hung smile. That too. The one that sat on his mouth a second too long and landed right between your legs before it reached anywhere else.

Jesus, you were down bad.

You knew that. Denial wasn’t even worth the effort at this point. Superman was part of your job as much as he was part of your thoughts, no matter how incoherent those thoughts became when they showed up. You had sworn to yourself that you would at least try to tone it down. That he didn’t need to consume every corner of your mind. That you were a grown woman with responsibilities, deadlines, and at least some self-respect left.

Unfortunately, only the logical part of your brain got the memo.

He had already broken your focus twice just this morning. Once while you were getting ready for work, toothbrush in hand, staring at your reflection while your mind wandered straight back to him for absolutely no productive reason. The brushing session went on far longer than necessary, your eyes unfocused, toothpaste nearly sliding down your wrist before you finally snapped out of it.

And again in the Daily Planet elevator, purse tucked under your arm, trying to look normal while your brain decided that 8:42 in the morning was the perfect time to replay the exact sound of Superman’s laugh. You nearly missed your floor completely, only snapping back when Clark Kent, of all people, glanced over from beside you and said, soft and polite, “This is you.” You blinked, looked at the glowing floor number, and stepped out too fast with a quick, “Right. Thanks.”

Yeah, embarrassing enough, but it didn’t stop there. 

Not long after you settled in at your desk, breaking news echoed throughout the bullpen, grabbing everyone’s attention. Especially yours. There he was, flying through dust and debris, catching pieces of towering buildings like they weighed nothing. You figured the montage would be over soon, that you could will your way through it for just a few more seconds, keep your face neutral, keep your breathing normal, keep your eyes from lingering anywhere they had no business lingering in a room full of people.

But then you heard his voice.

He was talking after saving a burning building while simultaneously fighting another alien invasion in the city, because apparently one crisis wasn’t enough. All smoke and wreckage around him, the streets torn up behind him, the sky still half-lit with whatever had just been trying to kill everyone. He had a few smudges across his skin, dark streaks near his cheek and jaw, his hair curly but messy in that way where you could tell this hadn’t necessarily been an easy feat for him. Still, he got it done. Of course he did. And unfortunately for you, he looked damn good after doing it.

That image of him stuck with you all day, well into lunch. Normally you’d sit with Lois and Cat, let Cat bait you, let Lois talk through the latest lead, pretend you were functioning like a normal person. But today you had “so much work” and you were just “too busy.” The first half was a lie, but the second half was relatively true. You were too busy.

With Superman.

You sat at your desk, pen and notebook suddenly becoming less like paper mates and more like partners in crime as you started writing. Ignoring Superman’s presence as it radiated through your body wasn’t doing you any good. If anything, it only made it worse. The more you tried not to think about him, the more your mind supplied the details anyway. The smudges on his skin. The mess of his hair. The way his voice had sounded after the fight, steady but rougher, like the city had pulled something out of him and he still had more to give. 

So your best solution? Write it out. Maybe if you gave the thoughts somewhere to go, he’d go with them. Maybe felt like a high-risk, low-reward situation, but you were desperate enough to try.

Clark, on the other hand, had been working through revisions for your most recent piece together. Nothing too crazy, just a few additions that would support the notes you’d give him later. Easy work. The kind of work he could usually get through without much trouble. 

And perhaps that had been the problem.

It didn’t take much for Clark’s focus to drift away to its new favorite spot—you. His back was to you, your desk set behind his, and from what he could hear, you were having a pretty productive day. Your pen moved across the page in smooth, steady strokes, pausing here and there before starting again. He assumed they were revision notes at first, something detailed enough to help the piece, something that almost pushed his attention back to his own screen.

Almost.

Just when his mind started to drift away, he heard the telltale signs. Your heartbeat picking up, your breath cutting in shorter intervals, quiet enough that no one else would notice but clear enough to him that ignoring it became its own kind of effort. He heard the shift of your legs, crossing and uncrossing twice beneath your desk like you couldn’t quite get comfortable. But more than that, your writing had changed.

The pressure. The shift from a smooth glide to the sharper scratch of pen against paper. The stroke of each letter becoming so specific, so weighted, that he could make out most, if not all, of what was being written.

—that’s the part I can’t seem to get out of my head. Always so big, like it’s too much until it isn’t—

Clark’s fingers slowed over his keyboard.

He had picked up on the rhythm some time ago, from the hours you’d spent working side by side. And no, it wasn’t intentional. It had happened gradually, built through marked-up pages, half-finished articles, and too many notes passed back and forth. He knew the way you wrote when you were focused. Knew the difference between a quick note, a revised sentence, a thought you crossed out before it could finish.

This wasn’t any of that.

I keep thinking about how it would feel to let him spread me open with those hands.

Clark went still.

The sentence formed clearly enough that his breath caught before he could stop it. For one second, he told himself to stop. That this was wrong. That he shouldn’t be listening just because he could. He was raised better than that. 

That one tugged at that Boy Scout conscience of his, just enough to have him start pulling his attention back.

Then your pen moved again.

