Citrus

He bottomed out, pressing the dull head of his weeping cock into the soft, velvety wall of your cervix. He has to swallow a groan, you’re fucking ovulating. 

“I-I want a baby, Sy…” you feel your lips trembling as you speak, one hand shaking as it detaches from his shoulder to cup his flushed, sweaty cheek. “Don’t say things in the heat of the moment you don’t mean, kitten.” He presses a little harder, punishingly, as if testing your resolve.

You mewl, hips instinctively jerking up but he grips your hips harder to drag you back down. “M’not saying something I-I don’t mean, Sy.”

You’re gasping, clenching around his throbbing cock as he mercilessly keeps you pinned in place.

“You’re speaking from a place of clouded judgment.” He reasons, not hurt or turned off, just trying to rationalize your sudden confession. “Sylus, I’m being s-so serious…!”

Still, he looks down at you quizzically. It sets a fire in your stomach, anger bubbling through the pleasure as you draw your other hand from his shoulder to grab on to the other side of his face. It was nearly a slap, enough to startle him into blinking down at you as if he’d just realized what predicament you were both currently in. 

“Why is it so hard for you to believe I’d want to have a baby with you? You’re my husband, Sylus.” You were so full of him, so pressed together it was truly impossible to tell where one started at the other ended. Those words seem to rattle something deep within his core, the crimson of his eye grew blinding for a moment. “Say that again.” 

“You’re my husband, Sylus. I want to have your babies.”

The metal of your wedding band had long since adapted to the heat of his skin, resting smoothly against his beautifully flushed cheekbone.

“Give me a baby, Sylus. I want your baby so bad, I want to have a family with you. M’not just saying it because you’re making me feel so-so good…” 

He’s twitching, every word is sending his body into overdrive and yet his mind can’t seem to catch up. He’s staring at you, mouth cutely agape, unable to make his hips restart their motion. “Sylus, please.”

You attempt to move for him, but his grip is still iron on your skin. He’s keeping you in place, breathing heavy as he tries so desperately to sort himself. “Sylus, if you give me a baby, I’ll finally do it. I’ll join Onychinus.” Your last ditch effort, before adding oh so softly “Unless… you don’t want to have babies with me. I understand…”

There it is, the actual slap back to reality.

No words can convey what he wants to say in that moment, but thankfully, his body finally obeys him. You’re smothered by his mouth, lips melding perfectly against your own and swallowing up any doubts that had begun to creep into your mind. His hips move with brutal force once more, pounding you so deeply the bed creaks.

“There is nothing…” he’s gasping into your open mouth, your jaw having gone slack from pleasure. “…I’d want more in this life…” he’s so close, and judging by the way you’re clamping down around him, so are you. “…than to have a family with you. Don’t you dare ever think otherwise.”

If you weren’t melting from the pleasure radiating in your lower half, you’d give him shit for giving you such major whiplash. Though, you couldn’t necessarily blame him, could you? You did kind of spring this on him mid-fuck…

“Sylus m’gonna…” your hands slide back, leaving his face to bury themselves in the damp strands of silvery hair. You tug hard, crushing his lips against yours once more. You don’t need his verbal encouragement, not when his hand is slipping between your bodies to start circling your clit.

Your orgasm ruins you, stars spotting your vision as you nearly tug a chunk of his hair clean from his scalp. You barely process the fact that he’s cumming with you, filling you just as you asked him to.

“Thank you, thank you…” you manage, a lazy, breathless smile on your face as you pull away from him. Sylus, however, is smirking down at your fucked out expression.

“Don’t thank me until we know it sticks…” thumbing the sweat from your temple, he mutter softly. “Maybe a couple more rounds? Now that I know what you’re looking for me to do, I have to make sure I’m thorough…”

Dean had never had someone stay before. For a while, he still didn’t trust it. You staying was the kind of thing that used to make him think he was in a Djinn dream. Too good to be true.

You don’t talk about that one time, when he had one of those bad weeks, and you found him freaking out in the kitchen with the Colt in his sweating hands. He had thought it was Djinn dream. It took you hours to truly convince him it wasn’t. Sometimes you still have nightmares about it, or Dean does, or you both do and you hold each other tight until sunrise.

He’s gotten better at, at least, knowing that this is real. He’s hitched. He’s a dad, and he hasn’t dropped your kid on her head yet. Once he let her stumble and she scraped her knee. You found them sitting in the Dean cave with popsicles and Scooby Doo after. Dean looked more freaked out by the whole thing that Charlie did. She’d mostly been happy that Daddy let her have a popsicle, and she didn’t even have to promise not to tell Mommy.

You would’ve smacked him upside the head, if he hadn’t looked like he’s just watched Charlie die.

“She’s fine, De.” You’d whispered that night, and he’d grunted.

“I know-“

“Do you?”

He’d let out a slow breath, shoulder slumping. His head had bowed, one hand shooting out to steady himself against the dresser. You’d padded across the room, and wrapped your arms around his stomach. He’d grabbed your interlocked hands, holding them there. You’d kissed his shoulder, and he’d shuddered like you were pulling him apart.

“I keep thinkin’,” he’d choked out. “That I’m gonna blink and something’ll get past me.”

“Nothing gets past you-“

“Yet.” His voice had lowered. Dark and tired. “There’s always something new, sweetheart. You know that.” He’d let out a slow breath. “Always fucking something.”

You hadn’t answered. There was never anything you could say, to make this kind of thing better. All you could do was stay. Let Dean hold onto you, until he was sure you weren’t going to start dissolving between his fingers like sand. You’d kissed his shoulder, and he’d turned around, pulling you tight into his chest.

He still wasn’t sure, then. Not of you and Charlie—never of you and Charlie—but of himself. He wasn’t sure he was enough. That he’d given enough, to have earned this sticking to his hands.

The first time he is sure is when Charlie is two. She runs around faster than her little body can handle, and wears the kind of sneakers that light up—because he bought them for her, after she gave him that face that’s far too similar to yours, and how the hell was he supposed to say no—and laughs at almost everything anyone does.

Sometimes, she’d get serious, and Dean would think she only got his face. Her little lips pout and wobble, and she crosses her arms and refuses to move, and Jesus, that’s all you. He tells you as much. That does get him smacked.

“She’s just stubborn, that’s not like me.”

Dean smirks down at the dishes in his hands. “Sure, baby.”

“Sure.” You mock, rolling your eyes. “Fuck you.”

“Mhm.”

“Don’t mhm me-“

“Sorry, princess.”

“You- You fucking-“

Dean looks up with raised brows, and finds you flushed and sputtering with anger. He chuckles, and your flush deepens.

“Shut up,” you whine, and his grin turns shit eating.

“Didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking things,” you grumble, shuffling right into his side.

Dean smiles to himself, when you press your face into his shoulder and hug his bicep. He’ll let you shove him around all he wants. He likes it more than he’ll ever tell you, and at least it reminds him he has two feet on the ground to trip over. He kisses the top of your head, and goes back to the dishes. He’s done this dance before. A lot, over the past few months. It’s like you got shot up with some kind of horniness serum. He’s a little worried that, at this rate, you’re going to break his poor dick.

Good way to die, though. He never stops you, because he can’t think of a better one.

“Charlie’s asleep.” You say softly, and Dean laughs under his breath.

“Uh huh.”

“She made me tell her the story about Daddy and the evil men again.” You hum, tracing your pointer finger over ever line in his forearm.

Dean sighs. “Jesus, you’re gonna make her think I’m Superman or something.”

“I think you’re Superman.”

“Yeah, well-“ Dean clears his throat, bowing his head so you don’t see his blush. “I fuck you. That doesn’t count.”

You laugh softly, propping your chin on his shoulder. “You know, my favorite story to tell her is about Uncle Sammy and the spooky town.”

“Of course it is-“

“Because.” You cut off his grumble with a dangerously adoring smile. “She always gets so excited when Daddy shows up. And saves Uncle Sammy.”

Dean’s heart stumbles. He has to put the dishes down and squeeze his eyes shut. You’ve seen him cry countless times, but he still hates it. You reach up and wipe the tears escaping down his cheek, and he leans into the touch.

“She loves you, Dean. You’re a hero-“

“I’m not,” he grunts. “I sold my soul, heroes don’t do that shit-“

“Oh, I know that. I was there. I nearly killed you myself.”

Dean chuckles, wet and tired. You turn his face, forcing his gaze to meet yours.

“But just because you were stupid, it doesn’t make you less of a hero.”

Dean works his jaw. He doesn’t believe you. You know he doesn’t. Not fully.

One day, maybe he’ll believe Charlie.

“I don’t love that you tell her those stories, sweetheart,” he rasps, and you huff a laugh.

“Because they make you look good?”

“’Cause that shit isn’t something she should know about-“

“She thinks it’s fake, Dean. She knows you’re a hero.”

“I don’t tell her about all your stuff-“

“Liar.” You give him a pointed look. “Last week she asked me if I really beat an archangel.” 

Dean chuckles guiltily. “Hey, she asked. I’m not gonna lie to her about how cool her mom his.”

“Well, I’m not lying to her about how cool her dad is.”

Dean sighs. He stares at you for a moment, and you just smile back. You know you’ve won. You always win.

“She’s pretty cool herself,” you whisper, and Dean laughs.

“Yeah. She is. What kinda toddler likes hearing about her old man getting beat up for a bedtime story.”

“Your toddler.”

“Nah, sweetheart. That’s all you.”

You roll your eyes, and your expression shifts. Dean tilts his head, already questioning, and you sigh.

“You have to promise not the be weird about it.”

“Me? Bein’ weird about something? Baby, never-“

“Dean.” You squeeze his bicep. “I’m serious.”

Dean sighs. “Yeah. Alright. Hit me.”

And he’s a little worried. What if he said something. What if you’re done. What if you remembered that he’s not that cool guy anymore. Just some douchebag with a jawline who eats all your daughter’s fruit snacks and lets her sit in the Impala with him while he works on the engine. No better than his dad, no good for you and Charlie-

“I want another one.” You blurt, staring at his neck instead of his face. “Please.”

Dean blinks. “Another… baby?”

You nod, flushing furiously, and a grin breaks slowly over his face.

Another one. Another little piece of him, in a whole lot of you. Another kid. You still love him, enough to have another kid with him, on fucking purpose.

“I think I can swing that,” he drawls, and you roll your eyes, but smile. You smile when he kisses you. You giggle when he throws you over his shoulder, because damn, he’s still fucking got it.

And he thinks it. Right there.

Maybe this is going to last forever.

The second time he thinks it is when you’re full and knocked up and it becomes painfully clear. This place is too big. There are too many sharp and pointy things, too many cold drafts, and—according to you, but Dean never argues—not enough color. Charlie’s going to be going to preschool soon. You’re going to have a second kid, and sure there are plenty of rooms, but raising a family in this place sounds like hell.

Too many memories, as well. There are rooms Dean can’t go in alone, and rooms you can’t go in all together. For Christ’s sake, you have a dungeon, and Charlie’s going to find it one day.

The bunker can’t be home anymore.

You’ve gotta move.

Dean spends weeks, looking at buying land closer to the city. Somewhere mixed with woods and people, so you’re not one of those annoying suburban families  you used to make fun of on hunts. You aren’t getting yoga pants and joining a Friday night book club. Dean isn’t about to start golfing, and he sure as shit isn’t driving a minivan. Block parties sound like hell. All those people, outside on his lawn, messing up the hidden wards. No damn way.

“You can’t build a house, De.” You sigh, leaning over his shoulder. Dean just kisses your cheek and clicks his tongue.

“No faith in me, sweetheart. I got a hammer. We got wood. Put ‘em together-“

“If you say house, I am throat punching you.”

Dean chuckles, and grabs the hand hanging against his chest. It’s the one he put a ring on. Sometimes he likes to fidget with it, just to remember that it’s there.

“Remind me why we’re so against the suburbs?” You murmur.

“’Cause we don’t suck,” Dean drawls your name, and you laugh softly.

“I think we suck.”

“No, I think we’re awesome. Maybe sometimes I suck. And- Heh.” He smirks. “Sometimes you suck, but I ain’t talking about the adjective-“

You clamp a hand around his mouth, and he laughs, grabbing it and turning it over to kiss your knuckles. You get pushy and violent when you’re pregnant. And you’re always a little pushy and violent—in a hot way—but not usually towards him. Not like this.

Charlie had been worse, though. Dean had joked the whole time that she was going to come out like him, because there was no way she was getting all that sass from you. Sam had muttered that he might have rose colored glasses, and you’d thrown a shoe at his head. But you’d been pregnant. Sammy should’ve known better.

“Dean Winchester.” You hiss in his ear, and Dean doesn’t know better. He loves you too much for it to matter anyway. “Charlie is in the other room-“

“Playin’ with her toys, baby. She’s not listenin’ to us.”

“What if she is-“

“She’s not.”

“But what if-“

Dean says your name, stern and low, and you drop your face dramatically into his neck.

“You don’t suck,” you mumble against his neck.

“I know.” He doesn’t. It’s why you always say it. 

“And you- You could build the house, I just- I don’t think we’re going to have time.”

“Yeah.” Dean sighs, leaning back in his chair. “Know that too. Just- Woulda been pretty sweet.”

You hum, looking up at the computer. “You could build use a shed. Or- This one would love a tree house.”

You pat your swollen belly, and Dean laughs. “Would she, now?”

“Mhm.”

“And she’s tellin’ you that through what, the umbilical cord.”

You roll your eyes. “No. She just- She feels more like you.”

And that knocks him off his feet. He would’ve loved a tree house. They never had a tree to build one in—or a dad who would’ve picked up the hammer—but Bobby had come pretty close once. Old thing in his yard, where Dean used to sneak up when he needed no one the find him. Bobby had known, of course. Bobby had always known. He hung up a hammock one afternoon, and never mentioned it to Dean again.

But his kid, they would have more than a hammock that Dad made Bobby rip down when he found out. They’d get a proper tree. A proper dad. A real, full blown childhood.

“What’s so bad about the suburbs?” You repeat the question, softer this time. And for the life of him, Dean can’t think of a real answer.

“Those places are expensive.” He mutters, and you hum.

“We got money.”

“Stolen money-“

“Still money.”

He looks back at you. You hold his gaze, gentle but firm.

“I love spiders and foxes as much as anyone else, De-“

“We wouldn’t have spiders-“

“We would in the woods.” You give him a stern look, and he shuts his mouth. “They’ll want their friends to come over. We’ll want our friends to come over.”

“We don’t have friends-“

“We will. And you’ll go fishing with a bunch of other dad’s who suck.” You pet his hair, rising fully up so his head is pressed against your belly. “And I’ll hang out with mom’s who hate their husbands, and tell you all the gossip they tell me-“

“Even the bedroom problems?”

That gets a laugh. “Especially the bedroom problems. And we can make fun of everyone together then host a very nice, boring dinner, then make fun of them some more.”

Dean sighs, looking up at you under lidded eyes. You smile. He smiles back, because that this point his face just does that, in reaction to you.

“You get a grill,” you add, and he chuckles.

“I’m already sold, princess.” He kisses the back of your hand. “I’ll start lookin’.”

You smile, and lean down to kiss his lips. Dean stays up late that night, then the next, looking for that boring, easy house. And he’ll never tell you how right you were—he doesn’t have to, you know—but a small, long buried part of him is poking it’s head up in excitement. Nothing’s more fun that people watching with you. This is just gonna be a whole life of that, and being five minutes from a nice bakery, and not needed to worry about his kids getting lost in the woods and being raised by wolves.

He finds the place in a week. He shows it to you, hands shaking more than he’s ever going to admit, because he wants it. It looks like what he used imagine houses looked like—what he’d close his eyes and try to remember, from the house that burned down—and Dean wants it so bad he can feel it, drumming in his chest.

“Listing says the garage door needs fixing, and- One of the doors doesn’t close all the way- One of the sinks doesn’t get hot right, either, but-“

“You can fix it.” You say, looking back to folding Charlie’s clothes. “Okay.”

Dean blinks. “Okay?”

“Okay. We’ll do that one.”

He coughs. It can’t be that easy. “You, uh- There are more pictures, if you wanna look more-“

“Is it in a good school district?”

“Yeah, and they got a good library, too-“

“Then okay.” You shrug.

Dean swallows. There’s a lump in his throat he can’t logic with. He doesn’t want you to hear it. “You wanna go check it out first?”

“No. I trust you.”

I trust you.

Just like that.

Dean has to sit on the edge of the bed. You notice him falling apart—you always do—and set down the clothing to hug him. He gets to put his face right in your boobs. He always forgets that part. If he remembered, he’d cry a hell of a lot more.

“You think Charlie’s gonna like it?” He chokes out, because he can’t think of anything else to say.

“Yeah,” you say, like it’s easy. Like he doesn’t think this might be forever again. “I do.”

Charlie loves it. That’s when he feels it the third time.

It takes months to get out of the bunker. There are so many things that need to be boxed up and shipped, more things that need to be given away, and uncountable thing that he doesn’t even know what to do with. Dean didn’t know they had so many things. As far as he could remember his whole life could fit in a duffle bag, and that duffle bag could be stuffed in a car, and if he lost the bag at least he still had the shit on his bag and in his pockets. But now he’s waking up and there are toys and photos and trinkets and shoes and jackets and a million other things to mark and pack.

Charlie keeps growing, but you say that you should keep everything for the next one.

“What if it’s not a girl?” Sam asks, eyeing your belly, and you shrugs.

“It’s a girl.”

“Did you guys check the sex-“

“No.”

“Well,” Sam shoots a look at Dean, like he’s supposed to know what to say about this. “You- You can’t know what the sex of the baby is, then-“

“But I do.”

“No, you literally can’t-“

“Is she inside you, Samuel?” You give Sammy a withering glare, and he flinches.

“No…”

Sam bows his head like a child in time out. You hum, pleased with yourself—you usually are, because they’ve known you for years and Dean can’t remember a single time when you haven’t won an agruement—and rub a hand over your swollen stomach. Dean isn’t sure if you got this big with Charlie. He thinks that might point to it being a boy, but he knows better than to tell you that directly.

“Winchesters get big,” He murmurs to you that night, testing the water. “Sam was five billion pounds.”

You snort, running your fingers through his hair. “Five billion?”

“Mhm. Massive freakin’ head, too. Dad let me hold him, thought he was an alien.”

That just gets a giggle, and Dean kisses the tip of your nose. He should keep you pregnant all the time. You get sweet and soft, and mean and sharp, and he’s never sure if he’s supposed to be coddling you like an angry kitten or bracing for the bite of feral dog. He kind of loves it. Sam says that ain’t healthy or whatever. Dean tells him that he’s just never had a wife as hot as you are. Sam says he’s never had a wife at all. Dean says exactly, and walks away before the argument can become something he loses.

Sammy just understand how much you are when you’re knocked up, and how awesome that is. It’s like there’s twice as much of you for Dean to love. You’re perfect no matter what, but you’re so perfect Dean doesn’t know what to do with it sometimes, and when you’re knocked up you just tell him. You kiss him like you’re drowning, then burst into tears when Charlie goes to bed because she’s growing so fast, and Dean feels useful keeping you steady.

“What’re you gonna do if it’s a boy?” He asks casually, and you roll your eyes.

“It’s not a boy.”

Dean sighs. “Sweetheart-“

“It’s not.”

“I know, but I just kinda wanna know what’s gonna happen if it is.”

You glare at him. His lips twitch up—you’re pretty when you glare—and you don’t seem to know if you want to smile back or keep trying to kill him with your eyes.

“I know you’ll love him either way,” he adds, softer this time. “I’m just thinkin’- like- Names, y’know?”

That makes you relax. You look up the ceiling in thought, and Dean kisses your breasts over your shirt. It’s his shirt, but you’ve long claimed all rights to things that he touches. He doesn’t mind. Makes him feel wanted. And son of a bitch, if you don’t look like a wet dream with your belly all swollen from his kid and his shirt hanging just above your thighs. Dean’s had that wet dream. He thinks it might’ve been practice, for not blowing his load when he has you like this for real.

“If it’s a boy…” You say slowly. “We can name it Robert.”

Dean likes that plan, and kisses your cheek. You smile at him, and it knocks him out every time. You keep pulling that shit, you’re going to end up pregnant all the time.

“How’d you know it’s not a boy, anyway?” He asks, because he kind of hopes you have a real answer.

He wants it to be a girl. He’ll love the little monster if they’re a boy too, but Charlie looks too much like he does. Doesn’t mean he loves her less. He just wants one that looks like you. He wants fifty that look like you. They can start a new nation of little Amazons that don’t try and kill their dads, and every country in the world can be run by his brilliant daughters. 

“It feels like you,” you tell him, and Dean pauses.

“You think I feel like a chick?”

You giggle, and kiss his forehead. That doesn’t feel like an answer.

“I’m not a freakin’ girl-“

“You’d be a very pretty girl.”

“Oh, I’d be smokin’, that’s not the issue-“

“Dean-“

“Nothing wrong with being a girl,” he cuts you off with an aimless grumble, mostly because you’ve been married for two years, together for far longer, and now he’s finding out you think he’s a girl. “But I’m not.”

You hum, clearly amused. “You’re right. You’re a very pretty man.”

Dean scowls, and you kiss him, and that’s a little better. He still doesn’t love it, at least until you show him some fancy article the next morning about how men with higher testosterone have more daughters, and that fixes pretty much everything.

“You’re an idiot.” Sam says flatly, and Dean flips him off.

“You’re just jealous you don’t have daughters, Sammy,” he says smugly. “Don’t worry. Few horse pills and performance enhancers, you’ll get there.”

 Sammy throws a paper towel at his head, and you laugh. Dean considers himself rich, for a moment. Maybe an elite, when Charlie starts shouting for him from her room, and demands that he sits with her while they go through her room.

“You wanna keep this one, kiddo?” Dean asks, holding up one of those poofy flower dresses she wears. Charlie nods, and Dean sighs.

She’s wanted to keep every dress. Dean doesn’t think there are enough boxes in the world, to get them all to the new house.

“You sure?” He tries. “You don’t even let Mommy put you in this one-“

“Not for me.” Charlie frowns at Dean like he’s crazy. “For baby.”

Dean blinks. For a second he thinks she’s talking about the car. “Uh- I’m sure baby appreciates it, but I don’t think it’s gonna fit-“

“Mommy says baby is growing.” Charlie says wisely, and Dean feels like an idiot.

The literal baby. Right.

“Did you give uncle Sammy your dresses?” Charlie asks, and Dean snorts.

“Oh, yeah. All of them.”

Charlie hums, pulling on the ears of her stuffed animal. “Did he like them?”

“Yep. Still has them today.”

An hour later, Charlie asks Sam if she can see his dresses. Dean dies laughing, holding himself up with a hand on the counter while Sam glowers at him. The kid will get over it. Dean’s the one who gets in trouble anyway, because now he has to go out and buy dresses for Sam to pretend were his, and you’re not happy with him for lying.

He apologizes and gets away with it. He gets away with more than he cares to admit. Probably because he’s just that good at being a husband.

“Think we got everything,” he mutters, looking around the library for a stray mug or blanket. “Just gotta- Y’know,” he grins at you. “Move.”

You hum, and lean into his side. Dean rests a hand on your bump, and pointless tears sting at his eyes. This kid is never going to know what it’s like to live in a place with alarms and guns and chains. There won’t be halls with blood crusted on the wall, that Dean might’ve spilt himself. She’s going to grow up with Charlie, in a house with a backyard, and the ability to throw a punch but never a need to.

And part of him is worried, when they take Charlie to the house, that she’s going to hate it. He spent hours painting rooms and building furniture. Hours thinking about exactly what she’d like, what you’d like, and—secretly, although he thinks you know anyways—what he would’ve wanted for himself.

Charlie toddles behind him through the door, holding his hand. He’s got you on the other arm, and tries not think about how chick flicky this feels. Like a shot from a cheesy movie, the kind he used to avoid like the toxin of happiness would seep into him, and he’d start to miss what he knew he’d never even had.

Dean looks at you, and you’re smiling around the hall. That’s a good sign. You’ll probably tell him that painting is a little crooked, but he left some things wrong on purpose, because he knew you’d want to fix a few things.

Charlie tugs on his arm, and he glances down. She’s blinking up at him with those eyes you say are just like his. He’s never been able to agree. They look better on her. More hopeful. More important.

“Daddy.” Charlie whispers, and Dean raises his brows.

“Charlie.”

“Mr. Ears needs to go potty.”

Mr. Ears is the elephant. Dean bites back his laugh. “You think so?”

Charlie nods solemnly. “He told me.”

“Alright.” Dean stretches out a hand. “I’ll take him, you can stay with Mommy-“

“No.” Charlie holds Mr. Ears tight to her chest. “He wants me to go potty with him.”

You laugh softly. It makes it pretty hard to keep his serious Dad face on.

“Well, do you need to go potty too?”

Charlie shakes her head, and Dean shrugs.

“I think Mr. Ears is gonna want some privacy, then. So I’ll just take. Him, and-“

“I do need to go potty!” Charlie says quickly, and Dean grins, scooping her up with one arm.

“I know, kiddo.” He kisses her cheek, and she giggles.

He’ll never get sick of that sound. It’s more like your laugh than his, and you’ve got the best laugh in the whole damn world.