S-u-p-e-r-m-a-n.

He couldn’t have ignored that even if he tried. His attention snapped right back to where it had no business being, caught on the scratch of your pen, the weight behind each word, the small breaks in your breathing as the page filled. Every piece of it gave you away, telling him exactly what state you were working yourself into.

You wrote about wanting him all the time. About wanting Superman’s body over you, in you, around you. About how badly you wanted to know if he’d fuck like you imagined he would. About how you didn’t think once would be enough.

The more your thoughts sharpened, the more your body reacted. Your heartbeat had gone fast enough now that it wasn’t even subtle to him anymore. Your breathing kept catching, then evening out, then catching again, like every line was pulling another reaction out of you. He was tuned into all of it, too tuned in, and by the time he realized how bad it had gotten, it was already too late.

He was hard.

Not gradually. Not with any warning he could pretend he missed. One second he was fine, or close enough to pass for it, and the next he wasn’t. It hit all at once, a sharp drop into want that had his whole body going tense around it, leaving him straining beneath the desk, trying not to shift, trying not to make it worse.

His jaw tightened. 

And you just kept writing.

You started with his mouth, then his hands, then yours, your thoughts slipping straight to what it would feel like to take Superman between your lips. About how good it would feel to get on your knees for him first, to feel him against your tongue, to see if he was as big as you’d been imagining every time the camera caught the front of that suit from the right angle.

That was bad enough.

Then Clark’s brain supplied the rest.

Your mouth wrapped around him. Warm and wet, lips stretching around the tip before taking more. Your tongue gliding over him slowly, tasting, teasing, making him feel every inch of it before you let him deeper. The thought of you doing that little sigh he’d heard before—the one that caught low in your throat and turned into something closer to a moan once it slipped free—sent another pulse of heat straight through him.

Behind him, your chair creaked.

The sound was small, but to him it might as well have been a confession. You shifted in your seat, trying to move the pressure somewhere else, trying to get comfortable while your pen kept scratching across the page, and Clark heard the next thought almost as clearly as if you’d said it out loud.

You wrote about riding him. About how you’d feel him everywhere. How you’d have to take him slow at first, because he’d be too much to just drop onto, even if all you’d want to do was bounce on him the second he let you. About how your body would work have to work around his size, how you’d sit on him inch by inch and then lose your mind once you finally had all of him.

That image hit harder.

He saw it immediately. You on top of him, thighs spread over his lap, riding him slow, just like you wrote, trying to adjust before the need won out. Then faster. Harder. Your body lifting and dropping, bouncing on his cock as your hands gripped his shoulders or maybe braced against his chest. Your tits moving with the rhythm. The way your face would change once it started feeling too good to hide—

How tight and warm you’d feel taking him.

That was the one.

Clark’s whole body locked around it, a soft, involuntary grunt catching in his throat as he came.

His fingers curled against the edge of his desk, the force of his release hitting hard enough to leave him tense beneath it, but quiet enough for him to bury the sound under the scrape of his chair as he shifted in his seat. His other hand moved a second later, reaching for nothing in particular, just something to make it look like he was adjusting, like he hadn’t just lost himself at his desk over the sound of you wanting Superman.

The movement caught your attention, pulling you out of your thoughts. Your pen paused mid-thought as the reality of where you were settled back in far too late. Work. The bullpen. Deadlines. Actual responsibilities, unfortunately. You blinked down at the notebook, shut it a little too fast, then reached for the folder sitting beside your keyboard like that had been your plan all along.

Clark heard you stand. Heard you coming toward him too, of course, which only made him sit a little straighter. Too straight, probably, but he couldn’t help it. His hand lifted to his mouth, fingers resting there in a passable attempt at concentration.

Every sense he had was still tuned to you, tracking the distance as it closed, the faint shift in your breathing, the soft rustle of the folder in your hand. He forced his eyes to stay on the screen, even though not a single word made it through.

“Hey,” you said when you reached his desk, holding it out to him. “I meant to give this to you earlier. It’s just the notes for the revision.”

Clark turned enough to take it, but not enough to really look at you. He couldn’t trust himself with that yet.

His fingers brushed the edge of the folder as he took it from you.

“Thanks,” he said.

You gave him a small, apologetic look. “Sorry. I’ve been a little distracted today.”

Clark heard your heart jump at the word distracted. Just a quick, telling little stutter beneath everything else. Unfortunately, his body had a similar reaction, sharp enough to make his grip tighten around the folder as he kept his eyes on his screen.

You didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe you were too caught in your own embarrassment to look too closely.

He kept his face steady. Well, at least tried to. Then you made it worse.

“I wish I could focus like you,” you added.

Clark let out something close to a laugh, but it barely made it there. A strained huff, half-hearted at best, paired with a nod that probably looked more convincing than it felt. 

“Yeah,” he said, because it was the safest thing he had.

You smiled, still oblivious, and turned to walk away.

Focused.

That was one word for it.

© anon-188 - est. 2025 | please do not repost, copy, translate, or recreate my work in any form.

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