Charlie observes the halls as he carries her upstairs—leaving you to collapse on the couch, because you’re getting to the point of pregnant where Dean has to pretend he’s not half-carrying you everywhere—and seems to be mimicking your analyzing face. It’s the one where your brows pinch and your lips pout, a sharp glint in your eyes as the world becomes a courtroom and you become a judge.

“Horses.” Charlie points to a picture Dean found at some yard sale, and he hums.

“Horses.”

“Do we have horses now?”

Dean snorts. “No, Char. You can’t have a horse in a neighborhood.”

Charlie huffs. “Why not.”

“’Cause. They’re too big.”

“But you’re big, Daddy. And we keep you.”

Jesus. He’s glad you’re not here. He’d never get you to stop laughing. “I’m think I’m smaller than a horse, sweetheart.”

“Hm.” Charlie tips her head up, and she might look like him, but that righteous, confident look is all you. “Mommy told Auntie Eileen that you were big.”

Dean chokes on the air. He sputters for a second, trying to think of what the hell he could possibly say to explain that, but Charlie’s already moved on.

“You’re bigger than a doggie.” She examines Dean like he’s just some asshole walking around in her house. “Can we get a doggie?”

Dean sighs. “Let’s do the baby first.”

Charlie looks skeptical. “Are you bigger than a baby?”

“I’m bigger than you,” Dean pokes her, and she giggles. “And you’re gonna be bigger than the baby.”

“I’m gonna be bigger than the baby?!”

“Oh, yeah. Baby can fit in Mommy. We can’t.”

Well. Dean can. He’ll tell you that joke later, and it’ll probably get him smacked, but it’ll also be worth it when you kiss him stupid after.

“Pants.” Dean reminds Charlie when she tries to climb on the toilet with them still up. She rolls her eyes like he’s crazy. Another thing that’s all you.

“I was gonna take them off, Daddy.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. I was showing Mr. Ears how to get up.”

“Ah. ‘Course.” Dean smiles to himself. “Very thoughtful of you, Char.”

Charlie nods, like she already knows. Dean helps her with the potty—she ain’t that big, he doesn’t know where the hell she keeps those massive shits in her body—and when he checks on her face, she’s staring at the bathtub with an open mouth. Dean tips his head.

“You alright, kiddo?”

Charlie nods, hugging Mr. Ears tighter to her chest. “We have a pool,” she whispers, and goddamnit. There’s a lump in his throat now, and he has to grab the toilet seat to keep himself up on his knees.

Because it’s just a damn tub, but the Bunker didn’t have those. And he can swear on his battered, fogged up memory of his childhood that Sammy once said the same thing, when Dad finally swindled them a motel with more than a rusty shower.

“It’s called a bathtub.” He says, so choked he worries Charlie is going to hear. “Kinda like a tiny pool.”

“Can I play in it?” Charlie looks at him hopefully, and even if she couldn’t, there was no way in hell Dean could ever say no.

“Yeah. We can do some bathtime tonight.”

Charlie beams, and there it is. That feeling. You were right, talking him into this white picket house with bathtubs and horse pictures on the wall and a big garden that Charlie rolls around in, all afternoon. It’s everything he never let himself dream about. He almost cries there in the bathroom, then in the garden, then that night with his face back in your boobs because he feels it, and it’s lasting more than a moment.

He can see himself here in ten years. Twenty years. Thirty, maybe forty if he’s got that much left in him. He’s never been able to see himself past next month.

But he’ll be here until something finally gets him. Couldn’t drag him away.

And this. This is going to last.

Years pass, and Dean doesn’t feel it all the time, but it comes and goes with more certainty. Like a desert that’s slowly turning to ocean, the tides rising higher and higher every day. It’s small. He doesn’t even really notice the difference until it’s at his ankles, then his knees, then his waist.

He really realizes how high it’s gotten when Charlie hits six, and the second one—Ella, the exact photocopy of you he wanted, but with a bubbly little kick in her that you say is all Dean—is in preschool. He’s trying to get you to go for just one more. You say you’ll think about it, and Dean doesn’t say it, but he knows that means yes. If you didn’t want to do it, you would’ve cut off the shooter supply yourself with the scissors in the kitchen. But he tells you he’s scheduled the appointment, and you make him cancel it.

He grins, wiggling his brows, and you give him that disgusted look that’s always a little too flushed to be real.

“Shut up.”

“Didn’t say anything-“

“You’re thinking things.” You point an accusing finger, and he just keeps grinning.

“Yeah?” Dean slides a hand up your waist. “What kinda things am I thinking, baby?”

Your breath hitches, and your body leans, but you keep that pretty little pout on your lips. “You know.”

He kisses your shoulder. “Do I?”

“Mhm.” You’re hugging yourself now, and Dean chuckles. He’s gotta work for it. He can do that.

“You know, if we call Sammy, he and Eileen need practice herding the monsters tonight.” He kisses under your jaw. “Really, we’d be doing them a favor.”

You sigh, your arms wrapping around Dean’s neck, and he smirks against your skin. You always fit so well against him, so soft and pliant in his arms. He’s feeling pretty generous tonight. Generous and selfish. Not much of a difference, when it comes to you.

“Know that sweet pussy of yours is already dripping for me, sweetheart.” He pulls your thigh up, tracing his fingers on the curve of your ass. “Don’t worry, Daddy’s gonna take care of it.”

You hit him and whine, but it doesn’t do much. You’re strong, you’ve only gotten stronger, but your punches against Dean have always landed flat. Hell, some days he thinks that the only reason he’s still kicking. Just like he’s never been able to push you away, you’ve never been able to get properly pissed at him. Fair trade, he thinks. He can’t even pretend to be mad at you.

“Gonna go call Sammy,” he mutters. “He’ll take them tonight, the gremlins will love it. He can feed them sugar and learn what that does to them after midnight.”

You pause, your nails digging into Dean’s neck. “Tonight tonight?”

“Yeah, that’s the plan-“

“We can’t tonight.” You sigh, dropping your face into his shoulder.

Dean reaches up, rubbing your shoulders as he tries to figure out why you can’t tonight. Ain’t a holiday or birthday. Charlie’s got none of those kid activies she’s gotta be driven to, the ones where Dean sits on some cold bleachers for an hour while you ignore his texts about how awesome Charlie is at everything. You’re not bringing Ella to any of those toddler classes where you get in a sexy swimsuit then just sing nursery songs for half an hour. You got that neighborhood book club thing now, but you hate it—you spend three hours in bed after, complaining about the book and the women—and he’s pretty sure it’s on Fridays anyways-

“Sam’s already taking them.” You sigh, a light dancing in your eyes. You know he forgot.

Dean grimaces, his smile tighter as he keeps trying to figure out what he fucked up. “Right- Uh- Because…”

You raise your brows, and Dean swallows. It better not be something real. He’s been so fucking good about remembering everything, and if it’s your anniversary or something, he’s going to find the nearest ghost and let it kill him.

“It’s… Our…”

“Parent teacher conference.” You prompt gently, your smile stretching your cheeks all pretty, and Dean groans.

“Shit, you said that was the ninth-“

“It is the ninth.”

“No, it’s Thursday, that’s the tenth.”

You roll your eyes, grab his phone out of his pocket, and show him the date. The big, fat 9 on the screen is mocking. Dean groans and drops his face into your chest.

“I wanted to have sex tonight,” he grumbles, and you laugh.

“I know, big guy.” You lower your voice to that honeyed, sweet coo he only gets when you’re real confident. “Sammy’s got them the whole night. If you’re on good behavior…”

You trail off, and Dean pulls back, scanning over your teasing expression.

“Yeah?”

You shrug, and he grins. He’ll be on the best behavior. No jokes that make the other parents look at him like he’s some kind of asshole. No snide comments about how soft they all are. No bullying the other kids, even though they’re not half as good at math as his Charlie. You probably don’t want him smacking your ass or making out with you in front of the other, perfectly classy and boring couples. But he really misses having you for a whole night. It’s been too many months of quickies and hushed fucks under the covers. As sexy as it is, to cover your mouth with his and rut into you until you’re crying, he needs to hear it again. The way you moan and scream his name.

So he’s on the up and up. He wears a shirt that he irons, like an asshole, and jeans without oil handprints. His shoes are clean. He even puts some of that good smelling shit in his hair and rolls up his sleeves like an adult. You smile at him, adjusting his buttons—he doesn’t think he did them wrong, but you seem dead set on touching him, and he’ll never say no to that—and Dean kisses your cheek.

“Look at us,” he says. “So normal.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re wearing a dead guy’s watch.”

“Everyone’s got a dead guy’s something, baby. Mine is just cool as shit.”

“Mhm.”

“Mhm?”

“What? I’m agreeing with you-“

“You’re sassing me.”

Dean noses at your cheek, and you roll your eyes. He doesn’t know why you bother, when he can feel your heartbeat under his fingers. “Shut up.”

He hums, kissing your nose. “Fighting words.”

“They’re not-“

“They will be. Trust me, pretty girl.” He leans back, holding your blown out gaze. “I’ll take care of you later.”

You try to scoff, but it’s so pathetically breathy, Dean knows he’s not going to be the one begging by the time the night is over. He squeezes your ass once for the road, and you drag him out the door. You’re always so worried about being on time, and Christ, Dean wouldn’t give less of a shit if he wasn’t worried about you snapping yourself in half.

“Breathe, baby.”

“I am breathing-“

“You’re gonna hurt yourself-“

“I’m gonna hurt you.”

You mutter the words under your breath, and Dean snorts. “Oh, now you’re just askin’ for it.”

He gets smacked, and laughs it off. You get violent and bratty when you’re trying to invite him to do something about it. And he will. After being—as you told him to—on his best behavior.

Usually, during these kinds of activities—the ones where his kids aren’t actually there to need his support, he’s just supposed to show face and smile for the sake of all the other families—Dean tunes out. His hand rests on your hip and his eyes stay fixed on the curve of your mouth when you talk, the melodic sound of your voice over all the other noise. He’s barely more than a figurehead for the Queen. You’ll deal with it, and tell him what to say, and he’ll keep an eye for when you start to get too tense and it’s time to take over or—even better—just hit the road.

But Dean stands in the little first grader classroom, and he can’t stop thinking about it. How tiny all the chairs are. How bright and colorful the walls and carpet are. He never got this far, in school. Dad kept them out of the systems until he couldn’t anymore, so first grade was a workbook he picked up in a goodwill with half the questions already done in red felt marker.

You’re floating through the room—you always do—and Dean lingers in your wake, trying to wrap his head around it. Everything is so small.

“I was never this small,” he mutters in your ear, and you laugh softly.

“Yeah? You popped out six feet?”

“Six-two, baby.”

“Your poor mother.”

“’Least I wasn’t Sammy. That’s actually what killed her, you know.”

You snort, shooting him a disbelieving look of amusement. He’s gotten better at joking about that. Distance and time and you, all mixing together to make old gashes turn to muscles that ache when he twists them just wrong. He sits down at Charlie’s desk, knees pushed up to his chest, and pats his knee in offering. You shake your head.

“C’mon-“

“No.”

He glances around the room. All the other families have the mom sitting in the chair. Oops. He tries to get up, but you push him back down by his shoulders.

“She’d want you to sit there.” You crouch down at his side, and Dean rolls his eyes.

“She’s five. She doesn’t know what she wants-“

“Well, I want you to sit there.”

Dean huffs, because what the hell is he supposed to tell you, no. Never really been an option before, and it’s sure as shit not one now.

“I love you,” you whisper, and he grunts.

“Sure you do.”

“You look very handsome-“

“I look like I’m being packed to ship, sweetheart.”

You laugh, and take a picture of him that’s probably getting sent to Sammy, and he’s never going to get it down. At least he talks you into perching on his knee. Anyone who’s got a problem with it better remember that they all got kids here, so no ones got any puritan legs to stand on.

The teacher rambles about learning objectives and goals for the year. Dean doesn’t pay attention—he tries, but it’s not like there’s a pop quiz later—and his gaze wanders over Charlie’s desk. She clearly wrote her nameplate, and probably drew the fat unicorn that covers the ie. Her a’s look better. Dean’s pretty proud of that. They’ve been working on them a lot.

Charlie left a pile of her papers on the surface. Dean doesn’t know if he’s supposed to look at them, but he does anyway. It’s a lot of first grader stuff. Rainbows and letters and numbers all in crayon. Dean smiles to himself, thinking of Charlie scribbling her name on the top of the paper the same way she does on diner napkins. He thinks she’s shaping up to have good handwriting, even though he has no idea what the hell good handwriting looks like for a kid.

But that’s not what gets him.

It’s the drawing. Four stick figures, all stringy proportions and massive heads. There’s the little on in the middle, with pigtails. Dean doesn’t think Charlie’s ever had pigtails, but it’s labelled me in wobbly, scribbled letters. There a tiny lump on the floor that’s got feet poking out of it, labelled Ello, and the kid ain’t wrong. Ella’s not much more than a lump right now. Of the big ones, there’s the one got your hair, and is labelled Moomy. He chuckles, and almost pulls on your arm to make you look at it.

Then he sees himself. He’s got spiky sticks for hair and scribbles all over his face. He touches his jaw, and his beard has gotten longer than he meant it to, but you never complain. He’s the only one with shoes on, and the only one without any scratched on clothing. He’s holding your hand, standing a foot over your head, and he’s not that tall. Or broad. And he sure as shit doesn’t have bug eyes like Charlie gave him, but he’s never loved a picture of himself more.

A lump forms in his throat, as his fingers trace over the label. Doody. He snorts, but it’s wet and quiet, and you give him a strange look. He gestures weakly to the paper, and you smile. You kiss his brow and rub his shoulder, and Dean just bows his head. He’s not going to break down like a little bitch right now. Not with so many people around.

He folds the paper up, and shoves it in his pocket. He’ll put it in his wallet later. Hug Charlie real tight when he gets home. She’s still so small, but she’s getting bigger. She’s already older than Dean was, when he had a gun in his hands and one eye on the door all night. He never allowed himself to think she’d end up with a life like that. But now time passes, and he realizes in that first grade classroom that he was still clenching his jaw. Bracing himself for the other shoe to drop, for the luck to dry out and his sorry ass to be stranded back in the burning, cold and lonely desert.

But it’s only getting better. Dean allows himself to sit in it, for the first time. All of this is only getting better. And he’s never going to allow it to get worse again.

Ella has her first nightmare when she’s about three. Dean’s dealt with them from Charlie before, but it’s different. Charlie’s quieter. More serious. Usually he doesn’t figure out she even had a nightmare until she comes down the stairs in the morning with drooping eyes and messy hair, then says she didn’t sleep the night before. Ella gets loud. She screams and cries, and Dean thinks he’s about to walk into a murder scene. His heart gets hard like softer metal being pressed into something they could make bullets out of. He grabs the gun you let him keep in the dresser the kids can’t reach, and runs out of the bedroom before you can even call his name.

He locks you in the bedroom. If it’s a fire he’ll go back, if not you shouldn’t be anywhere near a monster. You can be pissed at him later, but you’ve got the third one cooking in your stomach, and Dean can take care of the ones with legs. He’ll take care of all of it. That’s what he’s for.

But there’s nothing in Ella and Charlie’s room. Charlie’s knocked out and grumbling in her sleep, the closet is a little ajar, and Ella’s curled into a tiny ball against her headboard. The blankets are bunched in her little hands, but she lets go of them to reach for Dean. He lowers his gun and goes to scoop her up, scanning around for the threat. He finds only silent room, and isn’t really sure what to do with it.

“Ella, what’s wrong-“

“Monster.” Ella sobs, pressing her little face into Dean’s neck. “Monster in- In the closet-“

She starts crying so hard she can’t talk, and Dean sets his jaw. There’s no bad smell. No temperature drops and flickering lights, but he knows better than to just dismiss it.

“Alright, sweetheart, I’m gonna put you down and check it out-“

“No!” Ella wraps her arms around his neck, and Dean doesn’t know how such stringy little arms can choke him better than some demons ever managed.

“El,” he tries gently. “You’re just gonna wait on the bed, and I’ll make sure there’s nothin’, okay?”

Ella sniffles, shaking her head, and Dean sighs. The fact that he’s been in here so long without an attack is a good sign. He kisses her forehead and pries her off his neck, slinging her onto one arm. He almost asks her to keep quiet, but that’s what Dad would’ve told him. And Dad never warded the house like you did. The more he thinks about it, the more Dean realizes that there’s no damn way something could’ve even gotten past the driveway.

He keeps his gun in his hand, though. Old habits.

Ella’s still shaking, when he pokes open the closet and finds nothing but lumps of clothing and boxes of toys. Charlie seems to have shoved everything in, before bedtime, and it’s made a strange shape and cast long shadows. And there, on the top, is that damn stuffed dog Sammy got Ella for her birthday. The one she drags around everywhere and screams about when they so much forget about it in the car. Dean grabs it and holds it near Ella’s face, lips twitching.

“This the monster?”

“Don’t wanna look, Daddy-“

“You sure?” He sighs, pressing the dog’s nose to her cheek. “Think he might be your friend.”

It takes a few seconds, but Ella looks. She shrieks in delight, and rips the dog out of Dean’s hands. It does the trick, even if she’s still a little spooked. Dean carries her back to your room to drop off the gun, then brings her back to bed.

“Did he fight the monster?” Ella asks him when he puts her down, and Dean pauses.

And he’s got a choice. Tell Ella there was never a monster, and that monsters aren’t real, or tell her that a damn stuffed dog can fight them off. Dad would tell her there was never a monster, but that when one comes she better not reach for the stuffed animal.

But Dean isn’t Dad. And looking at Ella’s big, soft eyes—far too much like yours for him to know how to let them cry—he doesn’t understand how Dad ever managed to let Sammy be afraid like that. How he let either of them be afraid like that. It’s not like Dean’s not going to be there, if something like that comes. Ella never has to worry.

“He was the monster, El,” Dean says, and it feels like the right thing. “And do you need to be scared of him?”

Ella giggles. “He’s not a monster, daddy-“

“You thought he was-“

“Because he was looking scary.”

“But was he scary?”

Ella pauses, still sniffling, then shakes her head. Dean smiles, running his fingers through her hair.

“Told you.”

“Hm.” Ella pulls at the dog’s ears, then looks up at Dean. “Can you sleep here, Daddy?”

Dean sighs, glancing at the door. “I think Mommy wants me with her-“

“Mommy can come too.”

Ella looks at him with those big eyes, and Dean caves. He always caves. You say he’s just big and soft like that, but he’s not. Stronger men would give in, if they had kids like his.

“How about we go to Mommy,” he offers. “So Charlie can keep sleepin’.”

Ella considers it, then agrees. It’s a bit of a trial, getting in bed without waking you up or letting Ella kick the baby bump, but Dean manages. Ella goes out in seconds, wrapped more around you than Dean, and he doesn’t mind. You pulled her into your arms without thinking, and she’s got her face pressed into the pillows just like yours, and Dean doesn’t know how he got so luck. Maybe he’d been banking up, all those years, and it just decideds to cash itself out. Maybe he hit some kinda lottery. Doesn’t really matter. All he knows is that he’s got this, and it’s not going away.

It’s not going away.

He lets himself breathe in that, for the first time in his life.

He’s got this good thing, and it’s not going to go away.

He doesn’t notice anymore. And he notices that he doesn’t notice on his birthday. You make him a cake. Charlie and Ella get him a mug and a shirt, and they’re kind of crappy but they picked them out, so he loves them more than anything else he owns.

You’re so pregnant you waddle more than walk, and Dean refuses to hear about you taking care of it. He doesn’t care that it’s his birthday. You’re the gift, he tells you, then laughs when he gets smacked in the face.

And he spent so many years, making his birthday one real nice pie and some expensive motor oil for baby. He glanced at red, analogue motel clocks and watched the clock hit midnight, before sighing and throwing an arm over his face. He wouldn’t sleep, because he was never sure if he’d make it to the next one. If this was the year his time ran out, and he was hitting the last number on his line.

But he has this birthday, and he blows out his candles, and he’s just… Not surprised. Another year. For the next one you won’t be all round and wobbly—which he’s still into, but you don’t seem to find that as reassuring as he means it to be—and you can take care of everything the way you keep insisting. Charlie will be older, and Ella will be stronger, and he can rent that lake house he’s always wanted and take his girls fishing.

The next one.

He thinks it, and doesn’t pause. Because it’s not a feeling worth dwelling on forever. This is just it.

This is going to last forever.

✦End note: i would have his babies. ✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

Being loved by him felt like ascending into a higher, clearer version of yourself, as though something weightless and luminous had always been waiting just above you and all Clark ever did was place his hands at your waist and lift you there without effort. It had always felt that way in some quiet sense, the safety of him and the steadiness, but when intimacy came into the picture you realized how literal that feeling could be, how being with him didn’t just ground you, it elevated you, set you somewhere reverent, soft and entirely seen.

He treated you like something precious, like something meant to be admired rather than claimed, as if you belonged on an altar he could kneel before, not out of obligation but out of devotion, reverence written into every careful touch and lingering look.

You had worried before all of this, about how unnatural it might feel to be so exposed, so unguarded with another person, any person, even one who made your heart race the way Clark did. Vulnerability had always felt like a language you only half-spoke and so despite the pull you felt toward him, despite the way your body seemed to lean toward his without permission, you had decided to wait, to trust that if it was right the moment would come on its own and drag you gently into it rather than demand you leap.

The night began the way it always did on weekends spent at your place, familiar and easy in a way that made time blur at the edges. You ate dinner together, talked your way through the week between bites and laughter, plates pushed aside as the evening stretched on but tonight there was something different, something charged, that kept pulling your gaze back to him no matter how hard you tried to focus on anything else. Even from his place at the dining table, he noticed it, noticed the way your attention snagged and lingered as you stood a few feet away by the television, carefully putting away the board game you’d been playing as if you needed the task to steady yourself.

His eyes never left yours when you finally turned and walked toward him, your steps slower than usual, more tentative, like you were approaching a threshold rather than a chair. When you leaned down, the kiss you pressed to his lips felt inevitable, instinctive and just as naturally, he smiled into it, warm and unmistakably fond.

“What are you smiling about?” you murmured against his mouth, your words half-lost as you kissed him again and again, soft and unhurried, like you were savoring something you’d waited a long time for.

As if afraid you might overthink it, might pull back before he could anchor you there, he set his hands on your thighs, grounding you instantly.

“I can’t smile at my girlfriend?” he murmured in return. He wished that were the full truth, because it was simple and sweet but the reality was bigger. He was smiling at you, yes but also at the way your body spoke so clearly, at every subtle sign that told him you were ready, that you were choosing him just as intentionally as he had chosen you.

You weren’t entirely sure what came over you when you shifted and settled onto his lap but once you did, it felt like the only place you were meant to be. Your arms slid around his shoulders, your kisses drifting from his lips to their corners, then to his cheek, his jaw and finally his neck, where your breath lingered warmly against his skin.

Clark’s hands moved with care, finding your waist and resting there through the fabric of your shirt, thumbs brushing slow, soothing arcs as if to remind you that you were safe, that he was listening. A quiet hum left him, his body alive and hardening beneath you with the simple act of being close.

“How sure are you about this?” he asked softly, shifting his head just enough to give you more space, not to pull away but to make room for your choice.

“Undeniably… sure,” you replied between kisses, the words steady even if your pulse wasn’t.

At that, his hands slid lower, just enough to rest at your hips as you drew closer, chest to chest, until one hand lifted again, thumb and forefinger gently cradling your ear to tilt your head and draw you into a deeper kiss, one that stole your breath and his in equal measure, stretching until neither of you wanted to be the first to pull away.

Your fingers brushed his glasses, instinctively moving to slip them off but he caught your wrist lightly, stopping you with a touch that was firm but tender.

“I want to see you clearly,” he said quietly, the words landing with more weight than you expected.

And there it was…the moment you’d read about but never fully believed in, when hesitation didn’t fade so much as disappear entirely, when there was no crossing of lines because the lines simply weren’t there anymore.

It felt as though the heat beneath your skin kept rising with every kiss and breath shared between you, overwhelming and exhilarating all at once, like loving the heat of summer while standing barefoot in hot sand, eyes fixed on the promise of cooler water just ahead, knowing you were already halfway there.

Your nipples hardened under your shirt with every hitch of Clark's breath against your lips, the sensation sending a shiver through you that arched your back, seeking the friction the soft cotton denied. Those desperate movements caused your hips to roll over his lap involuntarily, your clothed clit rubbing against the rough tent in his jeans, drawing a soft whimper from your mouth.

Clark nearly gasped against your lips, his hands moving to your hips and closing softly around your body before sliding up and under your shirt, where only a few fingers brushed your bare skin.

He then pulled away from the kiss just enough to speak. “Tell me to stop,” he whispered, pressing a ghostly kiss to your lips. “I can stop,” he added under his breath, almost as if reassuring himself more than you.

You shook your head, a faint 'no' escaping alongside a whine as you reached down to grasp the hem of your shirt, pulling it halfway up and letting Clark's hands follow before tugging it off the rest of the way.

His eyes traced the newly revealed expanse of skin, dotted with freckles from your belly button to the exquisite swell of your breasts, the peaks of your hardened nipples and the elegant dip of your clavicles, until your shirt lay forgotten on the floor.

This moment felt like diving into a cool body of water, finally quenching the fire spreading within you and allowing you to breathe.

“Can I… Can I touch you?” he asked, gazing directly into your eyes and nearly shuddering at your nod.

His hands traced a delicate path up your sides, his knuckles grazing your breasts in a way that made you suck in a quiet breath, until his fingers reached your neck, gently pushing your hair aside to caress your skin. His fingertips lingered at your pulse point while his other hand cradled the back of your neck.

He seemed entranced by the sight of it. The more he looked, the louder your heartbeat thrummed in his ears, drawing him to lean in and press kisses to it as if it were the very source of your essence. You couldn't help but moan, your eyes fluttering shut as you tilted your head to give him more space, hoping he'd mark the area with gentle, loving bites.

As he lavished attention on your sensitive skin, one hand stayed at your hip, holding you close, while the other slipped between you both. Deft fingers found your hardened nipple, rolling it gently between them and tugging lightly, pulling a gasp from your lips as he tried to steady his overwhelmed senses and gauge your reactions.

“This okay?” he breathed against your shaky lips as you hummed in pleasure, your hips rolling slightly in search of more.

It felt as natural as breathing, your body moving to the rhythm of your shared breaths, unknowingly coaxing more small, needy gasps from Clark's lips. He rarely felt breathless for any reason but this was the first time it happened, his skin tingling and tensing under the grind of your body against his. It wasn't even about what you gave him, it was about how desperately he wanted to give you everything, holding back only for your signals.

The second you pressed closer to him, your arms circling tighter around his shoulders to maintain the connection, Clark felt as though he might explode. He suddenly stood up, holding you close and setting you gently on the table, his unabashed hands prodding and caressing every inch of your exposed skin as he leaned into you desperately, his mouth pressing kisses anywhere he could reach while your thighs closed around his hips and his clothed cock grazed the sensitive insides of your thighs.

“Clark…” you breathed, “Do something, please.”

He obeyed immediately, lifting you with one arm around your waist as his other hand fumbled with your pants, sliding them down and leaving only your underwear behind before setting you down on the table again. You didn't complain, though it crossed your mind, the rational part of you that still clung to a sense of morality recognized it as the sweetest proof of his respect and patience.

He pressed kisses onto your skin, slowly coaxing you to lay back on the cool wood. Once your back was flat against it, his palms wrapped around the apex of your thighs, pulling you to the very edge of the table with your legs spread so he could fit squarely between them. He leaned down, pressing kisses to your sternum, his eyes locked on yours as he moved slowly to your breasts, planting kisses on them, his tongue tasting the saltiness of your skin until he wrapped his lips around one nipple. His other hand attended to the neglected peak, pinching and rolling it between his fingers while his mouth sucked and licked the other.

You moaned, your back arching into his mouth as your thighs tightened around his hips. Eventually, he granted the same treatment to the other nipple, repeating the motions as his ears filled with the rapid beat of your heart and your moans. Once both peaks were exquisitely sensitive, he released them with a soft pop of his mouth, leaving them shiny with saliva. 

"Can I please kiss you?" he murmured into your skin as his hands traced your sides and he kissed down your stomach.

Your chest rose and fell rapidly as you replied, nearly breathless. “Since when do you ask to kiss me?”

“I'm not talking about your mouth, sweetheart,” he said, stopping right at the hem of your panties as he dropped to his knees in utter defeat.

You lifted yourself enough to meet his eyes, yours widening slightly in surprise but inevitably nodding before laying back down. He began pressing kisses over your panties, slowly making his way down and pushing your thighs up to rest on his shoulders. He started carefully, pressing tentative kisses to the inside of your thighs, his lips soon ghosting over your clothed clit, making you shudder.

Just as they neared, a shiver crawled up his spine, making his whole body tense and nearly forcing his senses to snap his mind back into place, blowing away the haze the moment had reduced it to.

In his ears, your heavy breathing was abruptly swallowed by the sound of screams and twisting metal colliding somewhere far too close, the violence of it cutting through him so sharply that it took him half a second longer than it ever should have to fully register what was happening, both of his lives pulling at him at once, stretching his needs and wants thin until something had to give. 

He stilled, breath caught in his chest, eyes lifting to yours as if he could somehow pour every apology he had into a single look and when he rose to his feet his legs felt unsteady, like he was standing on fault lines instead of hardwood floors.

“I’m so sorry,” he started, the words barely more than air under his breath at first, before he forced them louder as he stepped away from you, each inch of distance feeling wrong, “I’m–I’m terribly sorry.”

“What?” you blinked, confusion flickering as you sat up and watched him scramble for his jacket and shoes, the suddenness of it all knocking the air from your lungs. “Clark?” you called, sharper now, more alarmed, hopping off the table and quickly grabbing your discarded shirt to cover yourself, the sight of you doing that, of you even needing to, nearly broke him where he stood.

“I–I have to go. I’ll explain, I swear,” he said, fighting the way his body betrayed him, the tight pull of his pants over his hard cock was nothing but a cruel reminder of what he was leaving unfinished. He almost crumbled at the way your face twisted, pain and confusion folding in on themselves. “Please don’t…I’m so sorry. It’s an emergency.”

Your brows lifted, the hurt threatening to turn into something louder, something sharper but you swallowed it back, clutching your shirt tighter around yourself as you looked away for just a second to steady your breathing. In that moment, your eyes glossed over, tears threatening. “Just go,” you said quietly, moving past him toward your bedroom.

“Baby–” he started, reaching out without thinking.

“I said, go,” you repeated from the doorway, your voice firmer now and then the door slammed shut between you, the sound echoing far too loudly in the space you’d just shared.

Clark stood there longer than he should have, staring at the door as if it might open again on its own, as if he could rewind the moment if he looked hard enough but he didn’t dare peer inside, afraid of seeing more of your devastation than the quiet sniffles already slipping through the wood. He took a few hesitant steps forward and rested his forehead against the cool surface, eyes closing. “There’s a…a reasonable explanation for this,” he murmured, his hearing split painfully between the catastrophe unfolding in the city and the one he’d caused in your apartment. “I wish I could tell you right now.”

“I don’t want to hear your excuses, Clark,” you said from the other side, voice breaking as you slid down to sit against the door, knees pulled in, “please, leave.”

It took several long seconds for him to will his body to move, to turn away and walk with heavy steps toward the door, forcing himself to honor your words and his obligation alike, even though every part of him wanted to stay.

When Clark came back later that night, ribs aching from the fight and his heart hollowed out by your pain, he found the apartment empty, too quiet in a way that confirmed what he’d already feared. It was obvious you’d fled on instinct, running from the way he’d made you feel, from the disappointment that now lived in the walls and he couldn’t pretend he hadn’t expected it, because the closer he’d gotten to your place, the less of you he could hear, could feel, until there was nothing at all. 

That night he called you again and again, leaving messages you wouldn’t listen to until three days later, when you were sitting alone in a deserted beach under a sky thick with clouds, your sweater useless against the wind biting at your skin.

You lifted your phone to your ear. “You have six new voice messages. First message, received Friday, 10:03 p.m., from Clark,” the automated voice said before fading into his.

“Hi…” Clark began, the pause that followed heavy enough to make your chest ache anew. “I–I came back and you were gone. I know you’re angry and upset, baby, and you have every right to be–”

You tapped the screen. “Message deleted. New voice message, received Sunday, 4:16 a.m., from Clark.”

“It’s Clark again,” his voice continued, softer but edged with worry. “I know it’s early and you’re probably sleeping, but–”

Another tap. “Message deleted. New voice message, received Sunday, 10:45 a.m., from Clark.”

“I just need a sign…something,” he said, desperation bleeding through now. “Yell at the sky if you want, call me names but I just…baby, I can’t hear you–”

You turned the phone off and let yourself fall back into the sand, pressing the device to your chest as if it could somehow listen to the rest for you, a heavy sigh leaving your lips. “Loving someone is never a waste,” you whispered to yourself, the words trembling. “Loving someone is never a waste,” you repeated, like a mantra, like a promise. “It’s okay…you’re okay,” you told yourself again, breath shaking as your hand rose to cover your eyes, trying not to think about the way you’d avoided your reflection these past few days, afraid you’d see exactly what you believed he had seen when he walked away.

Mere minutes later, there was a sudden whoosh of air, sharp enough to steal the breath from your lungs, followed immediately by the crashing rhythm of the waves against the shore, the sound breaking clean through the chant you’d been repeating in your head like a lifeline.

“I’m sorry,” you heard, not as the echo of a memory or the imagined voice you’d been carrying around with you these past days but Clark’s actual voice, real, strained and far too close. Your eyes flew open as you fumbled for your phone, convinced for half a heartbeat that another voicemail had somehow started playing on its own but the screen remained dark save for the unread text messages you’d left untouched.

“I know I’m the last person you want to hear from and I’m–” he began, breathless in a way that could only mean he’d flown to you the second he heard your voice amongst millions, it had pulled him here faster than thought.

You turned your head sharply to the side and were met with the sight of familiar shoes planted in the sand, your gaze lifting slowly until it collided with his.

“What the fuck?!” you yelped, scrambling upright and looking around wildly as if the world itself must have shifted while you weren’t paying attention. You stood, one hand flying to your chest as your heart pounded far harder than you remembered it doing moments ago, bending to grab your shoes without really knowing why. “How did you…what are you doing here?” you demanded, breath uneven.

“I messed up and I know that,” he said, stepping toward you with a desperation he wasn’t bothering to hide, forcing you to step back instinctively, your head shaking even as your chest ached at his words. “But I can’t lose you.”

“There’s no need for this,” you pleaded, lifting a hand between you to stop him from coming any closer, your voice thinner than you wanted it to be.

“There is,” he said firmly, almost gently. “There is.”

“There isn’t,” you insisted, the words tumbling over one another as you tried to make them stick. “This isn’t a show or a book. There’s no redemption arc, no big speech that fixes everything. It just…it wasn’t meant to happen and maybe it was too soon and too fast and–” You trailed off, trying to convince yourself just as much as him.

“There’s something I haven’t told you,” he interrupted, eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch, “and I regret it every single day but especially now. I don’t know if I was trying to protect you or myself but if keeping this secret means losing you, I can’t do it anymore.” He hesitated only briefly before reaching up and removing his glasses, exposing himself fully to you, his truth laid bare. He watched your reaction closely, waiting…bracing. “I didn’t want to leave,” he continued softly, “and I hated that it happened like that, especially then, and especially with you.”

“You’re…” you started, lips parting before the word dissolved.

“Seeing you cover yourself up from me,” he went on, voice thick, “…it shattered me. I almost ignored everything I’m supposed to be for the chance to fix it but I couldn’t. I can’t sacrifice this world for us…but I also won’t sacrifice us for it. I’m both, I know I can be but you are…you are everything.”

“How…how didn’t I see it?” you whispered, more to yourself than to him.

Clark stepped forward again and this time you retreated only half a step, your feet sinking into the sand as if the earth itself wanted to keep you there. “You didn’t see it because I couldn’t let you,” he said quietly, swallowing hard. “And it wasn’t because I didn’t trust you…Golly, it was the opposite. I trust you with my life, the same way you trust me with your heart and I’m sorry.”

You shook your head, eyes dropping to the sand beneath your feet, shoulders slumping. “I understand your obligations,” you said hoarsely, your voice rough from days of silence. “You don’t need to justify yourself to me. We’re just…we’re on different paths and I’m sorry for getting in yours, Clark, I–”

Before you could finish, he lifted off the ground, rising effortlessly and surging into the sky with such speed that the clouds scattered in his wake, the darkness breaking apart until light spilled through. You shielded your eyes, tracking his movement until he vanished again, your heart hammering painfully in your chest.

“Did you get my messages?” his voice asked from behind you.

You froze, eyes still fixed on the sky where he’d written something for you, your heart thudding at the cloudlike letters left behind. “What…what messages?” you asked, not turning.

He gestured toward the phone still clutched in your hand, then back toward the sky. “What comes before that.”

You finally turned to look at him, a breathless laugh slipping out despite yourself. “You ramble,” you said softly. “A lot…especially when you’re worried.”

He nodded, taking one cautious step closer, then another when you didn’t move away, your feet anchored in place. “I was trying to say that I love you,” he said simply, arms sliding around your waist like they belonged there, like they always had. “Because I love you, I do. And no offense but you’re wrong.”

“Wrong about what?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper as your eyes met his at this impossible closeness, the familiarity of him making your chest ache all over again.

“You’re wrong about us being on different paths,” he said, shaking his head. “We’re not on different paths. You’re my path,” he told you softly, certainty in every word. “And you’re always gonna be my path.”

“I thought there was something wrong with me,” you admitted at last, the fear you’d been carrying finally given shape.

“No,” he said immediately, forehead dropping to your shoulder, voice warm and earnest. “Golly, far from it. You have no idea how hard it was to fight with a persistent erec–”

“Clark!” you cut in, laughing despite the tears.

He lifted his head quickly, grinning without shame. “What? I thought this was a safe space.”

“Okay, okay–just…fine,” you said at last, letting out a breath that sounded halfway between a laugh and a sob, shoulders lifting in a small, helpless shrug. “Since we’re being honest, I guess I did think about that and daydream about…well, that…but only for a second, somewhere in between crying, being mad, hoping it hurt like a bitch and mourning what I thought I’d lost.”

Clark’s head dipped forward at your words, chin nearly touching his chest as if the weight of them had finally landed where it belonged. “I did, it really did…I’ll make it up to you,” he said quietly but firmly, every syllable intentional. “I swear I will. No interruptions.”

You shook your head, fingers curling lightly into the front of his shirt as if anchoring yourself there. “You don’t have to say that. I understand now,” you murmured, voice still fragile but no longer breaking.

“I mean it,” he insisted, lifting his head to look at you fully, eyes earnest and unguarded. “I wanted it just as much as you did, if not more and I loved every second we had together but I guess I’m greedy when it comes to you,” he admitted with a soft, self-aware huff of breath, one hand sliding to your back. “I want more, I need more, all of it…and I need you to tell me that you still do too. I just–” His voice wavered, emotion bleeding through despite his strength. “I need you…I love you and I’m so sorry I hurt you by not making it clear enough.”

You didn’t trust your voice right away, only nodding as tears slipped free, warm against your cheeks, your silence heavy but not uncertain. He waited, patience stretched thin by fear and hope in equal measure.

“Baby,” he said gently, almost pleading, “Sweet love of mine, I need an answer…”

You sniffled, blinking up at him. “To what?”

“Well…” he gestured vaguely upward, a sheepish edge creeping in as the tension finally loosened, “the…big sky message.”

“Oh, that,” you said, a soft chuckle slipping out as you rose onto your tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his lips, brief but sure. “I wouldn’t mind sharing a path.”

Clark exhaled shakily, relief flooding through him so visibly it was almost dizzying, his arms tightening around you as if to make sure you were real. 

Without even fully realizing it, he began to lift off the sand, the two of you rising together as easily as breathing. 

He had already made sure the world wouldn’t need Superman for a little while, because if there was one thing Clark didn’t do was leave things unfinished, especially when it came to you.

This has to be a new low for you.

The truth is something a little more like this: It’s Saturday, and you’re standing outside your best-friend-slash-coworker-who-has-a-(mutual)-crush-on-you-slash-the-most-handsome-man-in-Metropolis’s door because you haven’t heard from him since Thursday night.

You’ve called, you’ve texted, you’ve sent emails, you’ve left who knows how many voicemails. Nothing. Radio silence.

Jimmy has tried, Lois has tried, Cat has tried -- hell, even Perry tried, because when Clark didn’t show up for work by lunch time yesterday, Perry was even getting worried. It’s normal for Clark to be a little late from time to time. You think his problem is that he’s just too nice and he’ll talk to anyone, and he gets caught up with anything. You’ve witnessed it in real time. 

But not showing at all? That’s unheard of. He hardly ever has sick days, now that you think about it, so if he is sick, it must be lethal, and you have to at least make sure he’s okay.

At least, that’s what you’re telling yourself to justify the fact that you’re showing up, uninvited, and debating letting yourself inside with the spare key under the plant in the corner (Clark is so predictable).

You try knocking again. “Clark?” you call out. “Are you in there?”

It’s just so unlike him, to not show at all, especially after such a big day for Superman on Thursday afternoon. Clark rushed out of the office to go see the action and to get his front-page interview like he always does, and you all were certain it would be plastered on Friday’s paper. But it wasn’t.

Instead, it was some piece Jimmy was working on -- congrats, Jimmy, really, but still -- and Superman saving the city from a creature no one has ever seen before was tucked away inside, and barely a full column. It was a quick write up, the quickest you’ve ever seen Lois do, and it works, but it’s not what everyone was expecting. Steve ended up fielding phone calls about why Clark Kent didn’t interview Superman and why he didn’t get an exclusive like always. 

Needless to say, yesterday was hectic at the Daily Planet, and you worried yourself sick over Clark’s whereabouts, so much so that you’re now staring down his front door before noon on a Saturday.

God. You shake your head at yourself. He’s probably-- Maybe there was a family emergency? Your heart clenches at the idea of anything happening to Ma or Pa Kent, but…it’s a real possibility. Maybe he just hasn’t been able to look at his phone because of it.

It’s one of the worst case scenarios, but it feels like that’s all you’re working with considering you haven’t seen or heard from him in almost forty-eight hours.

Your foot taps impatiently on the floor. The tote bag full of cold remedies and just general things to cheer up a sad Clark Kent weighs heavily on your shoulder. You had thought you’d find him here, maybe sick with an awful flu, or--

You hear movement. Your foot immediately stops its tapping, your breathing halts, you think your heart might even stop beating. You lean a little closer to the door. 

Definitely movement. Someone is inside.

“Clark?” you call out again. “It’s me,” you try instead. “I haven’t heard from you, I-I got worried.” You pause, listening for the same shuffling. “I wanted to see if you were okay.”

The only response you get is a low groan. Groaning that you aren’t even sure is Clark, but it’s something, and it doesn’t sound good.

“Can I come in?” you ask. You’ll think later on how to apologize for coming over unannounced and for presumptively looking for the spare key and for letting yourself in. Right now you just need to see if he’s okay.

You hear more groaning, followed by the sound of something crashing -- you have no idea what -- and you decide that’s it.

You tip the plant and swipe the key, inserting it and twisting the knob all in one swoop. “I’m really sorry,” you say as you push the door open. “I’m so sorry, but it sounded like-- I just had to check--”

All words promptly die on your lips when you see the state of Clark’s apartment.

You’ve been here once. Only once. You were caught in a bad storm after drinks with Clark, Jimmy, and Lois, and Clark’s apartment was closer, so he offered you dry clothes and a warm shower while the storm waned. That night, every lamp was on, he had hot cocoa ready for you as soon as you got out of the shower, and the two of you talked and laughed while the rain beat the windows.

Today, the sun is out, but it looks stormy in Clark’s apartment. Not a single light is on, the couch is askew, the coffee table overturned. 

And Clark.

His back is pressed to the far window, hands splayed like he’s pinning himself to the glass with all his strength. He’s in a t-shirt and boxers that are tented, and that would normally be enough for you to avert your eyes, except he looks ill. He’s practically ashen, and he’s sweating so much that his shirt is sticking to his skin, to every muscle. His hair is curled to hell, bordering on messy in a way that is worrisome, like he’s been gripping and tugging at it and trying to rip it out.

“Clark?” you ask, shutting the door behind you. You place the spare key down on the little table by the door. “Are you… What’s going on?”

His chest is rising and falling rapidly, and he won’t look at you. He mumbles something, but you can’t hear him.

“Clark, please…” you pause, swallowing. You set your bag down by the door, walking closer to him, approaching him like he’s a skittish animal that might run away from you at any second. “Talk to me.”

“Stop,” he bites out. “Please.”

You stop moving, holding your hands up in surrender. What the hell is going on? His legs are shaking, he looks like he hasn’t eaten since Thursday’s lunch, and he still won’t lift his head.

“You should--” he pauses, sucks in a harsh, sharp breath. “You should leave.”

You scoff, not unkindly, just, confused and stressed and what has gotten into him? “Clark, I’m not leaving. We need to get you to a doct--”

“No!” he shouts, immediately shaking his head. “No, no, I’m…fine, I don’t need a doctor.”

“You are not fine,” you argue gently. “You look like you can barely hold yourself up. Are you sick with something?”

“No,” he whines, then adds, “yes, kind of.” One hand leaves the glass to press to his temple with a grimace.

“Is it a migraine?” you ask, wondering if maybe that’s why it’s so dark in here. But that doesn’t explain the fact that it looks like a tornado took off in here, too. “Don’t you get those if you don’t wear your glasses?” He’s not wearing them right now, which you’ve only just now noticed. “Where are they?”

You look around and spot them on the kitchen counter, as if they were ripped off and thrown down. Your eyebrows furrow.

“Clark,” you turn back to him. “Please tell me what’s going on. I want to help. You’ve had everyone worried sick, and we damn near called a wellness check for you, but I figured, let me just come knock on his door first-- But I can’t help if you won’t even let me near you.”

He whimpers this time, high in his throat, almost like he’s going to cry. “Please.”

“Please, what?” you cry. “What can I do? Let me help.” You take tentative steps toward him, hoping he doesn’t notice.

“I-I can’t,” he shudders. “I don’t want to hurt you--”

“Hurt me?” You keep walking slowly. “Why would you hurt me?” Your mind is running wild with all kinds of possibilities right now, one namely being, is Clark on drugs or something?

“It-it’s not something I can control,” he says.

“What is?” you ask, taking more steps. You’re just past the coffee table now. You’ll be able to reach out to him any second.

“It’s--” he cuts himself off with another wince. “Please, you need to stay back, I--”

“I’m sorry, but I’m not going to just stand over there and watch you like this,” you say sternly, taking more intentional steps now. You reach him quickly, pressing the back of your hand to his forehead. “You’re burning up!”

He sighs when you touch him, knees buckling. “I-I know. H-Hurts.”

“Clark,” you whisper, placing your hands on his shoulders. “What happened to you? Did you get hurt when you went to interview Superman? Did you get caught in the fight or something?”

He chuckles, but it’s not his usual sound. “Or something,” he murmurs sheepishly, finally tipping his head back to look up at you and--

Your eyes go wide. The world sways. Suddenly you feel like you’re the one who is sick. 

“C-Clark?” you stutter in disbelief. “Superman?”

He groans again, head lolling forward. “This is not how I wanted to tell you.”

You come back to yourself and remember he’s violently ill and you shake your head. Now is not the time to be starstruck. “Hey, no, no, it’s okay, it’s fine! So you’re Superman? It’s okay!” You know you sound ridiculous. “Do you-- Don’t you have healing-- Doesn’t the sun help you or something? Why are you still like this?”

“The sun can’t help this, it’s-- This is different. The Superman robots tried to help, but--”

You nod along, noting things to ask him about later, like Superman robots because what does that even mean? Who are they?

“Okay,” you say, like you’ve got it all figured out after what he’s told you. Like you have a plan. “Okay.” You don’t know what to do. “So we-- Did they-- Do the…robots know what it is that’s making you feel like this?”

He nods slowly, tipping his head back again to look at you, his blue eyes not at all tired like you expect them to be. They’re practically molten. “They have an idea.”

“Okay,” you lick your lips. You should not be thinking about how attractive he is up close like this when he’s practically on his death bed. “What is it?”

He opens his mouth like he’s going to spill it all out right then, but he snaps his jaw closed. “No, I-- I can’t tell you.”

You nearly scream out of sheer frustration. “What do you mean?” you try to have a gentle tone, but you’re not sure you succeed.

“It’s--” he hisses in pain again (you think?), hanging his head. “It’s complicated.”

“I don’t think anything can be more complicated than the fact that I just found out you’re Superman when you’re like this.”

He chuckles again, the sound growing warmer this time. “It’s-- Can you promise me something first?”

“Yeah, Clark,” your face softens. “Anything.”

He groans at that. “No…no, I mean it, I mean, if I tell you what this is, and you’re scared, or you-- You just don’t want to be around me, you have to tell me.”

Your eyes widen. “Clark--”

“I mean it, please,” he begs. “Because if you say you don’t want this, I promise, I will-- I’ll go and bury myself in the ice and I’ll wait it out and I won’t hurt you.”

“Clark, you’re not gonna hurt me.”

“I might,” he chokes out. “I could. I’ve-- It’s been two days of this, I don’t know my own strength, I might--”

“Clark, stop, stop,” you cut him off, both your hands cupping his face, forcing him to look at you. “Please, just tell me what’s going on so I can help.”

“I’m-- I think the creature on Thursday was released by Lex Luthor as a distraction.”

He stops, so you press gently, holding his face as you whisper, “Distraction for what?”

“When I was flying home after it -- back to the Fortress -- as I was leaving Metropolis I flew through a cloud but it wasn’t a cloud, it was-- I think Lex manufactured it because he knew I’d fly through it and he knew it would do this to me.”

You still don’t know what this is, other than the fact that he looks three steps from the grave.

“It’s…my body is--” He pauses again. “This is embarrassing.”

“Clark…” you sigh, pulling him into your arms despite everything. He’s much taller than you, yet right now he feels so small. His face finds your neck and he inhales deeply, holding his breath. “You can tell me.”

“It was a pollen cloud,” he murmurs into your skin, nosing your carotid artery. “And the pollen sets my hormones on fire.”

You rub circles onto his back. “So you’re…?”

“So turned on that I might die,” he whines, still mortified from having to admit this out loud. His hips move on their own accord, and you feel him grinding against your leg before he promptly stops himself. “S-Sorry.”

Your brain is spinning circles in your skull as you try to figure out exactly what he means. What this means.

“Will you actually die?” you ask instead of the other thousands of thoughts running through your head. You scratch his scalp gently, hoping this is somewhat helping, having your arms around him and his around your waist.

His breaths are shallower now, like he’s either afraid to inhale too much of you, or like he can’t get enough. “I don’t know. Probably not. I think I just have to wait it out.”

“But,” you lift your head and he does the same, “is there anything that will help?”

“I can’t ask that of you,” he says immediately, his throat working around a swallow. “I-It’s why I haven’t answered your calls-- I’m sorry that I haven’t, I just-- I flew all the way to the Fortress of Solitude and when the robots told me I needed to-- told me what would help, I flew to Ma and Pa’s, and then didn’t even go in and see them, I just came straight back here because you were--” He pauses, shutting his eyes, twisting them shut, his head thudding as it hits the window. “You were too far, I couldn’t hear you from there and I… I needed to hear you.”

“Hear me?” you gasp. “Clark, I don’t even live close to you, I--”

“I know!” he cries. “I know, but I swear I could hear you, or-- or maybe I really couldn’t, but I couldn’t stand being so far away from you, I had to be in the same city. And then I heard you when you got inside the building, and your heart was so loud outside my door, and gosh, you-- You smell like Heaven, sweetheart.”

Your heart flutters wildly in your chest, banging around against your ribcage. Sweetheart.

“Clark,” you begin, waiting for him to open his eyes, but he doesn’t. For the second time today, you decide, fuck it. You cup his jaw with one hand, not forceful, but not entirely gentle either. You know he’s embarrassed, but enough is enough. “Look at me.”

Clark’s eyes open instantly, glassy and red and full of fire. “Yes ma’am?”

“If what I’m gathering from this is correct, then…I want to help.”

“You do?”

You nod, thumb stroking his cheek. “Do you want me to?”

“Of course I want you to,” he whines, head threatening to tip back again. His smile is lazy, crooked, and so Clark. “I just-- I wanted to ask you out on a date first.”

You chuckle quietly. So your suspicions about your crush being requited weren’t all in your head, it seems. “We can go on a date once you feel better, okay?”

He nods. “Okay,” he murmurs, swallowing again, like his mouth is making far too much saliva. “Okay. Can we-- Can we go to that place on--”

You don’t know what else to do, so you kiss him. He’s embarrassed, he’s rambling, and he’s gotten so worked up in his head that he’s fighting it -- keeping you from helping him.

It’s a syrupy-sweet first kiss. You try to put every ounce of your nearly year-long crush into it, hoping he can feel all of it. You’d do anything for him, you’ve always felt that way, and you’ve shown it before too. Just in more normal, friendly ways than this. Than agreeing to have sex with Clark so he will feel better.

It sounds absurd, even just in your head, and if you think too much about it, you won’t be able to do anything because of how hard your mind will be reeling. Just this morning, just two hours ago, you thought Clark was sick with maybe the flu or had a family emergency or something else normal, and now. Now you know he’s Superman, now you’ve agreed to help him through whatever pollen-induced horny sickness this is, now you’re finally kissing Clark Kent.

He whimpers into your mouth, fingers wrapping around your wrist to tug your hand down to where he needs you.

“S-Sorry,” he cries, grinding into your palm.

You shush him, applying the pressure he needs. “That better?”

He nods furiously, lips mashing against yours as he chases the feeling of your hand on him, and you haven’t even really touched him. When you finally snake your hand under his waistband, his head falls into your neck, shoulders slumping.

His skin feels hot all over, but somehow even hotter here when you wrap your fingers around him, gently stroking. He kisses your neck, then licks, your eyes rolling from the feeling of him clinging to you, completely at your mercy.

Soon he’s rocking his hips into your hand, then wrapping his arms around you, pulling your body to his like he wants to meld you together. You thumb over his slit once, twice, and without warning, he’s shaking in your hold, spilling into his boxers.

He goes still against you, chest rising and falling rapidly against yours. Your free hand strokes his curls where he has his head buried in your neck, wondering if that was enough, or if it was too much.

“Clark?” you whisper. His skin doesn’t feel any cooler, but maybe it takes time.

The only warning you get -- though you don’t realize it’s a warning at all -- is a low groan, deep in his chest before he’s spun you around, pressing your back into the glass. 

When he kisses you this time, the sweetness from earlier is gone, replaced with a desperate, ravenous hunger. He’s still as hard as he was before when he fits his body against yours, hips grinding into you.

“Clark--” you try to get out in between kisses, but he’s ravenous now. Gone is the hesitant, shaking Clark from before. “Mmph-- Clark. Clark.”

He finally pulls back, a string of saliva connecting your lips that he licks away. “Sorry,” he whispers, but he doesn’t sound sorry at all, and doesn’t look it either, the way he’s not looking at your eyes at all but instead at your lips. “What did you--” He pauses again, out of breath. “What were you saying?”

It makes you giggle, seeing him like this, but there’s heat pooling in your lower belly, too. “No, I just-- That was a change.”

“Oh,” he grins, and it’s a bit wolfish, making your thighs clench. “I told you, I’m a little--”

“I know.”

“Is that okay?”

“Yeah,” you reply, breathless, pushing your hips out to grind into him. “Yeah, it’s great.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he groans, hands squeezing your hips as he dives for another kiss, tongue immediately coaxing your mouth open. “Thank you. Thank you for letting me have you.”

“You have me,” you whisper. “Do whatever you need to-- Ah!”

His hands immediately split the seam of your shirt, exposing your breasts. He finds the clip to your bra and suddenly he’s thumbing over your nipples, massaging them, pinching them lightly, watching you squirm.

You grip his shirt, knowing you won’t be able to rip it, but after a few tugs, he gets the idea and does it for you, letting you shove it off his arms and to the floor with yours. His boxers go next, his previous release still sticky inside them, and then he’s dragging your pants down your legs, kneeling as he goes.

You’ve never been so grateful for him to have an apartment on one of the top floors as you are now, when he has you bare and pressed to the window.

“Look at how pretty…” he muses, kissing your inner thigh as he spreads your legs to accommodate his wide frame. He shoulders between them, then lifts one of your legs to rest over his body. “Already so wet for me,” he whispers, like he’s talking to your pussy, not you. “Gotta get her ready for me, though.” He looks up at you, so sweet despite the filth he’s speaking and how close he is to your clit. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”

You pet his head, smiling as you stroke his curls. “You won’t hurt me, Clark.” Even though he’s not in his right mind, you don’t think he’d ever be able to hurt you.

He leans his cheek against your thigh, just gazing so lovingly at your core. “I won’t,” he promises with a little sigh. “S’too pretty.”

You think you might have to physically guide him to where you need him, but then he’s finally leaning forward, pressing a tender kiss to your clit that makes you jump.

He grins again, wide and hungry. “Sensitive?”

“A little,” you admit. Because you won’t stop teasing me.

“I’ll be gentle,” he swears, and then proceeds to be anything but.

He wraps his lips around your clit, tonguing the hood back ever so slightly to focus directly on your most sensitive spot. Your hips buck involuntarily into his mouth and he moves closer, setting in.

His tongue darts lower, separating your folds, teasing your hole. You don’t think you’ve ever cum from someone eating you out without using their fingers too, but Clark just might get you there. And he seems determined too.

With his nose providing friction to your clit, his tongue presses into you, and he hums. A deep, guttural noise before he somehow moves closer, like he doesn’t even want to breathe while he’s going down on you. 

You’re gripping his curls like your life depends on it, because it sort of does, and you try to warn him before you cum, but he doesn’t slow down or make any indication that he hears you. He just dives deeper, licks faster, and starts mumbling nonsense into your pussy.

“I know you’re close,” he almost whines, like he’s desperate to feel it, to taste it. “Please, baby, please let me have it.”

Your head hits the window with a dull, quiet thud, your chest heaving. “Clark,” you gasp, and somehow he knows what you mean, what you’re trying to say in that one word because then he goes back to sucking on your clit, tongue flicking rapidly.

“Come on,” he says, somehow speaking while still fucking you.

“Clark,” your head lolls against the window, the pleasure making it impossible to hold any part of your body upright.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, adjusting his grip to stabilize you. “I’m right here, sweetheart.”

You finally tip over the edge and climax with a cry, body sinking down the window until it’s only Clark’s strength holding you up. He lets you ride his face through it, one hand in his curls, pushing and pulling exactly where you need him most until you’re trembling with the aftershocks.

He crawls up your body, littering kisses as he goes, pausing to focus on your nipples again, swirling his tongue around them. Your brain is in a haze as you drag his face back to you so you can kiss him, not caring -- and frankly, finding it a little hot -- that you can taste yourself on his tongue.

Clark gives no warning before picking you up and wrapping your legs around his waist, carrying you like you’re nothing back to his bedroom. He practically tosses you onto the bed, covering his body with yours, caging you underneath him.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, almost like he can’t believe it as he covers your face in kisses. “Taste so good, every piece of you.”

While he speaks, his hips start to have a mind of their own, steadily rocking into yours, grinding his erection into your stomach. You felt him before, wrapping your hand around him, but feeling him like this, right there, is different.

It makes you gasp into his mouth when the head of his cock catches on your clit. He smirks, nipping at your bottom lip, doing it again just to see your reaction.

“That feel good?” he asks, just as out of breath as you are. You just nod pathetically as he does it over and over. “I’ve gotta stretch you, honey,” he says, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Feel how big I am?”

You nod again, feeling, from the outside, how deep he’ll be and God, you have no idea how he’ll fit, but you want it to. You want it so bad you might start crying.

One hand snakes its way downward while you continue kissing Clark. It’s hot and messy and there’s spit all over both of your chins, but you can’t bring yourself to care, especially not when he’s pushing a finger inside you and one already feels so big.

The whine you let out just tells him exactly how you feel, and he soothes you by putting pressure on your clit with the heel of his hand. 

“It’ll feel better in a second, honey,” he promises, already teasing another finger before pushing in, shushing you as you squirm and writhe against him. “Too much?”

You shake your head. “Feels good,” you groan. 

“That’s my sweet girl.”

“Feels good but I want you.”

“You’ll get me, honey, don’t worry,” he whispers, kissing you gingerly. “Need you to cum again for me first. Can you do that?”

You don’t know, but then he spreads his fingers, pressing right into your G-spot, and that lights your body on fire.

“Knew I’d find it,” he says, mostly to himself. “Gonna add another, okay, baby?”

You nod frantically and you hear him chuckle, but he’s not laughing at you. He’s just mystified by how gorgeous you are like this. By how much you need him, like you might need him as much as he needs you.

The Superman robots didn’t mention anything about the pollen being contagious, but then again, they weren’t even entirely certain of what it is, so it could be possible. You’ve swapped enough spit with Clark by now that he wouldn’t be surprised if some of it has transferred.

The thought of it just makes him feel even more needy for you. But he won’t hurt you.

He inserts a third finger, gently prodding your G-spot until you’re clenching then relaxing around him. He thrusts slow at first, warming you up to all three before he gradually spreads them, working you open. 

Your hips grind against his palm with vigor, chasing your high while simultaneously rubbing against his cock. He ruts against your hipbone, giving you what you need and letting himself have just a little friction too.

He feels it when you start clenching around him erratically, hears it when the little whines you let out start stringing together. “Gonna cum, baby?” he coos. “Gonna let go for me again?”

You’re helpless against him as you nod, pulling his face toward yours to devour his mouth.

When you cum this time, his fingers slip in even deeper, and that’s how he knows you’re ready. You’re sucking them in and not letting go, and the noises you’re making are music to his ears. He spills against your stomach, but only a little, because he wants nothing more than to finish inside you.

“I’ve gotta be in you, honey, I-I can’t wait anymore,” he groans, dragging his fingers out of you and lining himself up, his head easily slipping in from how wet you are.

“Please,” you cling to him, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Oh Clark, please, need to feel you--”

“I’m right here, my sweet girl,” he soothes, pressing in slowly. “Just let me in.”

Your legs widen in response and he sinks impossibly deep on the first thrust, his head nestled right against your cervix, just barely kissing it. The pain of it quickly blurs into pleasure with every movement until you’re rocking against him, your body somehow trying to take him deeper, even though that isn’t biologically possible.

“Oh, honey,” he groans, head falling forward and he mouths at your neck, nips at your sensitive spots there. “You’re so warm.”

You try to say something back, but it just comes out complete nonsense, except Clark catches some of the words.

“I’m so big, I know, honey, I know,” he coos, kissing your forehead. “But you’re taking me so well, sweet girl. Feel how deep I am?”

You nod against him, wailing when he lightly presses his palm down over the slight bulge in your lower stomach, right where he knows he’s nestled without even needing to use his X-ray vision. But after having that thought, he does use it, just for a moment, just to see.

The only problem is that seeing himself so deep inside you causes his orgasm to come barrelling toward him at a terrifying speed. He’s barely thrusting, more grinding deeper into you, once, twice, and then he’s falling over the edge, shuddering as he spills inside of you.

You gasp at the feeling, eyes going wide with how much there is. You guess it makes sense, given that he’s not exactly human, so things will be different. Like this.

And, you guess, like the fact that despite now cumming two times, he’s still just as hard as he was when you first got here. It doesn’t seem like his orgasms have given him any relief.

If anything, this last one has only spurred him on even more.

“Golly,” he hisses, leaning back onto his knees, hoisting your hips up onto his thighs without slipping out of you. “Are you okay? Still feeling good?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, circling your hips against his. “Keep going.”

He grins, wide and wild. “That’s my girl,” he says, and then he pulls out, working himself inside again, seemingly in awe at how easily he slides inside. “You’re so wet, baby,” he sounds like he’s praying. “Some of that’s me, though, yeah?”

You nod, not even caring what he’s talking about because he’s so deep and hard inside of you that you don’t know what you’re going to do without him inside you.

“Wanna feel you again,” he mumbles, thumbing over your clit. “Can you give me another?”

You don’t even need to nod; he feels you immediately clench around him. 

“Love that I get to have you like this,” he whispers. “All for me, yeah? All mine.”

“All yours,” you gasp, writhing again. “Fuck, Clark.”

“Yeah?” he says, moving again, thrusting inside you and pulling all the way out before slipping back in, because he loves the way you clench and the little whine you let out when he does it. “Feels good, doesn’t it? You don’t need to say anything, sweet girl, I know it does. Show me how good it feels.”

You were already on the edge, but hearing him speak to you like this, when all you’ve known before is quiet, sweet, bumbling Clark in the office sends you right over. The stark contrast is doing something wild to your brain, short circuiting everything until you’re spasming around him uncontrollably.

“There we go, that’s my sweet girl,” he soothes you, letting you ride it out against him. “Can I move you, baby? Wan-Wanna try something else. Promise it’ll feel so good f’you.”

You nod and he slowly pulls out, shushing your whines at the feeling of emptiness. He gently turns you over, places a pillow underneath your hips. He palms at your ass, unable to help himself really, before moving you where he needs you with his hands on your waist.

And he just keeps talking to himself. “There we go, so pretty,” he says, one hand leaving your waist to caress your spine. “Laid out for me so pretty, so I can just-- O-Oh, honey.” 

Just the head slips inside and you squirm immediately, feeling a tiny spurt of cum enter you, and then he’s slamming forward in one devastating thrust, holding himself there. You can feel him shaking, feel him holding himself back.

“You feel too good, baby, I-I can’t,” he breaks off into another moan, hips pressing forward again, and a strangled cry leaves his lips before he’s cumming again, filling you up and spilling out around where he’s entered you. “N-No,” he whispers, sniffles. “Wanted to-- Wanted to last longer.”

But he’s still not going soft, so his early orgasm only seems to deter him for a brief moment. He catches his breath, leaning over you to kiss the back of your neck, blanketing your body with his.

And then he’s moving again, barely pulling out at all before pushing back inside, carving a space deep inside you just for him, as if he needs to, as if that space wasn’t already there. 

The little noises you make are his only indication that you haven’t passed out beneath him, and he takes them as his cue to continue moving, to keep slamming right into your G-spot. 

“Wanna cum together this time,” he says, and it sounds like a plea. “Can you do that for me, honey? Please, for me?”

You’ve never had this many orgasms with a partner, let alone in one night in such quick succession, but somehow it isn’t a question when Clark asks if you can give him another. It’s as if your body is perfectly attuned to him now, and if he wants you to give him another orgasm, then well, you will. Easily.

He keeps working your body perfectly, hitting all of the right spots, until he’s close and holding himself back just until he feels you right on the edge.

“Let go, honey,” he cries. “Let go with me, please, please, please.”

And you do, as if on command, your body lets go right as you feel his hips begin to stutter until he’s spilling another load in you, this one you can feel practically all of it leaking out of you and sticking to your inner thighs, and him.

Clark uses his X-ray vision almost by accident this time, just wanting to see if he can tell how full you are, and oh, he can. He tips his head back, holding onto your waist as he groans.

And then he hears you, and you’re asking for him.

“What is it, honey?” he asks, leaning over you to kiss your cheek. “Doing okay?”

You nod, a dopey smile on your face. “Can I--” you swallow, eyes hazy as you look at him. “Can I taste you?”

His hips involuntarily buck into you before he kisses your lips as best he can when you’re in this position. “You wanna taste me?”

You nod frantically. “Please?”

“Okay, honey,” he murmurs. “Okay. Yeah, anything-- Anything you want.”

He pulls out slow, careful not to hurt or shock you as he does. 

You bounce back remarkably fast, already sitting up and sliding off the bed to sink down to your knees, hands reaching out for him. He moves willingly, stumbling around to you, cock bobbing as he goes, still impossibly hard. He wonders how long the pollen will affect him, because although he feels his mind clearing slightly, he’s definitely not feeling any less turned on. And you don’t seem to be, either.

You lick him eagerly, cleaning him off first. He hisses as you do, the sensitivity starting to reach him, but it isn’t so bad that he wants you to stop. He needs you to keep going.

You grab one of his hands and move it to your head, and he asks, “Are you sure?”

You nod. “Wanna feel you in my throat, Clark.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, smiling so fondly down at you. “You tap me if it’s too much, yeah?”

You nod, but you’re not looking up at him, you’re too focused on getting your lips wrapped around his cock. And he decides to stop teasing and let you.

You surge forward, taking the head into your mouth, swirling your tongue around it before hollowing your cheeks and taking him deeper. 

He lets you have your way with him first, and if anything, his grip on the back of your head is so he doesn’t lose control and thrust into your mouth too harshly, though it seems that’s what you want him to do. Still, he doesn’t want to hurt you, and he’s not entirely sure how much of this is you and how much of this is the possible added effects of the pollen.

His train of thought is promptly interrupted by you taking him into your throat with zero warning, pressing your nose to the neat little hairs that gather at his base. 

“O-Oh my gosh, honey, give a guy some warning,” he chokes out, hands cradling your head. 

You pull off of him with a cheeky grin. “Sorry.”

His thumbs stroke your cheeks, shaking his head fondly at you. “Enjoying yourself?”

You nod frantically. “Are you?”

“I am, honey, I am.” 

“Are you feeling better?”

He nods. “I am, thank you. Still,” he pauses, rolls his shoulders. “Still turned on, less like I’m about to die.”

You hum. “That’s good.” Your hands explore idly while the two of you speak, ghosting over his inner thighs, close to his still-hard cock, but not actually touching him. “But you’re not done?”

You ask it so softly, like you don’t want to be done, either, and it almost breaks his heart. “No,” he says, petting your head a little. “We can keep going.”

“Good,” you mumble, starting to kiss him again, all along his length. “Because I’m not finished with you yet.”

His knees nearly buckle because you, once again, give him no warning before you’re taking him in your throat. And then you put both his hands on your head, and place your palms over his thighs, giving him full control.

He’s so glad his brain feels a little clearer now because if this had been earlier, he really might’ve hurt you. Now he can give you what you want without the guilt and worry.

You hum around him, causing his hips to buck on their own accord. He pulls himself back to then try an experimental thrust, his head slipping right into the back of your throat with ease. And instead of moving away, you press your head forward, taking him just a little more.

“Honey,” he gasps. “You’re being so good for me.”

Whatever you try to respond with comes out garbled nonsense around his cock, but he doesn’t mind. He holds your head gently, moving you back and forth just the way he needs, and you let him.

“You feel so good,” he groans, holding you down for just a moment before letting go, letting you breathe. “Don’t wanna-- Where do you-- Oh golly-- Where do you want me to--”

You answer by wrapping your arms around his legs, moving closer on your knees, practically trapping him against you. 

He whines, high in his throat. “O-Okay, okay, just for you, just this one, next one goes inside your pussy, though, yeah? Please?” You nod against him and he nearly cums right then, feeling the head of his cock moving in your throat. “Baby, I-I’m not going to last much longer like this--”

That only makes you move with more fervour, like you need to feel him cumming down your throat.

He can barely gasp out a warning before he’s spilling so deep into your throat that you barely taste it, and you don’t even move, you just swallow him down, humming happily to yourself.

Clark pulls you off of him after a moment, hauling you up to your feet so he can kiss you. He can feel himself softening now, just a little, but you--

The look in your eyes is wild.

“Shoot,” he hisses, hands cradling your face. “Sweetheart, look at me.” Your heart is racing, and maybe it has been this whole time, he’s only just now noticing because he’s finally starting to feel like himself again. “How are you feeling?”

“Hot,” you whine, arms looping around his neck. “Empty.”

“Okay,” he says, turning and laying you down. “Honey, I think…I think some of the pollen might be in your system now.”

You just blink up at him through bleary eyes, none of his words registering in your brain. But you’re still alert, for the most part, and able to move your body just fine because the next thing he knows, you’ve got your ankles locked around him.

“Okay, honey, okay,” he tries to soothe your disgruntled whines. “Hurts bad, doesn’t it?”

He can’t imagine how you’re feeling considering he felt bad and it was designed to affect him. You’re human.

What if it kills you?

Clark stops that train of thought before it even starts, letting your hand move down to stroke him until he’s fully hard again. He can make it better. He just needs to keep fucking you, and it’ll keep working through your system until (hopefully) it’s out of it, and everything will be okay. It’ll be okay.

“Clark,” you whine, lining him up with your entrance. “Feels empty.”

“I know, sweetheart, I know,” he shushes you, kissing all over your face. “I’ll make it better, okay? Just let me make it better. Let me do all the work, okay?”

You nod, your hand leaving his cock to instead thread your fingers through his curls. “So handsome.”

He beams, slipping inside you just an inch, and it's so easy after the many rounds you've endured. “Thank you, darlin’.”

Your body is pliant beneath him, just barely holding onto consciousness as he slowly rocks into you. He keeps a steady pace, and listens intently to your heart rate and breathing, just in case. Nothing seems out of the ordinary, so he continues on -- as if you’d let him stop.

“Inside me this time?” you ask, but your voice is quiet, like you’re afraid he’s going to tell you no, but Clark could never. Not right now, not ever.

“Yeah, honey,” he promises, kissing your nose, then your forehead. “Is that what you need?”

Your head nods erratically against the pillow. “Need more. Not full enough.”

“Jesus,” Clark swears, hips stuttering at how desperate and certain you sound. He holds onto your waist, thumbs pressing over your stomach. “I’ll make it better, sweetheart, you just lay here for me, yeah? I’ll fill you up as much as you need. That sound good?”

You reach for his face and pull him down into a kiss, immediately licking into his mouth. You are ravenous, and he’s not sure how he’s going to satisfy you. He just hopes he can, because he doesn’t know what this pollen is doing to your body.

Worst case scenario, he guesses, he can fly you to the Fortress and see if the Superman robots can check you over. He might do that anyway, just to be safe.

Clark keeps the same steady pace, hitting your spot over and over and over, fussing over your every whimper and whine. Tears slip from your cheeks but you aren’t in any pain, just clinging to him and telling him to keep going.

You finally quiet when he spills inside you, sniffling into his neck as he holds you.

“Honey?” he asks, but he doesn’t move, just stays inside you, pressing just a little of his weight into you. “You okay?”

You nod against him but you don’t speak.

Clark can feel himself going soft inside you but he doesn’t dare move, not sure what you need right now and if moving might set you off.

But he doesn’t want to crush you beneath him, either.

“I’m gonna move over, okay?” 

You immediately cling to him even tighter, even clenching around him, worried he’s going to pull out.

“Just so we can lay down,” he rushes to explain, pressing a kiss to your temple. 

He rolls the two of you easily, putting him on his back with you on his chest, holding onto him like a little koala. It’s endearing, really, though it worries him. You’re just so quiet.

Clark fumbles for a blanket and spreads it over your back, his arms caging you against him. He feels your entire body relax, a content sigh leaving your lips as you snuggle even closer.

Your heart is finally slowing down, too, so he takes that as a good sign. You must just be worn out -- who wouldn’t be, after all of that?

He hears your breathing even out and he smiles, trying to crane his neck to get a look at your face, but it’s hard when you have it buried in his neck.

“Are you asleep?” he whispers, though he knows the answer. He rubs slow circles on your back and you shiver just a little, inching closer to him, as if you can get any closer. “Just sleep, honey. I’m right here.”

When you wake up, he’ll have to make sure you rehydrate and eat something. He’ll probably run you a bath, too, just so you can relax your muscles even more.

And then, the two of you can talk. Because he has things he needs to confess, things he really should’ve said to you a long time ago. Then he can plan your first date -- actually plan it out because you deserve the best, especially after today.